Altan lunged forward at the last moment, suddenly aware of what the captain meant to do, but he was too far to reach.
The captain drew the blade to the side in a sharp sawing motion. His eyes met Altan’s, and a moment before the life dimmed from them, Rin thought she saw a glimmer of victory. Then his corpse slumped into the bog.
When Aratsha’s power gave out, the wreckage that drifted back out into the Nariin Sea was a smoldering mess of charred boats, useless supplies, and broken men.
Altan called for a retreat before the Federation soldiers could regroup. Far more soldiers had escaped than they had killed, but their aim had never been to destroy the army. Sinking the supplies was enough.
Not all of the supplies, though. In the confusion of the melee, Unegen and Qara had detached two boats from the rear and hidden them in an inland canal. They boarded these now, and Aratsha spirited them through the narrow canals of Khurdalain into a downtown nook not far from the wharf.
Ramsa ran up to them when they returned.
“Did it work?” he demanded. “Did the flares work?”
“Lit up like a charm. Nice work, kid,” Altan said.
Ramsa gave a hoot of victory. Altan clapped him on the shoulder, and Ramsa beamed widely. Rin could read it clearly on Ramsa’s face: he adored Altan like an older brother.
It was hard not to feel the same. Altan was so solemnly competent, so casually brilliant, that all she wanted was to please him. He was strict in his command, sparing with his praise, but when he gave it, it felt wonderful. She wanted it, craved it like something tangible.
Next time. Next time she wouldn’t be deadweight. She would learn to channel that anger at will, even if she risked losing herself to it.
They celebrated that night with a sack of sugar pillaged from one of the stolen boats. The mess hall was locked and they had nothing to sprinkle the sugar on, so they ate it straight by the spoonful. Once Rin would have found this disgusting; now she shoved great heaps of it into her mouth when the spoon and sack came around to her place in the circle.
Upon Ramsa’s insistence, Altan acquiesced to lighting a roaring bonfire for them out in an empty field.
“We’re not worried about being seen?” Rin asked.
“We’re well behind Nikara lines. It’s fine. Just don’t throw anything on it,” he said. “You can’t experiment with pyrotechnics so close to civilians.”
Ramsa blew air out of his cheeks. “Whatever you say, Trengsin.”
Altan gave him an exasperated look. “I mean it this time.”
“You suck the fun out of everything,” Ramsa grumbled as Altan stepped away from the fire.
“You’re not staying?” Baji asked.
Altan shook his head. “Need to brief the Warlords. I’ll be back in a few hours. You go on and celebrate. I’m very pleased with your performance today.”
“‘I’m very pleased with your performance today,’” Baji mimicked when Altan had left. “Someone tell him to get that stick out of his butt.”
Ramsa leaned back on his elbows and nudged Rin with his foot. “Was he this insufferable at the Academy?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know him well at Sinegard.”
“I bet he’s always been like this. Old man in a young man’s body. You think he ever smiles?”
“Only once a year,” said Baji. “Accidentally, in his sleep.”
“Come on,” Unegen said, though he was also smiling. “He’s a good commander.”
“He is a good commander,” Suni agreed. “Better than Tyr.”
Suni’s gentle voice surprised Rin. When he was free of his god, Suni was remarkably quiet, almost timid, and he spoke only after ponderous deliberation.
Rin watched him sitting calmly before the fire. His broad features were relaxed and placid; he seemed utterly at ease with himself. She wondered when he would next lose control and fall prey to that screaming voice in his mind. He was so terrifyingly strong—he had broken men apart in his hands like eggs. He killed so well and so efficiently.
He could have killed Altan. Three nights ago in the mess hall Suni could have broken Altan’s neck as easily as he would wring a chicken’s. The thought made her dry-mouthed with fear.
And she wondered at how Altan had known this and had crossed the distance to Suni anyway, had placed his life completely in the hands of his subordinate.
Baji had somehow extracted a bottle of sorghum spirits from one of the many warehouses of Khurdalain. They passed it around the circle. They had just scored a major combat victory; they could afford to be off guard for just one night.
“Hey, Rin.” Ramsa rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin up on his hands.
“Yeah?”
“Does this mean the Speerlies aren’t extinct after all?” he inquired. “Are you and Altan going to make babies and repopulate the Speerly race?”
Qara snorted loudly. Unegen spat out a mouthful of sorghum wine.
Rin turned bright red. “Not likely,” she said.
“Why not? You don’t like Altan?”
The cheeky little shit. “No, I mean I can’t,” she said. “I can’t have children.”
“Why not?” Ramsa pressed.
“I had my womb destroyed at the Academy,” she said. She hugged her knees up to her chest. “It was, um, interfering with my training.”
Ramsa looked so bewildered then that Rin burst out laughing. Qara snickered into her canteen.
“What?” Ramsa asked, indignant.
“I’ll tell you one day,” Baji promised. He’d imbibed twice as much wine as the rest of them; he was already slurring his words together. “When your balls have dropped.”
“My balls have dropped.”
“When your voice drops, then.”
They passed the bottle around in silence for a moment. Now that the frenzy at the marsh was over, the Cike seemed diminished somehow, like they had been animated only by the presence of their gods, and now in the gods’ absence they were empty, shells that lacked vitality.
They seemed eminently human—vulnerable and breakable.
“So you’re the last of your kind,” said Suni after a short silence. “That’s sad.”
“I guess.” Rin poked a stick at the fire. She still didn’t feel quite acclimated to her new identity. She had no memories of Speer, no real attachments to it. The only time she felt like being a Speerly meant something was when she was with Altan. “Everything about Speer is sad.”
“It’s that idiot queen’s fault,” said Unegen. “They never would have died off if Tearza hadn’t stabbed herself.”
“She didn’t stab herself,” said Ramsa. “She burned to death. Imploded from inside. Boom.” He spread his fingers in the air.
“Why did she kill herself?” Rin asked. “I never understood that story.”
“In the version I heard, she was in love with the Red Emperor,” said Baji. “He comes to her island, and she’s immediately besotted with him. He turns around and threatens to invade the island if Speer doesn’t become a tributary state. And she’s so distraught at his betrayal that she flees to her temple and kills herself.”
Rin wrinkled her nose. Every version she heard of the myth made Tearza seem more and more stupid.
“It is not a love story.” Qara spoke up from her corner for the first time. Their eyes flickered toward her with mild surprise.
“That myth is Nikara propaganda,” she continued flatly. “The story of Tearza was modeled on the myth of Han Ping, because the story makes for a better telling than the truth.”
“And what is the truth?” asked Rin.
“You don’t know?” Qara fixed Rin with a somber gaze. “Speerlies especially ought to know.”
“Obviously I don’t. So how would you tell it?”
“I would tell it not as a love story, but as a story of gods and humans.” Qara’s voice dropped to such a low volume that the Cike had to lean in to hear her. “They say Tearza could have called the Phoenix and saved the isle. They say that if Tearza had summoned the flames, Nikan never would have been able to annex Speer. They say that if she wanted to, Tearza could have summoned such a power that the Red Emperor and his armies would not have dared set foot on Speer, not for a thousand years.”
Qara paused. She did not take her eyes off Rin.