Stormdancer

by Jay Kristoff

  She found herself wishing they were somewhere else. Somewhere private.

  Anywhere but this.

  “Come on,” she finally sighed. “We should be getting back.”

  * * *

  “Did he try to kiss you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you try to kiss him?”

  “Of course not, Michi!”

  Yukiko scowled at the maidservant in the looking glass, trying to keep the flush from her cheeks. The girl was up to her elbows in Yukiko’s hair, drawing the thick coils back into an elaborate golden headpiece studded with tassels and pins and tiny prowling tigers. Michi raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

  “A matter of time. That boy is so heartsick he’s practically green.”

  “Stop it.”

  “He’s probably out there in the hallway right now, composing bad poetry in his head.”

  Michi cleared her throat, her voice taking on a breathless lilt:

  “Pale Fox’s Daughter,

  Her cherry lips haunt my dreams.

  Something, something, breasts…”

  “Don’t you think I’ve got more important things to worry about than Lord Hiro?” Yukiko’s hiss cut Michi’s laughter in half. “Don’t you think I should be avoiding undue attention?”

  “You already have undue attention.” Michi wiped the grin from her face, shrugged again. “It can hardly be avoided, so use it to your advantage. A man will turn a blind eye to the misbehavior of his lover more readily than that of his prisoner.”

  “You’d do that?” Yukiko blinked. “Sleep with a man just to get your way?”

  Michi stared at Yukiko as if she had asked the color of the sky. “There is nothing I would not do to free this land from the yoke of the Shōgunate.”

  “Why?” Yukiko watched her in the mirror. “What did they do to you?”

  “What makes you think they did anything to me?” She returned to arranging Yukiko’s hair, deft fingers wrapped in ribbons of gleaming black.

  “Because people don’t just wake up one day and decide to…” Yukiko caught herself, lowered her voice again, “… to do what we’re going to do.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games. What did they do to you, Michi?”

  The girl paused, meeting Yukiko’s stare in the mirror. All trace of amusement was gone now, and it seemed that a shadow passed over her eyes. When she spoke, the facade of the impetuous, lively young girl Yukiko had spent the last few days with fell away, and for just a fraction of a second she caught a glimpse of the rage that lurked beneath that pretty mask.

  “Daiyakawa,” Michi said.

  “What about it?”

  “I was born there. I was six years old when the riot happened. The prefect. The one they forced to commit seppuku…”

  “You knew him?”

  A nod.

  “My uncle.”

  “Then the children they killed…”

  “My cousins.” She swallowed. “Right in front of me.”

  “Gods…”

  “My family gave their lives in resistance against the Kazumitsu Shōgunate.” A black light burned in her eyes, her skin deathly pale. “So, yes, I would give my body. My final drop of blood. The last breath in my lungs to see this country freed.”

  “What about Aisha?” Yukiko tilted her head, eyes a fraction narrower.

  “What about her?”

  “What does she have to gain from any of this? Why does she care? It can’t just be because of Kaori’s face.”

  “You dishonor her, Yukiko-chan.” There was steel in Michi’s voice. “She is stronger than you or I could ever dream.”

  “Is she? If Yoritomo dies, she inherits the throne, right?”

  “You do not know what you are talking about.”

  “Then teach me. What is she risking, exactly?”

  A long moment of silence passed, each of them staring at the other’s reflection. The only sound was the creak of the ceiling fans, the distant murmur of the city beyond high, glass-topped walls. Yukiko was beginning to think she’d pushed Michi too far when, at last, the girl began to speak.

  “Think on this.” Michi began to arrange Yukiko’s hair again, her hands a touch less gentle than before. “Your mother. My uncle. The Shōgun and the Guild have bled us. Our resolve is built on scar tissue. It is easy to rail against injustice when the authorities have given you a reason to hate them. What have they given Aisha?”

  Yukiko shrugged, said nothing.

  “Everything she could ever ask for,” Michi continued. “Anything she could dream. If she wished, she could live her entire life inside these walls, never touched by the growing rot beyond. She chose to open her eyes. She chose to refuse all of this, to risk everything they have given her, everything she could ever be. The Dynasty, the Guild, they’ve never taken anything from her. And still she wants to tear them down. Why?”

