by Emiko Jean
He supposed she was expecting an apology for his rough handling. Too bad; the heir to the imperial throne apologized to no one. She brushed her kimono and stooped down, collecting something from the high grass. Copper glinted in her hand.
“That’s my bird,” he said, reaching for it.
Mari shoved the bird behind her back. Her little chin jutted up. “I don’t see your name on it.”
What she lacks in height, she makes up for in confidence.
“You don’t even know what my name is,” he said. He cupped his nose. It made a sickening crunch as he set it back in place. He winced at the sting. The girl fought dirty. “If you look, you will see a T etched into the tail. It is my initial.”
Mari’s mouth pinched as she examined the bird’s tail. “What does the T stand for?” she asked.
“Taro,” he replied. He waited for recognition, for her to notice the smudge between his brows, for her to bow and kiss his feet. Nothing. This girl had no idea who he was. She thought he was a mere lesser samurai. He was struck by the novelty—and annoyed.
“Well, it is a very lovely bird,” she said, handing it back to Taro. “Forgive me for not believing you at first. I assumed your heavy hands could never make something so delicate.”
An apology and insult all in one. Against his will, one corner of Taro’s mouth drew up.
“Gods and goddesses, is that the first time you’ve ever smiled?” she asked, eyes drawing wide. “You need more practice.”
Another barb wrapped in soft cloth. He broke into a full smile. It felt unnatural, like ill-fitting clothes.
Mari turned her back on him, feeling along the wall. “No stones,” she muttered.
“You are staying at an inn,” Taro blurted out in an effort to make her stop, to stay, to look at him, to make him smile again.
Mari made a humming noise that sounded like agreement and glanced over her shoulder. “Give me a boost, samurai.”
Taro scowled. He didn’t want her to go. He wanted to demand she stay and amuse him some more. Alas, he realized how spoiled that sounded. He set the bird down on a rock carpeted in thick moss. Then he crouched and interlaced his fingers, inviting her to use them as a step. He didn’t mention that there was a secret door just behind the mass of vines. With all the dignity and haughtiness of an empress, Mari placed her foot in his palms.
He hoisted her up, and she sat on the wall, the moonlight behind her. She was no great beauty, yet there was something arresting about her. He couldn’t look away. Taro had never put much stock in looks. Porcelain bowls faded and gathered dust. Women and men grew old, their faces lined with age. With time, all things withered. Except your spirit. The soul always remained.
Wanting to keep Mari’s company just a little longer, Taro shouted, “What brings you to the Imperial City?”
Mari faced away from him, ready to slide from the wall, to disappear. She paused, her head tilted, thick braid swaying in the middle of her back. “I’ve come for the competition.”
Frustration cut a bitter path across Taro’s chest. His lips tugged into a sneer. “So you hope to be an empress? You wish for the prince to fall in love with you and to wear pretty gowns and live in luxury for the rest of your life?”
Mari sighed. “It is disappointing how little you think of the opposite sex.”
Taro grunted. “I know the prince. He does not like to be considered some prize to be won.”
“Women are regarded that way all the time,” Mari replied. “And just so you know, I have no desire to be Empress.” With that, Mari slipped from the wall.
Taro listened as her footsteps faded into silence. Then he plucked the copper bird from the ground. The door to his freedom lay just a few feet away, nestled behind thick vines. In seconds, he could be on the other side of it. By morning he could be outside of Tokkaido, ready to start a new life. Taro looked to the sky, to the moon, round and glowing. He tried to forget Mari, shake loose the memory of her from his mind. He sighed deeply. It was no use; the girl was stuck, wedged in his brain. Placing the metal bird in his pocket, he turned away from the door and began to walk back to the palace.
She won’t make it past the first Seasonal Room, he reasoned. Still, whether she lived or died, Taro wanted to see the girl again. Freedom could wait just a little longer.
Chapter 15
Akira
It was well past dinner, and Akira’s stomach rumbled. He shouldered his way through the crowded commercial district. He swiped a rice ball wrapped in seaweed from a food cart and pulled down the black cloth wrapped around his face to shove it into his mouth. A few hours ago, he’d seen Mari enter the Gana Inn. Assuming she was safe and sound for the evening, he made his way back to the eleventh ward.
