“That guardsman,” you said, “told us to be careful. Bandits must’ve attacked.”
Ever the detective, weren’t you?
“We are going into the bathhouse,” you said, and I translated to Qorin. “It is the largest building here. Temurin, Qadangan, you will wait near the exit. Barsalai and I shall enter through the front door.”
Yes, that rather sounded like one of your plans.
After you spoke, you turned to me. In hushed Hokkaran, you continued. “If you are up to it,” you said. “I will not fault you, my love, if you want to wait at the exit with the others.”
You were asking me to walk into a bathhouse that may or may not be full of bandits. We wore no armor, and I had only my bow and hunting knife with me. The last time you asked me to do something so insane, I woke up with demon blood in my veins.
I suppose nothing can go worse than that.
“I will follow,” I said, “wherever you lead.”
And so we took our places. Temurin and Qadangan circled around back. With one hand on the pommel of your sword, you opened the door.
Beyond the door was the reception hall. A small table stood close to the ground before us. Steam coming up from the springs fogged up the room. The walls, I noticed, were covered with stalks of bamboo split down the middle, so that the whole area was a hazy green dream.
But there was no one there in the reception hall, no girl wearing a thick layer of white paint, no man in flowing robes.
I took a breath. The air smelled of ginger and … something else. My nostrils flared. Something else. Sweet, but salty at the same time.
We toed our way forward. Up ahead, the hall split into two paths, left and right. Each was labeled in Hokkaran.
“Men there, women here,” you said, pointing. “Which would you prefer?”
“Together,” I said.
“What if we are surrounded?”
“Then we are surrounded together,” I repeated. I love you, Shizuka, but at times I wonder how you are still alive. Were you born with an intrinsic desire to run headfirst, alone, into danger?
As we moved farther down the hall, the first noises reached us. Screams. Human screams, not the shrill wailing in my mind. Men, women; both voices mingled together. Laughing, too—so loud and so long that at first I thought it was the demons. Soon we heard the words to go along with it.
“How does the water feel, Blacksmith-kol?”
It was a man’s voice. Shortly after that, another man’s voice cut into my ears—but this time it was a wet, desperate wail.
I nocked an arrow.
“Doesn’t look like it’s healing that stab wound of yours.”
It was about then we reached the end of the hall, which opened up into one of the springs. We were far underground now—the ceiling above us was rough stone streaked with minerals. The spring itself lay in the middle, shaped close to a circle but not quite. It was deep enough for one person to sink in, and wide enough for five to float in.
I knew all this because five people floated in the spring, four of them already dead. Commoners. Two dead men, two dead women; one man still splashing. One of the women was younger than we were. She floated on her back, her guts spilling from a large wound in her stomach.
Standing around the springs were the bandits: shaggy, starved-looking men and women with yellow scarves tied around their necks. Behind them, lined against the wall, were the rest of the villagers, bound and gagged and watching in abject horror as their family members were killed.
One of the bandits—a tall, lanky man with unkempt hair and a bristling beard—stood closest to the spring. He speared the squirming man. Short, shallow thrusts, meant to wound but not kill. The blacksmith splashed so hard that the floor was slick now, covered in bloody water.
“Aren’t your type supposed to be hale and hearty, Blacksmith-kol?” He raised his spear again.
I sent an arrow into his mouth. It punched right through the skin of his jaw and kept going, landing with a clatter near the back of the room.
All at once, the bandits drew their weapons. Spears for the most part—cheap and readily accessible—though I saw a few swords among their number. One dozen.
One dozen bandits, against the two of us.
“Who’s playing the hero?” shouted a stout woman with a naginata.
“O-Shizuka!” you roared. And as you entered the room, two of the bandits lunged at you. I remember distinctly your wooden sandals clattering against the ground; I remember you leaping up. You landed on the shaft of the spear with just enough time to cut the bandit’s throat. Spraying blood coated you in deep, dark red.
