by Emiko Jean
There was a tight, awkward silence. Taro stared over the emperor’s shoulder, out the window. The rain continued. Beyond, the Dry Garden stretched; white sand had been combed in parallel circles, mimicking the ripple of raindrops as they fell into water.
The person next to Taro cleared his throat. “It’s been going around the palace.” Taro cut his eyes to Satoshi. With his round face, dimples, and long lashes, Satoshi looked more boy than man. He wore white robes, and a sash of red hung from his shoulder, then wrapped around his waist, declaring his status as High Priest. The priest of all priests. Tattoos blemished his hands but not his face. An odd personal choice. Most priests tattooed their entire bodies, but always their hands and faces. The swirling cobalt markings were curses. They had the same effect written as spoken, only when a yōkai touched the ink, it burned.
Satoshi joined Taro and his father for dinner often. He filled a variety of roles within the palace. Priest. Adviser. Peacemaker.
Satoshi was also Taro’s half brother. The son of a concubine, Satoshi posed no threat to the throne. Yet for some reason, their father seemed to favor his bastard son over Taro. Seemed to. In reality, the emperor viewed both his children as blemishes, warts to be tolerated but never loved. It didn’t stop Satoshi from seeking the emperor’s approval any chance he got. Satoshi treated Taro in much the same way, seeking out the emperor and prince’s affections as a stray dog nuzzles a friendly hand.
“I visited the Winter Room this morning,” the emperor said, drawing Taro’s attention from Satoshi.
“Not wise for an old man with a cold,” Taro replied.
“I wore a yamabiko pelt,” the emperor said through his teeth. Rare and elusive yōkai, yamabiko inhabited the lower elevations of the Tsuko funo Mountains. Their voices caused false echoes and mimicked sounds, including terrible screams. The emperor had hunted them nearly to extinction. Their thick brown fur was desirable for its warmth, and their ivory teeth were favored in jewelry; both fetched high prices in the markets. Taro worked to keep his expression serene as his father continued. “It seems my kappa has disappeared.”
The memory washed over Taro. The dark Winter Room. The cold as it seeped into his clothing. Hammer in his hand. In a flurry, Taro thought of all the other yōkai frozen and hidden in the Ice Forest. A kijimuna, a redheaded, one-legged being that dwelt in Banyan trees. A nure-onago, a matted, wet-haired girl, birthed from the tears of drowning victims. The futakuchi-onna that had delivered Taro.
“Strange,” Taro said to his father, and popped a piece of dried fruit into his mouth.
The emperor grinned, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “Yes, indeed. I’d hate to think we have a yōkai sympathizer in our midst.”
Worry knifed Taro’s gut. Executions awaited sympathizers. Would the emperor do that to his own son? He wasn’t sure. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Perhaps the Resistance had something to do with it,” Satoshi interjected.
Taro bit back a groan. Whatever good humor the emperor had possessed evaporated. His father’s lip drew up in a sneer. “Impossible.” Another cough rumbled from his throat.
Satoshi blushed and focused his gaze on his lap. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
The Resistance was bigger in name than in action. Groups of same-species yōkai banded together and popped up like weeds. To date, the Resistance had chosen merely annoying, almost childish acts of rebellion: Blowing up a convoy carrying rice to the palace. Setting fire to a mine that provided iron to the royal forge. But Taro had a feeling that something larger was brewing. A few weeks ago, the Resistance had gone silent, and rumors had begun to swirl. Rumors of a yōkai Weapons Master, a trained assassin, accompanied by an oni, come to Tokkaido to unite the factions and build an army.
Somewhat appeased, the emperor took a long drink of sake and wiped grease from his mouth with a silk napkin. “Tell me, what kept you so busy this afternoon?” he questioned Taro.
Taro’s mouth parted in surprise. The emperor never asked about his inventions. The only time his father had shown the slightest bit of interest was when Taro created a metal collar of unbreakable iron. Satoshi had the collar engraved with curses and slapped it around the neck of an oni, enslaving him. When the demon tried to remove it, his hands burned. His supernatural power, the strength of a thousand men, was subdued. The emperor used the once-mighty oni as labor to renovate the Spring Room. A few days later, the giant demon broke his back hauling a hundred-year-old cherry-blossom tree.
