The Winner's Curse

by Marie Rutkoski

  Her opening notes were awkward. She paused, then gave the melody over to her right hand and began inventing with her left, pulling dark, rich phrases out of her mind. Kestrel felt the counterpoint knit itself into being. Forgetting the difficulty of what she was doing, she simply played.

  It was a gentle, haunting music. When it ended, Kestrel was sorry. Her eyes sought Arin across the room.

  She didn’t know if he had watched her play. He wasn’t looking at her now. His gaze was unfocused, directed toward the garden without really seeming to see it. The lines of his face had softened. He looked different, Kestrel realized. She couldn’t say why, but he looked different to her now.

  Then he glanced at her, and she was startled enough to let one hand fall onto the keys with a very unmusical sound.

  Arin smiled. It was a true smile, which let her know that all the others he had given her were not. “Thank you,” he said.

  Kestrel felt herself blush. She focused on the keys and played something, anything. A simple pattern to distract herself from the fact that she wasn’t someone who easily blushed, particularly for no clear reason.

  But she found that her fingers were sketching an outline of a tenor’s range. “Do you truly not sing?”

  “No.”

  She considered the timbre of his voice and let her hands drift lower. “Really?”

  “No, Kestrel.”

  Her hands slid from the keys. “Too bad,” she said.

  16

  When Kestrel received a message from Ronan inviting her to go riding with him and Jess at their estate, she remembered something her father had said recently about evaluating an enemy.

  “Everything in war hinges on what you know of your adversary’s skills and assets,” he had said. “Yes, luck will play some part. The terrain will be crucial. Numbers are important. But how you negotiate the strengths of your opponent is more likely to decide the battle than anything else.”

  Arin wasn’t Kestrel’s enemy, but their Bite and Sting games had made her see him as a worthy opponent. So she considered her father’s words. “Your adversary will want to keep his assets hidden until the final moment. Use spies if you can. If not, how might you trick him into revealing the knowledge you seek?” The general had answered his own question: “Nettle his pride.”

  Kestrel sent a house slave to the forge with a request for Arin to meet her in the stables. When he arrived, Javelin was already saddled and Kestrel was waiting, dressed for riding.

  “What is this?” Arin said. “I thought you wanted an escort.”

  “I do. Pick a horse.”

  Warily, he said, “If I am to go with you, we need the carriage.”

  “Not if you know how to ride.”

  “I don’t.”

  She mounted Javelin. “Then I suppose you must follow me in the carriage.”

  “You’ll get in trouble if you ride alone.”

  She gathered the reins in her hands.

  “Where are you going?” Arin demanded.

  “Ronan invited me to ride on his grounds,” she told him, and kicked Javelin into a canter. She rode out of the stables, then out of the estate, pausing only to tell the guards at the gate that a slave would be following her. “Probably,” she added, spurring Javelin through the gate before the guards could question the irregularity of it all. She turned Javelin down one of the many horse paths Valorians had carved through the greener parts of the city, creating roads only for riders traveling at a good speed. Kestrel resisted the urge to slow her horse. She pressed him still further, listening to hooves hit the dirt with its blanket of fire-colored leaves.

  It was some time before she heard galloping behind her, and then she did ease up, instinctively wheeling Javelin around to see the blur of horse and rider coming down the path.

  Arin slowed, and sidled alongside Kestrel. The horses whickered. Arin looked at her, at the smile she couldn’t hide, and his face seemed to hold equal parts frustration and amusement.

  “You are a bad liar,” she told him.

  He laughed.

  She found it hard to look at him then, and her gaze dropped to his stallion. Her eyes widened. “That is the horse you chose?”

  “He is the best,” Arin said seriously.

  “He is my father’s.”

  “I won’t hold that against the horse.”

  It was Kestrel’s turn to laugh.

  “Come.” Arin nudged the stallion forward. “Let’s not be late,” he said, and yet, without discussing it, they rode more slowly than was allowed on the path.

