Stormdancer

  She felt a blush in her cheeks, turning to busy herself among the crackling flames with the last trout fillet.

  It’s the drugs talking, she told herself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

  “A Guildsman could never marry a hadanashi girl.” He frowned, trying to focus as the opiate swell rose up past his eyelids. “When you return the arashitora and the Shōgun asks your desire … perhaps you could ask him to set me free?”

  Yukiko turned back to him, a dark crease between her brows.

  “It would be good.” His eyes fluttered closed as he whispered. “To be free…”

  She watched him for a long moment, pity in her stare.

  “Good”? It would be impossible.

  Nobody ever left the Guild, everyone knew that. Its members were born into the chapterhouses and died there. Nobody escaped except into the judgment of Enma-ō, the endless cycle of atonement and rebirth. And even if he did get out, how could Kin possibly hope to get by in the real world? He’d lived all his days in that metal suit, never known anything but a Guildsman’s life. What on earth would he do with himself?

  Leave the Guild? The only way to do that was to leave this world.

  “Now I know it’s the drugs talking,” she muttered.

  * * *

  Buruu’s voice shook her from dreams of the green-eyed boy, reverberating like the sound of distant thunder. Unsure whether she’d imagined it, she sat up slowly beside the dying embers, brow creased with concentration.

  Buruu?

  THEY ARE HERE. MEN. TWO.

  I’m on my way.

  She checked her tantō and dashed from the cave, leaping lightly down the slope and into the seething tangle of green. The wind was a cutting chill after the cave’s warmth, rain dashing into her eyes and pattering upon her skin. She touched the fox tattoo on her arm and crouched low, flitting from shadow to shadow without a sound, feeling for Buruu in the gloom. She could sense him off to the left, curled high in a vast cedar close to the pit, watching the two figures gathered beside it.

  Yukiko could see them through his eyes: one around her age, long hair and sharp, angular features, the other older, broader, topknot peppered with gray. They were both dressed in dark gray cloth, swathed with stripes of deep green, like the patterns on the thunder tiger’s haunches. Each was armed with a kusarigama—a sickle with a length of long, weighted chain attached to the handle. The older one also carried a katana in a battered scabbard on his back.

  Possession of a blade that length would be enough to see you executed in any metropolis in Shima. These men care nothing for the Shōgun’s rule. They are outlaws.

  MY FONDNESS INCREASES. PERHAPS I WILL NOT GUT THEM.

  We need to talk to them. Let me speak.

  AND IF THEY DO NOT LISTEN?

  Well, then you just swoop in and save me.

  Yukiko could sense his amusement echoing in the Kenning, and smiled into his mind in return. The link between them was growing more complex; transference of subtle emotional content, interpretation of tone and pitch as easy now as simple colors or shapes. But more than that, the arashitora seemed to be growing in intellect—grasping concepts such as humor, even sarcasm, that just a few days ago would have been foreign to him. She realized that she’d never felt the voice of a beast in her dreams before, even the ones she’d known for years. She wondered if it was because he was yōkai, and where their growing bond might lead. But for now, she pushed the thought from her mind, focusing instead on the men. They were armed like bandits, and had covered the mountainside with traps. Obviously, they weren’t fond of strangers.

  She crept up behind them, silent as a ghost, fingers wrapped around her knife hilt. Close enough to hear their voices, crouching beneath the fronds of an elderly frangipani, a shadow against deeper black. A long wooden pole lay beside the pit, two animal corpses tied to it, their flanks pierced with bloody holes. Yukiko thought they might be deer.

  “It was big,” the younger one was saying. “But look at these tracks. Not oni.”

  “Is that blood?” The older one crouched beside the pit, pointing to the bamboo spikes.

  “Too dark to tell. Want me to climb down?”

  “Who are you?” Yukiko stepped out from cover. She was tense as a drawn bowstring, ready to bolt at the first sign of hostility.

  The men raised their weapons and turned toward her voice, peering into the darkness.

  “Who goes there?” the older one demanded.

  “I asked you first, old man.” Yukiko kept her voice steady, ignored the pounding of her heart. “Your pit trap nearly killed me. You might at least give me the courtesy of your name.”

  The pair squinted into the gloom, then stared at each other, incredulous.

