In the end, a bandit saved her by chopping off the serpent’s head.
There will be no bandit now, Sakura imagines, for the serpent that holds her now is invisible. That makes it no less tangible. Rikuto’s melody coils around her and tightens, tightens. With her ribs compressed, she has trouble breathing. Gasping for air, Sakura holds each breath as long as she can, and her heart races. All around her the army’s weapons clatter to the ground. They, too, are wrapped in an embrace from which they cannot escape.
Squeezing tighter, tighter—Sakura feels she is going to burst at any moment. Fear sinks its fangs into her: What if this is how she dies? What if Rikuto kills her and the whole army because Shizuka cannot stop insulting it? So far from home, so far from those she knows, with no published work to her name—is this how she wants to die?
“What are you doing?”
She can hardly hear Shefali’s voice over the music, hardly hear her over the pained groans of the army.
It hurts. Why does it hurt so much? To be strangled while staring up at a cloudless blue sky—how strange, how surreal!
A flash of gold; she closes her eyes to get away from the pain of it. When she opens them again, Shizuka’s sword is embedded in the demon’s hand. A thin line of black drips onto the ground.
Sister’s tits, it caught it, Sakura thinks.
But no sooner than the thought crosses her mind, the coils loosen. Her whole body slumps over. She gasps for breath as if she were breaking the surface of the bay again, her hand around her throat. The air rushing into her lungs hurts almost as much as the coils did. She doubles over, reaching for the saddle horn to keep upright, and vomits off the side of the Empress’s prized horse.
She is not the only one to empty her stomach. All around her, the army shifts back to life, looking around, grasping for their throats. Within the two-shaku boundary, Burqila is hacking, beating at her own chest.
And Dorbentei’s gone nearly violet.
Sakura half throws herself from the saddle. A Qorin she isn’t—were it not for her armor, she would have torn open her forearm on the rocks. Even so, there are bruises already forming, Sakura knows. She curses. When she tries to push herself to her feet, she stumbles; one of the soldiers must offer her a hand up.
And by then the argument’s progressed.
“So you see that I am no paper tiger,” says Rikuto. “Continue to goad me all you like, Four-Petal, but know that your actions have consequences.”
Something smells like burning meat. Sakura cringes at the thought—it must be Rikuto.
“I should cut your arm off,” Shizuka says. Why she does not puzzles Sakura. Surely, if she follows through on the cut—surely all of this will be over?
But then a thought occurs to her as she hurries to stand with her family: This mountain is of Rikuto’s making. It must be. It did not exist before the scouts found it, and long-nosed demons are commonly found near mountains. If the Traitor exhibits control over the land beyond the Wall, as Shizuka claims, then perhaps his subordinates can do the same on a more limited level.
They are in this demon’s world.
And if they kill Rikuto before leaving it … well, who knows where the fog will leave them?
That is why Shizuka is not killing it—because she needs the army safely delivered from this place.
“But you won’t,” says Rikuto. “Now—let’s speak properly. All of us, if you insist on letting your dogs stay.”
Shizuka withdraws her sword. Another spurt of black flies into the air, landing on Barsalai’s horse. Barsalai is quick to wipe off her gray with her own deel. Dorbentei coughs, Burqila slaps her on the back; Captain Munenori stands stoically one shaku behind Shizuka. The army watches the gathering—as Sakura makes her way to Dorbentei’s side, she is acutely aware of all the eyes boring into her, of the questions left unasked and unanswered.
“I’m glad you didn’t die,” Sakura whispers to Dorbentei. Curse these boots. If she were in her sandals, she’d be able to reach Dorbentei’s ear without trouble. Now she must tip herself up as much as she can. She looks ridiculous, like a child in her older sister’s armor.
Dorbentei’s eyes flick over to her. She coughs again as she dismounts.
“Demon tried its best,” she answers. There, again, that weariness!
But there is no time for the two of them to discuss this further. Negotiations, such as they are, must proceed. If they don’t, Barsalai may well bite Rikuto’s head off and see about finding a way back on their own. The way she’s pacing back and forth—how like a wolf she is. That mask is misplaced on her.
