by Jay Kristoff
The brothers moved as twins would, mirroring the other’s advance, strike, lunge, feint. Breathless in but a moment, both hearts pumping with the knowledge that the victor of this fray would sit upon the Four Thrones, would rule the Imperium from the tip of Shabishii to the shores of Seidai, while the other burned beside their father on the pyre. The Bull ducked a vicious blow, sidestepped another, smashing his brother’s katana aside as the Bear overextended. But instead of a counterstrike, Tatsuya took a moment to breathe soft words through gritted teeth.
“Not like this, brother,” he said, gesturing to their father’s corpse. “Not here.”
Riku clenched his jaw, face grim. He struck again, blindingly swift, sparks lighting dark eyes as his katana danced. Again. Again.
“Better it be just you and I, brother,” he said. “Just the two of us, without the nation beside us.”
Another succession of blows. Furniture smashed, tables upturned, vases shattered. Sparks and spit and blood.
Ragged breath.
Narrowed eyes.
Pause.
“You speak true, brother.” Tatsuya nodded, chest heaving. “But will you murder your own twin at the foot of your father’s deathbed for the right to sit in his still-warm chair?”
Riku’s grip upon his katana slackened. He glanced at the body of the man who had made him. The portrait of his mother over the bed—killed in the act of bringing him and Tatsuya into this world. Once the brothers had been all to each other; the first nine months of their lives floating in the same lightless warmth, drifting off to sleep to the song of each other’s heartbeats.
And now?
And now …
“… No. I will not.”
Riku backed away, lowering his sword, slow and measured, eyes upon his twin’s. But Tatsuya made no attempt at treachery, lowering his own katana and glancing at the body now cooling between the sheets. He wiped the back of one hand across sweat-slick lips.
“We will burn him,” Tatsuya said. “Bury him. Grieve him. As honorable sons should.”
“And then?”
“And then…” Tatsuya paused, meeting his brother’s eyes.
They spoke as one, a single word, floating in the air like lead.
“War.”
* * *
I am hoping you will help me.
Our Khan peered at the boy who could not peer back. I noted throughout all the roaring, all the thunder and howling wind, the little winter sparrow on the monkey-child’s shoulder remained calm as millpond water. Quiet confidence mirroring the boy on which it perched. Eyes flitting over the thunder tigers around the Khan’s throne, drifting ever back toward mine.
—HELP YOU?—
The Khan did not speak, yet his words were a tempest in our minds. Somehow, through the boy, we all of us could hear him as if he roared with lungs and beak and tongue.
—WHY WE HELP YOU, MONKEY-CHILD?—
The boy stepped forward, covered his fist and bowed low. I stood close, muscles taut, ready to drench the snow with him should he show some sign of deceit. But the only weapons he wielded were words. Simple words. True words.
I have walked far, oh great Khan. I have spoken with the phoenix of the Hogosha mountains, whose wings are flame. I spoke with tanuki and henge and kappa and the great dragons of the sea. They speak of a sickness. A poisoning. Younglings born deformed, or worse, still and dead. A sadness that bids the dragons swim north, the phoenix curl up and die. And none can explain it.
At this, my hackles rose. The sickness we knew. The sting of its loss I had felt full well …
—BUT YOU CAN EXPLAIN, MONKEY-CHILD?—
The boy smiled. Slow and sad.
I do not know for certain. But I believe the smoke rising from our cities, tasting black and clinging thick to every lungful—I believe this is the sickening’s cause. I believe the blood lotus we humans plant in our soil will be the death of this island. If we do not stop it.
—WE?—
I hope so, yes.
The Khan spread his wings, soared down off his throne, landed in the snow before this strange little monkey-child. I could hear his old bones creaking. See the film of age covering his eyes. One day soon, one of the bucks would challenge him for the stone seat. Change was coming. All of us could feel it. My mother had named me for it before she …
Before …
—WHO MAKE THIS SMOKE? THIS SICKNESS?—
They are called the Lotus Guild, great Khan. They are masters of the machine. And the strength and wealth those machines give them buys much power. There are many of my kind who side with them. Many who do not care about the sickness this smoke causes.
—THEN WHY WE CARE?—
Because this island is your home.
