The Poppy War (The Poppy War Trilogy #1)

When Rin was released from Enro’s supervision, she was moved to the basement of the main hall, where the matches used to be held. She should have found this odd, but she was too dazed to think much about anything. She slept an inordinate amount. There was no clock in the basement, but often she dozed off to find that the sun had gone down. She had trouble staying awake for more than a few minutes. Food was brought to her, and each time she ate, she fell asleep again almost immediately.

Once, as she slept, she heard voices above her.

“This is inelegant,” said the Empress.

“This is inhumane,” said Irjah. “You’re treating her like a common criminal. This girl might have won the battle for us.”

“And she might yet burn down this city,” said Jun. “We don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“She’s just a girl,” said Irjah. “She’ll be scared. Someone needs to tell her what’s happening to her.”

“We don’t know what’s happening to her,” said Jun.

“It’s obvious,” the Empress said. “She’s another Altan.”

“So we’ll let Tyr deal with her when he’s here,” said Jun.

“Tyr’s coming all the way from the Night Castle,” said Irjah. “You’re going to keep her sedated for an entire week?”

“I’m certainly not going to let her wander the city,” Jun answered. “You saw what the Gatekeeper did to the east wall. His Seal is breaking, Daji. He’s a bigger threat than the Federation.”

“Not anymore,” the Empress said coolly. “The Gatekeeper’s been dealt with.”

When Rin ventured to open her eyes, she saw no one standing over her, and she only half remembered what had been said. After another indefinite spell of dreamless sleep she wasn’t sure whether she had imagined the entire thing.

Eventually she came to her senses. But when she tried to leave the basement, she was forcibly restrained by three Third Division soldiers stationed outside the door.

“What’s happening?” she demanded. She was still a bit dazed, but conscious enough to know this wasn’t normal. “Why can’t I go?”

“It’s for your safety,” one of them responded.

“What are you talking about? Who authorized this?”

“Our orders are to keep you here,” the soldier said tersely. “If you try to force your way out, we will have to hurt you.”

The soldier nearest her was already reaching for his weapon. Rin backed up. She understood there was no arguing her way out of this.

So she reverted to the most primitive of methods. She opened her mouth and screamed. She writhed on the floor. She beat at the soldiers with her fists and spat in their faces. She threatened to urinate in front of them. She shouted obscenities about their mothers. She shouted obscenities about their grandmothers.

This continued for hours.

Finally they acquiesced to her demand to see someone in charge.

Unfortunately, they sent Master Jun.

“This isn’t necessary,” she said sulkily when he arrived. She had hastily rearranged her clothes so that it didn’t look like she had just been rolling around in the dirt. “I’m not going to harm anyone.”

Jun looked like the last thing he would do was believe her. “You’ve just demonstrated an ability to spontaneously combust. You set fire to the eastern half of the city. Do you understand why we might not want you running around camp?”

Rin thought the combustion had been more deliberate than spontaneous, but she didn’t think explaining how she’d done it would make her seem like any less of a threat.

“I want to see Jiang,” she said.

Jun’s expression was unreadable. He left without replying.

Once Rin got over the indignation of being locked up, she decided the best thing to do was wait. She was loyal to the Empress. She was a good soldier. The other masters at Sinegard would vouch for her, even if Jun wouldn’t. So long as she kept her head, she had nothing to fear. She mused, absurdly, that if she was going to get in trouble for anything, it might be opium possession.

At least she wasn’t being kept in isolation. Rin discovered that visitors could enter the basement freely. She just couldn’t leave.

Niang visited often, but she wasn’t much for conversation. When Niang smiled, it was forced. She moved listlessly. She didn’t laugh when Rin tried to cheer her up. They passed hours sitting beside each other in silence, listening to each other breathe. Niang was stunned with grief, and Rin didn’t know how to comfort her.

“I miss Raban too,” she tried once, but that only made Niang tear up and leave.

Kitay, on the other hand, she grilled mercilessly for news. He visited as often as he could, but was constantly being called away for relief operations.

In bits and pieces, she learned what had happened in the aftermath of the battle.

The Federation had been on the verge of taking Sinegard when she had killed their general. That, combined with the timely arrival of the Empress and the Third Division, had turned the battle in their favor. The Federation had retreated in the interim. Kitay doubted they would soon return.

