The Warrior Moon

by K Arsenault Rivera

  A bird-headed man atop a mountain. Who knows what awaits them in the fog?

  She thinks of Rihima—of the marionettes and the lives they took. She thinks of Daishi, of the hollow look in her eyes after years of war; she thinks of her mother, Minami Shizuru, drinking herself halfway to an early grave and hoping her daughter wouldn’t follow.

  As the fog descends, as the feathers descend, she sees the churning seas of Nishikomi, the dark depths of the Kirin.

  Terror is a monster, feet beating against the earth, reaching for her heart.

  Shizuka gives Matsuda a kick.

  Let her fear try to catch up—she is going to kill the bird-headed man. Whatever her wife thinks of her for it.

  * * *

  HER HEART IS a thunder drum.

  Closer they come, closer and closer. The Qorin disappeared into the fog five minutes ago. Her wife disappeared into the fog five minutes ago.

  She has faced worse than this, Shizuka tells herself, and today is not the day she dies.

  Fear, worry, anxiety—these are impurities that threaten to shatter her resolve. She must burn them from her soul.

  She must become the Empress.

  Closer.

  The arrowhead, soaring across the earth, aimed straight for the cloud.

  She grips her sword tighter.

  The gold-tipped spears of the vanguard pierce the gray.

  “Forward!” she calls again, stoking the fires within their hearts. Forward they march. Three steps and the spears disappear inside the cloud; four, and the vanguard joins them. Terror claws at Shizuka’s back, but she does not falter.

  “Forward!” she calls again. Forward they march—the flanking companies and the forward archers, the bannermen and the drummers. Once the fog swallows them, she sees only the barest traces of them within—thin gray lines where her proud gold banner once flew.

  Her company is next. The fog is so thick that, had she the urge, she might cut straight through it. Shizuka has seen Qorin felt with more translucence. Looking on the fog—on the feathers and blood—fills her with an unspeakable trepidation; she tastes rot.

  Yet Heaven rides with them, and where her soldiers go, she must follow.

  Forward.

  The fog smacks against her as they cross it, a wet and warm slap across the face. This is not the cool fog of morning, nor the salt-soaked kind so common in Nishikomi—this is the breath of the jungle, the breath of the south. By Matsuda’s second step, Shizuka can feel the sweat clinging to the back of her neck; by the third, her chest heaves with the effort it takes her to breathe; by the fourth, it is over.

  Four steps and they are through.

  So quickly does it happen that she hardly has time to think, hardly has time to realize the scenery’s changed. One moment she is enveloped in gray—and at the next, she is at the base of a mountain. Temurin was right—it is not so large as the Tokuma, but larger than Gurkhan Khalsar. Thick forests coat it like fur on a slumbering bear. At the top, a single plume of white smoke coils up into the violet sky.

  The first thing Shizuka does is look out onto her army. All five of the forward companies seem to be in good shape, with no notable blurring of the formation. The pride she feels at this realization is second only to the worry that follows it—she cannot see any of the Qorin. Not ahead of them, at the base of the mountain; not behind them, where there is only forest to greet them; not on either side, where the green stretches into forever.

  Shefali.

  If that big oaf got herself captured while they were upset with each other … No, painting it that way does not change the starkness of the image.

  Her terror’s catching up to her. She licks at her lips beneath her mask.

  “Munenori-zun,” she says, “give me a spyglass.”

  She does not know that he has one until she asks for it.

  Of course Munenori carries a spyglass—he bought it himself during his days as a sailor. Or perhaps he’d traded for it? The tessellated patterns suggest Surian craftsmanship, and so far as she knows, Munenori has never been to the far East.

  However he came by it, she is grateful that he did. She holds the spyglass up to her eye and turns her attention to the mountain. There—racing between the trees! A streak of gray, a streak of red, a streak of yellow.

  Shefali, Burqila, and Dorbentei.

  Shizuka lets out a breath she did not know she was holding. She imagines that all her fears are contained within that breath, that they are leaving her now to mingle with the air.

  “The Qorin are climbing the mountain,” she says. “We will follow.”

