Down Falls The Queen: A Splitting Worlds Novella (The Splitting Worlds Series)

by Katherine D. Graham

  Down Falls the Queen

  A Splitting Worlds Novella

  Katherine D. Graham

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Katherine D. Bowen 2021

  Published in Memphis, TN, USA

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9969845-6-0

  First Edition

  Cover Art/Design by GetCovers.com, used with Commercial Use license

  Pre-Edited Using AutoCrit

  Editing by Teri L. Sullivan

  Proofreading by Darrah Steffen

  Formatting by Grim House Publishing LLC’s Michael Davie

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Interlude: Dorathea

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Interlude: Dorathea

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Splitting Dusk

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  Acknowledgement

  With Thanks

  To my Hero, Jikyo, whose excitement about Rei inspired this novella to begin with.

  To Fu-chan, with thanks for the main brainstorming sessions & taco night talks.

  To Luke Courtney, author of From The Ashes as well as Argent Blade—the king of Dark Fantasy—with utmost gratitude for reading my very first Dark Fantasy and helping me improve!

  And to Jacob, a woman whose strength always inspires me.

  Chapter One

  It’s a perfect night to spirit humans away. Cool mist clings to my body as I lead my warriors between tightly shuttered and darkened homes. Beneath the moonless sky, our forms cast no shadow to hint at our presence. The soft leather soles of our tabi—flexible foot coverings from our prior homeland among the humans’ eastern-most islands—conceal our location, while the bootsteps of the demons we track echo off the cobblestones.

  I stretch my wings wide to either side, my warriors halting at the signal. Wind ruffling through our jet-black feathers breathes a hint of sound into the street. Ahead of us, two bright-red oni Demons with long black hair and barely fitting clothes on their bulky misshapen forms jaunt and jab at a crippled old man and stunning young woman cornered at the dead end.

  “Please!” the woman screams, frantically searching the silent, unstirring nearby homes for help, “Help! Somebody!”

  Clenching my katana’s sheath, a hop and single flap of my wings brings me gliding down mere paces from the Demons’ backs. My warriors fan out behind me in a semi-circle, six in total, blocking off any escape routes, save the rooftops.

  No escaping that way, I think, taking note of the wingless oni and the old man bleeding out on the ground. The man’s blood smells of copper and iron.

  There’s no youth in that blood, but it will do. It’s for Riara, anyway. She has enough vigor.

  “Tengu!” one of the oni curses me as he whirls his ugly, bulging yellow eyes on me. “This is our night!”

  Ignoring him, I turn my attention over his shoulder to the young woman. She sways on her feet, the bright-red color gone from her lips, her face pale. Even from this distance, I see her perfectly smooth, pale hand and manicured fingers trembling as she places it on the old man’s shoulder.

  “You,” I address the old man, my voice cutting through the silence hanging between the oni and me, “do you not know what day this is?”

  “Don’t speak to it, ojiisan,” the woman whispers, her words carrying to me on the wind.

  Her grandfather? I reassess the old man. His clothes are expertly tailored and spotless. The woman’s yukata is clean and smooth, deep blue with woven red and yellow flowers throughout with a bright-red obi sash tied in a bow at the back.

  Not one a working woman or escort of the evening would wear.

  “Who is she, Mei?” the old man asks, raising his head for the first time.

  His eyes are glazed over by a thick film of white—eyes that have likely not seen on their own in quite some time.

  “Mortal, you have found yourself in the presence of the Hand of Justice,” I say. “I ask you again, do you know what day this is?”

  The old man straightens himself, and a bright-red stain oozing his blood under his ribs on one side catches my attention. My eyes fly to the oni. One of them holds a knife still wet with blood.

  “It is the seventeenth of the month, oh noble one,” the man answers, his voice strong for a man his age.

  “See! They know!” the knife-wielding oni screeches at me, waving his arms around belligerently. “Now leave us be!”

  Still clutching my katana, I hold up my hand to silence him.

  “I will decide what you may do,” I inform him, casting a steel-cold glare directly into his wild eyes, “and if you wish to continue your Hunt and return to the Between once you’re finished, you would be wise to be patient.”

  I can almost see the steam rising from the short-tempered Demon.

  This is what we get for letting scum like that take refuge in our lands. Bitterness runs through me. We’re the hands of justice to the world, and Father has me babysitting lesser Demons on Hunting Night.

  I turn my attention to the old man and ask, “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Oh mighty warrior,” the old man says humbly, though not fearfully, “your presence means it is the Witching Hour, does it not?”

  The woman’s eyes grow wider than before, her knees buckling beneath her. I can barely contain a grimace as her fine yukata is marred by the muddy puddle when she collapses into the street.

  “Our ways are not a secret,” I tell the humans, “and our laws are unbendable. Unmarried women found outdoors during the Witching Hour are huntable by the Lower-Worlders and Between-Worlders.”