  Kestrel no longer doubted that ten years ago Arin had been in a position much like hers: one of wealth, ease, education. Although she was aware she had not won the right to ask him a question, and didn’t even want to voice her creeping worry, Kestrel couldn’t bear remaining silent. “Arin,” she said, searching his face. “Was it my house? I mean, the villa. Did you live there, before the war?”

  He yanked on the reins. His stallion ground to a halt.

  When he spoke, Arin’s voice was like the music he had asked her to play. “No,” he said. “That family is gone.”

  They rode on in silence until Arin said, “Kestrel.”

  She waited, then realized that he wasn’t speaking to her, exactly. He was simply saying her name, considering it, exploring the syllables of the Valorian word.

  She said, “I hope you’re not going to pretend you don’t know what it means.”

  He shot her a wry, sidelong look. “A kestrel is a hunting hawk.”

  “Yes. The perfect name for a warrior girl.”

  “Well.” His smile was slight, but it was there. “I suppose neither of us is the person we were believed we would become.”

  * * *

  Ronan was waiting in his family’s stables. He played with the gloves in his hands as he stood watching Kestrel and Arin ride toward him.

  “I thought you would take the carriage,” Ronan said to Kestrel.

  “To go riding? Really, Ronan.”

  “But your escort.” His eyes cut to Arin sitting easily on the stallion. “I didn’t think any of your slaves rode.”

  Kestrel watched Ronan tug at the gloves’ fingers. “Is there a problem?”

  “Now that you are here, certainly not.” Yet his voice was strained.

  “Because if you don’t like the way in which I have come, you may ride to my house the next time you invite me, then escort me back to your estate, then see me safely home again, and go back the way you came.”

  He responded to her words as if they had been flirtatious. “It would be my pleasure. Speaking of pleasure, let’s take some together.” He mounted his horse.

  “Where is Jess?”

  “Sick with a headache.”

  Somehow Kestrel doubted that. She said nothing, however, and let Ronan lead the way out of the stables. She turned to follow, and Arin did the same.

  Ronan glanced back, blond hair brushing over his shoulder. “Surely you don’t intend for him to join us.”

  Arin’s horse, perfectly calm up until this point, began to shift and balk. It was sensing the tension Kestrel couldn’t see in its rider, who looked impassively at her, waiting for her to translate Ronan’s words into Herrani so that he could pretend it was necessary. “Wait here,” she told him in his language. He wheeled the horse back toward the stables.

  “You should vary your escorts,” Ronan told Kestrel as Arin rode away. “That one stays too close to your heels.”

  Kestrel wondered who had orchestrated her ride alone with Ronan, the sister or the brother. She would have chosen Ronan—who, after all, had sent the invitation and would have encountered no resistance in asking Jess to stay indoors for the sake of a few private hours. But Ronan’s uncharacteristically foul mood made her think otherwise. He was acting like one might if his matchmaking sister had tricked him into something he didn’t wish to do.

  The day, which had been beautiful to her, no longer looked as bright.

  Yet when they sto
pped to sit under a tree, Ronan’s smile returned. He opened his saddlebags to reveal lunch, then unfurled a picnic blanket with a flourish, settled onto it, and stretched out his long form. Kestrel joined him. He poured a glass of wine and offered it.

  She lifted a brow. “That is a rather large amount of wine for this time of day.”

  “I hope to ply you with it, and make you say things you won’t regret.”

  She sipped, watching him pour a second cup, and said, “Are you not afraid for yourself?”

  He drank. “Why should I be?”

  “Perhaps it is you who will reveal things he’d rather not. I understand you’ve been paying call to Lady Faris.”

  “Jealous, Kestrel?”

  “No.”

  “Pity.” He sighed. “The sad, dull truth is that Faris has the best gossip.”

  “Which you will share.”

