When you received it, you were in the drawing room, playing go with Baozhai. You were losing, which surprised absolutely no one, but you were losing more graciously than usual. A cup of plum wine sat near your hand on the table. Baozhai teased you about your reckless tactics; you teased her for being so cautious. In the other corner of the room, Kenshiro tried to teach me to play a simple melody on the shamisen.
It was a hazy, warm moment, shattered utterly when the Imperial Courier joined us. He didn’t bother greeting Kenshiro and Baozhai; he went straight to you and prostrated himself.
“Your Imperial Highness,” he said. “The Son of Heaven sends you this.”
All the comfort drained away from you. “My uncle?” you said. Your eyes fell on the scroll, on its seal. “You came all the way from Fujino? How did you find me?”
The messenger kept his eyes on the ground. “Highness,” he said, “I was sent from the Son of Heaven’s caravan. When I left, he was two days from Xian-Lai. He will be arriving tomorrow.”
You could do little to hide your shock. I went to your side immediately, positioning myself so that no one could see you shaking.
“Tomorrow?” you repeated. “You jest. The Son of Heaven right outside our walls, and no one noticed?”
“Highness, His Majesty ordered any who saw him to silence. He wished to speak with you personally, and has sent this letter in advance.”
You twisted toward Kenshiro. “Are your guards blind?” you snapped.
Kenshiro flinched.
You pressed your lips together and sighed. “I … did not mean to be so rude, Oshiro-lao.”
Kenshiro, shoulders slumped, nodded. “Considering the circumstances, anger is an acceptable response,” he said. “I am sorry, Lady of Ink, that you did not have more time to prepare.”
“You,” you said, waving to the messenger. “Wait for my response outside. When it is ready, you will be summoned.”
“The Son of Heaven requested I stay at your side.”
“The Son of Heaven,” you said, “is not present. You will wait outside.”
The messenger was not allowed to look you in the eyes, but he did stare at your feet in confusion. Either he could obey the (absent) Emperor’s orders and upset you, or he could listen to you and risk the Emperor’s ire. Technically, your uncle outranked you, and he was the only person living who did. In practice, you were the demonslayer, your calligraphy adorned official documents, your father’s poetry was read by lovers everywhere, your mother’s techniques obsessively studied by expert swordsmen.
Your uncle had the throne, but you had the people’s hearts.
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.”
In better times, Baozhai might have laughed at that. Things being what they were she only pressed her lips into the ghost of a smile—but I knew from her posture she appreciated the levity. “With all due respect, Lady,” she said, “I do not run from challenges, either. The Bronze Palace will be ready.”
She was right, of course. Baozhai is one of a precious handful of women who makes things true by saying them aloud. Just as I always believed you when it came to our future, when it came to swords and ink, I always believed Baozhai when it came to the palace. The flurry of servants preparing for the visit was chaotic, at first, but only as bees flitting about their hives are chaotic to anyone but a bee.
We had two days to prepare for the tournament proper, but less for the early arrivals. Some lords like to impose upon others for as long as they possibly can. This is true for my people, as well. During the Festival of Manly Arts, there is always one chief who arrives four days too early so his people can have their fill of candied horsemeat.
After you sent your letter back with the messenger, only two hours passed before the first Xianese lord arrived. His name was Lord Shu, ruler of Xian-Shu, which lay on the western coast. Baozhai was not concerned with impressing him; I overheard her lamenting the dilapidated state of his own holdings at dinner once. The Bronze Palace on its own was spledid enough to humble him. His retinue consisted of his wife, young daughter, and two adult sons.
Both of whom were fool enough to challenge you. Foolish of them. You were already upset, and you needed something to do to let off steam.
Shu Huhai, the elder son, went first. In place of the straight sword favored by most Hokkarans, he used a club nearly as tall as you were. The thing was thick as my forearm and plated in steel. I’ve no idea where he found it or where he got the idea it would be useful in battle. It weighed as much as a child.
Shu Huhai stood tall enough that you had to crane your neck to look at him, and broad as two Hokkarans across. When he entered the dueling ring, he grunted and growled, and rolled his head from side to side like an animal.
