Endsinger: The Lotus War Book Three

by Jay Kristoff

  Older than time. Than life or death. The ancient ones who slumbered long and deep, their fury stilled beneath the thunder of Susano-ō’s lullaby. And she reached toward them, burning with the heat of a thousand lives, a thousand hearts, a thousand voices. Brighter than the sun.

  Niah. Aael. Father and Mother to all dragons.

  Her lips moved, her voice a typhoon gale, louder that the song of the Storm God himself.

  A single word, that set the entire world shaking.

  Awaken.

  35

  EVE

  In the house of the Lord of Foxes, eleven figures sit.

  The first, a reed-thin girl, gutter-raised and ironwood hard. Hair of golden blond, a single eye aglow with pale-rose hue, the voice of a thunder tiger echoing in her heart. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she is starting to hope.

  To her left, a tall man, broad and strong, Phoenix ink on one arm. He speaks with a gentle voice, and when he looks at the girl beside him, he cannot keep the smile from his lips.

  To their right, a warrior from distant lands. Clad in a breastplate of battered iron, a stag with three crescent horns on its brow. Handsome but careworn. Golden-haired like the girl, but stained from weeks beneath black rain. He is a stranger here. Considered enemy by some. Friend by a few. Most do not know what to make of him at all.

  Beside him, another man, quiet and watchful. His face is made of scars, left eye blind, the other blue and gleaming like ice. It drifts constantly to the blond girl, his palms pressed together as if he were praying. When the girl speaks, he falls still, like a child watching his first sunrise.

  Next is a girl. Beautiful as falling flowers, sharp as razors, hard as folded steel. Long black hair, dark eyes smudged with kohl, swords crossed at her back. She does not think often of the one she stole them from—the man who called her his lady, his love. She does not think often of what might have been. She is not thinking of it now, here at the Fox Lord’s table. But tonight, alone in her room on the eve of battle, she knows she will.

  She promises herself she will not weep.

  Beside her, a sky-ship captain. A chest like a chi barrel and a belly like a drum, an improbably broad straw hat slouched on his head. His eyes are sharp, his wits sharper, and inside him burns a thirst for vengeance. A thirst for Tiger blood.

  Next to the captain kneels a general of the Kitsune clan, his armor enameled in black, a snarling fox helm resting in his lap. Beside him, three more generals of the Fox clan. They are mentioned here because they play a role—because armies are not led by one. But to linger on any of them would be to bring false hope, for by this tale’s end, all three will be dead, and history will not speak of them overmuch.

  Cruel as storms, is history. Cold as winter winds.

  And last. At the table’s head. The Lord of all Foxes. Master of this house, this han, this clan. He has armies at his command. Samurai and bushimen who would lay down their lives if he gave but a word. Men who look over Yama’s walls at the approaching doom and waver not a foot, quaver not a moment. Like his sons did not quaver.

  Even as they died.

  All his life, he has known nothing but war. He has lost everything to it. Bride. Sons. Line. And here he stands on the brink of another. The last he will ever see. The last life he has to give.

  Overhead, the thunder rolls, louder than an iron-thrower, echoing through his halls. He looks at his men, ready to fight and die in his name. He looks at his guests, these gaijin invaders now offering parlay, these Kagé rebels gathered beneath his banner, this stormdancer seated opposite, who may very well have given him the weapons he needs to win.

  And all he wants to do is sleep.

  Soon, he promises himself.

  Soon.

  * * *

  “The gaijin army is over nine thousand strong, but only six thousand are actually battle-ready.” Hana looked across the table at Isamu. “The black rain has hit them hard. With your permission, Daimyo, we can move their wounded into Yama, shelter them from the weather.”

  “That is unwise, Daimyo,” Ginjiro said. “We invite those who annihilated the Dragon clan into our homes?”

  “They will carry no weapons,” Aleksandar replied. “I vow they bring no violence. The Zryachniye have spoken. It seems our war is with your Guild.”

  “Tell that to the samurai of the Dragon clan,” Ginjiro said.

