THREE WEEKS AGO
Kochin’s holding cell offered a view of a Yarongese town. It wasn’t the capital—that was still occupied by Daltan forces—but a port town on the northern side of the island that housed the resistance. From his window, he had the privilege of a perspective he’d never seen before: life on Yarong. Real life, not the war stories passed around at Theuman banquets, nor even the panic-fraught memories his mother conjured from her time escaping. It reminded him so much of Chengton—the smell of fish carried on smoke, the women pulling up laden clotheslines, and kids squatting over a game of dice in the streets. The biggest difference between this town and Western Theumas was the absence of automatons, though the Yarongese seemed like they were doing well without. That, and of course, the rebel militia walking the streets—the ever-present reminder of wartime.
Across the street was an impressive building, built in the stony, intricate architecture of ancient Yarong—their town house, with carved arches and handsome eaves and gray pillars. Kochin wondered if he’d be taken back to Theumas for his tribunal or if Commissioner Nem would come to a decision here, as commander in chief.
He hadn’t spoken to the commissioner or Dep Trin since they’d left him here, stripped of his rank. Being a heartsooth wasn’t a true crime; carving, however consensual, was. So, Dep Trin must’ve revealed the truth behind his miraculous recovery to get him indicted.
Kochin didn’t have the energy to be mad, or shocked, or upset. All that had been sapped in his resignation: that Nhika was not coming back, and in her absence, Trin had found true justice for the Congmi siblings.
Still, escape was on his mind—Nhika had given him another chance at life, so he would not spurn it in a cell. Besides, he’d promised his family he’d come home.
He could see water from his cell if he craned his neck. Of course, there stood the wooden fence of a makeshift prison yard and a tuft of jungle before it, but it was close. Just a matter of escaping. Now, he wished he knew how to pick a lock. Nhika had once promised to teach him, but they’d never made it that far. And his room was barren—just a cot in the corner and a bucket to piss in—so there weren’t many options for picks.
He tried everything else instead: shimmying the bars of his window, hoping to loosen a space large enough to crawl through; carving a hole in the wall with a loose nail, blunting the nail quicker than he dug out the concrete; or calling over the guards, hoping to snag a spare key. He only got slurs and insults instead—apparently, the fact that he had hidden his bloodcarving behind Theuman looks was a reprehensible sin.
Days passed. Kochin only knew from the rise and fall of the sun outside his barred window. They brought him food once a day, water thrice. He was running out of ways to escape.
Then, days later, after his hair had matted from the lack of showers, his uniform dirtied from concrete dust, his guard announced that he would be meeting with Commissioner Nem.
Everything was stratagem with Nem. Kochin knew him well enough from his time as Santo’s aide. When he graduated with top marks, Commissioner Nem had even tried to recruit him. So, this long wait, the building anticipation and dwindling dignity—that was just a tactic. If the commissioner planned to have Kochin court-martialed, proceedings would already have happened by now. No … there must’ve been something else.
The entourage came to meet him when the sun was highest in the sky. Kochin did his best to recoup his dignity, shaking the dirt off his clothing and sweeping back his oily hair. Still, when Commissioner Nem arrived, rounding the corner to his private hall, the difference between them was mountainous: polished commissioner with a tailored military tunic, already medaled for his tactics in taking the naval base, versus an unkempt bloodcarver, a socialite so far fallen from his original height.
Kochin rose anyway, meeting the commissioner squarely when he stopped before Kochin’s bars. Two soldiers flanked him, highly ranked and armed, but he waved them away with a hand. “You’re dismissed,” Commissioner Nem boomed.
“Commissioner Nem, with all due respect, are you sure?” one of them asked.
He nodded. “I know this boy. There’s no danger here.”
Boy. Another tactic, and it worked—Kochin felt small, and uncertain.
Hesitantly, the two soldiers eyed each other, but they did not disobey. It was only after they disappeared down the corridor that Commissioner Nem spoke again. “Ven Kochin, I asked them to get you a change of clothes, but it seems like they never did.”
His words were surprisingly congenial, but Kochin reminded himself that Commissioner Nem was not an ally—not anymore. No Theuman who had learned of his gift ever was. But, because he was still a commissioner, Kochin addressed him with respect. “It’s all right, Commissioner.”
