by Evelyn Skye
Daemon was well aware that this sounded like a fairy-tale trope. But he wore the badge with amused pride, at least outwardly. Only Sora knew that he hated not knowing who his parents were, why they’d left him, and how he’d come to be raised by wolves.
Nevertheless—or perhaps because of this—Sora and Daemon spent the second half of their Autumn Festival break in Takish Gorge every year, visiting the only place he knew as his. And if he wanted to find his parents this year, Sora would help him.
As the sun began to set, they reached a solitary wooden home perched on a ridge, as if the house had grown like a bonsai out of the stone. It overlooked the turquoise waters of the sea, which surrounded the kingdom, a natural barrier from the rest of the world. The colors of dusk settled into the sky like the inside of an abalone shell, a muted iridescence no less stunning than a daylight rainbow despite its subtlety.
A small woman in a long red-and-blue-striped skirt and a blouse as yellow as the sun swept the stone path in front of the house. Her pale blond hair—the same almost-platinum shade as Sora’s beneath the black taiga dye—was tied back neatly in a bun, and she wore no jewelry except a single golden pearl at her throat. As she worked, she hummed a lilting melody, like wind chimes on All Spirits’ Eve. The aroma of braised fish and bamboo shoots, cooking on the outdoor stove, mingled with the mountain air.
Because taigas tread lightly, it wasn’t until Sora and Daemon stood with their mud-spattered boots halfway down the path that her mother noticed them. Her mother looked up, up, up at the tall girl and the even taller boy in front of her. She took in the Society uniforms that Sora and Daemon wore now—black tunics, loose trousers, and the thin, cloth-covered armor—as well as the throwing stars strapped on the leather band across their chests, the knives on their belts, and the sword and bo staff on their backs. There were more weapons, tucked into the secret pockets of sleeves and other folds of fabric, of course, but Sora’s mother didn’t see those.
“Your Honors,” she said, bowing.
Sora blushed and took her mother’s hands, pulling her upright. “Please, Mama, how many times have I asked you to just call me Sora?”
Her father, a wiry man with a kind, downward tilt at the corners of his eyes, came out of the house and stood behind his wife. “It is the greatest privilege a Kichonan can ever hope for, to have a child blessed by Luna to serve the empress. Let us have the small pleasure of reminding ourselves of that and addressing you by your title.” Papa bowed to both her and Daemon.
Sora rolled her eyes but smiled. “You two are always so stubborn.”
“I know someone else who’s very stubborn,” Daemon said, looking at Sora.
“Where do you think she gets it from?” Mama said with a wink.
“Come,” Papa said. “Your mother has cooked up quite a feast. We’ll stuff our bellies, and then when we’re as round as rice balls, we’ll roll ourselves down to the base of the mountain to join in the village festivities.”
Sora laughed.
They dined outside beneath the full moon, on the small balcony behind the house, overlooking the sea. A salty breeze whispered through the pine needles, and waves hit the cliff below in a soothing, rhythmic rasp. Papa sat across the table from Sora and Daemon, smiling the entire meal despite his long mustache continually blowing into his food. Mama kept a steady supply of hot, spiced tea in their cups. And Sora had helping after helping of miso-glazed butterfish, fried shrimp, buckwheat noodles, and bamboo shoots braised in sticky soy sauce.
“Doesn’t the Society feed you?” Papa joked.
Sora responded by popping another fried shrimp in her mouth.
When she’d finally had her fill, Mama brought out an Autumn Festival cake, an extravagant, ten-layered confection made with an entire block of butter, eggs, lemony yuzu, and almond flour, and dusted with confectioners’ sugar. It resembled the full moon, in honor of Luna. Sora cut slices for her parents, despite their protests that she and Daemon serve themselves first.
Sora took a bite of the cake, and she sighed as it melted in her mouth. It tasted like happiness, and she warmed as if she’d drunk an entire carafe of Kichonan rice wine.
She managed to eat three more slices.
Papa shook his head in awe.
