Empress of All Seasons

by Emiko Jean

  A gust of snow from the Winter Room swirled into the Hall, obscuring Taro’s vision. Out of the white, the kappa barreled toward Taro and his father, webbed hands outstretched, beak open in a shriek.

  Taro squared his shoulders, counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. His mask did not slip. Nor did the emperor’s. For all their differences, they shared a few traits. A cold air. Pride. No one would dare defy the emperor or the prince. To do so would be to court the wrath of the gods and goddesses. Religion was the emperor’s greatest weapon.

  The priests quickly resumed their chanting, climbing to their feet and beginning to sway. The kappa paused, clasping his webbed hands over his ears. A futile effort. The air thickened and crackled with the priests’ incantations. The Hall grew colder. The kappa toppled to his knees, doubled over. Paralyzed.

  The emperor barked at the dazed samurai. “Get up.”

  Slowly, the samurai regained their wits and dragged the kappa’s limp body to the threshold of the Winter Room. Taro turned a cheek as they threw him in.

  If the kappa was lucky, the frigid temperatures would kill him before the predators did. The Seasonal Rooms created their own weather, aided by Master Ushiba, the revered Seasonist. A blizzard could come. In the Winter Room, that might be the quickest way to die.

  A final wave of cold air blasted Taro as the doors swung shut. At least it isn’t the Summer Room. His features tightened at the thought. The blazing heat pressed down like a hot iron, blistering the skin of its victims.

  The oak bar thudded back into place. The kappa screamed, beating tiny fists, rattling the doors. Another futility. The doors would hold against the kappa; they held against oni, the strongest yōkai. Taro turned and began to stride away.

  “You won’t stay?” his father called after him.

  Something inside Taro clenched. A sound of disgust emanated from low in his throat, and he allowed his mask to slip, just this once. “I’m afraid not everyone has such a taste for death as you,” he replied.

  The emperor laughed. “Go hide in your workroom. But I will expect you at dinner tomorrow night. We need to discuss the competition.”

  Taro bit his tongue. The competition. His heavy footsteps matched the dull thud of his heartbeat. In a matter of days, hundreds of young women would descend upon the palace, armed and hopeful. The rules were simple: Survive the Rooms. Conquer the Seasons. Win the prince.

  Taro seethed at the threat to his hard-won solitude and the ridiculousness of his being reduced to a prize to be won, a thing to be auctioned off. He shook his head. No. He would not stand idly by while his entire life was taken from him. Girls may come. They may conquer the Rooms. One may even win. But Taro would not marry her. He had a plan.

  Chapter 3

  Mari

  The sun was just an orange flicker on the horizon, and the green trees appeared black against the encroaching twilight. Slushy snow dotted Mari’s path, winter’s last stand against the spring. She hastened her steps toward home, hunching her shoulders against the crisp wind. Best not to be caught in the forest after dark.

  Just as the final ray of light sank beneath the horizon, Mari exited the woods. A clean scent hung in the thin air. She inhaled deeply. Home.

  A few steps, and Mari arrived at the gates of Tsuma, her village. Paper tied to the iron bars flapped in the wind. Below were gifts, tributes left for her people, their packaging absurdly bright against the black gates and gray stone wall surrounding Tsuma. Travelers rarely ventured up the mountain. Those not acclimated to the altitude often suffered headaches, insomnia, and dizziness—Mountain Madness.

  But some—human and yōkai—would risk it.

  They came to leave offerings for her clan—fish, flowered hairpins, silk embroidered obi, even copper coins. Affixed to each tribute was a mon, a familial crest in the shape of a mandarin orange, a three-leaf hollyhock, or intersecting loops. A fool’s errand. Mari’s top lip curled as she bent to collect the bribes. Her clan would enjoy the gifts, but they would not spare those families. Everyone was fair game. Prey.

  Mari navigated Tsuma’s barren roads by memory. Though the village was small, it was built like a puzzle. The streets had no names, and the houses no numbers. The homes were all similar—wooden and unadorned. The steep thatched roofs always made Mari think of hands clasped in prayer. Many feared Mari’s clan, and just as many would like to see them destroyed. Only Tsuma’s inhabitants knew who resided in each home, how each piece of the puzzle fit together.

