The Tiger's Daughter

by K Arsenault Rivera

  “Uemura-zun?” Shizuka called. “You?”

  He offered her a friendly smile and wave. Yes, he was just a boy.

  “How old are you, then? Eleven? Twelve? Maybe a full thirteen?” O-Shizuru said, for she had never been one to keep her thoughts bottled up inside her, and Uemura did not quite look his age. Until that moment, Shizuru stood at the Emperor’s side in silence. The white robes of her station stood in stark contrast to her charcoal hair and ink-dark mood.

  When she heard a boy proclaimed the new Champion, O-Shizuru clapped once, twice, thrice, as loud as she could. One by one, the others gawked at such a brazen breach of etiquette.

  “Ara, ara,” she said. “Let’s hear it for Yoshimoto’s newest guardian—a child! Have you ever been cut in a duel before, boy? Not a scar on you. Look at that.”

  The young Shizuka-zul covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. She didn’t quite succeed. Uemura seemed to grow more nervous than he already was, standing in front of the throne in armor that flapped against his bony frame.

  “With all due respect, O-Shizuka-mor,” he stammered, “I won my position in a duel like every other Champion—”

  “I could beat you,” Shizuka cut in from the crowd. “You lack decisiveness, Uemura-zun, you know that. Batting away your sword is as easy as—”

  Itsuki squeezed her shoulders. “Is this wise, Brother?” he asked. “Surely there is someone more experienced to guard your honored head?”

  “He doesn’t want someone more experienced, Itsuki,” said Shizuru. “He wants someone too scared to question him.”

  Shizuka had said a great many insulting things in her life—but then, she had the benefit of divine blood.

  O-Shizuru, who was born Minami Shizuru, who later married the poet prince Itsuki, did not.

  Yoshimoto clapped. Silence overtook shock. He drummed his fingertips on the arm of the Dragon Throne, his fat pink lips like a gash on an overripe fruit. “You question us enough for any twenty people, our honored sister-in-law,” he said.

  The way he had pronounced the word “honored” made Shizuka’s skin crawl.

  “This attitude is unbecoming of a northerner. With such a boorish role model, it is no wonder your daughter acts more like a horsewife than a proper lady. You’ve left her in the company of Oshiro’s wife—”

  For many years, it was illegal to speak of what happened next—of Shizuru drawing the Daybreak blade and leveling it at the Emperor himself, of the words that left her lips.

  “Her name is Burqila Alshara, and the most notable thing Oshiro Yuichi ever did in his life was marry her,” said her mother. “The bravest woman I’ve ever met, and the finest warrior. Do you know what she did, when she realized her people were dying off in droves? She united them. If my daughter is even half that kind of woman, she’ll be eight times the ruler you are. May the Mother herself take me if I lie.”

  O-Shizuka thought she knew silence. In a way, she did. The day Shefali almost died in the Imperial Forest, the day her best friend lay bleeding and motionless in her arms—silence accompanied her then.

  But this was the silence of anticipation. This was the silence of a healer’s bed, this was the silence of rotting fields, this was the silence of a sword drawn from a leather sheath.

  “Iori,” said Itsuki. “Iori, don’t be rash.”

  The Emperor scoffed. His eyes—Imperial Amber—were so flat and dark that they reminded Shizuka of cinders.

  “Unlike your wife,” he said, “we are capable of caution. Forgiveness, even, if she shows proper atonement. We have known you so many years, Minami Shizuru. What a lasting shame it would be if this were our final meeting.”

  Shizuka’s ears burned. She sniffed. Burning roses scratched at the back of her throat. Hokkaran is a language of signs, a language where one word may have twenty meanings.

  One did not need Itsuki’s talents to understand Yoshimoto’s implications.

  O-Shizuru understood. She sheathed her sword and shook her head. “What a lasting shame indeed,” she said. “It is a good thing I’ve yet to meet my equal.”

  Itsuki took his wife’s hand in full view of the court. He leaned over and whispered something to her. Shizuka was left standing alone with a single thought.