—PERHAPS NOT LONG, MONKEY-CHILD. WE GATHER HERE TODAY TO SPEAK ON IT. ROAR AND GROWL AND CHEW ON IT.—
Speak on what, great Khan?
—WE KNOW SICKNESS. HAVE SEEN IT WORK, BLACK AND VILE. WE DECIDE HERE WHETHER ARASHITORA LEAVE THIS PLACE FOREVER.—
A vibration in the boy’s thoughts. An uncertainty, shaking his center, as an earthquake trembles the mightiest pillar.
… You are going to leave Shima?
—NOT YOUR BUSINESS, BOY. NOT YOUR PLACE TO QUESTION. WERE YOU NOT YŌKAI-KIN, ALREADY YOU BE FLYING.—
The sparrow looked over each of us in turn. The boy’s head followed the bird’s gaze, as if he watched us also.
There must be some among you who see as I do?
The Khan growled, low and deep and deadly.
—SEE NOTHING. YOU BLIND.—
Alone in the snow. Beneath the stares of dozens of thunder tigers, any of whom could have torn him to pieces. A thousand miles from Kitsune lands, with his tattered boots and his tattered hope. And still, the boy stood tall.
Am I?
—MONKEY-CHILDREN MAKE SICKNESS. EXPECT ARASHITORA TO MEND? AND OF ALL, THEY SEND YOU? WEAK AND BLIND AND MEWLING?—
Nobody sent me, great one, save perhaps the gods themselves.
—HEAR THEM, DO YOU?—
They have spoken to me. My grandmother has the gift of Truth. Of Sight. She said I would save the lands of Shima. End this sickness. Riding with thunder tigers at my back.
—THEN SHE AS BLIND AS YOU.—
You do not understand—
—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN CARING AND UNDERSTANDING, MONKEY-CHILD.—
A slow blink. A frown darkening that blind and vacant stare. It seemed to me the monkey-child’s mask fell away, his serenity and quiet assurance shattering upon the ice, and beneath was the face of a confused and frightened boychild, lost in a world he thought he knew.
But … you must help.
—NO PLACE FOR MUSTS HERE, SAVE MINE.—
The sparrow peered at the great Khan, trembling in the freezing chill. The boy stepped forward, the pack about him rising, growling long and deep in warning.
Please, great one. This was foretold. A child of my—
—TAKE FORETELLINGS WHEN YOU LEAVE, MONKEY-CHILD. NO PLACE FOR THEM HERE, EITHER.—
But I—
The Khan’s roar was a slap to the boy’s face. Blasting the fringe back from those sightless eyes, drenching his pallid cheeks with spittle. The Khan’s breath boiled in the freezing air, reverb shaking our bones. And at his outburst, the sparrow nestled at the boy’s shoulder finally broke, springing loose and fluttering away in a rolling tumble of feather and shrill squawking. Right into the path of another young buck by the name of Rahh. A friend of mine. As close to a brother as I would know.
Rahh’s beak closed, quick as lightning.
Snap.
And the little white sparrow squawked no more.
No! Mikayo!
The boy turned, fell to his knees, pawed about in the snow until he found the sparrow’s broken corpse. Bright red smeared in pearlescent white. Clutching the little bundle to his chest, he made nonsense noises with his mouth, tears glittering in his eyes.
… You did not need to do that.
; Rahh leaned close to the blind boy, amber stare boring a hole through the monkey-child’s skull, hackles raised in jagged threat down his spine.
* GET OFF OUR MOUNTAIN, MONKEY-CHILD. *
She was my friend …
* FLY WITH US THEN. *
Rahh raised his claws, intent on seizing the boy and ripping him skyward. Rumbling growls amidst the roll of thunder above. And as the talons of my brother who was not my brother descended, I called to him in our own tongue, my voice enough to stay his hand.
“Wait.”
Rahh fell still. Glanced at me with eyes the shade of sunflowers and murder.
“He laid his stick on my back.”
I stepped forward, talons sinking deep into the snow.
“Let me teach him.”
Rahh looked to the Khan looming at our backs, blinking in question. This was not my place to speak. Let alone to demand. But the old beast must have assented (as he often did in those days), for the brother who was not my brother inclined his head, backed away from the boy with his bloody palmful of broken sparrow.
“Teach him well,” he said.
And seizing the monkey-child by his shoulders, spreading my wings wide, I sprang into the sky.
