Are you sure you should keep traveling today? the gray says.
Shefali narrows her eyes.
Her gray whickers. I’m only asking. You’re so stubborn!
Shefali relents, but only enough to give her gray a light pat at the withers. Left with no way to communicate save acting, Shefali mimes running in place.
If it were anyone but her horse watching, she’d feel foolish—but her horse has never made her feel that way. They were raised together, after all.
I could use the rest, the gray admits.
Shefali’s shoulders slump. They’re so close! But … to meet them in such a state as this, covered in black blood and her mouth frozen shut …
Her mother had written to her of heroes. She looks a mess now. Better to come on them tomorrow, better to prepare.
But how?
Shefali reaches into her deel. The arrow, thankfully, did not puncture the bag she keeps her mare’s sweets in. She tosses her one. The mare catches it midair, and Shefali sets about undoing her saddle.
In the morning, she will go to meet her mother.
But a Kharsa greets everyone mounted, Alshara always said, and Shefali means to make sure her horse is in even more splendid condition than usual.
She may not sleep, and she may not know what she will say when she returns to the clan—but she can at least do this.
MINAMI SAKURA
TWO
If Sakura didn’t know her better, she’d be furious. She still is, a little, as she sits down to break her fast with her cousin. Just look at Shizuka’s state! Sitting in soaked-through robes, staring at nothing, pinpricks under her eyes from where she’s been trying desperately to cry. How is Sakura supposed to see her cousin like that and not feel anything but sympathetic tenderness?
“Good morning,” Sakura says. She keeps her voice light and friendly in spite of her own feelings—Shizuka doesn’t need any more stress. “I’ve got our morning rice, and some extras I sweet-talked the kitchens into giving us.”
Her cousin barely looks up. Sakura frowns. Last time things were this bad with Shizuka, she’d been drinking. Part of Sakura wants to search the room for any bottles—but she trusts her cousin.
She’ll do it later, after Shizuka leaves.
For now she sets the tray of food down on the bed. Shizuka’s favorite teapot sits at the center; Sakura quickly sets about pouring them both their morning cups.
“I bet you aren’t going to miss the rain when you leave,” she says. “Took me forever to get used to the monsoon season. You remember, I ruined my best set of robes in one of them?”
Shizuka glances up at her, but only long enough to sink further into the pit of her depression. “You were chasing after me,” she says. “Because I was trying to duel the sun.”
“Good thing the sun’s so high up in the sky,” says Sakura, handing Shizuka her cup. “You would’ve gotten it otherwise.”
Shizuka lets out a long sigh. For a moment, Sakura’s worried she’s fallen so far in that she won’t eat or drink—but she sips from her cup. Even lets out a small little sound of surprise. “Don’t think I’ve ever had this one.”
Sakura’s plan is coming to fruition. She smiles and sets the bowl of rice in Shizuka’s lap. “Got it from Baozhai’s personal stash,” she says. “Along with—”
Sakura uncovers the rice. Sitting atop the fluffy white are two fillets of fresh salmon, glazed in soy sauce and honey. The smell alone is enough to make Sakura’s mouth water.
Shizuka, for her part, covers her mouth. She’s surprised enough to laugh—and she gets nervous about people seeing her scar wrinkle up at the edges. “Where did you find salmon?”
“You should be asking your friend that,” says Sakura. “I don’t know if she’s importing it from Shiratori or what, but she just got a whole shipment in.”
“On the day I’m leaving?” Shizuka says. She sounds a little crestfallen, and Sakura can’t blame her—it’s Third Bell, and she’s due to leave at Fifth. There won’t be time for dinner. “But I love salmon.…” In truth, it is the only fish the Phoenix Empress can still stand to eat.
“That’s why I got some for you today,” Sakura says. “Enjoy.”
She doesn’t need to tell her twice. For all Shizuka’s despondency, the woman cannot refuse a hearty bowl of rice. Sheepishly, at first, she helps herself—but both her fillets are gone before Sakura’s finished even one.
