Shadows on the Moon

by Zoe Marriott

  “No,” I said. “It was just a dream. A fever dream.”

  Even as I said it, there was another flash of brilliance in my mind — like a firework cascading against the night sky — and I remembered that day, in my family’s orchard, when I had run from the soldiers. It had not felt like shadow-weaving. I had thought myself a white hare, had felt myself shrink and become light and small. They could change their shape. . . .

  Another flash. The day on the ship, when Terayama-san had escorted me across the deck, and, without knowing why, I had felt so uneasy and frightened, even though I had longed to walk there before. It was almost as if I knew that he was going to hurt me. They could see the future. . . .

  “If you have such a gift, you must have training. Proper training. Who knows what good you could do? Or what harm, if your talent is left uncontrolled?” Akira looked away, frowning, already planning. “I knew someone once who traveled across the sea to a place called Athazie, and he said that there were still Akachi among the people there —”

  The name of Otieno’s country snuffed the flaring lights in my mind as quickly as a damp blanket snuffs out a flame.

  Otieno had spoken of Athazie, that land of golden plains and hills, of sweet-voiced birds and warm, drifting rain. It was a beautiful place. A place where men like Otieno and A Suda-san laughed and smiled. Where no one slaughtered an animal unless it had a fair chance to escape.

  What would such a land — such men — make of me? I would be anathema to them.

  “Stop!” I shouted without meaning to, trying to cut Akira’s voice off. My fingers curled around hers until she winced. I loosened my grip and repeated, more softly, “Stop. I do not have such an ability. I do not want it.”

  “But —”

  “If you are my friend, then please, do not speak of this again. I want vengeance; that is all. Nothing more.”

  It was the first time I had ever seen Akira speechless. She opened her mouth once, twice, as if searching for the words to change my mind. But as she stared into my eyes, something in her expression altered. After a long moment, she let out a sigh and bowed her head, the proud line of her back slumping.

  “Oh, Yue,” she whispered. “I thought . . . I thought that helping you take your revenge would set you free. I was wrong, wasn’t I? It is just another prison for you.”

  She did not look at me. She expected no answer, and I had none to give. I leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead — it was where Youta had kissed me the last time I saw him. Then I released her hand. The brown, dried-up remains of a cherry blossom fell from between our palms, dissolving into dust before they hit the mat.

  “Ow!” I flinched as the flexible willow wand snapped down on my toes.

  “That is the third time you have placed your foot incorrectly,” Akira said calmly from her place kneeling at the edge of the tatami mat. “You know the rule.”

  I grimaced. After I had learned the basics of the two dances, Akira had started using the willow wand to drive the finer — and more easily forgettable — movements home. At first I had protested mightily. I had lost the argument, and the willow had stayed, and been used. Though Akira’s blows were light and never broke, or even bruised, my skin, the swish and snap of the stick made me jump every time. But perhaps it did help me to remember; I did not usually make three mistakes in a row nowadays.

  I thought, wryly, that once I had inflicted much worse pain on myself without even blinking. I had not cut, scratched, or burned myself for over four months, not since Akira and I had begun planning for the Shadow Ball. I did not know why. I had never really known why I needed to do it, or why sometimes I did not. It wasn’t about being happy. I was not happy, though I had learned to hide it from Akira as much as I could.

  I loved Akira. Not as I had loved my father and Aimi, for I had owned a full and untroubled heart then, but as much as a person like me could love. As much as a liar can love the person she deceives. As much as a stray dog can love the woman who offers it scraps and kind words, though in its wildness it might still turn on her and bite her hand.

  I comforted myself that I would not impose on her forever. Once I was the Shadow Princess, I would leave her to take a place in the court of the prince. I never allowed myself to doubt that it would happen. I never allowed myself to think any further into the future than that.

  And I did not cut myself anymore.

  “Begin again.” Akira broke into my thoughts. “Complete the dance flawlessly, and we will stop for the day. If not, you will complete both dances again, and you will use the ceremonial fans, not the practice ones.”

