She closed it off, slammed it shut, too much, too much. The face in the mirror was smeared to the chin in blood, overflow spattering on the floor. Running her hand down her stomach again, she could feel it. She was certain. A tiny curve. Too enormous to be real.
Was this what it should be like? Was this how it was for every yōkai-blooded woman whose children also carried the gift? She had no one to ask. Blundering in the dark, unsure and afraid, ever since this whole saga began. Stormdancer. Slayer of Shōguns. Ender of Dynasties.
Gods, if they could see me for what I really was.
But there was nothing for it. Nothing to do but win or die. She knew it, as certainly as she knew her own name. There was no doubt when she thought of the armies arrayed against them, no question she’d stand and fight—and if that was bravery, then she supposed she must be brave. It seemed an easy thing, when the only other option was to kneel and pray.
But to do more than fight and die—to actually fight and win? What little they had wasn’t enough. Not to stop the gaijin and the Tora and the Fushicho and the Earthcrusher. Bravery wasn’t enough to win this war. They needed swords. Swords and claws.
A knock at her door, soft as severed feathers.
“Just a moment,” she called.
She washed the blood away, slipped into her clothes, still mourning black. An obi, wrapped twelve times about her waist. Her tantō slipped in and tied off; all she had left of her father, as comforting as fire in winter’s chill. Daichi’s katana, the blade he named after her rage, all she had left of the man who taught her anger was a gift.
This was all she was. All she had.
And they think me hero.
“Come,” she said.
The door slipped open and Michi stepped inside, light as cats. She held a bundle wrapped in black cloth, bowing like the serving girl she’d once pretended to be. Yukiko could see her like it was yesterday: stepping into the bathhouse of the Shōgun’s palace, arms laden with silk.
“I’m reminded of the day we met,” Yukiko smiled.
Michi grinned. “Do you remember what I brought you?”
“A dress. Twelve layers and forty pounds of dress. Gods, I hated putting that thing on.”
“You squirmed like a fish.”
“I felt like an idiot.”
“Not so in this, I think.”
The girl padded to Yukiko’s bed, put down her bundle and cast aside the wrapping. Yukiko caught her breath, fierce warmth in her chest, smile blooming on her lips.
“It’s beautiful.”
A breastplate of black iron, embossed with nine-tailed foxes. The metal was polished to a soft gloss, curved to accommodate a woman’s body. The work of a master craftsman.
“I talked to the chief blacksmith when we arrived. Ironically, they don’t usually make breastplates for ladies,” Michi smiled. “But when I told him it was for the Stormdancer, he said he wouldn’t sleep until it was finished.”
Yukiko pointed to the breastplate’s belly, all interlocking plates and straps and buckles, an unspoken question in her eyes.
“It’s adjustable,” Michi said softly.
“Oh.”
“It makes it weaker.”
“Does it.”
“But you can wear it as you get bigger.” Michi groped for the words. “I mean, if…”
Yukiko turned away, walking across the bedroom to the balcony overlooking the sleeping garden, the fountain’s soft murmurs lost amidst the thunder. She leaned against the railing, watching lanterns moving across the verandahs below, servants flitting about like fireflies.
Michi stepped out beside her, just a shape in the dark. When she finally spoke, her voice was so soft Yukiko almost couldn’t hear it.
“What Kaori said was wrong. About you.” A wave to her belly. “About them.”
“We were both angry. We both said things we didn’t mean.”
A long pause, heavy with the promise of black rain. “Do you mind if I ask…”
“Hiro.”
“Oh.”
The lanterns weaved below in the dark. If she squinted, she couldn’t see the bearers at all. Just the light, disembodied, like she imagined real fireflies might look. If they existed anymore.
“I’m sorry,” Michi said.
“I’m not sure why you’re apologizing.”
“It can’t be easy. Knowing they’re his.”
“It isn’t.”
“You know there are…” Michi’s voice drifted away, lost in the dark.
“… There are what?”
The girl licked her lips, her voice hesitant. “There are ways of dealing with it. If you don’t want it. You know that, right?”
“It?”
“… Them.”
“And you know these ways?”
“I’ve used them.”
Yukiko turned to look at her friend. “Really?”
“Sex is just another weapon in the halls of power. Aisha taught me that early. I used it to learn the secrets behind Yoritomo’s throne. Used it to escape my prison.” Sadness in her voice, swept away with a shrug. “But eventually the arrow hits the target. Even if the bowman is hopeless, let him fire enough shots, one will strike true. And gods, there are some awful bowmen out there, I assure you. How hard is it, gentlemen? You just aim for the little man in the boat.”
A silence, filled with feeble smiles. Fading slowly.