As the sun began to set, they reached a solitary wooden home perched on a ridge, as if the house had grown like a bonsai out of the stone. It overlooked the turquoise waters of the sea, which surrounded the kingdom, a natural barrier from the rest of the world. The colors of dusk settled into the sky like the inside of an abalone shell, a muted iridescence no less stunning than a daylight rainbow despite its subtlety.
A small woman in a long red-and-blue-striped skirt and a blouse as yellow as the sun swept the stone path in front of the house. Her pale blond hair—the same almost-platinum shade as Sora’s beneath the black taiga dye—was tied back neatly in a bun, and she wore no jewelry except a single golden pearl at her throat. As she worked, she hummed a lilting melody, like wind chimes on All Spirits’ Eve. The aroma of braised fish and bamboo shoots, cooking on the outdoor stove, mingled with the mountain air.
Because taigas tread lightly, it wasn’t until Sora and Daemon stood with their mud-spattered boots halfway down the path that her mother noticed them. Her mother looked up, up, up at the tall girl and the even taller boy in front of her. She took in the Society uniforms that Sora and Daemon wore now—black tunics, loose trousers, and the thin, cloth-covered armor—as well as the throwing stars strapped on the leather band across their chests, the knives on their belts, and the sword and bo staff on their backs. There were more weapons, tucked into the secret pockets of sleeves and other folds of fabric, of course, but Sora’s mother didn’t see those.
“Your Honors,” she said, bowing.
Sora blushed and took her mother’s hands, pulling her upright. “Please, Mama, how many times have I asked you to just call me Sora?”
Her father, a wiry man with a kind, downward tilt at the corners of his eyes, came out of the house and stood behind his wife. “It is the greatest privilege a Kichonan can ever hope for, to have a child blessed by Luna to serve the empress. Let us have the small pleasure of reminding ourselves of that and addressing you by your title.” Papa bowed to both her and Daemon.
Sora rolled her eyes but smiled. “You two are always so stubborn.”
“I know someone else who’s very stubborn,” Daemon said, looking at Sora.
“Where do you think she gets it from?” Mama said with a wink.
“Come,” Papa said. “Your mother has cooked up quite a feast. We’ll stuff our bellies, and then when we’re as round as rice balls, we’ll roll ourselves down to the base of the mountain to join in the village festivities.”
Sora laughed.
They dined outside beneath the full moon, on the small balcony behind the house, overlooking the sea. A salty breeze whispered through the pine needles, and waves hit the cliff below in a soothing, rhythmic rasp. Papa sat across the table from Sora and Daemon, smiling the entire meal despite his long mustache continually blowing into his food. Mama kept a steady supply of hot, spiced tea in their cups. And Sora had helping after helping of miso-glazed butterfish, fried shrimp, buckwheat noodles, and bamboo shoots braised in sticky soy sauce.
“Doesn’t the Society feed you?” Papa joked.
Sora responded by popping another fried shrimp in her mouth.
When she’d finally had her fill, Mama brought out an Autumn Festival cake, an extravagant, ten-layered confection made with an entire block of butter, eggs, lemony yuzu, and almond flour, and dusted with confectioners’ sugar. It resembled the full moon, in honor of Luna. Sora cut slices for her parents, despite their protests that she and Daemon serve themselves first.
Sora took a bite of the cake, and she sighed as it melted in her mouth. It tasted like happiness, and she warmed as if she’d drunk an entire carafe of Kichonan rice wine.
She managed to eat three more slices.
Papa shook his head in awe.
“She has two stomachs,” Daemon said. “One for regular food and one for dessert.”
“You’re just jealous,” Sora said.
Papa cleared away the plates when they were finished. Mama folded her hands on the table. But her smile at having her daughter home began to fade.
The wine-like warmth inside Sora turned to vinegar. She’d known this was coming. It always did. And yet whenever Sora came home, she tried to pretend she wouldn’t have to face it.
“Would you like to visit your sister’s shrine before we go down to the village?” Mama asked.
Sora nodded weakly. Not because she was disrespectful of Hana’s memory and didn’t want to go. But because every time she thought of her little sister, the mountain air suddenly felt too thin.
