by Devin Madson
‘You have the same choice now as you did before,’ Katashi said.
‘And what is that? Marry you or die?’
‘You wanted to marry me once. I am still the same man, Hana. Just think, together we have an indisputable claim to the throne. We are pure Otakos. Our children will be pure Otakos.’
I wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to take him by the throat and squeeze until some semblance of sense returned. Everything had changed. I had changed. I would rather die a hundred deaths than marry Katashi now, but I had no great wish to be executed for stupidity. So, swallowing my anger, I replied: ‘And what of my demands?’
Katashi had been scowling, but his expression lightened at this, and I caught sight of the man he had once been — strong, open, inspiring, fond of teasing me, of teaching me; the big cousin who had filled my world. ‘How cruel fate was when you were not born a man,’ he mocked. ‘But that cock you want isn’t going to grow. I’ll let you have your place on the Council. As to the rest, we’ll talk.’
He crouched in front of me, elbows resting on spread knees. I flinched as he slid a knife from his sash, and his grin widened. But taking hold of my hands, he just cut my bonds, before leaning over to slice the rope at my ankles.
He sat back again and I rubbed the raw skin around my wrists, suppressing the urge to run. I would be lucky to make it a dozen steps before I was brought back, bound even tighter. Katashi had to be faced.
‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘What will it be, Hana?’
‘We’ll talk.’
His laugh was so much Monarch’s that my heart constricted. I had loved him with such fervour, but he was not the same man.
There was satisfaction in his smile as he stood, returning his knife to his sash. ‘Yes,’ he said, striding over to sit upon a low throne. ‘We will talk when I present you Kin’s head.’
His eyes glittered. The throne was little more than a chair made grand with hung silks, but with him sitting upon it there was no doubting the position he held. Monarch. Emperor. But he was an emperor in hate, not love. He would burn the world alive for revenge.
The words of an old saying came to mind. Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. But it wasn’t his own grave he was digging, it was Kisia’s.
One of Katashi’s guards came in, breathless, grinning as he bowed. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘The men have returned from Esvar. They got the freaks.’
Esvar? I tensed, gripping the edge of my short robe, my eyes turning toward Kimiko. Something was wrong. She had helped Darius escape from Koi, I was sure, but now her cheeks were pale. She rose quickly, eyes darting to the doorway. A dagger had been thrust through the black silk of her sash and her hand strayed toward it.
A low-voiced conversation sounded outside, and a pair of Katashi’s soldiers entered, pushing two men ahead of them. Shoved before his captor, Darius walked in first, almost unrecognisable beneath a layer of blood. A nest of oozing cuts marred one cheek, his blood smeared up into his hair where it had dried in tangled clumps. A simple robe hung loosely off his body — dishevelled and splattered, the hem torn and the tail of his sash trailing along the floor behind him.
Malice looked worse. Something akin to a bloody handprint was smudged across his features and his hair was loose and tangled, strands sticking to his face, his lips, his robe. He dragged his leg every step, half slumped, owning no energy to look about him. Darius was not so inflicted. Those violet eyes took in everything, a strange smile twisting his blood-blackened lips.
Kimiko froze as his eyes found her, his lips lilting into a strange smile.
One of the guards pointed at the floor. ‘Bow,’ he said.
Darius did so, every movement full of graceful mockery. It was not the bow of a subject to his emperor, but of one lord addressing another. Malice didn’t move. His captor repeated the order, and when he still did not bow, the man kicked him in the back of the knee. Malice hit the floor heavily, a pained grunt all the sign he was alive at all.
‘They killed the captain,’ the soldier said. ‘With their hands and nothing else.’
Very slowly, Kimiko stepped back, the horror in her face like nothing I had ever seen.
‘Ah, Whoreson Laroth,’ Katashi said, looking down at Malice. ‘You were exiled from Kisia under pain of death, yet I find you within my borders. You will be executed immediately for your transgression.’
Slumping forward, Malice began to laugh softly.
