Empress of All Seasons

by Emiko Jean

  Akira scowled. “I believe a sword would suit me.” He thought of the rōnin who had escorted Mari from the mountain. Swords discourage enemies. I would never have to fight. Akira chastised himself. You think like a coward.

  Hanako made another pffting sound. “Your arms are too thin to wield a sword, even a light blade such as the katana. You have neither the body nor the heart of a samurai. You are a poet. Someone born to string pretty words together and contemplate the soul of man. What rhymes with killer?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Also, I don’t think you have the stomach to watch your enemy bleed out.” Hanako marched to a glass case and removed a small cedar box.

  She brought it close to Akira, holding it under his nose. Notes of stale lemon oil and must swirled up. “This is the weapon that was meant for you. Can you hear it?” She held the box a little higher. “Can you hear it, Akira? They’re singing for you.”

  Yes. He could almost hear it. Like the high pitch of a tuning fork, whatever was inside vibrated for him, wanted him. His fingers twitched, aching to open the box.

  “The Taiji monks presented these to me on my initiation day. The day I killed my first man. Every weapon has a destiny. Do you know what the monks told me about this weapon’s destiny?”

  Of course Akira didn’t know, couldn’t possibly know, but he wanted to find out more than anything. He licked his lips. “Tell me,” he said hoarsely.

  “They said: Cold steel in scarred hands will save the world or destroy it.”

  Akira opened his palm, where the white, puckered flesh of his scars crisscrossed in silver arcs. More slash marks. When Takumi had cut his mother’s face, he had also sliced her hands, her chest, her throat—no patch of skin went uncut. His mother’s scars passed to him like hair or eye color—a reminder that Akira should not exist, that he was a mistake, a deformed creature. Worse, they covered only part of his body, marking him as a halfling. What a shame it was to look in the mirror and see what you could’ve been, how handsome, how lovable.

  “Akira, Son of Nightmares, every weapon has a destiny. I always thought these weapons were supposed to be mine. But I was merely a courier meant to bring them to you.” Hanako opened the box. Maroon velvet lined the interior. Cushioned in the soft fabric were shuriken, the most ancient of weapons. Throwing stars. With shaking hands, Akira removed one of the stars. The metal warmed under his fingers as if welcoming him home.

  His life had been drawn inside heavy lines. He’d been cursed at birth to live as an outcast. He’d stayed in his box, never daring to leave. Soon enough, the box had become a prison. With the throwing stars, Akira would finally break free.

  * * *

  Akira’s body felt heavy with fatigue and pain, as if he’d been in a horrible scuffle. But the injury was self-inflicted. He’d asked for it, and Hanako had delivered twofold.

  After the Snow Girl had gifted the throwing stars, she’d ushered Akira back upstairs. Hanako stopped at the spinning wheel hanging over Akira’s bed. “You will train on this. The wheel represents everything you need in order to be proficient in the throwing stars. The hub is your center, your moral discipline. The spokes are wisdom. The rim is concentration. You will need that above all else.” She spun the wheel. “When you’ve mastered the wheel, you’ve mastered the throwing stars.”

  For hours, Akira had thrown the stars at the wheel while it spun, hoping his aim would be so precise that the metal star would slip through the spokes and sink into the wall. No luck.

  Every time he threw a star at the wheel, it pinged off the spoke and flew back at him with twice as much force. It was fortunate he wore black. Black didn’t show bloodstains. His upper arm had been cut, his forearm, part of his ear, even a chunk of his hair had been severed when a star flew back. Each time, Hanako laughed, sent the wheel spinning, and told him to try again. “You must know the pain your weapon causes.” And oh, did he know it now, the sting of a thousand paper cuts all over his body.

  After dusk, Hanako ended their training day. Akira felt sleep tug at him, but he forced himself from the clock tower. A chill crept through the alleys and chased Akira as he looped through the fish market, a shortcut he’d discovered. He stepped into the district center. The cherry tree shook in the wind, petals drifting to the ground. It reminded Akira of the gingko tree, of the precious moments he and Mari had shared beneath it.

  Below the tree, a gaunt man with a thin wisp of gray beard read names from a scroll. Akira was late. The recitation of the dead had already begun. He inched closer out of the shadows, wrapping his black piece of cloth around his shoulders and to cover most of his face. Others had gathered for the recitation. Family members, Akira presumed.