As soon as he glimpsed the commercial district, Akira knew this was where he belonged. The district was crowded, the perfect place to disappear. It was also the best place to gather information. While Mari competed, Akira would not sit idle.
He’d already spent half the evening skulking in the shadows, watching and listening. Already, he’d heard rumors of a spreading Resistance and of a Weapons Master trained by an elite group of monks who was building an army.
Akira had no desire to become part of the brewing yōkai Resistance. What could I offer it, anyway? But he did want to learn how to fight, to be worthy of his Animal Girl. Akira imagined himself as one of the rōnin who had escorted Mari from the mountain, with swords at his hips lending a swagger to his steps.
Akira wandered deeper and deeper into the commercial district, navigating its arteries. Rickety stalls, densely packed together, sold food, clothing, and supplies. There were sake brewers, silk merchants, plasterers, tobacco cutters, mat makers, stonemasons, idol makers, and druggists. He passed a curator, a man with a navy soul, his stall cluttered with nightingales in twig cages, brightly colored fish in jars, and giant tortoises on leashes. He even spied some Ollis Isle traders among the masses, their fair complexions standing out among the tan locals.
Akira loped past the entrance to the fish market. The smell of brine and salt and blood filtered through the cloth wrapped around his face. A few feet more, and the stalls ended abruptly, giving way to a clearing—the heart of the commercial district. In the center, a giant cherry tree bloomed. Akira blanched when he saw what was underneath—prisoners elaborately roped and awaiting public flogging. Their souls were a sickly yellow. Near the prisoners was a sword swallower. Next to him was a puppet show for children. Stray dogs lounged. The clock tower chimed in the distance.
Akira crossed the forum and melted back into the markets, traveling until the pathways turned to the dank alleys of the eleventh-ward apartments, tenement buildings where most yōkai gathered. In these unwatched corners, they huddled together, momentarily safe from humans and priests with their burning magic.
Akira entered an alleyway at random. Lines hung overhead, clothes drying in the stagnant air. He slowed as he reached a dead end.
Two yōkai sat on crates with another crate as a table between them. Both had green souls, the color of moss. A single candle lit up the shadows. One smoked a kiseru. The yōkai were identical—three or four feet tall, one-legged, and with teeth sharpened into vicious points. Their bodies were covered in fine gray hair, and they had egg-shaped heads with one giant eye in the middle of their foreheads and a smaller one near their left temples. Both wore rusted collars. The two yōkai stilled, their pea-sized eyes darting back and forth, scanning the black alleyway.
Akira let loose a breath and stepped out of the darkness. “Afternoon,” he called nervously.
The yōkai smoking the pipe looked Akira up and down. “Are you lost, boy? Need someone to help you find your mama?”
His companion grinned, running a split tongue over his teeth.
Akira tensed at the mention of his mother. His parents were probably worried. Will they search for me? No. His parents would not leave the security of the forest. They would wait for him to return. “I’m not lost,” he said, l
aughing uncomfortably.
“Well, you aren’t found, that’s for sure, boy,” the yōkai said. He took a drag of his pipe. Scented smoke filled the alleyway. Akira recognized the smell of sweet grass, a hollow reed that grew along the banks of the Horo River. When the reed was broken, a type of sugary substance flowed out—honey of the gods and goddesses.
Akira peered more closely at the yōkai, his gaze darting between their different-sized eyes. Their pupils were huge, almost eclipsing the irises. Relief blanketed Akira. These yōkai weren’t dangerous, at least not in their drugged state. Sweet grass made its abusers slow, sluggish. If needed, Akira could outrun them.
He took a step closer. “I think I found exactly what I’m looking for.”
The yōkai frowned. “I don’t trust a man who speaks in puzzles.”
“Then let me be clear.” A trickle of sweat ran down Akira’s neck. The eleventh ward seemed to trap heat. He inhaled deeply, lungs filling with sweet-grass smoke. The yōkai puffed on his pipe and exhaled in Akira’s direction. Akira unwrapped his face, displaying the scars. “I seek the Weapons Master.” If he was going to live in the light, if he was to help Mari, he must be well-armed, well-trained. He must be brave.