“Things ended pretty quick once the Third got here,” he said. He cradled his arm in a sling, but assured Rin that it was only a minor sprain. “It had a lot to do with . . . well, you know. The Federation was spooked. I think they were afraid that we had more than one Speerly.”

She sat up. “What?”

Kitay looked confused. “Well, isn’t that what you are?”

A Speerly? Her?

“That’s what they’ve been saying all over the city,” said Kitay. Rin could sense his discomfort. Kitay’s mind worked at twice the speed of a normal person’s; his curiosity was insatiable. He needed to know what she had done, what she was, and why she hadn’t told him.

But she didn’t know what to tell him. She didn’t know herself.

“What are they saying?” she asked.

“That you fell into a frenzied bloodlust. That you fought like you’d been possessed by a horde of demons. That the general cut you down over and over and stabbed you eighteen times and still you kept moving.”

She held out her arms. “No stab wounds. That was just Nezha.”

Kitay didn’t laugh. “Is it true? You’re locked down here, so it must be.”

So Kitay didn’t know about the fire. Rin considered telling him, but hesitated.

How would she explain shamanism to Kitay, who was so convinced of his own rationality? Kitay was the paragon of the modernist thought that Jiang despised. Kitay was an atheist, a skeptic, who couldn’t accept challenges to his worldview. He would think her mad. And she was too exhausted to argue.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said. “It was all just a blur. And I don’t know what I am. I was a war orphan. I could be from anywhere. I could be anyone.”

Kitay looked unsatisfied. “Jun’s convinced you’re a Speerly.”

But how could that be? Rin would have been an infant when Speer was attacked, and there was no way she would have survived if no one else had.

“But the Federation massacred the Speerlies,” she said. “They left no survivors.”

“Altan survived,” Kitay said. “You survived.”

The Academy students had suffered a far higher proportion of casualties than the soldiers of the Eighth Division. Barely half of their class had made it through, most of them with minor injuries. Fifteen of their classmates were dead. Five more were in critical condition in Enro’s triage center, their lives hanging perilously in balance.

Nezha was among them.

“He’s going through a third round of operations today,” said Kitay. “They don’t know if he’s going to live. Even if he does, he might never fight again. They say the halberd pierced his torso all the way through. They say his spine is severed.”

Rin had simply been relieved that Nezha wasn’t dead. She hadn’t considered that the alternative might be worse.

“I hope he dies,” Kitay said suddenly.

She whirled on him, shocked, but Kitay continued, “If it’s death or a lifetime as a cripple, I hope he gets off easy. Nezha couldn’t live with himself if he couldn’t fight.”

Rin didn’t know how to respond to that.

The Nikara’s victory had bought them time, but it had not guaranteed them the city. Intelligence from the Second Division reported that Federation reinforcements were being sent across the narrow sea while the main invading forces waited for their rendezvous.

When the Federation attacked for a second time, the Nikara wouldn’t be able to hold the city. Sinegard was being fully evacuated. The Imperial bureaucracy had been moved completely to the wartime capital of Golyn Niis, which meant Sinegard’s security had been deprioritized.

“They’re liquidating the Academy,” Kitay said. “We’ve all been drafted into the Divisions. Niang’s been sent to the Eleventh, Venka to the Sixth in Golyn Niis. They’re not sending Nezha anywhere until he . . . well, you know.” He paused. “I got my orders for the Second yesterday. Junior officer.”

It was the division Kitay had always dreamed of joining. Under different circumstances congratulations would have been in order. But now, celebration simply felt wrong. Rin tried anyway. “That’s great. That’s what you wanted, right?”

He shrugged. “They’re desperate for soldiers. It’s not a matter of prestige anymore; they’ve started drafting people right out of the countryside. But it’ll be good to serve under Irjah. I’m shipping out tomorrow.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too.” Kitay sat back on his hands. “Any idea when they’re going to let you out of here?”

“You know more than I do.”

“No one’s come in to talk to you?”

She shook her head. “Not since Jun. Have they found Jiang yet?”

Kitay gave her a sympathetic look, and she knew the answer before he spoke. It was the same answer he had given her for days.