  Ronan leaned back to rest on one elbow. “Well, Senator Andrax has been moved to the capital, where he awaits trial for selling black powder to our enemies. The black powder hasn’t been found, despite the search—no surprise there, really. It probably vanished into the east long ago. Now, what else? Senator Linux’s daughter stole quite a few hours with a certain sailor on board one of the ships in the harbor, and has been shut away in her rooms by her parents for the fall season—probably winter, too. My friend Hanan has gambled away his inheritance—don’t worry, Kestrel, he’ll get it back. Just please, please do not play Bite and Sting with him for a few months. Oh, and the captain of the city guard committed suicide. But you knew that.”

  She almost spilled her wine. “No. When did that happen?”

  “The day before yesterday. You really didn’t know? Well, your father’s away again, I suppose. And you spend too much time sealed inside that villa. How you don’t go mad with boredom is beyond me.”

  Kestrel knew the captain. Oskar had dined at her house. He was a friend of her father’s, and unlike most of his friends he was jovial and well liked.

  “It was an honor suicide,” Ronan said, which meant that the captain had fallen on his sword.

  “But why?”

  Ronan shrugged. “The pressure of his position?”

  “He was captain since the colonization. He was excellent at it, and respected.”

  “Personal troubles, perhaps.” Ronan spread his hands. “Really, I don’t know, and I wish I’d never brought up such a dreary topic. This day hasn’t gone at all as I had hoped. Could we please talk about something other than suicide?”

  * * *

  On the way home, Arin said, “Was your ride not pleasant?”

  Kestrel glanced up, startled by his biting tone. She realized she had been frowning, lost in thought. “Oh, it was very nice. I’m just troubled by some news.”

  “What news?”

  “The captain of the city guard has killed himself.”

  “Does this … grieve you? Did you know him?”

  “Yes. No. Yes, I knew him, as a friend of my father’s, but not well enough to feel his death.”

  “Then I don’t understand why it should concern you.”

  “It concerns the whole city. There’s bound to be some disorder as the governor appoints a new captain, and the transition might not go smoothly. Oskar was very good at policing the city and his guards. That isn’t what bothers me.” Kestrel shook her head. “His suicide is the second thing to happen recently that doesn’t make sense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Senator Andrax. He loves gold, to be sure, but only because it buys him comfort. Good food, mistresses. He likes bribes: easy money. He won’t sit down at a Bite and Sting table with me, he’s so afraid of losing. How could he risk everything to sell black powder to the barbarians?”

  “Maybe there is a side of him you have never seen. But he has nothing to do with the captain.”

  “Except that both events are strange. Oskar had no reason to commit suicide. Even the emperor had praised his performance as captain. His guards admired him. He seemed happy.”

  “So? You don’t know everything. People are unhappy for many reasons.” Arin’s voice was impatient, and she thought that they were no longer talking about the captain. “What do you know of unhappiness?” he said. “What makes you think you can see into the hearts of men?”

  He spurred his horse ahead, and the puzzle about the senator and the captain flew out of Kestrel’s mind as she concentrated on keeping up.

  17

  Kestrel’s father didn’t dismiss the captain’s death as easily as Ronan and Arin had. During the next lesson in the library, he listened to Kestrel broach the topic, his brow furrowing into deep lines.

  “Did Oskar have enemies?” she asked.

  “Everyone has enemies.”

  “Perhaps someone made life difficult for him.”

  “Or someone made him fall on his sword.” When the general saw her surprise he said, “It’s not hard to make murder look like an honor suicide.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said quietly.

  “And what do you think now?”

  “If it was murder, he could have been killed by someone likely to inherit his position as captain.”

  Her father rested a hand on her shoulder. “The death may be only what it appears: a suicide. But I’ll discuss our concerns with the governor. This matter bears further thought.”

  * * *

  Kestrel, however, had little thought to spare. Enai wasn’t getting better.

  “Your cough is starting to worry me,” she told her nurse as they sat near the fire in her cottage.

  “I rather like it. It keeps me company. And it brings you to visit more frequently … when you are not playing Bite and Sting.”

  Kestrel didn’t like the coy look on Enai’s face, or the fact that it was almost impossible to keep anything that happened in the villa private. Those games were private.

  In a sharp tone, Kestrel said, “Let me send for a doctor.”

