by Jay Kristoff
My gods, they’re children …
Their rebellion had been fermenting within the Guild for gods knew how long. Who knows what their plans had been? How close they’d come to fruition? And now, everything was ashes, their brothers and sisters slaughtered because of Kaori’s mistrust. But could Yukiko really blame Kaori for all this? Maker’s breath, the Guild had taken her father. The gods only knew what horrors Daichi had been through since.
Once again, it all came back to him. His doing. His betrayal.
Kin.
She drew a single, trembling breath.
Kin, godsdamn you.
“The Kagé broadcast news about your rebellion against my wishes,” she said. “I never wanted any of you put in danger. I want us to be—”
“Do you know how many of us died today?”
It was one of the Lotusmen who spoke. Arms folded, skin splashed with blood.
“No,” Yukiko said. “But I’m sorry anyone died at all.”
“The great Stormdancer,” the Lotusman sneered. “Slayer of Shōguns. Ender of dynasties. You expect us to believe the Kagé do anything without your say-so?”
“The Kagé existed long before I came along. And if dissent can fracture the Lotus Guild, you can be godsdamned sure a faction of anarchists, arsonists and fanatics can find a way to argue about the color of the sky.”
“Ten.”
The words came from one of the False-Lifers, her bulbous, glowing eyes fixed on Yukiko. A Guild child was cradled in her arms—an infant in brass and leather who couldn’t be more than a year old. Her voice sounded like an iron boot stepping on beetle shells.
“We lost ten of us,” she said.
“Enma-ō judge them fair.”
“We do not believe in your gods, Stormdancer.”
“Then I can only say I’m sorry.”
“So are we,” the False-Lifer hissed. “So are their children. Didn’t the Kagé realize what the Guild would do when they named me over the wireless?”
“You’re Misaki…” Yukiko breathed.
“They hung us out to slaughter. Not just us, our children! Animals! Bastards!”
“Misaki-san, I’m sorry—”
“STOP SAYING THAT!”
The child in her arms began wailing; a distorted, metallic cry that set Yukiko’s teeth on edge. The False-Lifer pressed it against her cheek, eight silver arms encircling the babe as she rocked it back and forth, whispering words Yukiko couldn’t hear. The Kagé refugees whispered among themselves, the wind whispering through the rigging.
My Gods, this is surreal.
THAT THEY MOURN THEIR DEAD?
No, I just … hidden behind those suits. Those masks. I never thought of them as parents who loved their children. I never realized …
“I have something for you, Misaki-san,” she said.
“You have nothing I want or need, girl.”
Yukiko reached into her obi, beside Daichi’s katana, the short-bladed tantō her father gave her. The satchel was beaten leather, held out to the False-Lifer in Yukiko’s upturned palm.
“What is that?”
“A letter,” Yukiko said. “From your daughter’s father.”
“… Takeo?”
Buruu bristling beside her, Yukiko handed the satchel over. Misaki cradled the snuffling infant in her arms, drawing out the letter with her false limbs. The paper was stained with blood and salt and rain. Yukiko could remember the words as if she’d read them yesterday: a missive from the Guildsman who’d saved Piotr’s life, to the woman he loved until his dying moment. A plea that she fight on and bring the Guild to its knees. Death to the Serpents, whatever that meant. Freedom for Shima. A declaration of love, for this woman and the daughter in her arms.
She heard strangled weeping, saw Misaki’s shoulders trembling. The woman sank to her knees on the Kurea’s deck, letter clutched to her breast. Another False-Lifer took the child from her arms as she curled into a ball and screamed; screamed in anguish and rage, so full of hurt it brought tears to Yukiko’s eyes. The child began screaming also, echoing its mother’s cries, setting off several of the other Lotuschildren. A chorus of wails filled the sky-ship’s deck, Blackbird’s cloudwalkers watching on uncertain, hands slack on their weapons.
Misaki began clawing at the bulbous eyes set in her mask. Gouging them loose, she tore at the artificial skin covering her head as if she were suffocating. Heavy lidded, bloodshot eyes and pale, tear-streaked skin. A gentle oval with delicate lips, lashless, browless, hairless. Pulsing veins. Gritted teeth.
The words “I’m sorry” sat pathetic on the tip of Yukiko’s tongue, and she bit down hard, felt them die. Would it have made any difference if someone had told her “sorry” after her father died? Did “sorry” do anything to mend the hurt, the helplessness, the fear of walking life alone?
Sorry was just a word.