  Her voice echoes through the cold, dry morning. She wonders briefly if it will carry all the way to Shefali’s pointed ears.

  LAI BAOYI

  ONE

  You can tell much of a man from his walk: whether he keeps his shoulders in line with the rest of his body or sways them speaks to his confidence; if he is a little bowlegged, then he must be a skilled rider; you may read all his military history in a limp at his right ankle.

  Lai Baoyi learned to read the signs of men before she learned to read characters. Her very first memories are of her mother cradling her on one of the Bronze Palace’s many balconies, pointing here and there to the servants. “Do you see, my precious gift? Look at how he holds his hands.…”

  She is not surprised at what she sees of this man in this moment: the exaggerated curve of his puffed-out chest; the bold, costly violet of his robes; the clatter of his armor and the way he struggles a little beneath its weight.

  This is their first meeting—but she has long known his reputation. The Empire agrees on few things these days. That Fuytusuki Kazuki is a retrograde fool of the highest order is one of them.

  Or, as the Young Empress would put it, had she more people in whom to confide—Kazuki’s a big, mean idiot.

  That he bows at all is surprising to her, much less that he bothers to get in proper seating before doing so. Tradition is carved into the bones of all the provincial lords, it seems.

  But then—he bows to her father, and not to her.

  “Lord Oshiro-tul,” says Fuyutsuki. He taps his forehead against the bamboo mats. “I have come, as summoned. Your palace servants have treated me well.”

  Her father stands a horselength away from her, cloaked in the black and gold robes of his station. A black hat sticks up like a shark fin atop his white hair. When he smiles it is warm, and it reaches his eyes, but Baoyi knows well enough that it is not genuine.

  “Young Lord Fuytusuki-tun,” says Father, “you have indeed come as summoned, but you must have gotten the wrong idea somewhere. Didn’t you read your invitation?”

  There is a pause. Kazuki cannot see the soft smile—the genuine smile—father and daughter exchange.

  “Your Imperial Highness, I read it three times over. You summoned me to tea because you wanted to talk about the rebels.”

  “You are incorrect on three counts,” says Father, “but I will let our gracious host do the rest of the talking—I’ve already overstepped my bounds.” He claps his hands together and bows from the shoulder to Baoyi, who responds with a warm nod. “Your Imperial Majesty, Most Serene Empress, I leave you to your guest. Should you have need of me, I shall be right at my desk; you need only yell and I shall hear you.”

  And it is then, of course, that Fuyutsuki realizes precisely the error he has made. He doesn’t sit up from his bowed position, but Baoyi hears him swallow. The idea that he might be afraid of her is a saddening one; she doesn’t like being frightening. Rulers should be likeable. She sets about righting it the moment her father leaves for the desk he has set up in the back part of the chamber.

  “Kazuki-tun, you can sit up,” she says. “There isn’t any point in staying down there if we’re going to have tea.”

  He does as he is told. She notices, without really wanting to, that he is a little slow in doing so, as if he were a puppet that must be pulled into position by an unskilled hand. This, too, saddens her.
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br />   “Are you disappointed?” she asks. “Father isn’t any good at making tea.”

  “I heard that!” her father calls.

  “Well, he isn’t,” Baoyi affirms. “No matter what he said.”

  Kazuki’s eyes flick over toward Father’s desk. When they come to rest near her again, she realizes that he is staring at her mouth. Someone must have prepared him for talking to the Empress. Still, you weren’t supposed to stare.

  “Kazuki-tun?” she says. “I heard that your Hokkaran was very good, but if you’d like, I know three other languages. My tutor even tells me that my Ikhthian isn’t bad.”

  Her mother taught her that one—it never fails to jolt the lords from their proverbial horses. “Hokkaran will do, Your Majesty. Did you say you’d be making the tea?”

  “I did,” she says. She sits up a little straighter. The kettle, cups, and supplies are all gathered on a small wooden platter before her. “But you didn’t come dressed for tea, did you?”

  “I thought this was a military meeting—” he starts.

