The Warrior Moon

by K Arsenault Rivera

  “So spoke…,” Baozhai begins, but the sentence trails off. A look comes over her then, as if she were trying to recall something someone said to her in passing. “So spoke the Phoenix.”

  The Phoenix?

  Two words like two blows: the Phoenix. Baozhai’s come up with creative ways to address her in their years together, but never “the Phoenix.” “O Phoenix,” on occasion, when they met as equals—but never when introducing her to others. Never so casually. Baozhai’s lines were as clearly drawn as her eldest sister’s battle plans: she never mixed Shizuka the Sovereign with Shizuka the woman.

  And the Phoenix is certainly the Sovereign.

  “Baozhai,” she calls. Her voice cracks. “Baozhai, please. Can you hear me?”

  Wangzhi continues her carving—but Baozhai does look up. Not at the morning glories—at the sun.

  “Did you hear something?”

  “A bird,” answers Wangzhi. “Your Phoenix, perhaps. No one has seen a Phoenix in years, Sixth Sister. Including yours.”

  “The Phoenix was never mine,” Baozhai answers, but her brows are coming together; the ringed fingers of her right hand rise to her temple. “Can we speak of something else? My headache’s returning.”

  “You only get a headache when we talk about this,” says Wangzhi, sucking her teeth. “Very convenient.”

  “I have no control over my health,” Baozhai says. “We shall speak of another matter or we will not speak at all.”

  Wangzhi sighs. “Tell me about your violets then. You’re always eager to brag about them.”

  The violets. Ah, what pain—the violets! As Baozhai glances in their direction so too does Shizuka. There, a little up on the hills, protected from prying eyes by Baozhai’s prized wisteria tree: the violets. Only a week ago they’d stood at that very spot, only a week ago Baozhai had taken her hand and said—

  Shizuka’s throat aches. Remember, she pleads.

  But Baozhai’s eyes narrow. “In my mind they are so vibrant,” she says. “But when I look on them now…”

  The air thick with rain yet to fall. Baozhai’s eyes, the color of the giving earth itself, as her mouth shaped the words: Will you promise me more pleasant days?

  “You sound like one of our groundsmen,” says Wangzhi. “Seems all the flowers west of the Wall are giving up on bright colors.”

  “They’ll bloom again,” Baozhai says. “The way they used to. Perhaps for Baoyi’s coronation.”

  How the corners of Shizuka’s eyes ache; how her head pounds! Her lips tremble and once more she calls out: “I swore to you!”

  But only silence follows.

  Shizuka’s breath is starting to go ragged again. What does any of this mean? If it is a vision—then from whom? If it is not …

  She does not want to consider what it might mean if it is not a vision. If it is happening at this very moment, then …

  When is this moment?

  How long have they been over the Wall? There’s talk of Baoyi’s coronation, which can’t be until Shizuka returns—but no one seems to remember her. If she is old enough for a coronation she must be a young woman already.

  Shizuka swallows. Baozhai cannot hear her—it’s no use sitting here with the flower, hoping to catch her attention. If there is something wrong, it is better to know sooner rather than later.

  And she knows exactly how she will find her answer.

  Shizuka unwraps the vine around her wrist. In a small pouch she wears around her neck, she keeps the violets, the ones she grew that day at dinner. In spite of its musty home and in spite of how long it’s been in the dark, they’re as bright as ever. She plucks one of the flowers from the bunch.

  There are centuries of texts on Hokkaran swordplay, and centuries more of techniques passed solely through word of mouth. Every minute of every day of her youth, she studied whatever she could find. How to hold her sword (as if she were holding a bird in hand), the proper distance between her and her enemy (two shaku), the five stars and three points by which all men might die—Shizuka knows all of this.

  But there are no scrolls on how to be a god, no wizened old women to beat her with switches until she learns.

  Holding the violet does not seem to have the same effect as holding the morning glory. Frustration mounts. What is she meant to do?

  “Show me my niece,” she says. Commanding things is in her nature.

  Yet the violet is cheeky, and does not listen immediately. Her vision swims with streaks of gold and jade; she sees strips of the palace she called home for so many awful years. There: her grandfather’s headless statue; there: the spot where her bare feet scorched the tiles.

