Shizuka squeezes her wife’s hand again.
“At our last dinner?” she whispers to Shefali.
“Let them talk,” is the answer.
Shefali is the most stable woman Shizuka has ever met. If she says to let them talk, then that is exactly what Shizuka will do. Besides, she’s had enough of her dinner now that she might turn her attention to dessert, and Baozhai’s set out a whole plate of orange-glazed rice dumplings.
“From experience,” says Baozhai. “It would be unfair of me to deny that you’ve been a great help with Baoyi.”
Sakura’s confusion grows. She leans toward Baozhai. “What are you hiding?” she says. “You’ve been all over the place today. That nonsense earlier and now this.”
“Nonsense?” Kenshiro says. As usual, no one stops to explain to him what is going on. Xianyu at least has resigned herself to this place of ignorance—she, too, is helping herself to dessert.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Baozhai says coolly. She pulls Baoyi onto her lap.
“Mother’s right tit, you don’t,” snaps Sakura. Xianyu flinches. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. What’s with you lately? Five different designs for the handmaiden’s dresses; different flower arrangements every day, and never mind what happened to the old ones; snapping at family just because you’re in a dark mood, but singing their praises two Bells later; duck at every single dinner right next to the gods-damned fermented natto, of all things. That shit stinks, Baozhai, and you’re the only one who eats it! I’m sick of it. I’m sick of this whole place bending to your will just because—”
Baozhai scoops Baoyi up in her arms and stands. The whole table holds its breath, Sakura included. Baozhai has never in her life abandoned a dinner.
“First of all,” she says, her voice as cutting as it is calm. “I will ask you to remember that not everyone was raised in a pleasure house, Sakura-lun. Please watch your language.”
“I don’t have to—”
Baozhai’s glare is enough to kill that retort before it can be born.
“Secondly,” she says. “I was going to wait until later in the evening to tell you all, but I suppose now is as fine a time as any. I’m pregnant. The physicians tell me I am due in Tokkar.”
Xianyu’s brows shoot halfway up her forehead. Within a heartbeat, Kenshiro is on his feet, too, rushing to his wife’s side. Sakura sits there catching flies, as Minami Shizuru would have said.
Shizuka, for her part, cannot decide how to feel. Happy, obviously. Baozhai is her closest friend, and Kenshiro is Shefali’s brother; her niece is one of Shizuka’s favorite things about this forsaken existence. That Baoyi will have the joy of growing up with a sibling is a wonderful thing, and Shizuka’s heart swells to imagine it.
But they are beyond the simple stage of things. Baozhai is not simply Baozhai, nor Baoyi simply Baoyi. According to Xianese tradition, it is the youngest child who inherits the largest kingdom—the thinking being that all of the elder children will have been trained to act as steward should anything happen to them.
That means that the child now growing in Baozhai’s belly will inherit Xian-Lai, so long as they don’t have any more children.
And that means that Baoyi will now inherit Oshiro, a land she has never visited.
“Congratulations,” she says. “Daughter or son, I’ve no doubt they’ll be a proud, wise leader for their people.”
“Congratulations,” Shefali echoes. “May the Sky smile on all of you.”
A new heir. All this talk of dying. There is a question burning in Shizuka’s throat—but it would be terribly uncouth to ask at a time like this.
The Empress and the woman stand eight paces apart in Shizuka’s mind. Sunlight gleams along the edges of their sharp blades. At once, they strike.
It is the Empress who stands alone at the end—and the Empress cannot afford to feel any shame for what she has done.
“Forgive Our bluntness,” says Shizuka, “but We’ve a proposition, if You of the South are willing to hear it.”
Baozhai—glowing beneath the ministrations of her husband’s affection—looks to Shizuka. It is as if a lantern has been extinguished behind her eyes. “A proposition at dinner?” she says. There is an awful sadness in her tone.
But the Phoenix Empress knows they have so little time remaining to them.