  “Fukumi of Clan Akamatsu, dead in the Summer Room, fell from the great dry mountain.” A dōshin with a narrow chin and deep-set eyes let out a wail and sank to his knees. “Arisu of Clan Goya, dead in the Summer Room, bitten by a pit viper.” A courtier in a red kimono burst into tears.

  The gaunt man lowered the scroll. “The recitation is complete. Please come forward to claim the bodies.” Two men assisted the weeping lesser samurai. They staggered to a cart covered with a thin sheet, but Akira could make out the distinct lines beneath. Bodies—girls who had come to compete and perished in the first Room. More family members emerged from the crowd, their steps dragging, laden with grief. Akira’s vision blurred.

  The names of all the dead and disqualified were nailed to the cherry tree. Carefully, Akira wound around the families. Some quietly rejoiced. Their daughters, sisters, or cousins had survived the Summer Room. Some would move forward in the competition. Others were eliminated but would return alive, perhaps injured but not gravely so.

  Akira read the list twice. After, he stood, shaking and cold. Mari’s name wasn’t on it. Not under the dead or the disqualified. He squeezed his eyes shut. Mari was alive. She was moving forward to the next Room.

  Akira didn’t know whether to laugh or to weep. Soon, he’d go to the palace. Hanako had assured him that his time to be useful would come quickly. Today he trained. Tomorrow he conquered illusions.

  Chapter 22

  Mari

  The rice-paper scroll summoning Mari to the Fall Room felt brittle in her hands. A new day. A new Room. A new challenge. And more will die.

  “Sei,” Mari called.

  The Hook Girl slid open the door that connected their rooms, entered, and bowed. “I’m to report to the Fall Room in an hour,” said Mari.

  Sei’s lips flattened in displeasure. “That’s not very much time. What kimono—”

  Mari shook her head. “No kimono. It will just weigh me down. I’ll wear pants and an uwagi.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Sei replied, turning. “I’ll get them from your trunk.”

  The Hook Girl helped her dress, handed Mari her naginata, and slid the door open. Mari saw Asami waiting in the hall.

  Sei bowed low. “Good luck, my lady,” she whispered, a slight tremor to her voice.

  Mari frowned at the servant’s fear. A thought sobered Mari. Our fates are tied together now. Whatever happens to me affects Sei. If Mari lost the competition, Sei would be cast from the palace, forced to return to the Gana Inn. Unwittingly, Mari had taken responsibility for another. What will happen to Sei if I win the competition and disappear? She won’t go back to the inn. I’ll find somewhere else for her, someplace better. This Mari promised with her whole heart.

  With a muttered thank-you, Mari went to join Asami, but the hall was empty. She heard the echo of her ally’s quick footsteps fading away. Mari started to follow but stopped, and turned back to the Hook Girl.

  “If I don’t come back,” Mari said, heart clenching like a fist, “at the bottom of my trunk is a silver hair pick and my copper necklace. I want you to have them.” There was more. Things she wanted to ask of Sei. Find my village in the Tsuko funo Mountains, and tell my mother I’m sorry. If you can, look for the boy with the scars on his face, and tell him that I thought of him often. I couldn’t love him the
way he loved me, but I did care. But Mari didn’t say any of those things. Sei nodded. “Yes, my lady,” she said just before sliding the door shut.

  * * *

  Samurai escorted Mari to the Main Hall. But there wasn’t any need. The sound of the drums would have led her just fine. Once again, taiko drummers lined the hall, their beats fast and furious. But today their sticks were lit on fire. Flames danced in graceful arcs. The doors to the Fall Room were open, the Main Hall fragrant with earthy rain and rotting leaves. A cool breeze caressed her cheeks. She kept her body calm, even though inside she spiraled in turmoil. A red carpet had been laid out, and Mari instinctively followed it into the Fall Room. The samurai left her, and she felt strangely alone as she walked toward the other girls, standing shoulder to shoulder, their backs to her.

  Master Ushiba stood on a dais. Rain fell in a pretty veil around the small platform, but no drops landed on Master Ushiba. Courtiers shuffled in, oohing and aahing at the water trick. Women carried paper umbrellas adorned with swirling pink lotus blossoms. Master Ushiba fluttered his hands, and the rain ceased. A warm mist rose in its place, and a series of rainbows arched from the puddles on the ground, touching some of the courtiers’ hands. The women of the court tittered, cradling the rainbows in their palms.

