by Jay Kristoff
“Noble Daimyo Haruka-san, Shin-san, Shou-san,” Hiro said. “My fiancée, the First Daughter of Kazumitsu, and I bid you welcome to Kigen, and extend our humble thanks for your attendance at our wedding celebrations.”
Haruka gave a gruff nod. Shin spoke then, his voice soft and sweet as fresh plums.
“Daimyo Hiro. Ours hearts are gladdened. We had heard rumor you had gained the support of the Kazumitsu Elite…”
Shou glanced at the Iron Samurai, picking up his brother’s trailing sentence. “… but we could scarce believe it.”
“And why is that, honorable Shou-san?”
“In truth, noble Hiro-san,” Shin replied, “we expected every one of them would have committed seppuku to restore their honor after their Shōgun was slaughtered by a common-born girlchild.”
A sudden hush fell over the crowd, heavy as stone, uneasy murmurs rippling at the periphery. Bushimen glanced at each other in the ringing silence, the click-clack of dozens of mechabacii filling the void. Shateigashira Kensai stepped forward, arms folded, his voice that of a hundred dying lotusflies.
“Shin-san,” the Second Bloom said. “You shame our host. And his bride to be.”
“No disrespect is intended, Second Bloom.” Shou bowed. “Especially to First Daughter.”
“Perhaps we simply do things differently in the west,” Shin said. “If our Elite guard had stood idle as a teenager snuffed us out like candles, there is not a man among them who would not willingly suffer the cross-shaped cut to their bellies…”
Daimyo Haruka drummed his fingers on his chainkatana hilt. “Shin-san…”
“Noble Daimyo Shin is quite correct,” Hiro said, his voice flat and cold.
The twin Daimyo of the Phoenix clan blinked slowly.
“You agree?” Shou asked.
Hiro nodded. “Each of these men, every man who wore the golden jin-haori as Yoritomo was murdered, suffers the stain of unendurable disgrace. As do I. But to restore the honor of the Kazumitsu line, we have chosen to endure the unendurable.”
Hiro reached up and unbuckled the mempō covering his face. As he pulled the mask away, the crowd gasped, stared in openmouthed horror at their Lord. Michi’s hand sought Ichizo’s, clasped it tight.
The Daimyo had painted his face with ashes.
A thick white pall covered his features, clung to his eyelashes, like the face of a corpse before it was assigned to the pyre. He glared at the assembled Daimyo as his Elite removed their helms, revealing faces as white and ash-streaked as their Lord’s. Michi felt a cold fear in her gut at the sacrilege—an instinctive revulsion at the perversion of traditional funeral rites.
“Honorable Daimyo,” Haruka growled. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Of what do you speak, Haruka-san?”
“To paint the faces of living men with ashes is to invite the deepest misfortune,” the Dragon clanlord replied. “This is a practice reserved for corpses. It will bring death’s touch to the ones so marked.”
“But we are dead.”
“… Daimyo?”
“Every samurai in the Kazumitsu Elite has disgraced himself for allowing his Shōgun to perish. As our noble Phoenix cousins have said, we should already have committed seppuku. But first we must turn our blades to the execution of she who laid noble Yoritomo low.”
He stared at the other clanlords, toxic wind whipping hair about his ashen face.
“Therefore, we have consigned our souls to Enma-ō. Burned our offerings of wooden coin and incense to the Judge of all the Hells, begged him to weigh us fairly, and painted our faces with the ashes left behind. As is the way with any dead man.
“We are the Shikabane.” He eyes were dark jade against ashen white. “We are the Corpses.”
Michi watched the clanlords glance at each other, uncertain. Perhaps even fearful. All the pretense of their grand entrances stripped away, left naked before those burning green eyes.
“I wish to be clear upon this.” Hiro’s gaze flickered from one Daimyo to the next. “I will honor our fallen Shōgun. I will marry Lady Aisha, sire a new heir to the Kazumitsu line, see this nation’s future assured. But once this duty is served, I will set about hunting and executing Yoritomo’s assassin and all who abet her. I will serve this nation as Shōgun until the Impure whore, Kitsune Yukiko, is dead.”
