That twinkle in Dorbentei’s eyes—it is as if Sakura has lit the candle within a lantern.
“Wrestling?” Dorbentei says. “Well, Needlenose here can turn into a wolf, but she can’t throw me even when she’s that big. Isn’t that right, Needlenose?”
Shefali, still in her wolf form, tilts her head toward her cousin. Her ears flop a little. Sakura wonders if she is doing that on purpose—all of this is already so ridiculous.
“That tilt, that means yes, when she’s like this,” says Dorbentei. “If you want to wrestle, then I’m the best around.”
“You?” says Rikuto. It scoffs. “I could crush you with my own two hands. Why should I bother with you, when Steel-Eye has the strength of a god?”
“Because my wife is in too much pain to change back to her usual form,” says Shizuka. Her posture has relaxed. It’s difficult to discern her exact emotion—but she sounds less suspicious than Sakura thought she would be. “And I am no wrestler.”
“You must think you’re going to trick me,” says Rikuto. Like cold water down Sakura’s spine—she bites her lip to keep from making any unusual sounds. “You’ve picked wrestling because you’ve got confidence in it. Painted tiles would be a true game, or Kingdoms.”
“We’ve no boards,” says Shizuka quickly. “This must be a game that can be played with only what we have already present.”
“The horselords do not carry Kingdoms with them? They are more uncivilized than I thought,” says Rikuto. Burqila’s horse shakes its head. “And none of the soldiers?”
“Gambling is strictly forbidden among the Phoenix Guard,” says Shizuka with some measure of pride. “We recruit only the most upstanding members of the army. Drinking, gambling, all these things are forbidden. Ask any of them you wish.”
That not a single member of the army has a pair of dice is difficult for Sakura to believe—but Shizuka does not like to lie. She’s a terrible liar. Her eyes always give her away—she can never look directly at you when she’s lying.
But she is looking straight at Rikuto now.
Rikuto spits on the ground. “You would stake your life on this horselord’s skills?” it says to her.
Shizuka does not hesitate. “Yes,” she says. “Absolutely. What my cousin proposes is fair.”
Dorbentei has trouble disguising her surprise. From what Sakura has seen, Shizuka does not often speak kindly of her. It takes an elbow from Burqila to get her to reply. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?” Dorbentei says. “I did wrestle a woman with a stone arm once. Heavier than a cart full of shit, but I did it. Bet you’re lighter than a cart full of shit.”
A well-considered approach. Rikuto abandons Sakura in favor of strutting forward. With a pitfighter’s panache, it shrugs out of its robes, letting the sleeves hang from its waist.
“Tough talk,” it says, “soon defeated.”
Dorbentei dismounts. Sakura has read about Qorin wrestling practices—it does not surprise her when Dorbentei flat out undoes all of her deel. She tosses it behind her, knowing that someone will catch it.
That someone is Burqila Alshara.
No one is going to believe Sakura’s account when she writes this—but she can only do so if she survives. If they can win.
Underneath her deel, Dorbentei Otgar wears a thin linen shirt. This, too, she removes. A small jacket is all that remains. It covers her arms and shoulders, but leaves her chest and torso bare.
Rikuto may be thick as tree trunk, but it does not have the body of a man who does any actual labor. Dorbentei’s shoulders and arms show a bit of definition—that is all. She, too, is thick about the middle—but her stomach is smooth thanks to her fat. The same fat that speaks to her work ethic. You cannot have muscles if you do not feed them.
Sakura wonders quickly whether Dorbentei’s stomach would be hard or soft to the touch—and then brushes that aside.
Dorbentei slaps at her chest. “Lucky for you, I came prepared!” she says.
“What are the rules?” says Rikuto. “I’m unfamiliar with your barbaric ways.”
Barsalai paces around the two-shaku perimeter. Every swing of her tail is a small breeze. Somehow, though she has changed her form so drastically, her eyes are still gray and green.
“First one to the ground loses,” says Dorbentei.
“Is that all?” says the demon. “No illegal holds?”
“Wrestling is about crushing your opponent,” answers Dorbentei. “Fuck no, we don’t have illegal holds.”
