The Tiger's Daughter

by K Arsenault Rivera

  Except that half the people there had lighter hair and eyes, and darker skin. I do not know if the guards guided me to a town of mixed-bloods on purpose. I like to think they did, to offer me some small comfort during my final day in Hokkaro.

  And it was there, at Tatsuoka, that my brother met me late at night. I still remember hooves beating against the ground at the unholy ring of First Bell. Some guard had seen something, I thought; a robber or a group of bandits. Nothing that concerned me. I continued lying in bed, pretending to be asleep, and did not give it a second thought.

  But moments later, the door slid open. I shot awake and reached for the sword the guards had confiscated.

  “State your name!” they shouted as I got to my feet.

  “Oshiro Kenshiro, Lord of Xian-Lai!”

  My brother? I sniffed the air. Yes, that was he. What was he doing in Tatsuoka? How had he gotten here so fast?

  When they opened the door, I saw: My brother’s riding clothes were worn right through, baring his bruised thighs. Dirt painted him black and covered his hair in grit. He had to lean on one of the guards, for he could not stand on his own power.

  And in spite of all that, in spite of the pain he must have been in, Kenshiro lit up when he saw me. “Shefali-lun,” he said. “Shefali-lun, thank Grandmother Sky, I am not too late.”

  “The prisoner is under our protection, Your Worship,” said one of them. The leader, I think. He was short and thin, with a wispy mustache and beard. What he lacked in stature he made up for in posture and tone. He had the look of a wire about to snap. “We are under strict orders to keep her isolated.”

  “I’ve been isolated,” I said.

  Kenshiro nodded. “She will be out of your hair tomorrow, Captain Hu,” he said. He knew the guard by name. That was Kenshiro. “Please, I rode a horse to death—”

  “You what?” I gasped. “Kenshiro!”

  He winced. “Shefali-lun, I’m sorry; there was no other way to reach you in time. The birds came for her. She is in the stars now.”

  “You let the birds have her?” I said. “Kenshiro, you did not use her meat, or her milk, or … you just left her there for the birds?”

  My voice cracked. How could he do such a thing? How could he ride a horse to death, just to reach me faster? And how could he leave a corpse out there to rot? Yes, when it came to humans, that was what one did. But with horses, they are far too valuable to leave uncovered. If a horse dies in your care, you must make use of its body, or you are disrespecting everything it ever gave you.

  Dogs are left out for the birds.

  But never horses.

  Without thinking, I’d switched to Qorin. Hu ordered us to switch back to Hokkaran, but I couldn’t find the words. My brother ran a horse to death. If this had happened out on the steppes, my mother would have had him flogged. How could he?

  Kenshiro shrank four sizes. He pressed a forehead to his hand and stepped closer to me. He bowed low. “Shefali,” he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, I thought…”

  “You’ll find her, when you go back,” I said, “and you’ll make a grave marker for her, as she deserves.”

  Silently he nodded. I wiped my tears on my sleeve. After all this time, three months under armed guard, I’d been so happy to see him, despite his foolish betrayal. The death of a horse turned the whole thing sour.

  I turned from him.

  He rose and touched my shoulder. I batted him away.

  “Shefali,” he said, “Baozhai sent you a gift and a letter.”

  That made no sense. Baozhai, nice as she was, wouldn’t command Kenshiro to ride so hard to send me a present. I looked over my shoulder. Kenshiro held a small parcel in one hand, and a letter in the other. Neither bore Baozhai’s too-delicate calligraphy.

  Instead, it was the fine, confident hand you’d become so well known for. Kenshiro held it up only long enough for me to see it; then he quickly flipped both over and shoved them into my hands.

  “Baby sister,” he said. “I’m sorry we have to part like this. I’m sorry for all the things I’ve done, no matter the intention behind them. They say the more wives a man has, the more troubles—pity me, for I make such mistakes and I’ve only Baozhai to speak of. You’ll return, I know you shall. Until that day, we’ll all keep you in our thoughts. You were always meant for great things. Bring back that feather. Show them a half-blood is twice as good.”

