by Jay Kristoff
The Inquisitors began drifting from the room, a brokenback trail of smoke in their wake. As they approached the doorway, the leader turned, eyes on Kensai’s once more.
“First Bloom has sent word, by the by. We are to bring the Kagé leader Daichi with us to First House for execution.”
“I thought he was to be executed publically in Kigen?”
A slow shrug. “First Bloom commands and we obey. At least some within these walls remember their place.”
The iris doorway closed behind them with the sound of a headsman’s blade.
The room seemed to grow lighter once the Inquisitors had departed, both the glow of the overheads and the breath in his chest. Uneasy murmurs and blood-red stares were exchanged. Kensai stilled the chatter immediately, planting himself at the table’s head and glaring at the Third Bloom of the Purifier Sect.
“Kyodai Yoshinobu, you will seek out and eliminate any insurgents within Chapterhouse Kigen. You will make this your first priority, and report your findings directly to me. Not the Inquisition. Not any other. Do you understand?”
The Kyodai cleared his throat. “Second Bloom, all due respect, but my resources are stretched thin. With bounty now being offered on the Impure, accused are being turned over to us in greater numbers than ever before. Each of them must be tested. If guilty, they must be put to pyre. We simply do not have the manpower to continue processing, testing and purifying if we are also to oversee internal investigations into this rebellion.”
“Conduct the testing at the Altar of Purity, then,” Kensai said.
“… In public?”
“Why not?” Kensai asked. “Hold one burning each weeksend, at noon. The skinless will bring their accused to the stones, the testing can be conducted then and there, anyone bearing false witness can burn on the pyres instead.”
“Second Bloom, testing is usually conducted privately … There are rites to be conducted, forms to obey. I think it unwise—”
“I think it unwise to allow insurgents to roam this chapterhouse unchecked, don’t you?”
“Of cour—”
“Assign your most trusted Shatei to the internal investigations. Leave no stone unturned.”
“… As you say, Second Bloom.”
“The rest of you, attend your duties. Any aberrant behavior must be viewed with suspicion in light of events in Yama city. Any Guildsman found to be in allegiance with these rebels will be victim to the most heinous brutality we can fashion. Am I understood?”
The assembly spoke with one voice. “Hai.”
“I depart for the Earthcrusher tomorrow. It is up to each of you to ensure this chapterhouse endures while I am gone. The lotus must bloom.”
“The lotus must bloom.”
The assembled Kyodai rose and stalked from the room in a cloud of smoke and suspicion.
All save one.
A small figure, seated at the opposite end of the table, his atmos-suit still gleaming with the shine of fresh-pressed skin.
“Fifth Bloom Kin,” Kensai growled. “Do you not have duties to attend?”
The boy’s eyes were aglow, cables from his mouthpiece rasping against each other as he shook his head. The smoke motif on his spaulders and gauntlets seemed to shift in the fume-choked air, blood-red light spilling from his eye socket.
“I don’t trust them,” Kin said.
Kensai reclined in his chair. “Trust whom?”
“The Inquisition.”
“Trust is a rare thing these nights, Kioshi-san. Oh, but forgive me … you abandoned your father’s name, did you not? Around the same time you abandoned this chapterhouse…”
The boy hung his head. “Will you never forgive me?”
“Were it my decision, you would have already been boiled into fertilizer.”
“It was a mistake, Uncle…”
“Uncle?” Kensai scoffed. “What madness is this?”
“You and my father were as brothers. When he died, you treated me as your own son. Do you fault me for thinking of you as the uncle I never had?”
“We were as brothers, he and I.” Kensai leaned forward. “So believe me when I say if he were alive today, your actions would have shamed him to suicide.”
“I will never fail you again.”
“I will give you precious little chance, believe me.”
“You can trust me more than you can trust any member of this chapterhouse.”
A hollow burst of mirthless laughter. “How so?”
“My father never told you, did he? What I saw during my Awakening ceremony? My glorious future laid out in the Chamber of Smoke?”
“We never spoke of such things. It would have been improper.”
Kin spoke as if by rote, voice thick with reverb.
