by Keira Drake
Aside from the storm, it is quiet in the cottage. Noro left early this morning on some business with Inzo, and Keiji disappeared after breakfast, though where he went, I could not say. Noro and Keiji have all but abandoned their own cottage; Keiji and Aki sleep on a cot in my sitting room, and Noro with me, in my bed. In the Spire, this would constitute a scandal beyond belief—anyone who heard of it would assume that Noro and I were lovers. And we are, in our way, but we do not know each other yet in that intimate sense. Our love is sweet, and slow, and new. It is perfect.
Another flash of lightning tears across the sky, followed by a shattering crack of thunder. Shivering, I turn back to the sitting room, feeling restless myself. Perhaps a book by the fire; there is scarce else for me to do in this weather, since all my chores have been attended.
For once, Keiji left his great shadow Aki at home; the poor hound has been restless and unhappy since the storm began. Crouched miserably beneath the entry table, he whines as I pass by. He looks up at me with a mournful expression, his eyebrows shifting up and down above woebegone brown eyes. The effect is so sweet and pathetic that I can’t help laughing.
“Oh, Aki,” I say, stooping to smooth the soft gray fur along his neck. “You’ll be all right. The rain has to let up sometime.”
A mighty thunderclap roars overhead, and I expect him to hunker down even further, but he stiffens and stands so abruptly that the table—not nearly so tall as Aki when he’s on his feet—teeters momentarily atop his back before crashing backward against the wall. He stands before the door, his head hunched low, his ears flat against his head, a deep growl slipping through his teeth.
“Aki?” I say, my voice tremulous. “What’s the matter?”
He paws at the door and lets out a vicious bark, a piercing sound that startles me into taking a step backward. As if in response, the gale picks up outside, the wind whistling along the sides of the cottage. The dog turns once in a circle and then backs away, his head so low it is almost level with the floor.
“Aki?” I say again.
The door bangs open and Noro steps inside amidst a spray of wind and water. His hair is slicked down along one side of his head, his black hood open at his back. Aki is out the door at once, displacing the entry rug in his hurry to get outside.
Noro grips my upper arm and pulls me along the hallway to the bedroom. “They have come, Vaela.” He takes down my black case and unrolls it in one motion on the bed. “Keep your knives at the ready and do not leave this room. Do you hear me? Do not leave this room.” He snuffs out the lamp and moves back down the hallway. I follow him, fear like a block of ice in my stomach.
“Wait,” I say desperately. “You must tell me what’s happening!”
He turns and points to the bedroom. “Get back in that room and do not leave until I come for you.”
“But—what if I can help? You’ve taught me so much already, and I—”
His face is a mask of fury. “Get back in that room! You are not a warrior, Vaela!”
Never has he raised his voice to me, and my eyes burn with tears. He registers the look on my face, exhales sharply, then pulls me into his arms. “I cannot protect you out there, miyake. Please wait for me here. Will you do this?”
I nod, and see relief in his eyes. “But where is Keiji?” I ask. “He left early and I don’t—”
“I will find him. Do not worry.”
“But, Noro…if there is trouble, he will think himself able to fight.” A biting dread flows through me at the thought.
“I will find him, sweet one. I must go.”
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. And then he is gone, moving down the shadowy hallway and putting out the lights one by one before disappearing into the storm. I return to the darkened bedroom, my hands shaking as I close the door behind me. I strain to hear something, anything that will tell me what is happening in the village, but I can hear nothing over the cacophony of the wind and rain. A flash of lightning casts the room in a momentary shock of pale white light; I see the knife case on the bed, hurry to collect it, then collapse onto the floor, hugging the cool bundle against my chest.
And I wait.
The minutes tick by. The rain is relentless, as are the dark imaginings of my mind. What is happening? How bad is the attack? How many have been lost? What of Noro, of sweet Keiji? My heart beats like a wounded bird inside my chest, my hands sweat and ache from clutching the leather bundle of knives. Each crash of thunder is jarring, terrifying—a reminder that out there, outside these walls, there is danger. That the Topi have come.