  “A girl?” the younger one laughed.

  “What in the name of the Nine Hells are you doing out here?” The older man stepped forward, kusarigama raised, chain looped in his other hand.

  “That’s close enough.” Yukiko’s fist tightened about her tantō. “I’m warning you.”

  “A lone girl in the wilderness isn’t exactly in a position to be warning anyone, young miss.”

  “But I am not alone.” She flashed them a dangerous sort of smile.

  The arashitora rose from his nook in the cedar and swooped down into the clearing, wings spread wide, infant lightning crawling over sheared feather-tips. He landed among the undergrowth with a bellow; a screeching roar that split the air and sent a flurry of petals shivering from their blossoms.

  “Izanagi’s balls,” hissed the young man, cowering low.

  “Arashitora,” whispered the elder, slack-jawed, wide-eyed.

  “This is my friend, Buruu.” Yukiko crossed her arms, stood a little taller. “I will have the honor of your names now, please.”

  “Isao,” muttered the young man.

  “Kaiji,” said the other, eyes still glued to the beast. He pinched himself on the arm and shook his head, as if to reassure himself that he was still awake.

  “What are you doing up here?” Yukiko looked back and forth between them. “Why have you set these snares?”

  “We hunt game, young mistress,” said Kaiji, blinking rapidly. “To feed the village.”

  “What village?”

  “We live nearby,” said Isao. “We are simple folk.”

  LIARS. BE WARY.

  Yukiko glanced at the katana on the old man’s back.

  I know, but …

  She stopped, frowned at the arashitora.

  Wait—you can understand what they’re saying?

  … NOT WORDS. IMAGES. PATTERNS.

  How can that be?

  DO NOT KNOW. BUT I BEGIN TO SEE THE SOUNDS.

  Buruu blinked in the darkness, pupils as wide and deep as the night sky.

  THROUGH YOU.

  Kaiji watched the pair stare at each other, cleared his throat to break what seemed an uncomfortable silence.

  “The village is not far, young mistress. There is shelter there. Food also.”

  The mention of shelter hushed all questions about Buruu’s revelation, pulled her back into the gloom and forest’s chill. She shivered in the rain, remembering Kin lying alone and burned on the floor of the cave.

  “Do you have healers in your village? Medicine?”

  “Are you injured?” The old man looked her up and down.

  “No, but my friend is.” Yukiko nodded toward the rock pool. “We were in the sky-ship that crashed not far from here. He was burned.”

  “We saw the ship go down.” Isao nodded.

  “Did you see the life raft?” Yukiko took a step forward, anxiety etched plainly on her face. “What happened to it?”

  “It got away safely.” The boy pointed. “Over the southern range.”

  Yukiko felt dizzy with relief. “Thank the gods.”

  “We can help you.” Kaiji was watching Buruu warily. “You and your friends.”

  “Please don’t lie to me, old man.” Yukiko shook her head in warning. Buruu
growled and moved forward, feathered hackles rising down his spine. She could feel the menace vibrating in her chest.

  “I swear on the souls of my ancestors.” Kaiji thumped his kusarigama across his heart. “If you are friend to the yōkai, young mistress, you are friend to us.”

  THEIR FEET ARE SURE ON UNEVEN GROUND. THE GRIP ON THEIR WEAPONS IS STRONG. THESE ARE WARRIORS, NOT PEASANTS.

  I know. But what choice do we have?

  KILL THEM. LEAVE THEM IN THEIR PIT.

  A mental shrug, as if he were stating the obvious.

  Without medicine, Kin will die in that cave.

  GOOD.

  I can’t let that happen, Buruu. I couldn’t forgive myself. Will you come with me?

  The voice of the wind was mournful, lonely as a lost child. The arashitora stared for a long moment, the girl reflected in the liquid amber of his eyes.

  Please?

  A slow, heavy nod.

  … I WILL COME WITH YOU.

  She smiled into his mind again, gratitude and affection in equal measure.

  “All right, Kaiji-san,” Yukiko nodded to the older man. “Follow me.”

  She moved off into the darkness. The men followed her silently, glancing over their shoulders at the arashitora. With a faint growl bubbling in his throat, Buruu scowled and stalked after them into the black.

