The Burning God (The Poppy War #3) - R.F. Kuang Page 0,100

was actually on pretty good behavior today; you didn’t get to see him at his worst. He’s tried a million different things to break me.” Kitay bent over to unlock his shackles. “But he should have remembered he never figured out how. Not at Sinegard, and certainly not now.”

Rin felt an aching burst of pride. She forgot sometimes how resilient Kitay could be. One would never have suspected it by looking at him—the archetypal reedy and anxious scholar—but he bore hardship with iron fortitude. Sinegard hadn’t worn him down. Even Golyn Niis hadn’t destroyed him. Nezha could never have broken him.

No, whispered the little voice in her head that sounded too much like Altan. The only person capable of breaking him is you.

“Behind you,” Kitay said suddenly.

Rin twisted around, expecting a soldier. But it was just one of the Gray Company—a young man in a cassock, carrying a meal tray in his hands.

His mouth fell open when he saw her. His eyes flitted, confused, between her and Kitay, as if he was trying to determine the appropriate number of people for one cell. “You—”

Kitay twisted the key and jerked the cell door open.

Too late, the missionary turned to run. Rin dug her heels into the ground and chased him down. His legs were much longer than hers, and he might have gotten away, but he tripped over his cassock just as he reached the corner. He stumbled—only for a split second, but that was enough. Rin grabbed his arm, yanked him further off balance, and kicked at the backs of his knees. He fell. She called the fire into her palm. It came back so quickly, so naturally, a well-worn glove slipping over waiting fingers.

She jammed her clawed hand onto his throat. Soft flesh gave way to her burning nails like tofu parting under steel. Easy. It was done in seconds. He went without so much as a whimper; she’d chosen his throat because she didn’t want him to scream.

She straightened up, exhaled, and wiped her hand on the wall. The magnitude of what she’d just done hadn’t hit her; it had happened so quickly, it didn’t even seem real. She hadn’t decided to kill the missionary; she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d simply needed to protect Kitay. The rest was an instinct.

She felt a sudden, bizarre urge to laugh.

She cocked her head, observing the crimson streaks shining wet and bright on marble. For some reason, it gave her a dizzying rush of delight, the same confusing ecstasy she’d felt when she poisoned Ma Lien.

It wasn’t about the violence.

It was about the power.

It wasn’t as good as killing Nezha, but it felt close. For a wild, untethered moment, she considered dragging her bloody finger along the wall and drawing him a flower.

No. No. Too indulgent. She didn’t have time. The wave of vertigo passed. She came back to her senses; she was in control.

Focus.

“Come here,” she called down the corridor. “Help me drag him into your cell. We’ll put him on the cot, cover him with a blanket—it’ll buy some time.”

Kitay wandered out two steps from his cell, keeled over, and vomited.

Their escape from the church proceeded with astonishing ease. Rin and Kitay waited by the door to the dungeons, listening against the wood to an ongoing Hesperian sermon, until they heard the Nikara civilians standing up from their pews. Then they opened it a crack and slid out to join the press of moving bodies, invisible in the crowd. Jiang and Daji rejoined them as they spilled out of the doors, but none of them spoke until they’d walked for several minutes down to the other end of the street.

“You’ve gotten taller,” Jiang told Kitay once they’d turned the corner. “Good to see you again.”

Kitay stared at him for a moment, as if unsure how to respond. “So you’re the Gatekeeper.”

“That’s me.”

“And you’ve been hiding in Sinegard all this time.”

“Lost my mind for a bit,” Jiang said. “Just starting to get it back now.”

“Makes sense,” Kitay said weakly.

All considered, Rin thought, he was taking this rather well.

“Questions later.” Daji tossed Kitay a brown tunic, which was far less conspicuous than the tattered rags he’d been wearing since Tikany. “Put this on and let’s go.”

They left the New City in a horse-drawn laundry wagon. Its original driver had carried a gate permit to take infirmary linens to the river for washing; Daji had charmed him into relinquishing the wagon and permit both. While Daji drove the wagon confidently through