  “I don’t know why.”

  Yukiko stared long and hard at the girl’s reflection, as if seeing her for the first time. She realized that the Michi she knew was simply a costume, a role adopted for the sake of ruthless expediency. She began to feel distinctly out of her depth, sinking to the eyes in black, cloudy water, reaching out instinctively for Buruu’s warmth in the distance. She began to understand the scale of it all, the machine she was pitting herself against, the fact that she really knew nothing about the allies she had thrown in with.

  Buruu. Her father. Her own life.

  A lot to risk in the hands of strangers.

  Michi watched her carefully, speaking as if reading her thoughts.

  “I asked Aisha the same thing once. Why she risked all, and where she found the will to do it. She said that from the outside it seems an enormous thing, for anyone unscarred to choose to resist. To look around at the smiling faces of their peers, and step willingly outside the warmth of that contented little circle. She said that every part of her being rebelled against the notion at first. Because there is something in us that loves the momentum of the mob, Yukiko-chan. The comfort of swimming in the current with our fellows. Something in all of us wants to belong.”

  She was staring at Yukiko’s reflection, but her eyes seemed focused at some distant point inside the glass.

  “Yet as sunset approaches, all anyone needs do is look ahead and see where this current will lead us. To realize that if we do not stop and swim against the stream, eventually we will find the precipice over which it flows. We all of us know it. As surely as we know the sound of our own voices. We see it when we look in the mirror. We hear it when we wake in the long, still hours of the night. A voice that tells us something is deeply, horribly wrong with this world that we have made.” Michi’s voice became a whisper. “Aisha said it became a simple thing after that. As simple as speaking. As mustering the will to say one tiny little word.”

  “What word?” Yukiko whispered too, without quite knowing why.

  Michi breathed, a tiny syllable as fragile as glass.

  “No.”

  * * *

  “Training is going well, I hear,” Aisha said, sipping her tea.

  The sun had slipped below the horizon, bringing a cool dusk. The whispering sea breeze was a mixed blessing; banishing the scorching heat, but blowing in the suffocating stink of Kigen Bay. The summer’s worst was over, and autumn would soon be approaching on dry, yellow feet. Yukiko wondered if she would be back in the Iishi by then, to watch the trees shed their green dresses. She hadn’t seen the shades of the world turn to rust since she was a little girl.

  “Hai, Lady,” Yukiko replied. She was kneeling on a flat silk cushion before the low, polished table. Three of Aisha’s maidens were playing music again, deft, pale fingers flitting across taut strings, loud enough that curious ears passing by the rice-paper doors would only hear the haunting melody of the shamisen.

  “And you are enjoying the attentions of Lord Hiro, among others.”

  Yukiko gulped a mouthful of tea and said nothing.r />
  “He is a handsome man. Loyal to a fault.”

  “My Lady, forgive me. I did not come here to talk about Lord Hiro.”

  “Does talking of your lover embarrass you?”

  “Wha—” Yukiko nearly choked on her tea, cast an accusing stare at Michi. “He’s not … I would never…”

  Aisha laughed, bright and musical, perfect teeth and ruby lips. Yukiko felt a blush rise in her cheeks. She stared hard at her lap, fingers twitching on embroidered silk.

  “You are too easy, Yukiko-chan. You wear your heart on your sleeve. Guard it more carefully, lest others see it and pluck it out. People in this palace have a fondness for taking away what others desire most.”

  “I don’t love Lord Hiro.”

  “Well, perhaps you should.” Aisha raised an eyebrow. “Treasure your joys while you may. Gods know there are few enough in this world.”

  “Michi said you had word of my friends?” Yukiko lunged away from the subject. “Akihito and Kasumi?”

  Aisha stared for a long moment, still smiling, then finally nodded.

  “Akihito-san is safe. With friends of mine, in a house in Docktown.”

  “Thank Amaterasu,” Yukiko sighed. “And Kasumi?”

  “She is here.”

  “In Kigen?”

  “In the palace. I had her smuggled in this morning. She is waiting to speak to you.”

  Yukiko was incredulous.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did, Yukiko-chan.”

