Chapter 34
Crossing the Jinzi River is easy, because the Weisannas had already marked a path from the last time they made the journey.
Small yellow flags, planted in the grass, in the trees, and then over the rocks to indicate which bridges are sturdy enough for travel, at no risk of collapsing.
Despite the rain, most of the path has endured.
It hasn’t been that long since the palace sent the delegation up to the borderlands, after all.
Since August Shenzhi traveled through his kingdom shortly after his coronation—and nobody noticed that it was not him, it was Anton Makusa wearing his body.
Each time August thinks he has hit a limit in his ire for Anton’s transgression, some new awareness emerges and he grows greatly more livid.
The first time August dreamed about becoming king, he dreamed about crossing the Jinzi River.
It was what their archives liked to focus on.
The biographers sketched such intricate renderings.
The advisors offered lengthy accounts of that critical moment when a new royal toured the kingdom and stepped into the north, because Talin was grand, and ruling Talin meant ruling its provinces.
It has long been a custom, from the time the palaces stood in the provinces.
And it has been taken from him. August crosses the Jinzi River for the first time with his face blank, his fists tight on his reins.
Nobody is witnessing this to commit to the history books, because he has crossed it already, and under the most ridiculous pretense for order.
The divine crown. Otta’s bid for the throne while August was as good as asleep.
Night falls shortly after their crossing. They make camp in Lankil. August steps into his tent with his flashlight, breathing hard. Since their discussion on the road, Otta has split from the camp. She will meet him in Actia Province. She will be faster on her own, unrestricted by observant guards.
August only needs to lead his army, she tells him. August only needs to continue his strategy, and she is his good sister helping him along. There are other soldiers she can find for him, she insists.
“Fuck,” August hisses. He sheds his jacket.
There are scratches across his shoulders from the branches they brushed by earlier.
He turns his head, attempting to inspect the state of his injuries, but gives up promptly.
If Galipei were here, he would insist August sit down to be cleaned, lest the cuts grow infected.
But Galipei is not here, so August—alone—pulls his undershirt off merely to let his wounds air-dry.
It’s dead silent in his tent. Quiet murmuring travels across his camp. Nothing audible, because his guards do not dare say anything within earshot.
August unrolls his cot. His maps. Then he spits “Fuck” once more, because it almost makes him feel better.
Scouts reported in. Rural dwellers spotted Calla and Anton on the path approaching Kelitu.
August hasn’t a clue what they’re doing over there.
He stares at the sketch of Talin, this rendering of the kingdom from the edges of the borderlands to San-Er.
He puts the tip of his finger against the provinces, gauging travel time between their camp in Lankil and the briny desolation that makes up Kelitu Province.
One day of nonstop riding. A day and a half if the rain has ruined the paths, has forced detours across villages and farmland.
He pushes the map away. The silence is growing unbearable inside his tent. This is a result of his own making. He does not have the room to worry about anything save this war, and so he is surrounded by nothing but this war.
August sits unmoving until his ears begin to ring. Then he pulls off his circlet. Pushes the sharp end of one prong into his wrist. His blood wells immediately, appearing black beneath the weak lamplight at the foot of his cot.
In his youth, it took him some time to learn how to jump well.
Befriending Anton Makusa was the best and worst thing to happen to him.
Anton was older and more intense. Anton was naturally adept at jumping however he wanted, as though his qi was entirely within his control.
He didn’t even need to try. August aspired to be like him; August frothed with envy witnessing him.
Either August matched up to his friend, or he would spend all his time agonizing over where he fell short.
August has a clear image of the sigils they found on Calla and Anton.
On their vessels, left at the border of Rincun when they went after the divine crown.
Though Otta could have shared this with him too, it would have done too much to her ego to ask.
He dabs his finger into his cut and draws its distinct shape on his forearm.
This work did not come easily to him; August learned from an early age that if he is to pull himself up, he needs to pay attention.
He jumps, and finds himself in the rain.
No light to announce to his guards that he left.
No tether keeping him within his qi’s natural restrictions.
He glances down in this new body, and his forearm is marked with the residue of the sigil, glowing faintly against the dark.
The wind howls. This is Leysa. He recognizes the rustle of the overhead trees. He gathers his breath.
Jumps again. Flat ground. Eigi. He considers pivoting and entering Kelitu to observe what Calla is doing.
If she wants to open a travel route to supply San-Er from the east, she will meet unpredictable travel and errant sea tides.
He considers poking his head around until he finds Otta, attempting some level of supervision.
These options occur to him like bureaucratic duties, reasonable items he should want to handle.
A pang of hunger steers him into one more jump instead.
San-Er.
