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“Yes, you are, you don’t even realize it. Your kind has been treated as slaves for so long that you’ve forgotten what it is like to be free. You’re easily angered, and you latch quickly onto things—opium, people, ideas—that soothe your pain, even temporarily. And that makes you terribly easy to manipulate.” Chaghan paused. “I’m sorry. Do I offend?”
“Vaisra isn’t manipulating me,” Rin insisted. “He’s . . . we’re fighting for something good. Something worth fighting for.”
He gave her a long look. “And you really believe in his Republic?”
“I believe the Republic is a better alternative to anything we’ve got,” she said. “Daji has to die. Vaisra’s our best shot at killing her. And whatever happens next can’t possibly be worse than the Empire.”
“You really think that?”
Rin didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Didn’t want her mind to drift in that direction. Not once since the disaster at Lake Boyang had she seriously considered not returning to Arlong, or the idea that there might not be anything to return to.
She had too much power now, too much rage, and she needed a cause for which to burn. Vaisra’s Republic was her anchor. Without that, she’d be lost, drifting. That thought terrified her.
“I have to do this,” she said. “Otherwise I have nothing.”
“If you say so.” Chaghan turned to gaze at the river. He seemed to have given up on arguing the point. She couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or not. “Maybe you’re right. But eventually, you’ll have to ask yourself precisely what you’re fighting for. And you’ll have to find a reason to live past vengeance. Altan never managed that.”
“You’re sure you know how to ride this?” Qara handed the warhorse’s reins to Rin.
“No, but Kitay does.” Rin peered up at the black warhorse with trepidation. She’d never been entirely comfortable around horses—they were so much bigger up close, their hooves so poised to split her head open—but Kitay had spent enough of his childhood riding around on his family’s estate that he could handle most animals with ease.
“Keep off the main roads,” Chaghan said. “My birds tell me the Empire’s taking back much of its territory. You’ll run into Militia patrols if you’re seen traveling in broad daylight. Stick to the tree line when you can.”
Rin was about to ask about the horse’s feed when Chaghan and Qara both looked sharply to the left, like two hunting animals alerted to their prey.
She heard the noises a second later. Shouts from the Ketreyid camp. Arrows thudding into bodies. And a moment later, the unmistakable sound of a firing arquebus.
“Shit,” Kitay breathed.
The twins were already racing back. Rin snatched her trident off the ground and followed.
The camp was in chaos. Ketreyids ran about, grabbing at the reins of spooked horses trying to break free. The air was sharp with the acrid smoke of fire powder. Bullet holes riddled the yurts. Ketreyid bodies were strewn across the ground. And the Gray Company missionaries, half of them wielding arquebuses, fired indiscriminately around the camp.
How had they gotten their arquebuses back?
Rin heard a shot and threw herself to the ground as a bullet burrowed into the tree behind her.
Arrows whistled overhead. Each one found its mark with a thickening thud. A handful of Hesperians dropped to the ground, arrows pierced cleanly into their skulls. A few others ran, panicked, from the clearing. No one chased them.
The only one left was Augus. He wielded two arquebuses, one in each hand, their barrels drooping clumsily against the ground.
He’d never fired one. Rin could tell—he was shaking; he had absolutely no idea what to do.
The Sorqan Sira uttered a command under her breath. The riders moved at once. Instantly twelve arrowheads were pointed at Augus, bowstrings stretching taut.
“Don’t shoot!” Rin cried. She ran forward, blocking their arrows’ paths with her body. “Don’t shoot—please, he’s confused—”
Augus didn’t seem to notice. His eyes locked on Rin’s. He raised the arquebus in his right hand. The barrel formed a direct line to her chest.
It didn’t matter if he’d never fired an arquebus before. He couldn’t miss. Not from this distance.
“Demon,” he said.
“Rin, get back,” Kitay said tightly.
Rin stood frozen, unable to move. Augus waved his weapons erratically about, pointed them alternately between the Sorqan Sira, Rin, and Kitay. “Maker give me the courage, protect me from these heathens . . .”
“What is he saying?” the Sorqan Sira demanded.
Augus squeezed his eyes shut. “Show them the strength of heaven and smite them with your divine justice . . .”
“Augus, stop!” Rin walked forward, hands raised in what she hoped was a nonthreatening gesture, and spoke in clearly enunciated Hesperian. “You have nothing to be afraid of. These people aren’t your enemies, they’re not going to hurt you—”
“Savages!” Augus screamed. He waved one arquebus in an arc before him. The Ketreyids hissed and scattered backward; several sank into a low crouch. “Get out of my head!”
“Augus, please,” Rin begged. “You’re scared, you’re not yourself. Look at me, you know who I am, you’ve met me—”
Augus leveled the arquebus again at her.
The Sorqan Sira’s silent command rippled through the clearing. Fire.
Not a single Ketreyid rider loosed their bow.
Rin glanced around in confusion.
“Bekter!” the Sorqan Sira shouted. “What is this?”
Bekter smiled, and Rin realized with a twist of dread what was happening.
This wasn’t an accident. The Hesperians had been set free on purpose.
This was a coup.
A furious flurry of flashing images ricocheted back and forth in the clearing, a silent war of minds between Bekter and the Sorqan Sira blasted to everyone present, like they were wrestlers performing for an audience.
Rin saw Bekter cutting the Hesperians’ bonds and placing the arquebuses in their hands. They stared at him, brain-addled in terror. He told them they were about to play a game. He challenged them to outrun his arrows. The Hesperians scattered.
She saw the girl Jiang had murdered—Tseveri, the Sorqan Sira’s daughter—riding across the steppe with a little boy seated before her. They were laughing.
She saw a band of warriors—Speerlies, she realized with a start—at least a dozen of them, flames rolling off of their shoulders as they marched through burned yurts and charred bodies.
She felt a scorching fury radiating out of Bekter, a fury that the Sorqan Sira’s weakening protests only amplified, and she understood: This wasn’t just some ambition-fueled power struggle. This was vengeance.
Bekter wanted to do for his sister Tseveri what the Sorqan Sira never could. He wanted retribution. The Sorqan Sira wanted Nikara shamans controlled, but Bekter wanted them dead.
Too long you’ve let the Cike run unchecked in the Empire, Mother. Bekter’s voice rang loud and clear. Too long you’ve shown mercy to the Naimad scum. No more.
The riders agreed.
They’d long since shifted their loyalties. Now they only had to dispose of their leader.
