The Warrior Moon

by K Arsenault Rivera

  To keep real flowers in a place like this is an intolerable vanity. A weakness. An opportunity.

  If I call, will you heed me? she asks them as she passes.

  If you call, we are yours, answers the marigold.

  Men have long discounted flowers. Rikuto seems like the sort to follow in their footsteps, though it is not quite a human man. If she calls for the flowers to strangle it, they will listen.

  Ah, but it does not have her mother’s sword. Where is the demon keeping it? Shizuka cannot kill it until the Daybreak Blade is back in her possession.

  But it is a comfort all the same, as she passes the garden, to know this will be the place it dies.

  The terrace rises ahead of them. A cool wind whips through her hair, and she realizes she has not bound it as a married woman should. Guilt is a poison at the back of her throat: Has she forgotten her vows already?

  No, no.

  Vengeance for her wife, justice for her people—these are her goals now. These will keep her warm at night.

  Eighty-eight steps up to the terrace itself, each engraved with a line from the Mandates.

  On Earth as in Heaven, the will of the Father is supreme.

  Death comes for all warriors. Do not falter when you hear the nightjar sing.

  Never bare your teeth.

  Shizuka knows them, all of them, and she hates them, all of them. There is so much hate within her that she fears it will consume her as the fire consumed the idols. What will remain of her once all of this is over with? Once she has slain this man and his cohorts, once she has righted the wrongs of her ancestors?

  Does it matter?

  A melody, achingly familiar. View from Rolling Hills—a crack in her soul. How dare he? Her father’s most famous poem, written on the subject of returning home after war, set to music by a famed pacifist her uncle had executed—playing in a place like this?

  She hesitates on the next step—but she takes it anyway. An Empress continues when there is nothing left.

  At last she summits the stairs, at last she sees them: the Traitor sitting on the northern side of the squared table. The biwa players on the eastern side, accompanied by flute and shamisen.

  Her father sitting to the west in deep blue robes.

  Now, truly, she stops; now, truly, she staggers. Her mouth hangs open at the sight of him. It cannot really be him—she knows it cannot really be him. Twelve years her father has been dead, twelve years since she took the Daybreak Blade to her own mother’s throat. It cannot be him.

  And yet she knows that it is. The years have put gray in his hair; the crows he wrote so much about have left their prints on either side of his eyes—but it is him. Twelve years and he still wears his pate unshaved; twelve years and, when he looks at her, his eyes are the same shade of honeyed amber.

  And he does look at her. Their eyes meet across the expanse of the terrace and he rises, the wind whipping his hair into his face. A smile—his smile, his easy grin—disarms her more surely than any enemy she has ever faced. Instead of bowing, he waves, and when he speaks, her feet of clay shatter.

  “Shizuru,” he says. “You’ve finally returned to me.”

  It is journeying eight years for a phoenix feather only to discover that you are dying and the phoenix cannot help you.

  It is avenging your cousin only to drown a province in the process.

  It is her childhood hero, her mother, lying on a soiled bed and crying out for her husband.

  For the second time that day—that hour—the pressure behind her eyes is almost too much to bear; for the second time that day, she takes hiccuping breaths to try to steady herself.

  Her father’s joy dissolves into concern. He rushes to her side and throws an arm around her. With a lurch, she realizes that he even smells the same as he used to: old paper and floral perfumes.

  “Shizuru?” he says. “Zuru, what’s wrong?”

  The worry in his voice! The concern! Shizuka is trying to breathe, but there is only water to fill her lungs, only this awful false relief. Her father is here with her, but he doesn’t …

  He wraps his arms around her as she hiccups, as she starts to shake.

  “Listen to me,” he says, stroking her hair. “Whatever happened in that cave is behind us. We’re together now, you and I. Nothing will tear us apart again. I’m going to have a word with my brother, Zuru, I swear I will. What he did to you—”

  “Father,” O-Shizuka croaks, though she cannot bring herself to tear herself away from, cannot bring herself to leave the embrace she has missed for so many years.

