The Winner's Curse

by Marie Rutkoski

  Arin still looked skeptical.

  “He’ll also collect you, of course. Knowing him, he’ll have you whipped until you’re unconscious and even after that. I’m sure that when you wake up, you’ll be very glad that I decided to do exactly as you wanted.”

  Arin snorted.

  “If you doubt me, you’re welcome to walk with me to the barracks to watch as I give my father’s letter to a soldier, with orders for its swift delivery.”

  “I think I will.” He opened the library door.

  They left the house and crossed the hard ground. Kestrel shivered. She hadn’t stopped to fetch a cloak. She couldn’t risk that Arin would change his mind.

  When they entered the barracks, Kestrel looked among the six off-duty guards. She was relieved, since she had counted on finding only four, and not necessarily Rax, whom she trusted most. She approached him, Arin just a step behind her.

  “Bring this to the general as swiftly as you can.” She gave Rax the first letter. “Have a messenger deliver this other letter to Jess and Ronan.”

  “What?” Arin said. “Wait—”

  “And lock this slave up.”

  Kestrel turned so that she wouldn’t see what happened next. She heard the room descend into chaos. She heard the scuffle, a shout, the sound of fists thudding against flesh.

  She let the door shut behind her and walked away.

  * * *

  Ronan was waiting for her beyond the estate’s guarded gate. From the looks of things, he had been waiting for some time. His horse was nosing brown grass as Ronan sat on a nearby boulder, throwing pebbles at the general’s stone wall. When he saw Kestrel ride through the gate on Javelin, he flung his handful of rocks to the path. He remained sitting, elbows propped on his bended knees as he stared at her, his face pinched and white. He said, “I have half a mind to tear you down from your horse.”

  “You got my message, then.”

  “And rode instantly here, where guards told me that the lady of the house gave strict orders not to let anyone—even me—inside.” His eyes raked over her, taking in the black fighting clothes. “I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it. After you vanished last night, everyone at the party was talking about the challenge, yet I was sure it was just a rumor started by Irex because of whatever has caused that ill will between you. Kestrel, how could you expose yourself like this?”

  Her hands tightened around the reins. She thought about how, when she let go, her palms would smell like leather and sweat. She concentrated on imagining that scent. This was easier than paying heed to the sick feeling swimming inside her. She knew what Ronan was going to say.

  She tried to deflect it. She tried to talk about the duel itself, which seemed straightforward next to her reasons for it. Lightly, she said, “No one seems to believe that I might win.”

  Ronan vaulted off the rock and strode toward her horse. He seized the saddle’s pommel. “You’ll get what you want. But what do you want? Whom do you want?”

  “Ronan.” Kestrel swallowed. “Think about what you are saying.”

  “Only what everyone has been saying. That Lady Kestrel has a lover.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “He is her shadow, skulking behind her, listening, watching.”

  “He isn’t,” Kestrel tried to say, and was horrified to hear her voice falter. She felt a stinging in her eyes. “He has a girl.”

  “Why do you even know that? So what if he does? It doesn’t matter. Not in the eyes of society.”

  Kestrel’s feelings were like banners in a storm, snapping at their ties. They tangled and wound around her. She focused, and when she spoke, she made her words disdainful. “He is a slave.”

  “He is a man, as I am.”

  Kestrel slipped from her saddle, stood face-to-face with Ronan, and lied. “He is nothing to me.”

  Ronan’s anger dimmed a little. He waited, listening.

  “I never should have challenged Irex.” Kestrel decided to weave some truth into her story, to toughen the fabric of it. “But he and I have an unfriendly history. He made me an offer last spring. I turned him down. Since then, he has been … aggressive.”

  She had Ronan’s sympathy then, and she was grateful, for she didn’t know what she would do if he and Jess turned their backs on her. She needed them—not only today, but always.

  “Irex angered me. The slave was just an excuse.” How much easier everything would be if that were so. But Kestrel wouldn’t let herself consider the truth. She didn’t want to know its shape or see its face. “I was thoughtless and rash, but I’ve drawn my tiles and must play them. Will you help me, Ronan? Will you do as I asked in my letter?”

