Empress of All Seasons

by Emiko Jean

  “Please, my lady,” Sei beseeched. “Come, I will draw a bath for you and rub your feet. It’s what my mother used to do whenever I was upset.” Sei reached for Mari again, and this time Mari let the Hook Girl take her hand and lead her to the bathing room.

  Mari didn’t fuss when Sei undressed her or helped her into the steaming water or washed the blood from her hair.

  * * *

  Birds greeted Mari as she walked through her private garden. Each apartment had a small courtyard attached. This morning, Sei had roused her. “Fresh air will do you some good,” she’d said, smiling brightly before dressing Mari in a plain red kimono and braiding her hair.

  It was a fine day. The sun shone. Droplets of dew clung to the mossy path. At a small pond surrounded by irises, Mari watched brightly colored fish swim in circles. The cool air felt good on the bruises ringing her neck. She was jittery, on edge. She was alone. Then she was not. A shadow fell, and the fish darted deeper into the pond. She swiveled around, ready to attack.

  Upon seeing the intruder, Mari exhaled. Taro. The Cold Prince loomed over her. By his feet, the garden was somehow upturned. A perfect square lay in its place, revealing a dark staircase leading down. A trapdoor. How clever. Still . . . “You aren’t allowed to be here,” she said. It was one of the rules. Girls stayed locked in their apartments unless competing.

  At Mari’s words, Taro’s countenance remained cool. “I am a prince. I can do anything I want.”

  That drew a laugh from Mari. “Your issues of overconfidence concern me.”

  A very small smile twisted Taro’s lips. “All the more reason you should come and spend the afternoon with me. I need your counsel.”

  Spend the afternoon with Taro? Be wary of the prince. He invented the metal collars, Asami had murmured in Mari’s ear before leaving the Fall Room. Mari didn’t want to believe it, that Taro had made the thing that enslaved her people. He couldn’t have.

  “Are you unwell?” Taro asked, searching Mari’s face.

  Mari shook her head. “No.” Her body ached, and her throat burned, but pain didn’t keep her from accepting Taro’s offer. Fear did. The bruises that ring your neck are nothing compared to what a collar will do.

  “Are you afraid, then?” Taro challenged.

  Mari squared her shoulders. Denial came easily. She’d had her share of practice. “Of course not.”

  “Then come with me. I have something to show you. No one will ever know.” He gestured at the open trapdoor. A way out. Sei had gone to do laundry, and Mari faced the day alone with nothing but her thoughts to keep her occupied. She’d packed the persimmon bowl in her trunk. Stealing the prince’s fortune was proving harder than she’d thought.

  Taro was already descending the stairs. In a moment, the hatch would shut. Her chance at respite would be lost. It didn’t matter where he led. As long as it was far from the Wisteria Apartment, Mari wanted to go. She gathered the skirt of her kimono in her hands and followed. Down, down she went.

  * * *

  “Where are we?” she asked, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though she and Taro were alone. She’d followed the prince through the twists and turns of dozens of cavernous hallways, agog that such tunnels existed beneath the palace. Twice, Taro had paused and motioned for Mari to step into an alcove while samurai passed. Body pressed against Taro, she held her breath, excitement and fear somersaulting through her blood. As prince, Taro would never be punished. But Mari the yōkai? Anything could befall her.

  At last, Taro turned a sharp right, and the tunnels narrowed, rocks and dirt brushing her shoulders. A staircase led them up, and Taro opened a trapdoor, extending a hand down to her. She let him help her, the feel of his palm warm and somehow right against hers.

  Now they stood together in a dim hall, the only light from a single lantern on the wall. She hadn’t known that this part of the palace existed. In contrast to the lavish details of the rest, this extension looked old and out of use. Forgotten. This is what he wants to show me?

  Taro frowned, and Mari thought what few times she’d seen him smile. “These are my private quarters.”

  Mari arched a single brow. “Oh.”

  “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  Mari considered this. “Are you a threat?” she asked, only half joking.

  “I believe the opposite is true.”

  Mari tilted her head. A wisp of hair fell into her eye. “I am a threat to you?”

