The Winner's Kiss by Marie Rutkoski Page B

sleep.
    He said, “You bought me.”
    â€œWhat?”
    He had murmured the words against the nape of her neck. His voice came again, stronger this time. “You asked how we met. It was in the market. I was for sale. You bought me.”
    Instinct told her to turn in his arms and search his face, to see what expression it showed.
    She didn’t trust her instincts. She stayed very still. “Why would I do that?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDo I still own you?”
    The wind pushed against the tent’s canvas.
    â€œYes.”
    Her reply was blunt. “No one would believe the things you say. Do you think having no memory makes me a fool?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou say that I was your spy, which means that I worked for you. You say that I own you, which means that you work for me. You say that we are
friends
. Masters and slaves are not friends. And then there is
this
—” she broke off, unwilling to go any further. She was too aware of his heat next to her. “You say impossible things. I don’t believe you.”
    His ribs expanded: hard wings against her back. “If you let me explain—”
    â€œStop talking. Stop talking. I don’t want to hear your voice.”
    He fell silent. She lay rigid against him, wishing that she could make herself pull away.
    At an uncertain hour of the night, she felt him draw breath. He was going to try again to explain, she thought. She went stony with panic. Again, she had that sense of falling, hurtling toward what she didn’t remember. The skull-crushing impact.
    She didn’t want him to speak, she was suddenly not even sure he
meant
to speak. It occurred to her, strangely, that he might sing.
    â€œDon’t.” Her command was sharp.
    He didn’t.
    Later, she woke because she was shaking again. He was gone.
    It was still nighttime. He should not be gone.
    She pushed out of the tent and saw him standing beneath an imaginary sky. Above the darkness, beyond the needlepoint stars, were swirls of green and pink edged with violet. She was sure she’d never seen anything like it.
    He turned to meet her gaze, which had lowered from the sky to him. She didn’t understand how he wasn’t freezing. Then she saw the way his shoulders hunched and realized that he was. He looked back up at the night’s gauzy colors.
    â€œWhat is that?” she asked.
    â€œThe gods.”
    â€œThey don’t exist.” She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she knew that she believed it.
    â€œThey do. They’ve come to punish me.”
    â€œIt was you,” she said, giving voice to her lurking suspicion, and knowing, as his face twisted, that she was right. “You’re the reason I was in that prison.”
    He met her eyes. “Yes.”

Chapter 10
    Arin wasn’t sure how they made it home.
    Kestrel had worsened. She was sick during the day. At night her body became a silently keening thing. He would hold her, worried that it was wrong of him, even (sometimes, especially) when she seemed to welcome it. Then it was as if a wave washed through her and pushed her out into sleep. He felt her go, and became wrenchingly grateful, while knowing that what ever comfort he could offer was something she didn’t actually want.
    She refused to let him help her inside his house. The glowing summer day did little to warm her. She huddled inside his dirty coat, and their progress up the path to the house was slow enough that by the time they reached the main entrance, the entire house hold had gathered to see them. Kestrel kept her eyes on her unsteady feet, but Arin knew that she was aware of the crowd; her mouth had set into a grim line.
    Roshar came to them first, boots crunching on the gravel. He was uncharacteristically silent. Appalled, when he wasn’t someone given to being appalled by the appearance of others.
    â€œI want Sarsine,” Arin told him, but Sarsine was already