“We have to prove our worth,” says Fuyutsuki. “If we let them traipse off like this, what sort of idea are people going to get? That they can just split off whenever they want? It isn’t right. I’m doing this to maintain the celestial order, Your Majesty. I hope you can see that.”
Appealing to her sense of righteousness—or at least, his idea of her sense of righteousness. Baoyi does not remember much of the old Empress—no one does, except her father the historian—but she knows they aren’t anything alike.
“I have no army to stop you,” she says. “I thought asking nicely would work.”
There it is: in the shadow of his averted glance, she sees the guilt start to take hold, the shame.
“You didn’t even finish your tea, and you didn’t bring any treats, either. Lords are supposed to be people of reason and good manners. I’m a little sad, if I’m being honest.”
She isn’t afraid to let her youth work to her advantage—she perches her head on one hand. With the other, she waves him away.
“If you don’t think peace is what’s best for the Empire, then I don’t think I want to have tea with you. At least, not right now. I think someday you’ll see my side of things. You are dismissed, Kazuki-tun; Tsukiko-zun and Juzo-zun will see to your lodgings.”
If he takes offense at being given the same rank as her guards, he says nothing. No—from the way he stands and the way he eagerly clutches at his armor, Baoyi reads only relief. Somehow having tea with a young girl has made him more uncomfortable than anything he’s had to face before.
When the door closes behind him, she lets out a heavy sigh. “I really hoped that would work.”
“You did your best, O-Yuuka-shal,” says Odori. Already she is picking up Kazuki’s neglected cup; already she is removing all traces of him from the room. “You spoke reasonably, and with such great empathy—anything he does now, he must do knowing it is his own decision.”
Odori has been working for her since she and Father were named regents. Baoyi does not remember much of those first few months, but she does remember the serving girl who always sneaked her treats, always told her the gossip she’d picked up in the kitchens. Servants heard all sorts of things.
“Odori-lun is right. You did what you could. I told you it would be difficult to sway him.” Father sits with his writing desk where Kazuki once was, replacing him as easily as actors replace one another onstage. He gives her a soft, consolatory smile. “Not everyone is going to understand your vision for the world, sprout.”
That’s stupid, she wants to say. Everyone understands peace. But her chest feels a little tight, and her cheeks hurt, and she is having trouble coming up with the words even now that it’s just Father and Odori.
Father is as adept at reading her as she is at reading everyone else. He sets down his brush and his ink in favor of embracing her.
“It’s going to be all right,” he says. “We can send the Dragon Guard to Hanjeon. There aren’t many of them, but—”
“We aren’t fighting,” says Baoyi. “We aren’t!”
He says nothing, only smooths her hair. She feels like a child, and she hates that she feels like a child. Aren’t these Empress’s robes? Isn’t she in charge of things? All those people in Hanjeon celebrating their newfound liberation—how can she sit here in her father’s lap, knowing their happiness is at stake?
The knot in her chest is what drives her, the painful thread laced through her body: Anyone who dies in service of the Empire is a stain on her own hands. Anyone who dies in war at all—they will haunt her, she is sure of it.
Only decades ago, the Empire lost an entire generation of youths to the Toad’s maniacal whims.
Baoyi cannot let a single person die.
Fuyutsuki won’t listen to her, and she has only a few thousand in the Dragon Guard at her disposal. Father’s suggestion is just going to lead to more fighting—Kazuki isn’t going to be convinced to stand down unless the odds are truly against him. Failing in this endeavor would be political suicide. Anything else is a triumph.
And so she has to make sure he never raises his war fan.
Baoyi gets up. The morning light’s warmed the mats beneath her feet—she enjoys the feeling for the scant few steps it takes her to reach Father’s writing desk. The scroll he’s working on is packed tight with his blocky characters—another history of the old Empress, another story Baoyi does not quite believe. She carefully sets it aside, opens the lectern, and retrieves a fine piece of silken paper.
Father’s brows come together. “Baoyi? What are you working on?”