  * * *

  “There it is,” said Kaiji, pointing down into the valley.

  Yukiko squinted, seeing only the green of the forest canopy, rippling in the wind.

  “Where?” she asked.

  They had built a makeshift stretcher for Kin, Isao lashing it to his waist and dragging it behind him. The young man had struggled with Kin’s weight and the deer carcasses, but didn’t whisper a word of protest. Yukiko walked behind them, Buruu beside her, watching Kin with concern. His fever was getting worse, and he seemed to be delirious, muttering nonsense in his sleep. She had tried to wake him several times, but he had barely opened his eyes before sinking back down into unconsciousness.

  There were no paths to follow, and burdened as they were, the trek seemed to take hours. The mud was slippery beneath her feet, caked on her ruined sandals. They finally stopped on a small ridge overlooking a crescent-shaped valley, nestled between two spines of jagged, black stone. The rain had sputtered and finally stopped, a blessed, merciful silence descending to kiss each of her numb ears and echo inside her head. Heavy black cloud still covered the sky, but a stubborn shaft of feeble moonlight was stabbing through the thick curtain, illuminating the valley below. Yukiko scanned the greenery but could find no trace of a village.

  “I don’t see it,” she whispered.

  The men laughed and proceeded down a rocky slope along a rough, almost invisible track. Buruu found the going so difficult that he was forced to glide down to the valley floor on his maimed wings. He waited below, eyes upturned, fretting as he paced back and forth.

  “I have never seen the like of him,” Kaiji shook his head. “We thought them extinct.”

  Yukiko shrugged.

  “I could have said the same thing about oni until a few days ago.”

  “You have seen oni? Where?”

  “North. Above this ridge. There was a temple, I think. Dedicated to Lady Izanami, the Dark Mother. We killed five of them altogether.”

  “Aiya,” breathed Kaiji. “So many…”

  “What happened to its wings?” Isao interrupted. “Why can’t it fly?”

  Yukiko noted the sudden change in topic. Wary of revealing too much to the strangers, she feigned indifference to the boy’s question.

  “Our ship was commissioned by the Shōgun. The court Hunt Master was aboard with us, commanded to catch the beast. When it became enraged, he clipped its wings to break its spirit.”

  “Masaru, the Black Fox?” asked Kaiji.

  Yukiko nodded slowly.

  “Desecration.” The man shook his head. “No wonder Raijin tore you from the skies. To treat his offspring so…”

  Isao muttered under his breath, hands curled into fists. Buruu rejoined them at the bottom of the rocky slope. The arashitora stared at the men with open suspicion, purring as Yukiko ran a reassuring hand over the back of his neck. They made their way further into the forest, Yukiko stumbling in her weariness, eyelids heavy as the world became a dark, whispering haze.

  Buruu’s thoughts snapped her from her reverie.

  MORE MEN. MANY. I SMELL STEEL.

  Be ready for anything.

  Shapes dropped from the trees in front and behind, clad in gray and green that tricked the eyes, melting into the forest around them. They were masked, faces hidden by thick sashes and hoods, only their eyes exposed. Split-toed tabi socks made barely a whisper across the dead leaves. Each was armed; bo staves, short tonfa clubs, kusarigama sickles, all tense and ready. Buruu dug his claws into the earth, growl building and bubbling out of his throat.

  “Hold, Kaori.” Kaiji held up his hand. “These ones have spilled oni blood.”

  A short figure swathed head-to-foot in gray-green stepped from the shadows, an exquisitely crafted wakizashi held poised to strike. The sword’s blade was perhaps two feet long, curved and single-edged, dark ripples flowing in the steel. The scabbard at the figure’s waist was black lacquer, golden cranes taking flight down its length. Yukiko couldn’t see the maker’s mark, but had no doubt it was the work of a master artisan.

  “Do I walk sleeping, Kaiji-san?” The figure’s voice was female, low and smoky. “Or do you walk with an arashitora beside you?”

  “No dream,” Kaiji shook his head. “A miracle, perhaps. The arashitora is called Buruu. The girl is Yukiko. They are comrades in arms, slayers of five oni.”

