by Emiko Jean
Then he thought the tree should have a partner, a friend with whom to witness the seasons. So the following summer, Sugita planted another tree. Through the years, the Spring and Summer Trees grew side by side, weathering storms and blazing heat alike. Each was as strong as metal mined from the deepest trenches of the earth.
Only, the Spring Tree was always just a little bit taller than the Summer Tree. At first, this was not a problem. The Summer Tree received enough sunlight and water to thrive. But soon enough, the Spring Tree grew so large that it eclipsed the Summer Tree, leaving it in its shadow. And the Summer Tree began to wither without sunlight or water.
Seeing this, Sugita wept. He went to his sisters: Umiko, Goddess of Moonlight, Storms, and Sea, and Aiko, Goddess of the Sun, Animals, and Day. “My tree needs sunlight and water. Save it, please.”
Umiko removed her porcelain mask and laughed. With both hands, she held Sugita’s sad face, in much the same way he had done when she’d asked him to banish Eoku. “If you hadn’t planted the trees side by side, this would not have happened,” said Umiko. “That tree was born to die.”
Aiko, ever the loyal sister, smiled sadly. “You reap what you sow, brother.”
The two sisters left. And Sugita could only watch as his beloved tree withered and died.
Chapter 34
Mari
Sulfur and smoke, the scent of fireworks, drifted through the open window. Tremors coursed through Mari, aftershocks from the Winter and Spring Rooms. She winced as Sei pulled her hair in a high bun and shoved in a strand of silk cherry blossoms. The delicate flowers poured over Mari’s right ear and temple.
In her lap, Mari flexed her hands. She could still feel the spiders crawling on her, feel the bite of icy water. Mari was wounded and weary, in no shape to attend a celebration, a wedding. My wedding. In a few hours, she’d be married.
“My lady, it’s time to get dressed.” Sei held up a red kimono with gold thread woven in an abstract flower pattern. Draped on the bed was a checkered obi. Mari sighed, biting back a shudder of pain as she stood. Every muscle protested. Sei seemed distressed by Mari’s battle-worn body, but the Hook Girl kept her silence.
Once Mari was dressed, Sei stepped back, her lips curving in a triumphant smile. “You are the embodiment of Spring herself.” Sei grabbed a polished silver tray. “Look.” She held up the tray, and Mari started at her reflection.
The red of the kimono brought out a rosy glow in her cheeks that matched her crimson lips. The cherry blossoms framed her face. A veil of spring. Tiny water pearls the color of the moon were woven through her hair, catching the light. Sei had painted thick black kohl lines around Mari’s eyes. Even if she wasn’t beautiful, she felt like it.
Mari ran her hands over the cool silk of the checkered obi. Sei chattered on, but Mari was only half listening. The world melted away. She had accomplished what she’d set out to do. Conquer the Seasons.
And now, a new destiny unfolded before her. Another way. A yōkai empress and a human prince. Perhaps she could be Oni Slayer, Conqueror of the Seasons, and Peacemaker. At Taro’s side, she would herald in a new golden era of Honoku. But the dream was but a tiny ember that, if not sheltered from the wind, would blow away.
Taro does not know you are yōkai.
A small kernel of doubt planted in her stomach, irritating her. If she stayed, she’d never see Tsuma, her friends, her mother again. It has to be worth it. I will make it worth it.
“You will turn many heads tonight,” said Sei, drawing Mari’s focus.
Mari smiled, but it was half-formed. “Thank you, Sei.”
The Hook Girl looked at her feet. “You are welcome.” Sei’s hand jumped to her throat, nearly caressing her collar, but she stopped just before her skin made contact with the curses. I’ll make it better. You won’t have to wear the collar soon. “My lady, I was wondering, if it’s not too much trouble . . .”
“What is it, Sei?”
“Back at the inn, you spoke so passionately of your home.” Mari remembered. Of a place where yōkai don’t wear the metal collar. “I know now isn’t a good time, but I hope you may share more stories with me. It sounds wonderful.”
Mari grasped Sei’s hands. “Of course.” I’ll take you there. You won’t be afraid anymore. A knock struck the apartment door. Mari hesitated. There was more she wanted to say. The knock sounded again. Sei rushed to answer it.