  I am her equal already.

  But this was not the time to crow about it. Not when half the court was waiting to see what would happen next and the other half was turning purple with fury at Itsuki and Shizuru’s display of affection.

  They did not have to wait long.

  “That is true,” said Yoshimoto. “So it will not burden you, then, to travel five hundred li north of Fujino. One of the villages bordering Shiseiki has begged our assistance. We’ve heard tell that a pack of blackbloods are trying to make it over the Wall of Flowers. If you have yet to meet your equal, then it will be a small matter for you.”

  O-Shizuru, one year off from fifty, listened to her brother-in-law’s words with her typical stoicism. It was Itsuki who started to tremble. It was Itsuki’s smile that fell to the ground; it was Itsuki who leaned over as if he has been struck.

  “She will have a company?” said Itsuki. “A small one, at least—”

  “Did you not hear your wife?” said Yoshimoto. “She says she has no equal. Let her prove it, then, and inspire more of your pretty lines.”

  “Iori,” growled Itsuki, but Shizuru raised her hand to cut him off.

  “Your brother wants me to go kill some blackbloods,” she said. “What else is new? I’ll do it, Your Imperial Majesty. It shall be done. But we will meet again, upon my return.”

  “When you return,” echoed Yoshimoto.

  When they arrived home that day, Shizuka’s parents did not speak. Not while she was present, at least. They sent her up to her own private rooms. Her curiosity got the better of her—she has never been one to sit on her hands—and so she sneaked downstairs.

  And she saw her mother lying in her father’s arms, a bottle of rice wine in one hand. She saw her father pressing teary kisses into her mother’s hair. And she heard Shizuru saying over and over and over—

  “We’ll be fine, we are always fine.”

  Shizuka, until now, had always known what to do. She always knew what to say, always knew how to jump into action, how to make people stand at attention.

  But that night, she slumped herself against the wall and watched.

  In the morning, before she left, O-Shizuru held her daughter close. “Remember what I said about you and Shefali-lun,” she said. “Together. Don’t let anyone tear you apart. I don’t care what racist nonsense your uncle tries to fill your head with. That girl is more family to you than your cousins are, do you understand?”

  Why was she saying this? It angered Shizuka. It was as if Shizuru herself did not believe she was coming back.

  “I’m not a child, Mother,” Shizuka said. “And I’m not going to stop talking to Shefali. No one else is worth talking to, anyway.”

  “Good,” said Shizuru. She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Don’t let your uncle marry you off while I’m away.”

  “He’s welcome to try,” said Shizuka. “I’ll duel whoever he sends.”

  Shizuru laughed, once. “That’s my girl,” she said. “When I get back, I’ll see if I can whip your swordsmanship into shape.”

  This was it—the moment Shizuka had been waiting for. Personal lessons from the finest sword in Hokkaro. At last, her mother thought she was worth teaching.

  But Shizuru also thought she was going to die.

  What a bitter taste that left in Shizuka’s mouth.

  “What am I going to learn from an old woman like you?” Shizuka snapped, but her heart was not really in it, and her mother knew.

  “How to live this long when all you do is run face-first at danger, Shizuka,” her mother said with a wry smile. “Be safe, and pay attention to your tutors. We love you.”

  We love you.

  Did they still love her? she now wondered. Would they, knowing all the thing
s she’d done, all the things she’d seen?

  It did not matter if they loved her, did it? The Empire loved her well enough, and so did Shefali—wherever she’d found herself. And there was the other love—the one she dared not remember, even alone in her chambers, for she still had Shefali’s book sitting in her lap. What did filial affection matter to an Eternal Empress?

  Why did it leave such an ache in her heart?

  * * *

  EMPRESS YUI OF HOKKARO lies back on her pillows. She presses her fingertips to her face, lays her hand along the thick scar over her nose.

  She takes a deep, rattling breath. Shefali’s letter brings to mind things she’s long since forgotten. The struggle of taking the entire Imperial Garden to Oshiro, for one; a stunt she had to pay for with public zither performances. At the time, there was no higher price. Performing, in public, for people she hated, doing something she loathed? To this day courtiers reminisced about seeing her.