The waiting is agony. I feel as I did in the glass pod—trapped, helpless, a bystander unable to stop the events unfolding around me. And in truth, isn’t that the way of it? Here I am, sheltered once more while those I love face imminent and terrible danger. Here I hide, trembling and afraid, my own life safely removed from peril. The walls that protect me now are stone, not glass, but there is no true difference.
I see my father, his hand outstretched atop my mother’s on the door of the pod. Vaela, he said, be safe. My breath catches in my chest at the memory of his words, at the love that shone in his eyes, and at the strength of his silent plea. No—not a plea. A goodbye.
Were Noro’s words tonight also a farewell? Even if he intends to return for me, I have seen what the Topi can do. I have watched them paint the snow with the blood of the Aven’ei and laugh like madmen, intoxicated by the frenzy of slaughter.
My fingers trail restlessly along the edge of the knife case. If I could kill but one Topi, how many Aven’ei might I save? The thought sets my heart racing, for as Noro said, I am no warrior. My training has scarcely begun. If I were to try to fight, I would almost surely die.
But I might kill one. One Topi whose thirst for blood cannot be quenched except in death. One Topi who could otherwise, on this very night, send Noro to his grave.
One might be enough.
Moving as though in a dream, I get to my feet and open the drawer in the stand beside the bed. The black leather belt that allows me to wear my knives rests inside beneath a tangle of other items; I remove it from the drawer, fix it around my waist, and methodically tuck each of my six blades into the sturdy sheaths. Then I lace up my boots and fasten a heavy woolen cloak about my shoulders.
Forgive me, Noro. My life is worth no more than that of any other.
The wind whips the hood from my head the moment I step outside; the pelting rain is like a spray of icy daggers against my skin. Shielding my eyes, I make my way down the front walk to the road, only to step back with a gasp as the branch of a white birch tree cartwheels past and crashes into a stack of crates at the end of the lane. The shriek of the wind is shrill, almost frantic—like the wail of an accursed spirit lost to some otherworldly torment. Shivering, I press forward, struggling to see in the darkness and violence of the storm. No one is in sight, and the lights are out in all of the houses in this row and the next. The sky is still as black as sin.
I head up the road and round the corner to find that an enormous cherry tree has been uprooted and deposited thirty feet from where it once grew. Everywhere, there is debris—broken pots, slate roof tiles, clothing ripped from wash lines. I hurry through the mud and pick my way up the lane in the direction of the village gates. There is a distant pounding to be heard—at first, I mistake it for the rain, but it is too rhythmic, too monotonous to be natural. It grows louder as I advance, and I stop for a moment, puzzled.
Boom. Boom. Boom-boom-BOOM. Boom. Boom. Boom-boom-BOOM.
Suddenly, I recall the words that Yuki spoke to me the first time we met: I can’t begin to imagine a life without the drums of war.
I take off running, splashing through the deep puddles and trenches wrought by the rain. The muscles in my legs burn and ache as I race toward the gates, the mud sucking at my boots with every step. As a flash of lightning sets the sky alight, the village entrance comes into view. The shock of the scene so startles me that I slip and stumble forward, m
y hands and knees sinking deep into the sodden earth.
Hundreds lay throughout the square, dead or dying. A great many more are locked in battle, while the village gate lies in a twisted ruin, breached by some terrible force. The few buildings that line the entranceway are bright with flames, despite the downpour.
I scramble to my feet and move quickly toward the right-hand tower, taking a circuitous route that leads me away from the heart of the fighting. When I reach the wall, I press my body flat against the stone and try to catch my breath. Several feet away, a man—a Topi—calls out to me; he is flat on his belly, his hand clawing at his hair. A closer look reveals that he has been separated from his legs. He calls out once more and then becomes still, one more dark, lifeless figure claimed in the assault.
