The Poppy War

by R. F. Kuang

  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.

  “And then?” Rin pressed.

  “Tearza refused,” Qara said. “She said the independence of Speer did not warrant the sacrifice the Phoenix demanded. The Phoenix declared that Tearza had broken her vows as the ruler of Speer, and so it punished her for it.”

  Rin was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Do you think she was right?”

  Qara shrugged. “I think Tearza was wise. And I think that she was a bad ruler. Shamans should know when to resist the power of the gods. That is wisdom. But rulers should do everything in their power to save their country. That is responsibility. If you hold the fate of the country in your hands, if you have accepted your obligation to your people, then your life ceases to be your own. Once you accept the title of ruler, your choices are made for you. In those days, to rule Speer meant serving the Phoenix. Speer used to be a proud race. A free people. When Tearza killed herself, the Speerlies became little more than the Emperor’s mad dogs. Tearza has the blood of Speer on her hands. Tearza deserved what she got.”

  When Altan returned from reporting to the Warlords, most of the Cike had drifted off to sleep. Rin remained awake, staring at the flickering bonfire.

  “Hey,” he said, and sat down next to her. He smelled of smoke.

  She drew her knees up to her chest and tilted her head sideways to look at him. “How’d they take it?”

  Altan smiled. It was the first tim
e she’d seen him smile since they came to Khurdalain. “They couldn’t believe it. How are you doing?”

  “Embarrassed,” she said frankly, “and still a little high.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms. His smile disappeared. “What happened?”

  “Couldn’t concentrate,” she said. Got scared. Held off. Did everything you told me not to do.

  Altan looked faintly puzzled, and more than a little disappointed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

  “No, it’s my fault.” His voice was carefully neutral. “I threw you into combat before you were ready. At the Night Castle, you would have trained for months before we put you in the field.”

  This was meant to make her feel better, but Rin only felt ashamed.

  “I couldn’t clear my mind,” she said.

  “Then don’t,” Altan said. “Open-minded meditation is for monks. It only gets you to the Pantheon, it doesn’t bring the god back down with you. You don’t need to open your mind to all sixty-four deities. You only need our god. You only need the fire.”

  “But Jiang said that was dangerous.”

  Though Rin thought she saw a spasm of impatience flicker across Altan’s face, his tone remained carefully neutral. “Because Jiang feared, and so he held you back. Were you acting under his orders when you called the Phoenix at Sinegard?”

  “No,” she admitted, “but—”

  “Have you ever successfully called a god under Jiang’s instruction? Did Jiang even teach you how? I’ll bet he did the opposite. I’ll bet he wanted you to shut them out.”

  “He was trying to protect me,” she protested, though she wasn’t sure why. After all, it was precisely what had frustrated her about Jiang. But somehow, after what she’d done at Sinegard, Jiang’s caution made more sense. “He warned that I might . . . that the consequences . . .”

  “Great danger is always associated with great power. The difference between the great and the mediocre is that the great are willing to take that risk.” Altan’s face twisted into a scowl. “Jiang was a coward, scared of what he had unlocked. Jiang was a doddering fool who didn’t realize what talents he had. What talents you have.”

  “He was still my master,” she said, feeling an instinctive urge to defend him.

  “He’s not your master anymore. You don’t have a master. You have a commander.” Altan put a hand on her shoulder. “The easiest shortcut to the state is anger. Build on your anger. Don’t ever let go of that anger. Rage gives you power. Caution does not.”

  Rin wanted to believe him. She was in awe of the extent of Altan’s power. And she knew that, if she allowed it, the same power could be her own.

  And yet, Jiang’s warnings echoed in the back of her mind.

  I have met spirits unable to find their bodies again. I have met men who are only halfway to the spirit realm, caught between our world and the next.

  Was that the price of power? For her mind to shatter, like Suni’s clearly had? Would she become neurotically paranoid, like Unegen?

  But Altan’s mind hadn’t shattered. Among the Cike, Altan used his abilities most recklessly. Baji and Suni needed hallucinogens to call their gods, but the fire was never more than a whisper away for Altan. He seemed to always be in that state of rage he wanted Rin to cultivate. And yet he never lost control. He gave an incredible illusion of sanity and stability, whatever was going on below his dispassionate mask.

  Who is imprisoned in the Chuluu Korikh?

  Unnatural criminals, who have committed unnatural crimes.

  She suspected she knew now what Jiang’s question had meant.

  She didn’t want to admit that she was scared. Scared of being in a state where she had little control of herself, less still of the fires pouring out of her. Scared of being consumed by the fire, becoming a conduit that demanded more and more sacrifice for her god.

  “The last time I did it, I couldn’t stop,” she said. “I had to beg it. I don’t—I don’t know how to control myself when I’ve called the Phoenix.”

  “Think of it like a candle,” he said. “Difficult to light. Only this is even more difficult to extinguish, and if you’re not careful, you’ll burn yourself.”

  But that didn’t help at all—she’d tried lighting the candle, yet nothing had happened. So what would happen if she finally figured that out, only to be unable to extinguish the flames? “Then how do you do it? How do you make it stop?”