  “Most definitely.” Taro reached up and, ever so gently, pushed the wisp of hair from Mari’s eye. “Will you come in?” Opening the door, Taro stepped aside.

  Mari strode forward, the door sliding closed behind her. Inside, lanterns glowed and wooden tables lined the walls. Strewn on these tables were pieces of metal—gears, rods, pipes. But no collars. Mari exhaled. Despite the clutter, everything seemed to have a place; it matched Taro’s personality—orderly, methodical, studious.

  In the center of the room was a steel drum, circled with brick—a forge. More metal, along with pieces of rope where drawings were clipped, hung from the rafters. Mari touched one of the pieces of paper on which was painted a picture of a butterfly with tin-plated wings and a steel-wire antennae. “What is this place?”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s my workshop. The bird you saw, I made it here.”

  “You really made it?” Mari asked.

  Taro nodded, his mouth a firm line. “Yes. Look.” He darted to the side. On a table were five metal butterflies, the drawings come to life. Taro wound a tiny crank at the back of each butterfly. Their iridescent wings fluttered, and they began to fly.

  “Oh!” Mari gasped. The beautiful creatures swooped between the rafters, then floated back down. Their cranks slowed to a stop, and the butterflies fell to the ground, their little bodies clinking against the wooden floor.

  Taro bent to collect them. He inspected the tiny insects with a quizzical glare. “We haven’t really figured out how to stick the landing yet.”

  Mari grinned and continued to look through the drawings. It seemed that Taro was working on a collection of animals. There was a snake made of linked chain, a giant crane with copper wings, a frog with bolts for eyes. Her fingers grazed the worktable, stopping at a sheaf of papers wedged under a giant gear. Carefully, Mari slid the papers into view. “Collars?” she asked, eyeing the rough drawing, obviously done by a younger hand. The papers were brown with age. Mari’s pulse raced.

  Taro snatched up the papers, startling Mari. His lip curled as he set the papers away from him. “The metal collars all yōkai wear. The rumors are true. I created them.”

  Mari’s blood ran cold.

  Taro stared at her, eyes glinting, jaw working as if daring her to call him a monster, wanting her to call him a monster. Is this a man seeking punishment? Mari couldn’t tell. “Are you proud of your invention?” Mari worded the question with care, mindful of the prince’s mercurial moods, of his power. He could still have Mari jailed.

  Taro averted his eyes and strode to the opposite side of the room. With a thick finger, he felt along the rim of a pole. It seemed he wouldn’t speak. When he did, his voice was rough with painful honesty. “It’s not easy for me, to admit a fault.”

  Mari considered this. “Do you find it difficult to trust?” She walked forward to peer at his profile.

  Taro’s hands flexed, then fell to his sides, his expression inscrutable. “I have trouble reading people, which leads to distrust. Metal, gears, and hammers are the language I speak.” Taro turned from her. “You don’t know how much you ask of me.”

  She stepped closer, breaching his space. Her muscles ached, and she was reminded again of the battle she’d fought, of the bruises ringing her neck, of her beast emerging and shredding the oni. “I ask only for what you are willing to give,” she said softly.

  His muscles bunched under his surcoat. “And if I give you the truth, what will you do with it?” he asked.

  Mari put her hands to her chest, over her c
lamoring heart. “I will hold it close, and never betray your confidence.” Don’t trust me. Duty and home. The whole before the self. Those are my loyalties.

  She watched Taro’s chest expand and then deflate with a deep breath. He raised his head and leveled his gaze at her. “Then I will trust you. The collar is the only invention I’ve ever made that I am not proud of. It was a child’s mistake.”

  “You regret it.”

  He gave a short nod. “I regret it.”

  Don’t believe him. He tells pretty lies to cover his ugly deeds. But Taro’s pained expression looked sincere, palpable in the dim room. Mari suddenly felt unsure. Taro was brooding, and most thought him as cold as the metal with which he tinkered. But metal warmed at a touch. Perhaps that was what Taro required, a human touch to make his heart beat again. But Mari wasn’t human. She was yōkai. “You know, you don’t have to regret it,” Mari said quietly. “You could do something about it. You are the second-most powerful man in this world.”

  Taro snorted. “I am subject to my father’s whims like everyone else.”

