Empty …
“There,” sighed the Inquisitor. “I trust you are now satisfied, Second Bloom?”
Kin stood taut as a bowstring as the Inquisitor took the iron-thrower from his fingers. He could feel Kensai’s burning stare, his mouth tasting of lotus ash. He breathed deep to quiet his anger.
“You said First Bloom wanted this man dead.”
“He does,” Kensai said. “Just not yet.”
“A test…” Kin realized.
“And one well conquered,” said the Inquisitor. “Not only do you hand this rebel to us, but you would execute him with but a word. Admirable, would you not agree, Second Bloom?”
Kensai stared for a breathless age, boy-child face aglow with blood-red lamplight. Kin watched him in silence this man who had been his father’s closest ally. This man he’d once thought of as uncle. This man who, even after he’d betrayed the Kagé, handed over their leader, clearly trusted him as far as he could spit him.
“Admirable indeed,” Kensai finally said.
“You have our thanks, Fifth Bloom.” The Inquisitor paused, touched his mechabacus, supple fingers dancing a reply. “Your presence is requested in the Chamber of Gears.”
“I was headed to my habitat,” Kin said. “The hour is late—”
“The brothers will not keep you long.” The Inquisitor bowed. “The lotus must bloom.”
“… The lotus must bloom,” Kin said, nodding and numb.
The air was filled with the rhythm of the machine, the clunk and clank of pistons and greasy iron, the rut and rumble of construct hearts inside concrete miles and black, metal shells.
Without another glance at Daichi, Kin stalked out the door.
4
SCARIFICATION
Kaori had honestly thought she loved him.
Nobody would have blamed her. She was only sixteen, after all. Her father had done his best to protect her from the hedonism of the Shōgun’s court—it was understood amongst the nobleborn sons that Captain Daichi’s daughter was off-limits. And though her beauty was almost peerless, all respected the blades of the Iron Samurai commander enough to admire her from minimum safe distance.
Her father’s overprotectiveness left her frustrated, and as she grew older, hungry. She’d listen to the serving girls giggling about their trysts, see beautiful boys watching her from afar. And in her frustration, she began to hate them. Did they really believe her father would make good on his threat to decorate his mantel with the privates of the first to touch her?
They weren’t warriors. Certainly not men. They were boys. Cowards, all.
Save one.
He allowed his stare to linger, when all others turned away. He would smile, his gaze roaming all over her. It made her shiver. And as she felt his eyes exploring her body, fierce and hungry as winter wolves, she found herself wishing they were his hands instead.
Yoritomo. Lord of Tigers. Shōgun of the Shima Imperium.
He was fourteen years old, barely a year within his reign, but already tall and broad, lean muscles and bronze skin. When he spoke to his courtiers and ministers, absolute stillness reigned. When he stared into their eyes, they would bow their heads and look away.
Fourteen years old, but more a man than any in this court of trembling children.
He’d smile when he saw her. And though she could sense the storm clouds roiling over her father’s head, she would smile in return, flutter her breather fan before her face to cool the heat he brought to her skin. Daichi didn’t approve of Yoritomo’s blatant attentions, but Yoritomo was Shōgun, and Daichi his servant. Who was he to deny his lord?
She’d heard the rumors, of course. Talk of the Shōgun’s cruelties. Even Yoritomo’s sister Aisha talked to Kaori in private moments, warning that her brother’s affections should not be encouraged. And though Aisha was a dear friend, still Kaori didn’t believe. It was too easy to find her mind wandering along with her hands, alone in her bed at night, imagining herself seated at his right side. First Lady of the Imperium. Days spent in the halls of power, and nights spent in sweating, blissful collisions between silken sheets.
And so, when Yoritomo sent a missive that he wished to see her, she felt only the thrill. Not the fear born of open and clear eyes.
Her father had been sent to the Province of the Golden Road to punish a disobedient magistrate. Her matron was sent to bed early by a few droplets of blacksleep in her tea. And in his chambers, she met him, her honorable Lord, blood-red silk hugging her trembling body, a nervous smile hidden behind a shaking fan.
They’d sat and talked at first—or more truthfully, he had talked and she had listened. He spoke of his dreams, to see his Imperium stretch to every far-flung nation. And she’d pictured herself on a throne of gold—a Queen of the civilized world. And when he kissed her, she’d kissed him back, teasing at first, tasting at last, melting from the heat inside her.
This was bliss, she thought. This was love.