Steel Crow Saga

by Paul Krueger

  But the true haunting came from the three copper urns on display before the altar. The surface of each had been pacted to display the likeness of its contents. On the left: Steel Consort Soujiro. On the right: Iron Princess Fumiko. And there, in the center, her gaze somehow less stern when rendered in metal than in flesh, was Steel Lord Yoshiko. Before each stood a cluster of three incense sticks. All nine had burned down to smoldering stubs, though the remnants of their smoke still hung thick and sweet in the air.

  He bowed again, touching his forehead to the wooden floor, and offered up one last prayer to the spirits of his family. Then he rose at last and turned to regard his company.

  Two Sages had come to collect him. The first was indeed an old man, so stooped with age that his chin was practically buried in his thin chest. The second was a younger woman, though in this case “younger” meant perhaps fifty, her black hair just beginning to lose the civil war it waged on its gray insurrection. When he stood, they both knelt, their deep-blue robes pooling around them. They rose when he bade them.

  “Do you feel ready, Your Brilliance?” asked the old man.

  Jimuro’s stomach turned from the question. He slapped his hands to his thighs to hide how much they wanted to tremble. “The wise king is the one who knows he isn’t.”

  The Sages didn’t smile, per se, but both looked vaguely pleased. As one, they nodded, then each took him by a hand and led him out of the shrine.

  They took him to what had once been his mother’s throne room, and would soon be his own. Normally blue banners of the mountain sigil hung from the walls, but they had all been rolled up to the ceiling, revealing the flat steel underneath. The long azure rug that normally ran like a stripe across the floor had disappeared as well, replaced by a large copper basin full of water. At the very far end of the room sat a raised pavilion of black steel chased with gold. Beneath its peaked golden roof sat the Mountain Throne, though at the moment Jimuro’s view of it was obscured by thick white sheets of linen that hung from the pavilion’s eaves.

  He swallowed as he at last regarded his destiny.

  Carefully, the Sages undressed him until he stood naked in the middle of the throne room. He felt foolish; after all, this was where he’d practiced his solemn face while attending court for the first time. It was where he and Fumiko would sneak and play after it was supposed to be closed. It was where his father had taught him wisdom, and his mother had taught him justice. Being so bare before their spirits almost felt disrespectful.

  But he knew this was necessary. The Steel Lord, after all, was no ordinary king. He was a living god. And to be a god, the man had to be washed away.

  He reached up and undid his topknot, so that his hair fell down past his shoulders in a blue-black sheet. Then he removed his glasses and handed them to the nearest Sage while he blinked to adjust to the blurry world.

  Two more Sages stood at the basin. Each held a hand on one side of it, and between the two they made the copper generate enough heat so that the water gently steamed. He was led up to the lip of the basin, where all four Sages bowed in perfect unison as he climbed into the tub.

  The water’s heat grazed the very ceiling of what his skin could tolerate. He stared for a moment at his feet, distorted by the ripples of his bath. Then he knelt, so that the water came up to his chest. In perfect unison, the four Sages approached, each bearing a large copper cup. Muttering prayers, they dipped them into the water, and then as one poured them over Jimuro’s head.

  He closed his eyes as the water hit him, and he shaped his face into a mask of serenity. But inside, he panicked. He was running out of chances to leave this behind. If he did nothing, said nothing, he would remain a prisoner in this throne room for the rest of his life.

  He tried to center himself as the second of six blessings of water washed over him. He told himself that he needed to be an empty steel vessel, and that the spirits would flow into him and give him courage: Those of Steel Lords past, and their families. Of the great heroes of Tomoda. Of the people of Tomoda, to whose service he would pledge his body and soul.

  And most of all, he hoped for some touch of the spirit that lived within the sergeant who always frowned, whether it be bird or man.

  But though he opened himself up for the spirits to flow into and through him, he felt no onrush to fill his empty vessel.