  Yukiko felt a multitude of eyes on her, instinctively stepping closer to Buruu’s side. He unfurled a wing, curled it about her. The handle of her tantō was cool in her grip, slippery with sweat. She could sense him in her mind, reaching out across the Kenning and absorbing the conversation. It was true that he couldn’t really understand their words. He was discovering meaning through her; a filter processing the tumbling jabber of monkey noises into colors and impressions and images he could comprehend. His muscles were tense, and that tension flowed back into her; hands curled into fists, the sharp tang of adrenaline on the back of her tongue.

  The woman stepped closer, and Yukiko tried to stifle a gasp as she took off her mask. She was in her early twenties, possessed of the kind of beauty that inspired poets; the kind that a man might happily murder his own brother to taste for a single heartbeat. Porcelain skin, high cheekbones, full lips, waves of blue-black velvet falling past her chin, glinting with a moonlight sheen. Her eyes were the color of water reflected across polished steel. But the scar ruined it all. Angry red, bone deep, it ran in a diagonal line from her forehead, cutting down across her nose to a jagged conclusion at her chin.

  Knife work.

  “Yukiko-chan.” The woman covered her fist with her palm and bowed slightly. She tossed her head, her long diagonal fringe spilling down to cover the worst of the scar.

  “Kaori-chan.” Yukiko repeated the bow and covered fist.

  “You may be a strange sight, but any oni-slayer is welcome here.” Kaori’s eyes flickered to the arashitora, back to Yukiko. “My father will want to meet you. Have no fear. There is no evil here but what you bring with you.”

  Yukiko bowed again, and she and Buruu allowed themselves to be led further into the forest gloom. She could feel the men and women around her: all fluid motion, drifting soundless through the clawing green while she stumbled along on exhausted, clumsy feet, making a small ruckus in comparison. Though the rain had stopped, the drip and patter of water upon the leaves was a constant off-tempo beat all around them. She could smell moist earth beneath her, and above that, the faint, sugar-sweet perfume of wisteria blooms. Breathing deep, she kept one hand on Buruu, running her fingers through the feathers at the join between shoulder and neck. She could sense him trying not to purr, to stay on edge
amidst these strangers and their dark, hooded eyes.

  After what seemed like an age, Kaori signaled a stop with a closed fist.

  “We are here.”

  Glancing about, Yukiko caught sight of a cleverly concealed ladder cut into the bark of one of the ancient maples beside her. Buruu looked up, and even staring through eyes as keen as his, she could barely make out a series of nets, woven through with greenery and strips of cloth; camouflage for the rope walkways linking the canopy high above. She could see the vague silhouettes of houses squatting in the branches of the timeworn trees. Carefully obfuscated by more netting and leaves and great tangles of wisteria, but houses nonetheless; a large village stretching out through the boughs, peopled with countless folk, all staring down with curious, bright eyes. She blinked, scanning the canopy, mouth open in wonder.

  SIMPLE PEASANTS, EH?

  They are far from that.

  WHY DO THEY DWELL HERE IN THE DEEP WILDS? YOUR KIND FEAR SUCH PLACES.

  These are not my kind, Buruu.

  She placed her hand on the hilt of her knife, trying to keep her face impassive.

  These are not my kind at all.

  19

  AVALANCHES AND BUTTERFLIES

  His skin was the leather of old boots, brown and weathered, cracking at the edges. Cropped hair, shaved so close to his skull that it seemed a shadow on his skin, old scars crossing his scalp and puckering the flesh above one narrowed eye. An ancient pair of goggles hung about his throat; custom Shigisens that in their day would have cost a small fortune. His irises were the same color as his daughter’s; steel-gray, shot through with a thousand splinters of cobalt. He knelt in front of a low table set with a saké bottle and simple cups, salt-and-pepper mustache reaching almost to the ground.

  “This is my father,” Kaori had said softly. “Daichi.”

  Yukiko blinked, a flickering of remembrance in her mind.

  I think …

  She stared hard, a small frown darkening her brow.

  I think I know this man.

  They sat in a rectangular room, walls of raw wood, caulked with tar. Daichi’s house crouched atop one of the larger trees, a shadow among the swaying foliage, nestled between a fork in the branches. One bough reached up through the floorboards and disappeared into the roof, letting in a faint draft and sweet wisteria perfume. Yukiko was reminded of her family’s old hut in the bamboo forest.