  He knew better than to hold me at that moment. Looking back on it, I wish I had reached for him.

  But, no, my brother sniffed my cheeks, and I sniffed his, and as he left, he paused at the door. “Remember,” he said, “your wife is waiting.”

  I stuffed the letter and the parcel into my bags. Hu wouldn’t let me read them now. When we crossed the border, I thought, then I would allow myself this last interaction with you.

  It was a long few days, Shizuka. Longer than my time alone in the ger when I was ten. Longer than the three days I lay dying in bed, with you weeping at my side. In my deel pocket was a letter you’d written; perhaps the last words we’d share for years. I wanted to know what they might be, but at the same time—when I was done with the letter, would I ever hear your voice again?

  The real you?

  Yet I could not wait. The moment we passed the border, that letter started to burn against my chest.

  So it was that I opened the parcel with shaking hands on horseback. I found a note hiding beneath the delicate red paper. Hokkaran, written phonetically in the Qorin alphabet.

  Shefali, my dearest love,

  I shall not hope that this finds you in good health, for I know it will. You are my unstoppable rider, my soaring arrow—you cannot help but keep going forward. In time, you shall loop around and find your way back to my arms, where you belong. Of this I am sure.

  When we were children and I sent you my first letter, I asked you what sort of flowers you liked. I wanted so badly to be friends with you. You may not know this, but I used to drive our messengers half-mad, asking if you’d written back. I asked you about flowers because I have always loved them, and I planned to plant more of whichever was your favorite. That way I could keep something you liked near me at all times. I’d be closer to you, I thought.

  I want you to know I kept the flowers you sent me from Gurkhan Khalsar. I didn’t plant them. You see, when it came down to it—when you gave me something of yours—I thought it was so sacred and so wonderful that I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but hoard it.

  I have kept everything you’ve ever given me, no matter how small.

  So now, I send you something to hold on to.

  Enclosed in this box is what remains of my short sword. Dueling has gotten me nowhere in the end. What good have I done for you, or for my country, by dueling?

  No. If I am going to have to spend time away from you, then I will spend that time bettering Hokkaro.

  May you wear this well, my love, my dearest one.

  Return to your wife. She is waiting.

  Ever yours,

  O-Shizuka

  I must’ve read it eight by eight times. Even now I write it from memory. Oh, do not think I lost it, Shizuka. I keep it in the chest pocket of my deel, safe from sand and weather. Sometimes I press it against my nose to try to inhale what’s left of your scent. Whatever bits of your soul hide amid filaments of parchment, I treasure them.

  But I was on horseback then, riding to lands I did not understand. When I was done reading your letter (over and over), I opened the simple red box that came with it.

  I don’t know where you got the idea for it. You’ll tell me when we next meet, won’t you? You could’ve just sent me the sword. Yet that would not do, and you had to make a grand gesture of it.

  So you had the sword melted and reforged into a prosthetic eye. One that bore an engraved peony where its iris should be, no less. When I saw, it I laughed. It was so like you to be ridiculous like this. The first time I popped it into my socket, it was so cold, I couldn’t keep it there
for long.

  Now, well …

  It is warm. As warm as the rest of me. And, this may sound strange, Shizuka, but I swear to you I can see through it. Not well. Everything on that side is fuzzy and distant, but I can see out of a steel eye all the same. Prince Debelo has a mirror he has let me use on occasion; would you believe there are veins on that steel eye now?

  I tell you, when I return, I worry you will not recognize me. I hope beyond hope that you do.

  But there is one letter left. A letter that sent me from the Golden Sands, where I began to write this, to the towering bazaars of Sur-Shar, and Prince Debelo’s Endless Palace. Four years that journey took, and another two to ingratiate myself to him.

  We leave tomorrow for what he calls “the Shadow’s Mouth.” You and I think of it as the Mother’s Womb, where all souls return after death. Yes, Shizuka, he claims to have pinpointed an entrance to it. It is my hope I’ll find a phoenix hiding there, waiting to be reborn.