In the hall, two samurai bowed low, their eyes hidden beneath black lacquered masks. “His Majesty, the imperial prince, requests your presence.”
Sei bowed. “When I see you again, you’ll be a princess, the future empress.”
With a small smile, Mari bid Sei goodbye. Outside the door, the ground was littered with gifts, presents left by courtiers in hopes of gaining the future empress’s early favor. It made Mari think of the gifts left outside of the gates of Tsuma. What would her mother say if she could see her now? You are a true Animal Wife. You have married the highest of us all.
The samurai’s steps were synced with the distant hammer of taiko drums as they escorted Mari to the Main Hall. The heavy thuds called all to the Imperial Palace. All except the yōkai, who were forbidden, kept on the outside as always. But humans, no matter what age, gender, or wealth, were invited to the palace tonight. They would be free to roam its exotic gardens, or stare in wonder at the Seasonal Rooms, a wedding gift from the emperor to the masses. They would come to set eyes on Mari, the future empress. Wife to the Cold Prince.
A pang of self-doubt seized her, and Mari paused mid-step. She was playing a dangerous game, one with smarter, better-equipped players. The guards stopped but did not speak. Though they seemed stoic, Mari knew that they were trained observers. What secrets they must hold. Showing any weakness was a strike against her. Remember, sharks circle only when they smell blood, Asami had told her. That seemed like so long ago. Mari stilled the trembling in her hands, squared her shoulders, and kept walking.
She rounded a corner and stepped into the Main Hall. Red banners with strokes of golden calligraphy hung from the rafters. Soon, this space would be crowded with people. Now it was empty, save for the prince, who stood by the open doors of the Fall Room. A few samurai lined the walls.
With small steps, Mari approached Taro, her betrothed.
Taro was dressed in a black surcoat and matching hakama pants stitched with gold thread. Swords rested on his left hip, swords Mari knew he could wield very well, but still she had bested him. The thought gave her the courage she needed to take the final few steps toward his imposing presence. He is yours, she reminded herself. But the words wouldn’t settle in her spine. She had won the competition, but she felt no sense of victory, no sense of relief.
She smiled as she reached his side. “I wondered why Sei picked this kimono, but now I see. We match.”
Taro’s face softened, but a dark, uncertain gleam remained in his eyes. “No,” he said.
Mari blinked, taken aback. “Are you displeased that we match?”
Taro swallowed, the ball in his throat working up and down. “We don’t match, because I could never come close to your beauty, your spirit. Whatever I wear only complements you.”
Mari relaxed and drew closer to him. “We complement each other.”
A corner of Taro’s lips twitched. He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “You best me in combat and in rhetoric.”
Mari smiled, a flush spreading from her neck to her toes. She nodded at the Fall Room door. “I hold no favorable memories of that room.”
Taro’s eyes flickered to Mari’s. “Someday, you will have to tell me how you survived it.”
Mari kept silent, remembering the smell of the oni’s breath, the feel of its flesh as her claws raked its face. “I must have some secrets,” she teased.
“Not from your husband,” Taro corrected, dark gaze raking her up and down.
“Is that what you want? If I tell you everything, I’ll have nothing left for myself,” she jested again.
Mari’s head snapped up sharply. “That is all but a certainty. In a few moments, I will be.” The ceremony was less than an hour away. Too late to turn back now. The moment you stepped into the Summer Room, your fate was sealed.
“My wife in truth. I want to know that you come to me not because of some competition and whatever brought you here, but of your own free will, because you want me”—he paused—“as much as I want you.”
“There are things you don’t know about me. The things I’ve done, you would never understand.”
Taro gripped Mari’s hands. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you were, it is in the past.”
“You would forgive me?”
Taro nodded. “Anything. Be my wife in truth.” It was a demand, an order from a man used to getting what he wanted. Taro didn’t know any other way. “My subjects say that I am heartless. When so many people say the same thing about you again and again, you begin to believe it is true.”
“I have some experience with that,” Mari acknowledged.