  Yukiko fought down the anger, tried to hide it behind the mask as Aisha had bid her. Just when she thought she had some understanding of who and what Aisha was, the woman showed her how little she truly understood. Yoritomo’s sister was an impossible enigma, a puzzle box with missing pieces. No matter what Michi said, Yukiko realized she had no idea what was going on behind those smooth puff-adder eyes, what secrets twisted in the dark beneath the plastic, death-pale facade. All she knew about Aisha was what she’d been sold. Who was to say she really was Kaori’s friend? Did she actually want to see the country freed from the yoke of the Guild and the Shōgunate, or was she just making a play for the throne herself? Despite Michi’s assurances, all her talk of resistance, how much could Yukiko really afford to trust this woman?

  How easy would it be for Aisha to just cut her loose if things went badly? And even if all went to plan, how easy would it be for her to sell Yukiko as her scapegoat after the fact?

  She kept the trepidation from her voice, the questions from her eyes.

  “May I see her, please?”

  Aisha clapped her hands, and a rice-paper panel in the northern wall slid aside. Kasumi stood on the other side in a servant’s kimono, knotted muscle, nervous eyes. But when she saw Yukiko, her face lit up with joy. She dashed into the room and they were in each other’s arms, hugging fiercely, afraid to let go. Yukiko closed her eyes, felt the tears pour down her cheeks despite herself.

  “I thought you were dead,” Kasumi breathed into her hair. “Gods, I thought we had lost you.”

  They laughed and held each other tight, swaying with the shamisen song until the tears stopped. Eventually, they knelt together before the table, and Lady Aisha wordlessly offered Kasumi a cup of tea. The older woman accepted, drinking the steaming brew with shaking hands and tight, pale lips. She asked Yukiko to tell her all that had happened since the tempest on the Thunder Child. Aisha’s eyes glittered in the flickering amber light as Yukiko spoke, beginning with the crash, ending with the arena and Masaru’s filthy cell in the Shōgun’s dungeons.

  “So he is imprisoned,” Kasumi said. “That is a small mercy at least.”

  “No mercy for Captain Yamagata, though,” Yukiko murmured.

  “I did not want to leave Masaru, Yukiko.” Kasumi’s eyes flashed. “I told him I wouldn’t. That if he were going to die, I would die with him. Akihito refused too, threatened to knock Masaru out if he ordered us away. So three days before we arrived in Kigen, he poisoned us with blacksleep. When we woke the next morning, he and Yamagata were gone. The captain, to beg for the lives of his crew. And Masaru, to beg for ours.”

  “Akihito threatened to knock him out?” Yukiko couldn’t help but smile.

  “Akihito loves Masaru.” Kasumi reached out to touch Yukiko’s hand. “I love him too. Most dearly.”

  Yukiko stared at Kasumi for a long, silent moment. This was the woman who had betrayed her mother, who had shared her father’s bed. And though she’d truly blamed Masaru for the infidelity, Yukiko had long ago written Kasumi off as a predator, venomous and sly. Treated with thin civility maybe, but never respect. Never love.

  Yukiko looked at her now and saw differently. The truth was, Kasumi probably knew Masaru better than her mother had. She had always been there, the long nights in the wilderness, the treks through swamp and jungle, spilling blood, sleeping under the stars together.

  Did Yukiko have a right to be angry? Yes. But could she understand what a person would do for love? Could she sympathize?

  “I know you do,” she whispered.

  “We have to get him out of there.”

  “We will.” Yukiko nodded, squeezed her hands into fists.

  “Indeed?” Aisha said. “You have a plan?”

  “No.” She turned to the Lady, cold stare, white knuckles. “But I’m sure you can come up with one. You’re the most powerful woman in Shima, after all.”

  “Masaru-san can be freed when Yoritomo is dealt with.” Aisha waved with one pale, lacquered hand. “I mean no offense, but there are larger stakes in play here than your father’s life. The Dynasty’s bicentennial celebrations begin in two weeks’ time. All of Yoritomo’s court will be caught up in the noise and motion—a perfect distraction for the shadow games we must play. Why would I break the Black Fox out now and risk all, when the fate of the entire country rests on this one throw of the dice?”

