“No,” he muttered. “I must fight. I must tell . . . someone.”
Bolstered by the sound of his own voice, Ryo rocked onto his hands and knees. He began to crawl across the tile floor, blindly feeling ahead of him and struggling over fallen bodies. Tears clogged his throat with every movement.
He wanted to rest. He wanted freedom from this pain and the horrible memories.
He also wanted the truth to be told – and if he didn't, who would?
Spurred on by his determination, he forced himself onward. Over bodies.
He thought of his sister Reiko. She must be safe, and she would care for him.
Ryo pushed through the puddles of blood until a flicker of light caught his gaze. He reached up, his hand brushing wood.
Doors. The doors.
Mustering all of his strength, he swatted blindly for the handles and grabbed onto one. He pulled himself to his feet. His stomach clenched in pain. Blood gushed out of his side, trickled down his thigh.
He forced strength into his legs, willing them to bear his weight. Sweaty and disoriented, he leaned against the door, resting his forehead on it until the sensations passed.
Once he could draw a shallow breath, he pulled the door open a sliver.
No one was in the hall.
Ryo slipped out of the throne room, and rushed down the hall to a set of floor-length curtains. He hid himself within them, leaning his head back and groaning silently.
His wound throbbed. He bent his right arm, and applied pressure to it with his hand to ebb the flowing of his blood.
Once he was completely certain no one was moving through the hall, Ryo drew in another painful breath and slipped out of the curtains. The hall lay empty, so he moved as fast as he dared to the very end, slipping into an abandoned room filled with brooms and wooden buckets. Here he paused, waiting a full five minutes to gain strength.
“Reiko,” he whispered, picturing her lovely face in the little house she had inherited from their parents. There lay safety. “Reiko.”
One painful moment at a time, Ryo made his way through the palace. One time the presence of a servant took him by surprise, but she was so occupied with staring at her bloody hands that she failed to notice him as she passed.
Near the back hall, he passed Lim, a young recruit who had just entered the military academy, on the floor. Ryo had been a mentor to him, and he felt like he had been punched in the gut when he spied Lim’s still face. He kept moving past, ignoring Lim and his dead body, and ignoring, deliberately, all the other faces of the people he knew.
And he knew so many of them, and all of them were dead….
By the time Ryo made it to a side exit and lurched forward into the courtyard, his entire body trembled all the way to his bones. He wanted to vomit, but he didn't have the strength.
He sat down behind a tall bush to catch his breath. The metallic smell of copper permeated the air here as well. Through the branches, he could make out another dead body, eyes glassy and staring right at him.
The man’s face appeared just like the Emperor’s had when Azuma crouched down next to Saemon and said, "The mighty Emperor has fallen."
With a shudder, Ryo kept moving.
He was the holder of the truth. He alone knew what Azuma and the Nari clan were...He had to keep going.
The city was dark and full of shadows, with the blackness occasionally interrupted by the flames of fires within collapsed buildings. He tried to avoid the bodies in the streets as he clung to the shadows, but was not always successful.
Every step away from the castle made his situation a little more real. He recalled more memories…Battle scenes. Azuma speaking after the bloodbath was over—lying again and again to those listening.
Within the hour, he stumbled into the Artisan District. There, in the distance, on the right of the road, Ryo spotted his salvation.
Reiko’s tiny house.
A cry on his lips, he staggered forward, down the cobblestone road. Blood gushed from his wound when he pushed through the fence encasing the house and banged on the door.
“Reiko!” he called out in a raspy voice. “Reiko!” But he couldn’t hold himself upright any longer, and collapsed in a heap on the front porch.
The door opened, revealing a woman with a sweet face and gentle eyes. “Ryo!” Reiko gasped. With a cry, she grabbed his left arm, and tried to tug him inside. “Help me, Ryo! Help me!! I can’t pull you.”
“C-can’t. Can’t move.”
“You’re bleeding!”
“My side. It’s . . . my side.”
Finally, Reiko managed to pull him into her house. She threw the door closed and dropped to his side, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Ryo! What happened?”
“A-attack.”
She glanced at his side, her eyes widening. “Hold on. Let me get something to stop that blood.”
As his sister darted off, Ryo closed his eyes, allowing his head to slump to the side. A deep fatigue overtook him. He wanted to sleep. Oh, how he longed to close his eyes and fall into that reassuring rest . . .
But no.
“Nari,” he whispered, sputtering. He coughed, sending spasms through his side.
Reiko hovered over him. “What?”
“The Nari. They’re traitors. Call . . . call Gombe.”
Darkness filled his eyes, and Ryo accepted it with gladness.
Isao
The blood-red moon illuminated Isao's path as he and Khalem pushed their horses, into a gallop, hard and fast and parallel to the highway.
Celty still clung to Isao, and he was glad for the cover of darkness, grateful she wouldn’t see his blush or feel the strange thrumming of his heart with her so near.
He’d never been so close to a woman. Never had one been allowed to touch him, and certainly not so intimately.
Being near her warm body, even though it was one belonging to a total stranger, made the tension slowly ease out of him. Despite the rampant thud of the horse’s hooves, Isao could have sworn he felt the beats of Celty’s heart.
Isao kept his gaze trained ahead, picking the best route for his horse and attempting not to be aware of the girl holding onto his back. He thought of his father, and the burning of their city. He wondered when they would bring the horses to a stop.
He only looked back once – to see the distant blaze on the horizon – before turning back around.
Khalem never looked back once, but that was how Khalem worked: Always onward. Never looking back. Never helping those who could prove to be a dangerous distraction.
No, Isao thought, shaking his head, Celty was trustworthy. He could feel it. She hadn’t invited herself. Hadn’t even wanted to come, in fact. And had almost died.
They rode hard for another twenty minutes, and the horses began to tire.
“Khalem!” Isao cried finally. “We need to stop!”
“Not yet, my young Sheng. They may have tracked us. They could be following. We need to head south, and find a safe place to stop,” the General called over his shoulder, lifting one hand in a gesture. “There is nothing here.”
“The horses are tiring.”
Khalem hesitated, then loosened the reins, allowing his horse to slow into a loose canter. Isao did the same.
The animal’s deep breaths ceased, and the froth in their mouths diminished, despite the still rapid clip.
Another fifteen minutes passed. For the first time that night, Khalem glanced back. Seeming satisfied by what he did, or did not, see, he pulled on the reins.
The horses slowed to a trot. Khalem leaned forward, murmuring under his breath as he patted his horse’s flank. Both steeds slowed to a walk.
“When do we turn back around?” Isao asked. “How long do we have to wait? If we go any farther, we’ll never be able to go back and help.”
“There is no going back, Isao.”
Rage coursed through the prince’s veins. No going back? They were just supposed to let his father, and all of the castle, DIE at the hands of traitors? That couldn't be their plan.
"What?" he snapped. "What do you mean, ‘we aren't going back?’"
"We are not going back."
"I would never have come if I knew that!"