“The circumstances demand the matter be handled with utmost expedience,” Shizuka says. She is aware—terribly aware—of Shefali’s radiating disappointment, of Xianyu staring at her as if she has grown a second head. She must press on. “The Jade Throne is guarded at present by Lord Oshiro Yuichi. We have yet to name a regent. Lai Baoyi boasts two royal lineages, and a third by marriage. Failing Our return, there is no one alive with a stronger claim.”
As soon as the words leave her, she feels she’s made a grave mistake. Baozhai’s eyes go wide. Even Baoyi is confused—mumbling to her mother, asking why they’ve switched to such formal Hokkaran. It is a long while before Baozhai speaks—but not long at all before she looks away.
What subtle pain! She cannot tear her eyes away from the other queen, from the child in her arms. They are going to be remembered, they must be remembered—and if the Empire is to survive, then the best thing for it is a queen raised outside of its toxic grasp, her blood free of His corruption.
So what if it’s a personally uncomfortable thing to ask? Who she is as a person has never mattered.
“Shizuka,” Shefali whispers in her ear—but she is too far gone to let even her wife’s soft voice steer her off this path.
“Please,” she says. “Little time remains to us. If You of the South agree—”
“We of the South have agreed to nothing,” Baozhai says. Without Shefali’s gift of scent, Shizuka must navigate only by tone and body language. Baozhai is a careful keeper of both. “What, precisely, are You of the North suggesting?”
Even Baoyi is quiet. She’s clinging to her mother’s shoulder as if she is afraid something might hurt her. What sort of person has Shizuka become, that she is so insistent they discuss this now?
“Lai Baoyi, should she be willing, becomes the heir to the Phoenix Throne,” she says. The words are as impossible as they are necessary. “Oshiro Kenshiro is named her regent until she comes of age. While We war in the North, they travel to Fujino and claim their now rightful places. When We return, We shall formally coronate Lai Baoyi.”
“Me?” says Kenshiro. “Shizuka-lun—”
“You are a natural choice, Oshiro-tun,” Shizuka says quickly. She hopes the switch in address will key him in. “Your father will hardly argue with his favorite son’s gaining control of the Empire; you are well liked by the other lords, and respected enough by the South. Their like of you shall transfer onto Baoyi, and in time they shall see her as more your heir than Ours.”
Kenshiro shrinks.
“You can’t seriously be bringing all this up now,” says Sakura. “If she goes to Hokkaro—Shizuka, you’re asking—”
“Minami Shizuka asks for nothing,” she says. “We are Empress Yui, Twentieth Empress of Hokkaro, and We are speaking for Our people. Hokkaro has too long endured expansionists and tyrants. Listen to Us! The Empire is a sword so covered in blood that it has gone to rust in its sheath. If We are to survive—if We are ever to regain our brightness, our sharpness—We must scour away the old.”
As if she is breathing fire. Her throat aches and she finds herself straining to catch her breath.
Now they are truly staring—but not at her. There is something cool and wet near her fingertips. Has she gotten her fingers in the tea? No—it is worse and better than that. Sprouting up between her thumb and index finger is a cluster of violets, their roots sinking into the table itself.
Well. There are worse flowers to summon than violets.
Shizuka plucks the violet from its unlikely bed. She extends her hand toward Baozhai, toward Baoyi.
The fate of her kingdom resting on the dewy petals of
wildflowers.
Baozhai only stares. It is Baoyi who makes the decisive move—she grabs one of the flowers and shoves it right into her mouth.
The Queen of Xian-Lai sighs. Once more she meets Shizuka’s gaze. How is it that hers is always the stronger, always the more dignified? In truth, though Shizuka has trained all her life to be a god, she has never mastered being a ruler the way Baozhai has.
“You are asking Us to let Our daughter be raised far away from Us. You are asking Us to send Our husband away for an indefinite length of time—during our own confinement. Have You considered this at all, O Phoenix?”
“We have,” Shizuka says. “But so have You.”
“She is offering much,” says Xianyu. At last, some relief. If Xianyu thinks there is merit in what Shizuka is saying, then there must be. “Going from living under their thumb to ruling them in one generation is appealing.”
And yet Baozhai’s eyes do not go any softer. She is looking at her sister with a mixture of disbelief and displeasure, with no sign of changing her mind.