  How many times has she heard this man or that woman say she remembers the day perfectly? Don’t they understand how it makes her feel? She was eight at the time. Eight, drowning under the weight of a proper woman’s robes, wearing a crown that hurt her neck, looking out on a crowd that did not see a girl before them.

  They saw a symbol.

  She remembers that day well. Her uncle had the stage covered in roses, to taunt her. He introduced her as Princess Solitude for the first time then, and everyone applauded, as if that were the finest name they’d ever heard.

  Solitude, he said, would be her only true companion in life.

  Yet, looking back, O-Shizuka wonders just how much it cost to hire five hundred servants to carry her flowers. She tries to figure it out in her mind. How much was it that her father used to pay their household? And what was the average?

  How much was a single cash seal worth, again?

  But it was worth it. No matter how much it cost (and O-Shizuka has never had a head for money), it was worth it to see Shefali’s warm brown face light up.

  That was a good memory, she thinks. That one was worth holding on to. Yet there are other memories she’d drown if she could.

  She calls for a bottle of rice wine. Spirits to drown spirits, as they say. So what if Baozhai disapproved?

  But while she waits for it to arrive—she will read.

  IF I SHOULD HEAR THE SOUND OF PINE TREES

  I must have heard him wrong.

  O-Shizuru, Queen of Crows, who sent more to the Mother’s cold embrace than any other—dead? And her husband—O-Itsuki, the man who made stones weep and trees grow with only his words—who would kill him? No. This was wrong. They couldn’t be dead. Your parents could not be dead.

  My mother drew away. With complete disgust, she made sharp, cutting gestures. Her face contorted into a war mask.

  “Get out of my sight,” Otgar translated. She was doing her best to keep my mother’s tone, but her voice wavered. “You come into my ger and spread lies? How dare you! I should have you executed on the spot!”

  But the messenger did not leave. He stood there with his arms crossed behind his back, his shoulders bowed as if bearing the weight of his news. He had the audacity to meet my mother’s eyes.

  “O-Itsuki and O-Shizuru are dead,” he repeated. “By now, their funeral will have passed. His Serene Majesty the Son of Heaven has taken O-Shizuka in for now—but it was O-Shizuru’s wish that you raise her, should the unthinkable happen.”

  Numb. I could not feel my fingers. Otgar steadied me with her free arm. In the privacy of our ger, my mother shook.

  She was pale, Shizuka. The earthy brown of her skin changed to tea. Sweat trickled down her brow.

  One gesture. Alshara’s hand trembled like a branch in a storm.

  Otgar’s voice cracked. “You lie.”

  Tears watered the messenger’s eyes, but he did not falter. His voice was clear as a funeral bell.

  “On the sixth of Nishen, O-Shizuru and her husband departed on a mission from the Son of Heaven,” the messenger said. “They did not return. I wish I could tell you otherwise, Great Kharsa, but I cannot. I speak to you the truth. They are dead—”

  My mother rose to her feet. Wordlessly she left the ger. Lightning in her footfalls, thunder in the slam of the door. Otgar, the messenger, and I remained.

  My mouth went dry.

  “Shizuka,” I whispered.

  “Barsatoq will be all right,” Otgar whispered. “She is a stubborn girl. This will not slow her down.”

  But Otgar did not know how much you idolized your parents. She did not know—

  Again, the sharp aching in my chest painted my vision red. My lips went cold. All I could do was imagine you in your rooms at Fujino, weeping and raking your cheeks, too proud to admit you need company. Too proud to let anyone near you.

  “I’m going to Fujino,” I said.

  And I, too, left the ger. Otgar followed behind.

  I saddled my horse. We were a month’s ride, perhaps two, if the entire clan was coming. But with only myself and Otgar, we could make the trip in a week or two if we rode hard enough. I availed myself of two geldings; I was going to need a change of horse if I planned to make it to you quickly.

