“You sent it in the summer,” Orochi finally wheezed. “But with news of Yoritomo’s assassination … we presumed you would have committed suicide. Thus, we did not reply.”
“You mentioned…” The woman looked at her son, desperate hope in her eyes. “You mentioned a girl you had met? Someone you wished to court?”
Orochi cleared his throat. “Understand, we enquire to determine if there were any … promises made … Promises your family must honor once you are dead.”
She lay in his arms in the sweat-stained dark, cheek pressed against his chest. He could smell her hair, her perfume, the taste of her still wet upon his lips.
“When the Shōgun has calmed down,” he had said. “I will petition him for permission to court you. I have sent a letter to my father—”
“Court me?” Yukiko said. “What the hells for?”
“So I can be with you.”
“Hiro, you’re here with me right now,” she laughed.
Her kisses had tasted like summer …
“No,” Hiro said. “No promises were made. She is of no concern to you.”
“Good,” his father nodded. “This is good.”
They stood there, silence washing against him like black salt water in Kigen Bay. Corroding. Eroding. Wave after wave breaking on him with each passing breath, taking a piece of him away as it rushed back out to sea.
Riding on his father’s shoulders when he was too small to see above the lotus stalks, marveling at the world beyond their estates. Hefting his father’s sword for the first time, watching light kiss the blade. The day he’d been accepted into the Kazumitsu Elite, the only time he’d seen tears in his father’s eyes. All of it washing away, leaving only the stain. The burden. The failure he’d been taught to never, ever accept.
“I must leave for the staging grounds,” he found himself saying. “My men await.”
“Of course, Daimyo,” his father nodded. “Do not let us detain you.”
He swallowed. Bowed. “Good-bye, Father.”
Orochi bowed in return. No light in his eyes. No tremor in his voice.
“Good-bye, my son. Lord Izanagi give you the strength … to die well.”
He turned to the woman who had brought him into the world.
“… Good-bye, Mother.”
She broke then. Sank to her knees and wept, face hidden in her hands. Everything inside pressed him forward, the need to wrap her in his arms and tell her it would be all right, that it was not her fault. Everything inside him screamed he should move, speak, do something. Four whispered words from his father held him back.
“You shame me, woman…”
The weeping stopped, a door slammed shut, silence falling again. The moments ticking by in waves, every second spent standing there washing one more piece of him away. And when it was gone, when all he was had fled, what would be left?
What then would remain?
Without another word, he turned and stalked from the room.
8
LORD OF FOXES
The Guild rebels stood silent on the Kurea’s deck, Yama city still echoing with the explosions that had heralded their unveiling. A cluster of brass and blood. Scarlet splashes on their spaulders and faces, smudged with soot and smoke. No more than a dozen remaining.
Yukiko stood with Buruu, Akihito and Michi beside her. Hana and Kaiah were perched on the stern, the Blackbird’s crew and Kagé refugees gathered in a knot as far from the Guildsmen as possible. Yoshi sat alone, up on the foredeck, looking out over the ravaged metropolis below. Smoke-scent whispered in the air, tongued the back of Yukiko’s throat, clinging to Buruu’s feathers amidst the promise of impending rain.
Thunder rumbled to the north.
I should speak with them.
YOU WILL NEED TO DO MORE THAN SPEAK, SISTER.
Come with me?
ALWAYS.
They stepped forward, slow, Yukiko’s hands held up and out. The thunder tiger moved ahead, close enough that they still touched, tail curled upward as if he were stalking prey. She could feel him, hard as steel beneath feline grace, a roar bubbling just below his surface.
“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes upon the gathered Guildsmen. “I didn’t mean for it to be this way. I never wanted this to happen.”
They were a motley bunch. Three Lotusmen, stained with blood and ash. An Artificer with his single rectangular eye and toolbox skin. Two False-Lifers clad in glistening membranes of earth-brown, spider limbs unfurling from their backs.
Behind them stood a clutch of smaller figures clad in simple atmos-suits of soft leather and gleaming brass. Half a dozen in all, some no bigger than toddlers. Yukiko heard one snuffling; faint weeping distorted within its helm.
My gods, they’re children …
Their rebellion had been fermenting within the Guild for gods knew how long. Who knows what their plans had been? How close they’d come to fruition? And now, everything was ashes, their brothers and sisters slaughtered because of Kaori’s mistrust. But could Yukiko really blame Kaori for all this? Maker’s breath, the Guild had taken her father. The gods only knew what horrors Daichi had been through since.
Once again, it all came back to him. His doing. His betrayal.
Kin.
She drew a single, trembling breath.