Empress of All Seasons

by Emiko Jean

  A queer sense of detachment settled over Mari. Her body felt weak, and she collapsed to the ground. Her eyes caught Sachiko’s. Through her fatigue, she inclined her head to her. She smiled at Sachiko. I am a lean tiger in winter. Come for me. I dare you.

  Chapter 24

  Taro

  Taro arrived at the Fall Room doors before the others.

  A single, muffled scream bled through the door. Taro’s heart clamored. He put his shoulder under the oak bar and pushed up, shouting for assistance. Footsteps pounded as samurai stormed the hall. Taro dropped the oak bar, and the Fall Room doors cracked open, allowing cool, wet air to touch his cheeks. It was dead of night in the Fall Room, though only a few hours had passed since the oni had been released on the girls. A trick of Master Ushiba’s—not only could he bend the weather, but he could speed the time of day.

  Taro drew his swords and moved to the threshold.

  A samurai stepped into his path and bowed. “My prince.” The samurai wanted to go first, protect the heir, but he awaited permission. Taro looked past the samurai. The maple forest looked as if it had been crushed by a giant fist. Two giant oni blanketed the ground, wounds gaping, throats uncollared. Blood soaked the dirt. Taro shouldered past the samurai and saw that whatever had transpired was now over. All was calm. All was quiet.

  He gritted his teeth. Where are the girls? Slowly, he began to pick through the wreckage, overturning branches and kicking up dirt. He tried to remember what Mari wore into the Fall Room, but couldn’t. He vowed to pay better attention next time. If there is a next time. The chances any of the girls survived against uncollared oni were slim. But then again, two oni were dead. Treacherous hope dug in and took root. Let her be alive.

  “Gods and goddesses!” Satoshi exclaimed. “What has happened here?” The priest stood next to Taro, his face leached of color.

  Taro gritted his teeth. “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? Your priests were in charge of the oni.” With his sword, Taro nudged a third dead demon. Claw marks covered it, as if it had been attacked by an animal. Mari’s naginata lay discarded nearby. Taro’s anger peaked. “Where are their collars?” he bit out. No way she survived this.

  “I—I don’t know,” Satoshi stammered.

  “Are you telling me you have no control over your priests? You were responsible for Ushiba,” Taro snarled.

  “I’ll find out what happened,” vowed Satoshi.

  “You do that. Now go and find all the theorists you can. It’s unlikely we’ll discover any survivors, but if we do, they will need healers.” Taro left Satoshi and strode toward the maple forest, ready to search for survivors, ready to find a short girl who freed fireflies. He stopped short.

  Three girls emerged from the pulverized woods. Mari and another girl with a heart-shaped face were supporting a third girl whose most distinguishing feature was her impressive height. A large wound in the middle of the tall girl’s chest seeped blood, and her face was pale. A scroll dangled around each girl’s neck.

  Taro shouted for help. Two samurai sprinted forward, taking hold of the tall girl and carrying her from the room.

  Taro’s eyes glued to Mari. He studied her with great intent, scrutinizing every inch for any sign of harm. A mottled ring of black-and-blue bruises circled her neck. Dried blood stained her face. But it wasn’t hers. He exhaled and approached her. “Are you all right?” he asked, sheathing his swords.

  “I am alive,” Mari said, her tone flat, her voice raspy.

  “I’m alive too,” the heart-shaped-faced girl piped up.

  Taro regarded the girl for a beat. “Apologies,” he said. “Are you well?”

  “I am dirty and hungry. I’d like to go to temple and thank the gods and goddesses for my life. But first I would appreciate a bath and a meal, in that order. Or perhaps a meal while I bathe.” At that, Mari smiled weakly. It warmed Taro’s cold heart. His firefly girl was battered but not broken.

  Taro gave a swift nod. “You shall have all those things.” He shouted, bringing two samurai forward. “A bath and a meal are required. Please see the lady back to her apartment so she may receive both. Then escort her to the palace temple.”

  The girl bowed to Taro and then whispered something in Mari’s ear. Mari’s eyes widened, then collapsed. With the squish of rotten leaves under her feet, Asami was gone. A light wind rustled Mari’s hair, errant strands sticking to her cheeks.