“Do not call me Kin. That is not my name. Call me First Bloom.”
Kensai felt the words as a blow to his stomach. A cold fist sucking breath from his lungs, forcing him to steady himself on the table’s edge.
Kin? As First Bloom?
The boy stood, a silicon-smooth hiss of pistons and chi exhaust. He approached Kensai, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. That single eye burned with the heat of a thousand suns.
“One day I will sit on the Throne of Machines, Uncle. One day I will rule this Guild. You may have forgotten the faith you once held in me, but I still hold faith in you. I will do all I can to see this cancer in the Guild uprooted. And when you and the Earthcrusher burn the Iishi to cinders, I will be there in spirit beside you.”
Kin turned to leave, heavy boots thudding in time with Kensai’s pulse.
“Burn them for me, Uncle.”
A nod.
“Burn them all.”
* * *
“What Will Be…”
Kensai strode the hallways to his habitat, whispering the phrase over and over, thoughts all atumble in his mind. Could it be true? Could Kin be destined to lead the Guild once First Bloom Tojo was gone? The old man had ruled for longer than any could remember, but even he must eventually go the way of flesh. Was Kin really the one to take his place?
Kin?
All Guildsmen were shown visions of the future in the Chamber of Smoke, reliving it nightly while they slept. Some saw only snatches and riddles, some saw their futures clear as glass, some were driven mad by what they witnessed. For Kensai, his vision had been of the Earthcrusher—a towering goliath of iron and chainblades, sweeping entire armies before it.
The vision had always been there, a certainty he could set his back against, a desire that had driven him to excel. Designing the behemoth, convincing the other chapterhouses to invest the resources required to fashion this colossal deathblow for the Kagé and gaijin. And now to learn that Kin was destined to rule the entire Guild? While the Inquisition tried to rob him of his glory and see the boy stand in his stead on the Earthcrusher’s bridge?
Kensai had long assumed he would be the one to supplant the First Bloom. He was Shateigashira of the most powerful chapterhouse in Kigen—it was only logical if Tojo fell, he would step into his boots. He’d dreamed of the changes he’d make, clipping the wings of those rampant spiritualists in the Inquisition, putting them back in the cages they’d long ago been allowed to fly. The thought of Kin ascending instead, of having to bow and scrape before that treacherous little boy-child …
But if those fools in the Inquisition couldn’t even spot an insurrection brewing inside the Guild, who was to say whether their vision for Kin was true?
Who was to say any of it was right?
And if not them, who knew What Will Be?
Kensai spat a curse under his breath, stabbed at the controls for his habitat.
He had no time for a rebellion …
The chamber was vast, sparsely adorned. A bed dominating one wall, varnished oak and silken sheets of bloody red, his one real indulgence. A large desk loomed in a far corner, piled high with reports; deadlands percentile, crop forecasts, price fluctuations. An automated dictagraph sat beside reams of rice
-paper, awaiting his voice to lurch into life.
He sat at the desk, clicked the dictagraph to record. The device was made of polished brass, gleaming and clean. He could see his reflection in its surface, the mask of the beautiful youth he’d never be again. He was an old man underneath his skin now, speeding toward middle age, thinning hair cropped upon his scalp, crow’s feet and liver spots glaring every time he dared look with his real face in the mirror.
Less and less these days.
Skin is strong. Flesh is weak.
Leaning close, he spoke to the microphone.
“Kensai, Shateigashira Chapterhouse Kigen. Reporting seventh—”
The explosion cut his sentence to ribbons.
The dictagraph blasted apart, hurling Kensai clear across the room. He smashed into the far wall, felt his impact against the bricks, tasted blood in his mouth. Crashing to the floor, black flooded in, drowning the rising pain, the scent of his own charred flesh. Smoke filled his lungs, but he could barely manage a cough, fingers stabbing at his mechabacus—a stuttering, clumsy plea for help across the emergency frequencies.
Fading.
Falling.
All the while, a small voice in the back of his head was protesting. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen, it assured him. This wasn’t his What Will Be.
But who was to say any of it was right? Who really knew?