“She has two stomachs,” Daemon said. “One for regular food and one for dessert.”
“You’re just jealous,” Sora said.
Papa cleared away the plates when they were finished. Mama folded her hands on the table. But her smile at having her daughter home began to fade.
The wine-like warmth inside Sora turned to vinegar. She’d known this was coming. It always did. And yet whenever Sora came home, she tried to pretend she wouldn’t have to face it.
“Would you like to visit your sister’s shrine before we go down to the village?” Mama asked.
Sora nodded weakly. Not because she was disrespectful of Hana’s memory and didn’t want to go. But because every time she thought of her little sister, the mountain air suddenly felt too thin.
Daemon squeezed her shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you?”
She sighed. “No, I need to do this myself.”
“Then I’ll wait for you here.”
Papa came back out on the balcony, with a small slice of Autumn Festival cake on a plate. “Take this with you.”
The incense in the shrine would bring the spirit of the cake to the heavens, for Hana to enjoy.
Sora tried to stay composed. But despite all her taiga training, she couldn’t placate the quiver in her hands as she took the plate from her father.
Sora sat beneath the canopy of trees, in front of a small wooden shrine composed of red beams. There was a short dais, which held a vase of white chrysanthemums and a tiny brass cauldron full of uncooked rice, with sticks of white incense protruding from it. Sora had placed the slice of Autumn Festival cake next to the flowers. In front of the dais, a curved sword lay displayed on a white lacquered stand.
White was the color of mourning in Kichona.
She had been here for almost an hour, and the incense sticks had long ago burned out. But she just kept staring at the sword. It was supposed to honor who Hana had been—there were always ceremonial swords at the shrines of deceased taigas—but to Sora, it was also a symbol of everything that could have been. And everything that wasn’t. The tiny fingers that had never had a chance to grow big enough, strong enough, to hold a sword. The quick little legs that never got to experience a grasshopper or cheetah spell. The big, brown eyes that wanted nothing more than to be a taiga warrior, fighting side by side with her sister, but instead never saw beyond her sixth year.
Mama’s footsteps sounded on the gravel path leading down from the house to the shrine. Sora nodded but didn’t say anything when she sat down on the ground beside her. Mama carried a worn, leather-bound book with her, embossed on its cover with the Teira family crest of the sun rising out of a vase of flowers. Their family had always been renowned for their ceramics; Sora’s father was a tenth-generation pottery master.
“I know it makes you sad to be here,” Mama said. “But while we should always mourn your sister, we should also honor her memory by using our lives to do what she could not.” She opened her book to a page marked with a ribbon, its blue satin faded with years of age. “I wrote something a long time ago that I’ve never shared with you. Will you let me read it to you?”
Sora smiled a little, as much as one could when sitting before Hana’s shrine. Mama was a famous storyteller. While Papa told his tales on clay, shaping emotions and beauty into ceramic, Mama created in words. Her books were renowned throughout Kichona.
“I would love to hear it,” Sora said.
The branches above them rustled and then quieted, as if they too were settling in to hear Mama’s story.
She cleared her throat, and then she began.
A long time ago, a girl was born among the clouds and mist of Samara Mountain. She came writhing and screaming into the world, as if she were
not ready to leave whatever dream she’d inhabited inside her mother’s womb, as if she were unwilling to enter this reality. The midwife had to swaddle her tightly to calm her hysterics, but even warm blankets could not quiet her wailing as it echoed off the cliffs and over the sea.
The baby cried the length of the day, and continued into the dusk. Her father rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and left their tiny house so he could have a moment of peace. Her mother curled into a ball on the reed mats upon the floor.
In the deepest hours of the night, when the trees creaked in the darkness and the sea sparkled under the moonlight, a masked figure slipped silently into the house. She made not a sound but walked with sword drawn, the blade of it black as pride yet bright as honor.
It was Luna, goddess of the moon and divine protector of the Kingdom of Kichona. She picked up the baby and cradled the girl against her moonlit chest. The crying ceased.