Right outside of it, at least. The scouts have had a busy few days. Calla and Anton were sighted on the move. Meanwhile, Galipei Weisanna was sighted entering San-Er, right before qi was blocked in the capital.
The body August takes is in conversation with someone, but thankfully he is not the one speaking, and he finds the first lull to excuse himself.
He senses the block as soon as he sidles through the open gate, that pinch inside his throat, as if one of his critical organs has been blocked from function.
Being inside the twin cities again is a rush.
Its atmosphere crackles through his mind, his limbs, his tongue—urgent as a hit of heroin.
He had hoped he could land in someone affecting some sense of authority, and maybe he has gotten lucky.
A flash of his shoes: city-speckled boots.
Much like the sort Calla is always wearing.
He peers into a mirror hanging from a shop door, and he knows who this is—not because they ever met during his youth, but because the Weisannas reported a long-lost Makusa stationed as an auxiliary member of the Crescent Societies, and she looks just like Anton.
August proceeds through San. He reaches into the pocket of the jacket he’s wearing.
The key is weighty in his palm. Two pieces click in place without hesitation—he knows what the key to the room in the private cells looks like.
He was the one to pull it from the war room when they needed to put Leida away.
“Unbelievable,” August whispers under his breath.
He does all this to protect Galipei, and he goes and gets himself captured. What was wrong with hiding in Gaiyu? What was wrong with standing aside when that blast was coming?
August approaches the main entrance into the palace.
The Crescent Society members only nod when he hops over the turnstiles.
He forces himself to slow his stride inside.
Don’t invoke suspicion. Be patient. He has been patient for years—it would not do to suddenly lose his grasp on it now.
When he opens the door into the private cells, the corridor is pitch black.
August does not seek a light before stepping in. He knows the way.
It’s humid. The rain drips through the air vents, into the cells.
Impossible to move silently when his boots slosh through the ankle-deep flooding, so he does not try.
At the end of the corridor, the viewing window on the door has been left open.
August approaches it slowly. He assumes, despite the ruckus of his steps, that Galipei would not discern his presence.
Galipei slams against the window. August jerks back, his breath catching in his throat.
With Buira Makusa’s eyes, he sees a soft silver glimmering all around Galipei’s body.
This is not usual. This is something that the Makusas have been hiding, because of course that family would possess something deviant up their sleeve.
“If you’re going to kill me,” Galipei sneers, “do it before Calla returns. No more games. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Have you?” August asks, and his voice cuts through the dark. He holds the key tightly. He does not offer it. He does not reveal himself.
Galipei stops. He tilts his head.
“I have,” he says.
“Anton has left,” August says, “so you’re stuck with me now.”
“That’s fine.” Galipei is still pressed close to the viewing window. “I have nothing else to offer.”
August has not played this quite right. He does not know Buira Makusa. He cannot attempt to carry a conversation pretending to be her. Galipei is already looking at him strangely.
“At least you offered enough to send them off.”
“They were already planning to target Actia before I’d said a word.”
Yes, Galipei could not have said a word. He did not know. He stands in this cell, trapped by the capital’s steel and metal, and none of this needed to happen. Galipei Weisanna is hardly a pawn in this war, never mind someone worth keeping captured to sap for information.
“They have another source, of course,” August says, pressing for a slip-up. Pressing whether Galipei may have overheard something interesting during his time here.
But Galipei scoffs instead.
“Who is going to feed them information? Otta Avia? Your brother knows August. He can predict his moves just as I can, because August plans ten steps ahead, and he doesn’t realize that doing so means people can deduce exactly where your feet are coming down.”
August’s first reaction is indignation. He hadn’t been caught plotting for the throne, had he? He hadn’t been obstructed by planning ten steps ahead—he was successful, and he would be king now if it weren’t for Calla…
August takes a step back, his palm tight over the key. He considers revealing himself and calling Galipei a traitor. Cursing him for what he may have done, what he is yet to do. But Galipei defied him when he entered San-Er. He will not decide to heed directives here, even if August asks.
And for as long as Galipei is useful to Calla—or gives the impression of being useful—this cell is safer than anywhere else he could be on the battlefield.
“You’re no use to me,” he says. He is playing a part. He is offering what Buira Makusa may say in farewell.
Galipei quirks a brow. He shrugs, tucking his arms around his torso.
“And you should be so grateful,” he says, “because there is little good in my use.”
August should go. He is better off finding answers in the war room. Whatever route Anton expects him to take, he must elude. He will work fast, then slip through San’s wall again, returning to his body before anyone can discover he is missing.
Silently, he turns. Put one foot in front of the other.
He feels Galipei’s eyes tracking him out.