Hiro blinked like a man who had forgotten how.
“Your oaths bind you to the Kazumitsu house. Once my beloved and I are wed, I will be as a son of that noble line. And my sons shall carry the name into this nation’s future. So know this…”
Hiro replaced his mempō, covering his ashen features. The iron face of a bone-white tiger snarled at the nobles, and the voice within was the ringing of footfalls in an empty tomb.
“If you choose to dishonor your vows and stand against me, I will kill your families. Your wives. Your sons. I will kill your neighbors, your servants, your childhood friends. I will burn your cities to the ground, sow your fields with salt, make a desolation of everything you know and care for. And at the last, when all you love is ashes, I will kill you.”
Silence. Soft as baby’s breath.
“Now.” Hiro gestured with his clockwork arm to the palace glowering on the hill. “I believe welcome drinks are being served in the dining hall.”
Ichizo’s hand was back on Michi’s arm. She tried not to stiffen at his touch.
“I should return you to your room.”
“If that is your wish, my Lord.”
There was no anger in his voice as he spoke. “Do you think me a fool, Michi-chan?”
She looked into his eyes then, gleaming above coiled breather pipes. Were they the eyes of a serpent, toying with its prey? Or the eyes of a loyal man, torn by duty to Lord and heart?
Who are you?
“No,” she said. “I do not think you are a fool, my Lord.”
Ichizo looked at the Tiger Daimyo, climbing back into the palanquin, taking his fiancée by the hand. The faces of the shocked crowd, pale and drawn and stricken with fear. The faces of the Dragon and Phoenix entourages, all bluster and pomp evaporated, taking their seats in the motorcade, silent as berated children. The faces of the Iron Samurai, caked thick with funeral ashes. And the face of Lord Hiro, a walking dead man, only a heartbeat away from dominion over the entire Imperium. His cousin. His blood. His Shōgun.
Ichizo’s face was as pale as his Lord’s.
“I think perhaps we both are.”
* * *
She had hated Aisha at first. From the very core of her soul. Here was a woman who had everything. Born to privilege and power. Spoiled by her parents, indulged by her brutish pig of a brother, never lifting a finger all the days of her life.
Months had passed after Michi arrived from the Iishi. There was no hint of the Kagé fighter supposedly dwelling behind the First Daughter’s facade, and the pair were never alone long enough to speak. She would occasionally catch Aisha’s eyes, stare with unspoken questions, but there was nothing in the woman’s face that might betray her. If she was playing a part, Aisha would have put the greatest actors in the Shōgunate to shame.
Michi kept her head down, worked hard, fortunate enough to avoid Shōgun Yoritomo’s advances in the shadow of prettier, more cultured ladies in Aisha’s company. Yoritomo-no-miya seemed to take pleasure in deflowering the First Daughter’s retinue, and for her part, Aisha seemed perfectly content to whore her ladies out to her brother whenever the mood struck him. She was a harsh mistress, temper flaring over the slightest foible—especially in front of her brother, who relished her cruelty. And Michi found the hatred inside her turning to poison.
Why had the Kagé sent her here? There was no more rebellion in this woman’s breast than there was humanity in her brother’s. This was no battlefield. This was no war.
And one night as Michi ran a brush through her mistress’s hair, the other girl assigned to her bedchamber—a sweet and clever Ryu girl called Kiki—knocked over a bottle of perfume, glass smashin
g on the floorboards. Aisha had risen from her cushion, lightning in her eyes. She raised her hand, and Michi moved before she had a chance to think. Reaching out with that terrible speed that had served her so well in swordplay, catching the older woman’s wrist as it descended, knuckles white upon her arm.
“Don’t,” she’d said.
And Aisha had smiled then; the first time Michi had actually seen her smile in all the months she’d served. Beautiful and bright, like the first rays of dawn after winter’s longest night.
“There it is,” she said.
Aisha had dismissed Kiki with a wave, the terrified girl scuttling from the room with an apologetic glance to Michi, sliding the door closed behind her.
“I had wondered how long it might take,” Aisha had said.
“Take?”
A nod. “For you to risk all.”
Michi had blinked, remained mute.