  O-Itsuki, Poet Prince, lets out the quiet laugh he was so well known for. “Father?”

  Tearing herself away from the comfort and safety of her father’s arms is tearing her heart out anew. She does it all the same, because it must be done, and holds him at arm’s length. Her eyes meet his. It occurs to her that she takes after him far more than she’s ever taken after her mother—his delicate brow, his cheekbones, his eyes. There is so little of her mother.

  How can he mistake the two of them?

  For recognition does not dawn on him even as he studies her. His brows narrow over his Imperial eyes, and he purses his lips. “Zuru,” he says, leaning forward to whisper behind his hand. “Is this about our guest?”

  Guest?

  Like a moth drawn inexorably to a flame: Shizuka’s gaze and the Traitor’s self-satisfied eyes. He sits in the proper style, having not moved at all during this exchange, save for the slightest quirk of his lips.

  “Pay me no mind,” he says.

  For once, she is inclined to listen to him—the issue of her father is more pressing to her than the Traitor’s presence. There are shards in her throat as she swallows, as she tries to summon the words.

  “Father,” she says, “It’s me. Shizuka. Your little tigress.”

  Using the old nickname feels like baring herself before both men. The pleased sound the Traitor makes! The way he opens his fan in spite of the wind! He holds it before his face to hide his wolfish grin, she can tell. The flames of her hatred burn hotter than ever—and yet she cannot give them any control when her father is before her again.

  This is a trick of some sort. She knows it must be and yet hope has conquered her good sense like Chen Luoyi conquered the South. There is little left of reason, little left of the Empress—only the childlike need for her father to call her name.

  To recognize her.

  If all the others forget her—that is the price she was born to pay. If her names are struck from the Imperial records, if no shrine ever bears the characters for “quiet” and “excellence”—then that, too, would be bearable. It would be fate.

  But for her father to return to her … The way he’s looking at her now! As if he is trying to consider whether or not she is joking—and if she is, then he must consider what to do with her.

  “Please,” she says when he does not answer her. “Please, Father. You remember, don’t you? Your daughter?”

  Please. She thinks this word over and over until it becomes a prayer, though she knows there is no one to hear it but she herself.

  “How could I ever forget my morning sun?” he says, and for a moment her heart leaps—but the next sentence is the arrow that finds the bounding hare. “She is safe on the steppes; Burqila-lao will be returning with her any day now.”

  Careful, his words; cautious, his tone. If he were speaking to a madwoman, he might use the same voice he uses now. So much is unspoken: You haven’t forgotten, have you, Shizuru? She is safe and we are not.

  And it is the most awful thing in the world to know that her father is speaking from a place of perfect earnestness. This is no illusion she wears. There is no magic cloaking her.

  He simply doesn’t remember.

  He has been to war and war has broken him, and now he contents himself with living in this mockery, this farce. She knows that distant look in his eyes; she knows the way he hesitates before speaking; she knows that tremble in his fing
ers.

  He is afraid of the things she has forgotten—just as she is afraid of the water.

  And it would be a simple thing to tell him the truth. I am not my mother, because my mother has been dead for twelve years. She died screaming for you, mistaking me for you. I am your daughter. That man is the Traitor, and we are both his prisoners.

  Yet Shizuka knows that he would not listen. He has sealed himself up in some chamber of his mind where he can see only one part of the world, one part of reality, and if something should come by to shatter that window—well. He will have it repaired.

  As her father stares at her, as the Traitor looks on in amusement, as the servants lay out the rice and light broth—has she ever felt more alone?

  Her only home lies headless in a cave hundreds of li away; her people live on in bliss without her over the Wall; her family has forgotten her.

  And it occurs to her then, in all its bleak glory, in all its austere truth: this is her punishment.

  Itsuki takes her hand.

  “Come to breakfast,” he says. “Our guest was just telling me about his theater company. You must have seen the puppets in Nishikomi—it is he who invented them! What marvels!”

  He takes her to the table, where he helps her sit on the southern side before taking his place on the west. He kisses her on the forehead and he places a hand on the small of her back.