  None of Mari’s opponents laughed. For them, there was no joy in the Fall Room. What animals lurked here? What dangerous conditions did this room have in store?

  Mist coated Mari’s cheeks as she joined the line, standing next to Asami. For a moment, Mari’s eyes lingered, willing her ally to look at her. But Asami’s chin stayed set and her gaze fixed forward. Mari’s focus changed. She eyed the other eight girls, deciding only two were worthy of her attention—the girl with the bow and arrow, the one who had let the pit viper kill her friend, and a tall girl who carried a huge ono, a battle-axe.

  Mari knew the strength it took to wield such a weapon. Only once had she faced an opponent with an axe. A farmer had chosen it from the cache of weapons. He’d swung it wildly but precisely, breaking Mari’s naginata in half. He nearly made a red ruin of her chest. The secret to winning against a battle-axe was proximity. Just as with a naginata, a battle-axe was most threatening when you were at the end of its arc. When the farmer swung a second time, Mari had ducked and rushed his legs. She defeated him, and buried the axe in the forest. Blinking, she shook away the memory.

  At her first full view of the Fall Room, her breath caught. Neat rows of hundreds of maple trees tunneled before her. Trees on fire. Each crown was tipped in red. The branches swayed in the light wind. Above the tree line, heavy fog gathered and ringed the gentle slope of mossy hills.

  A gong sounded. Crows startled from the maple trees and launched into the milky-gray sky. A retinue of samurai marched in, announcing the arrival of the emperor and prince.

  The courtiers bowed on the thick carpet of rotting leaves, ruining their precious silks. Mari dropped, her face turned toward Asami. She willed her ally to speak, to look at her.

  At Mari’s entreating stare, Asami spat out, “You keep a slave.”

  “Sei?” Mari whispered, taken aback. “My attendant?”

  Asami bristled, her fingers, with ragged nails, curled in the slimy leaves. “Attendant.” She snorted derisively. “She wears a collar around her neck. A slave is a slave no matter what pretty word you use.”

  The emperor barked for all to rise.

  Mari regained her feet, brushing dirt and sticky leaves from her hakama.

  “I thought I said fewer dramatics.” The emperor gave an irritated shake of his head.

  The Seasonist’s papery cheeks blushed. “Apologies, Heavenly Sovereign.” The rainbows disappeared, and the mist cleared. Master Ushiba bowed. “Welcome, competitors. Today you face the Fall Room.” His arm swept out, encompassing the maple forest.

  Mari focused on the imperial family. As always, the emperor stood proud, severity etched into his expression. The beautiful priest and Taro flanked him. And as always, Taro looked ready to flee. The harsh lines of his jaw seemed to be carved from granite. Mari could almost hear his teeth grinding. For a split second, she felt a pang at being a part of something the prince detested. She knew what it felt like to be forced into a ritual you didn’t choose.

  “Again, you seek scrolls,” Master Ushiba went on. “This time, there are only five to be had. You will follow the same rules as the last room. Any deadly combat amongst competitors is strictly forbidden.” Though Mari had seen firsthand how the rule could be circumvented. She’d have to watch the bow-and-arrow girl carefully. “Solve the riddle, and you will find the scrolls. Feed me, and I thrive. Water me, and I die.”

  Mari’s eyebrows darted in. The girls shuffled, each wearing a countenance of unease. What prize is worth your life? Mari knew her reasons. Duty and home. The whole before the self. A chance at freedom.

  “Let the Fall Room begin!” Master Ushiba shouted. The clouds appeared first in the Seasonist’s eyes, swirling, gathering for a storm. A great gust of wind hit Mari full force, and she nearly toppled over. The sky had turned the exact shade of Master Ushiba’s eyes, and there, too, swirling clouds gathered. Courtiers fled the Room, women dropping their fine umbrellas. Ushiba laughed. Fat drops of rain as cold as ice began to fall, quickly plastering Mari’s clothes to her body. A glance at the imperial family showed them unaffected. No wind ruffled their hair as they left the Fall Room. The doors slammed shut, and Ushiba was gone. In his place was a cyclone, hovering just above­ground.