Grateful for the cover of darkness and shaking with fear and cold, I move silently along the wall until I find the stairwell leading to the walkway. Atop the rampart, there is no one left alive; I discover only the bodies of a dozen or so Aven’ei archers. I avert my gaze as I creep along, moving back toward the tower. The clash and grinding of metal becomes more pronounced as I near the village entrance, and finally, concealed behind the battlement, I peer out beyond the wall.
The fighting is concentrated just inside the gate, but dozens of smaller skirmishes continue on either side. With each burst of lightning, there are new horrors to be seen: the silhouette of a Topi hatchet as it is drawn back, an Aven’ei swordsman cleaved nearly in two by his own (confiscated) weapon, a gurgling fountain of blood pulsing upward from the thigh of a man on the ground below. And as the battle rages on, I begin to wonder if I might serve any purpose here at all, or if I will merely end up dead without ever unsheathing a knife. What can I possibly do against mighty warriors such as these?
There can be but one answer: find a Topi who is alone and surprise him. I have not the skill or stealth of an itzatsune, but the thunder and the everlasting torrent of rain may serve to conceal me long enough. At least, that is what I hope.
I wait, watching carefully when there is enough light to see, searching along the edges of the battle for any man who may be isolated. And at long last, I find one.
The man stands alone at the edge of the wood beyond the gate. He is an archer, and wounded, his right arm bound with cloth. I count this as one small advantage. The Topi presses himself back into the trees, searching for a target that he might dispatch from the concealment of the forest.
Quickly, I map out a route that might bring me across the field without being seen, into the safety of the trees. From there, I can approach him from behind without being heard. My heart is pumping furiously, adrenaline coursing through my body. Can I do this? Even if I make it to the wood, can I take a life? And should I succeed—and survive—can I bear the cost?
I falter, uncertain, allayed by doubt and fear. Yet I am keenly aware that no Aven’ei would hesitate to defend against the Topi; I must go, lest I lose this opportunity. I turn to move back along the length of the wall so that I might descend out of sight, but a change in the Topi’s stance gives me pause. The man stands perfectly still, his eyes fixed on something to my left. He lifts his bow, notches an arrow and pulls the cord taut; automatically, I train my eyes to where his target must be. A sickening sense of disbelief trickles through me as I see the small boy perched upon the wall on the opposite side of the gate, a large gray hound beside him.
“Keiji!” I scream, my knives stupidly forgotten, but the wind tears the word from my lips, and the archer lets the arrow fly. It strikes Keiji in the neck, knocking him backward behind the parapet. The dog launches itself over the top of the wall, skids and rolls over in the mud below, then flies across the field toward the archer. He catches the Topi by the throat and knocks him to the ground, tearing at the man’s flesh. For a moment, I am certain Aki has killed him. But the dog goes abruptly still, and half a second later, the archer scrambles backward into the wood, one hand at his throat and the other clutching a short, sharp knife.
Shaking, I clamber down the inner side of the wall as quickly as I can, without care or fear of the battle below. I no longer hear the crash of swords or the deafening rain and thunder. I only run, my feet digging into the mud, my arms pumping at my sides. Men fall and fight and die around me; I run through them, over them, past them. I leap for the wall when I reach the other side of the ruined gate; my fingers catch the lip of the wet, broken stone and cling with a strength borne purely of will. I climb upward, steadily, quickly, and pull myself over the side when I reach the top.
Keiji is there, small and broken, convulsing in the rain, the arrow driven through his throat just below his chin. His eyes are wide with shock, his hands hovering over his neck. He opens his mouth to speak, but there is no sound.
“It’s going to be all right, Keiji,” I say, with a certainty I do not feel. “Everything is going to be fine.”
A shadow falls over his body and I freeze, fear and remorse mingling in the pit of my stomach. I will die now. A Topi has followed me up the wall, and I will die here, and so will Keiji. This is the end.
But no hatchet falls, nor any sword—only the familiar deep voice of Noro cuts through the night.