The sound of the Daybreak Blade hitting its sheath is the cue for the meeting to start. There are no actors in black to arrange the pieces, no music to set the tone, and only war masks to describe what the main players are feeling.
But to hear two gods and a demon speak—Sakura can think of worse shows than this.
“The Eternal King,” begins Rikuto, “is a patient and righteous king. For two thousand years, he has ruled over us. In two thousand years, we have known neither war nor hunger. The peasantry support the gentry; the gentry support the king. All things are in their proper place under Heaven, as the gods of old instructed us—and for that reason, we have prospered. There are creations in Iwa that would rob you of speech, Four-Petal.
“We are in all ways a perfect people. The Eternal King assigns each of us our career, and as we till our fields or shoe our horses, he is with us. He is Father to a nation—and yet the most humble man I have ever met.”
“Get to the fucking point,” says Dorbentei. “Unless your point is to feed us horseshit and call it Surian chocolate.”
Sakura fans herself to hide her growing smirk. Is there anyone on the continent more fearless than Dorbentei Otgar?
Rikuto fingers its flute. Dorbentei quiets.
Perhaps not so fearless, after all.
“My esteemed relative has the right of it,” says Shizuka. “You came speaking of an offer. I have not heard one. If you continue to waste our time, then we will have to settle this with steel.”
“You know how well that ends for your people,” says the demon. Nevertheless, it sets the flute down. “What the Eternal King is offering you is this: your freedom.”
Shizuka’s hand tightens around her sword. “A phoenix soars where she will.”
“Unless she is caged,” says Rikuto. “The Eternal King knows you well, Four-Petal. He knows that you are a willful girl, unsuited to the throne. He knows that you want nothing more than to roam the continent with your horsewife. He knows how you detest being told what to do. Being a god. And so, in his infinite wisdom and grace, he is offering you—both of you—a way out.”
Both of you? Sakura glances to Shefali. It’s difficult, as always, to read Empress Wolf, but there is a recognizable stiffness to her shoulders. Is that simply her condition? No—she swung from her saddle earlier. This must be something else.
Neither god says a word.
They can’t seriously be considering…? Though—Rikuto is right, Shizuka has hated the throne from the moment she won it. Few things irritate her more than going to court. For a god, every second of every day is court—they must weed through the prayers they receive, deciding who deserves to have their favor. Returning to the mortal realm only once every eight years … Shizuka is a woman of earthly pleasures.
This is bad.
Sakura scrambles to think of what the offer will be before Rikuto can speak it. What did they uncover about the previous cycle of gods? Why did the sun decide to fall? Because she could no longer bear her own existence without the moon; because she grew tired of it all; because she thought that if she consumed the world in purifying fire, no one else would ever have to suffer the way she had.
These were the rumors at the time.
Sweet Sister—she could imagine Shizuka throwing a tantrum like that.
But … But she has to have faith in her. Even at her most selfish, Shizuka can never fully abandon her d
uty.
“The Eternal King’s offer is a simple one: return your upstart Empire to its proper ruler. Hokkaro has been the dominion of the Eternal King from its inception, granted to him by his brother. Call your flowers and open a path so that he may reclaim it—that is all he asks. In return, he grants you both your freedom. Do what you will; he shall never again lift a finger to stop you, so long as you never lift one against him.”
“He wants to infect them,” says Shefali. The quietest people know well the value of raising their voices—when Shefali speaks now, it’s with all the venom she can muster. “He wants to control them.”
“Freedom of thought is a small price to pay for the peace we enjoy,” says Rikuto. “And those among us who are worthy are granted independence, as he sees fit.”
“Freedom of thought?” says Shefali. She steps forward, taking the mask from her face. The false sunlight here casts shadows on her now-gaunt cheeks. When she speaks, her pointed teeth peek out from between her lips. “He’s changed me into this.”