‘Lord Darius Laroth,’ Katashi continued. ‘My sweet sister has begged me to spare your life, but to earn my mercy you must kneel and take the Oath of Allegiance, swearing your fealty to me as your emperor. If not, you, too, will be executed immediately for daring to even look at her.’
Darius stared back, the blood on his face giving him a demonic look. ‘I did a lot more than just look at her, Divine Bleeder,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘And I will swear no allegiance to you or anyone.’
Katashi spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Then I will execute both of you Larothian dogs and have done!’
‘Shall I send for your headsman, Majesty?’ asked one of the kneeling soldiers.
‘No. Bring me a sword and I will do it myself.’
‘No, Katashi, you can’t!’
Katashi glared at his sister. ‘And why can’t I, sweet whore? I’m the emperor and they are traitors, freaks that need to be destroyed.’
‘Because–’
She stopped speaking, as though the words had been stolen from her lips. Her eyes widened. Her hand twitched toward her dagger. It was a step to Katashi’s throne and she gripped his hair, yanking back his head as she pressed the sharp blade to his throat.
The guards half rose, but she tightened her grip and glared at them, the blade indenting Katashi’s skin. ‘Don’t move or I’ll slit his throat.’
Chapter 20
The ink felt heavy on my skin, as impossible to forget as the slow-healing scab upon my cheek. The mark on my arm had begun to itch.
A horse carried me through the night, my body rocking with its gait. It felt like Kaze, but I could not be sure, could not touch him. A voice spoke nearby. Someone laughed. Every breath filled the bag with hot, damp air, and every step made the arrow in my arm wobble, tearing the skin little by little.
Darius had said I must not care.
Calm.
The horse lurched forward as though stepping into a ditch, and the arrow bounced. A barb cut free of my skin. I retched, and leaning over I tried to vomit down so as to miss the bag, but although I heard a splatter hit the ground it was all over me, stinking and foul.
Calm.
The men were laughing. ‘Fine thing for a prince,’ they jeered. ‘Oh, right, he’s just a bastard.’
The arrow was slowly working its way free. I could feel it twisting and loosening with every step, cutting threads of flesh.
Another jolt and I retched again, the sour smell of bile sticking to me.
There were more voices. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but we seemed to slow. A whispered conversation hissed past me, the words a breath of wind. There were no numbers, no thoughts on my tongue. There were men out there, a whole empire full of souls whose minds were a touch away and yet here I sat, blind and useless.
Normal.
Darius had said it would get easier.
Calm.
I could have hurt Katashi.
‘Calm,’ I muttered to myself. ‘You don’t want to kill everyone.’
‘Shut up,’ someone hissed.
‘All right, so maybe you do.’ I continued whispering to myself. ‘But how long until you’re just like Malice?’
‘Someone shut him up. Kin’s scouts are out there.’
‘I don’t care,’ I returned. ‘You’re taking me to him anyway, aren’t you? Hey, scouts!�
�� I shouted through the darkness of my sick-stained bag. ‘Lovely evening, don’t you think?’
Someone punched my right arm, the jolt causing the arrow in my left to tear free. I hissed through gritted teeth, the sting sending my head spinning.
‘His arrow fell out,’ one of my escort whispered.
‘Then put it back in.’
‘Hey! Wait. No!’ I twisted in the saddle, causing the horse to back.
‘I don’t have a bow with me.’
‘So? Just twist it back in.’
The sound of hoofbeats drew closer. ‘What are you fools shouting about?’ A new voice now.
‘The bastard shouted. And his arrow has fallen out. Frit says I’ve got to put it back in.’
‘Did your mothers bang your heads against the wall when you were born?’ the newcomer asked. ‘Stick the arrow through his sash and bring him along. They’re waiting for him.’
Someone landed on the road. Fingers tugged at my sash and the long arrow was slid through, its form unyielding.