As you landed, you made a second, overhand strike. The second bandit was too shaken by your first strike to react in time; you cut him deep down the middle.
And I watched.
I do not like to admit this, Shizuka, but I was slow in drawing my second arrow. For there you were, cloaked in ruby, sticky with red. There you were with the snarl of war on your perfect face. There you were, at the zenith of your glory.
I licked my lips. I remember this. I licked my lips as I fought off the sickening thought that I should lick you clean.
No. No, no, I was not one of them, that was not how I thought, those were not my thoughts—
I forced myself to raise my bow, to nock an arrow and pull back—
But I snapped it. I snapped my own bow by pulling on it too hard, too fast. Qorin bows are notoriously flexible; when not in use, we can fit them in hoops hanging on our saddles. And I just broke one.
My hands shook. Blood rushed through my veins, but it was not good blood, not red blood. I could feel my heart pumping waves of black against my ears. Suddenly my teeth hurt; my whole jaw felt like it was splitting in two. I clutched my face, screaming in agony.
In front of me, you danced with the bandits. With every stroke of your flashing blade, you felled one. Droplets of blood flew from the tip of your sword like ink from a brush.
But even you cannot account for everything. Like a bandit, half-bleeding to death, chucking a throwing knife at you with the last of their strength.
I saw it land in your side.
I saw you crumple.
And then … ah, my Shizuka, I am glad you were not awake to see this.
Here is what happened, as near as I can remember.
Everything stopped. This is not to say that the bandits stopped moving because you were hurt. They did not. But in that moment, time stood still as ice for me. There you were on the blood-soaked floor, your lips parted as if you were sleeping, a jagged knife jutting out from between your ribs. There you were: my other self, my walking soul.
Unspeakable fury boiled within me. So far gone was I that I did not think in words anymore, only emotions, only images.
The bandits shared a laugh at your expense.
They did not laugh when I roared.
If you are going to imagine this, you must imagine it correctly. This was not the roar of your voice, nor the roar of a fire, nor the roar of a general. This was the roar of a creature twice as large as any tiger, and three times as hungry. This was the roar of an inferno swallowing an entire town whole.
And after it left me, I licked my teeth. Sharp. When did they become sharp?
Fast, faster than their eyes could follow, I lunged forward. With one hand, I grabbed the bandit on the floor, the one who threw the knife. My grip was strong enough to crush his throat; my nails were talons now, and sank into his flesh.
I took this man I held by one hand and I threw him at the others. They slammed against the wall. Four of them, I think; it is hard to keep track. But I can tell you I smelled their blood. I smelled their fear, sweet as nuts fixed in fat.
One threw a knife at me. It landed in my shoulder with a wet thunk. I did not feel it. I simply pulled it out and threw it back. A wail of pain asssured me it struck true.
I jumped forward again. I do not know what drove me to tear that man’s throat out with my teeth, but that is what I
did, and when his coppery blood filled my mouth, I swear to you I grinned. It is the sorry truth. His body sank beneath me, and I leaped to another before he fell. A panicked young man this time, scarcely older than we were, pleading, pleading … I do not remember what he was pleading for. Leniency, perhaps.
It fell on deaf ears.
I sank my claws into his stomach. He emptied his bowels, and the smell made my stomach churn but did not stop me. As he screamed, I tore his throat out, too, and I sank to the ground.
Four bandits stood, four struggled with the body of their companion. I stooped opposite them, blood and gore stuck in my pointed teeth; my shoulder wound weeping black.
Weapons clattered to the ground.
“You’re a demon!” shouted one.
“Worse,” I said.
One still held her spear. She made a thrust. I grabbed the shaft and pulled her toward me, and I impaled her with my arm. I flung her body away from me; the crack of her broken bones rang out against the cold rock ceiling.
With every breath I took, I felt more powerful. Not only could I taste their fear—I could savor it, too. I could let it wash over me and give me strength. And, yes, they cowered before me now. Yes, their pants were dark with their own urine. Yes, I was something dark and horrible and wicked.