“You do not wear any armor, Lady of Ink!” he shouted. “Have your servants fetch some for you, you will need it!”
“I will not,” you said.
And, yes, you stood in that same peacock dress. Your delicate, bare feet met the fresh-tilled ground. If it were not for the sheath in your hand, you would not look like a warrior at all.
“You fight me in your court frippery?” Shu Huhai said.
“I will have you know this dress was made for me by the finest tailor in Xian, and given to me by one of my best friends,” you said. “But, yes, I shall fight you in it. And I will win, without a single feather hitting the ground.”
“Very well,” said Shu Huhai. “You face your defeat bravely, and I admire that in a woman.”
It was predictable of him to heft up his club. For his first strike, he twisted at the hips just to get enough momentum going. An amateur move. Hips and shoulders give away a strike before it’s made. To be so graceless and brazen … well, it made your job very easy.
For the club was so heavy that it took him a moment to lift it, and in that moment, you ran toward him on his off side. With a flash of your blade, blood spurted from beneath his arm. By the time he’d staggered back into his stance, he’d already lost, and you were flicking his blood off your mother’s sword.
He stomped away as loud as he stomped in.
“You face defeat with cowardice!” you called out with a grin. “I admire a man who knows his place!”
Your second duel that day was with Shu Guang, the younger son. He was tall as his brother, though not so broad. Our age, I think.
When he entered the dueling ring, he had the sense to bow to you. “Lady of Ink,” he said. “I am honored to face you today.”
“You will be just as honored when you leave, Lord Shu,” you said. “Let us make this quick.”
And quick it was. Shu Guang fought with a straight sword. Not so thin as the Hokkaran one—this was a tapered thing, thin at the hilt and broad at the tip, made for slashing rather than piercing. Apparently no one informed him of this, as his opening stroke was a thrust for your stomach. You parried it with your sheath and knocked him in the nose with your pommel.
I admit I laughed watching it. You broke the poor boy’s nose for first blood. He was, by far, the most approachable of all the suitors that came for you that day—and you broke his nose.
Shizuka, my darling Shizuka, I wonder at times how you have not broken my nose. But then again, you have tried to kill me.
But on that day, when your first two duels were done, I stood at your side.
“How many more can there be?” you said. “If they are all so unskilled, I can duel fifty. But if they are not…”
“Eighty,” I said. “Challenging.”
I said it warmly, to try to distract you from the gravity of the situation. You have always preferred a challenging fight, but you do not often meet someone who can offer you one.
Your smile was so slight, it might’ve been a trick of the light.
“Shefali,” you said. You entwined your pinky with mine. Such a small gesture—but if any of the lords present saw, it’d mean rumors. “What if I lose?”
I looked down at you. You hold yourself with such dignity that I forget how small you are. You are a phoenix crammed into a woman’s body; you are fire shaped into flesh; you are the sky at sunrise; how is it that you are so small?
But before you are any of those things, you are a woman. And you were a girl then, not yet eighteen. An orphan in expensive clothing; a girl facing the threat of a marriage she did not want.
I had to keep you safe from all this.
Yet there was nothing I could do. Only stand at your side and cheer you on as the duels kept coming, one after another. Besides Lord Shu’s sons, there were ten more on that first day. Twenty on the second. None of them posed you any real threat; you dispatched them all with a single stroke each.
One-Stroke Shizuka, they began to call you when they thought no one was listening. I’ve heard that name even here.
Yet despite the ease with which you fought, the stress wore on you. Whenever someone arrived, you’d have to perform a different version of the Eightfold Blessing, accept whatever gifts they offered, and keep a smile on your face, knowing they’d come only to conquer you. To own you. To brand you like a wayward mare.
I stood at your side through all of it. You could not touch me, you could not hold me, but you spoke of me whenever you could.
“This is my dearest friend, Barsalyya Shefali,” you’d say. “You have not greeted her; is it customary in Xian to ignore demonslayers?”