We were travelling to Kin’s camp, I knew, but without Sight I had to listen for little sounds. A whisper. A whinny. The rustle of shifting fabric. A clink. Then the snap of a banner in the wind. And then I could imagine hundreds of eyes watching me, hundreds of eyes staring at the arrow in my sash and at the wound in my arm, able to smell the bile as I could. For the first time I was glad they had thrown a bag over my head so no one could see my face, my branding as invisible as the ink beginning to run into my eyes.
The horse stopped and my heart beat uncomfortably fast. ‘Help him down.’
‘I’ve got him.’ Someone gripped my elbow. ‘Throw your leg over.’
To refuse would only look ridiculous, so I wriggled out of the saddle, sliding from the horse with the aid of my unseen assistant. My knees buckled as my feet found firm ground, but before I could right myself I was pulled forward. Stepping blindly, I tripped, sandal scuffing onto reeds.
Katashi’s tent had smelt of fresh matting, but all I could smell here was the stink of my own sick.
‘Kneel.’
I knelt, and the bag was yanked sharply off my head. Light stabbed into my eyes and I blinked, swaying back. A man knelt on the floor before me. He was frowning, the sort of frown that digs deep lines upon even the most handsome face. A frown formed from the cares of an empire.
His dark eyes focused on the ink staining my forehead, and the frown deepened.
‘What did he write on me?’ I asked.
Emperor Kin moistened his lips and glanced up at his men. ‘You may leave us. No, wait. Bring warm water and a fresh robe.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The men left, the tent silk sighing as it fell closed behind them.
‘It says: “Bastard Prince. Pretty Takehiko”,’ Kin said. ‘Hold out your hands.’
I proffered my bound hands. Kin had to grip my bloodstained fingers to keep them steady while he slid a knife between my wrists. Its cold caress ghosted across my skin and the rope fell away, leaving angry red grazes.
My injured arm throbbed, but Kin had not let go. Pulling back my sleeve, he turned my wrist until the Empath Mark stared up at him.
‘I saw this mark when you were born,’ he said. ‘Lord Nyraek Laroth had it. Darius has it. Everyone knew you were not an Otako.’
He released my hand, and I lowered it slowly, bringing it to rest upon my knee. I wasn’t sure what to say, unable to divine his intentions from his face as I could have done from his heart.
‘How did you get the branding?’
‘Darius,’ I said. ‘I was arrested for sorcery in Shimai and he came to see me. He told them I was no sorcerer, just a traitor, and ordered them to brand and exile me.’
A little smile flickered upon those thin lips. ‘Thought I would kill you, did he?’
A man backed in through the tent flap carrying a wide bowl draped with linen cloths. With a bow to his emperor he set it down on the matting, placed a neatly folded robe beside it, and exited again without a word.
Kin nodded toward the bowl. ‘Clean yourself up. The ink might stain, but I think the vomit and blood can be dispensed with. Is it your blood?’
With my right hand, I slid the arrow awkwardly from my sash and held it out. Kin took it, his gaze travelling from the bloodstained tip to the wound in my arm. ‘Captain Rosh,’ he called, turning the arrow slowly in his fingers.
A man’s head appeared through the tent entrance. ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’
‘Send for Master Kenji. Tell him to bring his box.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The man disappeared and I took up a cloth, dunking it into the warm water. Wringing it out, I scrubbed the ink from my forehead then dragged it down my cheek, letting its heat melt the aches from my skin. Long after it cooled I held it there, like a child with a favourite doll.
‘It would seem you have angered the great Katashi Otako,’ Kin said, placing the arrow upon his lap table. It was strewn with maps and papers, a brush drying upon his ink stone.
‘You could say that,’ I agreed, swapping the cloth to the other cheek, then running it down my neck.
‘No doubt he does not like the fact that your claim to the throne is greater than his.’ Kin spoke quietly, his eyes never leaving my face. ‘And has sent you to me because your claim is also greater than mine.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Because you swore an oath to protect me and uphold my name. As Kimiko puts it, you have the throne because you’re sitting on it.’
