The Tiger's Daughter

by K Arsenault Rivera

  I do not need to describe the throne room to you, Shizuka. You know its secrets better than I do. Its hundred jade columns are as familiar to you as the rivers and brooks of the steppes are to me. Gold tiles line the ceiling, lending everything a brighter look; braziers shine like alarm fires. Around the perimeter of the room is an undulating jade dragon statue. I’m sure you tried to ride it as a child. In the center, near its yawning head, is the Dragon Throne.

  On it sat your uncle in Imperial Green. Next to him, one of your three aunts. His first wife, nearing forty-two now, gray hairs tucked behind her ears like flowers. The current lord of Shiseiki was her nephew if I remembered correctly. My father liked to ramble about her when he’d had too much to drink.

  “Now, there is a woman,” he’d say. “The beauty of a phoenix, cunning as a fox. O-Yoshimoto-tono is in safe hands with her.”

  What was her name? Sand slipping between my fingers. Only the image of my father’s drunken face remained, of his pale gold cheeks flushing red, of the glassy look in his eyes. He and the Empress knew each other as children, thanks to my father’s friendship with your father. Maybe they played together as we did. He did not speak of her much except when the liquor got into him.

  I lost track of the conversation while staring at the Empress, at the woman my father so prized. What few wrinkles she had only emphasized her handsome features. Not that it was easy to focus on her face. Where you were cloaked in peacock feathers, the Empress wore genuine phoenix feathers, passed down through the Imperial line for Ages. The slightest movement sent them swaying. Bright red, deep crimson; dawn’s gold and dusk’s orange trailed in their wake.

  I could not look away from those feathers. Each plume bore a single green spot, almost like an eye, near the top. I found myself leaning toward them. As the smell of fresh brewed tea incites thirst, these feathers incited …

  I could not be sure. My fingertips tingled; my forehead felt hot. What was it like to touch them? Would they sear my flesh?

  And yet I knew I had to have them, and when I glanced down at my hands, I saw it there in my palms, and all around me were thousands of candles in different shapes and sizes, and my hand was not my hand, it was gray and twisted and topped with sharp claws—

  “Barsalai,” said Temurin. “You gawk.”

  Clearing my throat, I tore myself away. Lord and Lady Fuyutsuki left our company while I was busy making a fool of myself.

  Only you remained, your hands tucked into your sleeves. You looked down your nose at me. “Shefali,” you said, “you are as bad as my suitors.”

  Suitors? I grimaced. We were thirteen, and you had suitors? Your parents had just died—and you had suitors?

  “Do not be so surprised,” you said. Venom crept into your voice as you glanced around the room. I saw them now—the men standing by the jade columns, looking over to you just often enough. Demure smiles. Dangerous eyes. “Three wives in, and Uncle has not conceived a child. There are fools who think they can use me to get on the throne.”

  You kept going back to one of the men. He wore white and bright green, the colors of Shiratori. He was not tall, but he bore himself as if he were, all broad shoulders and puffed-out chest. Night-dark hair pulled into a horsetail complemented the shadow of a beard on his chin. At his hip hung a straight sword with an elaborate jade hilt.

  Something about him soured my stomach. Have you ever seen a sick dog, Shizuka? Have you seen it shamble about, frothing at the mouth? Have you seen ticks coating a dog’s flank, so many and so fat that they look like mushrooms growing on a tree?

  So I felt when I looked at him. He made my teeth hurt and my ears ring.

  Four, five times you looked at him. Each time, you shivered as if something wet crawled down your neck. “Do not,” you whispered, “let him look at me.”

  I stood in front of you to block his view.

  Qorin height had its advantages. In the entirety of the throne room, only Temurin and a handful of guards were taller than I. I made it my duty to know where that man stood at all times, and as you went about your business entertaining conversations with people you did not care about, I stood between the two of you.

  For the barest of moments, you slipped your hands free of your sleeves, and your fingertips brushed against mine.

  And then I felt two pinpricks of heat on my back. I reached for the bow I left in your chambers out of habit as I turned. I was careful to keep you behind me.

