The Tiger's Daughter

by K Arsenault Rivera

  I stood at your side through all of it. You could not touch me, you could not hold me, but you spoke of me whenever you could.

  “This is my dearest friend, Barsalyya Shefali,” you’d say. “You have not greeted her; is it customary in Xian to ignore demonslayers?”

  I never knew how to react when you did this. How to stand. Was I supposed to straighten my back and shoulders, bring my legs together like a good Hokkaran girl? Was I to remain bow-legged and silent, your dark shadow?

  All I knew was that you needed me. So I forced a close-lipped smile when the dignitaries butchered my name. I nodded when they thanked me for my service, not knowing what that service might be.

  You sang my praises and I hummed along. I knew the melody, but not the words.

  It was Fifth Bell. Kenshiro and Baozhai were showing the lords of Xian-Lun and Xian-Qin around the Bronze Palace; we had a few moments to ourselves.

  Tugging my sleeve, you took me into a spare room and slid the screen closed. “Shefali,” you said, your voice quivering. “Shefali, there are so many people here. I saw Ikkimura and his wife. If the Eastern Conqueror is here, then West, North, and South are, too.”

  I loved my brother dearly, but I still hadn’t said a word to him. Only a dozen or so people, he’d said. A small little tournament to welcome me home, just a way to race around nobles.

  If he had only told us what your uncle was threatening, we could’ve done something about it. Could we not have? Oh, it is a fool’s errand to dwell on such things, but I spend so many nights wondering what would have happened differently. Perhaps we could have met your uncle at court. Perhaps he would not have been there, then. But we would have crossed paths eventually.

  Kenshiro, for his part, did not impose his presence on us. What he’d done was beyond mending in one day, or two, or three. If we made it through the tournament without issue, then you might take your first steps toward forgiveness.

  But as things stood—no, we would not talk to him.

  But you and I were together then, in a room away from all the commotion, from all the difficult emotions. And I had not seen you so terrified in years.

  “Shizuka,” I said. From side to side, we swayed. “We will be fine.”

  “Nozawa is here,” you said. “I know he is. I have yet to see him, but I can feel his filth.”

  There are some men who look at a woman as if they’re already holding a knife to her throat. There are men whose eyes are wandering, unwanted hands. There are men who by their posture alone can make a woman feel violated. Nozawa Kagemori was the king of those men. Thinking of the years we’d spent apart—the years he spent near you, when you were a young girl—made my stomach churn.

  “You have me,” I said.

  You pinched my cheeks with none of your customary enthusiasm, as if the motion alone would cheer you. The ghost of a smile appeared on your lips. “I do,” you said. “But, Shefali, what if I must duel him?”

  “You’ll win,” I said.

  Silence.

  Silence?

  Gods, I ached to see you like this.

  So I took your right hand, and I held it up to the light. An old arrowhead scar stood out in a patina against your pale skin. I traced it before placing my palm over yours. Scar met scar.

  Like swallowing a star.

  “We are gods,” I said. “Gods do not lose.”

  When your eyes met mine, a thousand lifetimes passed between us.

  Until someone came running to the door and knelt outside.

  “Your Imperial Highness, His Majesty the Son of Heaven has arrived and demands your presence.”

  “Come with me,” you said. “I can’t do this without you.”

  We made our way out of the palace. Baozhai insisted that the tournament take place two li off the palace grounds; even the Emperor could not sway the Bronze Lady’s insistence. And, to be fair, it was a much nicer setup than we would have had inside the palace. Guards lined the whole path, bowing their heads to you as you went. Though I followed only eight steps behind, they stood upright after I passed. Every eighth guard bore an Imperial banner: entwined dragon and phoenix. The arena itself was a large square with one of the four gentleman trees at each corner. Young musicians stood in the shadow of the trees. Girls played zither and Sister’s strings; a boy played the drums. Holy incense swirled gray poetry onto the wind.

  And at the center of it all—his litter set up nearest to the plum tree—was your uncle. He was as fat as I remembered. Sunlight highlighted the greasy sweat on his face. His lips reminded me of overripe fruit.