“Do you know what should happen to you?”
“No, Commissioner.”
“You would be summoned before a tribunal, your crimes assessed. It might lead to only imprisonment, or it might lead to death, but I couldn’t say. There’s not much precedent for bloodcarver crimes in times of war, but surely you know past bloodcarvers have been trialed harshly. I can’t promise anything. An investigative team would be sent to your family, as well—you had to inherit and learn the magic from someone, right?”
Each word felt like a stake driven deeper into Kochin’s chest. He swallowed, trying hard not to show his fear.
“But,” Commissioner Nem continued, and salvation clung to that word, “I know you, Kochin. You’re ambitious. Smart. You’re not some mindless, murderous liver eater, are you?”
The commissioner’s words were sympathetic, and though Kochin didn’t have the wherewithal to respond to the insulting question, he wondered if Commissioner Nem was prepared to let Kochin go on the basis of their relationship alone. In Theumas, the looks Kochin received from his father had granted him innumerable privileges, which he’d long felt separated him from his mother’s side of the family; would this be another one of them?
Commissioner Nem didn’t seem all too irked when Kochin didn’t respond. Instead, he opened a gloved hand to reveal a key, with which he unlocked the cell door. It swung open until there was nothing between them but air; Kochin could’ve grabbed the skin of his face and killed him if he were truly the bloodcarver of Theuman superstition.
“There are sharpshooters posted all around the perimeter of the base, instructed to shoot anyone who attempts to flee detainment,” Commissioner Nem warned, as though sensing Kochin’s thoughts. “But you won’t hurt me. Not until you hear what I have to say.”
“What … you have to say?” Kochin repeated numbly.
Commissioner Nem gestured down the hall. “Walk with me.”
Perplexed, Kochin followed. They walked as if they were on Theuman streets, two businesspeople venturing for lunch, not a commissioner and a war criminal. Commissioner Nem spoke as they walked. “You know, being a commander in chief comes with a great number of perks. For one, any news that happens on this island runs through me before it reaches the other commissioners back home. It runs through me, or … it stops at me.”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying,” Kochin said, but he had an inkling.
“I’m saying that Theumas doesn’t ever have to learn about your secret. That can stay between us. You’d prefer it that way, wouldn’t you?”
Kochin’s instinct was to thank him, to ingratiate himself with gratitude. He’d done it so much while trying to rise in Theumas’s high society, stroking egos and volunteering favors. But Commissioner Nem’s words now came edged in cunning—this was another strategy of his. “I would, yes.”
“Well, I would also prefer it that way. Trust me, I don’t want to handle the paperwork of a court-martial when there are more important matters to deal with. Especially when your only crime was saving Private Dep’s life.” They turned a corner and descended the stairs, heading deeper into the maw of the detainment facility.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Commissioner,” Kochin responded cautiously.
“I also had a chance to review those Daltanny research papers. It looks like you went through quite some lengths to acquire them, if the blood was any indication. Private Dep also informed me what it was you were planning to do. I almost wish you had brought this to me earlier. I understand why you didn’t, but I could’ve helped you.”
At that, Kochin narrowed his eyes, giving the commissioner a wary look. Condemn him or acquit him, but Kochin had never expected the commissioner to help him.
Finally, the commissioner stopped before a heavy steel door with a bolted circular window. He opened it and gestured for Kochin to peer inside. There could’ve been any number of things inside—a shooting squad, a tribunal, even another cell. Commissioner Nem’s impassive expression revealed nothing.
The only thing Kochin hadn’t been prepared to find was Nhika’s casket.
His heart dropped as he rushed to her side, eyes searching the casket for deception or illusion. This couldn’t be her—here, in Yarong, instead of at his brother’s side—but this casket was the very same, and the slumbering expression beneath the glass window truly belonged to Nhika. A million questions seized him: how Commissioner Nem had found out about her, how he had taken her from Vinsen’s watch, what purpose this twisted game was meant to achieve. He was so occupied by his thoughts that he didn’t catch Commissioner Nem closing the steel door behind him until it was already bolted.