Kensai fought as the dark rushed in, pushing it back, flailing and clawing.
No, I don’t die like this!
Kensai had no time for a rebellion.
And then Kensai had no time at all.
10
AN IRON SEA
The undisputed Lord of the Dragon clan stood in a hallway of his seaside fortress, listening to the rising storm outside his window.
Through the glass, Haruka could see the cliffs where he used to stand as a boy, watching the winter storms ravage his homeland’s coastline. He’d spent hours at a time with his toes at the edge, electricity tingling his scalp as the lightning flashed and thunder rolled, the knowledge that a gust of greedy wind would be all it took to send him down into the Bay of Dragons below. He’d done it to master himself. To kill any trace of terror inside him, that he might grow up to be as fearless a Lord as any the Dragon clan had known.
At sixty-two years of age, Daimyo Haruka almost envied that boy on the cliff’s edge. He couldn’t remember what it was to feel afraid anymore.
He almost missed it.
The Dragon clanlord was short and wiry, a long goatee and gray locks swept away in a topknot. He was clad in a sapphire-blue kimono and a thick cuirass of solid iron. Black clouds hung over the Bay of Dragons, the seas whipped to rushing gray foam. The waters were the color of pitch, rolling out into a dull blood-red. On afternoons like this, Haruka could fancy the oceans were still filled with the spirits of his clan, thrashing in the breakers with long, silvered tails, teeth like katana gnashing amongst the waves.
But those days had passed now. The dragons had gone the way of the arashitora—chased back to the spirit world by chi fumes and the death rattles of the land they once called home. This was not a time for beasts of legend. This was a time for men.
Men and swords.
“Thuh-the most honorable and resplendent D-d-daimyo of the Ruh-Ryu Clan!” Young Daisuke heralded his Lord’s arrival in the Hall of Warriors, voice echoing amongst high rafters. “Fuh-firstborn son of R-r-ryu Sakai, protector of the Suh-seven Seals of J-j-j-jimen-Jiro…”
Haruka stalked to his place at table, swept the long pleated skirts of his kimono aside, and sat cross-legged in one swift motion. His war council remained kneeling, waiting for the herald to finish stuttering through his announcement. Three spit-soaked minutes passed, the boy’s face reddening with concentration. Haruka sighed inwardly, features impassive. His sister’s son had been afflicted by the gods; it had been the honorable thing to offer place amongst his retinue. But still, his sister could have requested a more sensible role for the boy than godsdamned herald …
Daisuke eventually finished, face purple from exertion, pressing forehead to floor.
Relief drifted amongst the war council as the boy fell silent. A chill wind howled in off the bay, filled with the reek of chi sludge and dead fish. Yet Haruka enjoyed the sea’s song despite the stink; the hiss and roll of black surf where his clan once roamed in long sail-ships, a terror to the merchants of the Hawk, the Mantis, and the Turtle. Before the twenty-four clans became four zaibatsu. Before his forefather knelt at a Shōgun’s feet.
Haruka nodded to his assembled council, one hand on the chainsaw katana at his waist.
“My samurai,” he said.
The assembled men pressed brows to table, murmured greetings as one. Haruka turned on his firstborn son, newly returned from scouting the eastern borders of their province.
“Reisu-san. Report.”
“Daimyo.” Reisu bowed his head. “The rumors are true. The Guild has fashioned an almighty war-machine for the Tiger clan. Three hundred feet high if it stands an inch, and an army of shreddermen beside it. The Phoenix Fleet is mustered at Midland Junction, with more Tiger troops arriving by rail every day. They prepare to march north. The upstart Hiro seeks to punish Daimyo Isamu for the temerity of not attending his wedding.”
Haruka stroked his beard. “Think broader, my son. Why would the Tiger clan need shreddermen suits to attack Isamu’s fortress? Is it made of wood?”
“No, Daimyo…”
The Dragon clanlord stood, began pacing the length of the table.