  She doesn’t let him finish. “Please don’t say such silly things,” she says. “It is. But it’s also tea, and we can’t start with you dressed like that.”

  “Your Majesty,” he says. “It would be immodest for me to change in your presence.”

  He’s speaking so much more stiffly now than he was in the halls, as if he didn’t think she’d ask her servants what he was like away from her sight. She doesn’t like it. “That isn’t a problem. Odori-lun, would you set up a screen for him? And Juzo-zun, would you help him out of his armor?”

  Odori and Juzo—the Phoenix Guardsman standing to her right—move at once. The screen is in place before Fuyutsuki Kazuki can summon another argument against it. The clatter of hooks and latches soon follows, punctuated by heavy thuds. Baoyi can hardly enjoy the painting—Minami Shiori and the Fox Woman—before the whole process is over with. Odori folds the screen to reveal Fuyutsuki in his robes and wide trousers. He’s still wildly unprepared for tea—he isn’t wearing any seasonal patterns, he hasn’t brought any candies for her, he clearly hasn’t purified himself. There are dark stains at his chest and beneath his arms; hair like a forest peeks out from his lapel.

  Her mother would have taken one look at him and demanded he go bathe before he earned the privilege of another minute in her presence.

  But her mother isn’t here, and sometimes you have to meet people halfway. If she sends him to go get properly ready, he’ll have the time to gather his wits.

  “That’s much better,” Baoyi says. “Don’t you feel better, Kazuki-tun?”

  The teapot is a solid bronze dragon with enameled scales—a gift from her mother for her tenth birthday. The heat is such that Baoyi must wrap her hand in the bottom three layers of her robes when she grasps the handle.

  “Your Majesty, with all due respect, shouldn’t I be speaking with your father about this? It’s a military matter.”

  The Empress must never let anyone know what she’s feeling—but she really wants to pout. He isn’t paying any attention at all to the tea. Green powder, dark as a forest night, sits in a carefully chosen bowl. Once the lid is off the teapot, she hands him the bowl of powder. He doesn’t even sniff at it—he just lifts it to his nose.

  “How do you like the tea?” she asks.

  “It’s … It’s well chosen, and exquisitely tailored to the season,” he says.

  It is, in fact, pointedly out of season. She was trying to send a message. Her disappointment overcomes her etiquette and she sighs a little as she pours the tea into the pot. Stirring is her least favorite part of the ordeal to begin with.

  “A lie expressed sincerely is as good as the truth,” says Baoyi. “I don’t really like that saying, but a lot of people do. I don’t think you’re one of them, though, because you aren’t a very good liar.”

  It hangs in the air between them—the silence, the soft whisking of the water. Silence like this scratches at Baoyi’s soul.

  “You can be honest with me,” she says. “I like it when people are honest.”

  Fuyutsuki swallows. “I can’t talk about quelling the rebellion with a child.” The last word leaves him like a bit of shell found in his morning egg and rice.

  Baoyi leaves the tea to steep. There are many thoughts dancing through her mind; keeping track of the seconds will give them something to dance to. “I’m your Empress; it doesn’t matter how old I am.” Twelve isn’t a child, she thinks all the same. “And what’s happening in Hanjeon isn’t a rebellion.”

  His fingers twitch. He wants to make a fist, she thinks, but it’d be impolite to do that. “Insubordinate” is the word Father would use, but that isn’t quite right. People should be free to think whatever they like, and free to say whatever they like to the Empress—so long as they are polite enough about it. “You think I’m wrong,” she says, her tone a little bit warmer.

  “I do,” he says. “Respectfully…”

  He glances up for just a moment. She nods, her bangs swaying in front of her eyes.

  “For generations, we took care of those people. The Old Empress was a drunkard, everyone remembers that; cutting them loose at all was a mistake—one that history will scorn, mark my words. But who are we in this glorious empire if we don’t keep our word? So—let them go, then; let them struggle and come begging for us in a few years. But then they go and declare themselves independent before the treaty’s finished!” Now he really does clench his fingers. “It’s an insult to you, an insult to Hokkaro, and it’s an insult to decency. It proves they aren’t ready to be on their own. Marching in to Hanjeon and teaching them a lesson is our only option.”