  “Yes.” He still looked unhappy. “Though as far as I can see, there is little for me to do but stand and watch you fight.”

  “And Jess? Will she be at the duel?”

  “Yes, as soon as she is done weeping her eyes out. What a fright you’ve given us, Kestrel.”

  Kestrel opened a saddlebag and passed Ronan the purse with the death-price. He took it, recognizing it by its weight and the fact that her letter had told him to expect it. Softly, he said, “You frightened me.”

  She embraced him, stepping into his arms. They relaxed around her. His chin rested on top of her head, and she felt his forgiveness. She tried to push away thoughts of Arin on the auction block, of the look in his eyes when he asked where his honor was, of him swearing at her guards in his tongue. She held Ronan more tightly, pressing her cheek against his chest.

  Ronan sighed. “I’ll ride with you to Irex’s house,” he said, “and see you safely home after you’ve won.”

  * * *

  The path to Irex’s house was clotted with carriages. Society had turned out in force for this duel: Kestrel saw hundreds of well-dressed men and women talking excitedly, their breath fogging the late autumn air. Ronan dismounted and so did she, letting their horses range to join the others.

  Kestrel scanned the crowd ringed around the clearing in the trees. People smiled when they saw her, but they were not kind smiles. There were coy looks, and some faces held a morbid fascination, as if this were not a duel but a hanging, and the only question was whether the criminal’s neck would break instantly. Kestrel wondered how many people gathered in the lowering sun knew that Irex had already paid the death-price.

  Kestrel felt cold and hard. A walking skeleton.

  Ronan slid an arm around her. She knew this was as much to prove a point to society as to soothe her. He was shielding her reputation with his own. She hadn’t asked him for this, and the fact that he had seen something missing in her plan made her feel both relieved to have him at her side and more afraid than before.

  “I don’t see my father.” Kestrel’s fingers trembled. Ronan caught her hands in his, and even though his eyes were filled with doubt, he gave her a showy grin meant for the crowd. Loudly, he said, “How chilly your hands are. Let’s get this dull thing over with, shall we, and then go somewhere warm?”

  “Kestrel!” Benix detangled himself from the crowd, holding Jess’s hand and waving boisterously at his friends. Benix had a jolly swagger as he walked toward them, but Jess couldn’t play the game so well. She looked awful. Her eyes were red, her face splotched.

  Benix swept Kestrel into a bear hug, then pretended to duel with Ronan—a move that amused some of those watching, but brought fresh tears to Jess’s eyes. “This is not a joke,” she said.

  “Oh, sister,” Ronan teased. “You take things too seriously.”

  The crowd shifted, disappointed that Kestrel’s arrival hadn’t triggered any emotional explosions among her closest friends. As people turned away, Kestrel saw a clear path to Irex, tall and black-clad in the center of the space marked for the duel. He smiled at her, and Kestrel was so thrown out of herself that she didn’t know her father had arrived until she felt his hand on her shoulder.

  He was dusty and smelled of horse. “Father,” she said, and would have tucked herself into hi
s arms.

  He checked her. “This isn’t the time.”

  She flushed.

  “General Trajan,” Ronan said cheerfully. “So glad you could come. Benix, do I see the Raul twins over there, in the front, closest to the dueling ground? No, you blind bat. There, right next to Lady Faris. Why don’t we watch the match with them? You, too, Jess. We need your feminine presence so we can pretend that we’re only interested in the twins because you’d like to chat about feathered hats.”

  Jess squeezed Kestrel’s hand, and the three of them would have left immediately had the general not stopped them. “Thank you,” he said.

  Kestrel’s friends dropped their merry act, which Jess wasn’t performing well anyway. The general focused on Ronan, sizing him up like he would a new recruit. Then he did something rare. He gave a nod of approval. The corner of Ronan’s mouth lifted in a small, worried smile as he led the others away.