  “Show me,” Shizuka repeats. She draws a breath, reaches for the fire, clears her mind as much as she can. All of it is right there within her reach if only she can—

  There.

  Her duelist’s calm rushes over her. The image stills.

  She knows this room, but that is a foregone conclusion. She knows every room of the Jade Palace. Even so, this one is particularly close to her heart, for it is the room her parents once shared. There on the wall is the saddle Burqila Alshara gave to her mother. Her father’s writing desk sits in the corner to the right; what remains of one of his writing sets lies atop it, clean and free of dust. Visions of Nishikomi decorate the screen that separates the sleeping area from the eating. Nishikomi lives, too, in the painted swamp lilies that decorate the room.

  Though she cannot truly feel this place, her memories fill in for her senses—the faint scent of incense from the censers as the priests call the Bells, the mat against the soles of her bare feet. Her throat closes, though she is not sure why—perhaps it is the aura of this place.

  Perhaps it is the girl who kneels in front of the shrine at the center of it. Poet’s Promise Violet robes are expensive enough, but to dapple them with Xianese patterning? In Imperial Gold? Shizuka shrinks to think of the cost. And on one so young! Pale hair, worn childishly loose, pools onto the floor behind her. Bent over as the girl is in obeisance, Shizuka cannot see the color of her skin—but she does not need to.

  Baoyi.

  But taller now, older. Somehow.

  A familiar sensation—pressure behind her eyes, her nose watering, Minami Shizuka takes a single step forward before falling to her knees. Baoyi was scarcely knee high when they left, and this girl—this girl must stand twelve hands tall. In another year, she will tower over Shizuka.

  How long has it been?

  “Baoyi,” Shizuka says.

  Baoyi shoots up, her hair fanning out behind her. The sight of her face! Shizuka’s heart aches. Her niece is only a girl of six—this girl is at least ten. And already she has begun shaving her brows, already she wears the ornaments of her station, already she—

  What has Shizuka done to her? For she knows that weight better than anyone—and she has laid it upon a child? Did she, in her longing to secure her Empire, ruin Baoyi’s life? How could she have done this—?

  In Baoyi’s shocked expression, Shizuka sees her own self.

  And so when her niece asks her who she is, she does not at all register the question. Her own sorrow consumes her, overwhelms her senses: she has shackled Baoyi to a throne she never asked for.

  “Who are you?”

  It is the second repetition that breaks through to Shizuka—the second repetition that wounds her. The fear in Baoyi’s voice! She has scrambled backwards, her hand raised as if to fend off a knife, her green eyes wide.

  “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

  Is it—has Shizuka manifested as something strange? She glances down at herself. No, she’s manifested in the same armor she wears at the present moment beyond the Wall. She isn’t even wearing her war mask. Why is it that…?

  “Baoyi,” she repeats. It is a difficult thing to keep her voice calm and soothing when her soul is in such disarray. “Don’t you recognize your aunt?”

  “My aunt?” says Baoyi. Her brows are coming together over her eyes—far
darker green than Shefali’s or Kenshiro’s. She is reaching for something on the table, something Shizuka cannot see given the distance between them.

  A distance she does not dare close.

  “Yes,” Shizuka says. It hurts to have to say it at all. “Your father’s sister’s wife. Minami Shizuka.” How cold it sounds to phrase it that way. “Aunt Zuzu. You remember, don’t you? I … I picked out your name.”

  Shizuka’s soul hangs on a thread. Baoyi holds the knife. With one word she can sever it, if she so choses.

  Remember, Shizuka thinks. All of her self she pours into that singular thought.

  Who is she if her family does not remember her? If her people do not remember her? Minami Shizuka has never existed—only the Empress, only the Phoenix, only the woman they needed her to be. How much has she sacrificed to the Empress?

  And now, for her own niece to fail to recognize her …

  Shizuka waits. She waits, and she watches, for that is all she can do.

  Baoyi gets to her feet. She is taller than Shizuka imagined, broad about the shoulders. All the commotion’s made one of her hair ornaments slip. And then, like a kite slowly lowering to the ground—confusion gives way to recognition.

