to survive—certainly no one else was looking out for them. And if she murdered the Warlords now, the resulting chaos would hurt the Republic. The southern armies’ numbers weren’t great enough to win the battle, but their defection was more than enough to guarantee defeat, and that wasn’t something Rin wanted on her hands.
She loved that this was her decision—that she could disguise this cruel calculation as mercy.
“Go to sleep,” she said softly, as if speaking to children. “We’ve a battle to fight.”
She escorted Kesegi back to the refugee quarters over his protests. She took him the long way around the city, trying to keep as much distance from the barracks as possible. For ten minutes they walked in stony silence. Every time Rin looked at Kesegi he stared angrily forward, pretending he hadn’t seen her.
“You’re angry with me,” she said.
He didn’t respond.
“I can’t give them what they want. You know that.”
“No, I don’t,” he said curtly.
“Kesegi—”
“And I don’t know you anymore.”
She had to admit that was true. Kesegi had said farewell to a sister and found a soldier in her place. But she didn’t know him anymore, either. The Kesegi she’d left had been just a tiny child. This Kesegi was a tall, sullen, and angry boy who had seen too much suffering and didn’t know who to blame for it.
They resumed walking in silence. Rin was tempted to turn around and head back, but she didn’t want Kesegi caught alone on the wrong side of the barrier. The night patrol had lately taken to flogging refugees who wandered out of bounds to set an example.
Finally Kesegi said, “You could have written.”
“What?”
“I kept waiting for you to write. Why didn’t you?”
Rin didn’t have a good response to that.
Why hadn’t she written? The Masters had permitted it. All of her classmates had regularly written home. She remembered watching Niang send eight separate letters to each of her siblings every week, and being amazed that anyone had so much to say about their grueling coursework.
But the thought of writing the Fangs had never even crossed her mind. Once she reached Sinegard, she’d locked her memories of Tikany tightly away in the back of her mind and willed herself to forget.
“You were so young,” she said after a pause. “I guess I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
“Bullshit,” Kesegi said. “You’re my sister. How could I not remember you?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . I thought it’d be easier if we made a clean break with each other. I mean, it’s not like I was ever coming home once I got out—”
His voice hardened. “And you didn’t ever think I wanted to get out, too?”
She felt a wave of irritation. How had this suddenly become her fault? “You could have if you wanted to. You could have studied—”
“When? When you left it was just me and the shop; and after Father started getting worse, I had to do everything around the house. And Mother isn’t kind, Rin. You knew that—I begged you to not leave me with her—but you left anyway. Off in Sinegard on your adventures—”
“They weren’t adventures,” she said coldly.
“But you were in Sinegard,” he said plaintively, with the voice of a child who had only heard stories of the former capital, who still thought it was a land of riches and marvels. “And I was stuck in Tikany, hiding from Mother every chance I got. And then the war started and all we did every single day was huddle terrified in underground shelters and hope that the Federation hadn’t come to our town yet, and if they did, then they might not kill us immediately.”
She stopped walking. “Kesegi.”
“They kept saying you were going to come for us.” His voice cracked. “That a fire goddess from the Rooster Province had destroyed the longbow island, and that you were going to come back home to liberate us, too.”
“I wanted to. I would have—”
“No, you wouldn’t have. Where were you all those months? Launching a coup in the Autumn Palace. Starting another war.” Venom crept into his voice. “You don’t get to say you don’t want any part of this. This is your fault. Without you we wouldn’t be here.”
She could have replied. She could have argued with him, said it wasn’t her fault but the Empress’s, told him there were political forces at play that were much larger than any of them.
But she simply couldn’t form the sentences. None of them felt genuine.