  Altan leaned back away from the flames.

  “I don’t,” he said.

  Chapter 15

  The Ram and Ox Warlords quickly realigned to Altan’s side once they realized the Cike had accomplished what the First, Fifth, and Eighth Divisions together had not even attempted. They disseminated the news through the ranks in a way that made it seem that they were jointly responsible for the feat.

  Khurdalain’s citizens threw a victory parade to raise morale and collect supplies for the soldiers. Civilians donated food and clothing to the barracks. When the Warlords paraded through the streets, they were met with wide applause that they were only too happy to accept.

  The civilians assumed the marsh victory had been achieved through a massive joint assault. Altan did nothing to correct them.

  “Lying fart-bags,” Ramsa complained. “They’re stealing your credit.”

  “Let them,” said Altan. “If it means they’ll work with me, let them say anything they want.”

  Altan had needed that victory. In a cohort of generals who had survived the Poppy Wars, Altan was the youngest commander by decades. The battle at the marsh had given him much-needed credibility in the eyes of the Militia, and more important, in the eyes of the Warlords. They treated him now with deference instead of condescension, consulted him in their war councils, and not only listened to Cike intelligence but acted on it.

  Only Jun offered no congratulations.

  “You’ve left a thousand starving enemy soldiers in the wetlands with no supplies and no food,” Jun said slowly.

  “Yes,” Altan said. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “You idiot,” said Jun. He paced about the office, circled back, then slammed his hands on Altan’s desk. “You idiot. Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “Secured a victory,” Altan said, “which is more than you’ve managed in the weeks you’ve been here. Their supply ship has turned all the way back to the longbow island to restock. We’ve set their plans back at least two weeks.”

  “You’ve invited retaliation,” Jun snapped. “Those soldiers are cold, wet, and hungry. Maybe they didn’t care much about this war when they crossed the narrow strait, but now they’re angry. They’re pissed, they’re humiliated, and more than anything they desperately need supplies. You’ve raised the stakes for them.”

  “The stakes were already high,” Altan said.

  “Yes, and now you’ve dragged pride into it. Do you know how much reputation matters to Federation commanders? We needed time for fortifications, but you’ve doubled their timetables. What, did you think they would just turn tail and go home? You want to know what they’ll do next? They’re going to come for us.”

  But when the Federation did come, it was with a white flag and a plea for a cease-fire.

  When Qara’s birds spotted the incoming Federation delegation, she sent Rin to alert Altan with the news. Thrilled, Rin barged past Jun’s aides to force her way into the office of the Ram Warlord.

  “Three Federation delegates,” she reported. “They brought a wagon.”

  “Shoot them,” Jun suggested immediately.

  “They’re carrying a white flag,” Rin said.

  “A strategic gambit. Shoot them,” Jun repeated, and his junior officers nodded their assent.

  The Ox Warlord held up a hand. He was a tremendously large man, two heads taller than Jun and thrice again his girth. His weapon of choice was a double-bladed battle-axe that was the size of Rin’s torso, which he kept on the table in front of him, stroking the blad
e obsessively. “They could be coming under peace.”

  “Or they could be coming to poison our water supply, or to assassinate any one of us,” Jun snapped. “Do you really think we’ve won this war so easily?”

  “They’re bearing a white flag,” the Ox Warlord said slowly, as if speaking to a child.

  The Ram Warlord said nothing. His wide-set eyes darted nervously between Jun and the Ox Warlord. Rin could see what Ramsa had meant; the Ram Warlord seemed like a child waiting to be told what to do.

  “A white flag doesn’t mean anything to them,” Jun insisted. “This is a ruse. How many false treaties did they sign during the Poppy Wars?”

  “Would you take a gamble on peace?” the Ox Warlord challenged.

  “I wouldn’t gamble with any of these citizens’ lives.”

  “It’s not your cease-fire to refuse,” the Ram Warlord pointed out.

  Jun and the Ox Warlord both glared at him, and the Ram Warlord stammered in his haste to explain. “I mean, we ought to let the boy handle it. The marsh victory was his doing. They’re surrendering to him.”

  All eyes turned to Altan.

  Rin was amazed at the subtle interdivisional politics at play. The Ram Warlord was shrewder than she’d guessed. His suggestion was a clever way of absolving responsibility. If negotiations went sour, then blame would fall on Altan’s shoulders. And if they went well, then the Ram Warlord still came out on top for his magnanimity.

  Altan hesitated, clearly torn between his better judgment and desire to see the full extent of his victory at Khurdalain. Rin could see the hope reflected clearly on his face. If the Federation surrender was genuine, then he would be single-handedly responsible for winning this war. He would be the youngest commander ever to have achieved a military victory on this scale.

  “Shoot them,” Jun repeated. “We don’t need a peace negotiation. Our forces are tied now; if the assault on the wharf goes well, we can push them back indefinitely until the Seventh gets here.”

  But Altan shook his head. “If we reject their surrender, then this war goes on until one party has decimated the other. Khurdalain can’t hold out that long. If there’s a chance we can end this war now, we need to take it.”