“There is a place, and a time, for all endings to begin. If not here, then where? If not now, then when?”
Yukiko gasped, short of breath, spit hissing from between her teeth. Blinking. Blinded. She clutched Daichi’s collar as the world rolled beneath her feet, knuckles clenched white in the cloth and on the handle of her knife.
“Promise me.”
HE HAS TAKEN FROM YOU.
She blinked the tears from her eyes.
I . . .
HE BEGS FOR IT, YET YOU FALTER.
Buruu glared from the darkness, eyes of polished glass. She felt his rage swelling inside her, a black cloud of frustrated bloodlust and hate. She struggled to push it away, to find some kind of clarity, a moment’s silence to seize on the thought that held her back.
KILL HIM.
The tantō was as heavy as lead in her palm. She looked down at the blade, remembered the glint of steel falling between the raindrops. The sound of tearing paper. Severed feathers on the Thunder Child’s deck. Kaori’s sobbing drowned out the rumble of the storm above her. Yukiko glanced at the woman, head pressed into the boards, shoulders heaving.
“Mercy,” she whispered.
My father . . .
WHAT?
She could feel her pulse pounding behind her eyes. Cold sweat on her palms. When he took your wings, did you hate him, or the nagamaki in his hands?
The arashitora fell still, a cold sliver of logic breaking through the animal rage.
THAT IS NOT . . .
Did you hate the weapon, Buruu? Or did you hate the hand that wielded it?
Yukiko tightened her grip on Daichi’s collar, face twisting, a single tear spilling down her cheek. The world was too loud, the firelight too bright, reflected in cold folded steel and painted blood-red.
The old man grabbed her wrist and squeezed, stared hard into her eyes.
“Promise me!”
The words spilled from her lips. Reluctant. Metallic.
“. . . I promise.”
The knife fell from her grip, plunged point-first into the wood between Daichi’s legs. Blood ran down the patterned blade, pooling around the razored edge and soaking into the grain. She loosened her grip on the old man’s collar, shoved him backward, breath spilling over trembling lips. Her hands were shaking, mouth dry, chest heaving. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.
Daichi lay sprawled where she had pushed him, looking up at her with something close to bewilderment in his eyes. He touched the wound at his throat, the thin line of red that welled and spilled down his chest. Deep enough to remember her by. But not deep enough to end him.
“Why?”
YES. WHY?
“Yoritomo.” Yukiko curled her hands into fists to stop them trembling. “He is the one. He ordered you to kill her. And if you had refused, you would be dead, and the Shōgun would have just commanded someone else to do his bidding. You’re just a tool. A weapon. And a broken one at that.”
Kaori crawled across the floor, threw her arms around her father’s neck. Yukiko couldn’t read the old man’s expression through the tears in her eyes. Relief? Disappointment?
“You deserve it for all you’ve done.” Yukiko looked from father to daughter. “But she doesn’t deserve to see it. And in truth, Daichi-sama, your death won’t avenge my mother.” Her voice cracked, almost broke. “You’re the one who took her life, but you’re not the one who murdered her.”
. . . YORITOMO.
Yes.
HE IS THE HAND.
Yes.
Yukiko stooped and retrieved her tantō from the small puddle of cooling blood. Thunder crashed in the skies above her head, a rumble that shifted the world beneath her feet and settled in her bones. She slid the blade into the scabbard at her back and wiped the tears from her eyes.
It’s time someone cut it off.
Blood
We who yet remain;
Clans born of water, fire, mountain and blue sky,
We with beating hearts, cursed by dread Izanami; hater of all
life, To the Maker God, to Bright Moon and Lady Sun, our voices are raised,
To the God of Storms, to any who hear, we pray;
Great Heavens, save us.
The Book of Ten Thousand Days
24 Brethren