Stormdancer

by Jay Kristoff

  Wait.

  Seiji squinted in the gloom, shovel poised in his hands.

  What is that?

  The Keeper of Tigers crept forward in the dark, soft slippers muffling his footsteps on the stone. Head tilted, eyes narrowed at the white shape under the straw a few feet from the arashitora’s hind paw. The beast snorted and rumbled in its sleep, and Seiji froze as still as kabuki dancers when the music stops. Flies tickled his skin for several agonized minutes before he felt safe to move again.

  He knelt down and snatched it up, hurriedly tiptoeing back to his barrow and holding the object out in the grubby light of his chi lamp. His breath caught in his throat as he turned it over in his hands. As broad as his thigh, snow white, cut cleanly in half by what must have been a razor-sharp blade.

  It was a feather.

  A moulted feather.

  29

  MAYFLIES

  Yukiko sat atop Buruu’s shoulders, off-balance, face gleaming, reins wrapped twice around her fists. The arashitora weaved through the obstacle course, a continuous circuit around the iron pillar he was chained to, like a dog endlessly chasing its own tail. Their pulses pounded in time with each other, a single heartbeat holding hands with itself. She could feel the muscles at play beneath his feathers, smell the faint mix of ozone and sweat, like the promise of rain hanging in the air before a storm.

  She had taken a fall once already for the benefit of the bushimen, relaxed her muscles, ready to take another.

  Now.

  She tugged hard on the reins and Buruu tossed his head, veering left and crashing into the straw. With a curse and a convincing shriek, Yukiko flew from his shoulders, bounced across the bale and crashed onto the stone in a tangle of limbs. Buruu stood on his hind legs, making a grating noise in his throat that sounded suspiciously like chuckling. Several of the bushimen watching the show burst into laughter. Yukiko tore off her goggles, glowering up at the beast as she pushed the hair out of her face.

  “Clumsy oaf!” Her shout drowned out the laughter from the benches above. “How hard can it be? Are you blind or just stupid?”

  Buruu’s defiant roar was a comforting vibration in her chest. She smiled into his mind even as she cursed aloud, overjoyed simply to be close to him again. Amidst all the whispered conversations and shadowed intrigues of the past weeks, he was a constant, a true north by which to find her way. She felt his absence as a dull ache when they were separated, but in the few hours they spent together every day, she felt more complete than she had since Satoru died.

  She realized his words on the deck of the Guild liner had been true.

  He was her brother now.

  AISHA AGREED TO YOUR DEMAND?

  Yes. They’re going to smuggle my father from his cell in the next few days. She’d rather wait until the bicentennial celebrations, but she didn’t see him locked in that hole. What it was doing to him. I don’t care if she says it will be difficult. As long as it’s not impossible.

  NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE.

  A sigh as she tossed her hair over her shoulder, hauling herself up from the stone where she’d fallen. She winced and rubbed at her hip, massaging her thigh as she stood.

  Only a few more days of this charade. And then we are gone.

  A FEW MORE DAYS OF THIS AND YOU WILL BE NOTHING BUT BRUISES.

  Somber applause cut through the sound of Buruu’s laughter in her head; a single pair of hands clapping, reverberating along the arena floor and up into the empty grandstand. All eyes turned toward the noise, surprised gasps and the sound of men slapping their palms over their fists soon followed. All deep bows and stern faces, the bushimen threw off their smiles and studied the floor.

  “Shōgun,” one whispered.

  Hiro was on his feet amidst the lubricated swish of gears and whine of tiny motors. He bowed deeply and hurried to his Shōgun’s side, sparing a quick nod for the four Iron Samurai that Yoritomo had brought with him. Like Hiro, the men wore the gold-trimmed jin-haori of the Kazumitsu Elite, oni masks, the daishō blades of chainsaw katana and wakizashi paired at their waists.

  “Seii Taishōgun,” Hiro said. “Your arrival was unannounced. Forgive me, I would have ensured a suitable…”

  Yoritomo held up his hand, words dying on Hiro’s lips. The Shōgun’s eyes were still fixed on Yukiko. He strolled down the stone stairs between the seats to the arena floor, unblinking, holding the girl pinned in that glittering, reptilian stare.

  “A fine performance,” he smiled. “My compliments.”

  Yukiko bowed deeply.