WORDS STILL HAVE POWER. EVEN HERE. EVEN NOW.
In some places, they have no power at all.
THAT IS NOT TRUE.
Winter draws near. The black rains will fall. The Earthcrusher will march. Blood like a river, you said, remember?
Yukiko shook her head.
The sun is setting on the time for words, Buruu.
A rush of wind, the creak of timber. A shadow fell over the assembled Guildsmen as Kaiah and Hana landed near the cluster of brass and wailing and tears. The Lotusmen tensed, the second False-Lifer flaring her razored arms in threat. But as the girl slipped from the thunder tiger’s back, the look in her eye made the Guildsmen step aside. Hana gently pushed through the group to stand before the woman weeping on the deck.
Kaiah nudged Misaki’s shoulder with her head. The Guildswoman looked up, cheeks stained rose, staring at the thunder tiger in mute amazement. The arashitora nudged her again, looking from Misaki to her child in the other False-Lifer’s arms.
“She says she knows what it is to lose a mate.” Hana’s voice was edged with sorrow. “I can feel it inside her. That loss … It hurts me just to look at it.”
The girl knelt on the boards, took Misaki’s hand.
“But Kaiah says at least you still have your daughter. You still have something of him to keep. And every time you look at her, you’ll see him inside her and know he’s still with you.”
The woman pawed at the tears on her face, staring at the girl, turning to the False-Lifer who held her child and taking the infant back into her arms. She prodded a release at the child’s neck, the brass throat unfurling like flower petals. Misaki pulled the helm from the babe’s head, pressed her naked cheek to the little girl’s skin. Eyes closed, she breathed long and deep. Thunder rumbled somewhere distant, a promise of the chaos to come.
Yukiko remembered her mother sitting by the fire, singing in a voice that made the mountains weep. Stepping closer to Buruu, she slipped her arm around his neck, glad for his warmth. She could feel them in the Kenning all around her, knife-sharp pain flaring at the back of her skull. The impossible tangles of thought; the cloudwalkers and refugees, the rebels in their shells of brass, the two knots of light resting in her belly. None of them dissimilar. Not sailors or insurgents or warriors or victims. Just people. All of them. Alive and breathing.
“Thank you,” Misaki whispered.
“It’s all right,” Hana said. “It’s going to be all right.”
YOU SEE?
Buruu nodded, watching the sorrow fade, the light bloom in the woman’s eyes as she kissed the tiny bow of her daughter’s lips. The wind was cool water, mussing the feathers at his brow, the boards beneath him rumbling as he purred.
THERE IS ALWAYS TIME FOR WORDS.
* * *
Yukiko and Buruu stepped off the Kurea’s deck and dropped into blood-red skies.
They swooped over Yama city, Hana and Kaiah beside them. A thin haze of smoke drifted through the cramped buildings, Chapterhouse Yama now an empty, smoking shell.
Head for the Daimyo’s fortress, Buruu. We need to have a chat with the Kitsune clanlord. Try t
o explain this shitstorm we started.
KITSUNE ARE YOUR CLAN. HAVE YOU MET THIS LORD?
No. Folk like me don’t get to meet royalty, as a general rule.
She looked down at her frayed clothes, dragged her hands through her hair.
Gods, I look like I slept in a ditch.
SO?
I’m about to meet a Daimyo, brother. I could’ve at least had a bath first.
YOU ARE WHAT YOU ARE. WHEN YOU STAND BEFORE THIS FOX LORD, DO NOT FORGET WHERE YOU STOOD BEFORE. YOU HAVE STARED DOWN SHŌGUNS. HUNGRY DEAD. SEA DRAGONS. REMEMBER THAT. REMEMBER AND BE BRAVE.
When you’re near? Always.
She curled her hands in the feathers at Buruu’s neck, trying to smooth the disarray.
Speaking of shabby looks, we’re going to have to give you a haircut soon.
… WHAT?
These feathers are getting messy.
LET ME UNDERSTAND THIS CORRECTLY. YOU WISH TO CUT MY MANE?
Thunder tigers grow manes?
OF COURSE! HOW ELSE WOULD YOU TELL MALES FROM FEMALES?
This is a trick question, right?
A MANE IS A SIGN A MALE ARASHITORA HAS REACHED MATURITY.
Her laughter rang out in his mind.
So it’s going to be a few more decades growing, then?
HMPH. I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW MOST FEMALES FIND IT FETCHING.
Kaiah’s distant roar wiped the smile from Yukiko’s face, the mood between them somber once more.