I never knew how to react when you did this. How to stand. Was I supposed to straighten my back and shoulders, bring my legs together like a good Hokkaran girl? Was I to remain bow-legged and silent, your dark shadow?
All I knew was that you needed me. So I forced a close-lipped smile when the dignitaries butchered my name. I nodded when they thanked me for my service, not knowing what that service might be.
You sang my praises and I hummed along. I knew the melody, but not the words.
It was Fifth Bell. Kenshiro and Baozhai were showing the lords of Xian-Lun and Xian-Qin around the Bronze Palace; we had a few moments to ourselves.
Tugging my sleeve, you took me into a spare room and slid the screen closed. “Shefali,” you said, your voice quivering. “Shefali, there are so many people here. I saw Ikkimura and his wife. If the Eastern Conqueror is here, then West, North, and South are, too.”
I loved my brother dearly, but I still hadn’t said a word to him. Only a dozen or so people, he’d said. A small little tournament to welcome me home, just a way to race around nobles.
If he had only told us what your uncle was threatening, we could’ve done something about it. Could we not have? Oh, it is a fool’s errand to dwell on such things, but I spend so many nights wondering what would have happened differently. Perhaps we could have met your uncle at court. Perhaps he would not have been there, then. But we would have crossed paths eventually.
Kenshiro, for his part, did not impose his presence on us. What he’d done was beyond mending in one day, or two, or three. If we made it through the tournament without issue, then you might take your first steps toward forgiveness.
But as things stood—no, we would not talk to him.
But you and I were together then, in a room away from all the commotion, from all the difficult emotions. And I had not seen you so terrified in years.
“Shizuka,” I said. From side to side, we swayed. “We will be fine.”
“Nozawa is here,” you said. “I know he is. I have yet to see him, but I can feel his filth.”
There are some men who look at a woman as if they’re already holding a knife to her throat. There are men whose eyes are wandering, unwanted hands. There are men who by their posture alone can make a woman feel violated. Nozawa Kagemori was the king of those men. Thinking of the years we’d spent apart—the years he spent near you, when you were a young girl—made my stomach churn.
“You have me,” I said.
You pinched my cheeks with none of your customary enthusiasm, as if the motion alone would cheer you. The ghost of a smile appeared on your lips. “I do,” you said. “But, Shefali, what if I must duel him?”
“You’ll win,” I said.
Silence.
Silence?
Gods, I ached to see you like this.
So I took your right hand, and I held it up to the light. An old arrowhead scar stood out in a patina against your pale skin. I traced it before placing my palm over yours. Scar met scar.
Like swallowing a star.
“We are gods,” I said. “Gods do not lose.”
When your eyes met mine, a thousand lifetimes passed between us.
Until someone came running to the door and knelt outside.
“Your Imperial Highness, His Majesty the Son of Heaven has arrived and demands your presence.”
“Come with me,” you said. “I can’t do this without you.”
We made our way out of the palace. Baozhai insisted that the tournament take place two li off the palace grounds; even the Emperor could not sway the Bronze Lady’s insistence. And, to be fair, it was a much nicer setup than we would have had inside the palace. Guards lined the whole path, bowing their heads to you as you went. Though I followed only eight steps behind, they stood upright after I passed. Every eighth guard bore an Imperial banner: entwined dragon and phoenix. The arena itself was a large square with one of the four gentleman trees at each corner. Young musicians stood in the shadow of the trees. Girls played zither and Sister’s strings; a boy played the drums. Holy incense swirled gray poetry onto the wind.
And at the center of it all—his litter set up nearest to the plum tree—was your uncle. He was as fat as I remembered. Sunlight highlighted the greasy sweat on his face. His lips reminded me of overripe fruit.
At his side, three wives. The elder was the one I’d seen all those years ago in Fujino, my father’s first love. To my surprise, she still wore the Phoenix Crown—yet all the housings were empty. It was little more than a bronze circlet without the feathers. Perhaps it was their lack that made her seem stark now, and I wondered if my father still found her beautiful. Where her husband was round and wet, she was dry and thin. Not slender. Thin.