* * *
Lady Ami knelt in a vast antechamber of the House of Passing, her sister Mai beside her. The roof arched forty feet above her head, long silken amulets of perfect white running ceiling to floor. The room was lit with a thousand fragrant candles, also the color of death; white as newborn snow. Two dozen maidservants gathered about her, heads pressed to floorboards, hands clasped in prayer.
The sisters were motionless as statues. Faces painted bone-pale, thick kohl about their lashes. Hair bound in coils and braids, twelve-layered robes of mourning-black dragging them earthward. They were beauties among your kind, or so I am told. Perfect as the first flowers of spring. Born of the same womb, one year apart, mirrored reflections of each other in dark, still water.
Brides of the Shōgun’s sons—sisters wed to brothers, which I suppose makes a kind of sense, in so far as anything you monkey-children do makes sense. And hanging heavy in the air between Ami and her sibling, along with the perfume of burning candles and the hymns of beggar monks praying for the dead Shōgun’s soul, lay the knowledge that all that stood between either of them and the title of First Lady of Shima was the death of the other’s husband.
Lady Mai spoke first. Utterly motionless, save her lips.
“Your Lord Tatsuya looked unwell this morning, dear sister.”
Lady Ami was still as stone. Unblinking. Almost unbreathing. “My husband is well, dear sister. Considering circumstances. Though I must say, your Lord Riku looks a picture of health.”
“He does, does he not?”
Ami nodded slightly. “One would think the Bear would appear a touch paler, considering the forces my noble husband has gathered to his side.”
“Lord Tatsuya has proven himself most effective in the application of bribery and threats, to be certain. A pity he was not courageous enough to simply end the matter by duel and spare us all the horrors of civil war.”
“Horrific for some,” Ami nodded. “Considering our forces outnumber yours almost two to one. And yet Lord Riku barely musters a sweat. Most admirable.”
Lady Mai’s smile was pretty as sunset. “Perhaps my Lord and husband knows it is not simply numbers that win battles, dear sister. That skill counts for more by half.”
“One would think,” Ami smiled in return, “such knowledge would make him sweat all the more.”
A hollow chuckle, drifting off into a deathly hiss. “Always so clever, little sister.”
“And still you ever ask to dance.”
“A pity the same cannot be said of the Bull?” Mai glanced sideways at her sibling.
Muscle clenched at Lady Ami’s jaw. She blinked once. Twice.
“No riposte?” Mai whispered. “Does it cut you so deep that Tatsuya-sama spends so little time in your bedchamber? I would have thought you accustomed to the idea by now.”
“You dare…” Ami breathed.
“Tell me, if your Lord and husband does murder mine and do away with me besides, will the arrangement our parents made remain intact, do you think? Or will the Bull supplant you with the one he truly loves? Whomever that might be this week?”
Ami licked once at trembling lips. Palms pressed flat to her thighs. She glanced at the maidservants behind her, breath strangled in her lungs. Tatsuya’s latest favorite, a tiny slip of a thing named Chiyoko was watching the back of her head, turning her eyes to the floor as the Lady met her gaze.
Lady Mai finally glanced at her sister, dark lips curled in a smile.
“By the by,” she said brightly. “You will be an aunt soon.”
The doors to the Chamber of Passing opened wide, the volume of the mourning hymns rising. Beyond the threshold, their husbands awaited. Lord Tatsuya and Lord Riku, Bull and Bear, swathed in heavy armor of ink-black, surrounded by a legion of samurai and beggar monks. Beyond them, carried by a multitude of hunched servants, the old Shōgun’s body awaited on his funeral bier.
Lady Mai smiled at her husband, rose with practiced grace and drifted to his side. Lord Riku was somber as occasion would dictate, yet still leaned down to kiss her brow, place a comforting hand upon her midriff. Lady Ami watched the pair—mirror to her and Tatsuya, and yet nothing alike at all.
Her husband glanced at her, still kneeling on the floor. Still reeling from the blow. Hand pressed to her empty belly. Blinking faster than the tears could muster.
“Ami-chan,” Tatsuya said with faint annoyance. “Come.”
Lady Ami breathed deep. Stood slow. Walked to her husband’s side. If she noted the Bull’s stare lingering on Chiyoko and the other maidservants behind her, she gave no sign.
