The Burning God (The Poppy War, #3)

by R.F. Kuang

She heard screaming. Dulin’s and Lianhua’s faces appeared above her. Pipaji was shouting something, but her voice was muffled and muted. Rin felt Lianhua’s hands moving under her shirt, pushing up to rest on her ribs, and then a wonderful, scorching heat spread through her torso and head until Dulin’s shouting sharpened into intelligible words. “Are you all right?” “Fine,” she gasped. “I’m fine.” When Lianhua took her hands away, Rin curled onto her side and laughed. She couldn’t help herself; it spilled out of her like a waterfall, urgent and exhilarating. Lianhua looked deeply concerned. “General, are you . . . ?” “We’re going to win,” Rin said hoarsely. She couldn’t understand why she was the only one laughing. Why weren’t they laughing? Why weren’t they beside themselves with delight? “Oh, my gods. Holy fucking shit. This is it. We’re going to win.”

“You’re sure they’re ready?” She shrugged. “About as ready as I was.” He sighed. “I’m sure you know that thought gives me no comfort at all.”

Victory was already assured. Right now she only had to worry about the loose ends. This was the sort of puzzle that Altan had been constantly trying to solve when he’d commanded the Cike.

vengeance. These troops hadn’t done anything to her. She had no reason to hate them. This didn’t feel righteous, this just felt cruel. Her flames sagged, then shrank back inside her.

Only when she called the flames away did she see the white flags, now blackened at the edges, waving from every door of every building. The city had surrendered to the Southern Army long ago. The only one still fighting was her.

Awkward

The soil gave life to the country. And the earth always reclaimed what it was owed.

She pushed the image away. Empresses carried fans. Generals carried swords.

“Well, look at you.” Chiang Moag, Pirate Queen of Ankhiluun, stepped off the gangplank and strode down the pier with a broad smile on her face. “Look what you’ve made of yourself.”

“Oh, let’s call this what it is. The Republic is done for. That pretty little boy they’ve got on Arlong’s throne couldn’t manage even a village without his father’s help. I know where to throw in my lot.”

Her fingers curled into a fist. She could absorb those losses; no one would fault her for it. But she had to strike first. Then Moag burst out laughing, a full-throated, booming laugh that startled Rin. “Tiger’s tits.” Moag clapped a hand on her shoulder, grinning. “When did you grow such a massive pair of balls?”

She heard rumors that since Mount Tianshan, he’d already had to quash two attempted coups, and although he’d swiftly jailed the perpetrators, his dissenters had only increased. Most importantly, he was losing the support of the countryside.

Poor nezha

And that, again, confirmed what Rin had believed since the start of her campaign—that Nikan’s southerners were weak but many, and that united, they could topple empires.

“Why not?” she said at last. “Nezha’s finally putting his pieces on the board. So let’s play.” She stepped outside the tent to summon the messenger. He extended his hand, expecting a written reply, but she shook her head. “I’ll be brief. Tell Venka to route to Dragab quick as she can. We’ll be waiting.”

But Rin recognized the stone face across the graveyard. And that wasn’t, couldn’t be, the Winter Empress. “That’s Tearza,” she murmured, amazed. “The Speerly queen?” Venka wrinkled her nose. “What are you talking about?” Rin pointed. “Look around her neck. See that necklace? That’s a Speerly necklace.”

Yet, Rin supposed, lovers could still inflict that kind of violence on each other. Hadn’t Riga loved Daji? Hadn’t Jiang loved Tseveri?

Hadn’t Nezha once loved her?

They waited another hour in tense anticipation. Then, suddenly, the rain intensified from a loud patter to a violent roar. It might have been an accident of nature, but Rin doubted it. The timing was too abrupt. Someone was hauling that rain down from the heavens. “He’s here.” She stood up and waved to her officers. “Ready the columns.”

Rin scanned the front lines with her spyglass until she spotted Nezha marching at the fore. He was dressed in a strange hybrid fashion; his chest was clad in the familiar blue cloth and lamellar plating of the Dragon Army, but his arms and legs were wrapped in some armor made of overlapping metal plates. It looked obstructively heavy. His shoulders, usually so arrogantly squared, seemed to sag.

She shifted the spyglass down. Another pair of golden circlets was visible over his boots. “Did he have those in Arabak?” “Not that I remember,” Kitay said. “But I remember seeing these odd scars once, right around—” “He’s seen us,” Rin said abruptly. Nezha had taken out a spyglass, too. He was looking right back at them. She was struck by the symmetry of the scene. They could have been a painting—two opposing factions lined under statues that may as well have been their patron gods. Tearza and the Red Emperor, Speerly against conqueror, the newest participants in a centuries-old conflict that had never died, but had only continued to reverberate through history.