“The Guild intends to attack the Iishi forest. The Kagé stronghold. It is the rebellion’s blood they seek, not the Kitsune. They will give the Fox clan a chance to join the fold, on my life. They will offer the same to us. This machine, this Earthcrusher … it is the flag the Guild’s new nation is meant to rally behind.”
“Will we pledge allegiance, Father?”
A small frown darkened Haruka’s brow. “This Hiro … He holds the Phoenix Daimyo in his dungeons and their armies to ransom. I have met him, and there is nothing close to noble blood in his veins. When he was set to wed the Lady Aisha, at least he had thin claim to legitimacy. Now, he is little more than a puppet dancing to the Guild’s tune.”
Haruka turned to his samurai, fire in his eyes.
“I say this clan will not kneel before a mere boy-child. I say we would rather bleed the ground red than bow before a chi-monger’s marionette. I say we will crush this pretender into dust, or perish in the attempt.”
Reisu cleared his throat. “There are other rumors, Father. We heard them in our travels. Our clansmen to the south speak of horrors spreading from the Stain. Crawling from cracks in the earth. Talk of oni demons and creatures darker still—”
“We have no time for the babbling of superstitious peasants, my son. War is at our door. And will we rise to meet it?” Haruka turned to his men. “Will we stand with swords in hand? Does the blood of Dragons not flow in our veins? Are we not Ryu?”
“Hai!” A dozen shouts filled the room, Haruka’s counselors beating their fists upon the table or the iron at their breasts. As the shout faded, a new sound stepped in to fill the space between crashing wave and howling wind. A sound born of metal on hollow metal, rimed with frost. A sound that had only been heard once in Kawa city since Haruka was born; the day his father, Daimyo Sakai, had passed on to his heavenly reward.
The song of iron bells from the Dragon Tooth Straights.
The samurai looked amongst one another in confusion. Herald Daisuke ran to the bay windows, staring out to the distant watchtowers perched on the Dragon’s Teeth. Two long fangs of stone protruded from the mainland, forming a narrow pass into a natural harbor—the Bay of Ryu from which the old raiding fleets had once mustered. The towers were relics, manned only out of respect for the old ways. The chances of Kawa ever being invaded by sea nowadays …
Daisuke pressed one hand against the clouded beach glass, body stiffening.
The bells co
ntinued to peal.
Haruka frowned. “Daisuke-san, what do you see?”
“Guh,” the boy said. “Guh…”
The war council frowned amongst themselves, muttering darkly. The position of Herald was no job for a halfwit. Any one of them had sons who could have filled the—
“Guh…” the boy said.
“Maker’s breath…” Haruka stalked across the Hall of Warriors, clapped one hand on his stuttering nephew’s shoulder, and looked out over the Bay of Ryu.
“Guh…” the boy said.
“Gods above,” Haruka breathed.
Ships. Dozens of them. Metal-clad and sailless, towering above the waves and moving in phalanx formation. The flagship at their head as big as a fortress—wedge-shaped, great thrashing wheels on its flanks, churning in black water. Lightning arced across rivet-studded hulls, decks littered with the lopsided dragonfly shapes of rotor-thopters, each one painted with twelve stars down their bows.
Haruka had served twenty years in the Morcheban campaigns, could read gaijin writing if he put his mind to it. He squinted through the spray and mists, making out the name of the flagship in the vanguard.
Ostrovska.
Haruka was a warrior born. A Daimyo forged in fire and blood, veteran of brutal massacres and glorious victories. And as he looked out to the iron-gray shapes slipping like blades into the Bay of Ryu, he felt an odd sensation in his chest. Something that hadn’t stirred in decades—not since he was a boy, standing on those cliffs and daring the storm to take him. It took him a moment to remember what it was …
Fear.
He turned to his council, eyes wide, lips flapping like laundry in the wind.
“Guh…” he said. “Guh…”
Herald Daisuke turned from the window, pale as cold ash. The boy drew his chainkatana in trembling hands, spoke with trembling voice.
“Gaijin,” he said.
PART TWO
GRIEF
“Be you my brave love?”
Her voice sweet as plum perfume. “Will you stay with me?”
Izanagi sighed; took his Lady in his arms, held her in the dark.