  Two left turns, fourteen steps, and Mari was home. Light glowed behind the shuttered windows of her cottage. Hand on the door, she paused, taking a breath to steady herself. Facing imperial samurai in the shed was one thing. A more formidable opponent awaited her inside. Mari shook her head and laughed at her childish fear. It’s only your mother.

  Inside, she slipped off her sandals, dumped the tributes, and padded into the tatami room. Under her feet, the floor squeaked. Another small measure of protection: boards that sang so that no one could sneak up behind you. Warmth prickled her hands and cheeks as the wooden interior of her home came into focus. Save for a low table, the tatami room was intentionally bare. To any who entered, the home appeared simple. Poor. But beneath the singing floorboards was hidden untold wealth.

  “You’re late.” Her mother’s quiet, even voice drifted from the kitchen.

  Usually, a screen partitioned the rooms, but tonight it was folded aside. Framed in the archway, her mother made a pretty picture as she bent over the irori. In the small hearth, an orange flame licked the bottom of a cast-iron teakettle. Steam charged from the spout, unleashing a low whistle. Mari’s mother, Tami, poured the boiling liquid into a ceramic teapot on a plain wooden tray. Flowery notes scented the air. Jasmine tea. Mari’s favorite. With practiced grace, her mother shuffled into the tatami room and placed the tray at the center of the low table. “How did it go?” Her mother knelt and began to pour. “Mari?”

  Shaken from her cold trance, Mari stepped forward. “People will look for an imperial samurai.”

  Her mother delicately shrugged a shoulder, taking a sip of tea. “A disgraced imperial samurai. He liked the hostess houses too much, frequented ones with young girls.” Mari shuddered. “No one will come for him. Sit,” her mother commanded. Mari obliged, settling across from her. “Now, how did everything go?”

  Mari sighed, folding her hands together atop the table. “Everything went fine. He didn’t even take my weapon.” Her chin jutted up smugly.

  Her mother’s dark eyes flickered. “It is the last one.”

  Mari’s heart tripped in her chest. Her smugness slipped away, unease taking its place. Soon a far more perilous journey would begin.

  Her mother ran a manicured finger over the lip of the ceramic cup. “It’s a shame you didn’t inherit my looks.”

  At her mother’s words, Mari felt the tiniest pinch, as if a needle pricked her side. If only your hair had the same shine as mine; yours is so dull and lifeless. It’s too bad your teeth overlap in such an unfortunate way. Perhaps if you stood straighter, you wouldn’t look so . . . substantial. As always, Mari couldn’t help staring at her mother, at everything she should have been and wasn’t—long hair the color of the midnight sky, golden skin that never needed powder, a graceful, lithe body.

  These days, Mari rarely looked in mirrors. She had abandoned hope that her reflection would change a long time ago. She’d stopped growing at five feet. She wasn’t fat, but she was thickly muscled, sturdy. Her face was round, the shape of an apple. She wasn’t ugly. She was plain. And in a village of preternaturally beautiful women, average meant unattractive.

  The only trait Mari shared with her mother, shared with all Animal Wife yōkai, was the beast hidden inside her human form. Animal Wives were born for a singular purpose: to trick men into marriage and then steal their fortunes. Men are conditioned to take. Women are conditioned to give, Mari’s mother once told her. Long ago, our clan decided to stop giving and start taking.

  Mar
i ignored her mother’s comment. She refused to apologize for her many deficits.

  Wind beat against the shuttered windows, and a cry drifted through the slats. Not wolf, bear, or owl. Animal Wife. Mari startled to attention, her mother’s words forgotten. She knew the origin of the wail. “Hissa is still in labor?”

  “You are pale. I’ve saved you some dinner,” her mother said, pushing a covered tray toward Mari.

  Mari lifted the cloth from the tray, revealing a bowl of sticky rice topped with strips of dried seaweed. Her stomach roared. Hissa can wait a few seconds more. She dug her fingers in and shoved a scoop of rice into her mouth.

  “Mari,” her mother chided. “Have you forgotten how to use hashi?”

  Mari shrugged. It was a small victory, offending her mother’s delicate sensibilities. “It tastes better this way.” She licked her fingers with a smack. “Hissa?” she prodded.