Kochin rushed to the door and slammed his fist against the window, shouting Commissioner Nem’s name in fury, but it was locked shut. Only then did he assess the room around him in full. It was larger than his holding cell, all four walls plain concrete. Above him was a catwalk meant for sentries; right now, it was Commissioner Nem emerging on the bridge. Two personal assistants followed beside him.
“Forgive the arrangement. I just had to ensure my safety,” Commissioner Nem said. “I had a talk with your old employer.”
Kochin glowered. “You would align yourself with Santo?”
“Align myself with him? No. Trust me, I despise that man as much as you do. I simply requested information.” Commissioner Nem gestured to the casket in the middle of the room. “I also sent someone for her, told your brother I’m an ally. And I am.”
Kochin shook his head, feeling dread well in his throat. “Commissioner Nem, I don’t think we want the same thing.” He knew of Commissioner Nem’s infamous temper; he’d always gone out of his way to avoid it.
“Maybe I should be clearer. I want to help you bring this girl—Suon Ko Nhika, is it?—back to life.” His eyes held excitement. “That’s what you were trying to do, wasn’t it? With this iron casket, these papers?”
Kochin shook his head, prepared for the ensuing wrath. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”
The commissioner shook his head. “What are you talking about? The papers detail it all.”
“It costs a life.”
Kochin might’ve expected disappointment or annoyance at the statement, but the look Commissioner Nem gave him was apathy. “And? We have prisoners of war. You have an infinite amount of tries.”
Horror dawned on Kochin slowly, that the commissioner could look at those prisoners not as humans, but as fuel; that he could see this art not as sacred, but as a tool. That he fully expected Kochin to feel the same way. “Commissioner, I can’t do that. I can’t kill someone to bring her back.”
Only now did that telltale wrath pull like a curtain across Commissioner Nem’s expression. “Can’t? Or won’t?”
Kochin swallowed. He could lie, falsify the limits of heartsoothing, but Commissioner Nem wouldn’t believe that while holding those Daltan papers. “Won’t.”
The commissioner glanced at his two advisors, exchanging words through looks alone. “I see.” He paced a length across the platform, arms still clasped behind his back. “I’m surprised, Kochin. I had always placed you as someone who never backed down.”
“What difference does it make to you that I can bring her back?”
Again, Commissioner Nem shook his head, his frustration showing through the angry line of his brow. Kochin had the unwelcome feeling that he was disappointing someone he should’ve been impressing. “It makes all the difference. Let me put some things in perspective for you. Daltanny proper has a population of twenty million. Add their territories, even without including their new land in Simbal, and you can double that number. So, forty million people—five percent of whom are eligible for the Daltan Army. That’s, what, two million people?”
Kochin nodded, a lump stuck in his throat. He knew exactly where Commissioner Nem was headed with these mathematics.
“And how many total people live in Theumas, Kochin?”
Kochin’s tongue felt slack. “Two million.”
“So, their army alone is as large as our entire population. That’s why we build our war machines and submarines and planes. But Guardians can be reverse-engineered, and submarines can be detected, and planes can be countered. We can’t maintain the upper hand with invention alone. Sometimes, you need a little … magic.”
He turned a cold gaze at Kochin, and that lump in Kochin’s throat plummeted straight to his stomach. “You think that heartsoothing can make you an infinite army?” That was what Daltanny had attempted to do; heartsooths had killed themselves to avoid performing such taboo.
“I think it can, if you help me.”
“It’s a life for a life—you can’t maintain an army without deaths.”
“The battlefield is full of deaths. That won’t be an issue.”
“You’re talking about lives as if they’re numbers.”
Commissioner Nem rounded an incredulous gaze on him. “And you’re talking about them as if they haven’t killed, slaughtered, genocided so many of your very ancestors. You must know what they’ve done to bloodcarvers like you—these research papers say it all.” He slapped the papers against the railing, which gave a hollow ring. “They’ll do the same to us. Now, we either use all our advantages—Theuman industry, Yarongese bloodcarving—to best them, or we become just another Daltan territory. I’ll give you time to decide which future you want to fight toward.”
Commissioner Nem’s tirade echoed still around the concrete walls even as he turned to leave, heels clicking against metal as he did. His assistants trailed out after him, and Kochin was left with nothing but Nhika’s casket before him.