  Kestrel’s father faced her squarely. When she bit her lip, he said, “Now is not the time to show any weakness.”

  “I know.”

  He checked the straps on her forearms, at her hips, and against her calves, tugging the leather that secured six small knives to her body. “Keep your distance from Irex,” he said, his voice low, though the people nearest to them had withdrawn to give some privacy—a deference to the general. “Your best bet is to keep this to a contest of thrown knives. You can dodge his, throw your own, and might even get first blood. Make him empty his sheaths. If you both lose all six Needles, the duel is a draw.” He straightened her jacket. “Don’t let this turn into hand-to-hand combat.”

  The general had sat next to her at the spring tournament. He had seen Irex fight and directly afterward had tried to enlist him in the military.

  “I want you to be at the front of the crowd,” Kestrel said.

  “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” A small crease appeared between her father’s brows. “Don’t let him get close.”

  Kestrel nodded, though she had no intention of taking his advice.

  She walked through the throngs of people to meet Irex.

  21

  Private conversation between Kestrel and Irex was impossible, which probably pleased him. He liked to be heard as well as watched, and seemed to have no interest in stepping away from the crowd until he and she would move to their assigned places at opposite ends of the circular space, marked with black paint on the dead grass.

  “Lady Kestrel.” He spoke clearly for the listening audience. “Did you receive my gift?”

  “And brought it back here.”

  “Does this mean that you forfeit? Come, agree to send me your slave and give me your hand. I’ll prick your little finger. First blood will be mine, our friends will go home happy, and you will join me for dinner.”

  “No, I like the plans as they stand. With you in your place, and me fifty paces away from you.”

  Irex’s dark eyes became slits. His mouth, which some might have called charming, dropped its grin. Irex turned his back to her and went to take his place. She took hers.

  Irex, as the challenged, had appointed a friend to call the start of the duel. When the young man shouted “Mark!” Irex snatched a dagger from his arm and threw.

  Kestrel neatly dodged the blade, having expected he would take the offensive. The dagger sang through the air to bury itself in a tree.

  Their audience shrank away from the dueling circle. Sideline casualties had happened before, and Needles was a particularly dangerous game to watch.

  Irex appeared unworried that his first attempt had failed. He crouched, slipping a Needle from its sheath at his calf. He weighed it, watching Kestrel. He feinted, but if she was skilled at anything it was seeing through a bluff, particularly when Irex had no real desire to hide his feelings. He rushed forward, and threw.

  His speed was terrifying. Kestrel hit the ground, her cheek scraping dirt, then shoved herself up before Irex could catch her in so vulnerable a position. As she stood, she saw something gleam on the ground: the very end of her braid, sheared off by the knife.

  Kestrel’s breath came quickly. Irex held his position at about thirty paces from her.

  She balanced on her toes, waiting, and saw that Irex’s anger at her insult was gone, or had mixed itself with pleasure to the point where he seemed to be in a good humor. His first throw had been wild, and not smart, since he had drawn a Needle from one of the two easiest points of access. When Needles became hand-to-hand, it was a disadvantage to have few knives, and to have lost those at the forearms, or even the hips. Kestrel knew he knew that, or he wouldn’t have thrown his second Needle from his calf. He was cocky, but he could be cautious. That would make Kestrel’s task harder.

  She could almost feel her father’s frustration. People were shouting suggestions at her, but she didn’t hear her father’s voice. She briefly wondered if it was hard for him not to yell at her to throw a few Needles of her own. She knew that this was what he wanted. It was the sensible thing for a weaker fighter to do: hope to end the duel early with a strike anywhere.

  But she wanted to get close to Irex, close enough to speak without anyone overhearing. She would need every knife she had once she was within arm’s reach of him.

  Irex cocked his head. He was either mystified that Kestrel wasn’t taking the only sensible strategy or disappointed that she was doing little at all. He had probably expected more of a fight. Kestrel had taken great pains never to reveal her very ordinary skills at weapons, and society assumed that the general’s daughter must be an excellent fighter.