The other two wives I’d not seen before. Neither was older than us. One had a pair of striking green eyes that spoke of Qorin heritage; the other was a Surian beauty with smooth, obsidian skin, whose brown hair hung in a hundred small braids. Back home, only my mother wore so many braids; in Sur-Shar, many is the norm.
That was the first time I’d ever seen a Surian in the flesh. If your calligraphy sprang to life, it would look rather like her.
We came to a stop before the Emperor. In all of Hokkaro, you are the only one who is not required to prostrate herself before the Emperor. Instead, you gave him as small a nod as you could manage.
And you did not wait for him to speak.
“Uncle,” you said. The eldest wife swallowed her own tongue in shock. “Your retinue is marvelous, of course, and your robe exquisitely tailored. Your wives thrice bless you with their beauty, wit, and charm. Your calligraphy has improved from the last time you sent me a letter. Life has been kind to you.”
To this day, I marvel at how you managed to insult him and praise him at the same time. Where was the frightened girl from a few moments ago? In her place was a woman crafted from jade and steel and silk.
Yes, you stood unblinking, and when your uncle rose to his feet, you did not flinch.
“Shizuka,” he said, “were you not the daughter of our brother, we’d have you executed.”
And I admit that I had to stifle a growl when he said this. I bit into the back of my palm to hide it.
But it did not bother you. For all you spoke of being afraid, it did not bother you.
“Uncle,” you said, “with all due respect, that would leave only ghosts to sit on the throne after you. And my grandfather detested ghosts.”
I scanned the attendees. Uemura, in golden armor, hovered near the Imperial litter. The four direction generals were, I assumed, the four men standing behind the makeshift throne. Kenshiro was pale as my—
My father.
My father was on the Emperor’s right, standing next to Kenshiro. When I was young, I thought he was tall. I saw then that he was not; he came only up to Kenshiro’s shoulders. What little hair he’d clung to in his youth had all fallen out.
I shook my head. I had not seen my father since … I could not remember. So what if he was here? He would not speak to me. He would not acknowledge me.
I owed him no more than what he gave me.
“We see we’ve arrived as the Grandfather wills,” said your uncle. “This willful nature—your mother’s shadow—cannot be permitted to continue. You shall find a husband here. You shall marry him, before the tournament is over, and you shall resume a quiet life in Fujino.”
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.”
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.
“For all your talk,” said Kagemori, “in the end, you are just an orphan with her mother’s sword.”
For a moment, you froze. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Nothing save wordless growls.
Kagemori walked closer to you, drew his finger across his ruined face. “Look at what you did to me,” he said. “Do you think your mother would be proud of such behavior?”
“Silence!” you screamed.
“Do you think your father would write poetry about you, when you cut a man across the face because he dared to long for you?”
“I was a child!” you said. Your voice cracked. “I was thirteen! You had no right to speak to me in such a way, you had no right—”
“If I had no right,” Kagemori said, “then prove it.”
You charged again, like some fool recruit, like some ten-year-old playing with a wooden sword. There was no grace. No elegance. It was not you.
And you were easily parried, easily riposted, easily …
Easily cut by the man you hated most.
Two-thirds of your right ear hung uselessly from a thin flap of skin. The cut that severed it continued across your face, crossing over the bridge of your nose and nearly hitting your eye. It was an awful thing, a foul cut that wept the second it was created.
You screamed. I do not blame you, Shizuka, but you screamed and held your ear.
“My face!” you said. “My ear!”
Everything from your cheeks down was red, red, red. You kept screaming, Shizuka, and you fell to your knees clutching your face in agony and he …
Screams, gasps from the onlookers. Imperial Guards gripped their spears with white knuckles, waiting for the order to take him in.
Even your uncle stood. Even he looked to Kagemori in horror. How dare he hurt a member of the Imperial Family in such a way? He had the chance to give you a small, harmless injury—and he severed your ear.
But he laughed. Nozawa Kagemori laughed, and I roared.
