by Emiko Jean
She reached the edge of the field. Her mouth felt dry, and her throat ached. She looked up, shielding her eyes. The sun glared, an open wound in the sky, and it had shifted ever so slightly. Late afternoon?
On the ground, she noted four sets of prints. The girls hadn’t covered their tracks. Too easy. Before diving into the birch forest, Mari glanced over her shoulder. Always look behind you, Tami had said. You don’t know what could be stalking you. A flash of red caught her eyes—a girl with a crimson ribbon in her hair. The girl carried no weapon. She raced through the sunflower field so fast, her body was a blur. Then the girl leaped, clearing the last of the sunflowers and skidding into the birch forest. Above, gray clouds filtered. Lightning wrenched across the sky like a reaching hand. Mari watched as it split a tree. A branch fell, landing on top of the red-ribboned girl, pinning her. More sparks flew, and thunder rolled. The Rooms choose you as much as you choose them, Master Ushiba had warned. Mari darted into the forest, applying her footsteps over those of the two girls.
The thunderstorm left just as quickly as it had arrived. Mari jogged slowly, tracking her prey. Soon enough, a stitch buckled her side, and she was forced to a walk. Her feet felt like they were on fire, swelling with heat. Determined, she continued on, trampling through the shrubs, using her naginata as a walking stick. Dappled sunlight and a hot breeze filtered through the trees. Flies swarmed, biting Mari’s neck and face. Voices in the distance ruffled the air. The two girls. Mari had caught up to them. She slowed, lay down on her stomach, and shimmied forward, using a bush to shield her. Through the leaves, she caught sight of their dark hair. She recognized one of the girls, the one with the bow and arrow, the one who’d rammed into her side during the opening ceremony.
The bow-and-arrow girl laughed and plucked an apple from a tree. They were in a grove of some sort. Apples hung heavy from branches, along with oranges and lemons. Mari’s mouth watered as she eyed them through the wavy heat. “When I am Empress,” said the girl, “I will have this room completely remodeled. An orchard in the middle of a birch forest? How absurd.”
Her friend frowned, katana sword held tightly in her hand. “I don’t think we should slow down. There are only ten scrolls.”
“Pfft,” the bow-and-arrow girl chided, biting into the apple. “They are all still trying to solve the riddle. ‘Up, up I go, but I never grow.’ ”
Her friend’s frown deepened. “We should go. I feel like we’re being followed.”
Mari ducked farther into the bush.
The bow-and-arrow girl sighed and threw the apple. “I suppose so. The mountain will take some time to climb.”
Mari bit her cheek. Mountain? Yes, of course. Up, up I go, but I never grow. A mountain. She could’ve slapped herself at her stupidity. You live on a mountain. The girls began to exit the orchard, but their steps stalled. A tree rustled, and from the branches a bright green snake fell, its body coiled and ready to strike. Mari startled violently. The pit viper hissed, fangs dripping with venom, eyes focused on the girl with the katana sword.
The girl with the katana sword turned wide eyes to her friend. “Help me,” she said, body wound tight. Any movement, and the viper would strike. Mari crawled forward, reaching behind for her naginata.
The bow-and-arrow girl smiled. “We can’t both be Empress. Better our allegiance ends now than to drag it out.”
The katana-sword girl gritted her teeth and took a cautious step back. The snake hissed and followed. “It’s against the rules. No killing your opponents,” she said.
The bow-and-arrow girl laughed. “I’m merely letting nature take its course.” The bow-and-arrow girl plucked a rock from the ground. She tossed it up in the air and caught it. “Well, maybe I’m helping it along a little bit.” She threw the rock at the katana girl’s feet. The pit viper leaped into action and struck, biting through the katana girl’s kimono. The katana girl’s knees buckled, and she fell forward, hand clutching her throat, spittle forming at the corners of her mouth.
The bow-and-arrow girl didn’t stay to watch. She left the orchard. The pit viper coiled again, ready to strike, guarding its prey. Mari drew to her feet and crept from the bush. The pit viper opened its mouth and hissed. She blinked the sweat from her eyes, and in one swift movement brought her naginata down, slicing through the pit viper’s body.
He calls you a pit viper, Masa had told her.
