A gift from the sky.
The people had traveled from every corner of the islands—jammed into carriages aboard the new lightning-rail, or booking passage on the new airships being produced in the Serpent machine works. There was no man or woman or child alive who wished to miss this day, this glorious moment in their nation’s history—the moment Lady Yukiko would stand before the people and heal the last patch of deadlands in all of the Shima Isles.
Every heart beat faster, every breath came quicker at the thought. Though she’d worked tirelessly in the decade since the Lotus War ended, traveling from province to province, town to town, she never lingered long, and very rarely spoke publically. She traveled with a small entourage it was said—just her children, a historian and a handful of volunteers. Beginning in the north and working her way south, months melting into years, ashes before her, and only good, dark soil in her wake. It had been over ten years since Sumiko saw her—that day she’d never forget, when the Stormdancer arrived on her arashitora in Kigen’s Market Square and bid the nation to raise their fists. As their train pulled into Kigen Station, Sumiko wondered how the years had treated her, the marks the war had left behind.
She disembarked, forced her way through the throng, Shinji beside her, daughters between. Though her husband was a chief of production in the Serpent machine works, he insisted they travel by lightning-rail, just like everyone else. No special treatment. No man above another. But as a hero in the Lotus War, as one of the rebels who’d sabotaged the Earthcrusher and saved Kitsune-jō, Shinji was to be afforded a special place in the celebrations today.
The thought made Sumiko’s heart swell with pride.
They were met by Tora bushimen, the fresh soldiers bowing low. There was something close to awe in their eyes as the young men escorted Sumiko and her family to the gala grounds outside Kigen. A massive stage had been erected, semicircular in shape, shrouded at its rear by a large curtain of billowing black silk. It encircled a tiny crop of ruined land—rumor spoke it had once been a lotus farm, won years before by some Burakumin soldier in a Kitsune smoke house, and then left to rot. The crowd was gathered around it—a sea of people stretching for miles, all bright eyes and smiling faces. Vendors moved through the throng, selling saké and barley wine, sushi and rice cakes, pork and crackling and sticks of sauced beef—produce from the midlands breadbasket where once the Stain had lay, now known as Yoshi Province.
Sumiko looked around the stage at the other players, unbelieving at the company she found herself keeping. She’d read the history of the Lotus War of course, but to be standing in the presence of the man who had completed it set her heart to fluttering. The Blackbird was every bit as impressive as Shinji had told her, tall and broad, his graying beard spilling over his girth, his laughter felt somewhere deep in her chest. He was busy flirting with several young ladies of the Tora court, their blushing cheeks hidden behind fluttering fans. An old hound sat beside him, wagging his tail. Sumiko smiled, and despite her desire to speak to the great historian, resolved not to interrupt.
Misaki caught her eye, bowed to her, to Shinji, and Sumiko returned the smile, walking over for a swift embrace and a kiss to each cheek. The silver arms at Misaki’s back rippled, the woman’s smile like bruised strawberries, her cheeks aglow. Her daughter, Suki, stood close by, tall and elegant, long hair bound into braids and held fixed by brass rings.
“I feel utterly out of place up here,” Sumiko whispered.
“No more than I,” Misaki smiled. “But be at peace, sister. Today is a good day.”
Sumiko squeezed her friend’s hand, turning back to the others she shared the stage with. She saw the Daimyo of the Tora court opposite her, fierce as the Tigers her clan was named for. Dressed in a blood-red kimono and an iron breastplate, long hair drawn back in a braid, steel-gray eyes matching the wakizashi and katana she wore at her waist, golden cranes in flight down the black lacquer. She wore no makeup, made no attempt to hide the long, jagged scar cutting through her beautiful features.
At her side stood a fierce-looking gaijin man dressed in the robes of a courtly emissary, his face a patchwork of scars. But when he smiled, which was often, Sumiko could see the kindness in him. And when he whispered into the Daimyo’s ear, she would smile too.
A small girl ran out from behind the black silken curtain, chased by a younger boy, and Daimyo Kaori knelt, held her arms wide. The pair ran to her arms, all the cold and ferocity melting from her face, kissing each brow and holding them tight.
“Michi, you behave better around your brother,” she half-scolded. “Daichi is not so old as you. You must set an example.”