  It was only his stoic Tomodanese upbringing that stopped fear from showing on his face as he rose to his feet and held out his arms. Two new Sages stepped forward, bearing pads of steel wool. With surprising gentleness, they ran the steel wool over his skin, its touch as gentle and rough as a cat’s tongue. They murmured new prayers as they scrubbed away the shell of man from him, leaving behind the gleaming, clear skin of a living god.

  But once again, panic wrapped itself around Jimuro’s heart like a serpent. He didn’t feel like any sort of god. He just felt like a very clean man.

  He stepped out of the tub, feeling the throne room’s draft on his bare, wet skin. Then five of the Sages dabbed his skin dry, while one handed him back his glasses before busying herself running a warm metal comb through his hair to dry it. He felt some small relief to see the world sharply again, but with that clarity came an even stronger vision of the throne he had just walked halfway toward.

  Dexterous, practiced hands tied his now-dry hair back into a topknot. Naked but otherwise whole, he walked forward. With every two steps he took, he stopped so that a Sage could add another piece of regalia to his body. He stared straight ahead, remembering what his mother had taught him as one Sage slipped a pure-white kosode over his bare shoulders. He stared straight ahead, remembering how the Sages had coached him as a boy, while one tied his hakama over his legs. With each robe slipped over his head, each sash tied around his waist, each smear of holy oil on his disappearing skin, he stared straight ahead.

  And beneath the golden pavilion, behind the fluttering white veil, he knew the Mountain Throne stared back.

  A new Sage had emerged to provide each piece of his regalia, and when he turned to regard them all, what had once been an empty throne room was now quite full of holy women and men in voluminous sapphire robes. As one, they all sank to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the floor. But for once, it was not for Jimuro that they bowed. It was for a fat middle-aged man whose temples were streaked with hair the color of storm clouds. He was First Sage Shuichi, and with two hands he offered forward the Mountain Crown.

  It was tall and chimney-shaped, meant to slip neatly over one’s topknot. The top was flat, square, and wide, and fine golden chains dangled from its edges. He was grateful it was only meant for special occasions like this one; he couldn’t imagine wearing something so impractical for day-to-day governance the way his ancestors had.

  He knelt, and felt the weight of the crown as it was placed atop his head. Gingerly, he rose, feeling the chains sway with every twitch of his neck. Without moving his head, he glanced down at his feet, and saw he had no floor left between himself and the throne. There were only the stairs, and the destiny that lay atop it.

  He thought he would contemplate how he’d gotten here with each step. He thought that with each one, he would grapple with the uncertainty of what came next. But to his surprise, he suddenly found himself standing at the top of the stairs, with nothing left to separate him from the throne save for some clean white linen.

  This was his last chance. He had prematurely convened the delegations as the Steel Lord, but nothing would stop him from meeting them as the Iron Prince and explaining that there would be a change of plans. He would not take the coward’s way out, as he’d been considering so often these past few days, but he would relieve himself of the burden he was unworthy of bearing.

  As soon as he thought that, he was stricken with…it wasn’t quite a vision. Seeing was part of it, but it was the least part of it. More than anything, it was feeling: anguish, despair, and
resignation, all sawing through him.

  Through that haze he saw, clear as a photograph, Sergeant Tala. She looked hurt. Betrayed.

  And perhaps most cruelly of all, unsurprised.

  Once his mother had told him that in the old days of Tomoda, those who had disgraced themselves would offer up their life to their lord in penance. They would kneel, take up their sword, and plunge it straight into their own guts. And then they would kneel there, enduring the unbelievable pain of a slow death, until their lord deemed their suffering sufficient to grant them the mercy of a swift one by beheading.

  Seeing that look on Tala’s face, even only in his mind’s eye, felt like kneeling there, a blade in his guts, as he waited for a second sword stroke that would never come.

  He reached for the cloth that separated him from the throne. It was the final test. Woven into its surface was a single filament of metal thread. He had to find it, pact with it, and will it to draw back the rest of the curtain. If he did that and sat the Mountain Throne, it would be his until the day his bones were fed to the fire.

  But that look he’d imagined on Tala’s face had cut him like a blade, and it had bled away all his doubt.

