Has anyone ever told you that you are awful at camping?
This is, I think, the first you’ve heard of it, and for that I apologize. You know my love for you is boundless; you know I would condemn the entire Heavenly Family if only you asked me. That is why I am telling you now, from several thousand li away, that you are terrible at camping.
Well—all right. Terrible is an overstatement. I have to remind myself that you spent most of your life cooped up in the Jade Palace, or within the walls of Fujino. That’s no place to learn basic survival skills. My mother tried to teach you, and I think you might have tried to listen despite your arrogance (remember that I love you), but you were not yet up to Qorin standards when you left. Even when we were children it was like this. I would do all of the hunting, and the skinning, and set up the fire, and everything required for a comfortable existence. You set up the tent, you kept the fire going, and I think you’d learned to tell poisonous berries from safe ones. By the time we were adults you’d learned a little more: you could hunt small game, but not skin it; you could start a fire without any of your godly tricks, but only on a sunny day; you knew how to navigate, but only with a compass. By Fujino standards you were a hardened ranger.
By Qorin standards, you’d passed the standard weeklong test of not dying in the wilderness. My mother, exasperated at how long it had taken you to reach that level, probably would have left you to your own devices for an entire month if we’d stayed with her. Little did she know you’d cheated the first time, anyway.
Whenever we passed a tree, if it was the sort that bore edible fruit, you’d run your hands over its branches. Without fail, at least one fruit would grow right there before our eyes. You’d pluck it and toss it into my saddlebags (always mine), smirking at your little display of divinity. Sometimes you didn’t wait for us to see a tree—if you were in the mood for a particular herb, you’d grab your brush and paint the character for it on the ground. Over the course of an hour the named herb sprouted from the ground ready for harvesting. In this way you helped provide—your calligraphy was valuable, yes, but so were the spices you conjured up from nothing.
Not that many people wanted to trade with us.
“We wish we could,” said one farmer. “But the Yellow Scarves are passing through, looking for a Hokkaran noble and a Qorin girl.”
All through the side roads, we heard this. It gave us reason enough not to try the main roads; what if a patrol stopped us? If common farmers knew we were wanted, then I shuddered to think of guards. The good ones would avoid us. Corrupt ones might well try to take us in for the bounty.
Two weeks in—two weeks of sleeping in a tent, two weeks bathing in streams when we found them, two weeks of stringy rabbit and hard rice—you were fading.
I remember the morning I returned with one lonely hare hanging from my belt. I sat down by the fire to skin it. You practiced sword forms near the tent. When you saw me cut into the rabbit, you could not hide the disappointment on your face.
I stifled a flare of anger. Venison. You wanted venison. Had I seen a single deer roaming the tall emerald forests, we’d have venison. I spent all night and the better part of the morning stalking through the woods.
This rabbit was all I had to show for it.
“Shizuka,” I said.
You turned mid-stroke to face me and the fire. You did not stop your forms; of course you did not.
“Shefali?”
“My catch displeases you,” I said, biting into a rough spot on the rabbit’s neck. I hated my new teeth—I had scratches all over my tongue—but they did have uses. Hard to cut this angle without ruining the meat. Far easier to bite it.
And I got a taste of the raw meat that way, as well.
My comment made you stop. Your lips parted; you tucked in your chin. Your brows inched closer together. “I never said that.”
“No,” I said. I turned the rabbit upside down and began peeling off its skin. When you get the right slices in, skin sloughs off easy. It’s almost soothing. “You did not say it.”
In response, you sheathed your sword. You stood right in front of me with your hands on your hips. I glanced up at you and twisted off the rabbit’s head.
“If I did not say it,” you said, “why are you so certain? I’ve had rabbit every meal for two weeks. Why should today’s serving of rabbit upset me more than the others?”
My mind was flint; your words were steel.
I strung up the rabbit from the spit, wiped my hands on my deel, and turned to you. “Because you are spoiled.”
To say that you gaped at me would be putting it mildly. Your lips formed an O, your ear met your shoulder. But your hands did not leave your hips, and the shock on your face soon gave way to anger.
“Spoiled?” you repeated. “Shefali, we have eaten rabbit every day—”
“You’ve eaten it every day,” I said.
“No,” you said, pointing a finger at me. “Do not make this—Of course you have not eaten it, you are not well! I am the one who has to put up with it.”
There is a certain kind of thrill that comes to you in the heat of battle. Blood pounds in your ears like war drums, and you can almost taste your own heartbeat. Steel meets steel, makes your bones sing. Colors split into shades you cannot name. Everything comes into focus; every beat of a moth’s wings is a lifetime.
So it was arguing with you. I hated upsetting you, but there was a part of me that … it was like burning a wound.
“Would you prefer having blackblood?” I said.
You scowled. “You know I would not,” you said. “I cannot imagine how you suffer, my love, and I have done all I can to help you bear the weight. But is it so wrong of me to want something different to eat every now and again?”
I waved my hand toward the trees around us. “Go,” I said. And it was like nocking an arrow, like drawing back the string. “Find a deer.”
Everyone laughed.
No, no. The demons laughed.
You flinched. Fury crossed you like a bird’s shadow; you turned away from me for a moment.
Victory washed over me. I could almost feel everyone patting me on the back. I’d won; you had nothing to say. I’d won and—
“This is not like you,” you said. When you faced me again, two wet spots were on your lapel, and your amber eyes glistened. “Shefali, this is not like you.”
Oh.
All of a sudden, my chest hurt.
I hung my head. “I … I did not…”
You sat on my lap. Rabbit’s blood smeared onto your fine robes. In your hands, you took my head, and you held me close to your chest.
“I do not want to lose you,” you said. “Sometimes it’s as if you aren’t there at all. As if someone else is looking out from your eyes.”
Sky’s thunder, I didn’t mean to—
No. That was the worst part. I did mean to hurt you; that was why I said those things, why I acted the way I had.
“I’m here,” I said into your chest. “Me. Shefali.”
You held fast to me. And you said nothing, but I felt your tears falling on my head.
I will not lie and say things got better after that. I will not lie to you, who lived it, and say I changed my ways in that moment. For the rest of the day, we sat far away from each other. You spared me the occasional pained glance—no more.
I tried to think of something to say. If I just found the right combination of words—wouldn’t that fix everything? I wondered what your father did in situations like this. As a poet, he’d know the words needed. He’d know how to write them, which characters to use, how to hold his brush.
I was no poet. I could not read the characters of your name. You told me once, what they meant—how your mother chose your name but your father chose the characters. When we stayed in the palace, you held my hand as I went through the strokes.
“The first character,” you said, “my father did not have much choice in. All Minami women share it. This means ‘quiet.’”
You lifted the brush, and my hand, and continued.
“But this one,” you continued, “is the character for ‘excellence.’ My father thought it fitting that I was born with a reputation for it.”
We wrote your name again and again, yet I still could not recognize it if I tried. How was I going to put together the words I needed?
I watched you. I could not read Hokkaran, but I could read the slump of your shoulders, the creases of your lips. At the end of the day when you went to bed, you did not wait to see if I was coming with you.
So no. I did not voice how afraid I was of losing you. I would rather lose my right arm, Shizuka; I would rather lose my tongue. In that moment, I thought I’d rather lose an eye than lose you.
I spoke none of this.
But I did try to find you different food.
So it was I saddled Alsha and rode out down the side road after you’d gone to bed. There was a village not far from where we camped. When I arrived, it was just after Last Bell. Only drunkards, vagabonds, singing girls, sellswords, and minstrels stayed out at this hour. I was not overly concerned. If someone foolish attempted to rob me, they’d find no cash seals or heavy coins—only a knife and unresolved anger.
Yet even these ne’er-do-wells spared an envious glance for me as I rode through town at night. Qorin horses are a fair sight larger than most Hokkaran steeds. Coupled with a likewise tall, dark-skinned rider, and I cannot say I blame them. You have always called me handsome, after all.
A throaty voice called to me. “Graymare-sur!”
I saw no other grays, save for a dappled silver gelding at rest in the stables. The woman was calling me, then. I admit I spared a small smile—calling an unknown Qorin by describing their horse is, perhaps, the most diplomatic thing a Hokkaran can do. “Horselover,” “brute,” “no-home,” these things I am deaf to. These notes blur together.