  The letter was from Empress Consort Aberash. You transcribed it into Qorin for me. This one I was forced to turn in to Prince Debelo as proof of my identity, so I do not have it with me. You’ll forgive me if some of the words are wrong.

  Barsalyya,

  My husband has exiled you from family and love, as if you stole his trade secrets and not merely killed a man who deserved killing. He has not exiled you from my family, however, for he did not think that far ahead.

  My brother, Debelo, is Merchant Prince of Salom; if anyone knows where to find a firebird, it is he. Since childhood, he’s loved them; now that he has the wealth to track one down, it is all he can talk about.

  Here is what you shall do: Go to the Golden Sands, and find a rabbit with horns. Take it to Salom (it is the capital, if you don’t know), and present it to Debelo. Show him this letter.

  I can’t excuse my husband’s actions, and I can’t reverse his decisions, but in this way, I can ease your trouble. Consider it a wedding present from your new family.

  Your Aunt,

  Aberash

  And so that brings me here, Shizuka.

  As I finish this letter, I am sitting in my rooms within the Endless Palace. My bed is so large, you would be jealous, and carved from dark wood native to Sur-Shar. It is a good bed, a fine one, but I am happy to leave it. I do not do much sleeping, and so it taunts me with its size. I think over and over of what it would be like to lie with you here. The cloth is soft as clouds.

  But I think your skin is softer.

  Tomorrow, I leave for the Shadow’s Mouth, where the Mother welcomes all her lost souls. Tomorrow, I leave for the underworld. Years it has taken us to gather a team. Two Pale Women, a fox woman, and a girl with an arm carved from stone that she uses as easily as I use my eye. Debelo picked each of us for a specific reason, though he will not elaborate to me.

  And there is Otgar.

  Yes, my cousin is with me. That is a story for another time, I fear; if I do not return, then surely she will. Rest assured, she’s been of great service to me. On top of speaking Surian, she is fluent in coins and commerce. The preposterous amount of money we’ve made here will serve us well on the journey back, I’m sure.

  If we make it back.

  I think that is why I am ending the letter here. Why I have waited so long to complete it. I may die soon, if I am still capable of it. If I do, then you must have something to remember me by. Something you can keep close to you. And I know I have wasted time and space and ink and paper on this letter, but if you keep any part of it, keep this:

  From the day Grandmother Sky first dreamed of the Earth, I have loved you. From the time wolves and men lived together in harmony, I have loved you. Certain as frost gives way to moss, certain as the stars, I love you. And though I ride at sunrise to unmapped darkness, I will let my love for you light the way.

  For on the steppes of my mind, you are a bright campfire, and I will always find my way back to your side.

  Always.

  THE EMPRESS

  SIX

  The Empress of Hokkaro rises from her bed in a storm of red silk. In her haste to leave, she does not bother fetching her outer robes; as she bolts down her Imperial corridors, her nightgown threatens to open. Like bees dropping pollen, the hundred thousand servants of the Jade Palace cease what they are doing. At once they turn their backs; at once they kneel.

  “Messenger!” she shouts. “I need a messenger!”

  A young man near the end of the hall bows. “Imperial Majesty, I live to serve!”

  “Go to the brothel where the Merchant Prince is staying. Summon him and his retinue.”

  Throughout history, scholars of all stripes have agreed on one thing: It is unwise to question an absolute sovereign. It is especially stupid to do so when—as in Hokkaro—that sovereign rules by divine mandate. If O-Shizuka wanted, she could have the entire staff executed. All it would take was a simple word to the guards to kill every single person in that hallway. Easy as breathing.

  The palace staff is conscious of this. O-Shizuka has a fiery temper, it is true—but she has yet to have anyone killed. In this, as in all things, she improves upon her uncle Yoshimoto. Not a week passed on his watch without an execution. It reminded people, he said, of the divine order.

  O-Shizuka does not kill servants who displease her. She dismisses them. If they greatly displease her, or if they commit a crime, she metes out judgment as she sees fit. Few say she is kind—she has not been kind since Ink-on-Water—but none say she is unfair. In her three reigning years, she’s lopped off ten ears, ten right hands and ten left hands; she’s made perverts leave her presence stark naked and blooded; she’s had the tongues of would-be blackmailers served to them on platters.