But they had hurt you, and so dark and horrible and wicked I became.
When one tried to run, I picked him up and slammed him against the ground so hard, his head split.
And when a second tried to run, I grabbed him around the waist and broke him over my knee.
Two.
Two left.
I was laughing. I do not know when I started laughing, or what it is I found so funny, but I was laughing. Already the gore was drying on my hands into thick cakes. Everything was so bright, Shizuka. The blood, the gore, the off-white chunks of bone. For once, I did not hear the voices at all. I was free of them.
And gods above, it felt wonderful. As if I’d had blinders on all my life.
“W-We surrender,” muttered one of them. He fell to his knees before me. The other soon followed suit. “B-blackblood-mor, we surrender, we did not know, we were hungry—”
“Hungry?” I repeated. I laughed. “You kill because you are hungry?”
“Our leader said we could get food this way—”
“Thirsty?” I asked.
“N-No, Blackblood-mor.”
I grabbed the two of them by the back of the head. As easy as lifting children, I picked them up and took them to the spring.
“Shame,” I said. Then I plunged their heads beneath the now-fetid water. “Drink.”
And I held them there as they kicked. I held them there as they struggled. I held them there until their bodies finally stopped their insipid protesting and they fell limp in front of me, until the whole room was thick with the glimmering of departed souls.
The remaining villagers were watching me, but if I am honest, I did not care—I could still barely think. But I knew you were bleeding, and that I could not touch you without contaminating you.
And so I picked one of the villagers to untie. I removed her gag.
She screamed.
“Pick her up,” I snapped, pointing to you. “I won’t hurt you.”
But I could taste it again. Fear, sweet and potent. I felt as if I’d drunk an entire skin of kumaq in one sitting.
“Pick her up,” I repeated. “I won’t hurt you. I swear.”
I met her eyes. She was a mother, I think—I could smell childbirth on her. That sounds strange. If I said I smelled the sweets she made for her children; if I said I smelled long nights awake stressing over a cradle—would that be less strange? Or more, perhaps? These images land on the back of my tongue and play on the back of my eyelids.
She scrambled to her feet and scooped you up.
“Follow,” I said.
So it was that I left the Imakane bathhouse, blood caked so thick on my skin, I may as well have emerged from a mud pit. My teeth came to a point now; the veins on the back of my hand were visibly dark; and, though I could not see it, delicate black veins colored my eyes, too.
When Temurin and Qadangan saw me, they screamed. I suppose they thought I was a demon.
“Barsalai,” I said, pointing to myself. “Barsatoq needs help.”
For in that moment, I did not care what I had done. As long as I brought you out of the bathhouse safe and alive, nothing else mattered.
It would not be until later, when you were bandaged and healing, when I had to explain to my mother what had happened, that I broke down weeping at this thing I’d become.
The more I try to remember this, the deeper a nail’s driven into my skull. I returned to the ger. We returned, I think. Otgar covered her mouth when she saw us, spat on the ground. To my disgust, she moved in front of my mother.
“Disgust” is not the word. As if Burqila Alshara needed protection.
The dark bubbling within me simmered over. Their voices were the hiss of steam in my ear—hurt her, make her suffer, look what she has done to you!
“Whatever you are,” Otgar said, “leave here now—”
I bared my teeth. Fangs, now. Each of them came to a point, so that when I smiled, I looked like a wild animal or worse. My nails grew so thick and dark, they reminded me of a hawk’s claws.
I was keenly aware of many things in that moment: One, Otgar’s heartbeat. Two, the vein on her temple pulsing to unseen drums. Three, the shaking of her sword. Four, the power coursing through me. Drunk. I was drunk on it, Shizuka, on the knowledge that no one could stand before me and live—
But Temurin’s strained voice returned me to my own mind. “Dorbentei,” she called, this woman who had fought with my mother in the Qorin wars, this woman who now sounded terrified. “Dorbentei, that is Barsalai. Something happened, she is not herself—”
“Barsalai?” Otgar called. And my mother shoved her out of the way so hard, she fell to the ground.