  Akihito sighed. “General, the Earthcrusher is a day’s march from these walls. Do you really want to spit in the face of six thousand gaijin warriors willing to stand beside you?”

  “Who is to say they will not turn on us when the battle is done?”

  “A vow holds great weight amongst Morcheban people,” Hana said. “My uncle vows his troops will bring no violence to your door. They will not.”

  Ginjiro scowled, shook his head.

  Hana stared at Isamu, brushing stray blond from her face.

  “Daimyo, someone needs to start trusting someone here, or the Tora and their Guild masters will be toasting your death around this table tomorrow night.”

  Isamu fixed Hana in his stare; a viper watching a particularly chubby mouse.

  “And the mystery of your”—he waved at her face—“peculiarity has been solved?”

  Hana stared the old warlord down. She could feel Kaiah prowling behind her stare. The blood of a Goddess in her veins.

  “I am one of the Zryachniye bloodline. We’d call them the Sighted in our tongue.”

  “Indeed?” A raised eyebrow. “And what do you Sighted see?”

  “I don’t see anything yet. The Sight must be awakened in me. The Zryachniye will perform the ritual tomorrow before the attack.”

  “Is that wise?” Michi asked. “Why wait until tomorrow?”

  “The ritual must be performed at dawn. That’s the hour of the Goddess.”

  “I don’t like it, Hana…”

  “Nor I,” muttered Akihito.

  “My great-grandmother could see people she knew, no matter where they were in the world,” Hana said. “She could just close her eyes and see them as if she stood beside them. Imagine if I could see the future? Or the way toward the future we all want?”

  “You might end up just seeing in the dark,” Michi said. “Or what people have on under their kimonos.”

  The Blackbird wiggled his eyebrows. “Goddess be praised…”

  Michi grinned, flashed the captain a particularly obscene hand gesture. The man roared with laughter, slapping the tabletop and setting the tea services shivering.

  “I’ve made up my mind.” Hana searched Akihito’s face. “I need you to trust me.”

  The big man nodded. “I do.”

  The girl turned to the Kitsune warlord. “I need your trust too, Isamu-sama. Between us, the gaijin and the Guild rebels, we have a chance to take down the Guild once and forever.”

  “Have we heard from Misaki and her people?” Blackbird looked up and down the table. “I still don’t think they have a chance in hells of pulling it off.”

  “They transmitted to us earlier today,” Ginjiro nodded. “They will reach First House tomorrow. Their ship has been outfitted with Tora chapterhouse colors. They made radio contact with the rebels aboard the Earthcrusher yesterday, and have access to the priority transmission codes and passwords again. That should see them into First House. Once there, with any luck, they can detonate the chi reserves and blow the place to the heavens.”

  The Blackbird shook his head. “Did you send any of your people with them? Gods know they’re going to need some old-fashioned Kitsune luck to pull that one off.”

  “Even without the attack on First House, we still have the Earthcrusher sewn up,” Ginjiro said. “The rebels aboard will detonate the engines just as the battle begins. The blast will wipe out the Tora ground forces. Then we charge from Kitsune-jō, the gaijin attack from the east and we catch them on two fronts, covered by our own sky-ships and rotor-thopters.”

  “The Tora still have us badly outmatched
in the air,” Isamu said.

  “We need Yukiko,” Michi sighed.

  “She’s never let us down before,” Akihito said.

  “The odds have never been this bad before.”

  “And if she fails?” Blackbird asked. “What then?”

  Isamu stroked his moustache and shrugged.

  “Then let’s hope Kitsune looks after his own.”

  * * *

  Akihito stood at the window, watching the gaijin filter into Kitsune-jō’s courtyard. Fox soldiers watched the round-eyes warily, but it was obvious they were no ambush in waiting. The gaijin were in terrible shape—many borne on stretchers, skin burned to blisters. The Daimyo’s servants brought blankets and hot rice, the barrier of language between the two peoples overcome with small gestures of kindness and grateful smiles. The big man shook his head. A few days ago, these men had been set to destroy everyone on the island. Now all they were set to destroy was the contents of the Daimyo’s larder. And all thanks to—

  “There you are.”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, saw her leaning in the doorway. She’d smoothed her blond bob out as best she could, but it was still unruly, jagged bangs around her eye, the lopsided fringe doing its best to cover the leather patch. She was clad in a breastplate of dark, banded iron. Goggles and kerchief pulled down around her throat, that too-round eye watching him, unblinking.