Pain. Gods, it hurt. My jaw snapped and grew. Fangs pushed their way up through my gums. Crimson clouds swirled before me. Snapping bones; a sudden push.
Was I getting bigger?
I do not know. To this day, Shizuka, I do not know what I looked like at that moment. Some fearsome thing far from the girl you grew up with. Those crude talons were not the fingers that ran down your back at night. That jagged-toothed mouth was not meant for kissing.
No, I’d become something great and shadowy and awful.
And I was livid.
I did not see in the normal way. When you see a thing, you use your eyes. Demons do not. The best way I can describe it is to say that I was imagining people. My sense of smell was so acute, I could smell everyone, everything. A guard’s rancid armpits, a savory roll tucked into a noble’s pocket for later, the perfume of a rich singing girl clinging to a warrior’s sweat.
Sweet fear. Bitter anger, stuck in my throat with every breath. Ten. Ten, twelve? Maybe twelve. Hard to tell. Fear. Fear everywhere. Breathe deeper. You. You, find you, must find you, if I didn’t know which one was you, I might hurt you—
Deep breaths, Steel-Eye. I needed time to think, time to orient myself, but I could not make myself stop. It was as if I were locked within a puppet, watching someone else tug my strings. Only the most primal, shallow thoughts remained.
All around me, the clatter of steel, of wood. Boots on the hard ground. Dust in my nostrils, then in my lungs.
“Blackblood!”
“Beast!”
“Demon!”
Me, they were talking about me, and yet—not me, not Shefali.
Steel-Eye.
Yes, that was my name, wasn’t it? It had always been my name, though there were years I’d never acknowledged it. Steel-Eye. The woman you loved was someone different.
Howls. Screaming. I let the sound peal from my throat, louder than all of them combined. They wanted something to fear? All right. Steel-Eye was horrifying, wasn’t she?
Yes, she was. I smelled sticky, stale urine; fear fear fear.
How intoxicating it was, to know how much they feared me! At last, I was giving them a reason!
But—
Was that really how I felt? How Shefali felt? Or was it only Steel-Eye?
Speak. I had to force myself to speak. Remember the still water, remember who I was, remember you standing in front of the butcher’s desk, cutting meat so I’d have company.
“Leave!”
The others were still here. Easy to forget them when my own thoughts were so disturbing. I saw them staring back at me. I saw them bringing the story of this moment back to their families, to their loved ones. I saw myself through their eyes, but it was not I, it was not—
Had that been my voice? Had I said “leave”?
Fists meeting dirt. My fists? They had to be; I knew all those scars. Why didn’t it hurt? I felt pain, but not much. Someone was laughing laughing laughing, screaming, screaming, and with a dull horror, I realized—
That was my voice.
Visions of the guards before me. I smelled their histories, smelled their souls, and my mind built some sort of image to match. Little girls with wooden swords. Old men with canes. Boys wearing girl clothes, before they knew they were boys.
“Kill it!” they shouted.
“No, don’t!”
Your voice. That was your voice!
A whistling spear flew toward me. I raised my hand, let it through; pain does not matter, to survive is Qorin. My bones shook, my flesh split—but the shaft was still there. I tore it out. Black blood coated the wood; I broke it and threw it away before it infected someone.
There were more coming.
I ducked down, closer to the ground. Instinct drove me. I ran forward. Charged through them. How easy it was! What if I rammed them against the wall, what if I bit into them, what if—?
They were so soft!
No, I couldn’t kill them. That was not me. That was not Shefali thinking. But I could not stop—the bodies slammed into my back and I reared up and roared as loud as I could. Maybe they’d run. I hoped they did. If they ran, they’d be safe from me.
But he wasn’t.
Closer. I could smell you, smell him.
Smell the thing inside him.
That is the thing about how demons see the world, Shizuka. We do not much care for your physical appearance. We learn everything we need to know about you, everything that ever was or would be about you, from smelling you.
Part of a person’s soul is in their scent.
And where Kagemori stood, I smelled rot. If Grandfather Earth yawned and freed two dozen corpses from his grasp, it would smell the way Kagemori did. Ash and cinders. Wet stones. Mold. Dark, dark, dark.
