The Warrior Moon

by K Arsenault Rivera

  Fear and anger overwhelm her efforts at polite speech. Gone, her formal conjugations; she speaks only slightly more formally than her cousin.

  The demon tuts again. It wags a finger at her. “That is no way for an Empress to speak,” it says. “Ask me once more, and ask me properly.”

  “And if she does, will you grant her request?” says Sakura.

  Shizuka didn’t expect her to chime in—what is she doing talking to demons? Well, if anyone is going to muster the will to do it, it’ll be a Minami.

  Shizuka worries that interruption will earn the demon’s ire, but instead it smirks. “More of you? My, that blood does keep,” it says. “Yes. If Four-Petal addresses me properly, then I will withdraw my army, so that we may talk as equals. Let no one say that Rikuto is an honorless dog.”

  Rikuto?

  Is that its name? Shizuka has never heard of a demon simply offering it up before. Being tricked into naming themselves, yes, but this was delivered smoothly. Knowingly.

  There are those in Fujino who imagine that Shizuka would balk at such a display of humility. That it would rankle her to address a demon in formal speech. To refuse on principle in favor of cutting down the tree and cutting the demon in two—that is what these people expect of her.

  In truth, it is an easy decision to make. The lives of the Qorin and the lives of her army are worth more than the ego of the Phoenix Empress.

  “General Rikuto, who watches the North. We of the Hokkaran Empire entreat you to withdraw your forces.”

  She speaks as formally as she can—yet she does not bow. The demon did not ask it of her, and she shall not be known as the woman who bowed to one of its kind.

  Still, this seems to please it. Rikuto preens atop the tree for a moment, hemming happily, before snapping its fingers. Wind gusts through the forest. The trees strain to stay upright; more than one of her spearmen drop their weapons; even the Qorin are having trouble staying upright if those sounds are any indication. Shizuka raises her good arm to shield her eyes from the falling pine needles.

  When the gust is over, Rikuto stands before her. In its hand is another deck of cards. Grinning, it drops the deck into a pouch at its belt.

  “Was that so difficult?” it says.

  She does not indulge the demon—there is no need to. The spearmen around her have given it a necklace already. Fifty spearheads glitter at the demon’s throat. If she were to glance behind her, she would see the archers aiming straight for the creature; if she were to glance to her sides, the infantry are fondling their swords.

  How many has she lost already? It is natural they want vengeance. She, too, wants to see this thing’s brain dashed against this unnatural earth—but there is something different about this demon.

  All women learn from a young age to discern those men who might hurt them. By the time a girl has reached eighteen years, she is as much an expert on the subject as the priests are on the Heavenly Mandates. A passing glance is all it takes—see the way he holds himself, as if he has something to prove? Look, his hungry eyes; witness the cruel curl of his lips! She will cross over to the other side of the street rather than be near him—and even then, she may change the route she takes to reach her home, lest he follow.

  Shizuka knew that sort of man well. His example was the twice-damned Kagemori. The scar across her nose is not the only mark he left upon her. The closer this demon comes to her, the more Shizuka thinks of him, of his blackened teeth and his wandering hands.

  You’re a wild mare, but I’ll break you.

  The demon has not spoken those words—but it might. And knowing that sickens her.

  If it so much as lifts a finger …

  “Captain,” says Shizuka. “Ride to the Qorin and see that they are undisturbed. Find my wife, and bring her here.”

  Munenori does not need to be told twice. He shouts in affirmation and kicks his horse into a gallop.

  The demon growls in response—Shizuka can practically see its chest rumbling. “I came to speak with you,” it says.

  “Then you shall have to wait,” Shizuka answers. “Without my wife, I am only half a woman. I must see that she is unharmed before I listen to your nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” the demon roars. The very tip of its nose reddens. “I am offering you a reasonable—”

  “So you keep saying,” says Shizuka. “But killing my people isn’t reasonable.”

  Redder, redder, its cheeks now like apples ready to eat.

  The demon takes a step closer.

  The first thing any duelist must learn is the length of their sword. The Daybreak Blade is two shaku long. Anything within that radius lives only because she allows it to.