But Graymare, and Graymare-sur at that—these were new.
A woman stood on the veranda of one of the larger buildings. By its open door and the thick scent of smoke coming from it, it must be the village winehouse. She was not the only one standing outside: two other girls in bright robes flirted with men in armor a few steps away. But this girl was the only one looking at me.
I will describe her for you, since you have pictured her often, I am certain. Jealousy is as cutting as any knife—you might as well know what she looked like, I think, if you are going to hate her from a distance.
Like you, she was not tall—though I think she is a bit taller than you are. Where your hair is ink, hers was like charred wood: more dark brown than black. Round was her face, small and dainty her lips. She wore a two-layer green robe, with the first layer leaving her shoulders bare. There was only one ornament in her hair, a modest enameled orchid. Twenty-four, perhaps—not much older.
But she had a warm face, a welcoming face, like an old friend you’ve only just now met.
She waved toward me with the fan in her hand. “Graymare-sur, do you seek company tonight?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. My first instinct was to say yes, to comment on the delicate silver stroke of her collarbone, to invite her somewhere private and—
I will not anger you, Shizuka. You know in those days the basest thoughts sprang to mind first. Rest assured, I thought of you asleep and banished the more lascivious thoughts.
Well.
No.
I cannot say that I banished them. I am honest with you in all things, and though it pains me, I must be honest when it comes to this woman. The way she smiled at me lit me up. Her skin was so smooth that I wondered how it would feel against mine. What were her hands like? For she would not have your duelist’s calluses.
It had been some time since I was treated so kindly by a Hokkaran. And I did have questions. Where to find food, for instance. I did not have any money, no, but perhaps a singing girl might know where to go when times are tough and stomachs are turning.
So I rode up to the winehouse. In one motion I dismounted.
“Stay put,” I said to Alsha in the tongue of swaying grass.
You’re the one doing the wandering, she said back to me.
That horse. At times I think the other Qorin are lucky that they cannot hear their horses truly speak to them. I’ve never met a horse who wasn’t fond of sarcasm. They’re worse than scholars.
I shook my head at Alsha. “Don’t make me tie you,” I said.
You wouldn’t dare, she said. And she was right, of course. With one word I told Alsha to stay put. I did not tie her to a post, as you might think I would. If anyone tried to steal her, I felt great pity for them, for soon they’d be lying on the street with several crushed bones.
The woman looked at my horse. As a child hearing tales of phoenixes and dragons gapes in excitement, so did she gape at Alsha. “Forgive me!” she said when I walked to her. “She’s the most beautiful mare I’ve ever seen, even among those my Qorin mentors had.”
Finally, someone who wasn’t hateful. Though it did set me wondering what a singing girl could learn from Qorin women. Hunting? Riding? She didn’t look like she did much of either.
It might please you to know that in smiling, I bared my pointed teeth, and the other girls on the veranda skittered inside.
But the one I was speaking to stayed. She opened her fan. I smelled jasmine.
“May I touch her?” she asked.
I shook my head. She was satisfied with this, and gave a small nod.
“Ah, understandable!” she said. “One cannot write the Son of Heaven’s name, one cannot touch that horse. All things divine are beyond mortal reach.”
Your voice is a lantern: bright and commanding. Hers is a campfire, warm and inviting, clinging to your clothes long after she has left.
I said nothing to this, for I could think of nothing to say. My experience dealing with attractive women, at that point, began and ended with you.
“You’re a quiet one,” she teased. With the tip of her fan, she touched my shoulder. “But I can make you sing, if you’re willing. Why don’t you come for a walk with me?”
She was not afraid to touch me. She’d seen my teeth, and they did not faze her—still she looked at me with eyes like ripe figs.
I do not know what came over me. But I can tell you it was warm as the first breeze of summer.
When I offered an earnest, if close-lipped, smile, she took my arm. She wore wooden sandals shorter than yours, and so her steps were a bit longer. I slowed my pace a great deal to keep up with her. One never thinks of how long one’s legs are until walking with someone shorter.
I thought of how to approach this. Should I ask right out if she knew where I might find some food for free? Should I listen to whatever she was going to say? For on her lips were unborn conversations.
One thing was for certain. I had to make it clear my intentions were not romantic. I had a goddess descendant waiting for me in a tent at camp, and I had to return to her soon. As pretty as this girl was, I could not allow myself to listen to my urges.
But those urges were doing their best to get my attention. She had a way of moving, you see. Deliberate and confident, as if she knew I could not keep my eyes off her. The more I watched her swaying hips, the more I imagined—
No. No, I could not. So what if Kharsas often took more than one lover? I was content with you.
As I opened my mouth to tell her I did not want those services, she opened hers and spoke.
“Do not be afraid,” she said, “but I know who you are.”
We’d come to a stop behind what I assumed to be an inn. Besides the two small horses in the stable, we had no company. I think that is what she was looking for. Yet still I searched, still I tried to see if she’d set me up for an ambush. I reached for a bow that was not there, fumbled for my knife. What if they were coming for me, the Yellow—?
“Shh, shh, shh, do not fear,” she said. “It’s only you and me. I’ve told no one. I swear to you eight times, I mean you no harm.”
Was she serious? Her brow, her gaze, even her posture—all colored with sincerity. She held her hands up as she spoke. They were larger than yours, but softer, too, and—
I didn’t have time.
One more glance around.
I took a breath. “You know?”
“Ah, you speak!” she said. She touched my chin. She wore a nervous smile and I wondered how often a singing girl smiles in such a way. “I was worried your condition affected your speaking. My brother, he told me you spoke at Imakane—”
“Brother?” I said.
She nodded. “My brother, Kato, he worked at the bathhouse,” she said. Now the words came tumbling out of her, and she could not stop herself from speaking. “When the Yellow Scarves attacked, he started praying to the Mother for a quick death. He told me some of the things he saw and…”
She took my hands in hers. She did not hesitate at all—she took my hands, with their talons, and cupped them between her palms. Then she touched her forehead to our joined palms.
“Thank you,” she said. “Eight times, I thank you. If you had not been there, Kato would’ve been tortured like the rest.”
Her voice cracked. Now tears poured from her sweet plum eyes, ruining the makeup she’d taken so long to apply. I stood there, unsure of what to do. Surely she could not be serious. Moved to tears, grateful for what I’d done? Touching me, knowing what color my blood ran?
I did not know this woman two hours ago.
Why was she so moved?
“The Yellow Scarves have been rampaging through Shiseiki for years now,” she said. “They come, two dozen, three dozen at a time, into the winehouse. They drink more than any ox I’ve ever met, talk more than any hen, and stink worse than pigs. Do they pay? Of course not. On a good day, they don’t kill anyone. That is payment, to them.”
And it occurred to me then what her line of work was. It occurred to me who would have the most coin in a town like this. Even before she continued, my heart ached for her.
“Then they bluster into our rooms, throw coin at us…”
She shook her head.
“No one stands up to them. The guards are too afraid. Foolish youths run off to join them every day; how else is anyone supposed to make a living, when the Yellow Scarves take it all?”
She squeezed my hands tight. There was such pain on her face, Shizuka. How long had the commoners been dealing with this? How long had she been dealing with it?
“Only you,” she said. “They call you the Demon of the Steppes, but you’re holy as a shrine maiden to me. You saved my brother. You made the Yellow Scarves fear again.”
I thought I must be dreaming, or else the demons must’ve figured out a way to make me live through illusions. A Hokkaran girl, a pretty Hokkaran singing girl, was thanking me for the monstrous display that made my own mother exile me. I was holy to her.
And I believed it. There is a certain way a person looks at you when the light of admiration shines within them. I’m certain you see it every day, Shizuka.
But for me?
For me, that might’ve been the first time.
“Please,” she said, bowing to me. “Tell me your name, that I might thank my ancestors for sending you to me.”
I licked my lips.
When we were children, you said we were gods. It was in that moment, with a woman I’d never met holding my hands and saying such things, that I began to believe you.