Daemon squeezed her shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you?”
She sighed. “No, I need to do this myself.”
“Then I’ll wait for you here.”
Papa came back out on the balcony, with a small slice of Autumn Festival cake on a plate. “Take this with you.”
The incense in the shrine would bring the spirit of the cake to the heavens, for Hana to enjoy.
Sora tried to stay composed. But despite all her taiga training, she couldn’t placate the quiver in her hands as she took the plate from her father.
Sora sat beneath the canopy of trees, in front of a small wooden shrine composed of red beams. There was a short dais, which held a vase of white chrysanthemums and a tiny brass cauldron full of uncooked rice, with sticks of white incense protruding from it. Sora had placed the slice of Autumn Festival cake next to the flowers. In front of the dais, a curved sword lay displayed on a white lacquered stand.
White was the color of mourning in Kichona.
She had been here for almost an hour, and the incense sticks had long ago burned out. But she just kept staring at the sword. It was supposed to honor who Hana had been—there were always ceremonial swords at the shrines of deceased taigas—but to Sora, it was also a symbol of everything that could have been. And everything that wasn’t. The tiny fingers that had never had a chance to grow big enough, strong enough, to hold a sword. The quick little legs that never got to experience a grasshopper or cheetah spell. The big, brown eyes that wanted nothing more than to be a taiga warrior, fighting side by side with her sister, but instead never saw beyond her sixth year.
Mama’s footsteps sounded on the gravel path leading down from the house to the shrine. Sora nodded but didn’t say anything when she sat down on the ground beside her. Mama carried a worn, leather-bound book with her, embossed on its cover with the Teira family crest of the sun rising out of a vase of flowers. Their family had always been renowned for their ceramics; Sora’s father was a tenth-generation pottery master.
“I know it makes you sad to be here,” Mama said. “But while we should always mourn your sister, we should also honor her memory by using our lives to do what she could not.” She opened her book to a page marked with a ribbon, its blue satin faded with years of age. “I wrote something a long time ago that I’ve never shared with you. Will you let me read it to you?”
Sora smiled a little, as much as one could when sitting before Hana’s shrine. Mama was a famous storyteller. While Papa told his tales on clay, shaping emotions and beauty into ceramic, Mama created in words. Her books were renowned throughout Kichona.
“I would love to hear it,” Sora said.
The branches above them rustled and then quieted, as if they too were settling in to hear Mama’s story.
She cleared her throat, and then she began.
A long time ago, a girl was born among the clouds and mist of Samara Mountain. She came writhing and screaming into the world, as if she were not ready to leave whatever dream she’d inhabited inside her mother’s womb, as if she were unwilling to enter this reality. The midwife had to swaddle her tightly to calm her hysterics, but even warm blankets could not quiet her wailing as it echoed off the cliffs and over the sea.
The baby cried the length of the day, and continued into the dusk. Her father rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and left their tiny house so he could have a moment of peace. Her mother curled into a ball on the reed mats upon the floor.
In the deepest hours of the night, when the trees creaked in the darkness and the sea sparkled under the moonlight, a masked figure slipped silently into the house. She made not a sound but walked with sword drawn, the blade of it black as pride yet bright as honor.
It was Luna, goddess of the moon and divine protector of the Kingdom of Kichona. She picked up the baby and cradled the girl against her moonlit chest. The crying ceased.
Then Luna raised her sword and brought it across the baby’s back in one quick, shallow slash. A wound opened, then quickly healed, replaced in its stead by a swirl of silver triplicate whorls, like a birthmark upon the girl’s skin.
The baby did not shed a single tear. Instead, she smiled, for she was marked by Luna.
The girl had been blessed as a taiga.
When Mama finished reading, she closed the book in her lap and rested her hands on the cover, her fingers circling the family crest. The trees around them remained still, no breeze in the branches, the whole mountain hushed in appreciation of the moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Sora said. “Is it about Hana?”
Mama shook her head. “It’s about you.”
A lump formed in Sora’s throat.