“It isn’t the King who shaped you, Steel-Eye,” says Rikuto. From the curl of its lips, it seems it was expecting this question. That makes Sakura all the more worried—if Shefali’s form isn’t a result of the blackblood, then … “That is just the form you were always meant to wear.”
Shefali seethes. “Horseshit.” The word sounds all the harsher when she says it—Sakura’s never heard her swear before. “It’s him.”
Rikuto crosses its arms. “Think him a liar all you like,” it says. “This is the form you were meant to wear once you’d shed your mortal ties. He has granted it to you while you yet live as a gift. You are a living god, Steel-Eye. Is it the fault of the Eternal King if your fragile mortal body cannot handle the strains of godhood? That you’ve had so many years to accustom yourself to these abilities is a kindness, make no mistake of it—a kindness you’ve obviously squandered.”
Shefali’s nose starts going longer, and her mouth soon matches it—Sakura cannot make herself look away as Shefali, in her anger, begins to shift form. Bones cracking and re-forming, sinew stretching, skin going taut as muscles shift beneath—all these things are incredible. All these things are true. All these things must be remembered.
Barsalai Shefali, the Wolf, stands twenty-five hands tall at the withers. The others exist only in her shadow. When she growls, the ground beneath them shakes; when she bares her teeth, each one is the size of Sakura’s forearm.
“Is this the form of a god?” says the wolf. Sakura’s ears ring.
Yet the demon does not falter. Rikuto looks on the wolf with a curled smile. “Yes,” it says. “Aren’t you grateful you’ve had such time to master it?”
Now the earth really does rattle. Burqila and Dorbentei’s horses start; the whole forest echoes with the sound of metal clattering. Dorbentei shouts something to her transformed cousin in Qorin, something Sakura cannot follow, but it does not seem to calm her. Burqila signs quickly. Dorbentei glances over to read it—but these words are useless as her own.
Barsalai takes one loping step forward.
Shizuka lays a hand on her wife’s massive front leg.
Only then does Shefali’s growling cease.
“We will not be taking your offer,” Shizuka says. Yet that is not her personal speaking voice—it is the one the Phoenix Empress adopts while presenting court. “Whatever dreams we might have for ourselves are irrelevant. The lives of our people are our greatest concern. To live controlled by a man like the Traitor is hardly to live at all. We must ensure that our people are happy, but most of all, we must ensure that they are free. If they are free, then they may strike down what makes them unhappy, and build something better in its absence.”
Some members of the army begin to cheer—Shizuka silences them by lifting her hand. How quickly it rises, how quickly she quiets them! Sakura cannot see her cousin’s face—what expression is she wearing beneath that mask?
And it occurs to Sakura then what Rikuto said. The Hokkaran Empire has been the Traitor’s from the outset. But that does not make much sense—the histories are very clear: Yamai was the First Emperor, a beloved son of Hokkaro, lost to time. He was born off the coast of Hirose, the son of a fisherman and a dried-seaweed maker. From such humble beginnings—well-documented humble beginnings!—he rose to prominence. He and the Traitor are two different men who could not be less alike.
Except—aren’t all the sources on Yamai hard to find? Kenshiro once showed her a fragment of an old noble’s diary that spoke of him; they could look on it only at night, and only with a mirror. The paper was so brittle that their breathing was enough to ruin it.
The stories—the many, many stories—on the Fourth’s betrayal are in a much better state. It seems anyone who was anyone two thousand years ago wrote their own version. Only the most key elements remained the same: The Traitor grew jealous of his brother, who ruled over the oceans, and accosted him in anger. The Father tried to reason with him. “You rule the minds of people,” he said, “and I only the rising waves.” The Traitor would not listen. He struck at his brother with a knife, only to find that his nephew had jumped in the way.
And it was from that moment that the war between the gods truly began, for the Traitor felt no remorse at having killed his own nephew.
Given to him by his brother.
Strictly speaking … strictly speaking, nothing in the stories is contradictory, and Yamai’s death is a mysterious one. She’s read fifty different versions at least.
Like Tumenbayar.
They say that if a warrior does not keep his mind sharp and his quiver full of knowledge, then he is lost.