“Then I hope you are prepared to die,” says Rikuto.
Sakura keeps her eyes on the two of them as she walks toward her cousin. Shizuka glares at her only a little. “You’d better have a plan,” she says once Sakura is close.
“I don’t,” answers Sakura. “We really are trusting Dorbentei on this one.”
Sakura can see Shizuka’s brows coming together even under the mask. It isn’t like Shizuka to curse—her upbringing was far too delicate—but she sounds as if she is coming close.
The two wrestlers sink into their stances.
Rikuto’s is older, more Hokkaran—it places one hand on each knee, then raises its leg and slams it back down. With Barsalai circling as she is, the force of the gesture is lost. Still, it shouts loud enough that Shizuka’s red gelding whickers. When it is done with its show of force, it remains squatting, its knuckles touching the ground, leaning slightly forward.
Dorbentei doesn’t waste any time with theatrics. She bends over, her elbows near her knees, hands at the ready, and knees slightly bent.
“Before we begin,” says Sakura. “We should have the oaths of the participants. Shizuka-shal, do you swear that you will go with Rikuto-yon if Dorbentei loses?”
“I do,” says Shizuka—but she does not sound pleased about it.
“And Rikuto-yon, do you swear you will free us—the entire army—from this infernal maze, if you should lose?”
“I won’t lose,” says Rikuto. “But for the sake of this, yes, I do swear it. Do you swear that you will come with me, too, when I win?”
All those years of life and it has not learned when a woman is not interested. “Of course,” says Sakura. She glances at Dorbentei—whose face has gone, for some reason, a little sour. Don’t lose, she mouths.
Dorbentei beats her chest again.
“On the count of three,” Sakura says. Barsalai stops pacing in favor of getting a better view—she’s standing at her wife’s s side, and Shizuka is petting her haunches.
“One.”
Burqila drapes Dorbentei’s deel over her horse.
“Two.”
The creak of metal as hundreds of guards flick their masks up to watch.
“Three!”
Rikuto shoots forward. For a figure so well defined, it is quick—in three steps, it’s closed most of the distance between the two of them. Like a bull it charges; like an arrow shooting through the air; like a colt struck with summer.
Dorbentei does not move.
Come on, she thinks, win this for me, you lug. Rikuto is taller than her, broader than her. If they make contact, its momentum alone is going to knock her to the ground, isn’t it? Sakura hasn’t seen much Qorin wrestling, though she’s counted a few Hokkaran wrestlers among her clients. They told her how often the match is won in this initial charge.
If Dorbentei doesn’t get lower, it’s going to bowl her over.
Sakura bites her lip again. Gamblers and singing girls are like sharks and the fish that clean them, yet gambling has never excited her.
Why is it, then, that she has decided to gamble with thousands of lives and the future of an Empire?
It must be her Minami blood.
Rikuto lets out a howl. It’s almost reached her, almost bowled her over; it ducks its head to get a better grip—
And at the last possible moment, Dorbentei strikes. In one smooth motion she steps to the right and grabs Rikuto’s shoulder. When she pivots her hips, its momentum carries it the rest of the way to the gr
ound.
Sakura’s heard of this move. It’s illegal in Hokkaran wrestling. Worse than illegal—anyone who attempts it is forbidden from wrestling again. Considering the ordeals many of them go to in order to get their bodies ready, it is near to a death sentence. There are dozens of former wrestlers who work for the Gem Lords of Nishikomi. Who else will employ them?
No Hokkaran wrestler would think to sidestep.
But a Qorin wrestler? A Qorin wrestler who knows how many lives are at stake? The Silver Steppes taught Dorbentei to survive, and that is precisely what she has done.
She throws up her hands with a grin. “Dorbentei Otgar, Demon-Wrestler! Hah!”
Burqila claps, tipping up her mask enough to let out an ear-piercing whistle; the army behind erupts into cheers. This time, Shizuka makes no motion to stop them. Sakura hears her let out a sigh of relief. Even the wolf Barsalai relaxes, settling at last on her forepaws.