  “You honor me, great Lord.”

  A nearby bushimen unlocked the iron gate leading into the pit. Yoritomo handed the man his breather mask and stepped inside. Golden breastplate, small wings on his back, broad swathes of red silk dragging a trail through the straw. He walked toward Yukiko, one casual hand on the hilt of the old-fashioned daishō swords at his waist. The Elite retinue filed in behind him, the whirr and hiss of ō-yoroi amplified in the vast, circular space. The last Iron Samurai through the door held up his hand to stop Hiro entering, slammed the bolt home with a clang, locking the gate behind him.

  “I think perhaps you missed your calling, Yukiko-chan,” Yoritomo said, stepping closer. “Instead of a hunter, perhaps you should have been a playwright?”

  “My Lord?”

  BEWARE.

  “Oh, indeed,” he nodded. “Such pleasant fictions you might have woven.”

  Yoritomo moved, viper-fast, seizing Yukiko by her wrist and hyper-extending her elbow into an agonizing armbar lock. Buruu roared, a terrible, booming report cracking across the stone, lunging toward the Shōgun. Two Iron Samurai stepped forward, drawing their weapons and shouting a challenge. Buruu’s talons opened one up across his stomach; soft, feeble meat inside a thin tin can. The body tumbled away, spooling a writhing mess of entrails. Yoritomo twisted Yukiko’s arm behind her back, drew his wakizashi and held it to the girl’s neck. The second samurai swung his growling blade with a fierce cry, only to see his arm bitten off at the elbow, Buruu’s beak shearing through the iron like hot steel through snow. The man’s scream was high-pitched; a long quavering note of disbelief.

  “Hold, or she dies!” Yoritomo shouted. “She dies, I swear it!”

  YUKIKO.

  Buruu!

  Buruu stopped short, eyes ablaze with fury, talons sending a shower of sparks across the arena floor. Yoritomo’s face was pale, pupils dilated, dragging air through clenched teeth as he pulled Yukiko backward toward the gate. The arashitora took a few hesitant steps toward them, growl building in his throat, vibrating across the pools of blood beneath his feet. Ripples in the scarlet.

  “No closer,” Yoritomo warned. “I’ll cut this whore’s throat.”

  The growl spilled over into another roar.

  “He does understand me.” Yoritomo twisted Yukiko’s arm, eliciting a gasp of pain. “No smarter than a dog, eh?”

  “My Lord, what goes on here?” Hiro cried, fists wrapped around the bars of the gate.

  “Betrayal,” Yoritomo spat, eyes never leaving the arashitora. “The vile reek of treason.”

  “My Lord?”

  Yoritomo nodded to the other samurai and they seized Yukiko’s arms, one apiece, dragging her backward in a grip of smoke and iron. Her hair was a tangled curtain over her face, pitch-black on pale skin. She stared up at Yoritomo with unbridled hatred in her eyes, struggling in those implacable, chi-powered grips. He smiled, placed the tip of his wakizashi beneath her jaw and forced her chin up, parting the hair away from her face with the razored point.

  “You think yourself a clever fox, eh? Clever enough to outwit the Lord of all Shima?” An empty chuckle. “Pathetic little girl.”

  He slapped her, striking downward, the weight of his body behind the blow. Her head snapped to the right, the crack of skin on skin louder than a bullwhip. A grunt, cheek splitting, bright red spraying through the air. Buruu lost his mind, charged forward with a terrible, blood-flecked roar, claws tearing chun
ks out of the rock. Yoritomo drew the iron-thrower from his belt, pressed the snub-nosed barrel against Yukiko’s temple and forced the girl to her knees.

  Buruu reached the edge of his tether, chain snapping taut, links groaning dangerously as two tons of momentum was pulled up short. The iron spike in the floor bent forty-five degrees, making a high-pitched squeal, flakes of metal shedding like old skin. Buruu roared, spittle and tongue and rolling eyes, talons swiping the air five feet from Yoritomo’s face.

  “Enough!” Yoritomo pulled the hammer back on the iron-thrower.

  Buruu fell still, breath heaving in his lungs, shaking with adrenaline and rage. He whined, feral and grating, trembling haunches and wild eyes. His tail whipped from side to side, claws digging into the stone beneath his paws.

  “Swords,” Yoritomo barked.

