“I don’t,” Rin said. “I’ve no idea.”

She was being honest. She didn’t have the faintest clue what the Dragon Emperor could do. Daji and Jiang had been frustratingly cagey on the topic. Daji, when asked, gave only the vaguest descriptions—he’s powerful, he’s legendary, he’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. Meanwhile, half the time Jiang acted as if he’d never heard the name Riga. The only thing Rin had to go on was that both of them seemed so very sure that the Dragon Emperor, once awakened, could flatten the Republic.

“All I know is that he scares Jiang,” she told Venka. “And whatever scares him ought to terrify the world.”

Their misery intensified in the following days, because at last they’d reached an altitude high enough that everything was paved with ice.

Rin was initially undaunted. She’d had some half-baked idea that she might be able to ease their journey with the sheer force of flame. It worked at first. She became a human torch. She melted the slippery roads until they were walkable sludge, boiled water to drink, lit campfires by pointing, and kept the train warm by walking among the ranks.

But after two days of this continuous flame, a numbing exhaustion set in, and she found it harder and harder to reach for a force that drained her and tortured Kitay.

“I’m sorry,” she said every time she found him shaking atop a wagon, ghostly pale, fingers pressed into his temples so hard they left little grooves.

“I’m fine,” he said every time.

But she knew he was lying. She couldn’t keep pushing him like this; it would destroy them both. She started calling the fire only several hours a day, and then only to clear the roads ahead. The troops now had only their dwindling supply of torches to rely on for heat. Frostbite and hypothermia eroded their ranks. Soldiers stopped waking up after they’d gone to sleep.

Jiang, meanwhile, was deteriorating at a terrifying rate.

This march was killing him. There was no other way to describe it. He’d grown gaunt and pale, and he wasn’t eating. He couldn’t walk on his own anymore; they had to drag him along on a wagon. He hadn’t regained his lucidity, either. Sometimes he was mercifully placid, affable, and easy to order about like a child. More often he turned in on himself, gripped by some terrible visions that the rest of them couldn’t see, lashing out whenever anyone tried to help him. Then he became dangerous. Then the shadows started to creep.

Under Daji’s advice they often kept him in a sedated state, plying him with laudanum tea until he sank back against the corners of the wagon in a stupor. It made Rin sick to see his eyes dulled and uncomprehending, drool leaking out the side of his mouth, but she couldn’t think of any better options. They needed to keep him stable until they got to Mount Tianshan.

She didn’t know what Jiang was capable of when unhinged.

But they couldn’t sedate him constantly without doing permanent damage to his mind. He still needed regular stretches of sobriety, and these were so painful and humiliating that Rin couldn’t bring herself to watch.

One night Jiang woke the camp with such tortured screaming that Rin dashed immediately out of the tent where she slept and rushed to his side.

“Master?” She clenched his hand. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flew open. He regarded her with his wide, pale eyes, and for a moment, he seemed almost calm.

“Hanelai?”

Rin reeled.

She’d heard that name before. Just once, just briefly, but she’d never forget it. She remembered kneeling on the freezing forest floor, her ankle throbbing, while Chaghan’s aunt, the Sorqan Sira, gripped her face in her hands and spoke a name that made the surrounding Ketreyids bristle. She looks like Hanelai.

“Master . . .” She swallowed. “Who—”

“I know where we’re going.” Jiang’s arm trembled violently. She tightened her grasp, but that only seemed to increase his agitation. “And I don’t—we can’t—don’t make me wake him.”

“Do you mean Riga?” she asked cautiously. She wasn’t prepared for the way he flinched at the name.

He gave her a look of sheer, abject terror. “He is evil incarnate.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “He’s your anchor, why won’t—”

“Listen to me.” Jiang reached out with his other hand and gripped her arm above the elbow. “I know what she wants to do. She’s lying to you. You cannot go.”

His nails dug painfully into her flesh. Rin squirmed, but Jiang’s grip was like iron.

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

He didn’t let go. He stared at her, eyes wild and intense like she had never seen them. Something was lost behind them. Something was broken, suppressed, desperately trying to claw its way out.

“You don’t understand what you’re about to do,” Jiang said urgently. “Don’t climb that mountain. Kill me first. Kill her.”

His grip tightened. Rin’s eyes watered from the pain, but she didn’t wrench her arm away; she was too afraid of startling him. “Master, please . . .”

“End this before it begins,” he hissed.

Rin didn’t know what to do or say. Where on earth was Daji? Only she knew how to keep Jiang calm; only she could whisper the right combination of words to stop his raving.

“What’s on Mount Tianshan?” she asked. “Why are you afraid of Riga? Who is Hanelai?”

Jiang relaxed his fingers. His eyes widened just the slightest bit, and Rin thought she saw some fragment of rationality and recognition dawning on his face. He opened his mouth. But just when she thought he was on the verge of an answer, he threw his head back and laughed.

I should leave, Rin thought, suddenly terrified. She should never have approached him. She should have just left him to his screaming until it died away on its own. She should leave now, walk away, and when morning came, Jiang would be calm again and everything would be normal and they’d never speak of this again.

She knew he was trying to tell her something. There was a hidden truth here, something awful and terrible, but she didn’t want to know. She just wanted to run away and cry.

“Altan,” Jiang said suddenly.

Rin froze, crouched halfway between sitting down and standing up.

“I’m sorry.” Jiang stared her in the eyes; he was addressing her. “I’m so sorry. I could have protected you. But they—”

“Stop.” Rin shook her head. “Please, Master, stop—”

“You don’t understand.” Jiang reached out for her wrist. “They hurt me and they said they’d hurt you worse so I had to let you go, don’t you understand—”

“Shut up!” Rin screamed.

Jiang recoiled as if she had hit him. His entire body started to shake so hard she was afraid he might actually shatter like a porcelain vase, but then, abruptly, he went still. He wasn’t breathing; his chest did not rise or fall. For a long time he sat with his head bent and his eyes closed. When at last he opened them, they were a bright, terrible white.

“You should not be here.”

Rin didn’t know who was speaking through his mouth, but that wasn’t Jiang.