He placed his palm against her cheek. She turned shimmering eyes to him. Taro went on. “But now I realize that my heart has only been missing. And you’ve found it, haven’t you?”
* * *
The wedding took place in the Spring Room, on the same dais on which Mari and Taro had battled. But the Room had been transformed. The trees bloomed with fresh cherry blossoms. Butterflies with unnaturally blue iridescent wings swooped through the air. A simple pagoda covered the dais. And although it was night outside the Palace of Illusions, the sun shone bright inside the Spring Room.
Taro and Mari walked down the aisle arm in arm. At the altar, a white wedding hood was placed over Mari’s hair, a red robe embroidered with gold cranes draped over her shoulders. Cherry blossoms rained down, a shower of soft petals thickening the air. Taro kept hold of her hand, and she was grateful. Without his support, she didn’t think she could stand. She gripped Taro’s hand tighter. While everything else raged, he was calm. He anchored her. And she needed an anchor. She had faced so much death. Taro was warm and alive.
The servants continued ornamenting, forcing Mari’s arms through the red robe. She lost Taro’s hand. Her knees buckled, but she managed to stay standing. This is my wedding. She almost laughed. A strange buzzing filled her ears. A ceramic turtle was placed in her palm.
The High Priest stood in front of Taro and Mari, the handsome one who always hovered near the emperor. He waved a smoking branch over their shoulders, a ritual purification.
The priest spoke, but she couldn’t make sense of his words. She was too distracted by his cobalt tattoos, too afraid his skin might brush against hers. Expose her. She shook from adrenaline and fear. Everything was moving so fast. She wanted to stop time, to gather herself, build up her walls.
A cup of sake was thrust into her hands. She sipped from it and passed it to Taro. The cup circled back twice more.
Taro read from a large scroll, his voice deep and earnest. She tried to remember Taro’s blood when she’d cut him. If it was the same as hers. Yes. Inside we are the same. A sign. It had to be. She was yōkai, and Taro was human, but they shared this. The first dazzling sparks of love. That would be enough. Enough for Taro to forgive her treachery. Mari managed a smile just as the ceremony ended, just as she was declared the princess and future empress of Honoku.
* * *
Taro clasped Mari’s hand in his. The samurai guards opened the palace doors. The hall filled with noise—fireworks, taiko drums, the thunderous roar of the crowd.
Before Mari, the main garden stretched, rolling carpets of bright green grass, cherry trees heavy with blossoms, pathways of polished slate. All of it was packed with guests—peasants, merchants, daimyō, courtiers.
The imperial court would sit and watch the festivities from the platform in the middle of the garden. Thousands of lanterns hung, and the scent of burning wax and cooked almonds perfumed the air. It felt familiar, almost, in some strange way, like home.
Taro squeezed Mari’s hand. Like dominoes falling, a hush ran through the crowd. A voice echoed to Mari’s right, Master Ushiba. “Most loyal subjects, the Emperor of Honoku, Junichi Haito.” The emperor stood to Taro’s left. “The Prince of Honoku, Taro Haito, and the Princess of Honoku, Mari Haito.”
Mari had never felt so exposed. She wondered if the people were tallying her faults. Small boxes of rice were thrust into her hands. “Distribute them,” Taro whispered. As they descended, Mari handed out the boxes to peasants who lined their pathway. The crowd cheered, a victory roar. She wondered if the throng saw how her hands shook.
Taro’s expression remained sober, but warmth steeped his eyes. “It seems they approve,” he whispered under his breath.
Mari took Taro’s arm. Seeing so much color, so much light, it almost hurt. Then she remembered the yōkai beyond the palace walls. These humans were not her people. Her people wore metal collars. She must not forget.
A lone samurai caught her eye. He’d removed his helmet to stare at Mari. Silvery scars marred half his face. A knot wound in her stomach. No, it can’t be. But it was. Akira. She blinked, her eyes filling with tears. He’s real. As sure as night encases day, Akira is here. But yōkai were not allowed in this celebration. Fear chilled her blood, froze her steps. Akira replaced his helmet.
She hadn’t realized she’d stopped until Taro cleared his throat. “Mari?”