“You eat like an animal, Your Majesty,” Sakura teases her.
“Shut up,” is Shizuka’s answer. “I told you, everyone ate like this at war.”
They’ve had this conversation before, but it’s a rhythm that’s easy to hold on to—a rope thrown at the lip of Shizuka’s pit. She’s pulling herself up out of it now, and Sakura feels a little swell of pride.
The Queen isn’t the only master of social manipulation.
Although—she doesn’t want to think of this as manipulation. She’s just helping out. It’s half the reason she came here—and most of the reason she’s had such trouble leaving. Shizuka is not a woman meant to function on her own. Left alone for more than a quarter of the year, she turns to bad habits and worse decisions.
“Wonder if it’s the same for sailors,” Sakura says. “Are you sure you’re gonna be all right out there?”
It’s a risky question—but the prospect of being without Shefali for half a month seems to bother Shizuka more than the prospect of going to war again. Perhaps the reality of the latter hasn’t set in for her. Sakura would be more surprised at her insistence on doing things this way were Shizuka not the most bullheaded person she knows.
The Traitor said—in the letter that Sakura cannot read—that he’d meet her at Nishikomi. Probably thought he could frighten her.
The joke is on him—if you even imply to Shizuka she can’t do something, she’ll go and do it. That’s just who she is.
Shizuka—the Empress of Hokkaro—tilts her bowl to get more rice into her mouth. Her cheeks are puffy as a squirrel’s for long moments before she finishes chewing.
“I’m going to have to be,” she says. “I’m going to kill him.”
“It’s probably a trap,” says Sakura. “I mean, I wouldn’t know without looking at the calligraphy—the exact wording of these things is very important—but in my professional opinion—”
“Shefali has her reasons,” Shizuka says. As quick and simple as parrying a blade. “I myself don’t know all the details; only what she’s given me. If she says he will be there, then…”
Sakura’s mood sours. She tries to hide it by taking a bite of her salmon, but even its formidable flavor does little to help. “But what if it’s not him?” she says. “What if it’s one of his lieutenants? He isn’t going to come down from over the Wall to fight you in a bay, Cousin.”
Shizuka, to her credit, does at least consider this next point before answering. Eight years ago she might not have. Regardless, the answer is the same.
“Then I suppose I’ll kill his lieutenant, and march over the mountains to get him,” she says. “Whether or not he’s there—I promised Shefali we’d go over to rescue the trapped Qorin.”
“You never do things the easy way,” says Sakura.
“No Minami ever does,” says Shizuka. She is not wrong. The Minami family history is rife with twenty-ryo solutions to ten-bu problems.
Something in Shizuka’s face changes then, as Sakura is mid-bite. The look that’s come over her is dangerously close to the one she had at dinner, when she decided to put the Empire’s future in the hands of a girl who thought paper was delicious.
Sakura hardly has time to brace herself.
“You’re going with me, aren’t you?”
So easily, so casually, she says such a thing! As if she’s asking Sakura to sneak her out to a temple and not to accompany her into war. It takes everything in Sakura’s power not to choke.
“What?” she says. Grains of rice fly from her lips; her mother would’ve beaten her for letting somet
hing so unattractive happen. “I’m a painter, and you want me with you on some battleship bound for who knows where—”
“Bound for Nishikomi,” says Shizuka. “Your hometown! We could let you off at the docks while the actual fighting went on—”
“And what if it spills onto the streets?”
Shizuka has never been fond of physical contact. Sakura figures it’s her upbringing—she never really learned how to respond to physical affection. She’s more likely to buy you something or write you something than she is to embrace you.
But then? At that moment?
Shizuka takes her cousin’s hands.
“You’ll be safe,” she says. “I’ll have Captain Munenori watching over you; nothing awful will happen.”
Sakura can’t believe what she’s hearing, can’t believe what she’s seeing. Why is Shizuka so intent on this all of a sudden? With all the nonsense popping into her head of late, Sakura’s wondering whether or not Shizuka’s pregnant, too. Can that even happen? They’re both gods; they don’t have to obey the rules of nature, do they?