That frown deepened and for a moment he looked ferocious. ‘Katashi’s sister? How full the world is of fish these days.’ A little laugh leapt from his lips and a familiar image stirred my memory. ‘It is an apt phrase, however,’ he said. ‘Might I ask where you have been all these years, Takehiko?’
‘Travelling. The orphan ward of a priest. I–’
Emperor Kin held up his hand as the tent flap shifted once again and a middle-aged man walked in, a lacquered box hanging at his side. He bowed, light wisps of hair like soft down dancing on his head. ‘You sent for me, Your Majesty?’
‘Yes, Master Kenji, my guest requires your attention.’
Guest. Emperor Kin’s expression told me nothing.
Master Kenji came forward with his box, its painted blossoms shining beneath clear lacquer. ‘Might I see?’ he said, speaking to me in the gentle way one might address a child. I turned, every movement painful, and kneeling at my side he peeled away the torn sleeve. ‘This does not look pretty,’ he said, his gaze lingering on the Traitor’s Mark. ‘Might I ask what happened?’
‘He fell foul of an Otako,’ Kin said, indicating the arrow on the table.
Kenji gave a little snort. ‘A gift from the Great Fish, eh? I have been seeing more of these wounds than I like. He uses barbed arrows and they are not good for the flesh.’
‘Clearly,’ Kin said.
Attempting no further conversation, Master Kenji helped me to remove my soiled robe. He did so with the practicality of a man to whom there was no shame, making no mention of the smell or appearing to even notice it. Once it had been disposed of by the simple expedient of throwing it outside the tent, Master Kenji opened his box. Glass vials and silken pouches filled the space, neatly organised and labelled, and gathered together in a special compartment sat a collection of strange metal tools.
Taking the cloth, Master Kenji began to clean the wound. I gritted my teeth, holding my other arm across my naked torso, the watchful eyes of The Usurper unblinking.
‘You have a second branding on your arm,’ Kin said after a time. ‘Can a man be a traitor twice over?’
Master Kenji, who had pinched a dry piece of linen between his teeth, let it drop to say: ‘It might have escaped your notice, Your Majesty, but the boy has one on the back o
f his head here, too.’
Eyebrows rose. ‘Three times a traitor. You were branded in Shimai, I think you said.’
‘Yes.’ I felt Kenji’s eyes on me, and added: ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Only a few weeks ago, by the look of the scarring.’
Again Master Kenji glanced up from his work. ‘If you wish my professional opinion, Your Majesty, I would say they were not administered by a trained man. These wounds are deeper and angrier than we commonly see. This scabbing, too–’
‘Three brands administered by angry men,’ Kin interrupted. ‘In Shimai a few weeks ago.’ His gaze slipped to my left wrist, to where the origin of the Traitor’s Mark had been born upon my skin. He knew. He knew what I had done.
Master Kenji went on with his work while Kin and I sat in silence, staring at each other.
I remember you. My own words echoed inside my head. You stopped my father from beating me when I drew the Traitor’s Mark on my bedroom wall. You used to walk behind my mother’s palanquin when she went to the shrine to pray. You were the eyes and the ears of the palace because every single guard was loyal to you.
Those dark eyes stared back, uttering no reply.
Perhaps feeling some awkwardness, Master Kenji paused in the act of grinding herbs and glanced at his emperor. Kin did not meet his gaze, but whatever the physician saw in that face made him work with greater speed. Hardly aware of the pain now, I let Master Kenji apply the cold poultice, pressing it into the wound with skilled fingers.
‘It is not as bad as it first appeared,’ he said, taking a length of linen from his box and lifting my arm. ‘Assuming you are staying with us, I will check it again in the morning. Keep the bandage on for at least a week. Take it off for a few hours every afternoon to let it dry in the sun. Sunlight is very good for wounds, though not, of course, as good as avoiding them in the first place.’
He finished tying the bandage and looked again toward his emperor. No words passed between them, but Master Kenji quickly packed his things back into the box without their former neatness, and when he had finished, he bowed himself out, murmuring: ‘Good night, Your Majesty.’