Production of the collars was removed from Taro’s charge. The emperor had razed a temple and, in its place, installed an iron forge. Blacksmiths worked around the clock manufacturing the collars. The distant clang of metal on metal reverberated at all hours of the day, and the smoke blotted out the sun. Now all yōkai were collared and registered at birth, treated as less than dogs on leashes.
Of course, some slipped through the emperor’s fingers. Collared mothers paid handsome prices to humans to ferry their babies away to the West Lands. Some humans sympathized with the yōkai plight, but most took advantage of it. A secret journey from the East Lands to the West Lands cost a pretty penny. And there were some yōkai clans that hadn’t yet been conquered. High in the Tsuko funo Mountains, too high for the emperor to be bothered to expend the resources for an attack, was the Taiji monastery, where yōkai monks resided, locked forever in childhood.
Since the invention of the collars, Taro made sure his creations were inconsequential, nothing that could enslave an entire race.
Taro regarded his father through narrowed eyes. “I’ve been working on a mechanical canary.” At the thought of the small bird, Taro’s heart lifted.
“A canary?” Satoshi pressed gently.
Taro turned to the priest. “Yes. I’ve made it a small heart out of gears, and I’m in the process of creating feathers for its wings so it can fly—”
The emperor waved a dismissive hand. “You won’t be able to do that once the competition starts. You’ll have obligations. No time to fidget about in that workroom of yours.”
Taro’s lip curled. Of course he wants to speak of the competition. Too bad I won’t be here.
“His Majesty is right,” Satoshi said, a flush creeping across his cheeks. Taro wondered if it rankled Satoshi to address his father as “Your Majesty.” “Your presence will be required at most of the festivities. Already the inns are nearly at capacity with girls and their clan members.” Then he added, “I spoke with Master Ushiba today, and he says that this will be the toughest competition in generations.” Master Ushiba, another thorn in Taro’s side. The imperial Seasonist took his job seriously, often chasing Taro down to ask inane questions. What do you think of swarms of honeybees in the Summer Room? How about a hailstorm in the Fall Room? Regarding the Winter Room, snow is so cliché. How about giant shifting ice sheets? The small man with white eyes, sneaky and powerful, popped up everywhere.
Once every century, a human was born with eyes but no irises or pupils. This signaled a blessing. The goddess Kita had gifted the child with a singular talent—the ability to wield nature. Ushiba could bend the four elements—flame, water, air, and earth—to his will.
Taro shoved his plate away, too disgusted to eat. He took a few seconds, choosing his next words with care. “Girls have died in the Rooms. Have you no sense of decency? Are you so bloodthirsty?” he asked Satoshi. Although there were rules set before the start of the competition, “No killing” being foremost, the Rooms had predators in them. Nobody was safe. Satoshi had the good sense to look chastised. “It is an archaic tradition and should be abolished. The thought of being a prize—”
The emperor’s fist slammed down, rocking the table. Little bits of jellied fish trembled, as did Satoshi. “I’ve had enough of your apathy.” He leaned in close. “You will do this. If not for me, then for your mother. Have you forgotten so easily that she was once a competitor?”
At the mention of his mother, grief and guilt weighed
down Taro’s heart. She would be alive if not for me. Taro’s nursemaid loved to tell stories of the empress and how wildly, how deeply, how madly the emperor had loved her. How could a man love a woman so much, but not the son she bore him? Taro returned his gaze to out the window. Raindrops blurred his vision.
The emperor continued. “She was radiant when she won . . .” Taro knew what road his father headed down. A street lined with memories. He didn’t need to listen to the words. He’d heard them often enough.
I remember with perfect clarity when she conquered the Seasons.
How she looked in the Winter Room, cheeks flushed and a smile like a secret hovering on her lips.
Gods and goddesses, I loved her.
Unwilling to listen once more, Taro pushed up from the table and left.
