Buruu tossed his head, narrowed his eyes.
I CAN FEEL YOU, OLD MAN. POKING AROUND INSIDE MY MIND.
Yes.
YOU CUT ME. YOU TOOK MY WINGS.
I am sorry.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
There are things I would say. But the wound . . .
AND WHY WOULD I HELP YOU? AFTER WHAT YOU DID TO ME? Because you love her too.
The sky around them was red as blood, dimming to black where the clouds reached down from the north. They flew toward the roiling storm; the great beast, the dying man and the weeping girl. And with a slow nod of his head, the arashitora closed his eyes, took hold of the man’s fading thoughts and cupped them in his talons, carried them across the vast, empty gulf to the girl’s waiting mind.
YUKIKO.
. . . Father? How?
THE KENNING WAS MINE BEFORE IT WAS YOURS.
You helped me. I felt you.
ARE YOU SAFE? IS IT OVER?
We’re safe, can’t you see? We’re flying, father. We’re flying.
I . . . I CAN’T LIFT MY HEAD.
She squeezed his hand, blinked away her tears.
Then use our eyes.
His lashes fluttered against his bloody cheeks. The island stretched out below them, swathes of brown and green, a swaying ocean of red blooms. The mountains loomed in the distance beyond the autumn storm, the dark shadow of the Iishi, shrouded in rolling mist. They could see the lightning, feel the wind on their skin. The hands of the tempest held them tight, ozone and thunder, willing them home.
I SEE, ICHIGO.
It’s all so beautiful from up here.
IT IS.
Blood dripped from his fingertips, falling through the sky like soft rain. The song of thunder rolled around them. He thought of Naomi singing by the fireside, Satoru beside her. He thought of Kasumi stalking through long grass, wind playing in her hair. He pushed the pictures into her mind.
THEY ARE WAITING FOR ME.
No.
I LOVE YOU, YUKIKO.
No. Don’t you dare say your goodbyes to me.
She shook her head, willing the darkness gone, flaring in his mind with stubborn, warm light. A scream welled up inside and spilled over her limits, a long wavering note of grief echoed by Buruu, the pair roaring in defiance together as if they could frighten the end away.
Stay with us.
I CAN’T.
Don’t leave us alone.
LET ME GO.
No. All this is for nothing if you’re gone.
THEN MAKE IT FOR SOMETHING.
Masaru closed his eyes, felt the wind on his face, the bleeding land rushing away beneath him, a final peal of thunder drifting off into blessed silence.
He smiled.
SOMETHING GREATER.
Epilogue
Sumiko prayed. The pro cession wound its path down the Palace Way, a snaking line of beggar monks clad in death-white, shaved heads bowed low to the earth. Each held a funeral candle between outstretched fingers, flames guttering in the dawn light, a sluggish sun rearing its head over the black waters of Kigen Bay.
Forty-nine days since the Seii Taishōgun’s death. Forty-nine monks to pray for his rebirth after forty-nine nights in the courts of Enma-ō. Tradition held that the souls of the dead were reborn in the Hour of the Phoenix, as daylight banished the deep of night. And so they marched toward sunrise to the beat of somber drums, the air thick with incense and mournful song, pretending it would make a difference. A throng had gathered to watch the pro cession, Sumiko among them, just one more beggar girl amidst the mob. Each spectator whispered their own prayers and hid their own thoughts and wondered what would come next.
The war with the gaijin was forgotten. The zaibatsu were poised to war with each other. Tiger and Phoenix, Dragon and Fox, all scrabbling for Shima’s empty throne. The chapterhouses buzzed like hornets’ nests kicked from their trees. The Guildsmen urged calm, watching as their creations were amassed across smoking fields of dead earth, poised to destroy each other.
Dangerous thoughts bloomed in Sumiko’s head; thoughts that had taken root these past few weeks and refused to let her rest. Thoughts that there must be a better way than this.
At midnight they would gather around the alms house radio, she and her friends, listening to the pirate broadcasts and wondering if the words they heard were true. The crackling, metallic voice spilling from the speakers at weeksend spoke of their enslavement to chi, to the men who controlled it. It said that the Guild had liquefied gaijin prisoners of war to make the inochi. That the very fuel on which their Empire had been built was made with blood; razored gears and metal teeth lubricated with the lives of innocent people. And though the Communications Ministry scoffed at the claim, none could help but notice how rapidly inochi supplies had dwindled once Shima’s armies retreated from the fronts. How the price of the fertilizer had skyocketed once the slave fleets began flying home with growling, empty bellies.
Could it be true? Were we so blind? People whispered in the long midnight hours, asking the same question, over and over.