Kailon.
I saw the demon so clearly, I wondered how I’d ever missed it. Not tall. A small thing, young and untested. Knee-high. Large nose taking up most of its face. Two teeth jutting out from its lower lip like tusks, on either side of its drooping nose.
Young. Untested. But a demon nonetheless, a creature lovingly crafted by the Traitor’s own hands to wreak his vengeance upon the world. One of his children.
And he’d been wearing Kagemori’s skin this entire time.
I was not lucid then. I would’ve wondered when it happened. What had driven him to this? There are stories of it; you spoke of them around the fires we once shared. Minami Shiori was said to have loved a man before she left for her wanderings, only to discover when she returned that he’d given up his body to a demon for the promise of her safe return.
Demons can do many things. We are everywhere. We do not exist as you do, bound to one time and place. We are constantly flowing from here to then, from now to there. And there are few creatures with the temerity to approach a demon.
Yes, it is a thing peasant wives do when their husbands leave for war. If a demon keeps the man safe for a specified time, it’s entitled to possess the wife. It never ends well. Without fail, the demon will kill the husband the second it is free of the bargain.
Nozawa Kagemori sold his body.
But he did not sell it to a very powerful demon. He sold it to a child wearing its father’s britches.
And the trouble with wearing a human body is you’re trapped in the current time and place. If someone kills you …
I lurched in front of you. Gods, how I longed to be near you. The smell of you! You were gold and dawn and warmth. I could not see you, Shizuka, not the way I saw the others. I saw only a silhouette blazing bright.
But I stood before you nonetheless, and I raked my chest and roared at the invader. “Kailon!”
Ripples. In my mind’s eye, the true image of him flickered into Kagemori’s body. Yes, bind him. Bind him to that flesh. If I just reached forward …
He was skittering like a frightened bug.
“Steel-Eye, I’d heard stories, but I didn’t know, I didn’t know—”
I didn’t have to listen to him. I grabbed for him.
No, it jumped, he jumped, where did he go? Deep breaths. There. To the right, no, above, no—
There were feet on my shoulders, hands on my face. It craned over me, a wave of scent and emotion. Fury. Fear. Panic. Was this its only chance, to cling to me like a child clinging to its mother?
Claws raking against my skin; burning trails where its nails had been. Pain. Pain. I stumbled forward, stumbled back, trying to shake him off. He held on, dug his claws in deeper, took a handful of my hair.
No. Stronger. I was stronger. I felt it in my veins, Shizuka, with every beat of my heart.
I reached overhead—grab it, grab him by the neck—
Blinding pain, a dagger rammed into my skull. No—talons. Its filthy talons digging into my eye like a knife into a ripe plum.
My eye. A piece of me gone, forever; a piece of me staining this demon’s hand.
* * *
DIDN’T MATTER. Just a bit of pain. It wouldn’t stop me. Not right now, at least.
I throttled him with one hand. With the other, I got a good grip on his scalp, a good hold, as fine as any hunter could ask for. And then?
Then I pulled.
* * *
MUSCLES RESISTED BUT eventually gave in. Skin tore. Its head came off with a wet sound that thrilled me. Hot blood cascading over my body, a waterfall of ink. I threw the head to the ground.
But its face. Its face, Shizuka, staring back up at me!
I couldn’t stop myself. I fell to the ground and I bashed that head in, bashed it as hard as I could, bashed it until its bones were a fine paste and its brains were thin as leaves of seaweed and—
* * *
“SHEFALI!”
Someone grabbed my back. You.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarled. Blood, I was covered in it, black as pitch. I couldn’t let you come near me in such a state or you’d get sick. Instead, I rolled away from the demon’s head and curled up on my side, like an injured wolf.
You came creeping toward me. Bright, so bright. I covered myself. When I blinked, I could almost see your lovely face.
Darker.
Colder.
Something wet on my face, dragging along my cheekbone. When I touched it, it was …
It was what was left of my eyeball.
And that is the last thing I remember.