Jay Kristoff: The Last Stormdancer

One son seems to be favorite. His name is Tatsuya, though folk call him the Bull. He chases his brother north, but has left his wife here to speak in his stead. That he controls the Imperial Palace speaks well for his chances of ruling the country.

AND SHE SPEAK YOU?

I think—

The doors to the monkey-child nest groaned wide, revealing a cadre of samurai in tabards the color of blood, armor the hue of midnight, hard, narrowed eyes. Long sticks of folded steel, bows and quivers brimming to burst with arrows. Marching four by four by four. And behind them walked a monkey-child female, smaller and sleeker, long hair blacker than the warrior’s armor bound in needlessly complicated knots and braids.

She looked soft. Weak. Adorned and decorated, paint upon her face. I noted all the male monkey-children wore iron, carried steel, and yet the only weapon she bore was a fan fashioned of gold. And yet, in Jun’s chest, still I felt the twist of a blade, as surely as she had thrust one between his ribs. A sudden catch in his breath, a surge of butterflies in his stomach murmuring to mine. A sense of recollection, dusty with the weight of years. As he looked upon the monkey-child woman through my eyes, sharp as eagles, hungry as tigers, I think at last he remembered what true beauty was.

He had seen it before.

The woman stood atop stone stairs leading up into the nest, robes embroidered with prowling tigers. There was something akin to those jungle cats in her bearing; the way she looked us over, we two. Not astonished and bewildered as all the men about her, slack-jawed in their metal suits. No, she was predatory. Calculating. Perhaps even hungry.

They spoke then. The boy and the woman. Words I did not understand. At one point, Jun laughed, bowed so low he nearly fell forward on his face. I could not fathom why. But the female spoke with a voice of strength, hiding a blood-red smile behind the fan of gold. And finally, she stepped aside, and gestured to her nest of stone and clay.

She invites me inside. To speak further.

TRUST HER?

She seems impressed by you. I do not believe she would risk harm against me. And remember, friend Koh, we have prophecy on our side.

I NOT GO INTO NEST WITH NO SKY ABOVE. NOT ARASHITORA WAY.

Will you wait for me, then?

I WAIT. SICKNESS MUST END. NO MORE ARASHITORA DIE. YOU TELL HER.

I will. Fear not.

FEAR? FOOLISH BOY. GO. MAKE YOUR NOISE. SPEAK YOUR SPEAKINGS. THEN RETURN WITH TELLING OF WHO I MUST KILL.

Perhaps we need not kill anyone?

I snorted, snarled; a noise as close to laughter as my kind know. Looking him over, wondering if he saw himself as I did—small and pale and eyeless. Knowing all about his future, and yet knowing nothing at all.

NOW WHO FEARS, BOY?

The Junsei bridge rumbled as a fat man with a bellyful of bad clams. Trembling in its boots, the water about it rippling with bone-deep vibrations. And with no more warning, the stone supports blew apart like fireworks on a feast day, flame surging magnesium bright in the predawn still. Stone and mortar and dust spraying hundreds of feet skyward, illuminated by the brief flame screaming its birthsong below. Yawning, moaning, sighing, the arches collapsed, one by one by one, crashing into the mud-brown flow with a sodden roar.

Tatsuya watched from a small hill beside his command tent, turned his spyglass to his brother’s encampment on the hill. A flurry of motion, distant cries, a thousand fingers pointing to the column of smoke marking the beginning of their ends.

The young Bull turned to his first general. “Ukyo-san, send emissary to my brother. Tell Lord Riku I offer full amnesty to any of his troops who now surrender. Tell him I will guarantee his wife’s safety, and that of his unborn child should he now lay down arms.”

The old general nodded. “He will refuse, of course, great Lord.”

“Of course. But I will not have history say I was merciless in victory.”

The general smiled and bowed. “You will make an admirable Shōgun, great Lord.”

“Time will tell.”

Tatsuya saw Maru the Guildsman approaching over uneven ground, his brass-and-leather suit hissing and whirring, bloody eyes aglow. The Guildsman stopped before the Bull, bowed low, hand over fist.

“Great Lord, my superiors find your conditions most agreeable, and humbly thank you for your gracious considerations. We will aid your noble endeavors in exchange for quality controls and licensing over blood lotus production in Shima. We have drawn up a document,” here the Lotusman proffered a scroll case marked with the Guild’s lotus bloom sigil, “outlining the finer points of the arrangement.”

“Leave it with my scribes,” Tatsuya said. “I will mark it once your side of the bargain is fulfilled. On this you have my word. I presume the vow of a son of Kazumitsu is acceptable in place of some scribblings upon a page?”

“… Hai, great Lord,” Maru rasped.

“Good. Now where are these wonders you promised me?”

The Lotusman pointed west, his voice a graveled rasp.

“They approach, great Lord.”

Tatsuya squinted into the brightening sky, burned by the glow of the rising sun. He could see blunt silhouettes approaching—what looked like tall ships floating on the clouds. In place of sails, the ships had large inflatable balloons, propellers at their flanks, the song of their engines like the hum of distant insects. He had seen inflatable craft before, of course—the Guild had been experimenting with lighter-than-air ships for decades. But this was the first he’d ever seen a ship so obviously outfitted for war. The snouts of what looked like black-powder cannon jutting from their flanks. Armor plating. Faster than any airship he’d laid eyes on.

He found himself counting his good fortune that the Guild had been so easily cowed.

“Chainkatana and wakizashi,” said Maru. “Suits of armor augmented by chi-powered motors. Enough to arm every one of your samurai, and cut your brother’s forces down like grass.”

“See them distributed amongst my elite,” Tatsuya said. “General Ukyo will assist you. We attack within the hour.”

“As you command.” Maru bowed. “Shōgun.”

“We have no time, Lady Ami. No time left at all.”

Jun knelt in what felt like a vast space, cool breeze echoing in distant recesses. The whisper of silken amulets moving in the wind. The distant murmur of servants’ footsteps. He could smell the tea placed before him, hear the soft breathing of the woman kneeling opposite. Head turned, eyes downcast, mind still clouded with the recollection of her face.

Like a portrait from the days when he still had sight; the work of the masters he had studied before the sun took his eyes away. She was smoke and coal. Alabaster and red silk. Lips the color of heartsblood. Irises so black it seemed night itself pooled behind her lashes. The image he had seen through Koh’s eyes, eagle-sharp and tinged with predatory hunger … he feared he would never be rid of it. The music of her voice. The shape of her face.

All this he remembered.

And yet now, without the thunder tiger, without his little sparrow, he dwelled in darkness. His other senses sharpened, yet no compensation for the loss of his eyes. Clouded by the urgency coiled tight in his belly, pulsing with every beat of his heart, despite the surety that all this was happening exactly as it was meant to. He could feel other presences in the room: a maidservant introduced as Chiyoko, now pouring the tea, guards lining the walls, armor clanking, breathing soft. The quiet creak of the rafters above his head.