At the end of the hall they found an empty doorway, spitting a flight of stairs down into a gloom-soaked room. Yukiko stood on the landing, candle held high, feeble light trickling into a stubborn dark. Down the twisting stairs, she could see a vast chamber, lined with row upon row of dusty shelves. Buruu loomed behind, too big to fit through the narrow space, growling his displeasure, his nostrils filled with the pungent reek of old decay.
Bracing herself, she opened the Kenning again, reached for the thunder tiger’s mind. His warmth was sullen, distant, as if oppressed by the deafening silence around them. She could feel nothing but the two of them—no rats, mice, birds. Not a single spark of life. After weeks inundated in the Iishi, the hush should have been a blessing. Instead it planted the seeds of a slow dread in her belly, cold and deep, spreading through her insides with slick tendrils.
It looks like … a library.
YOU INTEND TO GO DOWN THERE?
If there are answers in this place, I’m guessing that’s where we’ll find them.
IT STINKS OF DEATH. THIS IS AN ASTONISHINGLY BAD IDEA.
This place has been deserted for decades, Buruu.
I WISH I HAD EYEBROWS, SO I COULD SCOWL AT YOU.
I can’t sense anything. There’s nobody here.
I WISH I HAD HANDS, SO I COULD WRITE A HISTORY OF YOUR EXPLOITS AND NAME THIS CHAPTER “THE WORST IDEA SHE EVER HAD.”
Gods, so just blast the wall with Raijin Song and come with me, then.
THE WALL IS SOLID GRANITE. WE WOULD HAVE BETTER LUCK KNOCKING HOLES IN IT WITH YOUR THICK HEAD.
Maybe you could just sarcasm it to death?
Buruu growled, fell into a moody silence. She could sense the worry in him, the affection clothed in sullen, sulky aggression. But beneath that, the pain was blooming again, the lubdub of her pulse like tiny hammer blows in the back of her head. Another surge was building, another squeal of psychic static to paint her lips crimson and make her ears bleed. She was tired of it. Tired of not knowing why.
I’ll be back soon, brother. Wait for me here.
Buruu sighed from the tip of his tail.
ALWAYS.
She turned and crept down the stairwell, the stone slick beneath her split-toed boots. Lantern light flickered on granite walls, diminishing the farther she descended. The temperature was chill, a faint smell of oil overlaid with subtle decay. Soft thunder rolled through the tiles overhead, long shadows dancing amongst tall rafters.
The shelves stood ten feet high, crisscrossing planks forming diamond-shaped partitions. Her heart beat faster as she saw the alcoves were piled with scrolls—hundreds upon hundreds, stacked one atop another, running the length of the room.
Daichi said these monks tattooed their secrets on their flesh.
YOU ARE WONDERING WHY THEY KEPT A LIBRARY.
You’re amazing. It’s like you can read my mind.
Buruu’s amusement echoed in the Kenning like a tiny earthquake, setting her temples throbbing. Approaching the first shelf, Yukiko set her lantern down, picked a scroll at random. The paper was greasy under her fingertips, a thick, heavy vellum that felt almost … moist.
Unfurling the scroll, she held it out in the guttering light. Browned with age, edges slightly uneven. She could see kanji inked on the surface, tiny verses she realized were haiku. Flicking her hair aside, eyes scanning the page, budding amazement coming to full bloom.
Gods, Buruu, this is labeled as Tora Tsunedo’s work …
WHO?
He was a poet in Emperor Hirose’s court. Four, maybe five centuries ago. He was put to death by the imperial magistrates, all copies of his work supposedly burned.
POETRY SO AWFUL HE WAS KILLED FOR IT. IMPRESSIVE.
They actually put him to death for “licentiousness.” Listen: She brought the scroll closer, squinted at it in the guttering dark.
Between your petals,
Awaits silken paradise,
Your love unfurls oh, Izanagi’s BALLS …
Yukiko dropped the scroll to the floor, wiping her hand on her trouser leg. Face twisted in revulsion, mouth dry, she looked around the shelves in growing horror.
“YOUR LOVE UNFURLS OH, IZANAGI’S BALLS.” YES. I CAN SEE WHY THEY MURDERED HIM.
Oh my gods …
I TRUST IT WAS A PAINFUL DEATH?
Buruu, it’s a nipple.
The thunder tiger poked his head through the doorway above and blinked.
YOU MAY NEED TO REPEAT THAT.
On the scroll. The scroll has a godsdamned nipple, Buruu. This isn’t paper, it’s skin.
She backed away from the shelf, one trembling hand to her mouth.
All of this is human skin.
RAIJIN’S DRUMS …
“Hello, young miss.”
Yukiko whirled, hand on Yofun’s hilt as thunder crashed again. Buruu roared, hackles rippling down his spine, wings crackling with electricity. Lightning streaked across the sky, brilliant blue-white illuminating the gloom, and in the brief flash, she caught sight of a figure standing in the shadow of the stairs.
“Peace, young miss.” The figure raised its hands. “You have no need of steel here.”
Yukiko refrained from drawing the blade but kept her grip on the katana’s hilt, squinting in the gloom gathered after the lightning flare. The figure stood a little taller than she, wrapped in a simple monk’s robe of faded blue. A deep cowl hid its face, but the stature and voice were definitely male.
“Who are you?” she demanded.