“Barsalyya Shefali Alshar,” I said. I didn’t like the way that name tasted on my tongue. Tiger’s daughter. My mother’s name, unadorned, abandoning me. It was a good thing Hokkarans know nothing of Qorin naming conventions, or—
“Alshar?” she said, a note of sympathy in her voice. “That was not always your name, was it? Come. Let us hear it, your real name. The one you earned.”
Barsalyya was the name I’d earned. The pox I wore for what I’d done.
But … for a little while, I wanted to pretend.
“Barsalai Shefali Alsharyya,” I said. How did she know Alshar was not a proper mother’s name?”
She bowed again. “Barsalai-sur, I will light prayers for you every night of my life,” she said.
I stood awestruck. My mouth hung open. For once, everything was silent. No chorus of demonic voices. No laughter. No screaming, no crying.
Only the girl standing before me with a tear-streaked face, swearing she’d light prayers on her altar for me.
“Thank you,” I muttered. “I am honored.”
“No, no,” she said. “I am the honored one. So honored, I’ve forgotten to give you my name. If it pleases you, Barsalai-sur, you can call me Ren.”
“Just Barsalai,” I said. Yes, Barsalai, the tiger-killer and not the monster.
Ren. I can see you shaking your head as you read this, Shizuka, wondering who on earth names their child after such a flower. I will tell you: she herself picked the name. This she told me later, when we were—
But I suppose I am getting to that part.
“Barsalai, then,” she said. How nice it sounded to hear it. She had the best Qorin accent I’d ever heard from a foreigner. “Is there anything I can do for you? If you want company—”
I shook my head. I flushed red, but I shook my head all the same.
“She is waiting, back at camp,” I stammered. “I … She needs food.”
Ren laughed. I imagine it’s the exact sound a flower would make laughing; it hung in the air like perfume. “Food?” she said. “Is that all?”
I scratched at my head. That tone.
“Is my fruit not tempting enough?” she teased.
I consider myself lucky in that we never experienced this phase of courtship. Not once did I have to maintain my composure while you whispered something so … while you whispered anything like that into my ear. I am not a woman built to flirt. I can string a bow blindfolded, with one hand. I can skin almost any animal you put in front of me.
I cannot flirt.
“It is … I … You are sweet as plum wine, and beautiful as your name,” I said, each word more tremulous than the last. “But I love another dearly, and my condition … I would not want to hurt you, or her, or anyone. I cannot. My heart is hers, I cannot.”
She covered her mouth with her fan. More heady laughs left her. I palmed my face to hide my shame. Thank Grandmother Sky we met so young, Shizuka; if we had had to court each other, you never would’ve picked me.
“Very well,” said Ren. “You are shy as a virgin, Barsalai! But if food is what you want, I will provide. Return in the morning with your packhorse, and I will give you all the food you can carry.”
“No rabbit,” I said. “Hates rabbit.”
“How could anyone hate rabbit?” she muttered. “She cannot be so wonderful as you say, if she hates rabbit.”
I could not help myself—I laughed. That was the voice of a woman who’d grown up having rabbit as an occasional treat. That was the voice of a woman who knew hunger.
But I had to defend your honor. “She is,” I said.
She quirked a brow. Then, more clearly: “No rabbit, then. But I have good rice, and salmon; eggs, chickens, and milk; quail and soft bread.”
When I was younger, my family would tell stories about singing girls around the fire. We do not really have them, as a culture. If a man wishes to sleep with a woman who is not his wife, then who cares, so long as his wife and her husband are not home? If, later, that man should decide he wants to seriously court that woman, he presents her husband with a bottle of kumaq wrapped in wolfskins.
I suppose I’ve upset you with this part of the story already. But it is important. And I will remind you, Shizuka, that I never strayed from you in those days. I may have been raised Qorin, but I have Hokkaran blood in me, too. And sometimes it is good to stop moving. Some people are worth stopping for.
At any rate, my family told stories about singing girls, for some of them had never met one. Surely, a woman who can have others pay her for a bedding must be beautiful beyond compare. Surely, she must walk draped in gold; surely her fingers glitter with precious stones. We call them Altanai. “Golden ones.”
I’d seen singing girls before. I knew the stories about Altanai weren’t true. But hearing Ren list off the food she could give us, I almost believed them.
“You may have all this and more, Barsalai. Anything you wish from my home is yours. But in return, I must ask you a favor.”
I crossed my arms and nodded.
“Two li to the east of here is a river. You must’ve crossed it, coming up here. If you follow it to the northwest, where it meets the grand lake, you will find a cave. That is where the Yellow Scarves have hidden away.”
“You want them dead?” I said. I did not know how many there were. What a grand thing to ask a person, as a favor!
“I do,” she said, “but more important, I want my father’s war mask. You won’t miss it—it’s a laughing fox, very ornate. If you retrieve it for me, Barsalai, you will have my eternal devotion. Whatever you need of me, I will provide.”
Whatever I needed. She knew exactly what she was saying when she used those words.
“How many bandits?” I asked.
“Twice twenty,” she said. “But that cave is where they sleep. You can find them at night, and kill them without a fight.”
Forty of them—you Hokkarans hate saying “four.”
I could do it. I did not have a bow, but I did have a knife and my hands and my teeth. You had your sword. That was all we needed. Forty bandits. We could do it, if we went at night and killed them in their sleep.
You would not want to do it that way, though; I knew this in my bones. You’d want to walk in and challenge their leader. Unwise. Bandits are not beholden to dueling laws.
But I could find some plan that would be safer, something that would still challenge you.
I could be the hero Ren seemed to think I was.
“I will do it,” I said. “I will bring the mask to you.”
She bowed in thanks. “Good,” she said. “Then you should return to the one lucky enough to claim you. I am certain you are tired.”
“I do not tire,” I said. But I bowed to her, too, and when I mounted Alsha, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
“My home is easy to find,” she called. “Look for the stables. I own five mares and one stallion.”
Hmm. Awful lot of horses for a Hokkaran woman.
You found me in the morning skinning the rabbit. When you emerged from the tent, you did your best to smile, as if everything were forgotten. You even came and sat next to me while I worked. As I cut into the little creature, you grew a bit paler. I remember, you scrunched your face, and that line across your nose came into being again.
You crossed your legs. “You will need a bow soon,” you said. “Perhaps we can buy one in the next town. It must be difficult to hunt with only a knife.”
In response, I wiggled my bloody hand. Sharp black nails gleamed in the sun. “Ten knives,” I said.
“Small knives,” you countered. Ah, there it was—a knowing smirk, a flicker of flame in your voice. “You cannot throw those.”
“I could cut them off,” I said.
You pursed your lips. “Do not dream of it. Your fingers are national treasures.”
“They’d grow back,” I said. I wiggled them again, this time right at your face.
You laughed and skittered away. “Barsalai Shefali, don’t you dare!”
Barsalai and Barsatoq—like two pine needles.
I grinned. Only when you broke down laughing, only when I was tickling you and you flailed like a four-year-old, did I stop. Our faces hot with joy, we held each other there, by the campfire. I lay on your chest, your fingers tracing strands of my hair. I listened to your heart beating, like hooves on dry ground.
“Shizuka,” I said.
“Yes, my love?”
“I went to the village last night,” I said.
You quirked a brow. “Did you?” you said. “Did you find anything?”
“I know where the bandits are,” I said.
And at this, you sat up. Your amber eyes sparkled. “Their hideout?” you said. “Do you know how many? Can we reach them before nightfall?”
I have always found it amusing when you leap at battles most would run from. At that moment, for instance, you already reached for your sword. We were alone in the woods, hours away from the bandits—but you were ready to slay them.
“Forty,” I said, “up the river.”
“Forty,” you repeated, never one for superstition. You rubbed your chin. “Difficult, but possible. Come. Let us plan. If we rid Shiseiki of these bandits, then the people will welcome us with open arms.”
We sat by the camp and drew pictures in the dirt. Our biggest obstacle, as you saw it, was being surrounded. If we could face them in small groups, we’d be victorious. Five, seven each; this was manageable. But how were we going to cut a group of forty into eight groups of five?
For this you had an answer.
We’d set eight fires.
I did not want to harm the forest. Fires spread quickly near dry tinder like this. Nearby villages might be harmed, to say nothing of the damage to the animals living in it.
