Empress of All Seasons

by Emiko Jean

  Mari nodded. “I hope you’ll live to see it.” She gave a pointed look at his shoulder.

  He barked a laugh. “Don’t burn my body yet. I’m too stubborn to die.” He inclined his head. “Masa.”

  Mari reciprocated the gesture. “Mari.” She noted that his right hand, his injured side, couldn’t quite grip the reins. Not a good sign. “Have you lost feeling in your arm?” she asked. Her gaze darted around the landscape, searching for a particular flower with velvet leaves and a dark-purple, almost black, bloom.

  He flexed his hand, and his fingers trembled. “This is nothing compared to what I’ve faced before.” Masa tilted his head back, revealing a jagged scar that traveled from just beneath his chin to his neck, then disappeared into his collar. “Kappa almost ate me alive during my first trek over these mountains.” The green water creatures were well-known in the lower parts of the mountains. They favored entrails but liked cucumbers more. If you fed them the green vegetable, they’d let you pet them or bring you a fish to reciprocate the gift.

  The lead samurai, the one with a vicious limp, glanced over his shoulder, brows drawn and eyes intense. A stagnant breeze ruffled his topknot. His gaze lingered; then he whipped it back forward. “I don’t think he likes me very much,” Mari confessed. The entire journey, she’d suffered his assessing looks.

  Masa smiled. “Hiro doesn’t like anyone. He has two expressions: angry and less angry.”

  Mari chuckled and snuck another glance at the imposing samurai. “What about now? Is he angry or less angry?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Masa leaned in, crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. Mari wondered at how a man in such pain could be in such good humor. “Less angry. Escorting you to Tokkaido has made us wealthy men. We could hardly believe our luck when your mother’s messenger found us. She’s already delivered half her payment. This is our biggest payday yet.”

  Mari returned Masa’s infectious smile. They rode on in companionable silence. Towering trees fenced the road. A breeze like the gentle stroke of a calligraphy pen caressed Mari’s cheek. The trot of the horses echoed through the mountain. After a time, Mari felt the weight of Hiro’s gaze settle on her.

  Mari straightened her spine and shuttered her gaze. She told herself she didn’t care what he thought of her. It was a lie. The first and foremost lesson taught to Animal Wives was to be likable. A woman must be gentle and kind, never outspoken, her mother had said before Mari’s training shifted from traditional Animal Wife teachings to combat. But this early lesson stuck. She resisted the need to apologize. I’m sorry you don’t like me.

  Masa sighed and drummed his thumbs on his saddle. “Hiro says your people trick men into marriage and steal their fortunes.” Mari started. “Don’t worry. Your mother paid enough for our silence. Our lips are sealed.” Mari released a breath. She wondered if this was a trait of all samurai, to speak the truth whether pleasant or not.

  Anger stirred in Mari. It was one thing for her to hate her people’s archaic customs. It was something else entirely coming from a stranger. “It’s easy to pass judgment; far harder to understand,” she said, teeth on edge.

  “I agree. When Hiro called you a pit viper and said you’re not to be trusted, I told him the same thing,” said Masa.

  As if he could hear them, Hiro whistled, summoning Masa.

  “He doesn’t want me talking to you,” Masa said. “He fears you will trick me into marriage, then leave me desperate and wanting. As if that could ever be so.” The samurai laughed airily.

  You are not pretty enough. She cleared her throat, hardened her heart. “Whatever he thinks about me, whatever you think about my people, you are both wrong.” She remembered Hissa’s words. We are monsters. The words of her mother. It is the only way I could keep you. “Not everyone is all good or all bad. It is a mistake to think so.”

  Masa’s mouth thinned. He took up the horse’s reins in his stubby fingers and began to canter away, but not before turning back. “You’ll want to hide your necklace and anything of value before we are off the mountain. No use drawing extra attention.”

  Mari’s hands went to the piece of cord strung with copper currency. She tucked it under her kimono. On her lap, she cradled a silver pick, Hissa’s parting gift to her. It’s for good luck. I wore it when I met my husband, her friend had whispered. Mari turned the silver pick over in her hands, the precious metal glaring in the orange sun. The end tapered to a vicious point, a weapon as well as an ornament. Just like an Animal Wife. Mari slipped the pick into her kimono sleeve just as the crooked roof of a decaying temple rose on the horizon. A dark tide of fear rolled through her. With a long inhale and exhale, she steadied herself.