“I’m not going to let him win.”
* * *
ON THE FORTIETH of Nishen, Oshiro Kenshiro receives two letters. One, bound with an amorous strand of red silk, is from his wife. Thick as his finger, it holds within many treasured promises, many treasured admissions—but also something that stands out to him. Near the end of the letter is a postscript.
Ken-lun, let our daughter know I’m proud of her, but that if she’s going to ask me for any more favors, I might not be able to grant them. A mother may love her child to excess—but my fondness for the north must have its limits. This is not Yangzhai asking for a toy. I love her, Ken-lun, but we must be rulers before we are family.
This puzzles him, for he has no knowledge of Baoyi’s asking her mother for any favors at all. She’s a friendly girl, but a proud one; she likes to do things herself whenever possible. It’s made finding tutors for her a difficult task. He purses his lips and tugs his beard and reaches for the second letter, which will doubtless hold more answers.
This—bound in violet and written on pale green paper—is from the Thorned-Blossom Queen. She sends reports every two months in hopes of fostering a positive relationship between their two nations, as if they are not all bound by love and blood to begin with.
Normally this letter is several pages long, addressing in reverse order the points made by Kenshiro’s previous missive—but this one is only a single page, and only a few columns of text at that. That his wife goes so far as to adopt a different style of calligraphy when she is the Queen still amuses him.
But her words, this time, are far more surprising.
Honored Empress Yuuka,
We of the South agree—the freedom and liberty of Hanjeon are precious things. To that end, we dispatched General Lai Xianyu to see to their instruction. It is our hope that this gesture of unity drives away any who might hope to shatter it.
We hope, as ever, that your reign continues to be a peaceful one.
Her Eminence, the Thorned-Blossom Queen
He reads it three times—Baozhai likes to play with her character choices to conceal messages, and that’s when she doesn’t outright use a cipher. More than once he’s realized there’s been a hidden set of characters visible only by candlelight. His wife is as clever as she is paranoid. Naturally, the first thing Kenshiro does is hold the letter over a candle, where he finds that there are a few more lines hidden away.
Lord Regent,
It’s shrewd of you to check for additional messages. There are none this time—but you would do well to ensure the Young Empress knows these methods. The day is coming—soon, I should think—when her commitment to peace will be tested.
Your loving wife,
Queen Lai Baozhai
How is it that he smiles even reading this? For the pieces are all coming together now in his mind: Baoyi has no army of her own, so she sought the use of her mother’s. And of course her mother could not deny her—no matter how strict Baozhai likes to be with her, she is never denied anything of importance.
But instead of using the Bronze Army as a bludgeon, the way Shizuka had done so many years ago, Baoyi used them as a shield. Who could look on them and attack? They, who have so few defeats to their name? When Hokkaro took Xian-Lai, they did so without ever raising a finger against the Bronze Army; had they gone to war, the language of the land may well be Xianese. And to put Xianyu in charge of them! Even Ken
shiro balked at saying an ill word to that woman. Fuyutsuki would know, too, her history in the Northern Campaign—if he attacked her, he was betraying all the goodwill that joint mission had left behind.
If anyone can call Ink-on-Water something that engendered goodwill.
Still—it is a masterly stroke, and one he can hardly believe came from his own daughter. After rising from his desk in the archives, he walks to her chambers. The guards announce him, and he enters as soon as she gives him permission to do so.
Lai Baoyi, Empress of Hokkaro, sits playing a game of poetry cards with Odori. Her sleeves are so long, they pool around her; she must hold them out of the way whenever she lifts her hand. Her white hair she wears long and unbound. There are some who say she does not resemble her mother at all, but these people cannot see beyond the color of her skin: that knowing look on her face is all Baozhai. Odori is about to lose whatever it is she’s bet.
Seeing her like this—playing a childhood game in her childhood robes—strikes him with an awful sense of inevitability. Already she’s playing political games—how long is it before he will start having to keep suitors away? He cannot fail her the way he failed his sister; Empress though she may be, he determines then that she will marry only someone she cares about, regardless of their standing or gender.