One of the yōkai chuckled. His laughter echoed in Akira’s ears. Akira whipped his head back and forth, seeing double. Another chorus of laughter. Akira closed his eyes. When he opened them, one of the yōkai stood in front of him. Akira looked down, seeing his reflection in the yōkai’s giant eye. Half-scarred face, snarled hair, and wide eyes that appeared black. “You like riddles, boy? I’ll give you one. You’ll find the Weapons Master when you find the thing with hands that cannot clap.”
Akira opened his mouth to speak, but words wouldn’t form. His tongue felt numb; his body felt weighty, as if his ankles were tethered to a rusty anchor. Gods and goddesses, I’ve been drugged! Then down he went, falling into a dark, dreamless ocean.
Part II:
A bee sting to a crying face.
—Proverb
Chapter 16
Mari
Mari stared at the massive mahogany and cypress doors, at the reliefs carved into them. A blazing yellow sun set in a blue sky. The Summer Room. She didn’t know what lay beyond the doors, but she could imagine. A mountain girl through and through, Mari hated the heat.
She stood on a red carpet in a swarm of girls, crunched so closely together that their hair appeared an endless ocean of black. There are hundreds of us, Mari realized. Taiko drummers corralled the group. Their chests were bare and their legs spread wide as they beat with thick sticks against the drums’ skin. The fast beat announced the start of the competition and drew courtiers to the Main Hall. The opening ceremony for the competition had begun. Later on, there would be a grand ball and garden party for the winners of today’s room. But for now, the heavy beat of drums, a death knell, was the only welcome. The weak would be weeded out first.
Women courtiers were swathed in glittering red, blue, and green kimonos. They carried paper fans, fluttering them over their mouths, painted crimson, and their dyed black teeth—a symbol of beauty. Men dressed in elaborate hakama pants, neatly pressed and made of fine linen, and surcoats stitched in gold thread. Priests dotted the crowd, their gray robes little clouds of doom amid all the joyful colors. The brewing of a perfect storm.
Mari swallowed, and she locked her knees. She was too warm. She wished she had worn her hakama pants, but Sei had outfitted her this morning and insisted on something more feminine. They’d compromised on her simple navy kimono.
In the crowd, metal clinked against metal. Each girl toted a weapon. Mari’s naginata felt heavy and reassuring strapped to her back. She swallowed heavily again, seeing so many other girls carrying naginata. Collective fear rippled through the mass. The girls’ eyes flickered, assessing their opponents—their enemies. It made for itchy fingers. If one drew her weapon, chaos would erupt.
The drums reached a crescendo and then tapered to a soft beat. A gong rang, calling the Main Hall to attention. A gaunt man, with a silver beard so long it brushed his chest, stood in front of the Summer Room doors. His eyes were a milky white, his skin paper-thin, and he carried a black lacquered cane. On his head was a pointed black cap. He opened his fingers, and little flames danced along his long nails, then extinguished with a single gust of wind—a small display of his powers. “Welcome, all of you, to this most sacred event. I am Master Ushiba, Imperial Seasonist. I will be your guide through this competition. The Seasons will be your judge.”
A hushed murmur traveled through the crowd. Master Ushiba paused. One by one, like trees toppling, the courtiers dropped to their knees, pressing their chests and foreheads to the ground. The emperor had arrived.
Mari and the other girls bowed as well. Daring a peek, Mari spied a striking middle-aged man standing next to Master Ushiba. His black hair was streaked with gray and slicked back in a topknot. His jaw was square and his mouth a cruel, hard line. He wore a purple kimono trimmed in fur, and at his hip were two samurai swords—an “emperor” and a “warlord.” Mari’s lips curved down. Hate-monger. Yōkai slaver. Despot.
A flash of white behind the emperor drew Mari’s focus. A High Priest. A young High Priest. His hands were covered with the familiar cobalt tattoos, but his face was unmarred. Probably because he is too pretty. He had a slightly round face, dimpled cheeks, and long lashes. A man too full of himself is empty inside.
