that they’d been assigned to patrol. He hesitated, as if trying to decide whether or not to say something, but then abruptly changed the subject. “So. Screaming at rocks. Is that, like, normal behavior here?”
“That’s just Suni.” Rin broke a wheat bun in half and offered a piece to Nezha. They had increased bread rations to twice a week, and it was worth savoring. “Ignore him.”
He took it, chewed, and made a face. Even in wartime, Nezha had a way of acting as if he’d expected better luxuries. “It’s a little hard to ignore when he’s yelling right outside your tent.”
“I’ll ask Suni to avoid your particular tent.”
“Would you?”
Snideness aside, Rin was deeply grateful for Nezha’s presence. As much as they had hated each other at the Academy, Rin found comfort in having someone else from her class here on the other side of the country, so far away from Sinegard. It was good to have someone who could sympathize, in some way, with what she was going through.
It helped that Nezha had stopped acting like he had a stick up his ass. War brought out the worst in some people; with Nezha, though, it had transformed him, stripping away his snobby pretensions. It seemed petty now to maintain her old grudge. It was difficult to dislike someone who had saved her life.
And she didn’t want to admit it, but Nezha was a welcome relief from Altan, who had taken lately to hurling objects across the room at the slightest hint of disobedience. Rin found herself wondering why they hadn’t become friends sooner.
“You know they think your contingent is a freak show, right?” Nezha said.
But then, of course, he would say things like that. Rin bristled. They were freaks. But they were her freaks. Only the Cike got to speak about the Cike like that. “They’re the best damn soldiers in this army.”
Nezha raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t one of you blow up the foreign embassy?”
“That was an accident.”
“And didn’t that big hairy one choke out your commander in the mess hall?”
“All right, Suni’s pretty weird—but the rest of us are perfectly—”
“Perfectly normal?” Nezha laughed out loud. “Really? Your people just casually ingest drugs, mumble to animals, and scream through the night?”
“Side effect of battle prowess,” she said, forcing levity into her voice.
Nezha looked unconvinced. “Sounds like battle prowess is the side effect of the madness.”
Rin didn’t want to think about that. It was a horrifying prospect, and she knew it was more than just a rumor. But the more terrified she became, the less likely she’d be able to summon the Phoenix, and the angrier Altan would become.
“Why aren’t your eyes red?” Nezha asked abruptly.
“What?”
He reached out and touched a spot on her temple, beside her left eye. “Altan’s irises are red. I thought Speerly eyes were red.”
“I don’t know,” she said, suddenly confused. She had never once considered it—Altan had never brought it up. “My eyes have always been brown.”
“Maybe you’re not a Speerly.”
“Maybe.”
“But they were red before.” Nezha looked puzzled. “At Sinegard. When you killed the general.”
“You weren’t even conscious,” she said. “You had a spear in your stomach.”
Nezha arched an eyebrow. “I know what I saw.”
Footsteps sounded behind them. Rin jumped, although she had no reason to feel guilty. She was only keeping watch; she wasn’t barred from idle small talk.
“There you are,” said Enki.
Nezha swiftly stood. “I’ll go.”
She glanced up at him, confused. “No, you don’t have to—”
“He should go,” said Enki.
Nezha gave Enki a stiff nod and disappeared briskly around the corner of the wall.
Enki waited a few moments until the sound of Nezha’s footsteps pattering down the stairs died away. Then he glanced down at Rin, mouth pressed in a solemn line. “You didn’t tell me the Dragon Warlord’s brat was a shaman.”
Rin frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“The insignia.” Enki gestured around to his upper back, where Nezha wore his family crest across his uniform. “That’s a dragon mark.”
“That’s just his crest,” said Rin.
“Wasn’t he injured at Sinegard?” Enki inquired.
“Yes.” Rin wondered how Enki had known. Then again, Nezha was the son of the Dragon Warlord; his personal life was public knowledge among the Militia.
“How badly was he hurt?”
“I don’t know,” Rin said. “I was half-unconscious myself when it happened. The general stabbed him—twice, stomach wounds, probably—why does that matter?” She was confused by Nezha’s rapid recovery herself, but she didn’t see why Enki was interrogating her about it. “They missed his vitals,” she added, though that sounded implausible as soon as the