by Jay Kristoff
“I can get them out…”
“You know when you drink like this … when you yell like this…” Hana felt her voice go soft and fragile. “You remind me of Da.”
Yoshi tensed, eyes roaming the ceiling as he breathed deep.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t say that. I take care of you. I’ll never leave you. Never hurt you. No matter what. Blood is blood.”
“That’s what scares me, brother-mine.”
She hung her head, stared at nothing at all.
“That’s what scares me.”
* * *
“Don’t let in the flies.”
Miho’s growl rose above the chimes over the door. Slamming it behind him, her new customer stepped inside amidst the tinkle of hollow brass. She didn’t look up from her newssheet, flicked a stray lock of hair from her eyes.
She was close to thirty, pretty in a hard, Docktown kind of way. Her sleeveless uwagi was open at the throat, showing the scrolling tapestry of phoenixes burning above her breasts and down each bicep. Her forearms were painted with old myths: Enma-ō on his bone mountain wrapped around her left, the Stormdancer Tora Takehiko and his thunder tiger charging into the Devil Gate on her right.
The shelves of her little general store were almost bare, rationing and the sky-ship lockdown having cleared out most of her stock. Bags of rice, cheap liquor, a few odds and ends, the prices punching holes clean through the roof. If not for her friends in the black market, she’d have shut down weeks ago. Foot traffic scuttled past outside, blurred shadows beyond glass-brick windows: Kigen residents hurrying to finish their errands in a city poised on the brink.
Her customer returned to the counter, dropped an armful of items, cleared his throat. Miho continued scanning the newssheet. The headline sang about Daimyo Hiro and Lady Aisha’s wedding, only a day away. The ink was fresh, sticky on her fingertips. A distant crier rang ten bells for the Hour of the Crane.
“I’d like to buy these, please.” Young voice, lotus rasp.
Miho glanced up. Brown rice. Red saké. Black ink.
“You can’t afford those, boy.” She turned a page, wiped her brow with her forearm. A sheen of sweat made the thunder tiger and its rider gleam.
“You haven’t even looked at me.”
“I can smell you. Anyone who smokes as much as you do can’t afford those.”
A fistful of kouka rained down upon the old oak countertop, a clattering, metallic tumble, knocking tiny dents into the varnish. She glanced up briefly at the coins. Each one was a full plait of iron-gray, stamped with the date of its minting. The bottom edge of each braid was sawtooth rough, gleaming like it was fresh clipped from the mold. It was as if someone had taken to the end of each coin with an iron file, rasping away a thin sliver of tarnished skin to expose the new metal beneath.
“Certainly, young master.” Miho straightened with a smile. “That much coin will even warrant some change.”
She reached beneath the counter, into her strongbox. And as she handed over a half-dozen coppers, she brought up her other fist, fast as blinking, brass knuckles gleaming, smashing them hard across the boy’s jaw and dropping him like a brick to the floor.
Miho stepped around the counter, locked the front door and flipped over the CLOSED sign. She looked the unconscious boy over with a critical eye. He was just a teenager by his look. Nice cheekbones. Expensive tiger ink on his upper arm. Dark bangs hanging around darker eyes, sweet as sugar-rock, a dusting of whiskers on his cheeks and upper lip, now split and bleeding.
He was pretty, and that was a real shame.
Seimi-san liked to hurt the pretty ones.
41
A THOUSAND DIAMONDS
Consciousness was hard-won, harder still to hold, swimming up to the light of waking and struggling to tread water, body and head one throbbing knot of pain.
Yukiko blinked up into roiling black and found Piotr looking down at her, just a silhouette, lightning snared in the white of his blind eye. He crouched beside her on the cold glass, smoothed the hair from her face and murmured in his own tongue. Her hands and brow had been rebandaged, a bundled satchel placed behind her head, Piotr’s big wolf skin draped over her to shield her from the storm. She had no idea how long she’d been out for.
“Care,” he said. “Head.”
Yukiko sat up slowly, clutching her gut. Every part of her ached, the rain fell like iron-thrower shot against her skin. She couldn’t remember hurting so badly in all her life.