  Duty and home, Tami had whispered in Mari’s ear one last time in lieu of a heartfelt goodbye. So many things between them had been left unsaid.

  I am a lean tiger in winter. I will survive. I will be free. And I will return to Tsuma. I will fix what is wrong between us.

  * * *

  Mari crept from the campsite. Her breaths came in short bursts, and the darkness felt heavy, unknown. She’d slept for only a few hours, uncomfortable on a thin pallet and wooden block beneath her neck to prevent her hair from becoming mussed, before Masa’s moans had roused her.

  At her back, the temple loomed. Dilapidated and forgotten. Hiro had stuck one foot in and declared it unsafe to spend the night in. A few yards from her was a grove of hemlock trees. And there, growing at the base, were night flowers. She plucked them easily from the ground, discarding the actual flowers. The purple blooms turned your insides to liquid. But crushed and mixed with water, the velvet heart-shaped leaves made a poultice that calmed the most ravaging infection. It was a wonder, a plant that could kill as easily as it could save.

  Mari bit her lip. Masa didn’t have much time.

  Back at the campsite, the samurai slept, all except for Hiro. He reclined on his bedroll, tracking Mari’s movements with his eyes. Mari ignored him. Quickly, she mixed the poultice in the wooden bowl she had used to eat dinner earlier. She knelt next to Masa’s pallet. Before she could place the healing mixture on his wound, he whimpered, and his eyes fluttered open. “Am I dreaming?” he asked, one side of his mouth tilting up.

  “I’m afraid not. You are very much awake. And very much in trouble, if that wound on your shoulder isn’t taken care of soon.” She snorted. “Your friends may not care about it, but I certainly do.”

  Masa chuckled, his lips chapped and white. Though a fire blazed nearby, he shivered. “Do you hear that, Hiro? She thinks you lack basic friendship skills.”

  “I’m glad you have your sense of humor,” Hiro said, standing just above Mari’s shoulder. “I hope you’re still laughing when we have to cut off the arm.”

  Masa half smiled. “Please,” he huffed. “I’ve never liked this arm anyway. It’s always giving me trouble.” Masa’s laugh ended in a dry cough.

  Mari fetched a gourd of water and trickled the liquid on his lips and then into his mouth. “Stay for a while,” Masa said, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re much prettier to look at than Hiro. Your hands are softer too.” Then he was asleep.

  “You’re going to cut off his arm?” Mari asked, watching Masa’s chest rise and fall with deep breaths.

  The samurai said nothing. Mari’s muscles coiled.

  Hiro sighed, weighty and lengthy. “If it isn’t better by tomorrow, we’ve agreed to sever the limb. It’s his sword arm. He won’t be able to fight again.”

  “What will he do?” Her brow dipped in concern.

  “His father is a farmer. He’d have to go home.”

  Mari’s jaw clenched. “You wouldn’t keep him as one of your rōnin?”

  “Not if he can’t fight. He’d be a liability.”

  Mari stared at the poultice, hesitating. What if she was wrong about the night flower? She’d seen Yuka pluck it from the ground. But had she gotten it mixed up? Were the flowers the fever reducer and the leaves the intestine liquefier?
She breathed in deeply and peeled away the cloth covering Masa’s wound. She grimaced at the gashes, and her stomach rippled at the sour smell. “What happened?” she whispered.

  Hiro crouched beside her, eyeing the wound impassively. Sparks shot from the dying fire, crackling and popping. “Namahage got him.” Mari shuddered. Animal Wives didn’t fear much, but the demons were a natural enemy. “They attacked us at night. We killed the tribe but not before one dug its claws into Masa.” Three deep gouges ran down Masa’s side. Claw marks. These rōnin had killed an entire tribe of namahage? Newfound respect with a healthy dose of fear blossomed in Mari’s belly. The beast inside her stirred. She risked a glance at Hiro. She couldn’t make out much of his expression because of the darkness, but she could detect the hard angles of his face. He’s a true warrior. Something rough-hewed and born on a battlefield. Every minute that ticked by brought Masa closer to death. She reached for the bowl.