  He was there. So close. Shorter than I was, as a thirteen-year-old. I was struck by how clammy his skin looked, like raw fish. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead. When he smiled, his teeth were painted black. Fashionable two decades ago. Strange. He was no older than thirty, by the look of him.

  He bowed and his coalfire eyes met mine. I did not allow myself to shiver, but the hackles on my neck rose all the same.

  “Oshiro-sun, I take it?” he said. “I do not believe we’ve met.”

  I fought the urge to bare my teeth. Temurin took a step closer to me, one hand on her scimitar.

  The man glanced at her and scoffed. “Shizuka-shan,” he said, “you should call off your dogs.”

  Instantly you pushed in front of me. Though you were cloaked in peacock feathers and sapphires, you burned with anger. “Call me that one more time, Kagemori-yon,” you snarled, “and I will show the entire court just where you belong.” Yon. I’d never heard that one before, but only the Brother’s titles started with that sound.

  But Kagemori did not flinch. He laughed, once, as a man laughs at a child’s flailing. “And where is that, Shizuka-shan?” he said. “What ferocity. Did you slay the tiger, Shizuka-shan, or did you switch souls with it?”

  In the years to come, many people would write about this moment. They’d swear they saw you draw a shimmering sword from the light itself and point it at his throat. I’ve seen paintings of it, you know. None include me. Some include Temurin. Temurin is more important to the story.

  For it was Temurin’s scimitar you drew, Temurin’s curved blade catching the golden light of the throne room. To say you drew it in the blink of an eye would be to do you a disservice. One moment, you were empty-handed. The very next, you were not.

  The sound of steel rang throughout the gilt room. Guards moved in, their pikes lowered, forming a tight circle around us. You kept the sword leveled at Kagemori’s throat.

  “O-Shizuka-shon! Are you all right?” called the guard captain.

  “I have been insulted,” you said. “And disrespected by this foul excuse for a human being.”

  At once they turned their pikes toward Kagemori.

  He sneered. “What a willful child you are,” he said, “drawing steel in the Emperor’s presence.”

  “Uncle!” you shouted.

  No one addressed the Emperor. The proper thing to do was to wait for him to speak in any given situation.

  But you have never been one for waiting.

  Your uncle bristled. He did not rise from his throne. Instead, he waved a hand, and the guards stepped back. The other courtiers went quiet in anticipation of his holy words.

  “Shizuka,” he said, “you have demanded our attention. Out of respect for your father’s memory, we shall allow it, but you are to keep a closer guard on your tongue in the future.” Each syllable was heavy, each word formed according to the most formal rules of Hokkaran.

  “This man refers to me as a child,” you said. “He speaks to me with familiarity he has not and will never earn. He has not heeded me when I have told him to leave me alone. I demand the right granted me by our divine blood. I demand a duel.”

  As a stone dropped in a puddle sends out ripples, so you sent out waves of hushed whispers through the crowd. Kagemori—still held at sword-point—knit his brows.

  Your uncle did not stand. To stand would show too much emotion. Nor did his wife have any visible reaction, save to reach for one of the phoenix feathers and stroke it.

  “You cannot be serious,” your uncle said. “You are thir
teen. He is a grown man.”

  “Three months ago, I faced older men, and soldiers,” you said, your voice crackling with pride. “My age was not an issue then. It should not be an issue now. I am worth twenty of him with one hand tied behind my back and blindfolded. I demand a duel.”

  This was the first I’d heard of it. But then, it had been three months since you last wrote to me. You must’ve been composing the letter when …

  “That was a tournament,” Yoshimoto intoned. “One your mother did not wish for you to attend—”

  “Uncle, do not speak to me of my mother’s wishes,” you snapped. Sky save you, you were snapping at the Emperor. Did it at all matter to you that he ruled Hokkaro? “If my mother were here, I would not be asking your permission for a duel, I would be watching his body be dragged from the throne room. I demand a duel.”

  The silence in the room was like glass shattering.

  I longed to touch you, to give you some sort of reassurance. But you stood in front of me, and all eyes were on us. I could not touch you without further sullying your reputation.

  Instead, I whispered your name so low, only you could hear it.