“We have no time to divert the river,” you said. “That would be the thing to do—but two people and one admirable mare alone cannot do it. What else would draw them out?”
“I could,” I said.
You shook your head. “No, Shefali,” you said. “That is dumb and foolhardy, even by my standards. I forbid it.”
“We cannot light the fires,” I said.
“And we cannot use the river. What else, then, can we do?”
“I could kill things,” I said. “Throw them in. Be frightening. I am good at frightening now.”
Good at killing, good at scaring, good at hunting on all fours like an animal. I was good at many things—but nothing I’d liked before.
“Shefali,” you said, “you are good for more than that.”
I bit my tongue. You stared at your drawing in the dirt.
“We might as well ride,” you said. “The closer we come, the more likely it is we’ll see something we can use. It is a fool’s errand to make maps of a place we’ve never seen.”
That was all you had to say on the subject. Dejected, I climbed onto Alsha.
She’s right, you know, Alsha said to me. You are a fine rider, and you have excellent taste in sweets.
“You’d say so,” I muttered.
The ride to the bandit camp took us the better part of a day. Though I had demon blood coursing through my veins, though I could tear a man asunder with my bare hands, the sound of the river made me clutch my reins. So much water nearby, all rushing forward at once. If I waded in, I knew the waters would swallow me whole.
By the time we first spotted the Yellow Scarves, the Moon had begun her nightly ascent. Two guards stood on the riverbank. I spotted them before you did. With a raised hand, I stopped our advance and pointed them out.
A sharp metal tone hung in the air as you drew your sword. No. That would not work.
You wrinkled your nose, pointed at them with the tip of your sword.
I shook my head. I dismounted and came close enough to you to whisper. “Stay here,” I said. “I’ll follow them.”
You scowled. “Why?” you protested. “It is better to kill them now, so that we do not have to deal with them later.”
“Others would notice,” I said. Part of me bristled at this—I did not question your fool decisions; why were you questioning my sound ones? “Better to track, for now.”
You glanced at the patrol. For the most part, they avoided the road, weaving between the birch trees. One had a bow, the other a pike. How a bandit ended up with a bow is beyond me, but I resolved to take it from him regardless. With a bow in my hands, I’d feel more like my old self.
After some moments of pouting, you sheathed your sword. “Very well,” you said. “See if there is another way into the cave.”
As I left, I gave you a quick kiss on the lips. It did not remove the frown from your face. Resentment was a serpent coiled around my throat.
After all I’d done for you, after all I’d given up, you could not be bothered to smile?
“Return safely,” you said. But I was not sure I wanted to.
I set out to follow the patrol. When I was out of your sight, I kicked off my boots. Bare feet were quieter, and I did not need to worry about stepping on something sharp. I wasn’t sure I’d feel it if I did.
I loped through the darkness. Wet dirt stuck to my soles with every step. I opened my mouth and tasted the forest—the sharp tang of metal, savory earth, salty sweat, and sweet, sweet fear. My pulse quickened. Fear. Unmistakable in taste.
Were they afraid someone would spot them?
Were they afraid of me?
Oh, it was a foolish thought, self-centered as could be. But it was a sweet one, too, sweet as the poison assassins make from apple seeds. The closer I came, the easier it was to hear their hushed conversation.
“It’s an exaggeration,” said the man with the bow. “You think one woman did all that? One woman tore twelve men apart? Keichi is telling stories again.”
My tongue lolled out of my mouth, but I found myself smiling. If only you could taste it, Shizuka, perhaps then you would understand—it is better than chilled plum wine, better than kumaq.
Step out of the shadows, they whispered. Let them see you. Hear them scream.
Spittle hit the ground. Somehow in my fear-drunk haze, I’d started drooling. I shook my head. No. There was work to be done.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and followed them. Twenty, thirty minutes I followed. Our little hiding spot by the river lay near the end of their patrol. Soon, they came up on the cave. It was about as wide across as three horses standing nose to tail, though it did not look like much. Like the earth was yawning. More of a pit than a cave, really. From what I could see, it was a steep walk underground. Two more bandits kept watch here. They wore tattered cloth armor; notched swords hung at their hips.
The two I followed nodded solemnly to the guards. They exchanged some words I did not allow myself to hear. If the demons heard it, they’d encourage me to kill. It was not quite time for that.
So I kept my distance and waited. Eventually, after another ten minutes or so, the guards traded places. The ones formerly standing at the gates began a patrol. I trailed them, too, until finally I came upon our hiding spot.
At first you did not see me. You stood on the edge of the water, looking out, in the direction of the capital. One cannot see Fujino from such a great distance away, but one can see the mountains separating it from Shiseiki. You had the look of a sailor’s wife waiting for her lover.
I called your name.
You jolted, drawing your sword in one motion as you turned. “You are a fool to attack me!”
You slashed at me faster than most can follow. But I am not most, and I jumped to the right before blade met flesh. I held up my hands, did my best to stand straight. Like a person, I thought. I must be a person. Must be human.
“Shizuka,” I said, “it’s me.”
I cannot tell which was more dominant then, for you. Was it the pain of knowing you’d almost hurt me, or was it shock that you had not recognized me?
Either way, you stood, staggered, staring at me as if I were a stranger.
“Am I different?” I asked. For that thought was ice on the back of my neck. My teeth changed in a moment; what if something else had?
“My love,” you said. “Dear one, your eyes…”
I touched them. They felt like eyes. So I went to the river and I knelt there, and I looked at myself.
As a paper lantern glows orange, so did my eyes glow green.
I frowned. Most of the changes to my body had been useful, until now. If the Traitor’s blood was going to shape me in his image, he could at least focus on improving me. Glowing eyes did nothing. In fact, I’d be easier to spot in the dark now.
I closed my eyes and sighed. “It could be worse,” I said.
You touched my face, your touch delicate as a flower petal. I remember how wide your eyes were. “Does it hurt?” you asked. “They look like they are burning.”
“Everything hurts, Shizuka,” I said. “This hurts only a little.”
I pointed toward the cave, eager for something else to talk about. “Two guards by it, two on patrol,” I said.
Whatever you thought about the changes, you said nothing. You looked down for a moment, licked your lips, and joined me in planning. Together we came up with something halfway between your burning the forest down and Ren’s idea of killing them in their sleep.
For the next twenty minutes, we collected pine branches. I bundled them up and tied them together with rope from my saddlebags. Then we waited for the patrols to come around again.
Dispatching them was a simple matter; I will not dwell on it here. When they came near enough to us, I threw my knife at one, and you cut the other down as he moved to investigate the body. I took one of the notched swords—I really wanted the bow the man by the cave had, but this would do for now. With the patrol dead, we had only a few minutes to make our way to the cave. I slung the pine branches over my shoulder and led the way.
When we caught sight of the cave mouth, you drew your sword again. We crept around through the birch and pine, out of sight, until we were behind the guards. I set down the bundle.
Then we killed them, and I took the one man’s bow and quiver.
It is as simple as that, and I am loath to give this any more detail. This was not a great, glorious fight. This was stabbing men in the dark. It would’ve been beneath you had it not been for such a noble cause.
We propped the bodies up with two of the branches and tied them up with rope. Then I fished flint and steel from my deel and got to work setting the remaining branches alight.
Only when the fire was truly raging, only when the burning branches birthed clouds of white smoke, did we continue.
I dropped the bundle into the cave. We stood on either side and waited.
A handful of Yellow Scarves bolted out with stinging eyes, shouting and disoriented. You did not bother announcing yourself. For each cut you made, another bandit fell, simple and solemn as that. This was not something to celebrate. This was not glorious.
I nocked an arrow; I loosed. I tried to isolate what I was doing to the motions. Drawing, loosing. I stared at the arrows and not at their targets. Maybe then I wouldn’t focus so much on the color of their blood, on their fear like wine, on the glimmers like crushed gems as their souls left their bodies.
I thought if I didn’t see it, nothing would happen.
But I tasted it. Their blood. Their souls, rich and shimmering. Their confusion, their anger. And the one taste hovering above them all.
