You wore the scrutiny of the court as a cloak, and it only suited your proud beauty.
“Uncle,” you said, “my husband is the man who can best me in combat. When you first tried to marry me off at thirteen, that is what I told you. I say it again now before two hundred witnesses. You cannot force a phoenix to wear a falcon’s hood.”
I’ve seen this moment rendered in ink, in wood, in stone, in paint. Artists are fond of drawing a phoenix landing on your shoulder as you speak. The closest I’ve come to seeing myself in these illustrations is one woodcut from the point of view of someone near the ground. It is not quite my vantage point, but it has all the important things. You, mainly.
I bought it.
You know what happened after you spoke. Everyone in the room lost eight years of their life from shock. The Emperor’s youngest wife, the one with the green eyes, smiled like an enlightened priestess.
“If you insist on living your life by the sword, then so be it,” he said. “The tournament begins now. Your first true opponent is Uemura Kaito, as worthy a man as we have ever met. Take your places and begin.”
You clenched your jaw. Uemura turned toward the Emperor and said something in a quiet voice. Whatever it was, it did not change the outcome.
At last, those of us of lower standing were permitted to rise. I took my place on your side of the arena as you took yours in the center. You and Uemura exchanged bows, but not words. Before you assumed your stance, you searched for me in the crowd.
I held up my right hand.
You touched your palm in return.
Then the duel began. Uemura’s blade was chased in gold and emeralds. It glittered when he drew it. The sword, coupled with his ornate armor, made him look like the legendary General Iseri.
“O-Shizuka-shon,” he said. “It is an honor to face you.”
You did not wait for niceties. Bare feet against the ground—you moved like wind through grass, like a courtier’s cutting remark. Uemura parried your thrust with uncanny speed. While you were off center, he lashed out with a slash up your front.
And I have known you to do ridiculous things, Shizuka, but before that day, I’d never seen you parry with the palm of your off hand. Swatted, really, “swatted” is the word—as if tempered steel amounted to little more than a mosquito bite. Uemura’s brows rose in shock. He staggered backwards and tried to regain his stance. By then, you had enough room to thrust again. Uemura kept backing away, and you kept advancing. Strike after strike, clash after clash. Your swords rang like sharp bells.
“Her mother must be proud of her.”
That wasn’t Kenshiro’s voice.
When I looked to the source, I saw my father. Oshiro Yuichi, bald, with a delicate gray beard, stood chin height next to me.
“O-Shizuru would’ve finished this in one stroke,” he said, “yet I do think she’d be proud.”
What was I to say? Why? Why was he here? Did he think I languished without attention from him? A child does not need a father; a child needs parents. My uncles, my cousins, your father—they raised me far more than Yuichi did.
I focused on the fight. For now, Uemura kept up with you. Parry, block, step away. For now.
But you were relentless. Just watching you made my shoulders and arms burn. Stroke after stroke! How you kept it going, I do not know; you do not have my affliction and the stamina it imparts. Uemura’s arms shook every time he parried.
“Is your mother proud of you, Daughter?”
I twitched. He had no place asking me that.
“Father, have you nothing else to say to Shefali?” Kenshiro said. He had no right to join this conversation, either. The two of them put together made me want to run—but you needed me here, you needed me watching.
“I have no words of tenderness for barbarians, Kenshiro,” Yuichi said.
Grab his throat. No, don’t. He’s my father. I cannot just grab his throat and squeeze and squeeze until he turns blue, until his eyes pop, until his tongue lolls out of his—
“My mother is not a barbarian,” Kenshiro said. “Father, if you must say things like that, don’t say them in front of us.”
As if there were an “us.” Kenshiro was always my father’s favorite. My existence was an inconvenience to Yuichi at best.
I bit into my fingers to keep from biting into him. Focus on the fight. Ignore him. For years, I’ve ignored him; that moment was no different. Let him and Kenshiro bicker. I needed to know you were all right.
And you were.
You were, in fact, about to make the final stroke. Uemura slapped at your slash in a halfhearted attempt to parry, but it wasn’t enough. Your next thrust pierced his chin. Dark red dripped onto shining gold. Uemura tried to hold in his own blood; rubies dropping through his fingers.
Despite myself, I took in the scent. Salt and copper, metal and flesh. The things people are made of.
You held out your hand. I tossed you a rag to clean your sword with; in one swift wipe, you finished and dropped it to the ground.
“Uemura-zun,” you said, “I will not be marrying you today.”
He had one hand on his wound as he bowed to you. “No,” he said. “You will not.”
More blood fell when he spoke. Drip, drip, drip.
A surgeon hurried toward him with tools in tow. With another bow, he departed.
Hokkarans do not believe in applause. It is too open a display of emotion. Here in Sur-Shar, it is different. Complete strangers embrace as lifelong friends. Before you can conduct business with someone, you must have tea with them.
I have had so much tea, Shizuka, and I hate every cup. Leaves in water. How foolish. Why waste water? I can’t taste it, and still they insist …
I lose myself.
Hokkarans do not applaud, but as Uemura stepped away, I heard clapping.
And, indeed, when you turned toward me, you wore a wide grin.
“Oshiro-tur,” you said as you approached. “It’s been some time since I saw you last. Your daughter has grown into a demonslayer, you know.”
My father bowed at the shoulders. “Is that so?” he said. “Is that so.”
That was all.
“O-Shizuka-shon,” said Kenshiro. “That was beautifully done! I’m certain I’ll see prints of it before long.”
You ignored this. No—you did not just ignore it. You turned away from him and did not dignify him with a greeting.
Your eyes flickered over to mine. We did not need words. We did not need to touch. Just catching your eyes was enough. With a glance, you caressed my cheek; with a look, you pressed your lips to mine.
So the terror on your face was clear the second that man opened his mouth.
“Shizuka-shan.”