Mari smiled at the dead snake. “You and I are not the same.” She crouched next to the katana girl and felt along her neck. Her skin was still warm. No pulse.
Mari peered up, but branches blocked her view. How much farther to the mountain? She’d better get going. But she hesitated to leave the girl behind. Alone. It seemed not right. Mari gathered leaves and dirt from the ground and covered the girl as best she could.
She stumbled from the orchard. The birch trees were silent and eerie. Even the leaves that fluttered in the breeze didn’t make a sound. She should have been able to hear the other girls—their cries of defeat and shouts of victory—but all was silent. The grass grew high, and the blades cut her arms. Thick swarms of flies appeared, and she knew this could mean only one thing: water.
Mari licked her cracked lips. A drink sounded good. She wouldn’t be able to go much farther without one. The tall grass parted, revealing a pond that stank like rot and dead fish. An arched bridge stretched over the water. On the bridge, a girl and a giant boar were locked in a standoff. The boar was near the size of the girl. Its mouth frothed with spit, and its two sets of tusks were rimmed in red. The boar stamped its foot. Mari noticed that it was the sickle-and-chain girl, the bold one who had signed her contract first. I thought she’d have a scroll by now.
The girl with the sickle and chain put her hands up, eyes widening. “Easy, pig,” she said, backing up. The boar shook its head and stamped its foot again.
It’s not your fight, Mari counseled herself. She turned to go. Her feet, her conscience, held her immobile. She groaned and rolled her eyes. I’ll not see another girl dead if I can help it. Mari swiveled and burst from the reeds. Her feet made no sound on the rickety wooden bridge. As she ran, she braced her naginata above her. The pole struck the boar in the temple. It waivered but didn’t collapse. She swung up and struck again, three more times. The boar grunted and fell, unconscious, with an audible thud on the wooden bridge. Mari heaved and watched the boar for a moment, naginata ready to strike again.
“Thanks.” The sickle-and-chain girl spoke. She had dark brown eyes, chestnut hair, and straight eyebrows. The only soft thing about her was her heart-shaped face. She wore an uwagi. The tunic was tied tight around her throat, covering her neck.
Mari nodded. “We’ve got boars where I’m from. Terrible animals. Messy eaters.”
The girl laughed, a throaty sound. “I’ll make sure I mind my manners when I’m around you.” She bowed. “I’m Asami.”
Mari returned the bow. “Mari.”
“Well, thanks again, Mari,” Asami said. She adjusted the sickle and chain. “Good luck.” Asami turned, rambling off.
“Wait,” Mari said. Asami paused. “We could work together.” She thought of the two girls she’d followed and their short partnership, before one betrayed the other. “If we team up, it would strengthen our odds. I’d have your back, and you’d have mine . . . at least until the last Room.” Think with your head. Make an ally.
“Sorry, Mari.” Asami kept walking. “I work alone.” Then she slipped into the birch trees and disappeared.
Mari hung her head. A black spider with white stripes crawled across her feet. Its body was near the size of her palm. With a tiny squeak, she shook off the eight-legged creature. Then she used her naginata to sever it in half. A soft cry echoed through the forest. The sound of another girl dying?
* * *
Night closed in, but the heat lingered, suffocating the endless forest.
Mari slogged on, sweat pouring from her body. Her muscles ached with fatigue, but her thoughts centered on the scrolls. They were probably
all taken by now. But there was supposed to be a signal. The sound of a gong meant failure. And she hadn’t heard one yet. Then again, she hadn’t seen another girl for hours. Hadn’t heard another sound, aside from the rustling trees and buzzing insects.
What if she was walking all for naught? What if she was walking in circles? What if the losers were meant to stay in the Summer Room and perish?
Twice she thought she saw a sparkling river through the trees, but when she dipped her hands into the water and brought them to her lips, she tasted dirt. She heard a crunch of leaves behind her. Was she being followed? She whipped around, naginata drawn. Nothing. No one. Her mind was playing tricks on her. Heat made people crazy.
Everything smelled of rotting earth, as if the ground were being overcooked. She kept going, running when she could, walking when she couldn’t. Homesickness hit Mari like a punch in the gut. How was Hissa? What was Akira doing right now? Will I ever see them again?