* * *
In his apartment, Taro looked at his platform bed. In a few mornings, attendants would come to rouse him and dress him for the competition. He would be a pretty peacock on display. Samurai would wait outside his chamber doors, ready to escort him to the opening ceremony.
He painted a new future in his mind. An empty bed. A vacant workroom. A missing prince. He saw this vision as real as day or night or a coming storm. Soon he’d be gone. Satisfaction seeped into Taro’s bones; the future was bright and without imperial ties.
Chapter 8
Mari
It was morning, and Mari stood at the entrance of the kitchen. Her body buzzed with adrenaline and lack of sleep. She’d stumbled home just before dawn. She had expected the lights to be ablaze, her mother waiting in the tatami room. She had expected a reckoning. But inside the house, darkness and emptiness greeted her. Tami was asleep. And Mari, too tired to question the momentary reprieve, took herself to bed.
Now, scant hours and little sleep later, Mari studied her mother, bent over the irori.
She doesn’t appear angry.
It seemed like any other morning. Tami puttered around, scooping rice from an iron pot into an amber glazed bowl. Sensing her daughter’s presence, she glanced over her shoulder. “I see you slept as poorly as I did,” she said, her gaze sweeping over Mari’s pale face, half-moon shadows under her eyes.
Mari made a noise of agreement as she settled into a sitting position at the low table. The room smelled of boiling rice and fire. Mari continued to track her mother’s movements. She was a study in serenity. Mari didn’t like it.
Remember, she is an accomplished actress. She fools men into love. How hard would it be to fool her own daughter?
From a blue porcelain jar, Tami dug out strips of pickled ginger. “You need to bring Hissa her gifts. They should have been delivered yesterday.” Two packages sat in the corner. Mari had passed Hissa’s house last night on her way home. Already, bereavement gifts littered her front porch. The parcels were wrapped twice in stiff washi paper and tied with twine, and would most likely contain coins or incense. There were also silver bowls overflowing with persimmons, pears, apples, and peaches. Fruit was the food of grief. Even in death, sweetness would be found. Her friend would be allowed to mourn forty-nine days and no more, just enough time to recover from childbirth. Then she was expected to venture back into the world and find another man with a fortune. Mari’s pulse dulled at the thought.
Tsuma’s survival depended on new life. New female life. Once an Animal Wife bore a girl, her duty was complete. She was celebrated. Revered. Most importantly, she could retire, raising her daughter in the quiet solitude of their mountain village.
The last baby girl was born five months ago. Yuka’s daughter, Mayumi, was beautiful, with a round face, pink cheeks, and the longest eyelashes Mari had ever seen. All the wives doted on her. Mari would look at Mayumi and wonder, Is this all there is? Marrying men, stealing their fortunes, and having babies?
Tami slid a steaming bowl of rice topped with pink ginger and black sesame seeds in front of Mari, then sat down opposite her. What game is she playing? Clearly, her mother didn’t want to discuss the previous evening. So be it. I can act as well. Coolly, Mari reached for her hashi. A wooden trunk rested just under the window. “Is that new?” she asked, holding the chopsticks with a bite of rice near her mouth.
Her mother smiled, and Mari had a sudden sinking feeling. “It’s for your trip.”
She blinked. “My trip?”
“Yes. The competition begins in two weeks. It will take you at least a week to travel to the Imperial City. I thought to keep you here for another few days. But in light of recent events . . .” Tami shrugged. “You will depart tomorrow.”
A tremor started in Mari’s fingers, snaked its way down her spine. She’d known she would have to leave soon, but not having time to say goodbye? Now she understood: this was her punishment for running from Tami, for staying out all night. Tami smiled serenely as she continued sipping her tea. Cold. Calculating. Cruel. This was her mother’s true nature.
Tami chuckled. “You think I don’t know about him?” Her derisive laughter faded; her fine eyes narrowed. “You think the Son of Nightmares will take you away from here?”
