The Poppy War (The Poppy War, #1)

by R.F. Kuang

Finally, Altan looked in her direction. His face twisted into a droll, uninterested smile, and even in the ruins of Golyn Niis, even in this city of corpses, Rin thought that the sight of Altan then was the most terrible thing she’d ever seen.

This was the same logic, Rin realized, that had justified the destruction of Speer. To the Federation, to wipe out an entire race overnight was not an atrocity at all. Only a necessity.

It is not because he is a Speerly. It is nothing genetic. Altan is so powerful because he hates so deeply and so thoroughly that it constitutes every part of his being. Your Phoenix is the god of fire, but it is also the god of rage.

Her mortal guise was of a woman of uncommon beauty. In those times, that was a dangerous thing to be.

Much is true. Much more is not. But one thing can be said to be fact. To this day, of all the places on this Earth, only the Chuluu Korikh may contain a god.

They’d done more than train a Speerly. They’d created an avenger. Altan was a commander who would burn down the world to destroy his enemy.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. The Federation weren’t the first to use opium to control a population.

She wanted to call Shiro a liar. She wanted to scream at him to stop. But it made sense. It made so much sense.

Then, with a sickening pang in her stomach, she understood. Altan was not lapsing when he smoked opium. No—smoking opium was the only time when he was not in pain. He had lived his entire life in perpetual pain, always longing to have another dose. She had never understood how horrendously difficult it was to be Altan Trengsin, to live under the strain of a furious god constantly screaming for destruction in the back of his mind, while an indifferent narcotic deity whispered promises in his blood. That’s why the Speerlies became addicted to opium so easily, she realized. Not because they needed it for their fire. Because for some of them, it was the only time they could get away from their horrible god. Deep down, she had known this, had suspected this ever since she’d learned that Altan didn’t need drugs like the rest of the Cike did, that Altan’s eyes were perpetually bright like poppy flowers. Altan should have been locked into the Chuluu Korikh himself a long time ago. But she hadn’t wanted to believe, because she needed to trust that her commander was sane. Because without Altan, what was she?

“Tearza didn’t save our people,” he said. “I couldn’t save our people. But this comes close.” “Altan, please . . .” “It will be harder for you,” Altan said. “You’ll have to live with the consequences. But you’re brave . . . you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.” “Don’t leave me,” she begged. He leaned forward and grasped her face in both hands. She thought for a bizarre moment that he was going to kiss her. He didn’t. He pressed his forehead against hers for a long time. She closed her eyes. She drank in the sensation of her skin against his. She seared it into her memory. “You’re so much stronger than I am,” said Altan. Then he let her go.

“Nothing is written,” said the Phoenix. “You humans always think you’re destined for things, for tragedy or for greatness. Destiny is a myth. Destiny is the only myth. The gods choose nothing. You chose. You chose to take the exam. You chose to come to Sinegard. You chose to pledge Lore, you chose to study the paths of the gods, and you chose to follow your commander’s demands over your master’s warnings. At every critical juncture you were given an option; you were given a way out. Yet you picked precisely the roads that led you here. You are at this temple, kneeling before me, only because you wanted to be.

She had not just altered the fabric of the universe, had not simply rewritten the script. She had torn it, ripped a great gaping hole in the cloth of reality, and set fire to it with the ravenous rage of an uncontrollable god.

She could not abide the terrible guilt of it, so she closed her mind off to the reality.

The part of her that was capable of considering that no longer worked. Those weren’t lives. They were numbers. They were a necessary subtraction.

But Kitay’s face had drained of color. “You just killed thousands of innocent people.” “They tortured me! They killed Altan!” “You did to Mugen the same thing that they did to Speer.” “They deserved it!” “How could anyone deserve that?” Kitay yelled. “How, Rin?”

“They were monsters!” Rin shrieked. “They were not human!” Kitay opened his mouth. No sound came out. He closed it. When he finally spoke again, it sounded as if he was close to tears. “Have you ever considered,” he said slowly, “that that was exactly what they thought of us?”

“I need to know why she did it. And then I need to punish her for it. I need to make her suffer.” “Are you listening to yourself? Does it matter who sold who?” Kitay grasped her by her shoulders and shook her hard. “Look around you. Look at what’s happened to this world. All of our friends are dead. Nezha. Raban. Irjah. Altan.” Rin flinched at each name, but Kitay continued, relentless. “Our entire world has been torn apart, and you still want to go to war?” “War’s already here. A traitor sits on the throne of the Empire,” she said stubbornly. “I will see her burn.” Kitay let go of her arm, and the expression on his face stunned her. He looked at her as if looking at a stranger. He looked scared of her. “I don’t know what happened to you in that temple,” he said. “But you are not Fang Runin.”

“I don’t need to sleep,” she insisted. “I need to feel nothing.”

I have become something wonderful, she thought. I have become something terrible. Was she now a goddess or a monster? Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.

Mugen was gone, but the Cike’s enemies had multiplied. And they were rogue agents now, no longer loyal to the crown that had sold them. Nothing was over.

“I should have known,” Chaghan said finally. “We have an enemy whom we love.” “What?” “I read it in Altan’s Hexagram. Months ago.” “It meant the Empress,” she said. “Perhaps,”

Chaghan looked sideways at her. His expression was grim. “You are going to paint the world in Altan’s blood, aren’t you?” “I’m going to find and kill everyone responsible,” said Rin. “You cannot stop me.” Chaghan laughed a dry, cutting laugh. “Oh, I’m not going to stop you.” He held out his hand. She grasped it, and the drowned land and the ash-choked sky bore witness to the pact between Seer and Speerly. They had come to an understanding, she and Chaghan. They were no longer opposed, vying for Altan’s favor. They were allies, now, bound by the mutual atrocities they had committed. They had a god to kill. A world to reshape. An Empress to overthrow. They were bound by the blood they had spilled. They were bound by their suffering. They were bound by what had happened to them. No. This had not happened to her. We do not force you to do anything, the Phoenix had whispered, and it had spoken the truth. The Phoenix, for all its power, could not compel Tearza to obey it. And it could not have compelled Rin, because she had agreed wholeheartedly to the bargain. Jiang was wrong. She was not dabbling in forces she could not control, for the gods were not dangerous. The gods had no power at all, except what she gave them. The gods could affect the universe only through humans like her. Her destiny had not been written in the stars, or in the registers of the Pantheon. She had made her choices fully and autonomously. And though she called upon the gods to aid her in battle, they wer...

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