  At his side, three wives. The elder was the one I’d seen all those years ago in Fujino, my father’s first love. To my surprise, she still wore the Phoenix Crown—yet all the housings were empty. It was little more than a bronze circlet without the feathers. Perhaps it was their lack that made her seem stark now, and I wondered if my father still found her beautiful. Where her husband was round and wet, she was dry and thin. Not slender. Thin.

  The other two wives I’d not seen before. Neither was older than us. One had a pair of striking green eyes that spoke of Qorin heritage; the other was a Surian beauty with smooth, obsidian skin, whose brown hair hung in a hundred small braids. Back home, only my mother wore so many braids; in Sur-Shar, many is the norm.

  That was the first time I’d ever seen a Surian in the flesh. If your calligraphy sprang to life, it would look rather like her.

  We came to a stop before the Emperor. In all of Hokkaro, you are the only one who is not required to prostrate herself before the Emperor. Instead, you gave him as small a nod as you could manage.

  And you did not wait for him to speak.

  “Uncle,” you said. The eldest wife swallowed her own tongue in shock. “Your retinue is marvelous, of course, and your robe exquisitely tailored. Your wives thrice bless you with their beauty, wit, and charm. Your calligraphy has improved from the last time you sent me a letter. Life has been kind to you.”

  To this day, I marvel at how you managed to insult him and praise him at the same time. Where was the frightened girl from a few moments ago? In her place was a woman crafted from jade and steel and silk.

  Yes, you stood unblinking, and when your uncle rose to his feet, you did not flinch.

  “Shizuka,” he said, “were you not the daughter of our brother, we’d have you executed.”

  And I admit that I had to stifle a growl when he said this. I bit into the back of my palm to hide it.

  But it did not bother you. For all you spoke of being afraid, it did not bother you.

  “Uncle,” you said, “with all due respect, that would leave only ghosts to sit on the throne after you. And my grandfather detested ghosts.”

  I scanned the attendees. Uemura, in golden armor, hovered near the Imperial litter. The four direction generals were, I assumed, the four men standing behind the makeshift throne. Kenshiro was pale as my—

  My father.

  My father was on the Emperor’s right, standing next to Kenshiro. When I was young, I thought he was tall. I saw then that he was not; he came only up to Kenshiro’s shoulders. What little hair he’d clung to in his youth had all fallen out.

  I shook my head. I had not seen my father since … I could not remember. So what if he was here? He would not speak to me. He would not acknowledge me.

  I owed him no more than what he gave me.

  “We see we’ve arrived as the Grandfather wills,” said your uncle. “This willful nature—your mother’s shadow—cannot be permitted to continue. You shall find a husband here. You shall marry him, before the tournament is over, and you shall resume a quiet life in Fujino.”

  You wore the scrutiny of the court as a cloak, and it only suited your proud beauty.

  “Uncle,” you said, “my husband is the man who can best me in combat. When you first tried to marry me off at thirteen, that is what I told you. I say it again now before two hundred witnesses. You cannot force a phoenix to wear a falcon’s hood.”

/>   I’ve seen this moment rendered in ink, in wood, in stone, in paint. Artists are fond of drawing a phoenix landing on your shoulder as you speak. The closest I’ve come to seeing myself in these illustrations is one woodcut from the point of view of someone near the ground. It is not quite my vantage point, but it has all the important things. You, mainly.

  I bought it.

  You know what happened after you spoke. Everyone in the room lost eight years of their life from shock. The Emperor’s youngest wife, the one with the green eyes, smiled like an enlightened priestess.

  “If you insist on living your life by the sword, then so be it,” he said. “The tournament begins now. Your first true opponent is Uemura Kaito, as worthy a man as we have ever met. Take your places and begin.”

  You clenched your jaw. Uemura turned toward the Emperor and said something in a quiet voice. Whatever it was, it did not change the outcome.

  At last, those of us of lower standing were permitted to rise. I took my place on your side of the arena as you took yours in the center. You and Uemura exchanged bows, but not words. Before you assumed your stance, you searched for me in the crowd.