  “He will only tell me that I am old.”

  “Enai.”

  “I don’t want to see one. Don’t try to order me around.”

  That silenced Kestrel. She decided not to press the issue. After all, the feverish glaze in Enai’s eyes had vanished long ago. Kestrel, seeking to change the subject, asked about something that Arin had said. It had been like a needle in a dark part of her mind, stitching invisible patterns. “Did the Herrani enjoy trading with Valorians before the war?”

  “Oh, yes. Your people always had gold for Herrani goods. Valoria was our biggest buyer of exports.”

  “But did we have a reputation for something else? Besides being rich and savage, with no manners.”

  Enai took a sip of tea, peering at Kestrel over the cup’s rim. Kestrel grew uncomfortable, and hoped Enai wouldn’t ask what inspired these questions. But the woman only said, “You were known for your beauty. Of course, that was before the war.”

  “Yes,” said Kestrel softly. “Of course.”

  * * *

  From the window of her dressing room, Kestrel could see the garden. One morning, her hair still loose, she noticed Arin and Lirah talking by the rows of autumn vegetables. Arin wore work clothes and his back was to the window, giving Kestrel no opportunity to read his expression. Lirah’s, however, was as clear as the dawn.

  Kestrel realized that she had drawn close to the window. The chill from the glass breathed onto her skin, and her nails were digging into the grain of the sill. She drew back. She wasn’t eager to be caught spying. She pulled her velvet robe more tightly around her and let the view of the rosy sky fill her eyes, but still it seemed that all she saw was Lirah’s frank adoration.

  Kestrel sat in front of her dressing table’s hinged mirror, then wondered why she had done such a foolish thing as to look at herself. The mirror’s reflection only proved her displeasure. And why should she care about what she had seen in the garden? Why should she feel that some trust had been breached?

  Her reflection frowned. Why
should she not feel that way? She had a duty to the well-being of her slaves. There was something dishonorable in Arin accepting Lirah’s attention when he had a sweetheart. Kestrel doubted Lirah knew about the woman in the market.

  Kestrel’s hand pushed the oval mirror, spinning it on its hinges until it faced the wall and she stared at its blank, mother-of-pearl back. She refused to consider this anymore. She would not become one of those mistresses who tracked her slaves’ movements and gossiped about them for lack of anything interesting in her own life.

  Later that day, Arin came to the music room with a request to visit the city. Kestrel was especially gracious. She gave him her seal ring and told him to take as much time as he liked, so long as he was back by curfew. When it seemed that he might linger, she sat at the piano, making her dismissal clear. Yet she didn’t play until he had left and she felt that he had already walked out of the villa, and was some distance away.

  * * *

  When Cheat saw Arin, he greeted him in the way Herrani men used to do, with a palm pressed briefly to the side of his face. Arin smiled and did the same. He had known Cheat for years, since he was a boy and had just changed hands from his first slaver to his second. They had met in a quarry outside the city. Arin remembered how the gray rock dust had made everyone look old, powdering hair and drying out the skin. Cheat, however, had seemed almost viciously full of life, and there was no question in the slaves’ quarters at night who led them.

  “Things are going very well,” Cheat said to him now. “Almost every household in the city has Herrani devoted to our cause—and now, thanks to you, they are armed.”

  “I’ll drop the latest batch of weapons over the wall tonight, but I’m not sure how many more I can make,” Arin said. “No one’s noticed what I do on the side because I fill the steward’s orders on time, but if someone decides to check, it’ll be clear that iron and steel have gone missing.”

  “Then stop. Your position is too important to risk. I’ll arrange for someone to raid the city armory before the new captain is appointed to replace Oskar.”

  Cheat had been a city guard before the war. He had taken one look at the twelve-year-old Arin, called him a puppy with big paws, and said, “You’ll grow into them.” After curfew, he would teach Arin how to fight. Arin’s misery eased, though some of it came back when Cheat flattered and connived his way out of the quarry after a stint of only two years. But the skills Cheat had given him remained.