But Sakura cannot bring herself to cheer, for there are plumes of smoke rising from Rikuto’s ears. Darker still goes its skin—it is the color of Axion wine now, a thing Sakura has seen only twice in her life.
“You…,” it says as it pushes itself off the ground. Dirt streaks its face; its nose is bent at an unnatural angle. “You cheating mongrel!”
Dorbentei is smart enough to take a few steps back—but not smart enough to keep her mouth shut. “I told you there weren’t any rules,” she says. “When it comes to the manly arts, it isn’t cheating if you win.”
Rikuto screams wordlessly, its throat and shoulders going taut with the gesture. For a moment Sakura thinks it is going to charge at Dorbentei. Shizuka must think the same—she reaches for her sword once more.
And Rikuto does indeed take a step toward Dorbentei, arms raised, mouth open with wrath.
Yet it is only the one step. Its body goes stiff as it tries to take a second. Again, it screams. It steps back and claws at its hair, stomping its feet like a petulant child.
“What’s the matter, Rikuto-yun?” says Otgar. “Can’t go back on your oath? What a shame!”
Blind with rage, the demon makes no answer. Before Sakura realizes what she is doing, she finds herself pressing up against Barsalai. The safest place to be in a situation like this is surely with the immortal wolf.
Shizuka is braver—she positions herself between Dorbentei and Rikuto, tilting the hilt of the Daybreak Blade so that it will be easier to draw.
“You swore an oath,” she says. “Best to fulfill your side of the bargain before your body turns on you.”
“Your master will hurt you,” rumbles Barsalai. Sakura feels each word in her lungs.
Still, Rikuto seethes. It is frothing at the mouth now, raking its own cheeks in its fury. “Cheater!” it repeats. “You cheating—”
“You agreed to the rules being ‘no rules,’” says Shizuka firmly. “Now, take us back to Iwa.”
Rikuto jabs a finger into Shizuka’s chest. Barslalai springs up. It does not take her more than two steps to reach Rikuto—and it takes her no effort at all to pick it up by biting the robes that hang at its waist. It dangles from her mouth like a dumpling in a wrapper.
“The next time we meet, Four-Petal, you shall die,” it says. The threat is less intimidating given the demon’s current position—but no less forceful. “I will see it happen. My oaths prevent me now, but I won’t make the same mistake twice. I will kill you. The Eternal King has no use for a pompous brat—”
Barsalai whips her head back and forth. Rikuto’s body twice slaps against the ground. Another wordless howl leaves it—but it reaches for its belt, and it pulls a fan from it.
“Go to Iwa, if you must,” it says. “You’ll never leave that city alive. Just you wait, Four-Petal, just you wait…”
The demon begins waving the fan over its head like an oversized sword. A gust of wind follows. Sakura staggers as the wind threatens to push her over.
“… Rikuto will have its revenge.”
It must be magic that transports them, for Sakura can hardly follow what happens. You must remember, she tells herself, but how can she remember this? The winds swirl stronger and stronger, until at last one final gust does knock her over. Out of reflex, she closes her eyes; out of reflex, she throws out her hands.
But when she lands, it is not on the dry ground of the mountains.
When she lands, it is on the banks of the river. Something lands with a heavy thud next to her, and something heavier a little distance away.
When she opens her eyes, she sees them.
The Qorin, the Phoenix Guard, and her family, all borne to the earth by violent winds. They hit the ground like overripe fruit—some will no doubt be hurt by the impact.
And yet they are alive.
It worked.
Her plan worked.
What she wouldn’t give for a sketchbook.
BARSALAI SHEFALI
SEVEN
Round ears.
That will be the easiest thing, Shefali tells herself, and so it is what she turns her attention to first. Already sweat clings to her forehead; already she can taste it on her lips. Still, she sits atop the grass-that-is-not-grass and focuses.
Round ears.
Rounder than Otgar’s, which are two gourds on either side of her face; not so round as Shizuka’s.
Cold pricks the points of her ears. Good. She closes her eyes, breathes in, draws the cold deeper and deeper into herself. Her lungs are full of it now.
Round ears.