“Cousin,” she begins. “You don’t need to be worrying about me while you’re out there fighting.”
Like a lantern going out—the look on Shizuka’s face. It’s painful to see, and even more painful to be the cause. Still, Sakura’s mother raised her to take care of herself. A battle between gods is no place for a painter, no place for a singing girl, no place for a scholar. Arrows flying all over the place, blood in the streets, the screams of the dying—Shizuka can’t seriously mean for Sakura to endure all of that.
For what, company?
“I … You know what you’re asking, when you ask me a thing like that,” continues Sakura. “I’m not cut out for war. The Sister made me to read books and paint robes; I can’t do that when I’m trying my damnedest not to die. Not everyone is…”
The words she wants to say are as brave as you are, but they do not feel right. To say that would be to imply that she herself is a coward, and that isn’t true at all. Sakura just knows what she’s good at and what she isn’t.
“I wasn’t built like you,” she says instead.
“Is that so?” says Shizuka. She’s gotten to her feet. With one hand she drains the last of her tea; with the other, she begins to work the knots of her outer robe. “I thought you came to Xian-Lai to shoulder my burdens with me, to keep me company. Was I mistaken?”
Her empty cup clatters as she sets it onto the tray. Two steps she takes, and she is by her mirror, furiously shedding her wet clothes.
“It isn’t like that,” says Sakura. She turns away. Awkward to argue with someone who’s half-dressed, though she’s done it plenty of times. “I just don’t want to—”
“You don’t want to what?” snaps Shizuka. Her outer robe crumples to the ground; the inner belt soon following. “I was under the impression, Sakura-lao, that you now wanted to record histories. What better history is there than this? A divine war, for the sake of our people’s future—you’d balk at recording a thing like that?”
Sakura pinches her nose. It’s hard to stop a wildfire once it’s gotten started; it’s harder still to stop Shizuka. That girl spent most of her life expecting the world to roll over for her and ask for belly rubs.
“You can’t expect everyone to do whatever you say just because you’re the Empress,” says Sakura. It’s better to be direct with her when she’s like this. Sometimes it gets her to stop and consider what she’s saying—sometimes. “I’ve got things left I want to do before I go traipsing off to the North to die.”
“You won’t die,” Shizuka says sharply. “I won’t let you.”
“But that’s just what this is about,” says Sakura. Now she, too, is on her feet, gesturing at the screen she painted for Shizuka five years ago. “You aren’t letting me do anything. You aren’t making me do anything. I’m more than one of your subjects; you can’t just order me around. I’ve got no military training. I’ve never seen someone get hurt too badly, let alone die. You think I’m cut out for war?”
Where was all of this coming from? Sakura wishes she had Shefali’s nose—from the sound of things, it made it a lot easier to understand where people got ideas like this. Shizuka’s whining like a child, for the Sister’s sake!
“You lied to me,” says Shizuka.
Sakura flinches. “About what? I’ve been nothing but honest—”
“When you came to meet me,” Shizuka answers. “You said you came out of the goodness of your own heart, but that wasn’t true, was it? You came because of the letter.”
Shit.
How’s she supposed to explain that it isn’t like that when, on some level, it is? How’s she supposed to do that without lying about it? And—why does it hurt so much to hear it put in such a way? What Shizuka’s asking for is, objectively, a terrible idea.
Sakura saw well enough what happened when her cousin had been to war. How could she ask anyone to go through the same, knowing they aren’t even a warrior?
“That was all you wanted, all along,” Shizuka continues. “I’ve got to say, I admire your dedication.”
Sakura wants to scream. She isn’t sure what words would come out, and she isn’t sure it matters.
She turns around. Shizuka’s got her long blouse on; she’s in the middle of stepping into her pants. To be arguing with her when she’s in such a state is the height of ridiculousness. If Sakura had told her mother eight years ago that she’d be screaming at the Empress, in the middle of dressing herself, in her own bedroom—well. Her mother would have slapped her.