“Thank…”
Her throat seized closed on the words. Wincing, breathing deep, she tried speaking again.
“Thank you for helping us, Piotr.”
“Tell you.” He nodded proudly. “Promise.”
Yukiko crawled across the blood-slick rock and leaned against Buruu, running her fingers through the feathers at the base of his skull. He stirred, eyelids flickering, the pupils beyond so dilated that his irises almost drowned in the black.
She turned back to Piotr slowly, lest her head fall completely off her shoulders. The Thunder God pounded his drums, the tremor beginning in her temples and rumbling all the way down her spine.
“Promised who?”
“Prisoner,” he said.
She blinked away the rain, frowning. “The ones who kept you prisoner? Kitsune? Samurai?”
“No, no.” The man sighed, exasperated. “Not me for the prisoner. Us keeping for the prisoner. There.” He pointed toward the lightning farm, his good eye lighting up as he remembered a word. “Guild!” He snapped his fingers. “Guild!”
“A Guildsman?” Yukiko recalled the ruined Guild ships on the rocks at the edge of the Razor Isles, the beaten brass on Katya’s armor. “A Guildsman who crashed here?”
“Da, da,” Piotr nodded. “Fix me. Fix leg. Walk me.” He pointed at the mechanical brace on his leg, the blind eye in its ravaged socket. “He prisoner for us. My accident is falling. Leg crush. Face, da? He fix me. Saving for the life. Teach for me the Shiman. Piotr friend too, da? Is friend.” A sigh. “I make for the promise if Zryachniye take him.”
“A promise?”
The gaijin pulled a worn leather wallet from his coat, hunched over to shield it from the rain, unfolded a scrap of paper inside.
“Taking back.” Piotr touched his chest, touched the paper. “Taking back for the Shima. He for the saving my life. Good man. Was good.”
The paper was worn, slightly mildewed, covered in fine black kanji. It was a letter, she realized. A letter from Piotr’s Guildsman. Yukiko scanned the text, struggling to focus, a lead-gray sorrow welling in her chest.
Beloved,
I know I will never see your face again. The skin upon it, nor flesh beneath it. But the memory of it keeps me warm, when all else turns to winter and all hope is gone.
I am prisoner to the gaijin. Our ship crashed in the tempest, only five of us rescued from the waters. And now they keep us here as prisoners, waiting for spring to ease the storms enough to transport us to Morcheba, and from there, to a fate only the gods can know. But the gaijin who delivers this note is a friend; greater than any I deserve for the life I have led. If you are reading this, Piotr has fulfilled his vow against all odds. Treat him well, love.
I wish I could hold you one last time. I wish more than anything to feel your body against mine. I wish our daughter could know her father’s face. I wish I could see her in all her perfection, before the False-Lifers run her flesh through with cables and encase her beauty in cold metal. I wish I could see the day when the machines are torn from Shima’s skin, when the mechabacus falls silent for the last time, when the rebellion smashes First House to flaming splinters. When a love like ours can bloom in the sun, not endure silently within prisons of brass.
But I will not do any of these things. This is my fate. And for my part in the world we created, I deserve no better. I think myself blessed to have known you for the brief moments I did. And I go to my end with a gentle smile, at peace with the knowledge that, for all my
crimes, fate saw fit to grant me you. Such a gift would not be wasted on one who is damned. Perhaps what little I did to aid the rebellion is enough to see Enma-ō judge me fair.
Pray for me, love. Pray that the Judge of the Nine Hells weighs me true. That when I stand before him, he will not only consider what I did, but what I made possible. And I will pray for you, for all the rebels that remain, that you may finish what we have started: Death to the Serpents. An end to the Guild. Freedom for Shima.
I love you. With all I have in me. Tell our daughter I love her also. Know that in my final moments, I will think of your face. With my last breath, I will whisper your name, Misaki.
Always yours,
Takeo
Yukiko stared at the page long after she’d finished reading, letting the words sink into her skin. So it was all true. Ayane’s story about a hidden faction within the Guild. An army of insurgents, just as devoted as the Kagé, working to bring the Guild to its knees.
And she had thought the girl a liar. A spy.