  “Barsalai,” said Otgar, “do you not think we should take a few riders with us? We might meet bandits on the way, or wolves.”

  I shook my head.

  Otgar ran her hand through her hair. She had two braids now, though she did not earn them in battle. My mother allowed her to wear one for each new language she picked up. One for learning to read and write Ikhthian, one for learning the tongue of the Pale People from a book written in Ikhthian. We hadn’t met any Pale People yet. She wanted to be prepared.

  “I’m not going to convince you, am I?”

  Again, I shook my head. With my whip, I eased my horse into a trot.

  “Then let me go with you,” Otgar said. “I won’t stay unless you want me to. But someone has to make sure you get there all right.”

  “Temurin,” I said.

  Otgar drew back, hurt written on her face. “You don’t want me with you?”

  “Mother needs you.”

  Otgar looked at her reins. From the pout of her lips, I could tell she did not like this; from the furrow of her brow, I could tell she knew I was right.

  “Burqila will leave for Fujino, too,” she said. “And then we will be going the same way.”

  “Not right now,” I said. “She will mourn.”

  Otgar’s mouth made a thin line. Could I never get my words right? Why couldn’t people be more like horses? They got on just fine without talking.

  “Stay with her,” I said. “She needs someone to talk to.”

  “You need someone to talk to,” Otgar said, her voice dark.

  I stopped my horse. I rode over to her, and I squeezed her hand. “I will be fine,” I said. “Mother will not.”

  As an old man senses when rain is coming, so I sensed that my mother would not return to camp for some time. Alshara swore an oath of silence. It changed her into something of a symbol: a looming, silent statue of a woman. Hokkarans liked to say her sword did all the talking for her.

  No one heard my mother speak. No one saw her do anything but glower at people. Where others’ emotions fluctuated, she was as consistent as the dawn. She did not cry. She smiled only in the presence of Shizuru.

  And she never wept.

  That was not going to change. No one would see her weep, no one would see her beat her chest, no one would see the tears streaming down her face or her bloodshot eyes. No one would hear her scream herself raw.

  That was why she needed Otgar. Someone was going to have to meet her when she returned, haggard and drained. Someone was going to have to speak for her when she did not have the energy to sign. Someone had to comfort her as I could not.

  Otgar was the only one I trusted with such a task.

  And so I left her to it on the cold, windy steppes, and I did my best not to look back on the white felt gers as
I left.

  Temurin said little on the way, save to chide me for being so single-minded.

  “You should’ve waited for Burqila,” she said, “and arrived with the clan at your back, as befits a future Kharsa.”

  But when I arrived in Fujino, it was not as a future Kharsa. It was barely as Oshiro Shefali—were it not for the Imperial Seal you gave me, they never would’ve let me into the palace.

  A string’s tied us together all our lives, Shizuka. No matter how far we are, I can feel you tugging at it.

  Perhaps it was that tugging I followed, for on that day, the very first door in the Jade Palace I threw open somehow was yours.

  There you were, dressed in white from head to toe. No ornaments in your hair. No jewelry on your neck or your fingers. Since I last saw you, you had not grown much in height—but your figure was beginning to fill out, and your face was changing into a woman’s.

  Our eyes met, yours rimmed with red.

  “Shefali,” you said.

  I stepped forward and opened my arms.

  You embraced me. “I was worried you would not come,” you said.

  “I always will,” I whispered.

  If you ask any Qorin what home is, the answer would vary. Their mother’s ger. This spot by the Rokhon where the sun caught the silver grass just so. On the back of their mare, their cheeks worn red, a good bow in hand.

  But my answer has been the same since that moment when we were thirteen.

  Home is holding you. Home is the smell of your hair. I would give up the howling gales of the steppe to listen to you breathe. All the stars in the sky, all the fallen Qorin guiding us through the night, could not compare to the brightness of your eyes when you looked at me. Your eyes were wide, so wide, like campfires burning.

  There are certain moments that tie themselves into your soul. Like a mother beating felt into the walls of the ger, they hammer themselves into you. So it was, then, with you in my arms and no one around to watch us.