  And I swear, I saw the taut muscles of your hand relax.

  “Uncle,” you repeated, your voice calmer, “if I am old enough to receive marriage proposals, I am old enough to duel.”

  Yoshimoto said nothing. The Emperor is supposed to be serenity made flesh, but in your uncle’s doughy brow, I read nothing but anger. The Empress leaned over and whispered in his ear. He said something sharp and cutting to her I could not hear. She spoke again, more timidly this time.

  Finally he sighed. “Very well,” he said. “If you so insist, Shizuka, then we shall grant your request. You may duel to first blood in the courtyard.”

  So the courtiers filed one by one out of the throne room. Still you stood before Kagemori; still you held the blade to his throat.

  He bared his blackened teeth. “There was no need to bring the Emperor into our little lovers’ quarrel,” he said.

  Lovers’ quarrel. He spoke in such a way to a thirteen-year-old girl! I growled at him.

  His eyes flickered over to me and he scoffed. “I did not know your dog spoke Hokkaran,” he said to you.

  “Get to the courtyard,” you roared, “before I behead you where you stand.”

  Another soft laugh. As he stepped away, he hummed to himself. “If you insist,” he said. “It will not change fate’s path. You will be mine one day, Shizuka-shan.”

  Only you, I, Temurin, and your guards remained in the throne room. Even the Emperor had departed on his palanquin.

  You bit your lip. “I will kill him,” you said. “Not today. But one day, when I am older, I will kill him.”

  I squeezed your shoulder.

  Next to us, Temurin shifted from foot to foot. “Barsalai, I may not speak Ricetongue, but I know a challenge when I see it. Does Barsatoq need our assistance? Say the word, and I will gladly use him to test my arrows.”

  You gave Temurin the respect of looking at her when she spoke, though you did not share a language. I was going to ask if you wanted us to help you in the duel (though I had no idea how that would work) when you spoke to her.

  “Guard,” you said, “I do not know your name. Barsalai will tell me soon, I am sure. I thank you for the use of your sword.”

  “Temurin,” I said, pointing to her. Then I tapped on the sword with my fingers.

  “She can keep it, if she likes. I have more, and she does not seem to have any,” Temurin said.

  You held out the scimitar to Temurin, pommel toward her. She slipped it back into its sheath.

  “You. Tall boy,” you said, pointing to the guard who’d chided us before. “Go to the courtyard ahead of us. Let it be known that my mother’s sword is to be prepared for me.”

  This order chafed him, but it did not stop him from taking off at a run.

  Then you began walking.

  * * *

  THE HALLS RANG with the clacking of your wooden sandals, but not your voice. So many twists and turns. So many identical portraits of this emperor, or that emperor. How was one fat Hokkaran different from any other fat Hokkaran? Couldn’t they dress differently, at least? But no. Each one wore the same Dragonscale crown. Each one sat on the matching Dragonscale throne. Each one was fat, each one was pale, each one had the same forced serenity painted onto his face.

  How, I ask you, did you tell your ancestors apart?

  To this day, I cannot navigate the palace without you. I do not know how anyone can live in such a place, with walls and ceilings and hallways of identical men staring at you. Cages are for animals, not people.

  So it was to my great relief when we entered the courtyard—the opposite of the labyrinth you’d just led me through. Here was a forest in miniature. Here peonies in all the colors and patterns known to man blossomed on tree branches; here rows and rows of chrysanthemums swayed in the soft morning wind. A single tall, white tree grew in the center, almost as tall as the palace itself. Around it, a small pool of water glittered in the sunlight. At the northern end of the yard was a raised dais upon which your uncle and aunt sat. Everyone else picked a bench and staked their claim.

  I took a deep breath of the fragrant air and greeted Grandmother Sky for the first time all day. But then I saw Kagemori waiting just in front of the great white tree, and my prayers died unspoken.

  But you continued walking. And you stood three paces away from him, cloaked in your pride, armored in dignity.

  A servant scurried by me—a young boy so nervous, he bumped into my knee on his way to the inner ring. In his hands he held a black lacquer box almost as big as he was. He finally sank to his knees next to you and opened the box.