Imagine your father journeyed to Ikhtar, and brought you back some of their famed desserts. You must have had some by now, but I shall tell you of them anyway. They are moist, thick, jelly treats, rolled in sugar. Putting one in your mouth is like tasting joy itself. Imagine he brought these for you when you were only a child, and you ate them all in one night. The memory of them stays with you. Longing amplifies a delicious taste to something heavenly. By the time you are grown, you crave them more than any other, and no Hokkaran sweet can compare.
It is like that, Shizuka. It is like that.
So when I opened my mouth and let my tongue loll in the air to get a better taste, and you noticed me, you stared.
“Shefali?” you said. “Are you all right?”
There was one thing you did not notice.
I never put my boots back on.
What a small thing to forget. What an insignificant thing. Nowadays, forgetting my boots would not trouble me. I have more control, you see.
But I was sixteen then, newly changed, and smoke seared my nose. Bandits are fond of drinking; I think one of them fell into the fire. Burning flesh has such a distinct smell, Shizuka, so hard to ignore. My stomach churned, and my lips grew moist in anticipation.
Yes, I could hear it now: they were screaming for help. Someone fell in the flames. When I took a deep breath of the darkening smoke, I smelled him. I took in a bit of his soul, and I savored it as one savors finely charred meat.
Burning flesh. Bones snapping as you stepped on the fallen. Rubies in the air. It was all so heady, Shizuka, it was all so unreal.
I took a yearning step toward you, and I happened to step directly into a corpse’s wound. Still-warm organs growing cold; bone holding me in place.
Burning flesh.
Cherry-sweet blood.
If I had worn my boots, I think, and not felt that corpse’s innards, I would not have had such a reaction.
But there were four men left when my jaw unhinged.
The bow fell from my hands. I lurched forward. A howl pealed from my mouth, a sound I had no idea I could make. I do not know how high I jumped, but I tell you, it felt like flying.
Horror dawned on my victim’s face when I landed on him. His companions did not stay to watch. When I turned to laugh at them, to mock them, I saw only their backs as they ran into the woods.
“Do you see them?” I said into the bandit’s ear. Spittle dripped onto his collarbones. “They’re smarter than you are.”
With my feet on his shoulders, I took a handful of his hair. He tried to push me off, but my grip was iron, my grip was death itself.
I twisted at the hips until I heard a wet crack. The bandit crumpled. I jumped on top of his body, on my hands and knees. Red. I could see it beneath his skin; I could see it in rivers and lakes and streams. So close. Gods, it was so close and so bright.
Saliva dripped from my mouth onto the man’s broken neck. Yes. Yes, this is what I was made for, this moment before teeth met flesh.
Except someone stopped me.
Someone grabbed me by my braid and yanked.
I turned. Whoever interrupted me, whoever interrupted what they could not understand, would have to die as well. That was the way of things. There were mortals, there were gods, there were demons.
And then there was me.
The Not-You stood before me, baring blackened teeth, pointing at me with fingers so rotted, they were more bone than meat.
“You’re misbehaving,” it said, and as it advanced on me, maggots squirmed from its left eye. Soon they were bursting out through its iris. “This is not how I trained you, Steel-Eye!”
A crack of wrath. I beat my chest and roared, heedless of which bandits remained. “Trained me?” I said. “You do not train me!”
It took another step forward, its sickly gray tongue peeking out from between its lips. By now the maggots had devoured its left eye. The smile on its face was a twisted mirror of yours; all arrogance, all brash certainty.
“You are my dog,” it said. “You always have been. Why else do you follow, nipping at my heels, like a lost puppy?”
It shoved a finger into my chest.
“When I want someone dead, I say so, and there you are.”
It shoved me again.
“I give you orders. You carry them out. You get hurt and I get the credit.”
It cupped my face, squeezed in my cheeks.
“That is how our relationship works, Steel-Eye. How it has always worked. I am the Virgin Empress. You are the bitch.”
I grabbed it by the throat.
In an instant, we were on the ground. Beneath my hands, I felt bone and sinew. If I squeezed hard enough, I could end this. I could pop off the thing’s head and never be bothered by it again.
Kill. Kill, kill, kill, the only thing I’m good at, the only thing I have ever truly been good at. Kill it. Kill it and find freedom, find peace.
So I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, snarling all the while. Blood drained from the thing’s face. As I choked it, it turned blue, it struggled beneath me, it slapped and kicked and punched.
But when its right palm struck me, so, too, did reality.
I was choking you. Your pomegranate lips turned pale as bird’s eggs, your veins like rivers on the map of your skin. The look on your face, Shizuka. The anguish, the pain, the fear. You were so small and so delicate; my hands so large and monstrous and …
And I’d nearly killed you.
“Shefali?” you croaked. “Shefali, have you … have you returned?”
My jaw hung slack now, not in hunger, not in thirst, but in shame. It hit me hard as any hammer, winded me, left me hollow and broken. Prying my hands away from you felt like … they must’ve been someone else’s hands. Must have been. My own hands would never hurt you.
Let go. Let go.
When I finally pried them off your throat, my hands were frozen in place, sore and aching. Try as I might, I could not will them to relax.
I stared at you, stared at my hands. Shaking. I was shaking. You massaged your throat and tried to sit up. I moved to help you, but … but I couldn’t bring myself to touch you.
“It’s all right,” you said. “That wasn’t you.”
But it was not all right. And it was me.
No.
I needed to disappear. You’d be better off without me.
I shot to my feet. A faint glimmer of bronze caught my eye; the laughing fox mask Ren had asked for was strapped to a corpse’s face. I looked from it to you.
You were scrambling up. “Shefali?”
“It was me. I did it, Shizuka, it was me,” I said. “And I have to die.”
And I grabbed the mask, turned my back to you, and ran to my horse fast as I could. I knew you could not hope to follow. I knew you’d try anyway.
But I hoped you’d let me go. I hoped you’d let me just die, as I deserved. What else was I good for, what else could I do?
As I rode through the woods, I thought of how I’d do it.
Traditional Hokkaran suicides are too painful, even for someone like me. Kneeling before a crowd and disemboweling myself? No. I could not and would not. The first stroke alone wouldn’t be enough to kill me, and by then I’d … I’d change again.
No. It had to be something quick. Something that would not leave behind a body. A pyre. Yes, a pyre was ideal. All I had to do was gather kindling, purchase some oil to speed things, tie myself to a pole, and light it all up. Holy flame could cleanse me if nothing else could. When everything was done, a gentle breeze would carry my ashes to the sky, where they belonged. By the time you found me, there’d be nothing left to mourn over, and you could continue your life as if I’d never been in it.
Once, my people looked on me with admiration. My mother would never want her deel back now, would she? Tiger-Striped Shefali, who won her first braid at eight years of age. Tiger-Striped Shefali, who never missed with bow or with knife. The future Grand Kharsa of all the Qorin. The girl who would lead whatever was left of our people to glory again.
But she was gone now. In her place was the tiger’s daughter, wearing her skin and clothes.
Once, you said we were gods.
What a bitter thought.
On most nights, when I see my mare, a sense of calm washes over me. During my travels, I’ve turned to her for comfort more than once. There is an old Qorin trick for anxiety—stand with your head up toward the sky. Touch your horse’s flank with your right hand, and your own heart with your left. Listen to her breathe; feel her heart beat. Try to match hers.
It’s said that Tumenbayar herself taught us this. She could speak to her horse, too, though she had to be touching her to do it. Every few generations, someone will claim to have the same ability I do—people pretend to be part of Tumenbayar’s clan all the time.
But Qorin value deeds, not words. Anyone who says such a thing is soon put to the test, and my mother has never taken kindly to liars.
I’ve never told her about this ability of mine. The thought of being tested in front my entire family, in front of the whole clan, was enough to break me out in hives. Bad enough I never missed a shot. Otgar already took bets on whether or not I’d be able to hit a bird a hundred horselengths away, blindfolded.
I always did.
If she knew I could talk to my mare—I hesitated to imagine what she’d come up with.
I’d never have the chance to see now.
But still I stood there with my head up toward the sky and my right hand on Alsha’s flank. I could not fool her; she knew my intentions.
You are leaving Shizuka behind?
“I must,” I said. “She is better off this way.”