How could he promise her any less? When she humbles herself enough to ask her mother for help in behalf of others, when she invites brutish men to tea to try to convince them to set down their arms, when she cares for no one the way she cares for her horse—how could he promise her any less?
So many things he has ruined in his life.
He shall not ruin this.
“Father,” she says, “is something wrong?”
King Oshiro Kenshiro, Lord Regent of Hokkaro, can think of only two things wrong: that his sister and sister-in-law are not here to see the sort of woman Baoyi is becoming; that his mother is not here to see what they have done.
Nevertheless, he takes the third seat at the table.
“Nothing,” he says. “Please deal me in.”
“But we just started this game.” Baoyi pouts. She says that as if she doesn’t have four cranes in hand ready to win.
“Ah,” he says, smiling warmly. “Then I’ll wait for the next. But in the meantime, you should know your mother wrote.”
He lays the Queen’s letter on the table—away from the piles of cards between them. Baoyi drops her hand immediately, scooping up the letter instead. As she reads it, Kenshiro leans toward Odori.
“She’s got all four cranes,” he says.
“Oh, I thought as much,” says Odori. “Fate’s always been kind to her.”
She’s wiggling in her seat by the time she finishes reading it.
Kenshiro takes a deep breath of the morning air. He does not know where his sister is, or Shizuka, or even his mother.
But he has his daughter, and he has his wife.
Fate’s been kind to him.
O-SHIZUKA
SIX
To catch up to the Qorin is a fool’s task. Easier to catch the moon in a saucer of rice wine—the Empire learned this lesson twenty years ago at Oshiro.
And yet Shizuka has captured the moon in a saucer of rice wine before. The memories are more precious to her than Surian gold, than her fine clothes, than the phoenix feather atop her head. How many times have she and Shefali sat on the veranda in Xian-Lai? And every time the full moon reared her head, Shefali would pick up the saucer with a smile.
“Here,” she said, giving the saucer to Shizuka. “The moon.”
The moon’s reflection on the surface of the cup; the cicadas; Shefali’s self-satisfied smile.
Yes—all these things are precious to Shizuka, and thinking of them cools her blazing temper.
So, too, do the trees. Well—the trees and the rocks. Hokkaran horses are used to such things, but quick Qorin steeds are not built for the mountains. Just as the rocky earth slowed them when they entered through the pass, this mountain slows them now.
Catching up is much easier than it would have been had they all been on flat ground.
Oh, it’s difficult, still. This mountain is a steep one and the ground treacherous—more than once a soldier stumbles, skidding down a horselength until his fellows help him back up. And it is nerve-racking, too, to march in the silence of a forest like this. All the evergreens put Shizuka in mind of the Imperial Hunting Grounds, which teem at all times with life.
They’ve heard not even a single bird cry.
Farther and farther up the mountain they go. Shizuka calls for a change in formation before they get too far up into the woods—the trees will make it impossible for most standard types. With no way of knowing what angle the enemy will take in attacking, she settles for Yoke and advises the companies to keep in columns when marching through the trees.
It isn’t ideal. Xianyu would ream her for marching in the woods at all.
But she is going to kill that demon, and he is waiting at the top of the mountain.
It is only twenty minutes by Shizuka’s count before they meet up with the back half of the Qorin army—the cannons and carts being dragged laboriously uphill. Shizuka catches sight of her cousin atop a spotted brindle she has little idea how to command.
Something in Shizuka eases then, for the sight of her cousin is so ridiculous. Who gave Sakura armor? And not even Hokkaran armor. Not even Xianese, for that matter. She wears a mail shirt over a deel that does not quite fit her; a pair of vambraces decorated with falling leaves; two shin guards over her Qorin-style boots; a domed helmet that sits atop her head. What she does not wear is a war mask, and this makes her easy to identify.
And easier to target, if the enemy were to take that tack.