Sakura feels lost now, as the realization hits her: The Traitor founded the Empire. The First Emperor they all worship is the Traitor himself.
Which meant that Shizuka …
“Tell your master that we have allowed you to live,” says Shizuka. “And if this so-called meeting is at an end, then return us to the lands outside Iwa.”
The demon’s eyes are hard now. The red-violet of its skin makes it look like a man-sized bruise.
“You know that I can kill your army whenever I like, Four-Petal,” it says.
“And I can strike you down the moment you summon your shadows,” Shizuka answers. “Your flute trick does not work on my wife and me.”
“Still,” says the demon. “I was given clear orders. If you refused to listen to sense, then I was to make you a second offer: Leave with me and I let your army go. Refuse, and they die.”
Now this is what Sakura had expected to hear initially—but that does not make it any more palatable.
Shizuka is going to deny the offer. She’s going to strike Rikuto down, and Rikuto is going to summon its shadows. Assuming they outlive it, the army will perish—only Shizuka and Shefali can reliably kill them. Assuming the shadows die—well, they are still in this pocket of reality Rikuto created. They won’t be able to find their way out until it allows them to leave.
And it can’t do that if it’s dead.
If Shizuka draws her sword, they are all going to die, one way or another. Given more time, Shizuka and Shefali could properly bless the army’s weapons; that would give them a fighting chance during their next encounter.
But they’d need time.
The life of a singing girl, painter, and scholar little resembles that of a duelist—and that is a good thing. When there is a sword in your hands, every problem looks like a duel waiting to happen; when you have a brush, or fan, you must learn to see things differently.
And so it is: the scholar recalls that long-nosed demons love games; the singing girl knows how to tempt it; the painter knows how to make the whole thing dramatic.
“I’ve a counteroffer,” Sakura says, taking a few steps forward. She keeps the fan fluttering in front of her face—with her nose covered, she more closely resembles Shizuka. It’d be easier to look seductive if she weren’t wearing all this armor; she makes do with fluttering eyes and swaying hips. “We
play a game. If you win, my cousin goes with you. If you lose, you set us on the proper path to Iwa and leave.”
Everyone is staring at her. She’s acutely aware of it—the eyes both green and amber fixed on her. She does not need to see Shizuka’s face to see the question written upon it: What are you doing?
That question is echoed in Rikuto’s eyes—but so, too, is a hunger Sakura knows quite well. “And why should I agree to such a thing?”
“Because you’re excellent at games,” Sakura says. Keep your voice pitched just a little higher than usual—men love delicacy, perhaps demons do, too.
She takes another step closer, another. Her heart’s hammering as she gets within striking distance of the demon—but she can’t let on how nervous she is. It’s just another cocksure client, she tells herself. This is no different from pretending she has no idea how to play painted tiles.
Minami Sakura touches the demon’s chest. Then, quiet as a caress: “And you want to put my cousin in her place.”
She can hear, distantly, the army asking one another what the fuck is going on. She doesn’t care, so long as no one interrupts her. The demon’s surprisingly easy to ply—perhaps it’s all that arrogance. Perhaps it wants to believe that Sakura would throw her cousin under the cart like this.
Rikuto is an easier mark than many of her clients. “I am undefeated in most of your mortal games,” it says. It touches her chin. Sakura laughs, as she’s been trained to laugh, and closes her fan. Rikuto throws an arm around her shoulder. “Four-Petal! You never told me your cousin was so sensible. We will play a game before I take you to your new home.”
“Why not wrestling?” Sakura offers. It has been her plan all along. “The horselords, they’re always bragging about their wrestling—”
“We taught men all there is to know about wrestling,” says Rikuto. That laugh! The laugh of a creature who thinks itself untouchable.
Sakura can hardly believe her luck. She glances meaningfully at Dorbentei before giving Rikuto the side-eye. Dorbentei never can shut up about being the clan’s best wrestler. Sakura just has to hope she is good enough to beat a demon.
The Warrior Moon Page 25