  The woman is sobbing now, her face buried in her hands. I turn my attention back to the oni impatiently awaiting my judgement of their Hunt. Their auras reek of greed and hunger. Greed of the wealth the woman will surely bring their clan if they can bring her back to the Lower-World Market tomorrow, and hunger for the life bleeding from the old man’s side.

  “Does your clan have no honor? Do neither of you maintain good sense?” I rebuke them both, and the knife-wielder shrinks away, hiding the knife behind him. “His blood scourges the earth. In the morrow, a trail will remain. How exactly did you plan to return to your clan?”

  Now it’s the onis’ turns to tremble. The woman’s face turns up to me, but I see in her eyes her naïve mind.

  Hope. She thinks justice will bend for her.

  “Hear me well, mortals and oni clansmen, as I pronounce your judgement,” I say, waving a hand forward.

  My Second, a strong, young, new initiate to my command named Mirada, moves past me to separate the knife-wielder from his companion. My most seasoned warrior, Kazuho, so old that his wrinkles have wrinkles, guides the human woman away from her grandfather. The old human stands still as a statue. His rapid heartbeat pounds lo
ud enough for me to hear from where I stand.

  With all four parties—the humans and the oni—standing in a semi-circle before me, I take a deep breath to block out their varying emotions and auras from my mind. Sensing their emotions, reading the rawness of their hearts, is something only a Tengu of Royal blood can do. It’s how we judge souls without error. But in seeing them, knowing I cannot offer mercy, only justice, my conscious grows heavy.

  I will be Queen after the Ascension Ceremony next week, I remind myself. This is my last Hunt. I can do this one more time.

  “Oni-clansmen, I have searched your souls and find one of you lacking,” I announce.

  I nod to the one holding the knife. Mirada shoves him to my side, forcing the brute to his knees as easily as if he were a child. She doesn’t disarm him, but his blade dangles uselessly in his shaking fist. My own grip tightens on my katana.

  Deep breath. Just get through the judgement. I try to block out his terror, his desperation, as my free hand comes to rest on the hilt of my blade.

  “Humans,” I say, and though in my mind the words are a faint whisper matching the woman’s child-like terror, aloud my words are cold and devoid of emotion, “I have searched your souls and find one of you lacking.”

  The woman shrieks, running to her grandfather’s side as Kazuho leads the old man to kneel so that I have one lawbreaker on either side of me, facing each other.

  “Mei, stand back,” her grandfather says.

  Kazuho lifts Mei off the ground, forcing her back. The oni who escaped judgement stands watching, silently raging at the judgement about to take place but both unwilling and unable to do anything about it. The old human’s aura is resolved, calm, and sure.

  The aura of a man without regrets.

  His peace brings peace to the turmoil of emotions I fight within my own heart.

  “Human”—I decide to sentence him first—“do you admit to traversing with an unmarried maiden during the Witching Hour, on the Seventeenth of the month, exposing your charge to certain doom and striking back against a hunter who claimed her? Is this correct?”

  “Yes,” he says, honestly. “Truly, your eyes see beyond flesh to reason, Mighty One.”

  “And what defense do you give for the sake of justice?” I ask him.

  “He was only trying to protect me!” Mei cries, still struggling against Kazuho’s firm grasp. “It’s my fault that he came out. I lost track of time! He doesn’t deserve to die!”

  “Human,” I say, breaking protocol for once to educate this oblivious woman, “your ojiisan knows our laws. You would do well to learn them. The only defense you have in the Witching Hour is to remain indoors. To strike a hunter during the Witching Hour, regardless of purpose, is cause for death.”

  Because fighting leads to blood. Blood leads to trails. Trails lead humans back to the portals between the Lower-World and the Between, which will bring you humans straight to our doorstep. I cannot tell her that.

  Whatever other protests Mei makes, I don’t hear them. It’s time to sentence the oni now.

  At least this one is a simple breach to judge.

  “Oni, do you admit to having struck back at a human, spilling blood, during the Witching Hour?”

  “Yes,” it barely manages to whisper.

  “You have both been found guilty of your crimes by admission from your own tongues. Blood has been spilled in this place, and the stain cannot be cleansed.”

  Before either one can protest—before I let myself be mired in their feelings any longer—my sword arcs through the air from one side to the other. Two heads tumble to the ground, followed by the hunching over of their bodies. Mei screams, but no one comes to their windows. The headless oni self-combusts, and in minutes remains only as ash.

  No one wants to see the Hunt.

  Pulling out a jet-black cloth, I wipe the blood from my blade before returning it to its sheath. A single nod over my shoulder sends Mirada back to her post. The relief on the remaining oni’s face is palpable, especially for a Demon. His heart is racing. He bows to me clumsily, then shuffles around to Mei who has come undone with weeping beside her grandfather’s body. My heart breaks for her, for the frenzy in her mind that will likely break her.