  Mari nodded. What else could she do? What Taro said was true. Everyone was born with a chain. But some had a shorter leash than others. One day, Taro’s father would die, and Taro would be Emperor. “I’m sorry,” Mari said. “I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry,” Taro said, closing the distance between them. “I am sorry I was short with you. My father is a dangerous man—he lashes out and asks questions later.”

  Unexpected tenderness welled up within Mari. Thoughtlessly, she opened her hand against Taro’s cheek. The skin against her palm was warm, heated, alive. He turned his cheek into her palm. Then he withdrew.

  Ever so lightly, Taro touched the pulse in her neck. “You are bruised. Do they hurt?”

  “Yes,” she said. “My muscles ache too.”

  His hand drifted down and settled on her shoulder. He squeezed, massaging the ache underneath. “Better?” he asked.

  Mari scrunched her nose and gazed up at him. “No.”

  “Stubborn,” he said.

  Her shoulders sparked where his fingers lay, a lit firecracker with a very short fuse. Their breaths synced, and somewhere deep inside her heart, a little bit of room was made for Taro. Unsettled, Mari broke from Taro’s hold and strode about the room. “Teach me how to make birds fly, Prince,” she demanded haughtily.

  Taro bowed. “As you wish.”

  Chapter 27

  Akira

  The sun broke the horizon as Akira mounted the clock-tower steps, painting the Imperial City in hazy pinks and oranges.

  Hanako was waiting for him in his room. She lay on the futon, eyes closed, her white ferret, Large, curled up on her chest. “You’ve been out awfully late,” she said, popping one eye open. “If I were the jealous sort, I might think you’re seeing another Weapons Master.”

  Akira pulled down his mask. “You’ve got a yōkai spy in the palace.” From his surcoat, he withdrew Asami’s note.

  The ferret scampered from Hanako’s lap as his master stood. Her soul glowed particularly bright today—white, almost ethereal except for the blemishes. “Of course I do. She’s in the competition. How else would I have gotten her into the palace?” She plucked the note from Akira’s fingers.

  Akira’s blood ran cold. Mari had a formidable opponent, an uncollared yōkai with unknown powers. “What is she doing there? What are you planning?” He gritted his teeth. How much danger was Mari in? Was it too late to save her?

  Hanako regarded him. “It is funny you think you may ask such questions of me.” She opened the note and read it. All the while, Akira seethed. He was growing weary of Hanako’s games, her non-answers. A slow smile curved Hanako’s lips. “Asami has done well.” From her obi, Hanako withdrew a tantō knife. Akira thought of his mother’s carved face. He remembered that she used to sing him to sleep when he was small. She had the sweetest voice. He’d inherited so many things from her: his scars, his fragility, his capacity to see souls . . . The curse of a soul-seer was the inability to see one’s own. But Akira’s mother didn’t have one at all. What color is my soul? she would ask. It is the loveliest shade of yellow, the exact color of the center of a lotus blossom, he’d lie. He never asked her about his.

  Hanako handled the blade deftly. Tossing the note in the air, she let the knife spin from her hand. It pierced the paper and sank into the wall, revealing an intricately drawn map. Akira’s gaze roved over it. Asami hadn’t done herself justice. The map was drawn with the finest hand, the sketch of a master cartographer. It had an almost three-dimensional effect, showing the palace buildings and the tunnels below. Not all of the tunnels were sketched in full, but Asami had starred one, a tunnel that ran under the palace gardens and into a private tea garden and then ended outside the palace walls. An escape route. An exit and an entry. What’s more, X’s marked the samurai patrols.

  “Gods and goddesses!” Akira exclaimed. “You’re planning an assault on the palace.”

  Hanako came to stand next to him. “Of course I am.”

  His teeth ground together, and his anger bubbled up. It was worse than he’d thought. So many lives would be lost if Hanako lay siege to the palace. Innocent lives. Mari’s life. Frustrated and without an outlet, Akira withdrew a star and launched it, closing his eyes. It sliced through the air, whistling low. The star thunked as it embedded in the wood wall. The wall was littered with gashes, and each time Akira looked at them, he was reminded of his failure. He had not mastered the stars yet. He had not mastered anything at all.