  Hiro’s arm snapped out; his fingers grasped her wrist. “If he dies because of you, I’ll have your head.”

  “He’s dead either way. This is his only hope.”

  Hiro released her wrist.

  Mari brought the poultice closer in to her body. Using a clean cloth she’d ripped from her undergarments, she dipped into the paste.

  Hiro sniffed. “What is that?”

  “Night flower,” she answered. “We used it in the village to treat women after giving birth. It cures infection.” Masa’s eyelids twitched, and sweat coated his forehead. He’d fallen into a deep, feverish sleep.

  Hiro was quiet, his eyes glowing, reflecting the flames of the fire. Perhaps he’s imagining all the ways to kill me.

  Finally, he spoke, soft and earnest. “He’s like a brother to me.”

  Mari leaned forward and began dotting the paste on Masa’s injury. The man flinched but didn’t wake. She kept her face placid.

  Mari gave a slight nod and went back to work. She dipped two fingers in the poultice and spread it thickly over Masa’s wound.

  Hiro stood by the entire time, a silent guardian. When she was done, Mari cleaned her hands, wiped the sweat from Masa’s brow, and covered him with a fresh blanket. Then she walked to her pallet. “Good night, Hiro.”

  “Mari,” Hiro called out across the fire. Her back stiffened. “If you save him, I’ll be in your debt.”

  “Imagine that,” she said, a wicked gleam in her eye. “You, indebted to a pit viper.” Then she scurried under her blankets and turned her face.

  Chapter 11

  Mari

  Masked city.

  That was Mari’s first thought as she glimpsed Tokkaido, the Imperial City, sprawled before their caravan. There was a gold-and-silver tint to it—half in shadow, the other half lit up in the dying sunlight. Forested hills, mountains wreathed in mist, and the Ma ni Sea fortified the capital. Overhead, a flock of wild geese flew, their desolate call bouncing off the rooftops.

  They crested a hill, and Mari saw that the infrastructure had been designed in a systematic fashion. Streets ran parallel and divided at regular intervals. But the edges seemed raw and unfinished, as if the artist had run out of ink near the frame of his painting.

  Another hour passed, and they reached the city’s earthwork walls. Two snoozing samurai guarded the gates. The caravan passed without notice. Children with sunken eyes and bloated bellies ran behind the processional, begging for coins. Mari dug out the copper necklace from beneath her kimono, but before she could unstring the coins, the children were shooed away by dōshin, lesser samurai who patrolled the wards, brandishing steel wands with hooks.

  The cobblestone streets teemed with humans, carts, and animals, all darting in different directions. Mari sucked in an uneasy breath as her samurai guards were forced to slow their pace and draw closer to one another. They kept to the main street, which ran across the whole city and ended at the Palace of Illusions. To the left and right of the road were the markets, brimming with a life of their own, a city within a city.

  Masa sat with Mari in the palanquin, curtains pulled back. His fever had broken that morning, thanks to Mari’s night flower, but he was still weak. “Eleventh ward,” he told her, gritting his teeth and holding his shoulder. “Best to stay out of the commercial district unless you absolutely have to go.”

  Mari nodded absently, fascinated by the bustle. The air smelled of grime and smoke and sesame oil, but underneath there was freedom, opportunity. She had the chance to do something big. You can be anyone you want here. She thought of a dark, endless hallway with doors on either side, each room full of hidden possibilities and secrets.

  The litter jerked, forced to the side of the road, and Mari grabbed her seat, narrowly avoiding being thrown. A large cart carrying eight human passengers rattled by. Instead of oxen, four oni demons were yoked to the front. Their horns and teeth had been ground down to nubs. Each wore a shining collar with curses engraved in the metal. Mari searched for the locks, but the seams had been soldered together. As they pulled, their muscles strained with the effort.

  Mari’s joy turned to ash, to fear and disgust. She’d forgotten she was yōkai. She’d forgotten the danger. The reality was stark, and she saw all too clearly her place in this city—at the bottom, where anyone could step on you.

  “Careful,” Masa warned. “If you let your emotions show, the priests will ask questions.”