“Munenori-zul,” says Shizuka. She points to her cousin, easy enough to spot even without the spyglass—hers is the only horse that’s bucking. “I’m going to go fetch Sakura-lun before she gets herself killed. Mind the army.”
Munenori nods in affirmation. Shizuka tosses him the golden war fan hanging from her belt—he will need it if he is to make any formal orders.
The army parts for her, if the trees do not already part them. As much as Shefali likes to brag about her gray—and indeed, it’s warranted most of the time—it’s Matsuda’s plodding pace that wins here. In all her life, her gelding has not once missed a step. His reliability is what endeared him to her father, who bought him for her on her tenth birthday.
To think of her father at a time like this—she pushes the thought away.
Ducking the low-hanging branches, her eyes scanning every shadow for signs of life—it is not a pleasant ride, but it is a quick one. A good thing that it is—Sakura’s horse has gone from bucking to outright thrashing. Horsemanship is not among a singing girl’s many skills: she is barely clinging on to the saddle horn when Shizuka grabs her by the back of her collar.
“Oh, thank the fucking Sister—”
“Wrong god,” Shizuka says. “Get on mine; he’s used to pampered girls.”
She offers Sakura her arm as a brace. Two of the engineers have doubled back now, to try to calm the spotted brindle. They dismount and Sakura soon follows; Shizuka then pulls her up onto Matsuda, sitting in front of her.
She wants to feel relieved. She wants to feel comforted by her cousin’s presence, as she so often is—there are few people who know her better.
But the woods around them are bone, not wood; she can see their spines when she blinks. At the top of this mountain the enemy awaits them; at the top of this mountain, there will be blood.
And her cousin is getting herself thrown off a horse?
“You look ridiculous,” says Shizuka. “Who gave you that horse? And that armor? You don’t even have a weapon. You’re going to get yourself killed—”
“I look stylish, thank you,” says Sakura. Whatever happiness she felt at being rescued is slain by Shizuka’s tone. She turns away from her, setting her eyes squarely on the ground up ahead of th
em. “And you were the one who asked me to come along. Who knows? Maybe I’ll save your life again.”
Like stepping on a shard of clay—a sharp wave of anger shoots through Shizuka. Yes, Sakura saved her life; yes, she had been the one to ask her to come.
But that did not mean …
Sakura is whoever she wants to be first and a scholar second. She has never been a warrior. For her to be marching through these dreadful woods because her cousin asked it of her is an act of bravery. Shizuka has been too used to the bravery of warriors to recognize any other kind.
Sakura takes advantage of her silence. “From the way the Qorin talk about you, you just might need me to.”
“Have you learned Qorin, too?” Shizuka says. It comes out harsher than she intended; she curses herself for being so sharp. “So quickly?”
Sakura tuts. “Anything’s possible with a good enough tutor,” she says. “I don’t speak much, but—”
A shrill whistle cuts her off—and lands with a thunk in the tree nearest them. So closely does the arrow pass that the beak of Shizuka’s mask rattles in its wake.
All at once the world falls into a different sort of focus. There is no room for her ruminations, no room for her burning self-loathing, no room for anything but action.
If they’re being fired on, the best course of action is to move.
Shizuka kicks Matsuda into a gallop as the Qorin sound their warhorns. Sakura slams back into her, jolting her just enough to annoy. No time to dwell on it.
“Move your hips and keep your head down!” Shizuka says, hoping that will be instruction enough.
Two more arrows fly through the air. One clips Shizuka’s sleeve; the other soars past them. The engineers are swinging into their saddles as Shizuka turns Matsuda back toward the Hokkaran army.
And it is then that she sees them.
The shadows given life, the black fog in armor.
The demons she fought once before, on the other side of the Kirin.
Shizuka’s heart drops into her stomach. There are so many of them, peeling off the trees themselves, bows in hand and arrows at the ready. Three hundred? Four? A thousand? More? Everywhere her eyes settle, the shadows stir to life.
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