“What I wanted,” Sakura says, “was to be a good person. To help you out when you needed help. And maybe along the way, I’d be able to ask you for help with something important to me. Sister’s tits, why are you so self-centered? Not everything under the sun is about you, Shizuka!”
This, at last, seems to pierce through that thick skull of hers—Shizuka stops mid-motion, staring back at her cousin with anger and confusion alike.
It’s too late for Sakura, though; she’s done her fair share of enduring her cousin’s nonsense for one morning. She loves her, truly—but she does not make herself an easy woman to love. Barsalai Shefali might be the most patient woman on the continent.
Sakura tugs at her hair.
“I’m leaving,” she says, because it is all she can trust herself to say. With a bow more courteous than sincere, she departs. Shizuka calls out for her, but she does not turn around, not even when she remembers the perfectly good red bean mochi she left on that plate.
It’s not worth it. It’s not.
Sister. She’s always wanted to travel, she has, but …
And so what if Sakura does love history? It isn’t like she set out to fall in love with it; it isn’t like she stayed up all night as a young woman dreaming about paying witness to battles. Kenshiro, maybe, but not her.
Though now Kenshiro’s going to be headed straight to Fujino because of Shizuka’s nonsense. Regent for the Imperial Niece. He’s due to leave tomorrow morning, and Sakura’s got no intention of interrupting his last day with his wife for the foreseeable future.
Because she’s a good person.
Ugh. As she walks past one of Baozhai’s flowerpots, she has to suppress the urge to knock it over. What sort of woman would make a demand like that?
The thought comes to her like many thoughts born of anger do: in a whisper.
In ten years, no one will even remember her.
She stops. The jovial azalea arrangement next to her sways mockingly in the breeze.
That’s just it, isn’t it? In ten years, no one will remember Shizuka, and no one will remember Shefali, and all that will remain of them are records that will one day pass into myth. Kenshiro won’t even remember his own sister—though he might, with the story Sakura’s been recording.
Yet what will remain of Shizuka? Her letters, her edicts? A name is a simple enough thing to fake, and her deeds are already legendary; who will believe that th
e woman who raised the New Wall once sat the throne?
That look, just before she’d made her ridiculous request—it was fear, wasn’t it?
Sakura grits her teeth. She closes her hands into fists.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Gods, she doesn’t want to go back in there. She doesn’t. If she does, then she’s just going to leave Shizuka feeling justified about that fit she threw, and she can’t feel justified about it, because expecting people to die for you is wrong.
It’s like dealing with a child, isn’t it? If one washes this set of dirty robes, then the other will never learn to wash them on her own.
Except that Shizuka’s leaving for war, and might not come back, and if Sakura doesn’t wash the robes, then they very well may still be unwashed when she is eighty years old. Worse, she will look on them and wonder—Who left these here?
Sakura throws her hands up and groans.
It is then, of course, that Baozhai decides to show up with her attendants in tow. Baozhai, and not the Queen—she’s wearing one of her more casual dresses, and her makeup is far more restrained than usual.
But that does not stop her from looking imperiously down her nose at Sakura. “This palace is a terrible place to be upset,” she says. “Is there something I can do to alleviate the issue, Sakura-lao?”
Sakura’s dealt with lords and ladies. The Gem Lords of Shiratori are rich enough to … Well, on second thought, Baozhai must be richer. But the point is—Sakura’s dealt with her kind before. Few things infuriate her more than the way a wealthy person smiles. Baozhai is no exception.
And yet—Sakura’s going to need her help, after all.
“What do I have to do,” she says, “for you to get me passage to Nishikomi?”
Now it is Baozhai who stops, tilting her head. With a motion, she dismisses her attendants—two girls Sakura does not know, one of whom carries a box nearly her own size on her back. She touches a fingertip to her lips in thought. Sakura feels as if she might implode.
“My, my,” says Baozhai. “How unexpected. I thought you’d ask me to move your quarters closer to the libraries.”
The Warrior Moon Page 6