  “We need to get to cover!” Asami shouted. The wind began to pick up. Tree branches wrenched back and forth with a mighty force, cracking from their trunks. One skidded along the ground, almost clipping the bow-and-arrow girl as she ran into the forest. The other girls scattered as well, seeking shelter.

  “Do we still have a deal?” Mari shouted, hair lashing her face. She wasn’t sure which posed a greater threat: the vicious storm or her supposed ally.

  “In the Seasonal Rooms, we are allies. But I won’t be friends with someone who keeps slaves.” Leaves whipped Asami’s cheeks.

  Shame spiked in Mari’s belly. “What if I saved her from something worse?” she asked. Immediately, Mari realized her words were unwelcome and unwise.

  Asami shot her a look of such contempt that Mari flinched. “She is better off free. To serve or not to serve; everyone should have the choice.”

  Mari knew it was true. I’ll do right by you, Sei, whatever comes.

  “We need to find shelter before that thing”—she pointed to the cyclone—“touches down,” Asami said.

  Without speaking, they ran into the forest. The wind pressed them forward. Together, they dodged or jumped tree branches. Rocks lifted from the ground and pummeled them. Mari touched her cheek, and blood came away on her fingers. A wave of panic overcame her. The storm was getting worse. A maple was torn from the ground, roots and all, and toppled forward just feet from Mari. Seeking shelter in the forest was a mistake. A howl of pain ghosted by on the wind. A girl had been injured.

  “We need to get out of the forest,” Mari shouted over the din. Rain fell in thicker sheets, pummeling through the canopy.

  “There!” Asami pointed to a cluster of gray boulders slick with rain. She took the lead and disappeared into a small hole in the rocks. Mari followed, diving feet-first into the darkness. A little cry escaped her as she slid down and then hit the bottom. Immediately, her teeth set to chattering. The cave was cold. Wind whistled at the entrance. Farther inside the cave, water dripped and echoed.

  “Okay?” Asami asked, startling Mari. Other than a single slice of light from the hole, the cave was pitch-black.

  “Okay,” Mari said, regaining her breath. She noted that her ally was not nearly as winded as she. Asami is in better shape than I am. She is a mystery. The way she disdains keeping yōkai slaves. How she scorns the prince’s attention.

  “There’s wood in here, and it’s not wet. We can make a fire, dry off,” Asami said from somewhere down the
cave.

  Mari stepped forward, into the light. She peered up. Raindrops splattered her face. The storm raged on. “Don’t you think we should go back out there?” she called. The scrolls awaited.

  “Nobody’s finding anything in this storm. The smart move is to wait it out and solve the riddle.” Asami’s voice sounded farther away.

  A desolate cry echoed through the cave. Without thinking, Mari ran toward the sound, naginata in hand, stumbling over the uneven surface. Her eyes had somewhat adjusted to the dark. The cave widened. Rain and light poured in from openings above. Seeing Asami hunched over, Mari slid to a stop. Is she weeping? Mari crept closer, and her racing heartbeat shuddered to a stop.

  There before Asami was a yōkai.

  But not just any yōkai. A kirin—a sacred, untouchable yōkai. The deer-like creature lay near a boulder, its hooves tucked underneath it and its rainbow tail and mane sopping wet. Even in the shadows, the kirin’s iridescent scales shimmered.

  Mari’s eyes grew watery. She’d never seen a kirin, but she knew they were the gentlest of creatures. Knew they could not harm a living thing, human, insect, or yōkai. And this kirin, this beautiful beast, had been collared, its eyes dull and lifeless. Its ribs jutted out under its scales. Its eyes were open. Unseeing. Dead.

  “It starved to death. But I don’t understand why; there’s plenty for it to eat.” Asami turned to Mari. Tears tracked down her heart-shaped face. Kirin were vegetarian. And along this section of the cave grew giant ferns.

  Mari remembered Akemi, the Animal Wife who was ostracized, who camped near the gates because she had nowhere else to go. Mari had gathered a handful of nuts and left them near the gate, but the Animal Wife wouldn’t touch them. Akemi had lost the will to live, and so had this kirin.

  “Asami,” Mari said as gently as possible. Mari put a hand on Asami’s shoulder. “Some things would rather die than live in chains.”