Near the emperor was another man, shifting on his feet as if preparing to flee. Not just another man. Mari’s mouth tightened in recognition. Taro. The samurai with the copper bird. She bit back a smile, seeing the purple bruises ghosting his face. Her grin faded. A samurai would bow like everyone else. But Taro didn’t. That meant only one thing. The smudge between his eyes matched the emperor’s. Matched his father’s. He bore the mark of the gods. Taro is the prince.
A flush of stupidity caressed her cheeks. Taro. Of course she hadn’t recognized his name. He was always referred to as “the prince.” Or sometimes the Cold Prince. But she should have known him by the smudge. The god Sugita’s thumbprint. Her folly turned to anger. What a laugh he probably had at my expense.
“Rise,” the emperor growled.
Clumsily, Mari found her feet, knocking into a girl carrying a bow and arrow. The girl elbowed Mari in the ribs. “Watch it,” she snapped.
Mari’s hand went to her bruised side, and she bared her teeth. She wished she could bare her claws.
“Have the contracts been signed?” asked the emperor. Mari kept her gaze locked on Taro. He was scanning the crowd. Did he search for her?
“No, Heavenly Sovereign.” Master Ushiba kept his head down.
“Let’s get on with it, then. I don’t have all day,” the emperor said, his tone impatient.
“Yes, Heavenly Sovereign.” Master Ushiba faced his audience. His hand opened, gesturing to a table near the Summer Room doors. On it, parchment was stacked. “Before entering the Summer Room and beginning the competition, you each must sign a contract, stating your name and your clan name. In addition, this contract states that your clan will not be owed any compensation in the event of your demise. Killing your opponents is strictly forbidden, but the conditions in the Rooms are treacherous. I may have created the Rooms, but they have a mind of their own. They will choose you as much as you choose them. From this point on, your life is forfeit.”
Mari felt a change in the air, a sudden tightening as if invisible nooses had been placed around their necks.
Master Ushiba continued. “Once you have signed the contract, you will be admitted into the Summer Room.” He produced a piece of rolled parchment tied with a red string from the depths of his kimono. “Ten scrolls are hidden within the Room. They are your admittance to the next Room. If you hear this . . .” Master Ushiba gestured at a samurai standing behind a golden gong. The samurai struck the instrument once, and a sound like a heavy bell echoed in the cavernous hall. “. . . it means that all scrolls have been claimed and y
ou have been disqualified. Your clan will be eligible to compete next generation.” The girls shifted on their feet. Only ten scrolls; only ten out of hundreds would go on. The stakes were high. The odds impossible. The Seasonist fell quiet. He tapped his thin lips. “Along with being tested physically in the Rooms, you will also face mental strain. Solve the following riddle, and find the scrolls.” Master Ushiba opened his hands like a book. In his palms, he cradled an orange flame that lit up his face and made his milky-white eyes glow. The courtiers sucked in a collective uneasy breath. “I have roots nobody can see and am taller than a tree. Up, up I go, and yet I never grow.” Raindrops fell in a perfect circle, extinguishing the flame and leaving behind a misty sizzle. Then a single gust of wind dried Master Ushiba’s hands.
“Less theatrics next time,” the emperor muttered.
Master Ushiba frowned and ducked his head. “Yes, Heavenly Sovereign.” The pretty priest smiled smugly beside the emperor. Ushiba cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. “Now, if you are ready, please come forward.”
No one moved. Mari could taste the fear, sour and bitter. Treacherous conditions. The Rooms choose you. How many of them would die? Were these Mari’s last moments?
A girl holding a sickle and chain shouldered her way from the back of the Main Hall, through the frozen horde. She gave a deep bow to the emperor and prince, one fist covered by the palm of her other hand. She rose, turned, and signed her contract with flourish. The doors sprang open with a mighty gust of wind, a ball of heat escaping and touching Mari’s cheek. The girl with the sickle and chain dashed through.
After that, girls scrambled to get to the front of the line to sign their waivers, crushing Mari, forcing her to the back. No doubt by the time she got to the Summer Room, the girl with the sickle and chain would already have solved the riddle, scroll in hand.