  With their free hands, the surviving Iron Samurai drew their katana and kicked them to life. The serrated growling of the blades drowned out the moans of their dying comrade. The man rolled about in a widening pool of blood, clutching the stump where his arm used to be.

  “If the beast even coughs in my direction, take this bitch’s head off.”

  “Hai!”

  Yoritomo holstered his iron-thrower, slid the wakizashi back into his scabbard. Eyes fixed on Buruu’s, he stepped closer, slinging his plait over his shoulder with a toss of his head. The smile on his face was arctic, the clenched grin of a corpse mask.

  “You have spirit, great one. I will give you that.”

  YUKIKO. CAN YOU HEAR ME?

  … Buruu?

  A blurred consciousness, skull still ringing from Yoritomo’s blow. Blood in their mouths.

  “Move, and she dies,” Yoritomo whispered.

  The Shōgun drew his katana, steel sliding across the scabbard’s lip with a bright silver tone. He sliced away the harness that pinned Buruu’s wings with one stroke, rubber and steel mesh crumpling on the floor. Three feathers spilled from the remnants, broad and pale, severed neatly across their spines. Buruu flinched as Yoritomo ran his fingers across the new feathers growing at his wingtips, gleaming with a faint metallic sheen, whole and perfect. A sharp intake of breath rasped across the Shōgun’s teeth; a hiss of incredulity and imperious, narrow rage.

  “So it is true.” Jaw twitching, gnawing his lip.

  “Great Lord,” called Hiro. “I am certain Yukiko knew nothing of this.”

  “She can hear the beast’s thoughts.” Yoritomo didn’t even look in the Iron Samurai’s direction. “Yet you tell me she knew nothing?”

  “I am certain there is an explanation…”

  “Then explain!”

  “Perhaps she was unaware—”

  “No, it was you who was unaware!” He turned on Hiro with a roar, pointing with his katana. “This treachery happening under your very nose and you were blind to it! You have failed me, Lord Hiro, and shamed yourself.”

  Hiro aimed a desperate, helpless glance at Yukiko. Then he dropped to his knees, pressed his head against the stone.

  “Forgive me, great Lord.”

  The Shōgun turned back to Buruu, hissing through clenched teeth. The Iron Samurai lowered their swords, spinning blades of the chainkatana hovering bare inches from Yukiko’s neck. Strands of her hair were caught in the turbulence, wafting up to be severed on the furious razors and then drift slowly back down to earth.

  Yukiko blinked, ears ringing, trying to clear her head. Blood flowed from her swollen cheek, pooling sluggishly under the curve of her chin and spattering at her feet.

  “Where is your respect?” Yoritomo growled at the arashitora. “You think this insolent child could outwit me?” He pointed his katana at Yukiko, shaking his head. “You will learn what I am. What it means to defy Hachiman’s chosen. I will teach you. Hold out your wings.”

  YUKIKO.

  Buruu, don’t …

  THEY WILL KILL YOU.

  They’ll kill me anyway. Don’t do it.

  “I know you understand me!” Yoritomo roared. “Hold them out or she dies!”

  No, don’t. Please, Buruu. Don’t let him touch you.

  The future stretched out before him, days without end, life in a rusty cage beneath this choking sky. Slave of this princeling and his madness, gawped at by insects and denied the freedom of his skies. The loss of his feathers was one thing. But the fear of this madman hacking off his wings whole was almost overpowering.

  Yet it was nothing. Nothing compared to the thought of losing her. Of watching her spilled open in front of him, bleeding out on the floor as he ended them all, giving in to rage and pride and being left at the finale with their blood on his tongue and her blood on his soul.

  What would it mean to fly again, knowing that she was rotting in the cold ground?

  “Kill her,” Yoritomo spat, stepping back. The Iron Samurai raised their blades. Hiro gritted his teeth, shaking his head and refusing to look away. The bushimen on the benches held their breath, wincing in anticipation. And with a sound like unfurling canvas, Buruu spread his wings.

  Twenty-five feet of gleaming silver-white, new feathers glinting with a strange, electric opalescence. The hair on Yoritomo’s flesh stood up, static electricity coursing over his skin and setting his eyes ablaze. The arashitora spread his feathers. His coverts were tickled by the warm breeze, rippling like snow-white waves across a broad expanse of muscle and voltage.