  Samurai hoisted the bodies of the oni, piling them for burning. Another group of samurai, a search party, had gone into the forest and now emerged, carrying the limp bodies of six girls. All dead. Mari muffled a cry. It could have been me, he thought he heard her mutter. “There’s another girl, Sachiko. She’s alive. She has a scroll.”

  “We’ll find her,” Taro promised. Mari seemed to relax, but her eyes remained cautious. “You are injured,” Taro said, stepping closer. Without thinking, he brushed a fingertip along the bruises on her neck.

  Mari stepped back. “Your Majesty.”

  “Taro. Please, call me Taro.”

  She hesitated, glancing at Satoshi, who was busy speaking to another priest, and the samurai, before complying. “Taro.”

  “It would displease me if you had died,” Taro admitted softly.

  Another weak smile accompanied by an even weaker laugh from Mari. “It would have displeased me even more.”

  “You laugh, but I am serious.” Should he tell her how much he had feared her death? How he had imagined what it might be like never again to be at the receiving end of one of her barbs?

  Mari studied him. Her mouth parted. “You are serious,” she said. A half-smile curved her lips. “Don’t worry, Prince. I’m much harder to kill than I appear. Perhaps it is because I am so small; nobody ever believes that I can do big things.”

  * * *

  Taro watched Mari exit the Fall Room. She’d requested the same as the other girl: a bath and a meal. But no temple. He’d wanted to sweep her up in his arms, to shield her from more harm, to wipe the blood and dirt from her face. He’d offered her accompaniment, but she’d insisted she was fine alone. Still, Taro nodded at a couple of samurai. A silent command to follow her, keep her safe.

  Satoshi paced near Taro, waiting for the prince’s attention.

  “Your Majesty.” Satoshi bowed.

  “News?” Taro asked.

  “It seems one of my priests took it upon himself to make the Fall Room more exciting. He uncollared the oni and lost control of them. He is dead, Your Majesty. He was found near the oni pen at the back of the Fall Room.”

  Taro’s contempt grew. Satoshi lingered. “Something else on your mind?” Taro asked, his countenance cool.

  Satoshi cleared his throat. “We’ve examined the bodies of the oni. There were a few . . . discrepancies.”

  Taro waited.

  Satoshi hurried to explain. “One of the oni was particularly damaged. It looked as if an animal had gotten to it.”

  Taro recalled turning over the body of an oni with its face destroyed beyond recognition. “Strange.”

  Satoshi nodded. “Yes. It’s strange. The only creature in the Fall Room aside from the birds and squirrels was the kirin, and that looks to have died days ago. And either way, a kirin wouldn’t be able to inflict such damage.”

  Taro filed away the information. “You said discrepancies.”

  Satoshi played with the sleeves of his robe with his tattooed fingertips. “The samurai who retrieved the bodies of the deceased girls informed me that three of the girls had no physical injuries. It appears they were suffocated or smothered. Not exactly an oni’s style—they are usually much less elegant.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “My best guess is that one of the girls saw an opportunity to get rid of some of the competition.”

  “Find out what happened,” Taro commanded.

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” Satoshi’s pretty face scrunched up. “If I may be so bold . . .” Satoshi paused, waiting for permission to g
o on. Taro remained silent, impassive. “If I may be so bold, I wonder what has changed. Originally, you showed so little interest in the competition.”

  Taro didn’t answer. What could he say? So much had changed. And it started and ended with a girl who climbed a wall. For the first time in his life, Taro found himself wanting something other than solitude, something other than creatures made of metal. This desire was new. Uncertain. Intoxicating. Alive.

  Chapter 25

  Akira

  Late in the afternoon, Akira cut through the streets of the second and third wards. The sun blazed, and heat skulked even in the shadows. Humans moved sluggishly, but Akira’s movements were quick and sure.