  Your mother’s sword rested inside. The Daybreak blade, its sheath lined with solid gold and carved from finest ivory. An intricate sun on the cross guard, a crescent moon for a pommel. It was a thing of impractical beauty. How the Queen of Crows used it with any regularity baffled me. There was not so much as a single chip on the sheath.

  You reached for it, and you took it in your hands, and I swear to you, I saw the cross guard flash. You stepped out of your wooden sandals and pushed them aside with one delicate toe, standing barefoot on the grass. Kagemori may’ve been taller, but you looked down your nose at him all the same.

  The crier, too, was present, and it was he who sounded the gong. “O-Shizuka-shon, daughter of O-Itsuki-lor, challenges Kagemori-zul to a duel,” he announced. “They meet with the blessings of the Son of Heaven. Let the first shedding of blood hail the victor.”

  Silence. Kagemori sank into a fighting stance and drew his sword—plain, unadorned, and antique in style.

  You did not draw yours.

  Indeed, even as he circled you, you did not draw your sword, nor did you change your posture.

  Next to me, Temurin crossed her arms. “Rice-eaters and their rituals,” she muttered.

  I shushed her.

  For you were a coiled spring. Any second now, he’d make the mistake of setting you off.

  “Do you fear me, Shizuka-shan?” he asked. “Why do you not bare steel?”

  “I do not need to, for the likes of you,” you said. “And you will not goad me into attacking.”

  In the shadow of the great white tree, I saw him tug at the corners of his mouth, saw the disappointment on his face. What a quandary he faced: If he struck first and you countered him, this duel would be over in a single stroke.

  Minutes passed. A quarter hour he circled you. A quarter hour you stood unmoving, your gold eyes fixing him with feline malice. Your breathing was shallow and unnoticeable.

  Then he got tired of waiting.

  Then he raised his sword high overhead. A bloodcurdling scream left his painted mouth. He ran toward you.

  And then …

  As a man lost in the sands signals to a passing caravan with a mirror, so you signaled your victory with the flashing of your blade. You drew your sword,
slashed him clean across the face, and sheathed. One smooth motion too fast to follow with the naked eye, and it was over. Kagemori stopped. The sword fell from his hands and clattered to the ground. Red seeped from his wound like juice from a fresh-cut plum.

  “You do not deserve to hold a sword,” you said.

  He screamed. “My face! You cut my face!” He clutched the gash as if it were a seam he could hold closed. A man in doctor’s robes ran to his assistance, but Kagemori pushed him away, shambling toward you with one hand on his face. “You insolent brat!”

  “Insult me again,” you said, “and I will have your tongue. You’ve been defeated. Continue your aggression, and I will not be so kind to you a second time.”

  But still he lumbered for you. “My face,” he muttered, over and over. “You took away my face!”

  Guards leaped rows of chrysanthemums, surrounding him within seconds. A ring of pike blades pointed straight at his throat.

  “Stop where you are!” shouted the captain. “You threaten the Imperial Family!”

  “I threaten a puffed-up child,” he snarled. “Can you not see what she’s done to me?”

  “What sort of a man enters a duel and expects to escape unharmed?” you said. As you spoke, your voice grew louder and louder. “A coward. A simpering coward. Your presence offends me!”

  For a moment, you stared him down, one hand white knuckled, holding your mother’s sword. I glanced toward your uncle—how could he abide this in silence?

  And yet he sat on his dais and he watched, and he did nothing.

  You spoke through teeth clenched tight. “Take him away.”

  Guards tied rope around his hands. Roughly they dragged him away, likely to throw him into the infamous Hokkaran prison system. In the south of Fujino, a fortress nearly the size of the palace loomed like a noose at the gallows.

  In the days when your mother acted as the Emperor’s Executioner, the prisons were always empty. After her death, they began to fill again—and I do not envy the thought of returning to them. Your uncle will throw anyone in the fortress, for any reason at all. With my own two eyes, I have seen a man hauled off in chains for having the audacity to call your uncle Iori. The name he was given at birth. The name he wore until he put on the Dragon Crown.