Yim shrugged. “It’s a popular theory. The Red Emperor was famed for his ruthlessness; a betrayal of that sort would not have been out of character. The truth is, we don’t know why Tearza died, or if anyone killed her. We know only that she did die, Speer’s tradition of warrior monarchs was discontinued, and the isle became annexed to the Empire until the Second Poppy War.
“Now, economically, Speer hardly pulled its weight as a colony. The island exported almost nothing of use to the Empire but soldiers. There is evidence that the Speerlies may not even have been aware of agriculture. Before the civilizing influence of the Red Emperor’s envoys, the Speerlies were a primitive people who practiced vulgar and barbaric rituals. They had very little to offer culturally or technologically—in fact, they seemed centuries behind the rest of the world. Militarily, however, the Speerlies were worth their weight in gold.”
Rin raised her hand. “Were the Speerlies really fire shamans?”
Muted snickers sounded around the classroom, and Rin immediately regretted speaking.
Yim looked amazed. “They still believe in shamans down in Tikany?”
Rin’s cheeks felt hot. She had grown up hearing stories upon stories about Speer. Everyone in Tikany was morbidly obsessed with the Empire’s frenzied warrior force and their supposed supernatural abilities. Rin knew better than to take the stories for the truth, but she’d still been curious.
But she had spoken without thinking. Of course the myths that had enthralled her in Tikany only sounded backward and provincial here in the capital.
“No—I mean, I don’t—” Rin stammered. “It’s just something I read, I was just wondering . . .”
“Don’t mind her,” Nezha said. “Tikany still thinks we lost the Poppy Wars.”
More snickers. Nezha leaned back, smug.
“But the Speerlies had some weird abilities, right?” Kitay swiftly came to Rin’s defense. “Why else would Mugen target Speer?”
“Because it’s a convenient target,” Nezha said. “Smack-dab between the Federation archipelago and Snake Province. Why not?”
“That makes no sense.” Kitay shook his head. “From what I’ve read, Speer was an island of little to no strategic value. It’s not even useful as a naval base—the Federation would be better off sailing directly over the narrow strait to Khurdalain. Mugen would only have cared about Speer if the Speerlies could do something that terrified them.”
“The Speerlies were terrifying,” Nezha said. “Primitive, drug-loving freaks. Who wouldn’t want them gone?”
Rin couldn’t believe Nezha could be so terribly crass in describing a tragic massacre, and was amazed when Yim nodded in agreement. “The Speerlies were a barbaric, war-obsessed race,” he said. “They trained their children for battle as soon as they could walk. For centuries, they subsisted by regularly raiding Nikara coastal villages, because they had no agriculture of their own. Now, the rumors of shamanism probably have more to do with their religion. Historians believe they had bizarre rituals in which they pledged themselves to their god—the Vermilion Phoenix of the South. But that was only ever a ritual. Not a martial ability.”
“The Speerly affinity for fire is well documented, though,” said Kitay. “I’ve read the war reports. There are more than a few generals, Nikara and Federation alike, who thought the Speerlies could manipulate fire at will.”
“All myths,” Yim said dismissively. “The Speerly ability to manipulate fire was a ruse used to terrify their enemies. It probably originated from their use of flaming weapons in nighttime raids. But most scholars today agree that the Speerly battle prowess is entirely a product of their social conditioning and harsh environment.”
“So why couldn’t our army copy them?” Rin asked. “If the Speerly warriors were really so powerful, why couldn’t we emulate their tactics? Why’d we have to enslave them?”
“Speer was a tributary. Not a slave colony,” Yim said impatiently. “And we could re-create their training programs, but again, their methods were barbaric. The way Jun tells it, you’re struggling with general training enough as it is. You’d hardly want to undergo the Speerly regimen.”
“What about Altan?” Kitay pressed. “He didn’t grow up on Speer, he was trained at Sinegard—”
“Have you ever seen Altan summon fire at will?”
“Of course not, but—”
“Has the very sight of him addled your minds?” Yim demanded. “Let me be perfectly clear. There are no shamans. There are no more Speerlies. Altan is human just like the rest of you. He possesses no magic, no divine ability. He fights well because he’s been training since he could walk. Altan is the last scion of a dead race. If the Speerlies prayed to their god, it clearly didn’t save them.”
Their obsession with Altan wasn’t entirely wasted in their lessons, though. After witnessing the apprentices’ matches, the first-years redoubled their efforts in Jun’s class. They wanted to become graceful, lethal fighters like Altan. But Jun remained a meticulous coach. He refused to teach them the flashy techniques they’d seen in the ring until they had thoroughly mastered their fundamentals.
“If you attempted Tobi’s Tiger Claws now, you couldn’t kill a rabbit,” he sneered. “You’d just as quickly break your own fingers. It’ll be months before you can channel the ki that sort of technique requires.”
At least he had finally bored of drilling them in formation. Their class was now handling their staves with reasonable competence—at least, the accidental injuries were minimal. Near the end of class one day, Jun lined them up in rows and ordered them to spar.
“Responsibly,” he emphasized. “Half speed if you must. I have no patience for idiotic injuries. Drill on the strikes and parries that you’ve practiced in the form.”
Rin found herself standing across from Nezha. Of course she was. He shot her a nasty smile.
She wondered, briefly, how they could possibly finish the match without harming each other.
“On my count,” said Jun. “One, two—”
Nezha launched himself forward.
The force behind his blow stunned her. She barely got her staff up over her head in time to block a swing that would have knocked her out cold—the impact sent tremors through her arms.
But Nezha continued to advance, ignoring Jun’s instructions completely. He swung his staff with savage abandon, but also with startlingly good aim. Rin wielded her weapon clumsily; the staff was still awkward in her arms, nothing like the spinning blur in Nezha’s hands. She could barely keep her grip on it; twice it almost spun out of her grasp. Nezha landed far more hits than she blocked. The first two—elbow strike, upper thigh strike—hurt. Then Nezha landed so many that she couldn’t feel them anymore.
She had been wrong about him. He had been showing off earlier, but his command of martial arts was prodigious and real. Last time they’d fought, he’d gotten cocky. Her lucky blow had been a fluke.
He was not being cocky now.
His staff connected with her kneecap with a sickening crunch. Rin’s eyes bulged. She crumpled to the ground.
Nezha wasn’t even bothering with his staff anymore. He kicked at her while she was still down, each blow more vicious than the last.
“That’s the difference between you and me,” muttered Nezha. “I’ve trained for this my entire life. You don’t get to just stroll in here and embarrass me. You understand? You’re nothing.”
He’s going to kill me. He’s actually going to kill me.
Enough with the staff. She couldn’t defend herself with a weapon she didn’t know how to use. She dropped the staff and lunged upward to tackle Nezha around the waist. Nezha dropped his staff and tripped over backward. She landed on top of him. He swung at her face; she forced a palm into his nose. They pummeled furiously at each other, a chaotic tangle of limbs.
Then something yanked hard at her collar, cutting off her airflow. Jun pried them apart in an impressive display of strength, held them suspended in the air for a minute, then flung them both to the ground.
“What part of block and parry was unclear?” he growled.