Jiang was gone. Not dead—disappeared. No one had heard or seen anything since the end of the battle. The rubble of the east wall had been thoroughly searched for survivors, yet there was no sign of the Lore Master. There was no proof that he was dead, but nothing that gave hope that he was alive. He seemed to have vanished into the very void that he had called into being.

Once Kitay left with the Second Division for Golyn Niis, there was no one to keep Rin company. She passed her time sleeping. She wanted to sleep all the time now, especially after meals, and when she did it was a heavy and dreamless sleep. She wondered if her food and drink were drugged. Somehow, she was almost grateful for this. It was worse to be alone with her thoughts.

She wasn’t safe, now that she had succeeded in calling a god. She didn’t feel powerful. She was locked in a basement. Her own commanders didn’t trust her. Half her friends were dying or dead, her master was lost to the void, and she was being contained for her own safety and the safety of everyone around her.

If this was what it meant to be a Speerly—if she even was a Speerly—Rin didn’t know if it was worth it.

She slept, and when she couldn’t force herself to sleep anymore, she curled into the corner and cried.

On the sixth day of her containment, Rin had just awoken when the door to the main hall opened. Irjah looked inside, checked to see that she was awake, and then quickly shut the door behind him.

“Master Irjah.” Rin smoothed her rumpled tunic and stood.

“I’m General Irjah now,” he said. He didn’t seem particularly happy about it. “Casualties lead to promotions.”

“General,” she amended. “Apologies.”

He shrugged and motioned for her to sit back down. “It hardly matters at this point. How are you doing?”

“Tired, sir,” she said. She assumed a cross-legged position on the floor, because there were no stools in the basement.

After a moment’s hesitation, Irjah sat on the floor as well.

“So.” He placed his hands on his knees. “They’re saying you’re a Speerly.”

“How much do you know?” she asked in a small voice. Did Irjah know she had called the fire? Did Irjah know what Jiang had taught her?

“I raised Altan after the Second War,” said Irjah. “I know.”

Rin felt a deep sense of relief. If Irjah knew what Altan was like, what Speerlies were capable of, then surely he could vouch for her, persuade the Militia that she wasn’t dangerous—at least not to them.

“They’ve come to a decision about you,” Irjah said.

“I didn’t know I was up for debate,” she answered, just to be difficult.

Irjah gave her a tired smile that did not reach his eyes. “You’re going to get your transfer orders soon.”

“Really?” She straightened up, suddenly excited. They were letting her out. Finally. “Sir, I was hoping I could join the Second with Kitay—”

Irjah cut her off. “You’re not joining the Second. You’re not joining any of the Twelve Divisions.”

Her elation was replaced immediately by dread. She was suddenly aware of a faint buzzing noise in the air. “What do you mean?”

Irjah fiddled uncomfortably with his thumbs, and then said: “The Warlords have decided it best to send you to join the Cike.”

For a moment she sat there looking dumbly at him.

The Cike? That infamous thirteenth division, the Empress’s squad of assassins? The killers with no honor, no reputation, and no glory? The fighting force so vile, so nefarious, that the Militia preferred to pretend it didn’t exist?

“Rin? Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“The Cike?” Rin repeated.

“Yes.”

“You’re sending me to the freak squad?” Her voice cracked. She had a sudden urge to burst into tears. “The Bizarre Children?”

“The Cike is a division of the Militia just like the others,” Irjah said hastily. His tone was artificially soothing. “They are a perfectly respectable contingent.”

“They are losers and rejects! They—”

“They serve the Empress just as the army does.”

“But I—” Rin swallowed hard. “I thought I was a good soldier.”

Irjah’s expression softened. “Oh, Rin. You are. You are an incredible soldier.”

“So why can’t I be in a real division?” She was acutely aware of how childish she sounded. But under the circumstances, she thought she deserved to act like a child.

“You know why,” Irjah said quietly. “Speerlies have not fought with the Twelve Provinces since the last Poppy War. And before that, when they did, the cooperation was always . . . difficult.”