  Yoritomo breathed deep, sweat turning the hilt of his sword damp and greasy. He pointed his blade toward the sky.

  “There it is. Just above you. The desire you would risk everything to attain. And had you but the courage to serve, it would be yours for the taking. But now it falls to me to take instead.” He sighed. “Such a waste.”

  He lashed out with his katana, scarlet light swelling along patterned steel. A faint ripping sound, no more than a whisper; a flurry of severed white. The perfect fan of the beast’s outstretched feathertips was reduced to a flat, ugly shape, an amateur mutilation cutting the anticipated promise of flight to pieces. The tips of the new quills split asunder, ruined all over again, falling to earth with the sound of tearing paper.

  Yukiko gasped as if she’d been stabbed, a rasping intake through a throat squeezed closed by grief, exhaled in an agonized, choking sob.

  Kill him. Forget me, brother. Fight. FIGHT.

  FEATHERS GROW BACK.

  “No, please,” she moaned under the growling steel. “No.”

  SISTERS DO NOT.

  “This is the way the immortals feel,” Yoritomo breathed. “To take anything and everything away with a simple wave of the hand. A wing. A face. A civilization.”

  He stared at the blade of his katana, transfixed by the light dancing along its edge.

  “I am god-sized.”

  Buruu closed his eyes and hung his head as Yoritomo strode around to his other wing, katana falling with the weight of an anvil. Not a single drop of blood, not even a vague sensation of pain as the blow sliced away his quills. And yet, he felt as though the sword were cutting the heart out of his chest. His feathers sprayed through the air, sleet and whispering snow, falling earthward in slow motion. He felt the storm wind on his face, felt the rain dashing against him as he wheeled among the clouds, echoing the thunder with the song of his wings. So close. So close he could taste it.

  And now so far away.

  “Now you see,” hissed Yoritomo. “All you possess, I allow you to have. All you are, I allow you to be. And that which you desire most is mine to give and take as I will. Think on this now, and in all the dark hours between this moment and the day these feathers grow back again, and know each one of them is an hour I allow you to have. I am Yoritomo, Chosen of Hachiman, Emperor of the world. Defy me again, and I will take everything you have left. Do you understand me? Everything.” A feline sneer. “And I will hurt it first.”

  He drew close to the arashitora’s face, put his blade beneath its chin and forced it to look up into his eyes. Amber swam with cold fury, coiled like a spring, held in c
heck by a will as fierce as the storms themselves.

  “Now show Yoritomo the respect that he is due,” he hissed. “Kneel before him.”

  The Shōgun stepped back, sheathed his katana and held out his hands. Defenseless. Unarmed. It would take a single twitch to end him. Everyone in the room held their breath, the growl of the chainkatana poised above Yukiko’s neck the only sound. And as she looked on, near blind with tears, Buruu bowed his head, curled up his talons and pressed his forehead into the stone at Yoritomo’s feet.

  “No.”

  She cried into his mind, a bitter, broken-glass grief, cutting her insides and flooding over her limits. He reached out and touched her thoughts, held her tight, safe and warm.

  OUR TROUBLES ARE BUT MAYFLIES, RISING AND FALLING BETWEEN THE TURN OF DAWN AND DUSK. AND WHEN THEY ARE GONE TO THE HOUSES OF MEMORY, YOU AND I WILL REMAIN, YUKIKO.

  He closed his eyes and folded his wings, lighter now than they had been a lifetime ago. Her sobs the only sound, echoing across the stone, cold and empty. His feathers lying severed on the floor, her heart beside them, torn and bleeding.

  WE WILL ENDURE.

  30

  IDLE HANDS

  They left her lying on the bloodstained stone.

  A boot to the ribs, a gob of fresh spittle, and they were gone. Metal footsteps rang through the floor and into her skull, echoing behind her closed eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at him, at what they’d done to him. All because of her. A bargaining chip, a pawn threatened, forcing the king to its defense. Used. Just like she’d been used against her father all those years ago. A stone around the necks of those she loved.

  She could hear his voice in her mind, far away, telling her it would be all right. But she closed herself off, slamming the door and curling up in a dark room inside her head. She didn’t deserve his understanding. She didn’t deserve his friendship. She’d failed him, failed herself, thinking some simple sleight of hand and luck would be enough to see them through to the end.