  He hung back, showing no interest in emptying more sheaths. He didn’t advance, which was a problem—if Kestrel couldn’t lure him to her, she would have to come to him.

  The shouts were incoherent now. They swelled to something like a roaring silence.

  Kestrel’s father would say that she should stand her ground. Instead she pulled her two calf daggers and sped forward. A blade spun from her hand and went wide—a terrible throw, but one that distracted Irex from the second, which might have struck him had he not ducked and launched a Needle of his own.

  She skidded on the dry grass to avoid the knife. Her side hit the earth just as the Needle punched into the ground next to her leg. Her mind iced over, sealed itself shut.

  He was quick, too quick. She hadn’t even seen his hand move.

  Then Irex’s boot kicked her ribs. Kestrel gasped in pain. She forced herself to her feet and swept an arm knife out of its sheath. She sliced the air in front of her, but Irex danced back, knocked the blade out of her hand, and rolled to claim it as his own.

  Her chest heaved. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. She fleetingly imagined her father closing his eyes in dismay. Never arm your opponent, he always said.

  But she had what she wanted. She and Irex were in the circle’s center now, too far from the shouting audience for their conversation to be overheard.

  “Irex.” Her voice was thin and weak. “We need to talk.”

  He kicked in her knee. She felt something grind and give just before she crumpled to the ground. The force of her fall drove the kneecap back in place. She cried out.

  The shock was too great for pain. Then it came: a spasm that tunneled from her leg into her brain.

  It wasn’t fear that forced Kestrel to her feet. She was stupid with pain and didn’t have room to feel anything else. She didn’t know how she managed to get up, only that she did, and Irex let her.

  “I never liked you,” he hissed. “So superior.”

  Kestrel’s vision was whitening. She had the odd impression that it was snowing, but as the whiteness ate its way toward Irex’s face she realized there was no snow. She was about to faint.

  Irex slapped her face.

  That stung her to life. She heard a gasp, and wasn’t sure if it came from the crowd or her own throat. Kestrel had to speak now, and quickly, or the duel was going to end with Irex crushing her well before he finished things off with a Needle. It was hard to find the
air for words. She drew a dagger. It helped, a little, to feel its solidity against her palm. “You are the father of Faris’s baby.”

  He faltered. “What?”

  Kestrel prayed she wasn’t wrong. “You slept with Senator Tiran’s wife. You fathered her child.”

  Irex brought his guard back up, the dagger fire-bright in the setting sun. But he bit the inside of his cheek, making his face go lopsidedly lean, and that slight trace of worry made her think that maybe she would survive this duel. He said, “What makes you say that?”

  “Strike a blow easy for me to block and I’ll tell you.”

  He did, and the sound of her blade pushing his back made Kestrel stronger. “You have the same eyes,” she said. “The baby has the trick of a dimple in his left cheek, as you do. Faris looked pale as we took our places to fight, and I notice that she is at the front of the crowd. I don’t think she’s worried about me.”

  Slowly, he said, “Your knowing a secret like that doesn’t make me feel less inclined to kill you.”

  She took a shuddery breath, glad that she was right, glad that he hesitated even as the crowd continued to shout. “You won’t kill me,” she said, “because I have told Jess and Ronan. If I die, they will tell everyone else.”

  “No one would believe them. Society will think they mourn you and seek to damage me.”

  “Will society think that when they begin to compare the boy’s face to yours? Will Senator Tiran?” Limping, she circled him, and he allowed it, though he drew a second Needle and held them both ready. He shifted his feet swiftly while she tried not to stumble. “If Ronan has any difficulty starting a scandal, he’ll feed it with money. I have given him five hundred gold pieces, and he will bribe friends to swear that the rumor is true, that they witnessed you in bed with Faris, that you keep a lock of the boy’s hair close to your heart. They will say anything, true or not. Few people are as rich as you. Ronan has many friends—like poor Hanan—who would gladly take gold to ruin the reputation of someone no one really likes.”