A thought, a command. Cold shoots up her throat and blossoms in her skull. If she touched her eyebrows, she swears her fingers would stick to them. Plumes of vapor rise from her nostrils, curling up toward the false sky.
Shefali screws her face in concentration. Round, round, round. Closing her hands around wet sand and forming it, shaping it, becoming—
It hurts. She winces, her focus faltering for a moment; the cold leaves her and she must draw it back in with a hurried gasp.
Focus.
The ears are shaped. The rest must now follow: full cheeks, perfect for holding sweets; teeth shaped for properly biting into them. The cheeks are simple and do not pain her; each moving tooth is an agony that threatens her focus.
But she holds on. She must prove him wrong.
Brown skin, and not this sodden ash; she cannot risk opening her eyes to see if it is working, but she must assume that it is. She can feel the cold spreading out over her skin like frost over the Rokhon.
Hair the color of good hay, and not this limp, dull mess; a straight back and joints that do not pain her. Gone, the scars at her rib cage and throat; gone, the talons she calls her nails.
Everything falls into place.
This is the form she is meant to wear.
“There!” says Sakura. “You’ve got it, Barsalai, now just hold—”
An errant child wanders onto the ice. To impress his friends, who watch from the riverbank, he jumps up as high as he can. When his feet meet the ice, they kick straight through. The river swallows him.
So it is with Shefali’s focus, so it is with Sakura’s voice. The moment she thinks anything other than This is my body, she loses control. Her body shifts, changes: growing fangs puncture her gums; her spine bends like a reed; her joints go stiff, and her ears …
Even her ears are gone.
Stars burst behind her eyes, glass lines her throat, everything aches all at once. She doubles over before she knows what she is doing. The grass beneath her is not truly grass, but it is cool enough to remind her of what she has lost—she lies down, cradling her head. To breathe is to crack open her chest, to speak is to tear herself asunder—and so Barsalai Shefali whimpers.
Shizuka is with her in an instant—the warmth of her hand on Shefali’s back is unmistakable. Shefali sniffs. It’s no use—she cannot get Shizuka’s scent in this place. Another blow, another inhumanity inflicted upon her.
She musters all the strength she can to lay her head on Shizuka’s lap.
“Shef
ali,” her wife whispers. “Oh, my brave Shefali…”
“That’s the longest she’s managed to hold it,” says Sakura. “Thirty seconds, by my count.”
Thirty seconds? All of that for thirty seconds? If she had not already been doubled over in misery, that would have pushed her over the edge.
“Again,” Shefali rasps. “Held the Beast of Rassat for three minutes.”
Shizuka runs her fingertips through Shefali’s hair. She is careful not to muss the braids. “This is not the Beast of Rassat.”
“No, and that’s the fucking weird thing,” says Sakura. “The Beast, that’s shaping herself into whatever people call out and putting it all together. Impossible combinations. Creatures people have never seen. Should be harder to do that.”
“Her condition’s gotten worse,” says Shizuka, her voice going firm. “Is it necessary to perform these experiments? Look at how much pain she’s in—”
“I’m fine,” Shefali says. To convince the others, she tries to roll over—but it is only an attempt. Halfway through the motion, her shoulders cry out in agony, and she soon follows. It is a good thing they have gone half a li away from the army—surely the clan would have heard all her screaming otherwise.
“My love, I know you are as enduring as the mountains, but even mountains can crack. Please. We must rest.” Shizuka’s voice goes soft as she strokes Shefali’s cheeks, as she wipes the sweat from Shefali’s upper lip with an Imperial finger.
Shefali scowls as much as she can. It pains her. She does it anyway. “It’s my own form.”
“It’s your old form,” corrects Sakura. “If what Rikuto said is correct, then this is your new one.”
Shefali grunts. That demon—she understands now why Shizuka is so intent on killing it. The smugness, the arrogance! Worse than any northerner, worse than the Queen of Ikhtar, worse than anything Shefali faced in the Womb. Sakura’s explained to her by now her reasoning for the wrestling contest—she had to explain it to everyone—but something in Shefali still longs for its blood.
The Warrior Moon Page 26