  She draws away from him as if from a hot iron. Struck, he shrinks, his shoulders slumping.

  “Shizuru?” he says. There is such hurt in his voice.

  How long has he been waiting for his wife’s return?

  She can’t even cry. What sort of horrible person is she if she cannot even cry over this?

  “She is just hungry,” says the Traitor. “Women have flighty spirits, O-Itsuki-lor; it is important that we tether them whenever possible.”

  His eyes find hers again. Her skin crawls and something in her dies, even as Itsuki defends her.

  “I am not in the practice of tethering women,” he says, “nor do I think it a man’s place to do so.”

  He is a good man, Shizuka thinks, and that is the worst part of all of this.

  The servants set a bowl of rice before her.

  By the time breakfast is over with, she has not eaten a single grain.

  THE WARRIOR MOON

  TWO

  Barsalai Shefali has never been much for talking—or at least she never had been before she died. She finds it comes to her easily now. Perhaps it is because she is no longer telling only her own story—perhaps it is because she speaks for the souls of all those who granted her this new body. It is always easier to do something unpleasant when you are doing it for someone else’s sake.

  For the better part of a Bell she has spoken, and Minami Sakura has listened. The two of them sit in Otgar’s ger, away from the others, to record the story of the first of Qurukai. Barsalai Shefali’s voice is clear as the night sky above the Silver Steppes.

  “The Mother said to me that I could not hope to reach the far island. You may be inclined to agree with her. It is well known that the Qorin have never been fond of swimming, and I am no exception—”

  “Catch your dogs.”

  The voice is as abrupt as it is exhausted. Otgar, it must be—and a quick sniff of the air confirms it. Shefali stops mid-sentence, a stoic sort of resignation overtaking her pride, her serenity when it came to the story at hand.

  Sakura, too, stops transcribing mid-motion. The long hours of sleeplessness have not worn on her. There is a simple reason for this: Shefali has not allowed them to. Within the confines of this ger, they are within her domain, within her realm of night, and she has decided that Sakura will not tire here. That is all it takes: a decision, an exertion of her own will. Sakura will not tire.

  And so she doesn’t.

  But there are other forms of exhaustion. Though her body is hale and her mind is clear, the memories eat away at her behind her eyes. Shefali can smell her despair, her fear, her worry. They mingle on the back of her tongue. When she looks up to the door, it is not with the sardonic grin she so often wore before they were attacked on the first—it is the face of a soldier’s wife awaiting the worst.

  “That’s Dorbentei, isn’t it?” she says. Her voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

  Shefali nods. She reaches out and squeezes Sakura’s shoulder, forgetting for a moment how Hokkarans feel about physical contact. When Sakura flinches, Shefali draws back her hand.

  “To survive is Qorin,” Shefali says to her. “Otgar will be all right in time.”

  The words don’t seem to soothe Sakura much—but there’s a lightening in her scent all the same. At times like this, that’s all Shefali can ask for. She stands, looking on the marvel of the ger with pride for a moment before calling her cousin in. The starry skies of the steppes replace the white felt walls Otgar beat into existence. Comets streak across from one side to the other and back.

  Some might say that it is sacrilege, what she is doing, that it is blasphemy to trap the Sky, but she knows better.

  She is the Sky.

  It is only fitting that her surroundings should reflect this.

  And yet she knows it will be an overwhelming sight for Otgar in her current state. Her cousin has never been fond of Shefali’s godly antics. With a sad thought, Shefali dismisses the vision of the heavens. Sakura slumps over a little on her chair, struck by a sudden tiredness.

  “There aren’t any dogs, Otgar,” Shefali says.

  The red door opens. “I know there aren’t,” says Otgar. Not in the mood for any banter, it seems, and Shefali cannot blame her for it—but that does not make the look on Otgar’s face any less painful. The roundness that is so well suited to bawdy jokes makes her look childish now in the depths of her sorrow. She wipes at her runny nose with her blood-streaked sleeve.