Alsha stomped her front hoof. And I am better off with three legs, she said. Of course she was not going to understand. As much as I spoke to her, she was still just a horse.
“Will you take me, or not?” I said.
Alsha whickered. Better I take you than you go alone, she said.
Well. At least she wasn’t trying to talk me out of it. I suppose my horse can see sense sometimes. It must be because she is a good Qorin mare. Hotheaded, stubborn, yes; but protective as can be.
I tied the war mask around my neck. It would be my last duty in this world, my last good deed.
Besides killing myself.
If you called after me, I did not hear you. I tried not to think of you at all beyond how much better off you’d be a year from now. What you felt now was a temporary pain. What you felt now was weakness leaving the body. Fire put to a wound. That’s all I was. A gaping wound on your chest leaking thick black blood.
You’d heal. You always healed.
I made plans. I’d tell Ren what you looked like, so that when you came into town looking for me, she could provide you with whatever you wanted. Food. A place to stay. Company, perhaps. You deserved better company than me, deserved someone who would not wrap their hands around your throat and—
The one thing I’d ask for, the one thing I had to ask for, was oil. Otherwise, the fire wouldn’t burn hot enough. What was I going to do with Alsha? I’d leave her to you. Yes. I’d tell Ren to keep everyone away from my horse except you. Alsha liked you.
It took only a few minutes for me to settle the minutiae of my life. My brother, my father, my mother—they would find ways to cope. My mother could name Otgar the Grand Kharsa. Clearly, she favored her. It would not be so difficult. Kenshiro was a recently married man; he’d name a child after me if he was feeling gracious.
My father would not mourn.
By the time I arrived at the village, it was the start of Second Bell. If I was stared at two nights ago (had it been so short a time?), then I was gaped at now. I’d not bothered wiping the blood off my feet or pants or deel. I did not see the point. Why bother hiding it anymore? I was a monster. I met the eyes of those who stared, nodded to them. They looked away quickly. Ren was standing in the same place, near the winehouse. When she saw me, she started, but she was kind enough to cover it with her fan. She ran toward me.
“Barsalai!” she called. “Is that … Is that the mask, around your neck?”
I offered the mask to Ren.
She took it from me gingerly. I watched as she held it above her head, so that the light of the sun shone down through the eyeholes.
It is a rare thing to see perfect joy on a person’s face. I saw it then. Tears sprang to her eyes; she clutched the mask close to her chest. For a long while, she held it there. A soft smile contrasted against her damp cheeks.
What was I to say? I was glad to have helped her. But I did not want to continue existing if it meant I was going to hurt you again.
She tugged my hand. “Come,” she said. “Come, you must let me thank you.”
I drew back my hand and shook my head. “I need oil,” I said.
Ren furrowed her brow. Two lines appeared at the corners of her small mouth. “What happened to food?” she asked. “Yesterday you asked for food. Today, oil. Why?”
I did not meet her gaze. “I need oil.”
“What for?” she asked.
I could run. I could get the oil somewhere else.
But I had no money.
I grunted.
“Barsalai,” she said. There was a quiet pleading in her voice. She took my hand and pressed it to her cheek. “Please come with me. My home is not far. I will tell you the story of the war mask, and I will see that you have your oil—but, please. Come with me.”
I glanced around. Two sellswords watched us. They were concerned for Ren, I think. Part of me was happy she had people looking out for her, but most of me did not want to be bothered.
Yet when she looked at me, I felt the faintest memory of being a hero. Of Tiger-Striped Shefali.
So I sighed and dismounted, and I followed her to her home. It was the largest in the village, as it happened. On the way in, I caught sight of the stables. Yes, she did indeed have six horses: two red dun mares, one bay roan mare, a chestnut mare, a beautiful seal bay mare, and a dapple gray stallion. The seal bay and dapple gray intrigued me; I’d never seen horses of those colors outside the steppes, and these were all stocky Hokkaran workhorses.
Where had she gotten them?
Inside, a serving girl greeted me with a cheery face despite what I looked like, despite the blood I tracked into the house. Ren led me upstairs. The fact that she had an upstairs at all spoke well of her status. There are Ikhthian nobles who dream of having furnishings as beautiful as the ones I saw that day. Fine silk divans, gauzy curtains swaying gently in the nighttime air; plums of incense smoke imparting intoxicating scents. This was the sort of home even you would take pride in.
So the oil had to be around here somewhere. She had lanterns, after all, and if she could keep lanterns burning, certainly she could keep me burning.
She led us to her bedroom, and I saw no lanterns there. Only candles shining with dim orange light. What if she wasn’t going to give it to me? What if I had to find it somewhere else? What if I had to break into someone’s home and steal it? Was I capable of such a thing?
The whole room smelled of flowers. They almost drowned out the scent of sex, the scent of burning.
I was in a singing girl’s bedchamber at Second Bell while you ran through the woods, trying to find me.
“Take a seat anywhere you would like,” she said.
I did not sit. I stood and crossed my arms. Ren was fiddling with something in the corner of her room, something on a shelf. When she finally turned, I realized what it was: a small portable shrine, similar to the one you had. Two little statues—one of the Grandmother and one of the Daughter—held unburnt prayer tags. The foxhead sat between them. Grandmother and Daughter—Ren had to have been born in either a first year or an eighth year, then. Eight years older than me, or eight years older than you.
Was that why I liked her so much? I did not think much of Hokkaran astrology, but the coincidence stuck out like a bone in thin stew. One of those idols was her birth year, and one was her chosen patron.
Which was which?
“This mask belonged to my father,” she said. “He fought in the Qorin war against Sur-Shar, and when that was done, he went to the Wall to help send the blackbloods back.”
She touched the edges of the mask as if she were touching her father’s face. When she looked to me, she wiped away another tear.
“That was why, when Kato told me what you had done, I was so impressed,” she said.
A knock at the door. The serving girl came in just long enough to set a tray down on a nightstand. On it, a bottle of plum wine and two small cups. Ren sniffled, but that did not stop her reaching for the wine. She held her billowing sleeve back as she poured into the cups. Her bare wrist was pale as her namesake, small and delicate and—
Like yours. Like your small hands beating at my face, trying to get me to stop hurting you and—
“Barsalai?” Ren was speaking to me.
I’d closed my eyes to shut out the image of you. Now I opened them and found that she, too, looked wounded.
She slid over the cup of wine. “Drink,” she said. “You look like a woman who needs it.”
I was a woman who needed oil. Not alcohol. But I did not have much to counter that with. It’d been some time since I last had plum wine, at any rate. I sighed and tipped the cup to my lips. It tasted like dirt, which didn’t much surprise me. Foolish of me to hope it’d be any different.
“Barsalai,” she said, tutting softly. “Something wears on you.”
She reached for me; I drew away. No. No one could touch me. I did not deserve such sympathy, nor the wine that I continued to drink. This entire situation was preposterous.
Ren must’ve realized her doting was getting her nowhere. She finished her cup and set it down. Then she held up the mask again. “Do you know how many years my father wore this?”
I studied it. Whoever cast it did a fine job—the fox’s whiskers stood out now after at least a century—but nicks and scratches betrayed its age.
“Many,” I said.
Ren nodded. “Twenty years,” she said. “He stopped only when he lost his left eye.”
My head hurt when she said that—a sudden, sharp pain, like an arrow in my skull. I rubbed my eyes to deal with it, but it was gone within a few seconds.
“I was ten, I think, when that happened. Kato was five. All of us moved back to Imakane, where my father was born. With the money the Son of Heaven provided him, he bought a plot of land.” A fond smile crossed her face. “Would you believe I was a country girl?”
I shook my head. This village was not Fujino, but Ren made it seem bigger just by being in it.
“I was,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to go to the capital, but back then it was just an idle dream. My father thought he had two sons in those days. Perhaps he sought to marry me off to some other farmer’s daughter.”
* * *
I LET OUT a soft sound as it all fell into place. So that was why she kept so many horses! Like the healers of my people, she was a sanvaartain. With the proper medicines, she could change her body into one that suited her. Now her Qorin mentors made sense.
“I think I would have gone already, if the Yellow Scarves hadn’t attacked us. But they did. They were hungry, they claimed, and ours was the only farm that bore crop that season. So they took everything, torched the land, and killed my parents.”