  It always strikes Baoyi as strange, the way some people speak about others. Something in her wilts, and it takes her a little while before she can think of something worth saying to this foolish, odious man. Maybe it is good that he is afraid of her.

  “The High Council of Hanjeon sent me a letter a few days before their declaration. I approved it. I don’t know where you got the idea that they insulted me.”

  “It’s an insult to act—they’re still your subjects!” Kazuki answers. The redness is starting to spread up to his face.

  “They aren’t,” says Baoyi, “and, really, I never thought of them as my subjects to start with. They’re their own people. It’s right for them to rule over themselves, wouldn’t you say?”

  Fish-egg bubbles boil in the pot. Baoyi reaches the end of her count and pours Kazuki a cup.

  He does not answer.

  She thought this would be easier. “You aren’t going to drink the tea, are you?”

  It’s frustrating, it really is, when he picks up the cup and takes a sip. No one drinks tea that way. You need to give it a little time to cool; you’re supposed to smell it and compliment it in that time. He’s flinching, so she knows that it hurts to hold the cup. When he’s done, he puts it back down on the tray. “We had a deal, Your Majesty,” he says. “They’ve turned their backs on it.”

  Like dogs set loose to hunt tigers, she thinks, he will not turn away from the pursuit of his goal.

  But perhaps he doesn’t realize exactly what sort of hunt he’s on.

  “But if you invade, that will bring war,” she says. “You must have read all my declarations, Kazuki-tun. War is expressly forbidden. I want my reign to be a peaceful one.”

  He does not flinch now. “Hokkaro’s history is written in blood.”

  “And it doesn’t need to be,” says Baoyi. “All we want—all anyone wants—is a safe place to live. Food in their stomachs and friends at their side. Some want to marry, and some don’t; some want partners to share their lives; some don’t. The only thing everyone wants is safety. Why would you risk that?”

  There’s too much fire in her voice as she speaks, but she supposes that’s unavoidable. Her mother wouldn’t be happy with her, but her mother isn’t here.

  This blow at least seems to have landed. The big man before her glances off to th
e side before he answers. “You must, at times, wrest safety from your enemies. The Jeon hate us. Who’s to say they won’t rally to attack us?”

  A second refusal. She will explain to him one last time. It’s only proper. Blowing softly on her cup of tea, she thinks of the best approach to take. A faint memory comes to her: the acrid scent of alcohol, a wash of bright red and gold. Political games are for cowards. You’ve got to be direct.

  Terrible advice, especially from a half-remembered source. But there is some truth in it.

  “Hanjeon at present has the smallest standing army west of the Wall of Stone,” says Baoyi. “If you attack them, there will be no honor in it. Everyone will know you as the man who attacks a newborn instead of giving it room to grow. To say nothing of the sleeping giant just to their south. Haven’t you considered what an invasion of Hanjeon would look like to Xian-Lai?”

  He’s back to staring at her mouth. She hopes that it helps her words sink in. When he says nothing, her hopes grow wings, and she allows herself a sip of her tea.

  It is natural that he should tear those wings apart the moment the tea fills her mouth. “They shall know me as the man who seized what is rightfully ours. They shall know me for a scion of the golden age of Hokkaro, who hews close to the old ways. A man who is unafraid of ten thousand farmers with pitchforks and scythes.”

  She closes her eyes. An old trick—you can look quite serene with your eyes closed, so long as you make sure to keep your lids and brows relaxed.

  “And if you are defeated?” she says.

  He scoffs. “Your Majesty, do you doubt your retainers? I will not lose with Fuyutsuki’s stone men at my back.”

  She wants to correct him. He said “stone men,” but the Fuyutsuki army comprises women, too. It’s been that way for as long as there’s been an Empire—a fact some people are all too quick to forget.

  “I’m sorry to hear you speak like that,” says Baoyi. “Really, I am. I thought that maybe if I spoke to you, you’d come to your senses. No one wants a war, Kazuki-tun. No one wants any more families broken up.”