Hard rocks bit into the arches of her feet. The sparse grass of the birch forest ended, and the slope of the mountain began. Mari drew her head up. The dry mountain had seemed so small in the distance. Now it rose above her, an imposing giant. She couldn’t walk upright, so she had to settle for a sort of bear crawl. Her hands sank into dry dirt, and gravel dug into her palms as she began to climb. One step down, a thousand more to go.
* * *
Mari’s muscles screamed and ached. She risked a glance down. All she saw was black, a yawning mouth waiting to swallow her whole. Heated wind swirled, kicking up buried memories. She focused on them instead of the pain.
The first time she’d spoken to Akira, she’d knocked him out of a tree. She’d been sent to collect tributes from the gates. She’d just picked up a basket of persimmons when movement in the trees caught her eye. She knew who it was. He’d been watching her for days, haunting the gates. She plucked an orange from the basket and launched it at him. He toppled from the tree.
“You’ve been following me. What do you want?” she’d asked, standing above him, hands on her hips.
He flinched.
Her glare intensified. “What’s wrong with your face?” she asked.
He fingered the deep grooves of his silvery scars. There were more on his hands. “My mother is the Slash-Mouthed Girl. I am the Son of Nightmares,” he said, as if that explained it all.
“You don’t look very nightmarish,” she’d said, nose scrunching. “Maybe a bad dream, but that’s all.” She grabbed the orange she’d thrown, peeled it, and offered him half.
As he took it, his fingers brushed hers. Touch has a memory. And Mari remembered that stroke as a song, the melody of one lonely soul calling to the other. “I think we ought to be friends,” he’d said.
Mari had puckered her lips in consideration. Soon her mother would come searching for her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
The scarred boy grinned. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had.”
Mari swallowed at the memory. She had to get back to him, to her friends. Whatever the cost, she must return to Tsuma. The rocky façade leveled off, and Mari bit back a shout as she hoisted over a rise. As she stood, her chest heaved. A hot, errant breeze rippled her hair. All her nails were broken, and her once-white undergarments were a filthy brown. Her knees were scratched from sharp rocks. But she’d summited the mountain. Accomplishment gave her new breath, new hope.
Hazy lights glowed ahead from sheltered flames. In between the craggy edges was a platform. Samurai were there, spears in hand, guarding a table. And on that table? A single scroll tied with red twine. Mine.
Behind the platform was another pavilion where nine girls, dirty and bedraggled, drank ladles of water from a wooden bucket. Each had a scroll.
Mari licked her parched lips, tasting victory. She flung herself forward. Her feet fell out from underneath her. She landed hard, her palms cut by sharp rocks. Her side ached as if punched by a giant fist.
Mari turned her head. Black beady eyes met hers. A boar stood above her. The boar. She recognized its red-tipped tusks, the wound at its temple. Something had been stalking her. Too late, she remembered how smart these animals were, how patient. The boar stamped its foot and drew back, ready to charge.
Mari closed her eyes and prayed for it to be quick. Air whooshed by, followed by a thunk, the sound of a body falling. Tentatively, Mari opened an eye.
Asami had taken the boar’s place. Her sickle dripped with dark red. “You should’ve killed it when you had the chance,” said Asami. She extended a hand to Mari. Her wrists and palms were tattooed. Fear burned a path up Mari’s throat. Curses? She looked closer. The ink color was wrong, but she couldn’t tell exactly what they were. Mari took Asami’s hand.
A scroll was tucked into the fold of Asami’s uwagi. She left the protection of the samurai to help me? Mari couldn’t make sense of it. Asami gestured to the low table. “Take your scroll. I’ll watch your back.”
Cautious, Mari stepped between the samurai and onto the platform. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the scroll. She grasped it and held it to her chest.
A gong rang. The samurai stomped their spears on the wooden platform. The sound echoed through the Summer Room, and the doors opened.
Mari’s whole body shook, but she kept the scroll tight in her grip. Nobody would take it from her.
Asami stepped to Mari’s side. “I’ve thought about your offer. I accept.”
Mari swallowed. Dirt coated her throat, making her voice rough. “What changed your mind?”