  I held up my right hand.

  You touched your palm in return.

  Then the duel began. Uemura’s blade was chased in gold and emeralds. It glittered when he drew it. The sword, coupled with his ornate armor, made him look like the legendary General Iseri.

  “O-Shizuka-shon,” he said. “It is an honor to face you.”

  You did not wait for niceties. Bare feet against the ground—you moved like wind through grass, like a courtier’s cutting remark. Uemura parried your thrust with uncanny speed. While you were off center, he lashed out with a slash up your front.

  And I have known you to do ridiculous things, Shizuka, but before that day, I’d never seen you parry with the palm of your off hand. Swatted, really, “swatted” is the word—as if tempered steel amounted to little more than a mosquito bite. Uemura’s brows rose in shock. He staggered backwards and tried to regain his stance. By then, you had enough room to thrust again. Uemura kept backing away, and you kept advancing. Strike after strike, clash after clash. Your swords rang like sharp bells.

  “Her mother must be proud of her.”

  That wasn’t Kenshiro’s voice.

  When I looked to the source, I saw my father. Oshiro Yuichi, bald, with a delicate gray beard, stood chin height next to me.

  “O-Shizuru would’ve finished this in one stroke,” he said, “yet I do think she’d be proud.”

  What was I to say? Why? Why was he here? Did he think I languished without attention from him? A child does not need a father; a child needs parents. My uncles, my cousins, your father—they raised me far more than Yuichi did.

  I focused on the fight. For now, Uemura kept up with you. Parry, block, step away. For now.

  But you were relentless. Just watching you made my shoulders and arms burn. Stroke after stroke! How you kept it going, I do not know; you do not have my affliction and the stamina it imparts. Uemura’s arms shook every time he parried.

  “Is your mother proud of you, Daughter?”

  I twitched. He had no place asking me that.

  “Father, have you nothing else to say to Shefali?” Kenshiro said. He had no right to join this conversation, either. The two of them put together made me want to run—but you needed me here, you needed me watching.

  “I have no words of tenderness for barbarians, Kenshiro,” Yuichi said.

  Grab his throat. No, don’t. He’s my father. I cannot just grab his throat and squeeze and squeeze until he turns blue, until his eyes pop, until his tongue lolls out of his—

  “My mother is not a barbarian,” Kenshiro said. “Father, if you must say things like that, don’t say them in front of us.”

  As if there were an “us.” Kenshiro was always my father’s favorite. My existence was an inconvenience to Yuichi at best.

  I bit into my fingers to keep from biting into him. Focus on the fight. Ignore him. For years, I’ve ignored him; that moment was no different. Let him and Kenshiro bicker. I needed to know you were all right.

  And you were.

  You were, in fact, about to make the final stroke. Uemura slapped at your slash in a halfhearted attempt to parry, but it wasn’t enough. Your next thrust pierced his chin. Dark red dripped onto shining gold. Uemura tried to hold in his own blood; rubies dropping through his fingers.

  Despite myself, I took in the scent. Salt and copper, metal and flesh. The things people are made of.

  You held out your hand. I tossed you a rag to clean your sword with; in one swift wipe, you finished and dropped it to the ground.

  “Uemura-zun,” you said, “I will not be marrying you today.”

  He had one hand on his wound as he bowed to you. “No,” he said. “You will not.”

  More blood fell when he spoke. Drip, drip, drip.

  A surgeon hurried toward him with tools in tow. With another bow, he departed.

  Hokkarans do not believe in applause. It is too open a display of emotion. Here in Sur-Shar, it is different. Complete strangers embrace as lifelong friends. Before you can conduct business with someone, you must have tea with them.

  I have had so much tea, Shizuka, and I hate every cup. Leaves in water. How foolish. Why waste water? I can’t taste it, and still they insist …

  I lose myself.

  Hokkarans do not applaud, but as Uemura stepped away, I heard clapping.

  And, indeed, when you turned toward me, you wore a wide grin.

