The Winner's Kiss

You don't need to be gifted with a blade. You are your own best weapon.

"He changed us both." She seemed to struggle for words. "I think of you, all that you lost, who you were, what you were forced to be, and might have been, and I—I have become this, this person, unable to—"
She shut her mouth.
"Kestrel," he said softly, "I love this person."

No battle is won without a good gamble.

But nothing is ever simple between the gods, and the stories of the gods of war and games were many...

“Later, Kestrel wished she had spoken then, that no time had been lost. She wished that she’d had the courage that very moment to tell Arin what she’d finally known to be true: that she loved him with the whole of her heart.”

“Every chip of her being slid into place, into the image of a lost world. The boy discovering it. The girl who sees it spark and flare, and understands, now, what she feels. She realizes that she has felt this for a long time.”

“He hadn't been blessed by the god of death.
Arin was the god of death.”

“She looked into the shadowed corners of the room. Talking with him was like having a flower unfold inside her chest, then close up tight. Creep open. Collapse in on itself.”

“Come closer, and I will tell you."
But he forgot. He kissed her, and became lost in the exquisite sensation of his skin becoming too tight for his body. He murmured other things instead. A secret, a want, a promise. A story, in its own way.”

Are you really a boy, like Xash says? the god asked Arin. You’ve been mine for twenty years. I raised you.
The Valorian signed the scrap of paper.
Cared for you.
The message was rolled, sealed, and pushed into a tiny leather tube.
Watched over you when you thought you were alone.
The captain tied the tube to hawk’s leg. The bird was too large to be a kestrel. It didn’t have a kestrel’s markings. It cocked its head, turning its glass-bead eyes on Arin.
No, not a boy. A man made in my image…one who knows he can’t afford to be seen as weak.
The hawk launched into the sky.
You’re mine, Arin. You know what you must do.
Arin cut the Valorian’s throat.

You don't need to be gifted with a blade. You are your own best weapon.

Roshar lay on his back, the dip of his neck bolstered by a tied bedroll. He smoked.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Dear gods.”
“It occurs to me that you have no official rank, and that I, as your prince, might give you one.” He said an eastern word Arin didn’t know. “Well? Will it suit?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether that word was some horrific insult you’re pretending is an actual military rank.”
“How mistrustful! Arin, I have taught you every foul curse I know.”
“I’m sure you’ve saved a few, for just such a time.”

“You don't need to be gifted with a blade. You are your own best weapon.”

“How do I look in the dark?”

Startled, Arin glanced at him. The question had had no edges. It wasn’t sleek, either. Its soft, uncertain shape suggested that Roshar truly wanted to know. In the fired red shadows, his limbs looked lax and his mutilated face met Arin’s squarely. The heavy feeling that Arin carried—that specific sadness, nestled just below his collar bone, like a pendant—lessened. He said, “Like my friend.”

Roshar didn’t smile. When he spoke, his voice matched his expression, which was rare for him. Rarer still: his tone. Quiet and true. “You do, too.”

The stained-glass window glowed, and something eased open inside Kestrel. As color seeped into the room, she felt an unexpected wish.
She wished her father were here.
You, who seek your own father's death.
But she didn't, she found that she couldn't, no matter how he had hurt her. She wished that he could see her play, and win. That he could see what she saw now.
A window is just a window. Colored glass: mere glass. But in the sun it becomes more. She would show him, and say, love should do this.
And you too, she would tell him, because she could no longer deny that it remained true, in spite of everything.
I love you, too.

Once there was a girl who was too sure of herself. Not everyone would call her beautiful, but they admitted that she had a certain grace that intimidated more often than it charmed. She was not, society agreed, someone you wanted to cross.

“You don't need to be gifted with a blade. You are your own best weapon.”

Arin’s god slapped him across the face.
Pay attention, death demanded.
Arin did, and after that, no one could touch him.

“I happen to be very good at war. It’s because I’m so handsome. Like one of your gods. People see me and their minds go blank. I run my sword right through them.”

Roshar lay on his back, the dip of his neck bolstered by a tied bedroll. He smoked. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Dear Gods.”
“It occurs to me that you have no official rank, and that I, as you prince, might give you one.” He said an eastern word Arin didn’t know. “Well? Will it suit?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether that word was some horrific insult you’re pretending is an actual military rank.”

Protective. That was the word for Sarsine’s furrowed brow, her gentle mouth.
“Does something else trouble you?” she asked. “You can talk to me. I can keep a secret.”

“Do I still own you?”
“Yes.”

“I trust you. You won’t lie to me.”

Buddy read with my partners in suffering Katerina & Vera. Thank you, girls, for helping me survive this book *hearty hug*

Actual rating: 5+

You don’t need to be gifted with a blade. You are your own best weapon.”

When I first read The Winner's Curse I was instantly enchanted by the story, from the first words it was "my thing". It penetrated my heart, ripped it out, and held it hostage for almost three years. I, like a girl from the fairy tale, put my heart inside an ivory box and gave it to this series. The Winner's kiss now returns my heart to me - torn and shredded - but I don't want it back, not yet. You may ask, what is it about these books that makes me so possessed? I can answer: its characters, the subtle almost seamless understanding of their hearts; language that intensifies every emotion ten times stronger, penetrates and destroys your will to fight the feelings; the story that holds your attention like chess pieces on a board, making you want to guess the rival's next move. Everything in this series makes me aglow with life and desire, with longing. That's why I love this series.

From book one to book three main characters came a long way filled with suffering, pain, passion, uncertainty, betrayal, and so on. The list of things they endured can go on almost indefinitely. Book one was the beginning, tentative steps to acknowledging characters and the world around them. We were mostly isolated and didn't know the stakes of the game everyone around was playing. In book two the world became bigger and the stakes higher. Everyone played everyone and our characters were amateurs in the world of major gamblers. Book three... the stakes are higher still - no saying if you'll survive or the god of death will claim you.

I think we can divide this book in four acts.
Act one picks up almost from the moment book two ends. Kestrel is on her way to Tundra's working camp, a place where any hope is futile. A place with zero chances to stay the same person you were before you entered it. This is the highest point of Kestrel's suffering. Her former self disappears, dissolves inside a nightmare, and someone new is born.

It would be a blessing to forget.
After all, what was there to remember?
Someone she never could have had. Friends dead or gone. A father who did not love her.

Roshar is not all sunshine and rainbows and often hides his vulnerability behind jokes and self-mockery . He has his sins, he made his stakes, he lost, he continues to live with the guilt.

“I have a confession,” he said. “Sometimes I offend on purpose. It’s like my smile.”
“That’s not an apology.”
“Princes don’t apologize.”

This review has come to an end. Maybe it wasn't a review in its defined form but a map of my emotions and thoughts during my journey through this series. I don't know. I am not sure I can say goodbye to this series yet. I will probably read and re-read it not once, but many times. The thing about favorite books is that they make us stronger even when they make us weaker. Wasn't it what Kestrel said about Arin or Arin said about Kestrel or did they say it about each other? The things we love always hurt us, whether it's books or people or something else. A Bitter-sweet pain that makes us alive.