Asami shrugged. “The Rooms are no joke. And two opinions are always better than one.” The girl smiled. “Especially when one of them is mine. We’ll help each other until the final Room. And then . . .” She shrugged.
Mari understood. “Then it’s every woman for herself.”
“Deal?” Asami asked, wiping her sickle on the arm of her tunic sleeve. A streak of red stained the fabric. Boar blood.
Mari stared at Asami. She’s your enemy in this competition. Don’t trust her. Mari nodded. “Deal.”
Asami smiled.
They were allies now, bound by a fraying thread.
Chapter 19
Mari
Mari kept a tight hold of her naginata as she strolled the perimeter of the lavish bedroom. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. She couldn’t believe that the Summer Room was over.
The zelkova floor was bare but lacquered and shiny, warming instantly beneath her feet. A platform bed with periwinkle silk cushions took up one wall. Suspended above was a pair of gold-tipped rhinoceros horns flanked by two mirrors that faced each other—an antiquated superstition to ward off evil spirits. The wall opposite the bed was coated in linen wallpaper with an illustration depicting an arched wisteria. Mari inhaled. The room even smelled luxurious, spiced faintly with cedar, candle wax, and incense. This room, the Wisteria Apartment, inside the Palace of Illusions, would be Mari’s home for the duration of the competition.
The other ten girls had accommodations in the same wing, in the East Hall. She’d seen Asami escorted into the White Plum Apartment next door.
With a knock, the door slid open, and Mari dropped to a crouch, naginata in front of her. Sei stepped through, and Mari relaxed.
“You survived!” Sei exclaimed. “When the samurai came to fetch me, I thought . . .” She shook her head. “I thought the worst, that you were dead or I was being punished for the taxes I owed . . .”
“Taxes?” Mari leaned her naginata in the corner so that it was still within reach. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping in her enemy’s home, surrounded by her competitors.
Sei moved farther into the room. She bit her lip, her head lowered. “It’s nothing, my lady.”
Mari wanted to prod Sei, but . . . another time.
“I didn’t bring your trunk with me,” Sei said apologetically.
Mari strode to a black-and-gold lacquered chest. Atop it was a copper dish decorated with persimmons drooping from a tre
e branch. The oranges reminded Mari of Akira. I think we ought to be friends . . . I think it’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Mari caught her reflection in the golden rim—the curve of her full cheek, her heavy-lidded eyes. The bowl was worth a small fortune, to be sure. She might take it with her when she left. She felt Sei’s questioning gaze upon her.
“Each of the competitors is allowed to have an attendant.” Next to the bowl was a matching tray laden with dried octopus, fruit, and rice biscuits. Mari popped a bit of apple into her mouth. “I didn’t bring anyone with me from my clan, and I don’t know anyone in Tokkaido. I was hoping that you might consider staying here with me.”
Sei sucked in a breath. “My master—”
“Would not deny this request, especially coming from a potential empress.” Mari gave Sei a smile full of confidence she didn’t feel.
A light sparked in Sei’s eyes. She nodded. “I’d like to stay. I’ve never been in a place so beautiful.”
Mari’s chin dipped decisively. “Good.” She ate another piece of fruit. On the chest was also a vase of white chrysanthemums. The flower symbolized long life. At Mari’s touch, the petals shed, scattering across the table. The memory of the Summer Room rolled over Mari, a dark and dangerous tide. “Sei,” she called over her shoulder, “would you open the windows, please? It’s warm in here. I can’t tolerate the heat.”
* * *
Mari frowned, seeing samurai guards posted by her door.
“They’re outside all our doors,” Asami said, striding forward. Her ally had decided not to dress for the banquet this evening. Asami’s pants and simple top were clean and of good quality, but they were clearly peasant clothing. Again, her tunic was laced high and tight around her neck. Asami snorted, looking Mari up and down. “Hoping to impress the prince, are we?”
Sei had fetched Mari’s trunk from the inn. And Mari had chosen her kimono with care—a black silk stitched with red poppies. The most striking piece of Mari’s outfit was the obi. The wide decorative sash looped around her waist, but instead of bustling in the traditional way, the ends were left dangling, showcasing the two deer embroidered in gold and copper on the back. She had borrowed the obi from Hissa. Remember me, Hissa had said. As if it were possible for Mari to forget.