Then Luna raised her sword and brought it across the baby’s back in one quick, shallow slash. A wound opened, then quickly healed, replaced in its stead by a swirl of silver triplicate whorls, like a birthmark upon the girl’s skin.
The baby did not shed a single tear. Instead, she smiled, for she was marked by Luna.
The girl had been blessed as a taiga.
When Mama finished reading, she closed the book in her lap and rested her hands on the cover, her fingers circling the family crest. The trees around them remained still, no breeze in the branches, the whole mountain hushed in appreciation of the moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Sora said. “Is it about Hana?”
Mama shook her head. “It’s about you.”
A lump formed in Sora’s throat.
“It is the greatest privilege in the land to serve Kichona as a taiga,” Mama said. “You have done well in school, and your father and I are very proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Your sister would have been proud as well.”
Sora closed her eyes, already welling up. Maybe by shutting them, she could keep the sadness inside, stop it from spilling out into the rest of her life. As if that hadn’t already happened.
“I think you should have this,” Mama said softly, taking off her necklace. It was a simple chain with a golden pearl on it, more affordable than rare tiger pearls.
“But that’s your memorial for Hana.” Sora blinked the tears from her eyes. “I couldn’t take that from you. You’ve worn it since the Blood Rift.”
“And it helped me through my mourning. But now it has a new purpose.” Mama fastened the necklace around Sora’s throat.
“Your Honor, there’s something else I want to say . . .” Mama reached out and touched her knee. Sora stilled, holding her breath.
“Despite your high marks in class,” Mama said, “I know these years haven’t been easy on you. You carry the burden of your sister’s memory with you. But it’s time to stop.”
Sora frowned; she was unaccustomed to the reprimand in her usually deferential mother’s tone.
“Before I read you the story, I said that we should remember Hana by using our lives to do what she could not. Do you understand what I meant by that?”
Sora bowed her head and kept it down, even more respectful than if she were before the Council. “You’re saying I shouldn’t take being a taiga for granted.”
“Yes,” her mother said. “But not only that—honor your sister by becoming the best you could ever be.”
She looked up now. “The best taiga.”
“Yes, that. Try harder in school. Push yourself when you become a warrior. But more important, be the best person you can be.” Mama squeezed her knee, losing the harsh edge in her voice. “Think of Empress Aki. She has done great things for our kingdom, but she doesn’t brag and doesn’t require loud adulation. Maintaining peace and quietly improving our lives is harder than it seems, and it is not glamorous. But there is a nobility in the way that she leads.”
Sora’s cheeks flushed. She was suddenly a bit ashamed of how she’d courted the limelight by shooting off fireworks at Rose Palace, not to mention the umpteen other stunts she’d pulled off in the past.
“Your Honor,” Mama said, “it is your duty to do more than most. To be more than most.”
The moon seemed to shine brighter. It filled Sora, as comprehension set in. Hana never had a chance to reach her potential. But I do.
Her teachers had been telling her for years that she was wasting her talent, that she could be so much more if she simply tried. But Sora hadn’t wanted to.
Until now. Thinking of what Hana could have been—that little girl who was so proud to be a taiga someday, so proud of having a big sister who was already an apprentice—let Sora see her purpose in this world in a different light.
I’ve been so selfish, Sora thought. She moved her hand and clasped Mama’s fingers in hers.
“I carry Hana’s memory with me,” Sora said, touching the golden pearl with her free hand. “I understand what you’re saying—I live this life for the both of us.”
Mama nodded, eyes glassy with tears. She held Sora’s hand more tightly. Sora stopped fighting her own sadness, and she let the tears spill over onto her cheeks. Hana had been a part of Sora’s life for six years, but just because she was dead didn’t mean Sora couldn’t keep her close to her heart now. Hana would be Sora’s inspiration; her death would not be in vain.
After a little longer at the shrine, Sora and her mother climbed together up the mountainside and back home.
