THERE WILL BE NO CONVINCING. ONLY COMMANDING.
No, Buruu. I told Michi and I’ll tell you the same. I’m not using the Kenning to force— NOT YOUR COMMAND, SISTER.
Yukiko felt a faint growl building in his chest.
The thunder below was a rolling echo.
MINE.
24
WITHIN
Piotr stood in the muddy garden, heavy boots spattered black, eyes upturned to the clouds. He chewed his bone pipe, occasionally casting mournful looks into the empty honeyweed pouch inside his jacket. Face woven of scar tissue. Skin like a corpse.
The rains had ceased, but a freezing squall filled the skies, moaning amidst the rafters. Hana watched him for moments without count, burning curiosity finally bidding her speak.
“Piotr-san.”
The gaijin met her gaze with those eyes of ice-blue and blind-white, instantly turning them to the floor. He stepped back, gave her a confused bow, one hand on his heart.
“Zryachniye,” he murmured.
She stepped down into the garden, leaves and trees smeared with black rain. The glass-sharp stink of faint toxicity cut the air, a soft sear tickling her throat. Walking across the muddy ground to stand before him, she noted the way he refused to meet her gaze.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
“Is what for her talking?”
“My eye. I need to know what it means.”
A shrug. “Is meaning for she Zryachniye.”
“But what does that mean?”
“She sees.” He pointed to the sky. To his chest. To the earth. “She sees.”
“See what?”
“Cannot be saying. No one be knowing until she is for the waking.”
She frowned. “But I’m not asleep…”
“She is.” A smile deepened the scars on his cheeks. “She is sleeping, pretty girl. Eye still closed.”
“All right, so wake me up then.”
“Me?” The gaijin glanced up momentarily, something close to fear in that blue-blind gaze. “No, not for me to be the waking. She must stay for the white. Must be keeping for the self. Not me for her touching to be, no. Could not. Would never.”
Hana slumped down on a stone bench, clutching the hair at her temples. “Izanagi’s balls, I don’t know what the hells you’re saying…”
“Other Zryachniye.” Piotr knelt beside her in the muck, hand outstretched as if seeking permission to touch her. When she didn’t object, he held her fingertips, gentle as a child. “They wake you. They know. The others make she for seeing.”
“Others like me?”
“Like her.” Piotr dropped her hand as if it burned him. “They show. They know.”
“But there are no others like me.”
“The Imperatritsa, she Zryachniye. Many like pretty girl. And here.” The gaijin pointed east. “Coming here. Army would not making for war without them. They see. See for the many big things. See for the victory.”
“There are Zryachniye with the gaijin forces in Shima?”
“Must be.” A nod. “Must. Sister Katya, at least. Maybe for more.”
Hana licked her lips, reached beneath her collar to the leather thong hanging around her neck. The golden amulet her mother had given her years ago, set with the tiny stag and its crescent-shaped horns. Piotr’s eyes widened as she pulled it out.
“Do you know what this means?”
“Where is she finding for this?”
“My mother gave it to me. My tenth birthday.”
Piotr stared, pity gleaming in the sapphire depths of his eye.
“She Mostovoi.” A nod, slow and heavy. “Your mother. She Mostovoi.”
“What is that?”
“Mostovoi is first house to meet Shima. Twenty years past. City of Mriss. Great city, where your family live. But gone.” A sigh. “All gone.”
“They took her as a slave.” The words tasted awful in her mouth, black and sharp and metallic. “Gave her to my father for saving the life of some samurai lord. He kept her. Hid her.” Memories coming in a barrage: her mother dead on the floor, her father beside her. The truth of what she was and how she’d come to be came down like a hammerblow. “Raped her.”
Her mother had never spoken of herself or her past. Never once in all those years. Maybe it hurt too much to remember. Maybe she was ashamed of what she’d become. Of the half-breed babies she’d been forced to bring into this hellhole.
Of us …
But that was self-pity speaking. Their mother had loved Yoshi. Loved her too. Why would she have given Hana this amulet, if not to instill some pride in what she was? If not to speak a truth words couldn’t shape? Too painful to voice?
“We deserve it, Piotr.” She scowled at the black mud under her feet. “Your people coming here. Killing and burning. Gods, part of me hopes they annihilate us.”
“Not her, no.” Piotr seemed genuinely appalled. He glanced at her hair, the blond roots clearly showing under the cuttlefish dye. “Kill for the Goddess-touched? No. Great shame. Black omens. Would never touch Zryachniye for the killing. Never.”