  “Because that’s my price,” Yukiko scowled. “I want a show of faith.”

  “Faith?” Aisha tilted her head. “You do not trust me, Yukiko-chan?”

  “You just got through telling me not to wear my heart on my sleeve. I’m the one risking my own life, and the life of my friends. And yet the way I see it, everyone is getting something out of this bargain but me. The Kagé get their revolution, you get a scapegoat for Yoritomo’s murder, maybe even a throne. What do I get, aside from a death-mark on my head?”

  “Vengeance. For your mother.”

  “If I wanted vengeance, I would have killed Daichi. I don’t care about revenge. I want my family back. I want my father free by the end of this week. I want him and Akihito and Kasumi on a sky-ship to Yama. And when they’re far from this stinking city, then I’ll stick my neck out for you. After they’re safe, you get what you want. Until then, you don’t get a godsdamned thing.”

  Aisha smiled, a broad grin right to the eyeteeth that left Yukiko’s stomach cold. The world seemed breathless. A darkened hush descended as night deepened, the pale moon limping through a poisoned sky toward the hour of treason. Somewhere in the dark, a sparrow flapped its crippled wings and began to sing.

  “Now, that’s the spirit, Yukiko-chan.” Aisha clapped her palms together, delighted. “We’ll make a woman of you yet.”

  * * *

  His name was Tora Seiji no Takeo.

  A careful and proud man, thin limbs, clever hands, greatly learned in the keeping of tora—the great tigers of the Shima isles. He had inherited the craft from his father, Takeo no Neru, dead of blacklung some ten years past.

  Seiji was Yoritomo’s Keeper of Tigers; an expert on an island where only three of the beasts remained alive. It was a profession that, naturally, left him with plenty of free time on his hands. This he spent chasing servant girls, or writing thoroughly ordinary poetry, or listening to pirate radio while smoking with his friend Masaaki the Stable Master (the last horse on Shima had died eighteen years before, and Masaaki had devoted his overabundance of leisure time to cultivating a truly impressi
ve lotus addiction).

  The three sickly cats that prowled Yoritomo’s gardens were kittens really, born and bred in captivity. Any idiot could feed them. Any fool with a pair of hands could pick up the dung when Naoki, the most mischievous of the trio, decided to do his business outside the kitchen door again. But Shōgun Yoritomo had insisted on keeping Seiji despite his obsolescence. Paying his wage, just like the Hunt Master and the Hawk Master and the Keeper of Cranes. It wasn’t a bad life, really. Just a dull one.

  That is, until last week.

  And now here he was, with a kerchief mask and a shovel as wide as his arm, picking up thunder-tiger shit.

  The beast was snoring in the center of the arena, great flanks pulsing, straw dancing with each heave of those mighty lungs. It had opened its eye briefly as Seiji entered the pit (the iron gate squeaked—he must remember to get some lubricant from one of the Lotusmen) but had immediately dropped back to sleep after a brief, disdainful stare.

  Seiji crept on tiptoe among the lotusfly hum, wincing at the scrape of metal across stone as he scooped up another shovelful. He knew that the beast’s chain was too short to reach the pit’s periphery were he to run there. But still, he couldn’t help the tremors in his hands, the cold fear crawling in his gut. This was a beast of legend, one of the great gray yōkai, child of the Thunder God, Raijin. It had about as much in common with a tora as a tiger had with a housecat.

  But Seiji was a loyal man, sworn to his oath of service, grateful to Yoritomo-no-miya for sparing him from the breadlines and the overflowing gutters of Downside. And so, when he’d been commanded to care for the arashitora, he had bowed and murmured thanks to his great Lord, Ninth Shōgun of the Kazumitsu Dynasty, next Stormdancer of Shima, and set about finding a bigger shovel.

  As he wiped his brow, Seiji stole a glance at the arashitora again. It was magnificent, possessed of a majesty that demanded attention; a beast from children’s stories and dusty histories sprung inexplicably to life. Rumor was already rife about the strange (and, Seiji had to admit, pretty) girl who had arrived with it. “Arashi-no-ko,” they called her. “Storm Girl.” The bushimen whispered that she was training the beast for the day it would begin its moult, growing new feathers to—