  I groaned. I was tired and hungry, and I knew I would not manage to get through the fan dance again — not using the heavy ceremonial fans, which had steel spikes in them — without landing on my face.

  I began the slow, deliberate motion of arms, fully extending my fingers into the soft fluttering movements that would tell the audience I was a ghost. The proud line of my back and raised head showed that I was a noblewoman. It was up to my feet, my face, my spirit, to show them that I was alone, desperately sad, and searching.

  The dance grew gradually faster, a sense of desperation and despair drawing my movements back toward my body as I gradually realized there was no hope. . . .

  I sank onto my knees, head bowed, bringing my arms together so that my hands were cupping my face by the time I was still. I held the position. My breath came in tiny pants, which I kept as silent as possible. Snorting like a horse would get me another flick of the willow.

  “Good.”

  I would never have Akira’s glowing expressiveness. That was her own particular genius, honed through years of professional practice. Yet in the past few months, I had heard “good” little enough to know it was worth a great deal.

  “You are ready.”

  “What?” I yelped, then bit my lip. “I’m sorry, I meant ready in what way?”

  “Ready to take a place in the Moon Court. The news came yesterday, but I wanted to see you dance again before I told you. The Kage no Iwai has been announced. It will be in eight weeks, and the invitations will be issued a week before that.”

  So it would begin. We had discussed this at length, and I knew that the next step would be to begin attending parties and functions — the first of which was to be a simple tea ceremony at Lord Takakura’s house. If I did well there, more invitations would follow. I must do my utmost to impress, cultivating an air of mystery, charming everyone with my playing, and becoming fashionable, sought after, infamous. Then the prince’s advisers would be forced to invite me to the ball; the only criterion for invitation was supposed to be beauty, after all, even if everyone knew it was really political.

  Once I was at the ball, Akira would bribe one of the entertainers to let me take their place and dance for the prince. It would be shocking and scandalous and, we hoped, enough to persuade the young prince to choose me. As she had said, “You must cast him such glances that he will feel as if you lay at his feet. You must seduce him. Then, and only then, will you be chosen.”

  Thinking of that now, I rested my head in my hands. “Akira,” I groaned, “it will be a disaster. I am not good enough. Everyone will be disappointed, and you will be a laughingstock.”

  “No. You will keep practicing, and by the time the Kage no Iwai comes, you will be ready.”

  “But —”

  “Do not contradict your teacher. I know what I am doing. You will be good enough. If there is any doubt, you must remember the reason you are doing this. You must remember what you said you wanted most in the world, and that this is your chance to get it. Dance with that passion and that commitment, and the Moon Prince will make you his.”

  “All right.” My voice wobbled.

  Akira tilted her head and then said hesitantly, “Yue, if . . . if by saying you are not good enough, you mean that you are frightened or having second thoughts —”

  “Of course I am frightened,” I interrupted, and my voice was firm again.
“Only a madwoman would not be frightened. But I am not having second thoughts. It is as you said. I want this. I will do it.”

  Akira looked at me again with the sad look she had given me the night we argued about my shadow-weaving. She had never mentioned the subject of that other power to me again, although she helped me to practice weaving every evening. Under her ruthless eye, my skill had increased at an astonishing rate, and I was now capable of creating the same detailed full-body illusions that Akira could. At a pinch I, too, could disguise myself as a fat drunk man or a prosperous merchant’s wife or a farmer’s daughter. Never again would I be turned from anyone’s door because I looked like a beggar. That brought me fierce satisfaction.

  If there was more I could do, I shut the knowledge away with every shred of strength I had. That path was not for me. It might have been for Suzume. Before Rin. But Yue had only one path to travel, and it ended with Terayama-san’s destruction.