“Who has done this?” he says.
I turn, relief washing over me. Noro stands rigid in the shadow of the tower wall, a short sword in his right hand and an axe in his left. There is a man with him, someone I’ve not seen before; he is older than Noro, and taller, dressed all in black. This, and the telltale strip of hair along his scalp, mark him clearly as an itzatsune. He is bleeding from both ears.
“Noro!” I say. “How did you—”
“Where is the archer?” he says, his voice like an icy pond.
I point a trembling finger toward the trees. “Aki went after him.”
Noro exchanges a glance with the itzatsune. The man nods and says, “I will see him to Eno Zu’n.”
Crouching down before Keiji, Noro whispers something I cannot hear. To me, he says nothing. An instant later, he disappears over the side of the wall in a burst of shadow.
The Topi archer, I surmise, does not have long to live.
CHAPTER 23
THE ITZATSUNE IS CALLED NOBUO, AND THOUGH he may be wounded, it does not seem to impede either his strength or his speed. He plucks Keiji from the wall and moves with all haste toward Eno’s home. I murmur soft words of reassurance to Keiji, keeping pace beside Nobuo as we pick our way through the empty streets.
The arrow is a sleek and slender thing, made monstrous by its deceptively delicate appearance. It has gone all the way through Keiji’s neck; the shaft must have cracked when he fell backward, and the last four inches of the point end—including the arrowhead—protrude at a grotesque angle. I don’t understand how he breathes, but I thank the heavens that he does.
Within minutes, I am pounding on Eno’s door. A curtain draws back at the front window; half a second later, the door opens. She steps back and ushers us inside.
“Down the hallway,” I say to Nobuo. “The second room on the right-hand side.”
He moves quickly and sets Keiji down on the bed in the healing room while Eno brings in a large lamp.
“Now go,” he says. “We will remove the arrow. You do not want to see.”
I sit at the edge of the bed and take Keiji’s hand in mine. “I will not leave him. Do what you must.”
As they make preparations, I smooth Keiji’s wet hair away from his face.
“What courage you have,” I say, tears in my eyes. “And rightly so, for all will be well soon enough.”
“All right,” Nobuo says. “Step aside now.”
I give Keiji’s hand a squeeze and move away from the bed. The removal of the arrow is quick, but horrifying even so. Eno holds Keiji’s head in place while Nobuo grips the arrow by the shaft and snaps off its feathered tail. Then, in one horrible moment, he draws the arrow through to the other side, out the back of Keiji’s neck. Keiji, mercifully, faints.
A slow trickle of blood oozes
from the entry wound; Eno wipes it away and begins to clean it at once.
“Very little blood,” Nobuo says. “This is good.”
“He will be all right?”
Nobuo wipes his hands on a towel. “This is no small puncture. But Eno knows healing, and the boy is strong. Time will tell.”
I feel as though I’ve taken my first breath in hours. “Thank you, Nobuo.” I put a hand on Eno’s shoulder. “And you as well, Eno.”
She smiles, but her eyes are on her work. My hope is renewed as I recall the efficiency and expertise with which she healed my own wound.
Nobuo turns to leave, but stops at the door. “I’ve seen men five times his size make a bigger fuss,” he says with a nod in Keiji’s direction. “You tell him I said so.”
“I will.”
I look down at Keiji’s face, so small and pale and still. My sweet Keiji, the boy who brought me bits of shining glass, the one who reminded me every day that life was waiting beyond the bitter walls of my grief.
“You stay strong,” I whisper. “Stay strong for Noro. Stay strong for me. You have a long life ahead of you, Keiji Zensuke.”
The night inches along, every hour seeming to stretch out longer than the last. Noro has not returned, and as dawn approaches, his absence becomes more acute. The storm at last has quieted, lessening to a steady fall of rain. I wait in the healing room, my feet curled beneath me in the chair beside Keiji’s bed, listening to the patter of water against the window. My heart is full of worry. Please, Noro…please be safe.