Just like the gaijin thought about me.
“Death to the Serpents?” she whispered.
What in the name of the gods did that mean?
“I have to get out of here.” She folded the letter carefully, put one hand to her throbbing brow. “I have to get back.”
“Back Shima?” Piotr took the letter, returned it to the leather wallet with a strange reverence. “Find Takeo love? Find Misaki-san?”
“Hai,” she nodded. “I will find her.”
The gaijin placed the leather wallet in her hands.
“You hold,” he said. “You take.”
“I will.”
“You promise.”
Yukiko smiled.
“I promise.”
* * *
Buruu awoke beneath sweet, cool rain, and for a single, brilliant moment, he had no idea where he was. Just listening to the storm, feeling electricity dance on his skin, remembering the days when there had been nothing but this; the freedom of black cloud and rolling thunder and roaring wind beneath his wings.
His wings.
The metal creaked as he hauled himself to his feet, the stench of murder in his nostrils, the pain of talon and beak carved into his flesh. And then he felt warmth in his mind, a thunderous, gushing heat, and her arms were around his neck and her face pressed into his cheek, and she squeezed him so tightly it made her arms shake.
Gods, Buruu. You’re all right.
APPARENTLY SO.
I love you so much.
He blinked, nuzzled close.
AND I YOU.
I thought I was going to lose you.
I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALREADY LOST.
Nothing is going to keep us apart again, you hear me? Not oceans, not storms, not armies. I’m by your side, always. I’ll die with you, Buruu.
SUCH MELODRAMA, GIRL.
Don’t be mean.
He smiled into her mind.
LET US HOPE IT DOES NOT COME TO THAT, THEN.
She held him for the longest time, saying nothing at all. And then she let him go, hand drifting to the hessian still bound to his back, shredded and bloodstained. Most of the satchels had been lost somewhere in the chaos of the past few days—in the attack or the crash or the bloody brawl here on broken black glass. Only one remained. He could feel the fear in her, the tremors in her fingers as she reached inside, hoping beyond hope. And then her fingers closed about it, drawing it forth, a miracle in lacquered wood. A shape as familiar to Yukiko as her own face. Her ninth birthday present.
“My tantō,” she breathed.
She had almost lost it. Just as she’d almost lost herself. In the hate. In the rage.
Walking to the island’s edge, she stood there in the wind, him beside her, watching the ocean sway. In her right hand, she held the blade her father had given her when her brother died. A gift from the man who had given everything of himself to keep her safe. A man she hadn’t truly mourned, whose loss had cut her too deep for tears. In her left, she held the sword Daichi had given her, naked and gleaming, the old man’s call to cherish her anger, to fill the empty of her father’s loss with fury. The storm howled about her as she stood as still as stone, and beyond the razored shore, Buruu could feel the sea dragons curling beneath black water, looking at her with glittering eyes, rolling with the breath of the waves.
He could feel it inside her. The weight of it all. The reality of what lay before her, the awareness of what she’d become, what she’d been. The grief she’d never given voice, allowing it to blacken and fester, like the cancer eating Shima’s heart. The hate she’d clung to, thinking it would make her strong. That it would be enough. That it was all she needed.
She lifted the katana, made to hurl it toward the water, rid herself of the anger Daichi had named a gift. Blue-white lightning kissed the skies above, thunder giving her pause, a frozen silhouette with the blade hoisted above her head. She breathed deep for a lifelong moment, filled with the howl of lonely winds, finally lowering her arm and looking again at the blades in her hands. Strapping the scabbard to her obi, she sheathed the sword at her waist, the tantō beside it. Not one or another. Light and dark. Water and fire. Love and hate.
Together.
And then she turned and slipped her arms around his neck and cried until no voice remained of her grief. Until her body shook and her chest burned and there were no tears left inside her. Nothing but an old wound finally beginning to scab, and the memory of a man lifting her into his arms amidst a forest of swaying bamboo. Of lips pressed to her cheek. Of whiskers tickling her chin.
“I will be with you,” he’d said. “I promise.”
A memory that at last made her smile.