Rin knew her history. She knew what Irjah alluded to. The last time the Speerlies had fought alongside the Militia, they had been regarded as barbaric oddities, much as the Cike was regarded now. The Speerlies raged and fought in their own camps; they were a walking hazard to everyone in their vicinity, friends and foe alike. They followed orders, but only vaguely; they were given targets and objectives, but good luck to the officer who tried any sophisticated maneuvers. “The Militia hates Speerlies.”

“The Militia is afraid of Speerlies,” Irjah corrected. “The Nikara have never been good at dealing with what they don’t understand, and Speer has always made the Nikara uncomfortable. I expect you now know why.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I recommended you to the Cike. And I did it for you, child.” Irjah fixed her with a level gaze. “The rivalry between the Warlords has never completely disappeared, even since their alliance under the Dragon Emperor. Though their soldiers might hate you, the Twelve Warlords would be very eager to get their hands on a Speerly. Whatever division you joined would gain an unfair advantage. And whatever division you didn’t join might not like the shift in the balance of power. If I sent you to any one of the twelve divisions, you would be in very grave danger from the other eleven.”

“I . . .” She hadn’t considered this. “But there’s already a Speerly in the Militia,” she said. “What about Altan?”

Irjah’s beard twitched. “Would you like to meet your commander?”

“What?” She blinked, not comprehending.

Irjah turned and called to someone behind the door, “Well, come on in.”

The door opened. The man who walked through was tall and lithe; he did not wear a Militia uniform but a black tunic without any insignia. He carried a silver trident strapped across his back.

Rin swallowed, fighting a ridiculous urge to sweep her hair behind her ears. She felt a familiar flush, a heat starting at the tops of her ears.

He had gained several scars since she’d last seen him, including two on his forearm and one that ran ragged across his face, from the lower right corner of his left eye down to his right jaw. His hair was no longer cropped tidily as it had been at school, but had grown unruly and wild, like he hadn’t bothered with it in months.

“Hi,” said Altan Trengsin. “What was that about losers and rejects?”

“How on earth did you survive the firebombs?”

Rin opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Altan. Altan Trengsin. She tried to form a coherent response, but all she could process was that her childhood hero was standing before her.

He knelt down in front of her.

“How do you exist?” he asked quietly. “I thought I was the only one left.”

She finally found her voice. “I don’t know. They never told me what happened to my parents. My foster parents didn’t know.”

“And you never suspected what you were?”

She shook her head. “Not until I . . . I mean, when I . . .”

She choked suddenly. The memories she had been suppressing flooded up in front of her: the shrieking Woman, the cackling Phoenix, the terrible heat ripping through her body, the way the general’s armor bent and liquefied under the heat of the fire . . .

She lifted her hands to her face and found that they were trembling.

She hadn’t been able to control it. She hadn’t been able to turn it off. The flames had just kept pouring out of her without end; she might have burned Nezha, she might have burned Kitay, she might have turned all of Sinegard to ashes if the Phoenix hadn’t heeded her prayer. And even when the flames did stop, the fire coursing inside her hadn’t, not until the Empress kissed her forehead and made them die away.

I’m going crazy, she thought. I have become everything that Jiang warned me against.

“Hey. Hey.”

Cool fingers wrapped around her wrists. Gently, Altan pulled her hands away from her face.

She looked up and met his eyes. They were a shade of crimson brighter than poppy petals.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I know. I know what it’s like. I’m going to help you.”

“The Cike aren’t so bad once you get to know them,” he said as he led her out of the basement. “I mean, we kill people on orders, but on the whole we’re quite nice.”

“Are you all shamans?” she asked. She felt dizzy.

Altan shook his head. “Not all. We’ve got two who don’t mess with the gods—a munitions expert and a physician. But the rest are. Tyr had the most training out of all of us before he came to the Cike—he grew up with a sect of monks that worshipped a goddess of darkness. The others were like you: dripping in power and shamanic potential, but confused. We take them to the Night Castle, train them, and set them loose on the Empress’s enemies. Everybody wins.”

Rin tried to find this reassuring. “Where do they come from?”

“All over. You’d be surprised how many places the old religions are still alive,” said Altan. “Lots of hidden cults from across the provinces. Some contribute an initiate to the Cike every year in exchange for the Empress leaving them alone. It’s not easy to find shamans in this country, not in this age, but the Empress procures them wherever she can. A lot of them come from the prison at Baghra—the Cike is their second chance.”