  So when I created a glittering gown that looked like the night sky filled with stars, if Akira and I both noticed it drag on the ground with the same slight shushing noise as a real gown that had weight and substance, neither of us mentioned it. Neither did we mention the time Akira had a headache and I touched her hand and she instantly felt better. And we did not mention that after any such incident, I suddenly became tired and drained, as if I had used up more energy than was mine to spend, and had to lie down.

  Still, Akira looked at me now with that defeated face. She had not forgotten.

  I smiled. A smile of happiness and peace. Aimi’s smile.

  “So,” I said cheerfully, “what shall I wear?”

  I wore three layers — the outer one of a deep, dusky pink embroidered with red and pale pink blossoms, the next of red with pink blossoms, and the inner of white with red blossoms. My obi was made of cloth striped in red and gold, and red and pink. I wore three combs in my hair, which had now grown to the middle of my back and was long enough to arrange properly. One of the combs had little dangling pink and white mother-of-pearl flowers that clattered together gently above my ear. I ignored them with an effort.

  My most important garment was my shadow-weaving. I had not altered my features in any way. I had polished them, as a craftsman takes a piece of dull wood and with his tools shapes and buffs, bringing out the rich colors and shine of the material. Deep within the normally unremarkable darkness of my eyes was a glimmer, a sort of iridescence, like the sheen on the black spots of a butterfly’s wings. My hair shared that same sheen, while my skin had a fragile cherry-blossom glow that begged to be touched. Everything about me begged to be touched. I had already seen the looks in men’s eyes — in the eyes of the servants who helped me from Akira’s carriage, in those of the one who welcomed us to Lord Takakura’s house — that told me they each wanted the hand touching me to be theirs.

  I knew I had never looked more beautiful. I knew that beside me, even Akira could not hope to command all of any man’s attention. And I also knew why Akira’s plan had been to make me seem mysterious and silent — because under the weight of such a complex and subtle weaving, I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

  After being ushered into Lord Takakura’s house, we were led out, not into the magnificent gardens that I had glimpsed through the open screens but to the roji — the narrow, winding paths of the tea garden.

  The day was bright and chilly. After passing through the outer gate of the roji, I slid my hands into my sleeves to keep them warm, concentrating on keeping my footing on the uneven white stepping-stones. The path was made like this on purpose, a tactic to prevent guests in the roji from dawdling or looking around too much. Likewise, the carefully maintained shrubs, ferns, and trees that closed in around us blocked any view of the rest of the garden. The point of this narrow walk was to concentrate one’s mind on the ceremony to come, and the principles of harmony, respect, purity, and tranquillity that guided it.

  The stones of the path and the little stone lanterns that lined it all glittered wetly — scattering water as if this was the host’s way of welcoming his guests and showing that he had prepared the way for them. At one point, the path branched in two, but on the first stepping-stone of the left branch, there was a fist-sized rock, wrapped carefully in black, bracken rope: our host’s way of marking the incorrect path.

  We took the right branch, and soon the trees parted to show us the koshikake machiai — the enclosed outdoor booth where guests at a tea ceremony would wait to be summoned by the host. This was where we were supposed to say good-bye to the outside world and compose our minds to the solemnity and serenity of the tea ceremony, in order to honor our host. Directly behind it there was a tall bamboo gate that would open to show us the teahouse itself.

  The wooden frame of the booth, the stones outside it, and the vibrant green ferns that grew around it had all been drenched in water, too, making them gleam in the sunlight that shifted through the leaves. The water was still dripping gently from the ferns, a sign that we had arrived at just the right time, not too early or too late.

  Akira and I both stepped carefully out of our zri sandals and placed them on the stepping-stones in front of the waiting booth, where a shallow, stone-lined trench was filled with the washed branches and bamboo sticks that were used to collect garden trash.

  The familiar sights of the ritual calmed my nervously skipping heart and made it easier to hold my composure, to keep my shadow-weaving perfectly in place. Akira turned to look at me and raised her eyebrows, asking me if I was ready.