Not all of them, it seems.
Buruu sighed.
NO, NOT ALL OF THEM.
Why does she hate you so much, brother?
YOU REALLY WISH TO KNOW?
You did something bad, right? Murdered someone. That’s why she calls you Kinslayer.
I MURDERED MORE THAN ONE.
Why?
BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS RIGHT.
She slipped her arms around his neck and squeezed.
Then I’m sure it was.
IT WASN’T. THEY WERE RIGHT TO TAKE MY NAME. AND KAIAH IS RIGHT TO HATE ME.
Yukiko could feel the hurt inside her friend, the shadow that had lain over him since the lightning farm. Being around Kaiah had awakened the ghosts of Buruu’s past, and though she didn’t want to push him into sharing his burdens, it made her feel helpless that she couldn’t make it better. So she hugged him tighter, poured warmth into his mind.
You’ve the best heart of anyone I’ve ever met, Buruu. No matter what you did, no matter what anyone says, I’ll love you forever. Do you hear me? Forever and always.
Silence was his only response, so Yukiko broke contact and slipped into Kaiah’s mind. She felt a brief flare of pain, the familiar ache blazed across the base of her skull. Though she was getting better at holding the Kenning in check, sometimes it threatened to overwhelm her, along with the knowledge of why it had swelled beyond anything she’d known. Her hand slipped to her belly, to the pulses she could feel there, fear welling inside her.
Gods, what am I going to do?
– ABOUT WHAT? –
Yukiko blinked, realized her thoughts were leaking into Kaiah’s mind. Hana was in there too; a knot of emotion and thought too intricate to comprehend. Yukiko remembered the Razor Isles and the gaijin boy who betrayed her, the way she’d pushed pictures into his head. And the thought occurred that a language barrier had lain between her and Ilyitch, but there was no such gulf between her and Hana. Using Kaiah as a bridge, there was no reason she couldn’t …
Hana, can you hear me?
A pause, laced with uncertainty and the scent of ozone. A voice came to her across a vast space, dimmed by the roar of endless winds.
Yukiko?
Hello there.
I can hear you in my head! How the hells are you doing that?
I think you’re hearing me through Kaiah. But honestly, I don’t really know.
– THE ONES INSIDE YOU MAKE YOU STRONGER. I CAN FEEL THEM. –
The ones inside her?
Yukiko sighed, closed her eyes. If she said it, it’d be real. If she gave voice to it, there’d be no turning back.
… I’m pregnant, Hana.
Oh.
A pause, wind howling like wolves.
Should I offer congratulations or condolences?
I don’t really know that either …
Ah.
Listen, we’ll be at the fortress soon. The Kitsune Daimyo seems intent on making Hiro his enemy. We need to find out if that makes us his allies. This Guild War won’t have helped, but getting him on-side would give us a real army. A sky-fleet and a fortress. This is important.
I should warn you, I’m not exactly a paragon of courtly matters. Not like I’ve met many Daimyo before.
Just follow my lead, you’ll be fine.
All right, then.
She was about to break contact when Hana’s voice rang across the gulf.
Yukiko?
Yes?
… Congratulations.
Atop a hill on the west side of the city glowered Kitsune-jō—the mighty Fortress of the Fox. Battlements of dirty gray stone studded with chi-powered ballista climbed heavenward in concentric rectangles. A crowd of people had gathered at the fortress gates; an ocean of upturned goggles, dirty kerchiefs and clockwork breathers. A dull roar grew in volume as Yukiko and Hana descended, the clamor of a hundred voices, one name, over and over again.
“Stormdancer!”
Yukiko held up a tentative hand and the roar intensified, thrumming in her chest. Bushimen struggled to press the mob back, calls for order falling on deaf ears.
Buruu roared and the crowd roared in answer; a thunderous, rumbling cheer.
This is madness, Buruu.
THEY LOVE YOU.
They don’t even know me.
THEY SING YOUR SONGS. TELL YOUR TALE TO THEIR CHILDREN. THEY KNOW YOU AS THEY KNOW KITSUNE NO AKIRA, WHO SLEW GREAT BOUKYAKU. OR TORA TAKEHIKO, WHO CLOSED THE DEVIL GATE.
That’s not me. It’s only their idea of me.
DO YOU NOT SEE, SISTER? YOU ARE AN IDEA NOW.
The arashitora swooped over the crowd, close enough to tear hats from heads and kerchiefs from faces. They swung up over the outer wall toward the soldiers assembled on the castle’s broad steps. Black flags embroidered with the white sigil of the Kitsune clan whipped like headless serpents in the wind. The Thunder God Raijin pounded his drums in the distance.