  O-Shizuka does not kill her servants. But she is not kind to criminals.

  Knowing this—knowing her reputation for swift justice, knowing that he exists solely at her whim—the young man speaks up. “Imperial Majesty, Fire of the Heavens, it is Last Bell,” he says. “If the Merchant Prince is awake, he is surely entangled with the entertainment—”

  “You were not asked for your opinion,” O-Shizuka says, and the young man recoils as if he’s been cut. “I do not care if you have to pull him out of her yourself. You shall bring him and his retinue to me, immediately.”

  The young man touches his forehead to the ground and leaves.

  The Empress arrives in the throne room. Her guards turn their backs to shield her modesty; she has not yet stopped to think about it. No, as she sinks onto the Phoenix Throne, only one thing is on her mind.

  She is an idiot. For the past two days, she’s isolated herself to read Shefali’s letter. For the past two days, she’s insisted on refusing all audiences, even that of the Merchant Prince of Sur-Shar. Prince Debelo.

  The very same Debelo Shefali was traveling with two years ago, when she departed for the Mother’s Womb. The very same Debelo who sheltered her, whom she spoke of as a friend, has been here in Fujino for two days.

  She wants to scream. Can it be possible? Can it be that Shefali has been in this city for so long, and O-Shizuka has not felt her near? Have they been apart so long?

  Though the brothel is not far, the messenger seems to take an eternity. Eighty gold and jade pillars cast eighty flickering shadows by torchlight, each one a false promise. Her mind shapes them into tall, bowlegged silhouettes.

  Why has he not yet returned? Does it take so long to round up a Merchant Prince and fifty retainers? Does it take so long to pay singing girls? What if they were attacked? What if, when they arrive, Shefali is not with them?

  What will she say then? What excuse will she give to the prince?

  No. Too many thoughts, too many things she does not want to take care of at the moment.

  Except that if she left—if she walked the streets of Fujino after Last Bell in her nightgown—she’d be there by now. She’d know. She’d be wrapped in Shefali’s warm embrace. Why hadn’t she gone on her own? This waiting is agony, like an arrowhead digging int
o muscle. She tries to remind herself that she cannot leave the palace whenever she wants. Dark swords hide everywhere, and if she dies now, then there will be no one to follow her.

  Shizuka tries to tell herself this, but she knows full well she would slay anyone who crossed her.

  But the thing is done already. And there sits the Empress of Hokkaro on the Phoenix Throne, in her nightgown. If any of the guards turned, they’d catch sight of her sacred collarbones, her delicate ankles, her pearl toenails. Each lock of unbound hair is a brushstroke against her pale skin.

  Yes, if the guards turned now, they’d see O-Shizuka glowing. She’s been known to do it on occasion. It is a soft glow, no brighter than a candle, but it wraps around her like a cloak. No one dares mention it to her. No one mentions the Empress’s mangled ear; of course no one mentions how she sometimes becomes a paper lantern.

  It is their little secret. Their confirmation that, for all her temper and her arrogance, O-Shizuka’s blood runs gold with divinity. For they have all seen it: when she is angry, it takes sharp shapes; when she is excited, the aura stands on end.

  But it is there. And it is especially visible now, in the dark, the most visible it has ever been.

  The Empress is glowing.

  After no more than an hour’s time, the messenger returns. He scrambles through the great doors alone and falls to his knees.

  “The others?” asks O-Shizuka.

  “They are following, Imperial Majesty,” he says. “One of them carries a phoenix feather!”

  O-Shizuka rises.

  The air tastes different. Like milk, she thinks. Like fermented milk and horses. Like the cutting cold winds of the steppes.

  Her heart drops to her knees, her breath leaves her for some distant land. She runs. Bare feet meet cold tile. Yes, she can feel it now—the painful thrumming in her chest, her lungs burning, her whole being vibrating at once.