Burqila Alshara slew her brothers without a trace of regret. Burqila Alshara rode with one hundred men and women to Sur-Shar, and rode back with five hundred, despite not speaking a word of Surian. Burqila Alshara blew a hole in the Wall of Stone with Dragon’s Fire. Burqila Alshara conquered half the Hokkaran Empire with five hundred men and two thousand horses.
Yet when she saw me—when she realized it was her own daughter standing there, painted black with arterial ink—she covered her mouth. Slack-jawed and pale she was, the agony of recognition writ large on her brow. With trembling hands, she made the only sign I recognized. The one she’d made with a beckoning wrist, with a sharp flick; the one she’d made look soft; the one she’d made to call me to dinner.
My name. No, not even that—the name she alone called me. Shefa. My name was among the few hand signs I knew; when we were alone, my mother would always leave off the last syllable. You did not know this name, and this now may well be the first you’ve ever seen it.
And I heard Temurin’s soft weeping; I heard your labored breathing. I looked down at myself. At the claws I once called fingers. At my skin, thin as rice paper, trying to hide thick black eels. I looked to you, to my wound, weeping darkness.
“Mother,” I said. “Mother, I’m sorry.”
Was that my voice? I didn’t sound like myself anymore; I was echoing in an open field. My knees knocked together as the weight of my actions came upon me, as I saw everything that had just happened with my own eyes and retched.
I’d torn a man’s throat out with my teeth. I’d drowned people. I’d enjoyed it, all of it, the thrill and the power and the rush.
“Mother,” I repeated as I sank to the ground.
“Mother,” I repeated as she held me.
And then I wept like a child who’d wandered onto a battlefield.
Otgar took hold of you. While my mother rocked back and forth with me, she tended to your wound. All the while, she kept looking up toward my mother and me. With her free hand, my mother spoke.
“W
hen?” came Otgar’s voice.
“Two months ago,” I muttered. “We were fighting a demon.”
Rocking, rocking, rocking. What was I going to do? What was she going to do with this abomination she’d birthed? Was she going to kill me? She should kill me. If this was the way I was going to behave now, I needed to die. Better to put down a wild dog than let it loose. I’d almost attacked Otgar, of all people, and even as my mother held me, I had to fight the thoughts flooding my mind.
“Your blood,” said Otgar. She could not say it without cracking.
I nodded, eyes shut tight.
“Shefali,” Otgar said. “Shefali, what happened?”
In bits and pieces, I told them. We wanted to help. That was all. We went into that bathhouse thanks to your amber-colored idea of heroism. We went in to make sure the villagers were all right and then you were hurt and …
My mother held me for some time.
I spent the night alone, in my own tent. I refused to be near my family. I refused to be near anyone at all, lest that creature I’d become overpower me again. No one quite knew what to do. We untied the villagers, of course—Qadangan and Temurin did that before we left. They were safe.
But they were going to talk. You’d shouted your name when you entered. They knew who you were. And how many other Qorin did you travel with, Shizuka? Soon tales would spread. O-Shizuka travels with a demon, with a woman who tears out throats with her teeth.
What were we going to do about me?
That night, the Not-You came into my bedroll. That night, she wrapped her arms around me, and I did not have the will to fight her off. She stroked my face with decrepit hands. She breathed, and I smelled fungus, smelled death.
“Ah, Steel-Eye,” she said. “Look at you. You are so much more beautiful now.”
I buried my head in the pillows, but her nails dragged across the nape of my neck.
“With your teeth, perfect for biting,” it said. “Your eyes that see so much. Yes, you are more beautiful now, and you will be more beautiful yet.”
“I do not want to be,” I said.
“Ahhh,” it said, planting a rancid kiss on my shoulder. “Finally you have spoken to me, my love.”
The Tiger's Daughter Page 25