Can’t she see? Can’t she see this is the best thing for all of them?
Perhaps Baozhai thinks this is born of Shizuka’s ego. Perhaps she thinks this is simply a spoiled princess asking for another gift—for more toy soldiers, for more favors she cannot hope to repay.
So Shizuka stands. She walks around the corner of the table until she is right in front of Baozhai, until there are only two hands of distance separating them.
And then Empress Yui of Hokkaro gets on her knees to prostrate herself. Her forehead and palms touch the ground and she thinks to herself, This is terribly uncomfortable. It is the first time in her life she has ever bowed to anyone.
Her ancestors would be disgusted to see Shizuka like this. Knowing that soothes her.
“Please,” she says. Can Baozhai even hear her, with her face so low to the ground? “Please. We are begging You.”
She hears the silk of Baozhai’s skirts moving, hears Kenshiro’s gentle hup as Baozhai hands him their daughter. She is kneeling right in front of her.
“Lady,” says Baozhai, and with that word, Shizuka is suddenly in the gardens with her again.
When you were gone to war, every flower made me think of you. I would visit the gardens to talk to you, as if you could hear me if I spoke to the waiting blossoms, Baozhai had said to her then. When you are a god, I hope you will listen for me on the spring breeze.
What a ridiculous thing to say to a person.
But that is Baozhai, isn’t it? The woman and the Queen linked together. Impossible to love one without loving the other.
Which is it that speaks to her now, in hushed tones, as the two sovereigns kneel?
“Lady, make me one promise, and I will give you what you’ve asked.”
“Name it,” says Shizuka. She does not dare to look up. What if her strength falters? No, she cannot, she cannot; she must be an unerring arrow.
“I would surrender my kingdom and everything I am for my daughter’s well-being,” Baozhai says. “You know that. And you know, too, that you are sending her into the lion’s den—no matter how much they love my husband. You are soon to be a god. Promise me that you will look after her. Promise me that no harm shall come to her. Give me your word, Shizuka, and not Yui’s.”
Could she promise such a thing? Could Shizuka, in good faith, promise to look after her niece when they very well may be marching to her death?
No. She would not allow herself to die; there’s too much left to do, too much left to sort out—and she’s yet to find a way to save her wife.
And so long as Shizuka did not die, she could make that promise.
Warmth courses through her. She feels the familiar pull of the strings on her soul—of the demands made by her people, who do not know she hears them.
She still has the violets. Shizuka sits up now, staring down at them, her fingertips glowing like a smith’s tongs. One by one she pinches the petals of the flowers, willing part of herself into them, until all of them glow the same way. The light creeps down the stems until all eight of the remaining flowers are gold.
“Here,” Shizuka says. She is surprised by the sound of her own voice—how much brighter and louder it is. “Four for you, and four for her. So long as you keep these with you, I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.”
It is the first time she’s ever done something like this—but she feels confident in saying it all the same. When Baozhai takes the flowers in hand, there is a part of Shizuka that feels her touch.
Baozhai looks down at the flowers. She bites her knuckle. Shizuka does not need Shefali’s nose to know she is trying to keep from crying.
“Then We agree,” she says. “Baoyi shall be Your heir.”
BARSALAI SHEFALI
TWO
Barsalai Shefali leaves Xian-Lai for the last time the next morning, in the middle of a monsoon.
“Stay for a few hours more,” says her wife, standing under the roof of the Bronze Palace. “You can’t mean to travel in that nonsense. What of your horse?”
I’ll live, says the gray, but Shizuka cannot hear her.
“She’s had worse,” Shefali says.
“Then what about you?” says Shizuka. “Aren’t you in pain? Won’t the humidity make things worse?”
Shefali’s kept two of her best wolfskins just in case she gets caught in the rain. A Qorin is prepared for any eventuality—the steppes have so many ways to kill, after all, that it is only sensible. She wears the larger of the two now wrapped around her shoulders. Rain drips from the furs onto her thighs. A wolfskin cap—given to her as a cheeky gift by Otgar—keeps her braids and head safe.
