The messenger stood and left.
You pried open the scroll. Next to you, I leaned in and squinted at the paper. Strokes wiggled in my vision, moving from one character to another. The more I looked, the more I got a headache.
But you blazed through it, and when you were done, you threw it clean across the room. The scroll crashed against a lacquer screen. Both clattered to the ground.
“Lady of Ink!” Kenshiro said.
“Shizuka, what’s wrong?”
You covered your face with your hands. I tried to hold you, but you collapsed toward your own knees.
“My uncle,” you seethed, “thinks he can rule me.”
“Is he recalling you to the palace?” Kenshiro asked. “You are nearly grown; your birthday is in two months, is it not? You can stay—”
“If it were that pedestrian, then I would not be so upset,” you snapped. You drew in a deep breath and pressed your fingertips to your temples. A storm swirled behind your eyes. “My uncle has made an Imperial Declaration: Any man who bests me in a duel is entitled to my hand in marriage.”
Six months, I’d avoided the bitter rage of my illness. Six months, I’d gone without thinking of killing anyone.
But the snarl that left my lips then was inhuman. You, Kenshiro, and Baozhai all paled to hear it. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth so tight; trails of drool left the corners of my mouth.
You touched my wrist. “Shefali,” you whispered, “no one will beat me. Please, do not worry.”
I smelled the deceit as it left your mouth, but I knew you were only trying to keep me in my own mind. I thought again of the still pool of water.
“Lady of Ink, I am sorry,” Kenshiro said. “I … this is my fault.”
All at once, we turned toward him. Alarm bells rang in my mind: He will lie he will lie he will lie.
“What do you mean?” you said. Your voice cracked. “Kenshiro-lun, what do you mean this is your fault?”
Kenshiro sniffled. His shoulders slumped, and the whites of his eyes went damp and red. Despite his great height, he shrank to a child. Baozhai reached for his wrist, but he shook his head.
“The Son of Heaven sent me word that he was coming,” he said.
“What?” you said. “You knew?”
He will lie.
Kenshiro fell to his knees before you, forehead to the ground. “He said that if I did not keep you here, he would take my and Baozhai’s titles. I’m sorry, Shizuka-lun—”
“Don’t you ‘lun’ me,” you snapped. “How dare you? You knew he was coming, and you didn’t warn me?”
The veins at your temple throbbed, as did the one by the base of your throat. I saw them, I smelled your rage, your fury.
I heard the voices laughing in my head. You see now, Steel-Eye?
“I didn’t want Baozhai to lose her ancestral palace—”
“You did not consult me,” said Baozhai. “Kenshiro, we could have found something to do.…”
My brother stayed there, his forehead against the ground. His big hands shook. I smelled the salt of tears coming off him, but …
I could not help how furious I was. He knew. My brother knew this was going to happen, and he lied to us, he lied to us—
“This is not beyond saving, Lady,” said Baozhai. “My husband’s indiscretion aside. You have enough time to leave.”
You shook your head, exasperated, furious. “Then you’d lose your title for certain,” you hissed. “I know how important that is to your husband.”
“I didn’t know he was going to try to marry you off,” Kenshiro said, but no one was listening to him. Even Baozhai wore anger and shock. “I didn’t realize.”
So he was a storied scholar, but he could not realize your uncle’s intent? When had Yoshimoto ever tried to do anything good? Of course he meant to marry you away from his throne. Gods, how it hurt to think of. Qorin are nothing without our families—but my mother had disowned me, and now my brother sold us out to the Emperor.
“Lady Barsalyya,” Baozhai said. “Your, ah, your jaw…”
It was unhinged again. I snapped it back into place. With every blink, I saw my brother’s and sister’s and your dying forms. The laughing started up again.
“Steel-Eye, Steel-Eye, you’re going to lose her soon! Steel-Eye, Steel-Eye, marching toward your doom!”
Children chanting with decayed tongues danced in circles around you. Do not look at them, do not look at them, they are not real. The more you look at them, the more they revel in the attention, the more they grow, the stronger they get.
I pressed my palms into my eyes.
“Is there any way out of it?” Baozhai asked. “Could you not declare your intentions for a particular man, one you trust?”
“The only courtiers I ever trusted,” you said, “have been dead for almost six years. Whom would I marry? Uemura-zul? He ordered surgeons to cut Shefali open. Ikkimura-zul, Aiko-zul, Toji-zul? None of the Cardinal Generals are worthy of me. And do not get me started on that dog, Nozawa.”
You got to your feet.
“There is nothing to be done,” you said, “except to beat every single man with a sword who enters your doors tomorrow.”
“Lady of Ink,” Kenshiro said, still on the ground, “you must believe me—”
“I believe you’ve made the most foolish decision of your life, Oshiro Kenshiro. I believe I am furious with you, and I believe that I will not speak to you until I am ready to do so. Leave my presence. Baozhai, you may stay.”
Your tone—Shizuka, it was as if you spoke to a demon and not a man, not a man you’d known most of your life. When Kenshiro slunk away like a kicked dog, you watched him go without a word.
I ached. Gods, how I ached. What should I do? Go after him, when he’d betrayed us? Stay with you?
I squeezed my eyes shut. I would stay. You were the only family I had left.
“Lady of Ink,” said Baozhai. “I cannot begin to apologize enough. He never consulted me—”
“I know,” you said. “You wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”
Baozhai half-bowed to you again. In half a year at the palace, I’d never seen her so distressed. “If you need anything at all, I will provide it. There are ways out of the palace, ways only the Royal Family knows of, that I would be happy to show you.”
You slunk backwards. Your jaw was tense and your temple throbbed every few heartbeats; I could see the headache brewing already.
“I cannot spend my life running away,” you said. “This day … It was always going to come, one way or another.”
You dragged yourself to the writing desk. As stressed as you were, the lines on your face smoothed when you held a brush in hand. Ink met paper. You wrote off something short, only a few characters in length, and sealed it.
“Two days to prepare for an Imperial visit,” you said. Writing soothed you—your tone was more wry than furious. “Any lord in the Empire would pale at such a prospect.”