“You should sleep. Tomorrow will be a hard day.” Daichi groped for the words. “Watching your father put to the pyre…”
“What makes you believe I’ll watch?”
The old man blinked. “Yukiko, you should attend his funeral. You should say good-bye.”
“It took us five days to fly here from Kigen. Do you know what this heat does to a body after five days, Daichi-sama?”
“I have a notion.”
“Then you know what you burn tomorrow is not my father.”
Daichi sighed. “Yukiko, go and sleep, I beg you.”
“I’m not tired.”
The old man folded his arms, his voice as hard as the steel gleaming on the embers.
“I will not do this.”
“After all I’ve done for you. After all you took from me.”
She’d glanced up then, and her expression had made the old man flinch.
“You owe me, Daichi.”
The Kagé leader had hung his head. Breathing deep, he coughed, once, twice, wincing as he swallowed. She could see it in his eyes as he stared at the callused hands in his lap. The blood that would never wash away. The stain of the child forever unborn. The mark of the mother who would never again hold her daughter in her arms. Her mother.
He spoke as if the word was bile in his mouth.
“… Hai.”
Daichi had picked up the jug of red saké beside him, rose like a man on his way to the executioner. Kneeling beside her, he retrieved the tantō from the flames.
Yukiko hadn’t looked up from the fire. She loosened the sash at her waist, shrugged her uwagi tunic off her shoulders, covering her breasts with her palms. Her irezumi gleamed in the firelight; the beautiful nine-tailed fox tattooed upon her right shoulder to mark her clan, the imperial sun across her left marking her as the Shōgun’s servant. She’d tossed her head, flicked her hair away from Yoritomo’s mark. A few stray strands still clung to damp flesh.
As he held the knife up, the air between them had rippled.
“Are you certain?”
“No lord.” She swallowed. “No master.”
He placed the saké jug on the floor between them.
“Do you want something to—”
“Daichi. Just do it.”
The old man had breathed deep, and without another word pressed the tantō to the ink.
Every muscle in her body seized tight as the blade touched her skin. The air was filled with the spittle-hiss of fresh fish upon a skillet, the sizzling tang of blackening meat and salt overpowering the scent of burning cedar. A long moan shuddered over her teeth and she closed her eyes, fighting the scream seething in her chest. She could smell herself burning.
Searing.
Charring.
She’d reached out with her mind, to the flood of warmth waiting just outside the door. Feather and fur and talons, wide amber eyes, his growl shaking the floorboards beneath him. The thunder tiger she’d found amidst storm-torn clouds, and now loved more dearly than anything beneath the sky.
Buruu …
YUKIKO.
Gods, it hurts, brother …
HOLD ON TO ME.
She’d clung to his thoughts; a mountain of cool stone amidst a flaming sea. Daichi peeled the steel from her shoulder, bringing ashen layers of tattooed skin with it. The blade that had killed her lover, Hiro. The blade that had been in her hands as she ended Shōgun Yoritomo, as the shot rang out and took her father away. Five days and a thousand years ago. She’d gasped as the agony receded to a dull ebb, and for a second, the urge to turn to Daichi and beg him to stop was almost overpowering. But she set her back against the thunder tiger’s strength, forced it down, far easier to swallow than the thought of that bastard’s mark still inked on her skin.
Anything was better than that.
She looked at the saké bottle on the floor beside her. Buruu’s thoughts washed over her like a summer breeze.
YOU HAVE BEEN STRONG ENOUGH FOR ONE DAY, SISTER.
Reaching for the bottle with trembling fingers, she gulped a mouthful of liquid fire, cooler than the steel in Daichi’s hand. The liquor rushed down her throat, burning her tongue, promising a return to the oblivion she’d been so eager to escape just moments before. The choice between agony and emptiness. Between living or existing.
It had been no choice at all on a night that dark.
“Do you want me to stop?” Daichi had asked.
She’d swallowed another mouthful, blinking back her tears.
“Get it off me,” she whispered. “Take all of it away.”
*
Yukiko closed her eyes, bloodshot and throbbing in their sockets.
The ground was a blur beneath them, falling leaves filling the spaces between each beat of Buruu’s wings. The air had the vaguest hint of chill, autumn’s pallid touch creeping through the Iishi wilds. The towering trees around them were fading; a subtle shift from gowns of dazzling emerald to a brief and brittle lime, their hems beginning to curl and rust.