  Beautiful.

  “Where’s Kaiah?” he asked.

  She rapped her knuckles on the breastplate in answer. “Getting fitted by the blacksmiths. Something to protect her from archery fire. They’re making some for Buruu too.”

  “A good idea.”

  “You like it?” She ran a hand down the armor, over the faint curve of her hip.

  Akihito swallowed. “I do.”

  “My uncle went back to report to the Marshal and the Holy Mother. He wanted me to go with him to prepare for the dawn ritual. Insisted, in fact.”

  “So why did you stay?”

  “… Don’t you know?”

  The rafters creaked, ominous and stuttering. The floor shifted beneath his feet, a vibration emanating from somewhere far below, windows rattling, a flower vase crashing to the floor. With a wince, he hobbled to the doorway, squeezed in beside her as the earthquake kicked into full swing. Ceiling fans rocked, tremors traveling from the soles of his feet to the base of his skull. He took Hana in his arms, braced against the doorframe as the palace shifted and rolled.

  It was over in moments, dust drifting down from the beams, servants shouting in the distance. Not as bad as some he’d felt in recent months, but still, their frequency was unnerving. It seemed the very island was trying to buck them off its skin.

  Hana was pressed against him, fingers entwined at the small of his back. She looked up at him through the mess of her fringe, gifting him a mischievous smile as the earth stopped moving.

  “Was it good for you too?”

  He laughed, and quick as silver, she stood on tiptoes and lunged at his mouth, throwing her arms around his neck. Hungry. Ferocious. He took hold of her thighs as she wrapped her legs around him, pressing him against the doorway. Her tongue darted out against his own, his breath coming heavy, losing himself in the sensation and returning the kiss with abandon.

  He’d known women in his life—more than his fair share, truth be told. But though he’d lost himself in desire before, there had never been much in the way of true feeling behind it. Not the way this girl made him feel now. Fingernails entwined in his hair, pulling his head back as she bit his lip, almost too hard. He tasted blood, her lips grazing his cheek, nipping again, latching onto his throat as her hand slipped inside his uwagi, over his chest and down the muscles of his stomach, pulling the tunic away from his shoulder, biting again.

  “Stop,” he breathed, cupping her cheek, flushed with warmth. “Hana, stop.”

  She looked up at him, eye glazed with lust. “What? Gods, what?”

  “Are you sure? I mean, have you ever…”

  She was almost panting, lips bright pink from the rush of blood, the rasp of his stubble on her skin. But she found breath to laugh, slapping him playfully on his half-bared chest.

  “You men. You’re such godsdamned idiots.”

  “What?” he blinked. “Why?”

  “Can’t you tell I’m sure?” She tightened her fist in his hair, dragged him forward for another kiss, cinching her legs about his waist as she pulled away. Her lips brushed his with every word she breathed. “We could both be dead tomorrow. Tonight could be the first and last night I spend with anyone. I want it to be you. Do you need a herald to crow invitation?”

  “I just don’t want to hurt you…”

  She fixed him in that glowing stare, veiled beneath charcoal lashes. “But do you want me?”

  “… Of course I do.”

  She kissed him again, mouth open, hungry, pressing against him with all her strength. Her lips were hot, almost burning, her heat making him sweat despite the chill. His hands ran up her ribs, over her back, and he cursed the metal she was encased in, blood pounding in his temples as she pulled away again, tossed the hair back from her face, breathing hard.

  “Say it.”

  Her voice was almost a growl. Her movements predatory, the shadow of an arashitora flitting across her eye as her lips brushed his, pulling back again as he tried to kiss her.

  “Say you want me…”

  “I do.”

  “Say it.”

  “… I want you.”