  The single thread called to him like a singer in a silent room. It was a small vessel, as small as any he’d ever pacted with, but he filled it with his spirit nonetheless.

  The steel is empty, he reminded himself. The steel is bone, and you are blood.

  And as he felt his soul stretch into the very last corners of that thread, he willed it to open.

  The curtain parted as though it were bowing out of his way, one last polite courtier. Light fell across a surprisingly simple chair of pacted steel. The seatback bore the image of a mountaintop identical to the seal from his mother’s desk.

  His desk, he realized with a jolt.

  He turned at last to face the assembled Sages, the Mountain Crown swaying atop his head. Through its dangling chains he saw them standing there, hands hidden inside their voluminous sleeves, watching intently. Along the edges of the room stood the Kobaruto in muted blue. They looked on solemnly, though none more so than Captain Sakura.

  But all Jimuro could think as he surveyed his subjects was, She should be here.

  And then at last, Jimuro sat the Mountain Throne, and was Iron Prince no more.

  As one, the Sages and Kobaruto fell to their knees, a field reaped by an invisible scythe blade.

  Only the First Sage remained standing. “For too long, that throne has been empty, Your Brilliance,” he said in ringing tones. His voice echoed easily through the throne room. “But now, great Tomoda’s heart beats again. Blood will flow to every corner of its body, and its strength will be renewed.”

  Captain Sakura had gotten to her feet while the First Sage was speaking. “How would you direct that strength, Your Brilliance?” she said, taking her place at the old man’s side. “We live to serve.”

  Jimuro remembered how often he’d seen his mother drumming her fingertips on her armrest when she was in thought, and he was surprised to notice himself doing the same thing now. He pulled his hand away and let it fall into his lap.

  Then he said, “I’ve summoned the foreign delegations here so I might address them in advance of tomorrow’s talks. Please inform me when they all arrive, and have them gather here.” And then he rose and descended back down the stairs, the folds of his robes swishing around him like water.

  “Your Brilliance,” said the First Sage in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my chambers,” said Jimuro. “I can hardly face them looking like this.”

  Murmurs arose from the Sages, but the First Sage silenced them all with a reproachful look. Evenly, he regarded Jimuro. “You don’t deem our nation’s most sacred vestments—your birthright—suitable for greeting your guests? Your will is beyond reproach, but matters have changed. The first impression you make as Steel Lord will matter more than that of any Steel Lord that’s ever come before you.”

  Jimuro nodded. “I’m not unaware of the long shadow my mother casts, even in death.” He pointed to the wide, flat top of the Mountain Crown. “If you haven’t noticed, she’s literally casting it right now.”

  The First Sage’s mouth thinned. He glanced over his shoulder, then nodded to the Sages to dismiss them all. Captain Sakura took the cue, albeit reluctantly, and the Kobaruto filed out as well. In seconds, the doors to the throne room had slid shut once more, leaving just the two of them at the foot of the throne.

  “I appreciate you preserving my dignity by scolding me in private,” Jimuro said mildly. He imagined that would be quite the sight: the Steel Lord himself, in full regalia, being whacked with a slipper by an irate priest.

  The First Sage frowned. “This isn’t a dressing-down, Your Brilliance. My predecessor simply told me that there might come a day to tell you something, the way he once had to tell it to Steel Lord Yoshiko when she was first crowned.”

  Jimuro raised an eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

  “You’re thinking of it, even as it sits upon your head, as your mother’s crown,” the First Sage said simply. “Don’t do that, Your Brilliance. It does you and the office both a disservice to think that only one person could ever be its true owner. It was Steel Lord Yoshiko’s, but before that it was Steel Lord Kenjiro’s, and before that Steel Lord Fujiko’s, and so on. Now the crown belongs to Steel Lord Jimuro. Wearing it is your right, and no one else’s.”

  Jimuro blinked. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn’t been such bluntness. “First Sage Satoshi had to tell my mother this, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  Jimuro coughed. “I hadn’t realized my family was so predictable.”