  “Oshiro-tur,” you said as you approached. “It’s been some time since I saw you last. Your daughter has grown into a demonslayer, you know.”

  My father bowed at the shoulders. “Is that so?” he said. “Is that so.”

  That was all.

  “O-Shizuka-shon,” said Kenshiro. “That was beautifully done! I’m certain I’ll see prints of it before long.”

  You ignored this. No—you did not just ignore it. You turned away from him and did not dignify him with a greeting.

  Your eyes flickered over to mine. We did not need words. We did not need to touch. Just catching your eyes was enough. With a glance, you caressed my cheek; with a look, you pressed your lips to mine.

  So the terror on your face was clear the second that man opened his mouth.

  “Shizuka-shan.”

  A voice like cracking bones. A smell, familiar and rotten, that soured my stomach. The taste of him on the back of my tongue like spoiled kumaq. Nozawa Kagemori was behind me. Blackened teeth now sixteen years out of fashion. He wore them anyway, wore them still. His skin was clammy and slick. In the center of his head was a massive bald spot. And there was the scar, of course. The scar you’d given him. It was an angry raised line across the bridge of his nose. He’d never been handsome, but that scar dashed any chances he may have had for a wife.

  Except for the tournament.

  And oh, Shizuka, how you flinched at the sight of him, how you paled! How the voices within me sang at the sight of him, how they reveled!

  “Kagemori-yon,” you said, mustering outward calm like a summer pond. “How did you escape your kennel?”

  If wolves smiled, they’d resemble him. There was nothing natural in that smile, nothing human. I squinted. What was that going on, with his shadow? It moved slower than he did, didn’t it?

  Voices. Screaming. Laughter. So close, Steel-Eye, so close!

  Don’t listen to them, don’t let yourself be thrown off the scent. Now, more than ever, it was important I kept you safe.

  But the sight of him made my blood boil.

  “My master let me out,” Kagemori said. “He let me go on a little walk.”

  Now he took a step closer. Yes, his shadow was definitely slower than the rest of him. No longer was he wearing coarse fabric; this was soft silk. And was that thread-of-gold at the borders? The only people permitted to wear thread-of-gold …

  “You made quite a mess in Shiseiki, Shi
zuka-shan. Leaving it undefended like that,” he said. “It is lucky I was around to clean things up. Your uncle thought so, too.”

  “What are you talking about?” you said. “As if you know your pommel from your point.”

  “I know my sword perfectly well,” he returned. A dark pink tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips. “Well enough to slay a few blackbloods you were polite enough to leave behind.”

  “O-Shizuka-shon,” my father chimed in. “You are speaking to Nozawa Kagemori, Commander of the Wall of Flowers.”

  You sneered. “My uncle really is mad, isn’t he?” you said.

  “Nozawa-zul is bringing honor back to his family name, much the way your mother did,” said my father. “A fiendslayer and a demonslayer make a fine match.”

  I hissed. My father covered his mouth and glared at me in response; Kagemori only shook his head.

  “Shizuka-shan,” he said, “your dog is ill-trained.”

  “Barsalyya Shefali has done more in one year to better the lives of the Hokkaran people than you have in your entire existence,” you snapped. “Insult me, if you like; your tongue’s always been braver than your sword arm. But if you speak one more ill word against her, I swear to all the gods above, I will tear your grandfather’s soul out of you with my teeth.”

  Whatever fear Kagemori struck into you was consumed by the fires of your anger. Your shouting attracted the attention of the other courtiers. Whispers, like cinders, sparked a commotion. Some wondered how you dared; some wondered how he dared.

  But all were eager for the next fight.

  I think you were eager for an excuse to end him.

  First blood can mean anything in your hands. For respectful opponents, you are happy to leave them with a scratch. When they were not? When they had a reputation for making the serving girls at an inn we stayed at uncomfortable?

  First blood meant a severed hand, then.

  When it came to Nozawa Kagemori, first blood might mean a slit throat, or even decapitation. I found myself hoping it did.

  “Your lips are sweet as cherries, Shizuka-shan,” said Kagemori. “Even when they speak such sour words.”