Sora immediately went to Daemon. He’d been outside her father’s workshop, admiring the latest ceramic vases and platters. She had put up her mental ramparts while she was away so that he couldn’t feel her sadness. But Daemon’s forehead creased as soon as he saw the dried trails of tears on her face, and he set down the bowl in his hand and rushed to her. “Are you all right?”
She paused, but then nodded. She told him what had happened at the shrine, and through their bond, she shared the small swell of ambition inside her. Sora was talented enough to be part of the Imperial Guard, eventually. It would take years to become one—only the most accomplished warriors, with at least a decade of experience, could qualify for the honor—but the path started early. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late to change the trajectory of their careers.
“Mama’s right—I owe it to Hana to be more than just a decent taiga. From now on, I don’t want to be just some mischievous kid. I want to see what I’m capable of.”
Daemon laughed. “Welcome to actually caring what people think of you.”
Sora made a face. “Well, let’s not take it that far. I’m doing this for you and me, and for Hana. Not for the Council.”
He nodded. “I’m okay with that. But you know, even if your goal was to be the best taiga in Society history, for no reason other than for fun, I’d be there by your side the whole time.”
There was an intensity in his eyes, but it was different from the focus of being in the sparring ring or concentrating on a difficult spell. Sora couldn’t quite put a finger on what it meant. Daemon hadn’t looked at her in that way before. It was so intense that it made her self-conscious.
She looked away and clapped him on the back to break through her own awkwardness. “Then let’s do it. Let’s be the best taigas in Society history. Let’s go be legendary.”
Chapter Five
While the taiga apprentices had gone home for the Autumn Festival, the Council convened for their annual retreat on Isle of the Moon. Kichona was an archipelago, with the main island shaped like a leaping tiger, and Isle of the Moon was a crescent to the north, arcing over the tiger’s head. Glass Lady strolled through the manicured gardens here, past deep-green topiaries shaped like tigers and feather-tipped maples with leaves so bright red, they looked like candied apples. The evening air was crisp with autumn, and she allowed herself a rare moment of relaxation as she strolled across a bridge over one of the many ponds, brimming with koi of every shade imaginable, as if they’d escaped from a painter
’s palette. Behind her, the famed Constellation Temple stood stoic yet richly ornamented, six stories high and composed of orange beams, capped off with a gleaming silver-tiled pagoda roof. Its white walls shone bright under the sun, and windows opened atop balconies carved with stars.
After her walk, Glass Lady went to the dining room, part of a high-ceilinged building with a glass roof that provided an unobstructed view of the sky. The other councilmembers had arrived a few minutes earlier and were already tucking into their dinners, their raucous laughter and conversation mingling with the rasp of chopsticks against ceramic bowls. Glass Lady nodded at their pleasure. It was, after all, the main point of assembling here.
The other point was to remind them of the history and identity of Kichona.
She strode up to the table. “My fellow warriors, I hope you enjoyed your first day here yesterday. It is certainly an extravagance to be able to gather on Isle of the Moon to enjoy the luxuries offered here. This would not have been possible without the generosity of our heavenly empress, who never hesitates to pay for this annual rejuvenation of our Council.” Glass Lady raised a teacup in the air. “To Empress Aki, the Benevolent One.”
The councilmembers lifted their teacups. “To Empress Aki, the Benevolent One!”
Glass Lady sipped her tea, then set it on the table. She had just opened her mouth to begin her speech when a sudden roar tore through the room. It filled the air like the exhale of a dragon who had been prodded, unhappily, awake.
In a hairbreadth of a second, every councilmember brandished swords and retrieved sickles and chains, darts, and other weapons from the pockets of their uniforms and the holsters on their backs.
Glass Lady looked up at the top of the dining room. Through the glass, a wave appeared, larger than any typhoon she had ever seen.
She dove beneath a table for cover. The wave crashed through the ceiling. Glass rained down like razor-edged hail.
“What’s happening?” Bullfrog, the nearest councilmember, shouted from beneath a chair he’d used as a shield.