  And it is a strange thing, to be a god—to be the god of the Qorin especially. Barsalai Shefali, who was Needlenose and Laughing Fox, wants to comfort her cousin. The Warrior Moon knows it is better to let her find her own path—to point out the proper paths to her and hope that she will follow them.

  The newborn god takes the middle route: she embraces Otgar only long enough to sniff both her cheeks, and then sits across from Sakura near the firepit. It does not escape her notice the way Otgar and Sakura look at each other—the way Sakura averts her eyes. Much is unspoken between the two of them.

  Today will not be a day for speaking it.

  “Are there any reports?” says the Moon. It is strange, to be so forward, but she finds that it is easy now. She feels as if she has been wearing blinders for years. Why had she ever feared this? These are her people. They love her. They always have, in their own way.

  “Do you think I’d be here if there weren’t any?” Otgar says. A cutting tone. Barsalai tells herself that it is not Otgar speaking but her anger, not Otgar but her grief. It is a simple enough thing for her to accept—she has lived a life surrounded by grief—but Sakura flinches at the sound of Otgar’s voice.

  “No,” answers Shefali. “What have the scouts found?”

  Like diverting a river to flood a battlefield—it will take time, but being direct is the best path.

  Otgar sniffs again. She reaches into the chest pocket of her deel for a Surian pipe stuffed with kuulsar. Sakura is the one who gives her a light—she takes a branch from the firepit and holds it out to Otgar, who throws it back into the cinders when she is done with it. The sweet scent soon fills the ger. It is enough to overwhelm Shefali’s senses—she can see not only the plant but also the woman who picked it—and yet she says nothing to dissuade her cousin. Otgar needs her comforts.

  “The city’s a fucking waste,” Otgar says. “Half-empty.”

  “Half-empty?” repeats Sakura. “But that can’t be. We saw that demon’s army, and we know the Traitor has more Qorin working for him within the walls of Iwa. How can it be half-empty?”

  “I don’t know,” says Otgar, chewing on the stem of
her pipe, “but I’m telling you what they told me. I think maybe he’s planning for something. Another fucking trap. Burqila and the crane are talking about it.”

  And yet if Otgar is here, that means Dalaansuv is the one interpreting for Burqila, and Shefali knows that cannot mean anything good. Dalaansuv can hardly keep up with her older sister’s signing. That Otgar would choose to be here and not in the Kharsa’s ger …

  “We should join them,” says Shefali.

  Otgar shakes her head. “Got a problem just for you, Your Eternal Majesty.” The honorific leaves her like a curse.

  This is not Otgar talking, Shefali tells herself again.

  “Needlenose,” Shefali corrects.

  Otgar does not laugh—but something behind her eyes softens and she lets out a sigh. “Needlenose, then. Do you want me to bring them here, or do you want to come out and see them?”

  She isn’t sure to whom Otgar refers, but she is sure of what she means. If Shefali leaves the ger, she may be mobbed again. Word of her transformation spread quickly—how could it not?—and the remaining Qorin were eager for Shefali’s blessings. Eager to see her at all, really. She’d done what she could to help the survivors. Healing was not within her realm of command, but hardiness was; she could grant her people the strength to endure their injuries with a bit of kumaq and some kind words. She’d done this for everyone who asked. It had taken the better part of her evening.

  If she leaves the ger again now, they may ask her for another helping.

  She would be fine with that in any other circumstance—but the army must be moving soon. Shizuka is somewhere within the city, trapped somewhere in the towers of Iwa. To think of the horrors she might be enduring sours Shefali’s stomach to no small end; they cannot simply sit idle while it happens.

  They have to save her.

  And, more important to the Qorin and the world at large, they must kill the Traitor and his foul servants.

  “Bring them in,” Shefali says.

  Otgar nods. She stands again and heads for the door. Sakura hops up after her, though her tiredness lends her limbs a clumsiness Shefali isn’t used to seeing from her. The two of them don’t talk about it as they leave—Otgar simply glances over her shoulder and nods.