  Her mother’s lips pressed together. She shot a pointed look to the unused chopsticks. Mari’s fingers curled on her lap. A standoff. Her mother would not dole out information until Mari complied. With a sigh, Mari picked up the two sticks and proceeded to eat with them. She should have known better than to spar with her mother. She is the one opponent you’ll never beat. One look, and you shrivel like a slug doused with raw salt.

  Her mother was slow to answer. “Still in labor. But her time approaches.”

  Mari chewed a bite of rice and swallowed. “I hope she has a girl.”

  “That would be nice.” Tami smiled, an odd combination of bitter and biting. At this, Mari tensed. She was an only child, but not the only child her mother had given birth to. Two boys had come before Mari. Two half brothers she would never know. Because Tsuma kept her daughters and discarded her sons. Animal Wives’ traits passed only to females, making them full-blooded yōkai. Boys were half­lings—abominations.

  Mari focused on filling the pit in her stomach. A knock sounded at the door. Mari’s chewing slowed. Who can it be? Visitors past dark were uncommon.

  The door slid open, bells tinkling. Ayumi entered, her sandals still on, a sure sign of bad news. “Forgive me, Tami-sama,” she addressed Mari’s mother.

  “Hissa?” Mari asked, her heartbeat quickening under her ribcage.

  “Yes. She’s had her baby.” Ayumi scowled furiously. “A boy. She refuses to let him go.”

  Mari’s mother sighed and stood. “I will come.”

  Mari rose to her feet as well. Tami regarded her daughter, indecision etched in her expression. She is going to order me to stay home. A little ball of rebellion loosened in Mari’s veins. She inhaled through her nose, ready to argue, to insist she be included. I won’t be left behind. She’d never attended a delivery. But this was Hissa. Her best friend.

  A year ago, Mari had kissed Hissa’s fair cheeks, bidding her goodbye before she departed Tsuma. Two months later, Hissa returned, her hands spilling over with riches, a triumphant smile lighting her face. Hissa had tricked a wealthy merchant into love and marriage, and on their wedding night, she stole away with his most valuable wares—heavy silk kimonos, washi paper, umbrellas wrought from the finest bamboo . . .

  Everything would have been perfect.

  If only Hissa hadn’t been pregnant.

  As her pregnancy bloomed, Hissa grew zealous in her belief that the child would be female. “It will be wonderful,” she told Mari, stroking her abdomen where the baby kicked. Mari remembered how lovely Hissa looked then, beaming and radiant. Glowing. “I’ll have a little girl. You will be her auntie. Auntie Mari! We’ll dress her in silks and play puppets.”

  Mari’s heart lodged in her throat. Her friend had been so high on hope. How far she’d fallen. But Mari would be there to catch her.

  Tami’s mouth opened and then shut with an audible click. She jerked her head toward the door. “Come on, then.” A flush of relief spread through Mari’s limbs, and she stowed the little ball of rebellion away for another time.

  She followed her mother and Ayumi out the door. I’m coming, Hissa. Through thick or thin, the friends once had promised each other. Through boy or girl, Mari amended. A new life had come into their village, and just as quickly, it would be snuffed out.

  Chapter 4

  Taro

  Five minutes past midnight, and Taro wasn’t sleeping. Exhaustion chased him like a dog, but he would not succumb. While he waited for the rest of the palace to slumber, Taro worked. Deep in the palace, in an all-but-forgotten room, the prince built . . . things.

  His eyes grew bloodshot, and his limbs ached as he hammered copper into thin sheets. Grease coated his hands and gummed up under his nails. With every bang of the hammer, he sought to drive out the kappa’s cries, his begging in his native tongue.

  It’s no use. Taro’s throat constricted with emotions he refused to feel. The kappa’s screams haunted him, a battering ram bashing at his self-control, daring him to react. A fitting punishment for standing by and watching as the tiny creature was executed—and for what? For swimming in the imperial moat? For being born yōkai?

  What if he had spoken up, opposed his father? It was unfathomable. The emperor considered any expression of sympathy for yōkai a weakness. Taro had learned his lesson long ago.

  Only once had he asked for the life of a yōkai to be spared. Taro was ten and didn’t understand the depths of his father’s hatred.