She offered Taro a wavering smile. “I thought I saw someone I knew. But I was mistaken.”
Taro stared at her for a moment, searching her face, then returned his attention to the spectacle before them. Mari risked another glance at Akira. He still stood in the horde. She couldn’t see his face anymore. Not with the samurai mask on. But she could feel his gaze, burning holes through her and Taro’s linked arms.
Taro moved, gently prodding Mari forward. As they walked the last few feet to the dais, Mari searched for Akira again, but he was gone. Lost. She felt the brush of Taro’s lips against her ear as he leaned down to seat her. “I’ll give you whatever you want,” he vowed quietly, so only she could hear. “I’ll give you anything.” She flexed her hand, lightly touching it to his chest, and almost buckled at the weight of the world at her fingertips.
Chapter 35
Akira
Akira wanted to shout. His Animal Girl was alive and well. And the Cold Prince’s wife.
His jaw clenched. He hated the manner in which the prince directed Mari, placing a hand on her back, propelling her forward, whispering in her ear. Next to him, she looked like a prop, an object to reinforce his status. Akira’s hands twitched at his sides, desperate to caress one of the stars hidden in his belt. It would be a simple thing, to hurl a star. He imagined the blade lodging in the prince’s throat. But Mari might be harmed in the resulting fray. He would not risk her life for his petty jealousy.
Akira grunted as a passerby rammed into his shoulder. Seeing Akira’s samurai dress, the man muttered a hasty apology.
Akira scanned the throng. A band began playing, and he recognized the low notes of the shamisen, the instrument his father used to play. He wandered the revelry alone, an unseen thread pulling him toward the platform, toward Mari. The Cold Prince watched his bride with unconcealed fascination. Akira recognized the look on his face. That of a man deeply in love. The prince’s soul was a lovely shade of lavender. It complemented Mari’s ice-blue soul. The colors intertwined.
Across from them, the emperor laughed at something, then broke into a hacking cough. It grew to a violent fit, and he grasped for his sake cup. Quick as lightning, Mari’s hand shot out, spilling the contents. Rose-colored liquid splashed the front of Mari’s kimono. No one had seen her move. Everyone, including Taro, assumed that the emperor had doused her gown with his clumsy hands.
Mari gasped, blotting her kimono with a napkin. The Cold Princ
e whispered something in Mari’s ear. Akira gritted his teeth, seeing such intimacy. Mari nodded and rose from the table. She turned her head, almost imperceptibly, toward Akira, then quickly escaped to the Main Hall.
Akira watched as she passed through the double doors and turned right. Her stride slowed, and again she tilted her head in Akira’s direction. Akira plunged through the crowd. He had followed Mari to the Imperial City. He would follow her anywhere.
Chapter 36
Mari
“You shouldn’t be here.” Mari kept her back to Akira, her gaze lost in the wreckage before her. Uprooted trees. Overturned boulders. Slash marks in the ground. She’d sought refuge in the Fall Room. Since the oni attack, the room had been cordoned off for repairs. This wasteland was the only place Mari knew she would find true privacy. So much blood had been spilled here in this maple forest. Was this room haunted now? A gust of wind shook Mari’s hair loose, making her think of the restless dead.
Twigs snapped under Akira’s feet as he moved toward her. “Is that all you have to say to me?” he asked, unable to keep the confusion and bitterness from his voice.
She turned, her eyes luminous. He’d stripped the samurai mask from his head. Seeing him up close, talking to him again . . . something like a knife lodged in her throat. “If the prince or the emperor sees you—”
Akira’s chin went up; his hands brushed his armor. “Let them come. I am not afraid.” He looked every inch the warrior. Mari was surprised to see that this darker look suited him. There was a new power in his body, a crackling fire waiting for a sharp wind to set the world ablaze. The tension in Akira’s body relaxed; his eyes softened. “I’ve missed you.”
The knife in Mari’s throat twisted and lodged itself deeper. Tell him. Tell him about the Rooms, about what you did to survive, how it brought you to the edge and pushed you off, how Taro caught you mid-fall. “I’ve missed you, too.” She spoke the truth. She was happy to see him. “You were in the Winter Room.” It was not a question.