  The clock had just rung one hour past noon when Hanako had approached Akira, a note clutched between her see-through fingers. The shine of her collar caught the light streaming through the clock-tower window. The Snow Girl clearly still polished her chains while plotting a revolution. “Take this to the palace temple,” she said. “A girl will be waiting there. Make sure you put it in her hands only, and don’t let anyone else see you. Be the wind you promised me, Son of Nightmares.”

  Akira slipped the note inside his surcoat, secured a rag over the bottom half of his face, and went. The geezers escorted him as far as the eighth ward, but beyond that, yōkai were forbidden except with a human escort. “The temple is located on the far-most corner of the palace, the eastern corner. You’ll have to hop the palace wall and avoid the samurai patrols. Don’t be seen in any of the wards. If a priest catches you, you’ll be collared. The Weapons Master will have no use for you then.” With a laugh and a hard pat on the back, the geezers left.

  Silence was second nature to Akira. He cloaked his movements easily, moving from shadow to shadow when humans turned their heads. The sharp corner of the envelope poked Akira’s chest as he stepped into the first ward. Though lavender lined the streets, smoke choked the air, making it rancid.

  Spying a group of priests, Akira ducked into an alley. Though the first ward was dedicated to housing, samurai and priests were in abundance. Traveling on the ground level was no longer safe, even for him. Akira followed the alleyway all the way back, seeking alternative modes. He located a drainpipe. Perfect. He shimmied up, alighting on the blue tiled roof. There he perched, surveying the city.

  The golden palace rose nearby, almost within reach. The Palace of Illusions was surrounded by a moat. “It is bottomless,” Hanako had said. “Hope you can swim.” He spied the temple, recognized it by its five stories, one for each element: earth, water, fire, wind, and sky. The temple was exactly where the geezers had said it would be. As he looked closer, he saw that one didn’t need to cross the moat to gain access to the temple. It lay outside the main structure of the palace, with only a section of wall to fortify it.

  Akira jumped from rooftop to rooftop, landing with the grace of a cat. I am the wind. His mask rippled in the breeze as he leaped onto the wall. He paid the price for overconfidence. A metal spike stabbed into his foot. He clamped his mouth shut from yowling in pain and fell from the wall, landing in a heap within the temple confines.

  * * *

  Voices roused him from his daze. Priests, discussing the weather. He scrambled back behind a small wooden building just as the hems of their gray robes came into view. Gravel crunched under his feet as he crept farther into the shadow. The injury to his heel stung, but he’d hurt even worse if he were found, so he swallowed the pain.

  Akira followed the building all the way to its end, as far away as he could get from the voices. Back pressed against the building, he risked a glance around the corner. There was an open courtyard with white gravel and a single well. Gods and goddesses, priests are everywhere. He must have fallen into their lodgings. In the distance, the clock tower chimed. Nightfall. Akira’s time dwindled. Whoever he was supposed to meet wouldn’t wait forever.

  Akira felt something inside him changing, a purpose growing. Cold steel in scarred hands will save the world or destroy it, Hanako had said.

  On the ground, he couldn’t orient himself. Again, he found a drainpipe and shimmied up. Sweat coursed over him. His breath came in little puffs.

  A light patter of rain began to fall. He scaled the slick tiles in a crawl, body tilted precariously. The angle of the roof hid him from the courtyard. Still, Akira kept his ears open. He spied the temple once again. It is painfully close to the priests’ lodgings. Hanako could have mentioned that.

  A quick leap from one rooftop to another, and he was next door to the temple. He inched along the golden spine of the roof, then slid down from it, the moon’s light disappearing behind a building. Cold air caressed his face, and white gravel crunched under his feet. The din of the priests’ quarters quieted. The decaying temple loomed. He stilled, listening. Nothing. Just the sound of the wind and a rustle of trees.

  Inside was empty, but there was evidence of worshippers—lit candles with dripping wax, smoldering incense. He approached the altar. A figure darted from the shadows, and suddenly a blade was placed at his throat.

  “Shh,” a female whispered in his ear, pressing the blade deeper. “Priests are coming.” Then she pulled him back behind the altar. They waited a few heartbeats. Akira’s chest rose and fell with panicked breaths. Footsteps sounded outside the temple, then faded. Once all was quiet, the pressure of the blade loosened. “If you do not enter the tiger’s cave . . .”