Mari lowered her gaze. An angry flush crept up her cheeks. She hadn’t ever considered that option. She only knew what she didn’t want. She did not want to marry. She did not want to go to the Palace of Illusions. She did not want to bear baby after baby in hopes of having a girl. To all this, there was a single antidote. Freedom. That is what I want. A life without obligation, without expectation.
“You have nothing to say?” Tami spat. “You are a disobedient child, an ingrate.”
A woman’s worst trait is her temper, Tami had advised Mari. But white-hot anger beat in Mari’s chest. She would most likely die in the competition and never see Tsuma or her mother again. Why measure her words any longer? Why play the part of obedient daughter for one more second? Why pretend? Lip curling, Mari growled, “I may be a disobedient ingrate, but that is far better than what you are! You are a child killer. Two of your own boys you’ve put in the river, and how many others? And now you sacrifice your own daughter.” Her hands, her voice, shook. Though she knew it wasn’t true. The boys didn’t die in the river. Her mother didn’t know that, however. And Mari used that information like a weapon.
Tami’s eyes widened, and she leaped across the table. Rice, tea, pink ginger, and hashi scattered across the tatami mats. Thwack. Mari’s head whipped with the force of her mother’s palm. Her mouth tasted of blood.
“You think you know everything,” her mother said, voice raspy and raw. Tears shimmered in Tami’s eyes.
She never cries.
Tami wrapped her arms around herself, a shaking shield. “But you know nothing of sacrifices. You do not know what it is like to cast your sons into the river. You do not know what it is like to have a daughter and finally think your life has begun. Or what it is like to watch that daughter grow, to receive pitying glances when her plainness becomes evident and her beast remains all but hidden. Even though you think she is the most beautiful thing in the world.” Her mother rocked. Mari’s anger deflated, and in its wake, numbness set in. Words tumbled from Tami’s mouth, tiny boulders that shook the foundation of Mari’s world. “You do not know what it is like to have the Animal Wives whisper about your child. Mari must be sent away; she is of no use to us; she is not beautiful; she has only a partial beast; she is not one of us, they told me.”
A thickness built in Mari’s throat.
Her mother continued, undaunted; her eyes dulled, and her hands opened in front of her. “Don’t you see? The training, the promise of an imperial fortune—it was the only thing I could think of to convince them. It was the only way I could keep you.”
Mari’s mouth parted, but no sound formed. Tami gathered herself and strode from the room. At length, Mari rose too. The weight of her mother’s confession slowed her movements. She picked up the overturned bowl and teacup and swept up the sticky rice and ginger from the floor. Hissa was right. Animal Wives were cursed. Mari’s chin trembled, but she did not allow herself to cry.
I am an accomplished actress too.
* * *
A quickly drawn breath, and Mari’s eyes sprang open, the last vestiges of sleep stripped away by fear. Someone was in her room. She could feel eyes upon her, watching her. Her mother? Not likely. After her confession, she would be keeping her distance. She’d spent the rest of the day staring out the window at the gray sky. The silence in the cottage was heavy with what remained unsaid. Another standoff. Their relationship had been reduced to a battle of wills.
Fear beat in Mari’s throat. She lay still. Listening. Waiting. Outside, the wind was spiteful, rattling the windows, shaking the walls.
Her eyes adjusted to the dark, and in the shadows, a form began to materialize. She recognized the lithe movements as the figure stepped from the corner. Akira.
Only the Son of Nightmares could sneak over the gates of Tsuma undetected. He’d never been in her room, but Mari had shown him her cottage once. “My room faces the east. I wake with the sun,” she’d said.
“Gods and goddesses, you nearly startled me to death. You were this close”—Mari sat up and pinched her fingers so that they were an inch apart—“from meeting the blade end of my naginata.”
Akira chuckled, leaned against the wall, and unhooked his mask.
At Akira’s dry laughter, Mari frowned. Something is off. “What are you doing here?”
The Son of Nightmares sobered. “I dreamt you were gone.” He pivoted to the wooden trunk, which she had dragged into her room. The trunk lay open, spilling over with heavy silk embroidered kimonos, obi, cords, gold pins . . . items worthy of an empress. “Apparently, I was right.”