  The First Sage chuckled. “There’s a reason we’re designated ‘sage,’ Your Brilliance.” He nodded to the crown atop Jimuro’s head. “Are you truly intent on meeting them without your regalia? As you take your first steps onto the gladiatorial sands to fight for our future, will you deny the Tomodanese people the sight of their champion, cloaked in his heritage and armored in his ancestors’ legacy?”

  “Quite the opposite,” Jimuro said. “That’s precisely what I intend to give them. Now I need to return to my chambers. I have remarks to prepare.”

  If the First Sage had any more misgivings, he was careful and tactful enough to betray none of them. He simply bowed. “I live to serve you, Your Brilliance,” he said. “You are the Steel Lord now.”

  A thrill ran down his spine, one miraculously devoid of fear.

  Well, no, he realized. There was a healthy amount of fear.

  But with it, he felt a humbling awe. He’d just been vested with the spirit of his people: past, present, and future. He’d been gifted with the power to make possible whatever he wanted.

  And as Captain Sakura reappeared to escort him from the throne room, his mind was already fixed upon the question—and answer—of what that was.

  She hadn’t been able to enjoy the view of Hagane at night as their motorcade sped through its streets. Nor was she able to properly delight in the splendor of the Palace of Steel, with its elegantly sloping tiled roofs. Blue banners bearing the mountain sigil hung at half-mast: a sign to the people that they would mourn, and continue to mourn, until the throne was once again filled.

  “I appreciate Jimuro’s restraint,” General Erega said, eyeing them out the window of their car as it came to a stop. “Maybe he learned something during our chats after all.”

  But the general’s voice felt distant and muted to Tala, as though she were on a phone call with a bad connection.

  “Eyes forward, Lieutenant,” the general said. It took Tala a moment to remember that that meant her now. Her tone lightened as she added, “I get sleepy after a good plate of longganisa, too.”

  “No, sir, I can eat longganisa with the best of them,” Tala said. “I’
m just remembering the last time I was here.”

  General Erega nodded. Something changed about the way the light caught her eye as she regarded Tala. “The Thirteen-Fifty-Two-Two wasn’t assigned to the final assault on the palace.”

  “No, sir,” Tala said. “We were cleanup.”

  The way Tala’s memory worked, she always recalled smells more sharply than anything else. And what struck her about the Palace of Steel was that despite its lofty occupants, they smelled the same as the dead everywhere else. All their fineries—their linens, their perfumes, their glittering gold—had amounted to nothing, reduced by fire to carbon and slag.

  The 13-52-2 was a marine unit that had no business doing battlefield cleanup. But old Colonel Chona, CO of the Thirteenth Regiment, was a petty man who’d felt his ambitions were threatened by the Fifty-Second Company’s CO, Lieutenant Varna. Tala had heard this and that about what exactly they were spatting over, but the net effect was that while the officers up the food chain argued, the 13-52-2 had to wade into the ashes of the abattoir.

  Her squad had wrapped rags soaked in vinegar around their faces to cut the smell, but these hadn’t been very effective. So they grumbled in muffled voices about being put on this detail, and set about picking through the ruined jewel of Tomoda.

  The bulk of the final assault had been courtesy of Shang, with long-range assistance from Dahal. Tala had largely been unimpressed with the Shang troops she’d served alongside—an attitude widely shared by the Sanbuna troops, who loved to gripe about mainlander softness. But they’d wreaked havoc upon the Palace of Steel with the force of a great typhoon: doors smashed, floors scorched, art and artifacts ripped off the walls, and bleeding bodies left where they lay.

  “Shades take us,” Private Kapona had said, taking in the carnage for the first time. “They really went for it, didn’t they?” She was smiling, but Tala could see her expression carried sickliness around its edges.

  Tala regarded it all with cold eyes and a set jaw. It didn’t look as though anyone within the palace had died well, but as far as she was concerned, even the servants had Sanbuna blood on their hands. After all, couldn’t one of them have ended this long ago with a dose of cyanide in the right cup of tea, or a knife in the dark?