  “You will never catch its cub,” Akira finished.

  The blade, which would have slit him from sternum to stomach had he not completed the saying just right, left his neck. Akira spun around. The girl was of medium height with a heart-shaped face and severe brow. Bruises littered her cheeks and neck. Who was she? What was she doing at the palace? His eyes filtered down to her hand, to the blade. But it wasn’t a knife she held. It was an envelope. He’d been threatened with death by a piece of paper. The girl’s mouth tilted up in a sardonic smile. “I watched you on the roof. You’re fast and quiet. Hanako did well. I’m Asami.” The girl swept into a bow. Her soul was the lightest purple, the color of lilacs. And blemished. Akira counted at least ten lives taken.

  “Akira,” he introduced himself, bowing in the same manner.

  “You have something for me?” She held out a hand, thin fingers open and waiting.

  Akira waited a few seconds before reaching into his surcoat and withdrawing the note. Asami held it to her nose and inhaled before she cracked the seal and scanned the contents. When she looked up, her dark eyes shone bright. “Tell her I understand, and give her this.” Asami handed Akira the envelope. “The plans aren’t complete. There are more rooms and hallways in this place than a Hana Machi brothel. But I did find out that there are tunnels underground. I’ve mapped what I could.”

  “How . . .” Akira hesitated. “How did you get this information?”

  The girl smiled again, the glint of it dangerous. “Hanako didn’t tell you?” She tilted her head, candles lighting one half of her bruised face. “I am a spider. We can go anywhere.” She snickered, and Akira thought her a little mad, like Hanako. Asami turned to go.

  “Wait!” Akira called out. He wanted to ask about the competition, about Mari, find out if she was alive or dead. But Asami was gone, and with her, all the answers to Akira’s questions.

  Akira’s journey from the palace and through the wards was brief and without incident. Under the curtain of night, he truly was a shadow. Before returning to the clock tower, Akira had one more stop to make. He arrived at the cherry-blossom tree, after the recitation of the dead had concluded. He approached the tree, where the names of the dead and disqualified were listed. He held his breath and expelled it in a twisted wheeze. Mari’s name was not there. Once again, she had evaded death.

  Chapter 26

  Mari

  Sei gasped. Mari offered the Hook Girl a reassuring smile. “I can’t look that awful,” she said, handing Sei her naginata.

  “You look half gone, my lady. I overheard a couple of samurai
whispering about an oni attack. They said most of you were dead . . .” Sei trailed off as she placed the naginata in a corner of the room.

  Mari’s attention drifted to her open trunk and the kimonos strewn about. She’d stake her life that the silver pick and copper necklace were missing from the bottom. The tips of Sei’s ears turned red. She opened her hand. In her palm was the copper necklace. “I’m sorry, my lady,” she croaked.

  Mari shrugged. “What for? I said you could have those things if I died. You were just upholding my promise.”

  “It felt as if I were stealing from you.”

  “You cannot steal something that is given freely.”

  “I’m also sorry for doubting you. I should have known you’d make it out of the room.” Sei moved to return the necklace.

  “Keep it,” Mari said.

  Sei paused, surprised. “My lady—”

  “Think of it: If I die, I’ll have no use for it. If I win, I’ll be Empress and have no use for it either. Keep the coins, Sei.” Gently, Mari closed Sei’s fingers around the pieces of copper. “I’ll keep the silver pick for now, though. It has sentimental value.” Mari’s thoughts turned to Hissa, and her chest throbbed with a deep ache for home. She stifled the urge to sob. When she swiped her cheeks, blood smeared her hands. The ache turned into a tremor. Mari grew suddenly cold. She’d held it together in the Fall Room, but now she couldn’t. Couldn’t stop the shaking. Couldn’t stop the fear.

  “Come, my lady,” Sei whispered, reaching for her. “I think you could use a bath and a well-deserved rest.”

  Mari jerked away at Sei’s touch. She shouldn’t be so kind. Mari wanted home, her cypress bed, and her mother’s cool, dispassionate touch.