“But you’re not really Militia.”

“No. We’re assassins. In wartime, though, we function as the Thirteenth Division.”

Rin wondered how many people Altan had killed. Whom he had killed. “What do you do in peacetime?”

“Peacetime?” He gave her a wry look. “There’s no peacetime for the Cike. There’s never a shortage of people the Empress wants dead.”

Altan instructed her to pack her things and meet him at the gate. They were scheduled to march out that afternoon with the squadron of Officer Yenjen of the Fifth Division to the war front, where the rest of the Cike had gone a week prior.

All of Rin’s belongings had been confiscated after the battle. She barely had time to pick up a new set of weapons from the armory before making her way across the city. The Fifth Division soldiers bore light traveling packs and two sets of weapons each. Rin had only a sword with a slightly dull blade and its accompanying sheath. She looked and felt woefully unprepared. She did not even have a second set of clothing. She suspected she would begin to smell very bad very soon.

“Where are we headed?” she asked as they began descending the mountain path.

“Khurdalain,” Altan said. “Tiger Province. It’ll be two weeks’ march south until we get to the Western Murui River, and then we’ll catch a ride down to the port.”

Despite everything, Rin felt a thrill of excitement. Khurdalain was a coastal port city by the eastern Nariin Sea, a thriving center of international trade. It was the only city in the Empire that regularly dealt with foreigners; the Hesperians and Bolonians had established embassies there centuries ago. Even Federation merchants had once occupied the docks, until Khurdalain became a central theater of the Poppy Wars.

Khurdalain was a city that had seen two decades of warfare and survived. And now the Empress had established a front in Khurdalain once again to draw the Federation invaders into eastern and central Nikan.

Altan relayed the Empress’s defense strategy to Rin as they marched.

Khurdalain was an ideal location to establish the initial front. The Federation armored columns would have enjoyed a crushing advantage in the wide-open plains of northern Nikan, but Khurdalain abounded in rivers and creeks, which favored defensive operations.

Routing the Federation into Khurdalain would force them onto their weakest ground. The attack on Sinegard had been a bold attempt to separate the northern provinces from the southern. If the Federation generals could choose, they would almost certainly have cut directly into the Nikara heartland by marching directly south. But if Khurdalain was well defended, the Federation would be forced to change the north-to-south direction of their offensive to east-to-west. And Nikan would have room in the southwest to retreat and regroup should Khurdalain fall.

Ideally, the Militia would have attempted a pincer maneuver to squeeze the Federation from both sides, cutting them off from both their escape routes and supply lines. But the Militia was nowhere near competent or large enough for such an attempt. The Twelve Warlords had barely coordinated in time to rally to Sinegard’s defense; now each was too preoccupied defending his own province independently to genuinely attempt joint military action.

“Why can’t they just unite like they did during the Second War?” Rin asked.

“Because the Dragon Emperor is dead,” said Altan. “He can’t rally the Warlords to him this time, and the Empress can’t command the same allegiance that he did. Oh, the Warlords will kowtow to Sinegard and swear vows of loyalty to the Empress’s face, but when it comes to it, they’ll put their own provinces first.”

Holding Khurdalain would not be easy. The recent offensive at Sinegard had proven the Federation had clear military superiority in terms of mobility and weaponry. And Mugen held the advantage on the northern coastline; their troops were easily reinforced over the narrow sea; fresh troops and supplies were just a ship’s journey away.

Khurdalain had little advantage in the way of defense structures. It was an open port city, designed as an enclave for foreigners prior to the Poppy Wars. Nikan’s best defense structures had been built along the lower river delta of the Western Murui, far south of Khurdalain. Compared to the heavily garrisoned wartime capital at Golyn Niis, Khurdalain was a sitting duck, arms flung open to welcome invaders.

But Khurdalain had to be defended. If Mugen advanced down the heartland and managed to take Golyn Niis, they could then easily turn east, chasing whatever remnants of the Militia were left onto the coast. And if they were trapped by the sea, the pitifully small Nikara fleet could not save them. So Khurdalain was the vital crux on which the fate of the rest of the country lay.

“We’re the final front,” said Altan. “If we fail, this country’s lost.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Excited?”