She said it softly, quieter than a whisper. I fought the urge to touch her shoulder. I wanted to comfort her somehow. I know what it is like to lose family. I know what it is like to be alone.
But my hands were no longer meant for comforting. The moment I reached out, I caught sight of my talons and drew back. No.
“I’ve been here, trying to earn enough so that Kato and I can move to Fujino together,” she said.
Silence followed. Oil. Ask her for the oil. A great pyre I’d light, and she’d see it here from her balcony and know that I was free. Oil.
But Ren stood from the bed. Without her wooden sandals, she was smaller than I thought. I could see her pulse as she came closer. One, two, one two—I could see it. I bit my lip and resolved to look at her hands, and only her hands.
Except I saw her pulse there, too.
Urges. Half of me screamed to pin her against the wall and tear out her throat. The other half still wanted to pin her to the wall, still wanted to press my teeth to her neck—but that was different. Singing girl. I could make her do more than sing, if she wanted me.
But neither of those things were me, neither of those were my thoughts, so why was it that I kept thinking them? Why did I keep hearing them over and over when all I wanted to do was die?
I pressed myself flat against the wall.
“Barsalai,” she said. “Did something happen at the cave?”
Did something happen at the cave? she asked, as if I wanted to speak about this at all with someone I barely knew. Yes, something happened at the cave. I proved I’m a worthless human being.
Save that I was no longer human.
I massaged my temples. Biting my lip, I nodded.
“I thought as much,” she said. “That is why you want oil today, and not food.”
Again I nodded. Just give me the oil. Just give me the oil and let me jump into the fire; better that than live and continue hurting you.
“Was she hurt?” Ren asked. “The woman you wanted to buy food for.”
I was a waterskin, pierced by an arrow. Something within me just … just burst. And before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor of a singing girl’s home in tears.
“I did it,” I kept repeating. “I hurt her, I almost killed her and I couldn’t stop.…”
Clutching my knees, I was clutching my knees, rocking back and forth. Horrible, weepy moans left me. At times I’d tug at my hair or rake my cheeks. Ren sat in front of me, whispering words I did not quite understand in the haze of my depression. I remember her saying she was going to hold me, I remember that. I remember how she struggled to fit her arms around me because of our disparate sizes. I remember how much she looked like you: small, dark, delicate, like a porcelain doll I’d nearly shattered.
I let her hold me. I let her hold me because I knew I was never going to let you do it again. Not with what had happened.
I do not know how long I was weeping, only that by the time I was done, my voice was hoarse and my eyes ached. It was only then that I began to hear what Ren was saying.
“You must keep going, Barsalai,” she said. “For all those who cannot.”
“Why?” I snapped. “Why bother?”
At this she pursed her lips. “Because we need hope,” she said.
I hung my head. Hope. As if I could provide such a thing.
Ren stood, all at once, and reached for the shrine. “You are the only one who has ever helped us,” she said. “Really helped us. The guards sit on their haunches and complain of danger; the captains on the Wall don’t pay attention to commoners. Only you helped us. Only you have lived, where everyone else has died.”
I wished I were dead, too. I looked up at her and frowned.
“There will be other villages,” she said. “Other singing girls who need help. There will be soldiers, once afraid of the blackblood, who remember that you’ve conquered it. Barsalai, you must keep going.”
“I hurt her,” I said.
“Does she live?” asked Ren.
I nodded. Yes, I’d seen you get up. You were alive, thank the gods.
“Then you have to see her again,” she said, “if only to apologize.” Ren sat near me again. With shaking hands, she offered me her father’s mask. “Here,” she said. “Wear it and remember: You are a hero in Shiseiki.”
I stared at it, stared at her.
“Take it,” she said.
“It was your father’s,” I said.
She nodded slowly. She touched the fox’s muzzle one last time. “It was,” she said. “But he cannot wear it now. So I think it is right for you to have it.”
I stared at the mask.
Yes, it was a fine piece of craftsmanship. Every hair on the fox’s muzzle ached to be petted. Wrinkles around its eyes suggested mischievous mirth. Ren was being humble about her father. Only officers receive war masks of this quality. Such a thing could easily fetch five hundred ryo at market. More, if the buyer, like my brother, delighted in historical artifacts. That was more than enough to leave this village. It was enough to feed a village.
Yet here she was, offering it to a woman she’d known for all of a day.
I shook my head. “I cannot,” I said.
Ren pursed her lips. “Barsalai, please,” she said. “It is the only thing of value I can give you.”
“Why?” I asked, meeting her gaze. Why give me anything at all? I’d only asked for oil.
Yet she did not waver. There was so much about her that reminded me of you, Shizuka—a different version of you. For she, too, was small as a yearling, but coltish and stubborn. I saw in her eyes and the set of her dainty feet that she was not going to let me win.
“You know the story of Minami Shiori and the fox woman?” she asked. Of course I did. I’d only heard you tell it forty times.
One day, while walking through the woods, a distraught woman came running up to your ancestor. The woman, dressed in finery, claimed that she was part of the Son of Heaven’s caravan. Bandits had just attacked. The guard captain was among the slain. She needed someone to fight back, and Minami Shiori was the first person she saw holding a sword.
Instantly Shiori was suspicious. Fine though the woman’s robes were, they were also old—the sort of thing a grandmother might wear.
“My lady,” said Shiori, “you understand, the gods are at war—these are troubling times. Swear on the Eight that the Son of Heaven is truly in danger, and I will go.”
At this the woman faltered. She hemmed and hawed and tried to find a way out of it. Just as Shiori was about to draw her blade, the woman spoke.
“I swear to you on the Eight,” she said, “that the Son of Heaven is truly in danger, and I will truly take you to his side.”
It is well known no one can break an Eightfold Oath. So Shiori followed the woman without reservation. Sure enough, she did come upon the Son of Heaven tied to a tree. Sure enough, his entire coterie lay as corpses around him, with holes where their hearts should’ve been.
It was then that the woman rounded on Shiori. She’d kept her word, for she’d brought her back to an endangered Emperor. But that was where the oath ended. As she fixed Shiori with her heart-piercing glare, she was sure of her victory.
But Minami Shiori knew the instant she laid eyes on the Emperor what had happened. She drew her blade and sheath, then held her sheath before her face.
“Will you not put your weapons down?” cooed the fox woman. “I mean you no harm.”
“You mean to kill me,” she said, “and bewitch the Emperor besides. No, I shall not put my sword down.”
She crept closer, staring at the fox woman’s feet to judge distance. Fox paws peeked out from beneath the hem of her robes.
“But must you kill me, my darling?” said the fox woman. “For I have loved you long from afar, and I know all the secrets of your body. Come to me, lie with me, and I will make you strong enough to conquer Hokkaro.”
Shiori took another step forward, and another, and another. Eventually she did drop her sword and sheath—but she never looked directly at the creature. It wrapped its arms around her, pulled her in close—
And it was then that Shiori struck. She pulled a knife from inside her sleeve and slipped it between the fox woman’s ribs. After the creature crumpled to the ground, she cut off one of its nine tails, and dabbed the blood on the Emperor’s lips. This broke the fox woman’s spell.
That is not a very good telling of the story. I am certain that, reading this, you are shaking your head, lamenting some part I’ve forgotten. I know Shiori says something before she stabs the fox woman in your version. I do not know what it is. Something full of bravado, probably. I will let you fill in that detail now, as you are reading.
“I don’t know much about your condition,” Ren had continued, “or how it affects you. But I do know you are more of a hero than Minami-zuo was. All she had to do was resist a fox woman. Difficult, but it is something anyone might do if they put their mind to it.”
She paused and touched my face. I do not want you to think it was an amorous sort of touch; it was not. Concern, pity, sympathy—these things dominated her features. If she’d wanted to bed me, she would have made it clear, Shizuka; this was nothing more than comfort.
“What you fight is much worse. It is not a fox woman, standing in front of you. It’s in your blood,” she said. Her hand hovered over my heart, but she did not touch it. Already she was treading on broken ice. If she touched my heart, she’d fall into the frozen water. “Barsalai, I cannot know how you suffer. But you must keep fighting her, this fox woman in your veins. Your Empress is helpless until it is slain. If you give in, she, too, will wither and die.”
