The Burning God (The Poppy War #3) - R.F. Kuang Page 0,134

border. Perhaps they might still find the nomadic herds of sheep and yaks that the Dog Province was known for. But Rin knew it would drive her mad to keep her eyes fixed on distant plains, hoping for silhouettes to appear on the horizon.

They could not assume aid would come. Their only option was to keep pushing forward to Mount Tianshan, alone.

The march across the plateau proceeded far more easily than their journey through the mountains. They were still exhausted; their numbers were still dwindling from starvation and disease. But now that the ground did not slip treacherously under their feet and the air couldn’t bite hard enough to kill, they covered thrice the distance each day as they had on the Baolei range. Morale improved. The whispers of dissent grew quieter. And as the distant Tianshan range grew closer day by day, no longer a hazy line on the horizon but a distinct, ridged silhouette against the north sky, Rin began daring to hope that they might actually make it. That all their plans, all their talk of the Trifecta that up until now had seemed like a distant fantasy, might actually come to pass.

She just still hadn’t figured out what she might do if they did.

“Rin.” Kitay nudged her shoulder. “Look.”

She’d been stumbling along in a daze, half-asleep from fatigue. “What?”

He tilted her chin up to stop her staring at the ground. He pointed. “Over there.”

She didn’t believe it when she saw it, but then a cheer went up through the column that confirmed everyone saw what she did—the outline of a village, clearly visible against the steppe. Thick clouds of smoke billowing up from rooftops of rounded huts that promised shelter, warmth, and a cooked dinner.

The column quickened its pace.

“Wait,” Rin said. “We don’t know if they’re friendly.”

Kitay shot her a wry look. Around them, the southerners marched with their hands on their weapons. “I don’t think it matters much whether we’re invited.”

“You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,” said the Dog Warlord, Quan Cholang.

Rin shrugged. “The last time a person said that to me, I had him torn apart by a mob.”

She didn’t elaborate. She was too busy chewing her way through the spread on the mat before her—tough, dry mutton; grainy steamed buns; sheep-stock gruel; and a cold, sour glass of yak’s milk to wash it down. It was, by any standard, awful—Dog Province was often lampooned for its tough, tasteless food. But after months in the mountains, her tongue craved any flavors other than the dull sting of chili-boiled water.

She knew she was being rude. But as long as no one was actively trying to kill her, she was going to eat.

She sucked the last juicy mouthful of sheep marrow from bone, took a deep and satisfied breath, then wiped her hand on her pants.

“I don’t recognize you at all,” she said bluntly. “Leadership transition?”

She’d met the former Dog Warlord once before, just briefly, at the Empress’s postwar summit in Lusan. He hadn’t made much of an impression; she could only barely remember his features well enough to know that the man she dined with now was thinner, taller, and far younger. But she could also detect some family resemblances in his features—Cholang had the same long, narrow eyes and high forehead as the man Rin assumed had been his father.

Cholang sighed. “I told my father not to answer Vaisra’s summons. He should have known better to assume the Dragon Warlord merely wanted to talk.”

“Stupid of him,” Kitay agreed. “Did Vaisra send back his head?”

“Vaisra would never be so compassionate.” Cholang’s voice hardened. “He sent me a series of scrolls threatening to skin my father alive and deliver to me his tanned hide if Dog Province didn’t capitulate.”

Kitay’s tone was utterly neutral, without judgment. “So you let your father die.”

“I know the kind of man my father was,” Cholang said. “He would have fallen on his own blade rather than bow. Vaisra did send a parcel. I never opened it; I buried it.”

His voice shook, just barely, as he finished speaking. He’s young, Rin realized. Cholang carried himself like a general, and his men clearly treated him as such, but his voice betrayed a fragility that his sun-weathered skin and bushy beard couldn’t hide.

He was just like them. Young, scared, without a clue about what he was doing, yet trying his best to pretend otherwise.

Kitay gestured around the camp. “I take it this is not the permanent capital?”

Cholang shook his head. “Gorulan is a