The arashitora landed, Buruu folding his mechanical wings at his side. Kaiah preened for a full minute afterward, as if flaunting her unmarred feathers in front of him. Yukiko remained where she was atop Buruu’s shoulders, staring at the assembled Kitsune soldiers. She could feel Kaiah’s agitation, turned to give a reassuring smile to Hana. The girl didn’t remove her goggles, probably deciding a conversation about her eye would only complicate matters.
A huge figure in ceremonial armor descended the steps, Buruu growling softly as he approached. The suit was beautiful: embossed black iron, the faceguard crafted to resemble a snarling fox, a tassel of pale hair at its crown streaming in the wind.
The figure stopped within thirty paces of the arashitora riders, unbuckled its helm. Yukiko saw a broad face, battle scarred and hard. The man covered his fist and bowed.
“Stormdancer. I am General Kitsune Ginjiro, right hand of the Daimyo.”
“Ginjiro-sama.” Yukiko bowed in return. “This is my friend Hana. She is blessed with the Kenning like me, and has vowed to help rid these islands of the Guild and its poison.”
“Do you bring violence to my honorable Lord’s house?”
“… No.” Yukiko blinked. “Of course not.”
“Um.” Hana raised a tentative hand. “Me either.”
“Do you bear malice to the Kitsune clan?”
Yukiko pulled up her sleeve, showed the beautiful fox tattoo on her right arm. “Your Daimyo is not my Daimyo, Ginjiro-sama. But I remember where I came from.”
Ginjiro nodded. “Then enter, and be welcome at Five Flowers Palace, the beating he
art of Kitsune-jō. My noble Lord, Kitsune Isamu, pledges you will be safe within these walls.”
He covered his fist and bowed again, deeper this time.
DO YOU TRUST HIM?
Yukiko looked back toward the dark fortress walls, listening to the swell of people gathered outside. Mouths open and roaring. Fists in the air.
I think they’d be risking a riot if anything happened to me.
THAT WILL BE POOR SOLACE FOR SOME, SISTER.
We flew a long way just to insult the Daimyo’s hospitality.
OH, YES. RAIJIN FORBID YOU INSULT ANYBODY. FAR MORE SENSIBLE TO RISK YOUR OWN BRUTAL MURDER INSTEAD.
Hana will be there. I’ll stay in the Kenning. You’ll know everything I do.
Buruu bristled, but said no more. She slipped off his back, felt the familiar pang as they parted. It was like stepping away from firelight and out into the dark, leaving everything warm and good behind. She walked toward the Kitsune general, Hana beside her. The girl looked distinctly out of her depth, plucking at the worn hem of her sleeve. Yukiko squeezed her hand.
Ginjiro’s eyes were on the thunder tigers, as wide as a child’s. Yukiko waited until he remembered himself, and coughing once, the general set his shoulders square.
“Follow me, please.”
The wall of soldiers parted to allow them through. Yukiko smiled at Buruu and Kaiah, then stepped under the broad, rain-bleached gables of Five Flowers Palace. Ginjiro led them through a massive entrance hall into a wide courtyard. Despite its formidable shell, the heart of Kitsune-jō was as beautiful as anything in the Shōgun’s palace. It was odd to find such opulence inside fortress walls—like finding a beautiful courtesan inside an ancient suit of armor.
Ginjiro led Yukiko through towering iron-shod doors, down a hallway decorated with stunning tapestries depicting Shima’s creation. Yukiko admired them as they passed—each stood twelve feet high and twenty feet wide, and must have taken a dozen artisans a year to make.
The first weaving showed Lord Izanagi and Lady Izanami, side by side as Izanagi stirred the oceans of creation with his spear. The following tapestry depicted the Goddess giving birth to the seven islands, face twisted in pain, sky filled with burning light. Yukiko averted her eyes and hurried past. Next came Lady Izanami’s funeral, her life lost in childbirth. The following four tapestries showed the Maker God’s failed quest to reclaim her from the underworld. The final tapestry showed Izanami on her bone mountain, surrounded by her demon children. The oni came in all shapes and sizes: tentacled monstrosities and snaggletoothed hulks and tall, muscle-bound demons with midnight blue skin. Lady Izanami herself was more terrifying than any of them, all corpse-pale skin and bottomless eyes. Mother of Darkness, they called her. She who would give voice to the song that slew the world.