A voice like cracking bones. A smell, familiar and rotten, that soured my stomach. The taste of him on the back of my tongue like spoiled kumaq. Nozawa Kagemori was behind me. Blackened teeth now sixteen years out of fashion. He wore them anyway, wore them still. His skin was clammy and slick. In the center of his head was a massive bald spot. And there was the scar, of course. The scar you’d given him. It was an angry raised line across the bridge of his nose. He’d never been handsome, but that scar dashed any chances he may have had for a wife.
Except for the tournament.
And oh, Shizuka, how you flinched at the sight of him, how you paled! How the voices within me sang at the sight of him, how they reveled!
“Kagemori-yon,” you said, mustering outward calm like a summer pond. “How did you escape your kennel?”
If wolves smiled, they’d resemble him. There was nothing natural in that smile, nothing human. I squinted. What was that going on, with his shadow? It moved slower than he did, didn’t it?
Voices. Screaming. Laughter. So close, Steel-Eye, so close!
Don’t listen to them, don’t let yourself be thrown off the scent. Now, more than ever, it was important I kept you safe.
But the sight of him made my blood boil.
“My master let me out,” Kagemori said. “He let me go on a little walk.”
Now he took a step closer. Yes, his shadow was definitely slower than the rest of him. No longer was he wearing coarse fabric; this was soft silk. And was that thread-of-gold at the borders? The only people permitted to wear thread-of-gold …
“You made quite a mess in Shiseiki, Shizuka-shan. Leaving it undefended like that,” he said. “It is lucky I was around to clean things up. Your uncle thought so, too.”
“What are you talking about?” you said. “As if you know your pommel from your point.”
“I know my sword perfectly well,” he returned. A dark pink tongue darted out to lick his cracked lips. “Well enough to slay a few blackbloods you were polite enough to leave behind.”
“O-Shizuka-shon,” my father chimed in. “You are speaking to Nozawa Kagemori, Commander of the Wall of Flowers.”
You sneered. “My uncle really is mad, isn’t he?” you said.
“Nozawa-zul is bringing honor back to his family name, much the way your mother did,” said my father. “A fiendslayer and a demonslayer make a fine match.”
I hissed. My father covered his mouth and glared at me in response; Kagemori only shook his head.
“Shizuka-shan,” he said, “your dog is ill-trained.”
“Barsalyya Shefali has done more in one year to better the lives of the Hokkaran people than you have in your entire existence,” you snapped. “Insult me, if you like; your tongue’s always been braver than your sword arm. But if you speak one more ill word against her, I swear to all the gods above, I will tear your grandfather’s soul out of you with my teeth.”
Whatever fear Kagemori struck into you was consumed by the fires of your anger. Your shouting attracted the attention of the other courtiers. Whispers, like cinders, sparked a commotion. Some wondered how you dared; some wondered how he dared.
But all were eager for the next fight.
I think you were eager for an excuse to end him.
First blood can mean anything in your hands. For respectful opponents, you are happy to leave them with a scratch. When they were not? When they had a reputation for making the serving girls at an inn we stayed at uncomfortable?
First blood meant a severed hand, then.
When it came to Nozawa Kagemori, first blood might mean a slit throat, or even decapitation. I found myself hoping it did.
“Your lips are sweet as cherries, Shizuka-shan,” said Kagemori. “Even when they speak such sour words.”
Was that voice human? For it sounded so much like mine, so much like the ones I heard in my head …
You drew your sword in a flash of light. “You’ve come to claim me, haven’t you? Draw your sword, then. Draw your sword and let all of Hokkaro see what sort of man you are.”
Have you ever missed a step, Shizuka? Climbing down on a set of stairs—have you missed a step? The fear that shoots through you, the chill, the tightening of your chest: I felt it then.
And when I watched the two of you walk to the arena, my stomach sank to my ankles. Cold sweat trickled down my forehead; my mouth went dry.
“Don’t worry, Shefali,” Kenshiro said to me. I hated Nozawa more than I hated him at the moment—but only barely. “Nozawa-zul has never been known for a duelist.”
The two of you took your places.
Some noble’s wife approached us. From the corner of my eye, I saw a blooming flower painted in red between her brows, in Xianese fashion.
She bowed to my father and smiled. “Oshiro-tur,” she said. “You must be so proud of O-Shizuka-shon. Such a shame, what happened to her parents—but she has grown into a fine young woman.”
And my father beamed with pride, as if he were the one who raised you.
“She has,” he said, “and it’s as I always told her father over tea: The only thing she is lacking is a good husband. Today, she will be complete.”
“She already is,” I said. The words left me without my thinking them. I was trying hard to ignore him, Shizuka. My father has always been this sort of man. Whenever you stayed with us in Oshiro, he’d throw feasts just to be seen with you. When your birthday came, you’d always find a new set of robes from him.
I do not think he has ever gotten me anything.
I am happier for it. To receive a present from such a loathsome, simpering sycophant would be more insult than joy.
The noble’s wife raised a brow at me. “Who is this?” she said.
“Oshiro Shefali,” said my father.
“Your daughter? But she is so dark.…”
I walked away, before I let my anger get the better of me. I wanted no part of noble conversations.
Already, the duel had begun. I paced around the edges of the dark circle of dirt. You stood at the east. Kagemori stood on the west. You cast a shadow toward him. He’d drawn his blade, and you had not.
“Shizuka-shan,” he called, “if you surrender, this will be less painful.”
“You know nothing of pain,” you said. “Allow me to teach you!” And with that, you charged at him. One of your viper-quick lunges, to start with.
Kagemori moved away and parried. “I know pain,” he said, pointing to his face, to the scar you gave him. “What a great teacher you were, Shizuka-shan.”
Again, a charge; again, a thrust. This time he countered your thrust with his own. You quickly jumped back.
“I’ve learned so much because of you,” he said.
And he lunged with such speed, it was hard to follow him. Where was his blade? I couldn’t see in the swirl of silk.
But you did. I heard steel against steel. Flashes of gold against gray. I balled my hands into fists.
The two of you parted. There was a tear in your robe, in the sleeve. You were unharmed, but it was the closest anyone ever came to hurting you.
And …
Shizuka, it hurts to write things like this. But I must. Even these painful memories are ours, aren’t they? Even these painful memories are a comfort to me, so far from your arms.
You were so scared.
No one likes to talk about it when they bring up this duel. In all the retellings I’ve heard, you keep boasting and taunting him.
But that isn’t what happened.
Anyone else who watched would say you stood tall, but I saw your toes curl. I saw doubt’s ghost possess you.
And my heart was in a vise.