  The yōkai was a tanuki, a small gray-and-black-furred animal with the head of a raccoon and the body of a dog. Taro had found the starving cub in the tea garden. He cuddled the emaciated creature to his chest, repeating the comforting words his nursemaid would whisper to him. There, now. It will be all right. The tanuki pressed its small wet nose into Taro’s neck and purred, a deep rumble that stirred Taro’s lonely soul. He carried the creature’s limp body to the emperor, presenting it like a sacred offering. And in the way of a small boy who yearns for something with acute desperation, he said, “I want to keep it as a pet.”

  The emperor’s smile was thin and cold. To this day, whenever Taro remembered it, a chill settled around his shoulders. “Men do not keep pets. Especially yōkai pets,” he said, his voice thick with scorn.

  “Oh,” said young Taro. “What should I do with it, then?” He wheezed, for he was small and sickly then.

  “Put it back where you found it.” Taro listened to his father and released the tanuki into the tea garden, but not before feeding it an apple and letting it lap at a bowl of rice wine. Tanuki were fond of alcohol. Perhaps the little fellow would find a home elsewhere.

  But the next day, Taro found the tanuki in a cage in the garden. His father had had it imprisoned for the entertainment of the courtiers, who were mocking the creature mercilessly. A couple of days later, it died.

  From then on, Taro found solace in his metal workroom. He did not need his father’s love. He would never again find room in his heart for a creature that could be taken from him. His metal creations kept him company. They did not talk back, they did not demand, and they could not die.

  Lost in his memories, Taro failed to notice the hammer in his hand drift from the copper sheet. The hammer smashed his thumb, and Taro grunted in pain. Tossing the tool aside, he palmed his head. On his workbench, a wingless mechanical bird jumped on tin feet—Taro’s latest companion. Just last week he had placed a tiny heart made of gears in the bird’s chest. His miniature creation was nearly ready. All it needed was wings. He’d been working on making the copper malleable enough to carve metal feathers. A rare smile touched Taro’s lips. Perhaps the bird would soar high enough to overtake the palace walls. Wouldn’t that be something?

  The hands of the clock ticked. Early morning had arrived. It was time. Taro’s smile dissolved. He unwound the bird, and it shuttered its steel eyelids. With a single breath, he extinguished the candle and slipped from the workroom.

  Taro regarded the pelts lining the hallway: boar, lion, great bear, even a kirin, a rare chimerical yōkai beast that resembled a deer, only with dragon-like scales and a g
olden fiery mane. Torches blazed in metal sconces, the light reflecting the gilded walls and creating dancing shadows on the high ceilings.

  At inception, the Palace of Illusions was built plainly and without nails, the interior nothing more than an open room. There had been no grand Main Hall or painted rice-paper panels. Since then, the dwelling had evolved, shedding its humble origins. To best his predecessors, each emperor had added new features: sprawling gardens with exotic plants, an imposing gate with snarling stone komainu, fierce lion dogs that acted as guardians and represented the beginning and the end of all things. The palace became a monument, a building of legends, where emperors would be immortalized.

  Each emperor knew that all the gold and varnish couldn’t protect them. If given the chance, there were always those who would try to take it for themselves. Thus, the palace was safeguarded with priests’ curses. Illusions. A bottomless moat. Underground tunnels as intricate as lacework. Someday it would all be Taro’s: the riches, the command of the land, the power. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. I especially do not wish to be a prize in some stupid competition.

  His lip curled in disgust as he pushed aside a tiger pelt. The decorative furs concealed trapdoors. In this hallway alone, there were ten. And in the Main Hall, the entry point to the Seasonal Rooms, there were more than one hundred. Dozens of samurai patrolled the tunnels below, ready to spring from the floorboards, surprise-phantoms of death hungry to mow down marauders.

  As a boy, Taro had been forced to memorize the lacework tunnels, an easy task, given his nimble mind. His brain stored millions of memories, each like a painting chronicling the seconds of his life.

  The hidden door opened and closed with noiseless ease. The hinges were kept well-oiled. Taro descended the stone stairs. He didn’t need a light. Sixteen steps, and he’d reach the bottom. Even if Taro hadn’t had such a fine memory, the tunnels had a simple key. Steps were measured in multiples of eight. Always sixteen steps down. One hundred twenty-eight steps to the Main Hall, with eight lefts and eight rights and eight steps in between.