Free The Winner's Kiss by Marie Rutkoski

for the barrel and ball, the dimensions, the way to fit the barrel into a leather stock.
    Sarsine examined the pages. “How many do you want?”
    â€œAs many as you can have made.”
    He went quiet. She let him be. He ate a bit of bread, then caught himself staring at Tensen’s ring on his smallest finger. He wondered why his spymaster had lied to him.
    Tensen had promised the Moth her anonymity. That had been clear from the first. Then Tensen had seemed to backtrack on that promise—or to let it fall under the weight of his greater promise of loyalty to Arin. Tensen had named Risha as his clever spy.
    Why would a Herrani woman be so insistent on her anonymity?
    A servant, likely, in the imperial palace. Scared to be discovered. The emperor was a vengeful man.
    Arin touched his scar. His fingers were sticky.
    Could the Moth have been Deliah? But the Herrani dressmaker, who had sewn Arin’s face, had given him information directly. He didn’t understand why she would do that
and
go through an elaborate charade of being Tensen’s secret spy.
    As if guessing the course of his thoughts, Sarsine said, “What about the messenger?”
    â€œI spoke with him. Told him he could go home.”
    â€œArin. The borders are closed. He trekked through the mountains from Valoria. You can’t send him back. He has no home.”
    Arin winced. “I wasn’t thinking.”
    â€œThat only happens to you when your heart gets in the way.”
    He felt again that flutter of unease. He tried to remember the dream he had made himself forget. He stood, eager to get away from his cousin, who knew him too well—even though that was, he realized, why he had come. “The messenger can stay in my old rooms, then.”
    Sarsine said, “I’ll let him know, if he hasn’t already left.”

    Roshar was in the kitchen yard with his tiger, who’d just killed a chicken. The flagstones were strewn with bloody feathers. The tiger, though still small, had large paws. It lay in the yard, panting in the sun, paws over its prize, muzzle pink and wet.
    The prince eyed Arin.
    â€œWas that a laying hen?” Arin asked.
    â€œI have news for you. Not about chickens.”
    â€œThe Valorian prisoners?”
    Roshar sat at the edge of the well, his expression hard to read.
    Arin’s heart dropped. “What kind of news?”
    â€œWould you like the bad news first, or the news I’m not sure whether you will take as good or bad?”
    â€œBad news.”
    â€œYour spymaster’s dead.”
    â€œTensen?” Arin had expected this, yet the stab of sorrow went as deep as if he’d been wholly unprepared.
    â€œThe dressmaker, too. The general killed Tensen—or at least, that’s what they say. Unclear about the dressmaker.”
    Arin’s stomach was hollow. He remembered looking up at Deliah through the veil of his own blood and thinking, for a moment, that she looked like his mother.
    â€œDo you want the other news?” Roshar tentatively asked.
    No. Arin was suddenly sure that he did not want to hear it, would not be able to bear it. He felt a sinking dread.
    â€œYour . . .” Roshar stumbled.
    A chicken feather lifted in a sudden breeze and eddied along the base of the well.
    â€œArin, Kestrel’s dead.”
    His ears were ringing. He felt as if he’d fallen into the well. He heard Roshar’s voice from far away. The words tumbled down to him. “It was recent,” Roshar said. “A disease. While she was away from the capital, traveling with the prince. The whole empire is in mourning.”
    â€œThat’s not true.”
    Roshar said something. Arin couldn’t hear him. He was at the bottom of the well. The water closed over his head, cold and black.

Chapter 6
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œArin, I know you’re not.”
    Sarsine had been waiting for him by Javelin’s empty stall when Arin returned