I find it strange, to this day, that she chose a story about Minami Shiori to make her point. Why not one about Emperor Yone, or the Gray Master? Or Yusuke the Brawler?
Why choose a story about one of your ancestors saving another?
Something about this struck me. At times, Shizuka, life is like watching pine needles falling into poems.
And you and I, well …
“Take the mask, Barsalai,” she said. “Mock your temptations. Do not let them rule you. Your Empress needs you.”
I looked down at the laughing fox.
I thought of you in the woods alone, with no idea how to hunt and less idea how to make a camp. No—that wasn’t right. You knew how to make a camp, didn’t you? My mother sent you out a day’s ride from the clan once, on your own, so that you’d learn how to set up a tent and hunt for your own food. She left you there for a whole week before she allowed me to go to you. I was terrified that you’d be lost or hungry, but there you were hale as ever. You’d coaxed a birch tree from the ground and slung a blanket over its lowest branch in lieu of a real tent. Your campfire was badly made, and by all rights should not have lasted an hour, let alone however long you’d been keeping it. Next to the fire was a pot full of berries not native to the steppes. On second glance many of the same berries grew on the birch tree, somehow, though they don’t normally bear fruit. You had a single marmot cooking on a spit above the flames. You had not bothered to skin it. Did the smell of burning fur not bother you?
“Cheater,” I said.
You laughed. “To survive is Qorin, isn’t it?” you said. “Your mother said I should use all the tools available to me.”
You and I both knew she hadn’t meant divine tools.
But you and I both knew that I wasn’t going to tell her.
Now, even as the memory hurt me, it brought me comfort. You could hunt. Not well, but you could. You had my tent. If an animal approached you, then you had your sword. When it came to survival you’d get by, as you always did.
But what about you? About us? I tried to kill you and then left without saying anything at all. That would shatter the hardest of hearts.
And so I put on the mask.
Ren’s smile was one of teary-eyed relief. She threw her arms around me and held me tight for a few beats. “Barsalai,” she said, “you may have whatever you wish from my home. If you … If you still want the oil…”
I shook my head. “Food,” I said. “I will return in the morning for it.”
Together we rose. She gave a short bow. “Good,” she said. “I shall watch for your mare. And, Barsalai?”
I turned, one hand on the sliding screen.
“I hope I will see you again.”
There is a certain pain one feels at times. Not from a wound, but from the anticipation of the wound. In that instant before blade meets flesh, already you can imagine what the cut will be like. Your mind hurts you before the metal does.
That moment, I think, was an arrow soaring toward me.
“I do, too,” I said.
I rode into the forest like a crack of thunder. Our camp didn’t take long to reach. When I arrived, I saw only our tent, only the trappings we’d left behind. I did not see you. I did not see your stout red gelding. I swallowed the worry rising in my throat and closed my eyes.
I have known you all my life, Shizuka. I have played with you in the gardens of Fujino; I have slaved over letters written in a language I could barely read, I have shared a bed with you, I have held you at the moment of your small death. Part of a person’s soul is in their scent: I have half of yours, and you have half of mine.
On some level, I knew this. So when I took a deep breath of the forest air, I knew what I was looking for. Your scent. Your steel peony scent.
I caught a glimmer of it to the east. I urged Alsha in that direction, standing in the saddle to get a better view of things. The scent of you grew stronger and stronger. But there was another smell, too, just as floral.
At last, I spotted familiar felt. There was my tent, flung over a low hanging branch. Bright white lilies surrounded it, lilies I’d only seen in the Imperial Gardens. At the center of the flowers, just in front of the tent, you sat with your arms around your knees. Twigs and petals alike were entangled in your now-messy hair; your cheeks were puffy and your eyes were red from all the tears.
But it was you.
“Shizuka!”
When you turned and saw me, your eyes went dawn-bright, your mouth hung open. “Shefali!” you cried. You ran to me. The flowers parted for you.
I jumped off Alsha and met you halfway, and you slammed into me with as much force as your small body could muster. I staggered backwards a step or two as you squeezed me tighter than ever before.
I kissed your forehead, kissed your hair, took deep breaths of your soul. I counted all your fingers, checked you for injury. You were fine. Thank the gods, you were fine. Weeping, but fine.
The gasps that left you reminded me of a mewling kitten. Tears rained down from your eyes; snot dripped from your button nose. You beat my chest with your tiny fists.
“Idiot!” you said amid the weeping. “Running off like that, after saying what you did…”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. Gods, but you kept crying and crying—you gasped for breath. “But you need to breathe, Shizuka.”
You kept beating at me, raking your nails down my deel. “I didn’t know where you were, Shefali, you left me alone and—”
You gulped in a deep breath. When you next opened your mouth, only syllables came out, not real words. Still you beat at me. Breathe, I said, and I remembered to do it so you’d have something to emulate. In, out, in, out.
Suddenly you grabbed fistfuls of my deel and buried your head in its roomy chest pocket. You slipped one hand inside, laid your palm flat against my heart.
“Shefali,” you whimpered. “Shefali, I didn’t know how … how hard it was for you.”
Was I worth all those tears, was I truly worth them?
Bruises circled your throat where my hands had been. I touched one now.
You shook your head. “Don’t,” you said, “don’t dwell on that.”
“But—”
“Don’t!” you snapped. A sob left you. You caressed my cheek with your head still buried against my chest. Do not dwell on it. Do not dwell on nearly killing you.
Your eyes were red as the peonies you so treasured. “Listen to me,” you said, your fingers trailing over my lips. “Heart of my heart, listen well. Today will be the first and last time you hurt me.”
I brought my brows together. You sniffed once and drew away just enough for us to look at each other eye to eye. Or as close to that as we could get, considering the height difference.
You stood proud as ever, straight backed, with your head held high. Salt trails, bloodshot eyes—these were the remnants of your previous mood. But you’d cast it aside like sullied armor.
You’d become the Empress again.
“When we were three,” you said, “we met for the first time. I saw you and I felt something horrible in my bones, something awful and great. Even as a child, I knew that I could never be free of you. And, young as I was, I rankled at that idea. So, I lashed out. I tried to rid myself of you. I tried to kill you.”
You paused, your regal mask dropping for an instant. You looked at your feet.
“I do not think you remember this, and you are better for it.”
I did not want to tell you that I did remember. You had not yet finished speaking, and I knew interrupting you would stifle the courage you’d mustered.
“I have spent years atoning for that,” you said. “I hold you dear as air, dear as light, dear as flame and earth. All my life I’ve … I’ve endeavored to show you how I feel. And I may not be my father, I may not be a poet, I may not make the flowers weep—but my actions, I hope, have spoken as loud as thunder.”
You bit your lip.
“Yet when I look back on them, I see constant missteps,” you continued. “You would not bear tiger stripes on your shoulder if I hadn’t insisted on camping out. And—”
You drew a deep, sharp breath.
“And if the blackblood has driven you to such violent acts, it is only because I encouraged us to go into the temple. This yoke you wear, I have placed upon you.”
You could not have known. You could not have known we’d be bested, or that I would be infected. It was not your fault, Shizuka; you sought only to fulfill the destiny you so longed for. You would’ve gone with or without me.
If the price of keeping you safe is this walking damnation, then I do not mind. As long as you are safe, my Shizuka. As long as you are safe.
“Shizuka—”
“Beloved, I am not done,” you said. “This curse in your blood is not an enemy I can cut down—but it is something you can fight. And I will help you in whatever ways I can, insignificant though they may be. Whatever it takes to master this beast, Shefali. We will track down monks and sages. We will visit butchers together. I will hold you back and watch with you as the animals are slaughtered, that you might learn self-control. I will stand before you with an outstretched hand, my love, and if the time should ever come when you succumb—”
You swallowed.
“—then I shall be there to free you of your suffering,” you said, your voice cracking. Tears streamed anew down your face. “This I swear to you. No longer will we take comfort in hollow platitudes. It is time we took the field.”
You held yourself with renewed purpose. I stared at you, unable to think of words. How was I to thank you?
I drew you close and kissed you quick, and beneath our canvas tent we shed our clothing together for the first time in months.