“That girl is nothing to you.” Aisha motioned to the doorway Kiki had left by. “Yet you dared lay hands upon the First Daughter of the Kazumitsu Dynasty in her defense. Jeopardizing your mission. Showing defiance that could spell your death.”
“Let it come,” Michi had said.
Aisha stepped closer, placed both hands on Michi’s shoulders.
“I know who you are, daughter of Daiyakawa. And I admire your conviction. Truly, I do. But this is no place for an inferno. Daichi-sama sent you to be my hand, my eyes, and you can be neither if you are blinded by the fire inside you.
“Let it burn slow. Be as I am. Keep it all inside, hidden until the day it will truly matter, when standing up and risking all will be worth the blood you wager. The day we can win.”
“You would have me sit by and let innocents suffer?”
“I would,” Aisha said. “And I know how much I ask in that. One day I may ask even more. I may ask everything of you. But not for the sake of one person. For the sake of this nation. For the lives of every man and woman and child upon these islands.
“These are the stakes we play with now, Michi-chan. There is no prize for second in this game. This is no sortie for a hill amongst boys in iron suits. This is a war for the very future of Shima. And you must understand that if you are to serve the Kagé here. You must witness atrocity and remain mute. Watch others suffer, even die, and lift not a finger to help. You must be as patient as stone until the time comes to strike, and harder than stone when you finally draw your blade.”
Michi stared, as if seeing her for the first time. The conviction in Aisha’s eyes, the breathless passion in her voice. And she did not see the spoiled princess she’d learned to hate. She saw fire, every bit as bright as the one in her own chest; a fire that gave birth to Shadows.
Aisha took up her hands, held them tight, stared hard.
“Do you understand me, Michi-chan?”
Michi looked down to the hands that held her own. Back up into Aisha’s eyes.
“I do.”
“Can you let it burn slow?”
“I can.”
“And when I ask it of you, will you give all?”
She licked her lips.
Nodded.
“I will.”
38
TERMINUS
The metal dragonfly flew with less grace than the real thing. It spun its wings rather than flapped them; three propellers pinned around the craft like points on a triangle, angled at 45 degrees. Its skin was dark metal, crusted with oxidization, gleaming with rain. The craft seemed lopsided somehow, held together by excess solder and sheer bloody-mindedness rather than engineering prowess. Two glass domes shielding the cockpit gave the impression of eyes. Its engines spat a clanking growl, like a wolf with a mouthful of iron bolts.
The propellers whumphwhumphwhumphed as the vessel descended, more like a fat, wobbling bumblebee than a dragonfly. The pilots hammered at their consoles, struggling to hold the craft steady in the gale. Rain sluiced off the windshields as it touched down, shearing sideways across the glass as the wind tore at its hide.
Yukiko was slumped against an outcropping, barely conscious, her face black and blue. She’d watched Ilyitch cut the young arashitora from throat to belly, begin peeling the skin back from his flesh, so much blood she could taste metal as she breathed. She’d pushed feebly into Buruu’s mind the entire time, but Ilyitch’s lightning-thrower had knocked him into a slumber deeper than blacksleep could ever manage. Smooth, reptilian shapes pulsed in the water around them, but unless they could grow legs, the dragons wouldn’t be of any help. She could sense the female thunder tiger circling overhead, like a carrion bird above a battlefield.
Head splitting, blood pouring from her nose, she reached out to the arashitora above.
They’re going to skin him.
A mental blink.
—YŌKAI-KIN.—
Yukiko closed her eyes, maintained the link despite the volume and pain.
The gaijin killed Skraai. They’re going to do the same to Buruu.
—AND?—
Doesn’t that mean anything to you? These monkey-children are going to cut the skins from your kin’s backs and wear them as godsdamned trophies!
—WEAKLINGS TO BE CAPTURED AT ALL. SPENT THEIR STRENGTH FIGHTING EACH OTHER. AND FOR WHAT? I, WHO WANT NEITHER.—
They were captured because of me! Because I trusted—
—FAILING YOURS. NOT MINE.—
You can’t just let Buruu die!