Until now. Until one of them ended it, for better or for

worse. Nezha raised a hand. Rin tensed. Blood roared in her ears; the familiar, addictive rush of adrenaline thrummed through her body. So this was how it began. No pleasantries, no obligatory attempt at negotiation; just battle. Nezha brought his hand down and his ...

As if on cue, Nezha’s archers launched their opening volleys, and arrows dotted the surfaces of the turtles until they looked like roving hedgehogs. “They look so stupid,” Rin muttered. “Shut up,” Kitay said. “They’re working.”

Over the din of the rain, Rin could just barely make out a distinct, low rumble echoing across the ravine. She bent low, placed her hand to the shuddering ground, and smiled.

Dulin was right on time.

This wasn’t really a fight. This wasn’t one of those bare-knuckled, bruising scuffles they’d been so fond of at school. This battle was, at its core, a contest of their ideas. Nezha had gambled on the environment—the rain and ravine. Rin had placed her hopes on wild, distracting gambits. They’d learn soon who had placed the better bet.

An arrow thudded into the ground ten feet away. Rin glanced down, jerked from her reverie. The arrow shaft was wrapped with red ribbon—Venka’s signal: Your turn.

Rin climbed out of the turtle and reached into her mind for the waiting god. Your turn. The Phoenix surged forth, warm and familiar. Finally.

She could make out Nezha’s figure through the wall of orange—alone and unguarded, shouting orders to his men as they fled. He had not retreated ahead of his troops; he was waiting until the last of his ranks reached safe ground. He’d refused to abandon his army. Always so noble. Always so stupid. She had him. She’d won this game of ideas, she had him in sight and in range, and this time she would not falter. “Nezha!” she screamed. She wanted to see his face.

Above, the tarp sizzled and dissipated to ash. Rin pushed the parabola forward. Two walls met at the center of the pass—blue and red, Phoenix and Dragon.

Her flames shrank back into her body. Rin glared at Nezha through the water. He grinned back, smug. His army had completed their retreat. Her troops could still pursue them overland, but how would they get past Nezha?

He’d pitted his god against hers. And he’d won. Nezha lowered his arms. The barrier crashed down, splashing hard against the rocks. The clouds resumed their heavy downpour. Rin spat out a mouthful of water, face burning. Nezha gave her a small, taunting wave.

She hadn’t felt this sort of petty rage, this sheer indignation, since Sinegard. This wasn’t about troops, this was about pride. In that moment they were schoolchildren again, pummeling each other in the ring, and he’d just laughed in her face.

Rin remembered vividly how it felt to drown. But this time Nezha wouldn’t save her. This time, he might pull her to the bottom of the river himself, holding her still as she thrashed until her lungs collapsed. I can’t beat him.

If they met again on the battlefield, he could easily kill her in a thousand different ways, because in the end, the sea and its dark, swallowing depths would always conquer fire.

Rin met his eyes. Silent understanding sparked between them, and instantly the pieces of the obvious, inevitable strategy fell into place.

“We’ll find the grotto. Kill it at the source.” Yes. This was it. She’d been stupid to think that she might win this campaign without touching Arlong, when that was the locus of power all along.

Nezha fell if Arlong fell. Nezha died if the Dragon died. Nothing short of that would do. “I don’t understand.” Venka glanced between them. “What are we trying to do?” “We’re going to the Nine Curves Grotto,” Rin breathed. “And we’re going to kill a dragon.”

His grin widened. “Come on, Rin. Trust me. I gave you wings once.” “Yes, and that’s how I got this scar!” He reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve never cared much about looking pretty.”

Rin swallowed her doubts and stepped into the basket. “Come on, kids. It’s a short trip.” They didn’t need a smooth, seamless flight. They just needed to get up in the air. If they crashed, at least they’d crash on the other side.

“Let’s go,” Rin said curtly. “Time to kill a dragon.”

“Good luck,” Kitay said. He would stay behind atop the Red Cliffs—close enough to witness everything through his spyglass, but far enough that he’d remain well out of harm’s way. He squeezed her wrist. “Don’t do anything stupid.” “Stay safe,” Rin responded.

She forced her voice to remain casual. Brusque. No time to get emotional now. They already knew this might fail; they’d said their goodbyes last night.

Kitay gave her a mocking salute. “Give Nez...

A round of cannon fire punctuated his words from across the channel. Venka’s smoke signals flared bright against the gray sky. The final invasion had begun. While Arlong erupted in explosions, Rin and her shamans ...

Rin paused for a moment, struck with the oddest sense that she’d been here before.

Rin shuddered. The ocean likes to keep its treasures. The ocean doesn’t destroy. The ocean collects.

Nezha was on that boat.

wtf bro

Nezha stepped off the side of the sampan, moving as casually as if he’d just arrived for teatime.

“Hello, Rin,” he said. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Nezha hadn’t even glanced at Pipaji. His eyes were locked on Rin’s. He approached slowly, fingers stroking the hilt of his sword.