  The tip of the demon’s nose crosses the sun’s radius.

  Gold, blinding bright—Shizuka’s hand moves without her having to think of the motion. To think of the motion is to yield to doubt it; to doubt it is to fail; to fail is to sign the death warrants of her army and family.

  And so she does not think of the motion.

  The hilt of the Daybreak Blade chimes as it returns to its sheath. Shizuka stands a little taller as the tip of the demon’s nose falls to the ground. Black drips from it, reminding her of a brush dipped handle first in cheap ink.

  “You…,” it says, raising its hand to the wound.

  “I,” she says, “made myself clear. We are waiting for my wife. If you take one more step, then it shall not be your nose I cut.”

  “I could crush you,” it seethes. “I could have killed you. Twice, I could have. You owe me your life.”

  “And every breath you take before me now is a favor I am granting you,” Shizuka says. She cannot let herself falter, no matter how angry the demon becomes. If it strikes at her, so much the better—if it is angry, it shall not be fighting properly. She will take any advantage she can get. “You wanted to meet as equals, and so we have—you can summon your army whenever you like, and I can cut you down in response.”

  Shizuka regrets speaking the words as soon as she’s stopped. What if it takes her advice to heart; what if it does summon its army again?

  But if it came here to talk, then it won’t. If it came here to talk, then the Traitor might have bound it to that purpose by oath. It may not be attacking her directly, because it cannot. The Traitor’s control over his minions is difficult to fight off, if Shefali’s struggles are any indication.

  The demon glowers. Blood drips onto the border of Shizuka’s realm. The lancers hold steady in spite of all that has happened. They, too, have hungry eyes.

  If the demon attacks, she will kill it.

  If it does not, then she will listen to its offer, and then she will kill it.

  Her mother always had said that Shizuka should think things through before she did them.

  “Bring your dog, then,” says the demon. “If that is what it will take for you to listen. The Eternal King is right—you are an insolent little girl.”

  And perhaps this demon is right, perhaps the Traitor is right—she is insolent.

  But it has been years since she was a girl.

  “Someone fetch me a chair,” Shizuka calls. “I can’t stand this wretch’s insults.”

  Sitting in the proper style is the respectful thing to do—but only if both parties are doing it. If one is standing, then the one sitting on their ankles is in a position of submission.

  To sit on a Qorin or Xianese-style chair during a meeting, however—there are few things Hokkarans consider more disrespectful. It says to the other party that they are not worth the pain of proper sitting or the pain of standing stock-still; it says that you see them as utterly unworthy of your efforts.

  Shizuka has never sat upon a Qorin chair at court. To do so might well stir Lord Shiratori into declaring war. A dais, always, made specifically for the Empress, or else her throne.

  But today, before this demon?

  She calls for a chair.

  It is one of the infantry who brings it to her, one of the infantry who un
folds it behind her. Shizuka stares the reddening demon down as she lowers herself onto the seat.

  And then, the moment she’s seated, she breaks eye contact to study her nails.

  Let it attack her, if that is what it wants to do.

  MINAMI SAKURA

  FOUR

  Minami Sakura is beginning to think her cousin’s been drinking again.

  It’s the only explanation she can think of for the way she’s acting. That demon, there—the uncomfortably handsome one with the huge nose? It’s the one that nearly drowned Shizuka. It’s the one she drove away with five columns of fire and a sword of pure flame. The sight of her cousin in … in that state terrified her. Not because of the glowing eyes or the way the air shimmered around her; not because of her painful radiance; not because of anything physical.

  But because it was her cousin—who sleeps sucking her thumb and never touches her horseradish at meals—as a god.

  And now the thing that pushed her into such a state stands two shaku away, and Shizuka is not killing it. Instead, she’s taunting it. Sakura’s seen singing girls degrade clients who enjoyed such things—it’s similar to what she’s seeing now. She doesn’t need to see Shizuka’s face to know how satisfied she is that the demon cannot hurt her.