  “Then stop thinking.” Her breath hot against his ear. “Stop talking. Tomorrow is getting closer by the minute, and there are better things you could be doing with your mouth…”

  He lifted her up, slid the door closed with a bang, timbers trembling in their grooves. Staggering to the bed, her legs wrapped around him, her hands tearing his uwagi loose, fumbling with the straps and buckles on her breastplate as he cursed and she laughed, bright as summer sun.

  Slow, he told himself.

  Move slow.

  Her lips and body crushed into his, breathing her sighs into his mouth. And as gentle as he wished to be, she was having none of it, pushing him down to happily drown, then dragging him up inside soaking heat, her teeth at his throat and her nails across his back.

  “Hana,” he whispered. “Oh, gods…”

  He could see her smile in the dark, caught in the rose glow spilling from her lashes.

  “Goddess,” she breathed.

  36

  BLACK SNOW

  Midnight.

  They’d marched through the dark, horizon echoing with the thunder in every footstep. As soon as Fox Hour had sounded, Kin had slipped from his bunk and descended to the engine room, into the rumble and clank of the gear trains, the bursts of dirty steam.

  Evening was the only time he’d been able to steal away from Kensai’s side since he’d arrived—the Second Bloom forced Kin to wait on him hand and foot whenever he was awake. His pointless tours of the Earthcrusher’s innards, hours spent simply staring from the bridge. Kensai seemed to enjoy wasting Kin’s minutes, every so often leaning on his shoulder as if his wounds pained him, just to remind the boy he was there.

  Like he’d always been.

  A man he should have called uncle. A man as close to blood as anyone left in this world. And Kin was set to destroy him, everything he’d worked for, everything he’d been raised to believe. Turning on the ones who trusted him. Again. Playing the loyal Fifth Bloom, nodding and bowing to the brethren passing him on the stairwells, knowing tomorrow they could all be dead. That all they knew would be gone.

  Was everything inside him a lie? Where did deception end and his true self begin? And what would remain when all this was over and done?

  Yukiko.

  He whispered her name. The only truth in a world ringing more false with every breath.

  He found Shinji in the Earthcrusher’s bowels, at work on a ruptured piston. The boy asked loudly for assistance, and Kin stepped in t
o help, wreathed in filthy vapor.

  “Is all in order?”

  “Hai,” Shinji nodded. “We’ve been in touch with the Yama rebels, and they’re on their way to First House. The codes we gave them should see them past the perimeter.”

  “We may have a problem tomorrow when we hit Yama.”

  “Kensai?”

  “He watches me like a spider. You might have to blow the cooling system alone.”

  Shinji nodded. “Maseo can do that. And I can cut control between here and the bridge. We can stage a fire on level nine, near the fuel filters.”

  “Good idea.”

  “It’ll work out, Kin-san. Have faith.”

  “Faith? What the hells is that?”

  “It’s what keeps you going when everything turns to brown.”

  “Sounds like you’re talking about ignorance. Or just blatant stupidity.”

  “Faith. Stupidity.” A shrug. “Same thing.”

  * * *

  They’d stripped him naked and scrubbed him clean, ridding him of sweat and filth, the dried blood from the Kigen raid and his torture still crusted on his skin. The bathhouse steam had loosened the phlegm in his chest and he’d fallen to coughing—awful, wracking fits that shuddered his core. The Inquisitors watched with bloodshot eyes, saying nothing at all.

  They checked his hair, his mouth, every orifice that might conceal a blade. Dressed him in black cloth, combing his hair into a simple knot affixed with black ribbon. They were taking no chances, leaving him nothing with which to strike at the First Bloom in his house of lies.

  Daichi closed his eyes. Washed the black from his mouth with a cup of almost clean water. The first Inquisitor’s voice was a paper-thin sigh.

  “You will not speak unless spoken to by the First Bloom.”

  “You will not look into the eyes of the First Bloom,” said the second.

  “You will show the respect that is due to the First Bloom,” said the third.

  Daichi’s whisper was rough as gravel road. “Or what?”