She tossed the coins again. All heads.
“The second line, divided,” read the Talwu. “The subject ascends to his place in the sun. There will be supreme good fortune.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Rin asked.
“Depends on whose fortune it is,” said Chaghan. “The subject is not necessarily you.”
Her third toss saw one head, two tails.
“The third line, divided. The end of the day has come. The net has been cast on the setting sun. This spells misfortune.”
Rin felt a sudden chill. The end of an era, the setting sun on a country . . . she hardly needed Chaghan to interpret that for her.
“We’re not going to win this war, are we?” she asked the Talwu.
“I only read the Hexagrams,” said the Talwu. “I confirm and deny nothing.”
“It’s the net I’m concerned about. It’s a trap,” said Chaghan. “We’ve missed something. Something’s been laid out for us, but we can’t see it.”
Chaghan’s words confused Rin as much as the line itself did, but Chaghan commanded her to throw the coins again. Two tails, one head.
“The fourth line, undivided,” read the Talwu. “The subject comes, abrupt with fire, with death, to be rejected by all. As if an exit; as if an entry. As though burning; as though dying; as though discarded.”
“That one is quite clear,” said Chaghan, although Rin had more questions about that line than the others. She opened her mouth, but he shook his head. “Throw the coins again.”
The Talwu looked down. “The fifth line, divided. The subject is with tears flowing in torrents, groaning in sorrow.”
Chaghan looked stricken. “Truly?”
“The Hexagrams do not lie,” the Talwu said. Her voice was devoid of emotion. “The only lies are in the interpretation.”
Chaghan’s hand shook suddenly. The wooden beads of his bracelet clattered, echoing in the silent room. Rin shot him a concerned look, but he only shook his head and motioned for her to finish. Arms heavy with dread, Rin cast the coins a sixth and final time.
“A leader abandons their people,” read the Talwu. “A ruler begins a campaign. One sees great joy in decapitating enemies. This signifies evil.”
Chaghan’s pale eyes were open very, very wide.
“You have cast the Twenty-Sixth Hexagram. The Net,” announced the Talwu. “There is a clinging, and a conflict. Things will come to pass that exist only side by side. Misfortune and victory. Liberation and death.”
“But the Phoenix . . . the Woman . . .” Rin had not received any of the answers she wanted. The Talwu hadn’t helped her at all; it had only warned of even worse things to come, things she didn’t have the power to prevent.
The Talwu lifted a clawed hand. “Your time of asking is up. Return in a lunar month, and you may cast another Hexagram.”
Before Rin could speak, Chaghan knelt forward hastily and dragged Rin down beside him.
“Thank you, Enlightened One,” he said, and to Rin he murmured, “Say nothing.”
The room dissolved as she sank to her knees, and with an icy jolt, like she had been doused in cold water, Rin found herself shoved back into her material body.
She took a deep breath. She opened her eyes.
Beside her, Chaghan drew himself up to a sitting position. His pale eyes were huge, deep in their shadowed sockets. His gaze seemed to be focused still on something very far away, something entirely not in this world. Slowly, he returned to himself, and when he finally registered Rin’s presence, his expression became one of deep anxiety.
“We must get Altan,” he said.
If Altan was surprised when Chaghan barged into the Sihang warehouse with Rin in tow, he didn’t show it. He looked too exhausted for anything to faze him at all.
“Summon the Cike,” said Chaghan. “We need to leave this city.”
“On what information?” Altan asked.
“There was a Hexagram.”
“I thought you didn’t get another question for a month.”
“It wasn’t mine,” said Chaghan. “It was hers.”
Altan didn’t even glance at Rin. “We can’t leave Khurdalain. They need us now more than ever. We’re about to lose the city. If the Federation gets through us, they enter the heartland. We are the final front.”
“You are fighting a battle the Federation does not need to win,” said Chaghan. “The Hexagrams spoke of a great victory, and great destruction. Khurdalain has only been a frustration for both sides. There is one other city that Mugen wants right now.”
“That’s impossible,” said Altan. “They cannot march to Golyn Niis so soon from the coast. The Golyn River route is too narrow to move troop columns. They would have to find the mountain pass.”
Chaghan raised his eyebrows. “I’ll bet you they’ve found it.”
“All right. Fine.” Altan stood up. “I believe you. Let’s go.”
“Just like that?” Rin asked. “No due diligence?”
Altan walked out of the room and headed down the hallway at a brisk stride. They scurried to keep up with him. He descended the steps of the warehouse until he stood before the basement cellar where the Federation prisoner was kept.
“What are you doing?” Rin asked.
“Due diligence,” Altan said, and yanked the door open.
The cellar smelled strongly of defecation.
The prisoner had been shackled to a post in the corner of the room, hands and feet bound, a cloth jammed into his mouth. He was unconscious when they entered the room; he didn’t stir when Altan slammed the door shut, or when Altan crossed the room to kneel down beside him.
He had been beaten; one eye was swollen a violent shade of purple, and blood was crusted around a broken nose. But the worst damage had been inflicted by the gas: what skin was not purple had blistered into an angry red rash, so that his face did not look human at all but rather like a frightening combobulation of colors. Rin found a savage satisfaction in seeing the prisoners’ features as burned and disfigured as they were.
Altan touched two fingers to an open wound on the prisoner’s cheek and gave a small, sharp jab.
“Wake up,” he said in fluent Mugini. “How are you feeling?”
With a groan, the prisoner slowly opened his swollen eyes. When he saw Altan, he hacked and spat out a gob of spit at Altan’s feet.
“Wrong answer,” said Altan, and dug his nail into the cut.
The prisoner screamed loudly. Altan let go.
“What do you want?” the prisoner demanded. His Mugini was coarse and slurred, a far cry from the polished accent Rin had studied at Sinegard. It took her a moment to decipher his dialect.
“It occurs to me that Khurdalain was never the main target,” Altan said casually, resting back on his haunches. “Perhaps you would like to tell us what is.”
The prisoner smiled an awful, bloody-faced smile that twisted his burn scars. “Khurdalain,” he repeated, rolling the Nikara word through his mouth like a wad of phlegm. “Who would want to capture this shit hole?”
“Never mind,” said Altan. “Where is the main offensive going?”