  And it cannot. Sakura figured that out a while ago—if it could, then surely it would have struck at her when it called the winds. Surely it would have taken the field itself. All the literature on demons like this is clear: they make excellent generals.

  In the old days of the Hokkaran Empire, when Iwa was the capital, it was said that Emperor Yusuke often sought the wisdom of long-nosed demons. He climbed to the very top of the Kyuuzen Mountains to find one in particular and beseeched it to tell him all it knew of war.

  The demon promptly cast him off the mountain.

  It is one of the many stories of Yusuke’s mysterious death.

  Still, apocryphal though it likely is, the story makes it obvious how much the old Hokkarans respected creatures like this. Why bother hauling your ass all the way up the most inhospitable mountains on the continent otherwise? It’s the sort of thing that leans on the listener’s knowing everything the speaker knows, the sort of thing that makes sense only when taken in context. Climbing a mountain to speak to a demon is unthinkable unless they were not demons at the time and they had something they could grant you.

  There are snippets of older stories, too, quoted in books to teach young scholars about archaic characters. Someone named Koremori claimed to have learned their secrets and wrote an extensive book on the subject. The book itself was lost when the capitals shifted, but references to it survive, including some truly unbelievable claims about flight. And there are enough references to Koremori himself to know that he was a fierce warrior, responsible for slaying an entire enemy army with only twenty men and his own two arms.

  If this demon wanted them dead, they would be dead by now. Sakura would be, at least—perhaps not Shizuka. She’d try to duel the damned thing.

  Which is why Sakura is so confused by her cousin’s actions. Why is Shizuka not just dueling it? She’s cut off the tip of its nose already; it has killed several members of the Phoenix Guard already. It can’t be because Shizuka is seriously considering the Traitor’s offer—she’d never dream of it.

  Could it be that her hotheaded cousin has finally learned discretion? That Shizuka will listen to the offer only to discover what it is the Traitor wants from her?

  It’s the sort of thing a hero in a story might do—a wily one. Shizuka has never been wily—but then, this is the first time Sakura’s ever followed her into war. Perhaps having so many lives on the line brings out a different part of her bold cousin.

  Or perhaps there’s some prophecy in those arcane characters—one that Sakura still is not privy to. There’s a bitterness in the back of her throat—perhaps this is Koremori, and perhaps Shizuka’s only so comfortable because her mother’s letter told her what to expect.

  But to Sakura’s displeasure, she doesn’t regret coming North anymore. Not if she gets to see things like this. If only she’d thought to pack her drawing pad and brush—Dorbentei had said it was a fool’s errand to carry such things around if a battle started up. Insisted on it, at that; said that Sakura was liable to get her head chopped off her neck if she was looking down to draw.

  Sakura’s convinced Dorbentei’s being an idiot—but only about this. Watching Shizuka sit before the demon; watching the demon’s skin go from pale to red to a swollen, turgid violet; these things fascinate her. The palms of her hands itch for a brush. What if she forgets some of the details before she can get them down?

  It is only when she hears horses approaching that she remembers she isn’t supposed to be Shizuka’s biographer at all. Captain Munenori rides into the clearing with Barsalai Shefali, Burqila Alshara, and Dorbentei Otgar in tow. The right side of Shefali’s deel is streaked with black blood; so, too, does black drip down the chin of her war mask. It looks as if she has fallen face-first into an inkwell. Her eyes are the only exception, the one greener for all the dark around them.

  Burqila Alshara is unharmed. She holds a sword in hand—a curved one, in the Surian style—but otherwise looks no different than usual. There is not even any blood on her, save that which limns her blade. She does not so much as look at Sakura as she passes.

  But Dorbentei does. Flicks her war mask up, even though Sakura can think of few things more unwise than to flick up your mask in a battlefield. She, too, is free of blood, but there is a weariness in her bearing that Sakura is not used to. There are bags under her eyes already.

  “Glad you didn’t die,” says Dorbentei as she passes. Her voice is as heavy as her eyelids.

  “That horse tried its best,” Sakura says. If Shizuka hadn’t gotten to her, she’d have been trampled; of this, Sakura is sure.