  The first test, she had called it. There would be no turning back after this. I had come so far. I would not let myself fail now. I nodded, making the mother-of-pearl flowers tremble above my ear.

  We stepped through the entrance into the koshikake machiai.

  The booth was small and warmed by a tiny brazier. An ornamental alcove contained a painted wall scroll and a small vase with a single iris. A wooden bench, built into the wall, ran around the room. Akira was taking off her outer haori and carefully placing it in a shallow tray that lay on the bench. I followed suit, fussing a little as I folded my own haori, reluctant to turn fully to face the room. My sun-dazzled vision had already caught a brief glimpse of others in the opposite corner, and I could feel eyes on me. Despite the effort I had put into making myself as attractive as possible, it was still unnerving to be stared at wherever I went. I had been invisible, in one way or another, for a long time. But I would have to get used to it. After tucking in the edge of the haori, I allowed myself to look up.

  It felt like falling. Like confidently stepping from the last stair only to find that the ground had disappeared. I clutched at my weaving and forced my startled gasp back between my teeth. Two men stood on the other side of the small waiting space.

  Otieno and his father.

  I barely noticed A Suda-san, despite the fact that he was looking directly at me. My eyes were on Otieno. He had his back to us and was examining the little tray of smoking implements that rested on a pile of square cushions in the corner.

  No, I told myself desperately. It could not be Otieno. This man was too tall. Too broad. He was taller even than A Suda-san. He wore a pleated dark-blue jacket with very long, full sleeves that clearly displayed powerful muscles in his shoulders and back. His full, pleated trousers were belted at a narrow waist with twisted silk cords. His hair was braided down his back, and gold and jade ornaments gleamed in the long dark rope. Surely Otieno’s hair could not have grown so much.

  It is not him.

  It cannot be him.

  It cannot be . . .

  The strong, straight back stiffened, and the head tilted as if listening for some faint, familiar sound. He turned.

  It was him.

  He stared at me, as if he could not believe his eyes, and stepped forward, reaching out to me. “Pipit!”

  I cannot. I turned to ice inside, razor-sharp shards that throbbed and burned in my chest. It took everything I had to turn a polite look on him and step back, avoi
ding his hands. Oh, Otieno. I do not know what else to do.

  “I am sorry,” I said coldly. “I do not believe we have met before.”

  His reaching hands slowly dropped back to his sides. “Do you not recognize me?”

  “I am sorry,” I said again, my tone making it clear I was anything but. “I have no idea what you are talking about. We are strangers.”

  His face was expressionless now, blank, as it had never been when he looked at me. It was the same face he had shown to Terayama-san. I clenched my teeth against the pain.

  “Perhaps you have mistaken my sister for someone else?” Akira said smoothly, edging into the space between me and Otieno. “I am sure we would remember if you had been introduced to us before.”

  She bowed to him politely, and I copied her, grateful for the excuse to tear my eyes from him and look at the floor. Akira addressed a remark to A Suda-san — giving him our names and asking for his. Otieno was silent. After a moment, I saw his feet move. He was turning away. Hidden by the sleeves of my furisode, my hands were knotted so tightly that nails gouged into skin.

  “Yes, we will be returning home in little more than seven weeks,” A Suda-san was saying to Akira. “We have been in your country for a long time, and much as we appreciate its beauty, we miss Athazie. Now that our ruler has concluded his negotiations with the Moon Prince, we are eager to begin our journey.”

  There was a sharp rattle, and we all turned to see a short, plump man putting back the pierced screen of the inner gate of the tea garden. Behind him, the path to the tearoom glittered and swam with green and gold light as the tree boughs danced in the spring breeze. He bowed silently to us, and we bowed in return. This was our host.

  He turned and walked away, and Otieno and A Suda-san — the principal guests — followed him. Otieno paused at the entrance and turned back. I saw in his eyes everything I felt myself: sadness, pain, longing. And something more. Betrayal. He hesitated there, waiting. Then he shook his head, and the screen slid shut behind him.