  “Aunt … I…” Baoyi stares down at her hand and Shizuka sees, then, what it was she was reaching for: the violets. One of which has shriveled in her palm. “You gave me these, didn’t you?”

  “I did!” says Shizuka. “Before I left for the Wall. I told you that if you ever needed help, you only had to call, and I would hear you.”

  The young regent continues looking at the flowers. That furrow in her brow, that tension in her posture—much as Shizuka’s heart leaps at the barest memory, they are not yet truly reunited.

  “The Phoenix gave me these violets,” she says quietly.

  “I did,” Shizuka says. Her voice cracks. “Baoyi, it was me. O-Shizuka-shal. Empress Yui, if you prefer—aren’t I in the records?”

  Another long moment passes. If she wanted to, Baoyi could have called for the guards—that she has not is a good sign.

  Please, Shizuka thinks but does not say.

  “My aunt is the Phoenix,” says Baoyi, more to herself than to Shizuka. Still, there is no doubt to her voice.

  “Yes,” Shizuka says. “I was the Phoenix Empress when I left, but what is another new name? None of them matter to me.” Now that she has begun, it is hard to stop—she has uncorked a bottle and she will pour until it is empty. “My people matter to me. My family matters to me. I was … I visited your mother, just now, and—Baoyi, tell me. Please, I must know: How long have you been living in the Jade Palace?”

  Baoyi blinks. She lays the living violets back on the table, pinching the dead between two fingers and holding it up in front of her. She sniffs at the blackened flower and frowns.

  “Father keeps track of it better than I do. Eight years, I think. I heard him say the other day that he hadn’t seen his sister in that long, and I thought that was odd. I didn’t know he had a sister. Are you her?”

  Didn’t know he had a sister.

  Shizuka starts. The Jade Palace bubbles around her as she struggles to keep focus. Shefali is within two shaku—what if she heard? It would crush her. Only force of will is keeping Shizuka together at all.

  “I … I see,” says Shizuka. Like fireflies flickering in the night: questions blinking in and out of her mind. How is she meant to choose? Why has she come? If Baoyi is not in danger—and it does not seem as if she is—then what else is there to say? Look at how she’s holding herself—this visit isn’t bringing her any comfort. Shizuka isn’t bringing her any comfort. “Eight years. How…”

  Pain contorts Baoyi’s face, as if a blow has struck her from behind. Every corner of Shizuka’s body goes taut with trepidation—but the moment passes, and Baoyi fixes her in her gaze once more.

  “You went away,” she says. “You … you and Aunt Shefa. You told me to watch for the sun and moon.”

  The corners of Shizuka’s eyes ache with tears she cannot possibly shed. Her nostrils flare. “Yes,” she chokes out.

  “Why haven’t you come home?” Baoyi asks. “You and my aymay—my father’s sister. All of the other Qorin, too. If you’re a god, now, why haven’t you come home? There are so few of us left that sometimes I wonder how long we will even last.”

  Conversations are much like duels.

  Baoyi has just attacked with an unknown stroke.

  Shizuka falters. She opens her mouth and nothing comes out, for how is she to explain the reality of the situation? She would come home if she could, but going back to Hokkaro now would take as much time as going to Iwa. And she cannot allow the Traitor to continue living—not when his hands are stained with the blood of countless Qorin. Not when her own veins are clotted with his rank influence.

  She cannot come home.

  But how is she to explain that to her niece? To a girl who has had her childhood torn away with her eyebrows?

  “I am sorry,” Shizuka says. Her throat aches. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” says Baoyi. A sneer rises on her lip. “Papa must have lied about you. He said you’re a hero.”

  Even as a child, Baoyi had been far too like Shizuka. It should come as no surprise that she has a sharp tongue.

  “Baoyi—”

  “That isn’t my name anymore!” says the girl, her voice full of fire. “My people call me Princess Yuuko, and since you won’t come home to your family—that’s what you can call me, too.”

  Yuuko. How does she spell it? Courageous, permanent, reason, leading? So many ways … and yet it is not the name Shizuka gave her. It was not precious ambition.