* * *
Buruu watched Yukiko and the gaijin fish around the metal dragonfly’s belly until they found a heavy box the color of dying leaves. The man made a triumphant sound, grinned like a fool. Yukiko pried it open, found it brimming with greasy wrenches and spanners and cutting torches; anything and everything required to repair the strange lopsided craft in the event of a crash.
And so Buruu sat and licked his wounds as Yukiko and the gaijin beat his metal wings into shape as best they could, riveting the torn harness back together, bending and pounding the iridescent frame, straightening crumpled feathers and pinning them down with iron bolts. And though there was precious little grace left in Kin’s contraption when they were done, Buruu flapped his wings and felt creaking, squealing lift beneath them, enough perhaps to return them to Shima.
To the war that awaited.
He dove off the promontory and soared out over the waves, the roaring storm beneath his wings, lover-sweet whispers in his ears. Lady Sun was reaching toward a new dawn, and Yukiko stood on the shore and screamed in triumph, hands in the air, a smile on her face that seemed to him as wide and as bright as summer skies.
Yukiko’s howls finally roused the female from her coma, and she clawed her way to her feet, shaking side to side to rid herself of the rain’s weight, wings spread in a broad fan, eyes still half clouded with shock. Snow-white fur ran to scarlet in the breaking light, and she turned toward the pale warmth, wind caressing the feathers at her throat, the fur on her flanks, her stripes like black clouds across a sunset sky.
Just as magnificent as he remembered.
Yukiko reached toward Buruu, hand outstretched, eyes narrowed in concentration as she wrapped both him and the female up in the Kenning, drawing the pair of them into her thoughts. He could feel the wall of self Yukiko had built in her mind, pain crackling along its surface, seeping inside and making her wince. But still, despite the lingering ache, he felt a warmth and peace more comforting than any home he had ever known.
Yukiko spoke to the female, thoughts as gentle as mother’s hands.
You’re awake. Are you all right?
—I WILL LIVE, YŌKAI-KIN.—
The female looked at him across the gulf between then and now, tail switching, eyes narrowed, talons shredding the shale benea
th her paws. He could feel her in the space Yukiko had created within the Kenning, a bitter, jagged heat in the corner of a blood-warm room, and as he spoke, she turned toward him, the sound of his thoughts echoing upon the walls.
HELLO, KAIAH.
She blinked, said nothing. Yukiko looked back and forth between them, wind blowing her hair about her face in sodden drifts, amazement in her eyes.
Wait, you two know each other?
The female snorted.
—KINSLAYER KNOWS NOTHING OF ME. I, TOO MUCH OF HIM.—
He could feel Yukiko’s curiosity burning like fire. But brighter still was the need to get back to Shima, to see if there was any chance of stopping Hiro’s wedding, to return to the people she knew were relying on her—the storm waiting for her to call its name.
Buruu should be able to fly now. We have to get back home.
—THEN GO.—
Will you come with us?
—WOULD DO THAT WHY?—
Because there’s a war waiting for us. Because two thunder tigers are better than one.
—YOUR WAR MEANS NOTHING TO ME. SHIMA IS A WASTELAND. NOTHING WORTH FIGHTING FOR.—
Then why did you help me?
—DID NOT HELP YOU. HELPED THEM.—
Yukiko blinked, tilted her head.
Buruu and Skraai? You said they were—
—NOT THE MALES, MONKEY-CHILD. RAIJIN TAKE ME SHOULD I HELP THE KINSLAYER.—
Then who do you mean? Who is “they”?
—YOU REALLY NOT KNOW?—
Kaiah looked at Buruu, disdain in her gaze, fur gleaming like fresh winter snow.
—CANNOT FEEL THEM, KINSLAYER? NOT HEAR THEM SCREAM WHEN THE MONKEY-MAN STRUCK HER BELLY?—
Realization dawned, a cold slap to his face, an understanding so bright he wondered how he didn’t see it before. All of it …
All of it made sense now …
Yukiko’s illness at the rising of the sun. Her moods, constantly shifting, like sand upon a windswept beach. The heat and light of the world growing along with her strength, her inability to shut it out. The amplification of the Kenning, her power doubling over the course of the last few months.