  “Akira,” Hanako whispered, wonder in her voice.

  Akira shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was in over his head.

  “Akira,” Hanako said more forcefully, “open your eyes.”

  Akira sighed. “I don’t—”

  “Open your cursed eyes!” Hanako demanded.

  Akira reluctantly complied. Hanako’s face was set in a wide grin. The clock tower struck seven. The throwing star glinted in the morning sunlight, embedded in between the spokes of the wheel. He’d done it. At last, his aim was true.

  Hanako yanked the star from the wall. “Do it again,” she said. If possible, her soul shone brighter. It glowed with happiness. And pride?

  Akira shook his head. “That was an accident. I wasn’t even thinking of a target. No way I can do it again.”

  “That’s it!” Hanako shouted. “Your thoughts have been blocking you.” She went to the wheel and sent it in a slow spin. “Close your eyes.” Akira did so and felt Hanako place the star in his hand, the metal warming instantly in his palm. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. “Now listen to the room. Let it speak to you. What do you hear?”

  Sounds bombarded him—the clicking hand of the clock, the scamper of Large the ferret, Hanako’s shallow breaths, the squeak of the wheel as it turned, the chatter of other yōkai in the clock tower. One by one, he sorted through the sounds, separating them into individual threads. The clock was four strides behind him. Hanako was two strides to his left. The wheel was ten strides straight ahead. He allowed his mind to go blank. The star was heavy and sure in his hand.

  Let go. Release. He pulled his elbow back and pitched the star. Thunk.

  His eyes popped open. He focused on Hanako, too afraid to see his failure.

  “You’ve done it!” A gleeful chortle escaped Hanako as she swept into an exaggerated bow. “Master of the Spinning Wheel.” The throwing star was embedded in the wall behind the wheel. Gods and goddesses, I’ve done it. He retrieved the stars from the wall and threw them again, this time around Asami’s map. Hanako frowned. “Easy, Son of Nightmares. We need that.”

  Stark reality rushed back upon Akira. “When will you attack?” he asked, steeling himself for the answer. He needed time to warn Mari. Please let there be time.

  Hanako stared at the map. She traced the tunnel leading from the tea garden into the palace. “I don’t intend to.” She paused, drew a deep breat
h in consideration. “Aside from me, Asami is the most dangerous yōkai there is. She is to win by any means necessary. She’ll marry the prince, and, once she does, she’ll have his head, and his father’s, on their wedding night. There will be no attack if it can be helped.”

  “And if she doesn’t win?” Akira nodded to the plans.

  “Plan B. If Asami perishes, yōkai will storm the palace.” Her eyes flashed to his. “One way or the other, the emperor will fall.”

  Aiko:

  Goddess of the Sun, Animals, and Day

  Aiko, goddess of the sun, animals, and day, was born the first time lightning struck a rock. From the remnants, she rose, cradling all the light of the land in her hands. She illuminated the world and ensured the fertility of the rice fields. Ever so gentle and kind, she had thousands of attendants. Many flocked to Aiko, if only to stand in her light.

  Eoku, God of War, Military, and Night, grew jealous of Aiko’s power and popularity. He plucked a kirin, an animal particularly beloved by the goddess, from the forest and threw it into the ocean. Devastated, Aiko dove from the heavens and into the churning sea. But she could not swim. She could not save the kirin. Aiko sank to the bottom of the ocean, and there she stayed, drowning again and again, a thousand times over. Without her, there was no sun. The rice fields perished. People grew hungry. Endless cold night descended.

  Aiko’s attendants searched for her. But it was Umiko, Aiko’s sister, Goddess of Moonlight, Storms, and Sea, who discovered her in the sea’s depths. Umiko sent a large wave across the ocean, sweeping her sister to land. Aiko coughed, choking up so much water that the world’s lakes were created. Umiko wiped Aiko’s face and helped her home, back to the heavens, so that her light shone on earth once more.

  Still, every year without fail, the cold season remained. The sun dimmed, and Aiko wept. Aiko thought this to be right, a reminder of what had come to pass. A reminder of the coldness and violence that hate begets. Winter would always be for regrets.