  Better that she not have her whole mind, though, when they take her to Market.

  Turning my back on the death and despair, I return to my company of warriors. Kazuho follows behind me with a wary eye on the oni, but the Demon seems content to be left with his life and his prize to take home.

  He even seems giddy to not have to split his profit. I shudder at the thought.

  I barely notice the vial of blood that Kazuho is wiping off with a handkerchief. For a moment my face burns with guilt at forgetting the need for it for Riara.

  Tengu are above bartering with lives; we became the shepherds of life in my grandfather’s time more than a thousand years ago. Human, Demon, and Angel alike, we are paid to balance the influence of all sides. No one race dominates the others.

  As long as the Hand of Justice does its job.

  Somewhere in town, the bells strike one.

  “M’lady, the Witching Hour is over,” Mirada needlessly points out.

  “Yes,” I say, spreading my jet-black wings out wide as I jump into the air.

  I don’t need to tell my warriors to follow me. As the wind beneath my wings lifts my body off the ground, I let the breeze whip away the feelings and auras—the memories of another long night dealing justice. Thinking as little as possible, I lead my warriors home.

  Chapter Two

  Our feet barely stir up dirt as we land steps away from a large, red tori gate that separates the Tengu Kingdom from the rest of the Between—the land separating the Lower-World of Demons and the Human world. Servants are already prepared for us on either side of the cobblestone street we walk. Their heads are bowed low, arms outstretched with the supplies they know we will require.

  “Warm welcome…” Mirada sniffs with a bitter chuckle. Even though she’s behind me, I can imagine her rolling her eyes.

  They wouldn’t act this way if I wasn’t the Chosen Ascendant, I want to point out, but I grind my teeth instead.

  I take a warm, white towel from a servant who then rushes away backwards without ever looking up. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I force myself to ignore the platters holding grilled yakitori—mushrooms, onions, and soy-glazed pork on skewers. I try not to notice as my warriors pause, carelessly eating as quickly and quietly as possible while I trudge on alone.

  The Chosen Ascendant can go days without food, I remind myself for the umpteenth time this week, but it’s only day three of the fast, and I’m already so hungry!

  A shrine looms ahead of me in the center of the road. Passing my towel off to an empty-handed servant, I make my way to a small, waist-high, rectangular fountain standing off to the right of the shrine. The fountain is full, but runs ceaselessly nonetheless. Three small trickles of water fall from hollowed-out green bamboo pipes into the main pool, cascading down the smooth gray granite sides to trickle into a shallower pool at the base.

  I take a long-handled, golden-brown, bamboo ladle and hold it in one of the falling streams. Holding my hand away from the pure fountain and over the shallow trough by my feet, I pour a little water out first into one hand, then the other, before finishing by pouring enough water into my hand to bring some to my lips. I tip the ladle to let the cleansing water run down the handle before returning it to rest on the edge of the fountain for the next visitor who comes to enter the shrine.

  Purchasing a fat stick of incense from a silent priestess, I make my way up the narrow shrine stairs to a broad, gravel courtyard. No one follows me in. The notable absence of the normal priest and monks is startling. Auras of differing shades of gray swirl around me in the air as though alive. For a half second, the silence is so thick I almost think I can hear the smoke whispering to me.

  The Chosen Ascendant faces the gods alone, I recall Father telling me before the fast, to
prove their worth and their strength to their people. No one will aid you if you are cursed.

  Cursed.

  I try to ignore the auras threatening to suffocate me, but a shudder runs down my spine. Focusing on my prayers, I shove my doubts out of my thoughts.

  I have served the gods. I follow their will. I have nothing to fear.

  A giant black cauldron so large it comes up to my waist smolders with ash and the still-burning incense others left before I arrived. Lighting the incense with a small candle stuck in the ashes, I make sure it is smoking steadily before sticking the non-burning end down into the ash to let the incense burn among the others. Stepping back, I clap and pray.

  Take away my doubts. Give me strength.

  Peace washes over me. Stepping up to the cauldron once more, I use both hands to wave some of the rich, musky scented smoke over my head. I bow before turning to the looming shrine. Until now, every time I’ve come here I’ve heard the priests chanting at this time in the morning as the dawn threatened the blackness of the night. Today, there is only suffocating silence.

  Stepping up to the altar inside the shrine, I toss a third-weight silver coin into the coin box ad smile at the satisfying clunk when it lands in the bottom. Each day between now and my Ascension, a weight reflective of my day in the fast is expected as a sacrifice. Each weight took me five years’ savings. By the time I finish my week-long fast, the box will hold one hundred forty years’ worth of my life’s work. I clap again, bow, and pray in earnest.

  Thank you for your guidance and your justice. Thank you for the well-being of our people. Bless my father with health, my mother with wisdom, and Riara…