Oh, she is in pain already. Shizuka had to help her onto her horse this morning. The knuckles of her right hand are swollen and stiff; she will be using her hips to urge Alsha in the appropriate direction, she’s sure. But even that will take its toll on her! How long will it be before Shefali resorts to telling Alsha, “Turn here” or “Slow down”?
Still. Her wife has no need to know all of that—Shizuka’s worried enough as it is.
“I’ll be fine,” she says.
“You’ve taken your medicine,” says Shizuka.
“I have.”
“And you’ve taken the remaining vials along with you? They’re properly packed, and won’t shatter?”
“You packed them yourself,” says Shefali, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. When did her wife become such a worrywart?
Shizuka pouts at her. “Don’t make that face,” she says. “You’re leaving me to go to war. I’m allowed to worry.”
“You’re leaving me for war,” Shefali answers. “On boats.”
The pout changes into something more serious. Shizuka takes two steps forward. Sheets of rain threaten to swallow her, but she remains where she is, her Imperial Gold robes going dark brown. Even through the scent of the rain—the scent of all that is green yawning to life—Shefali can smell her wife’s fear.
The water. Even the rain is too much for her, if it’s soaking her like this.
What’s Shizuka thinking, stepping out into it like that? Look at how she’s shaking; look at how her shoulders tremble! Shefali clucks her and her gray obeys, taking her closer to her wife. Mounted, Shefali must lean almost ninety degrees if she wants to hold her wife’s face—but she does so anyway, in spite of the pain that brings. Her arm is on fire as she cups Shizuka’s cheek. Let the fire burn—there’s enough water coming down from the sky to put it out.
“I don’t want you to go,” says Shizuka. She covers Shefali’s hand with her own.
“It isn’t a matter of wanting,” Shefali answers.
Quietly, Shizuka nods. She raises herself up on the tips of her sandals. When at last her eyes meet Shefali’s, they are bright as cinders. “He is making us do this,” she says. Has the water washed away her wife’s softness? For this voice is sharp and unyielding. “All of this is because of Him. Going north. Your getting sick. This wh
ole Empire being what it is … I’m sick of all of it. I want to end all of it. I want to see him burn.”
As the breath in her lungs, as the Sky above, as the moon and stars, Shefali loves her wife. Yet love is not a passive thing—it is an active one. To choose to love someone even when they are being difficult, to try your best to support them and urge them on the path that is best for them—that is love. To know that there will be someone by your side all the days of your life, to know that they will tell you if you’ve wandered—that, too, is love.
And so it is Shefali’s task to soothe the fires burning in her wife’s soul. The more Shizuka speaks of this, the brighter she burns. At what cost, that fire? What is it using as fuel? For this is not the first time since that night that Shizuka has gone on such a tear, and each time she seems a little more hollow afterwards.
Barsalai Shefali, about to leave for war, is more concerned with her wife’s mental state than she is the encroaching demon hordes.
“The Traitor will burn,” says Shefali. “But you can’t let his fire capture you.”
Shizuka’s brows come together, but only for an instant. “What do you mean? He cannot burn a phoenix, Shefali—”
How quick Shizuka is to reach for such audacious statements. It has been like this since they were children, and in some ways it is a comfort to hear her brag. Any glimpse of the fire-hearted girl Shizuka once was is a treasured thing.
“I know,” Shefali says. She touches her thumb to Shizuka’s nose. “There’s no need to tell me.”
Shizuka’s eyes are melting back into honey again—in spite of the rain plastering her hair to her forehead. “Promise me you’ll be at my side when I find him.”
Shefali can count on one hand the number of weeks remaining to her. Death is coming, she is sure. Akane’s covetous glance in the Womb made that clear.
And yet she has made this promise to Shizuka time and again.
With the saddle horn as her anchor, Shefali leans even farther out. On better days, she can pick a coin up off the ground in the middle of a full gallop. Today, she is worried that her arm will snap off at the shoulder like old twine. The fear isn’t unfounded. Limbs falling off would be new but not surprising; she has lost control of herself more than once.
The Warrior Moon Page 4