  The vision of the Jade Palace flickers around her.

  “O-Yuuko-shan—no. O-Yuuko-shal. Forgive me for abandoning you. I had no idea it would take this much time—but you must understand I cannot give up on my mission. The arrow’s already in flight.”

  Baoyi’s eyes are glistening. Shizuka swallows down a wave of envy and shame. “That means more to you than we do?” says Baoyi.

  No. No, nothing could ever mean more to Shizuka than her loved ones.

  But duty is not about what is important to a single person. It is not about wants and desires; it is not about personal pleasure.

  It is about doing what is right. Too long Shizuka had put her own selfish desires before the right thing, the just thing. Those four years she could have been fixing the Empire, lost instead to drink and her own nightmares.

  But now, in the distance, she can hear the horns that wake the Qorin every morning.

  “Call for me if you have need,” says Shizuka. “And I will answer.”

  Like the rippling water of a pond—the room around her. Even as the image flickers, even as she feels herself growing distant, Baoyi remains.

  “You won’t,” she says. “And neither will I.”

  Shizuka closes her eyes.

  When Shizuka opens again, she is once more beyond the Wall. Death surrounds her in its blossom mask. The air smells of rot. On the horizon are the towers of Iwa, where her ancestor lies waiting for her.

  He wants to speak to you, Rikuto said. You can roam wherever you like.…

  She knows now the cruelty of this offer. Even if she accepted, the world she returns to will not remember her.

  Minami Shizuka has never existed.

  Soon, Empress Yui won’t, either.

  The crown that she’s worn all her life has passed to another.

  Why, then, doesn’t she feel any lighter?

  MINAMI SAKURA

  FIVE

  Sakura’s never dealt with an army before, but she’s dealt with a mob of angry sailors, and those are basically the same thing. At least the army’s sober. Mostly. The Qorin are fond of their rotten milk.

  Wandering from camp to camp, from ger to ger, wearing her Imperial Gold robes and asking people to surrender their weapons—it shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. What if she’s one of the enemy wearing someone e
lse’s skin? Why aren’t they more suspicious of her?

  Probably because they’ve been out here for a week or more already, and there’s been only one battle. Because the Qorin are busy mourning their dead and the Phoenix Guard are listening to their captains outline exactly what went wrong in the woods. Because they have better things to do than worry about Minami Sakura. Because if an attack happens, their unblessed weapons are worthless, anyway.

  But Sakura doesn’t say any of that when she comes to ask for their weapons. All she says is that it needs to be done, and most of them are content enough to listen. Say something nicely enough, and most people will go along with it—that’s the greatest secret there is when it comes to social interaction.

  The trick is that “nicely enough” varies from group to group.

  The Phoenix Guard want you to come to them and bow and speak properly, without any of the slang Sakura’s used to. They want honorifics and arcane pronoun use and recognition of their ranks. She isn’t fond of that—not by any stretch—but she can make it work. Captain Munenori, after all, started life out as a sailor. Sakura wheedled that bit out of him before they left Nishikomi. Two cups of rice wine was all it took.

  And she knows how to work sailors.

  So it’s all smiles and innuendo with him, all false modesty. Why, Captain, what are you talking about? That is what he expects from her—perhaps what he expects of all women who aren’t the Empress—and so that is what she gives him.

  Because she has convinced him, she has convinced all the others—it only takes mentioning that First Company has already surrendered their weapons. Those transactions go much quicker; she hardly needs to use her fan for them at all. “Honored Lieutenant, her Serene Imperial Majesty the Daughter of Heaven asks that you follow First Company’s lead…”

  Easy as scallion pancakes.

  But the Qorin? Oh, the Qorin are a different story altogether. The first ger she visits is overseen by a woman two years short of a hundred if she’s a day, so wizened and small that Sakura assumes at first she is a wooden statue her family has inexplicably chosen to bring beyond the Wall. Her first words startle Sakura right out of her skin. There she is, talking to a lumbering man who insists his name is Big Mongke—which is not the same as Fat Mongke, and certainly not Strong Mongke—when that old woman pipes up.