—ONE LESS BUTCHER. ONE LESS FOOL.—
With a bitter curse, Yukiko broke contact, pushed the female away with all her strength. She flexed her fists, trying to slip her hands free of her bonds. Her eye was swollen shut, bloody drool slicked on her chin. But the Kenning still roared inside her amidst the agony of her beating, so far beyond hurt it ceased to have meaning at all.
She could kill Ilyitch. She knew that now. She could feel it surging in her, stronger than it had been when she and her father lay Yoritomo low. But what about the rest of them? Could she kill them all?
If they touched Buruu, she’d sure as hells try …
The metal dragonfly’s belly split open, a hatchway disgorging half a dozen gaijin in red jackets, dark furs and bronze insignia. Danyk walked in the lead, still wearing her katana at his belt. A furious-looking Piotr stepped out behind him, a bloodstained bandage around his head. He scowled as soon as he spotted Yukiko, limping across the island toward her.
Danyk and the other gaijin gathered around Ilyitch, amazement on their faces. The boy flourished his knife, covered head to foot in blood, motioned to the butchered arashitora at his feet. Several younger gaijin clapped him on the back, all grins and laughter, as if he’d done something extraordinary rather than commit an atrocity. Even Danyk managed a grudging smile, extending a hand which Ilyitch shook with great enthusiasm.
They treat him like a hero …
Piotr knelt beside her, looked her over. Yukiko’s head was splitting; she could see three of the dark-haired gaijin swimming in the air before her. The ache grew blinding, the song of sledgehammers ringing in her skull.
“Not move.” His voice came from underwater. “Head. Head.”
Something thick and soft was being wrapped around her brow. She tried to reach up with bound hands, wrists rubbed raw, blisters on her palms torn and bleeding. She forced her eyes open, stared at the gaijin as the storm howled all around them.
“Stupid girl.” He shook his head. “Stupid.”
“Go to the hells,” Yukiko spat.
He reached toward her face and she flinched away, lashed out with her feet.
“You touch me I’ll turn your brain to soup, round-eye.”
“Eh?” A raised eyebrow. “Help. I help.”
“Help? You wanted to rape me, you bastard! Get the hells away from me!”
Piotr stared at her, aghast. “Rape? Trying to help you, girl.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the gaijin near Ilyitch’s prize, lowered his voice to a furious whisper.
“Stupid! I warn! I say! Tell for you
to come with me. Using for the body!” The gaijin pointed to the arashitora laid out upon the stone, ran his hands down his shoulders, over his chest. “Using you. Gryfon body! Gryfon!”
“Arashitora…”
“Da! Arashitora body.”
“You…” Yukiko’s voice caught in her throat. “You were trying to warn me…”
“Now too late.” He shook his head. “Too late. Wear for the body. Great strength. Much prize for Ilyitch. Much prize.”
“Why would you warn me?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why help me?”
“Promise friend.”
“What friend?”
“Piotr!”
Danyk’s voice startled the scarred gaijin. He looked over his shoulder, made a questioning sound. The round-eye leader barked an order, beckoned with one broad hand.
Piotr helped Yukiko to her feet, the world slipping away underneath her, Ilyitch’s kicking still ringing like a thousand iron bells in her skull. He guided her over to the others, standing in a pool of watery blood around Buruu, speaking in a babble of gruff voices. The smell from Skraai’s corpse was nauseating; a rancid mix of blood and guts and excrement, bile and copper on her tongue. She looked at these men with hatred swelling in her chest, a bitter loathing threatening to steal the very breath from her lungs. Eight of them.
How many of them can I kill before they take me?
She looked down at her friend’s body on the stone, groped for him in the darkness.
Buruu, please wake up. Please.
The gaijin seemed to be debating about Buruu’s wings. Two of the younger ones were prodding the crumpled machinery running down his spine, the torn harness affixing the contraption to his pinions. Danyk spoke to Piotr in his rumbling baritone, waving at the arashitora. Lightning arced across black skies, the downpour growing heavy again; so thick it was almost blinding. The sound of the rain upon the ocean was a constant, rolling hiss.
“Danyk ask what wrong with this one.” Piotr’s voice was harsh, but there was pity in that single blue eye. “Is cripple?” He pointed to his leg, the metal brace around it. “Cripple?”