Yet no one wanted to listen to me talk about my fear or my sadness, or my experiences at war. Only my longing for love interested them—only my observations on nature and beauty.
To know that something which had brought me such comfort met with such derision … it was as if the whole nation had watched me bleed before them, and not a single one offered to help. I was reminded, in the cruelest way, of the dying I’d seen at war—of that haunting look in their eyes. Dwelling on that memory left a sour taste in my mouth, no matter how relatable I found the image. A metaphor means nothing if it is misused. Who would dream of arguing that my suffering equaled that of a dying soldier’s? No, I knew my place. This was ill-received poetry. I would live to write another day.
But to make matters worse, my father then fell ill. It was all very gradual—unexplained aches and pains—until the day he collapsed, howling in agony, while entertaining Doan Jiro. From that moment on the prognosis was dire. Healers are capable of any number of minor miracles—but in this instance there was only so much they could do. The poison in my father’s blood would keep returning, over and over; any procedures he underwent now would only prolong the inevitable.
And so he chose to die.
Iori took it well. He began lording over the palace staff the moment our father told us of his decision. My brother strutted like a peacock down the Endless Halls, pronouncing to anyone who would listen all the things he’d change once he was Emperor.
It was not long before he got his chance. My father passed away in his sleep two days before the beginning of Ni-shen. I cannot say I was especially sad to see him go. The world would not lament the passing of Emperor Yorihito. His legacy—eight academies and a war—would long outlive him.
But during his last few days it was difficult to look on him without falling into despair. My father rode in General Iseri’s army to conquer Xian-Lai; he was hale and hearty well into his old age. Yet the man who lay in bed before me was a withered husk. Even the most anemic branch of bamboo would be thicker than his arms. Gone was his trip-wire mind; he could no longer recognize either of his sons. All my life he’d bragged of Iori’s physical talents and my mental ones—but in the end he was silent and still.
I did not miss the Emperor. But I would miss the man who raised me.
Despite miming his filial duty for years, Iori did not mourn. Our father’s body was not yet cold the first time Iori donned the Dragon crown. Oh, he made a show of attending funerary services, but it was not hard to see the aura of joy about him.
His first decree was that, for all rights and purposes, our father died on the first of Ni-shen. Dying in Tokkar was too much of an ill omen; a coronation would go no better.
He was right on that account. Ascending the throne during the Brother’s month would cast a shadow on his reign that death itself could not banish. In Hokkaro, where omens were everything, it was best to err on the side of safety. Wise, even.
His second proclamation was more in line his previous bouts of stupidity: a tournament to find the sixteen finest warriors in the land, who would then march beyond the Wall of Flowers to slay the Traitor. This was, to any Hokkaran, a just and righteous thing to do—the Traitor’s foul creations were beginning to break through the Wall of Flowers. Shiseiki faced the worst of it, beset by demon attacks and the blackblood plague alike, yet there were other signs throughout the eight provinces. Shiratori’s famed caverns full of gems were collapsing at an astonishing rate; Oshiro’s golden fields returned smaller harvests every passing year; livestock throughout the empire were dying well before their time. That this was the Traitor’s doing was not a matter for debate—all the theologians in the Empire were in perfect agreement.
Yet a force of sixteen heroes—mortal men and women—to slay a god? And he mocked me for being obsessed with stories! It boggled my mind. Did he think it would work? Or did he, like our father before us, believe in the spectacle of the thing more than its efficacy?
I will give him a little credit: the tournament served as a fine distraction from the nation’s grief. A gathering of warriors renowned for their skill, dueling for the honor of saving the Empire? A fine plot for a novel, and a finer one to see play out before your very eyes. Though it cost an astronomical sum to put on, the tournament also drew crowds from all over the Empire.
Forced to attend his little show, I told myself that I might see something inspiring, but my heart was not in it. Inspiration was a distant memory.
Until, on the fitfth day of competition, my eyes at last fell upon her face.
At first, I had no idea who she was. Her opponent was Sugihara Gendo, who in any other era would go down as the most famous duelist of his time. Sugihara stood closer to our viewing platform and was announced far earlier than his opponent.
When she walked out onto the field—when I first saw her—it was as if I’d awoken from a long dream. As if nothing prior to that moment mattered. Who was this woman, cloaked in rough-spun robes humble even by a monk’s standards? Who was this woman with a shaggy lion’s mane of unbound hair? Though she stood in front of thousands of civilians and the Emperor himself, she held a pipe in her hand, curls of smoke coming up out of it.
I found myself leaning forward as she walked to the center of the field, where Sugihara Gendo awaited her. She took a drag from her pipe before stashing it away within her chest pocket.
“Ara, we’ve got a crowd!” she shouted, so loud and clear that I heard her without issue despite the distance.
“Who is this boar?” Iori asked. The city’s governor, Kahei Junpei, who was in charge of the tournament and all the lists, shared our platform. He did not need to check his records; indeed, he could not hide his smile.
“That,” he said, “is the Queen of Crows herself, Minami Shizuru.”
My heart fell into my stomach. That was the woman I’d written about? How I wished I’d met her before I started writing! The woman before me was a staunch iconoclast, and I’d cast her as the height of Hokkaran monarchy.
I had to laugh. After this duel was over I was going to have to track her down and apologize!
“All right, you lot,” she said. “Who do you think is going to win this match? Me, or Gendo-kol over there?”
Gendo-kol! As if he were a scholar, or a smith! I could not tell if she meant to insult him or if she simply didn’t care which honorific she used. Either way I was entranced. Other competitors boasted—but none were as charismatic as she was. Her friendly country accent coupled with her relaxed posture made it easy to forget she was such a war hero.
I leaned forward, my eyes wide, my heart pounding.
The crowd erupted into cheers. It was hard to make out any particular winner with all the shouting, but the moment Minami Shizuru waved them off the whole crowd went quiet.