  Ahead, a trio of gray-robed priests loitered outside a glassblower’s shop. Their heads were shaved. Their faces and hands were covered in cobalt tattoos, giving their skin and lips a faint bluish tint. Curses. The Animal Wives carried home terrible tales of human priests with inked flesh. A brush of their skin against hers would burn. She kept her head down as they rolled by, but she felt a pulsing heat radiate from them and tasted burnt cinnamon in her mouth. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it, taste it. Painful magic. The blood stilled in her veins. Danger surrounded her here.

  The road narrowed and dimmed. The markets shifted to neighborhoods full of rickety row houses that leaned up against one another, blotting out the light. Mari eyed the inhabitants with morbid curiosity. A hag that appeared human except for her eyes, which were black with no lids. A man dressed as a monk but with a red face, bulbous nose, and giant feathered wings dragging on the ground, sweeping filth from the street. All had sad, vulnerable faces. All were bent from a lifetime of looking at the ground. All were yōkai. And like the oni, all wore metal collars. Mari ached to leap from the palanquin and run to them, to help them. But self-preservation and cowardice kept her rooted to her seat.

  “The eighth, ninth, and tenth wards are the only places yōkai are allowed to live,” Masa whispered.

  Mari swallowed hard against the painful lump in her throat. A life lived in chains is no life at all. Unwilling to see any more, she snapped her attention to the road ahead, to where the golden palace loomed, like a giant watching over its city.

  Around the seventh ward, the streets widened. Bunches of clover and lavender matted the cobblestones, masking the smell of filth, fish, and rotten vegetables.

  Hiro whistled, and their processional slowed to a stop in front of a wooden building with a simple shingled roof. A piece of dyed cloth hung from the eaves, displaying the name of the establishment. The Gana Inn—Mari’s home for the next few days. And quite possibly, the last place she would ever sleep.

  * * *

  “This is the only room you have available?” Mari asked, arching a slender brow at the innkeeper. There was no window, and the only light emanated from a single lantern on the floor. There was a thin mat in the corner, presumably to be used as a bed. The place stank of tobacco and pickled radishes.

  The innkeeper nodded, his ruddy cheeks jiggling. The mustard-colored kimono he wore did nothing for his complexion, and the way he stroked his abdomen made Mari think of a preening cat. “Yes. We’ve been booked solid for a month. There are no vacancies in the city, at least not in the first seven wards. Many have come for the competition. You might be able to find
lodging in one of the upper wards, but you’d have to share a room . . .”

  She might almost prefer that. This one was stifling. Mari’s nose twitched. “What is that . . .”

  “Smell? That’s the communal toilet next door.” The innkeeper’s lips pursed. He was growing impatient. “Do you want the room or not?”

  “She’ll take it,” Masa announced, leaning heavily against the door. He’d insisted on accompanying Mari inside. Hiro had followed, dragging her trunk, grumbling the whole time.

  Mari shot a scowl in Masa’s direction, which made him grin. “How much?” she asked the innkeeper.

  “Only ten mon,” he said.

  Masa snorted. Ten mon was half the worth of her necklace. She searched the innkeeper’s face. Mari untied the cord from around her neck and slipped off ten coins.

  “Excellent. I’ll have a servant come and help you unpack.” The innkeeper departed in a swirl of robes.

  “You overpaid,” Masa said. “This room is worth two mon at most.”

  Hiro pushed Mari’s trunk to the center of the room.

  Mari shrugged. “You heard the innkeeper. There aren’t any other rooms available.”

  “Masa, we have to go,” Hiro said, already halfway out the door, in a hurry to be out of Mari’s sight, no doubt. Despite her having saved Masa’s life, Hiro maintained his disdain for Mari.

  Masa bowed. “It was lovely meeting you, Mari. I hope we’ll see each other again. Friends?” he asked.

  She liked the samurai. Mari gave a decisive nod. “Friends.” Then she turned to Hiro. “Thank you.”

  Masa exited, but Hiro lingered. They stared at each other, the Animal Wife and the rōnin.

  Hiro’s head tilted as he scrutinized her. His jaw worked. At length, he said, “When I was a little boy, I was brought to the mountains. I almost died.”

  “Oh?” Something in Mari’s chest began to flutter, butterflies with barbed wings.