  And she is also sure that she hates to hear Dorbentei sound so tired. As annoying as she may be.

  Barsalai leads them, of course. She rides right to her wife’s side and jumps out of the saddle with a surprising amount of agility. For a brief moment, Sakura wonders whether all that blood covering her has numbed her pain. It wouldn’t be unheard of—there were plenty of stories about bloodthirsty—

  No, no, this is her cousin’s wife she is thinking about. It’s impolite to suggest a thing like that, even in thought. Shefali’s been nothing but devoted and determined in the face of her deteriorating condition.

  Shizuka’s red gelding whinnies and shifts. Sakura holds on to the saddle horn a little more tightly. She’d ridden on this horse before; he didn’t intend to kill her. “Behave,” she mutters. “They’re getting to the interesting part.”

  Is it callous of her to think of this as the interesting part? When already some have lost their lives—is it callous of her to feel such excitement at watching whatever is about to happen?

  The answer is irrelevant—whatever is about to happen will not be slowed by Sakura’s moral crisis.

  “Steel-Eye,” says the demon. “What a pleasure it is to have you here.”

  Shefali says nothing in response. Indeed, she does not pay the demon any attention at all. She kneels in front of her wife instead. Sakura cannot hear what she is saying to Shizuka from here, but the posture’s clear enough: she wants to know Shizuka is all right.

  “Steel-Eye,” repeats the demon, but still Shefali does not address it. She and Shizuka are having a conversation, it seems, though it is impossible to say for sure when both women are masked.

  Dorbentei and Burqila are happy to fill the silence. “She’s busy,” Dorbentei says. “We have you to thank for that attack, hunh? You’re lucky Burqila doesn’t cut your head off.”

  The demon stays put. Is there some sort of magic afoot, that it cannot come any closer? Or is it so terrified of Shizuka’s sword? Sakura reaches for answers she knows she cannot have. Theories form and fade.

  “I don’t recall Four-Petal asking for your presence,” says the demon. “Leav
e.”

  Burqila responds with a sharp, unmistakable sign. Dorbentei doesn’t bother to translate it—some things are understood just as well in Hokkaro as they are in distant Axiot.

  “Burqila Alshara has killed your kind before,” Dorbentei says. The weariness is still there, but buried now—she is forcing herself to sound more confident than she is. “She will not hesitate to do it again if need be.”

  “Ryoma was young,” says the demon. Rikuto—that was its name, wasn’t it? “I am not.”

  “And you aren’t attacking us right now, either,” says Dorbentei. She’s gone back to reading Burqila’s signing. “So you must want something from Barsatoq. Kill us and she’ll go all gold on you, won’t she?”

  The demon grinds its teeth. If Sakura squints, she can see the air by its ears go hazy. This is not good. Shizuka taunting the demon is one thing, but Dorbentei and Burqila are mortal women. If the demon decides to punctuate its point …

  “Rikuto here has come as a diplomat,” says Shizuka. She remains seated—though Shefali is now standing next to her, arms crossed, like some sort of bodyguard. “It means to make me an offer on behalf of the Fourth. Sakura-lun, what are the characters for a demon like this?”

  “Heavenly Dog,” says Sakura. Doesn’t Shizuka know that? It isn’t as if stories about long-nosed demons are rare.

  “And so we have it. A heavenly dog. That is what you are, isn’t it?” says Shizuka. “A servant of this broken Heaven?”

  Rikuto grabs its flute. With its eyes boring into Shizuka, it lifts the instrument to its lips and begins to play.

  Sakura read once a detailed account of Narazaki Yuu’s journeys through the Xianese jungles. Three weeks into her journey, Narazaki-kol’s caravan was attacked by bandits. She survived only thanks to her quick wits—but afterwards, she was left to wander the jungle alone. That same night she unknowingly stepped into the coils of a python.

  The passage has seared itself onto Sakura’s memory—the muscular coils tightening and tightening, the great serpent’s mouth opening impossibly wide. Though Narazaki-kol struggled, there was no escaping the serpent—bringing her fists down on its coils was like bringing her fists down on stone.