The procession trudged from the House of Passing, down a vast flight of stone stairs and into the Kigen streets. The people were a throng, a crush, lining the Palace Way. Each citizen dressed in black, head bowed, burning sticks of incense held in clasped hands. Those few with the courage to look at the royal entourage as they passed noted each of the Shōgun’s sons were as stone, hands on their katana hilts, eyes downturned. The Lady Ami was pale as death itself, thin lips pressed into a bloodless line. And though it was improper to show emotion at an event such as this, the young woman wiped once at her eyes, as if brushing away errant tears.
And the Lady Mai?
She walked beside Lord Riku, palms crossed over her belly, her face as rigid and cold as a mask. But every now and then, she would glance from the cobbles beneath her feet to her sister walking at the coffin’s left-hand side. To the once-perfect kohl painted around her sibling’s eyes, smudged now with sorrow.
And she would smile.
* * *
The boy hung from my claws, limp and bewildered as we circled ever higher. I held him beneath his arms, talons not yet piercing his flesh. He did not struggle as most other monkey-children I had seen did in his predicament. He did not plead in his jabber-tongue nor buck in my grip. He simply clutched the broken body of the dead sparrow in one hand, lashes crusted with frozen tears.
This makes no sense.
His voice in my mind again, warm as summer breeze.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
I snorted, circling higher still, the Four Sisters laid out below us, snow-clad and beautiful.
WHAT YOU EXPECT, MONKEY-CHILD? BE STORMDANCER? BE HERO? LUCKY SKYMEET NOT TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB.
I care nothing for heroes. I care for the sickness. It took my mother. My father.
A chill in my belly.
And I am supposed to stop it.
SUPPOSED?
It was foretold. It is my destiny.
FOOLISHNESS.
Though he could see only darkness, the boy’s gaze was affixed on the ground far below; the vista of mountain and earth, of stone and soil and green stretching all the way to the horizon. He opened his bloody palm, let the sp
arrow’s body fall, spinning and tumbling end over end until it became only a speck, and from there, nothing at all.
He spoke then. Monkey-words I did not understand. Perhaps a song. Perhaps a prayer.
We ascended.
THIS SICKNESS YOU SPEAK. HAS SPREAD FAR?
The boy’s eyes were downturned and vacant. His body shivering from altitude’s deathly kiss. He was light as air, feeble and soft. Numbed to his core. I shook him once to regain his attentions.
ANSWER, MONKEY-CHILD!
… It has spread far. It does not just kill people, as I said. All the great spirit beasts suffer and die from it. Phoenix and henge and kappa and dragon. Arashitora alone seem immune.
IT IS COUGHING? BLOODY BREATH AND DYING?
The boy nodded.
My kind call it blacklung … But how could you know the symptoms?
MY KIND NOT IMMUNE, MONKEY-CHILD. ARASHITORA SICKENING ALSO. MANY OF US. MY MOTHER, FATHER, BROTHER, ALL GONE. OUR EGGS GROWING THINNER. BREAKING IN WOMB OR BENEATH THEIR MOTHER’S WEIGHT.
Then … why would your Khan not help? Why did you kill my friend?
KHAN FEAR MONKEY-CHILDREN. FEAR MACHINES. HE OLD. NOT UNDERSTAND NEW WAYS. CHANGING WORLD.
But you do?
NO.
Thunder rolled in the skies about us, sending a thrill through my belly. The voice of Raijin, the Thunder God, father to all arashitora. Telling me not to be afraid.
BUT WANT TO.
You … you will help me, then?
I circled lower, descending through the freezing squalls, down to the broken crags at the Four Sisters’ edge. I dropped the monkey-child into a thick drift of snow, alighted beside him, sinking deep into sharp chill. My breath roiling in the air between us. My eyes upon his, sightless though they were, seeing more than the leader of my race ever would. I had lost my family to this sickening. And though the Khan might bid us simply leave Shima and its woes behind, though I had no words at the time for concepts like “forever” or “extinction,” I found myself unwilling, in that tiny, frozen moment, to lose my home along with my kin. Not without at least knowing why.
This seemed important.
This boy seemed important.
I HELP, MONKEY-CHILD.
And your friends? Your kin?
ARASHITORA NOT FIGHT MONKEY-CHILD BATTLES FOR YOU.
