Find Me, page 10
A soldier brought Hissing Blade his horse, and the prince mounted, holding his hand out to Ayame.
“Let’s go, Priestess.” He waited. “I’m famished. Are you hungry? It’s morning meal time.”
Ayame looked up at the monster with a porcelain face, smug on his tall horse. A beast like its master, the stallion cleaved the earth damp with blood, restless and whinnying at Ayame.
“There you go,” Hissing Blade said when Ayame didn’t move. “Expected you to be difficult, anyway.” He pulled her up by the neck and threw her across his saddle. She didn’t fight him though. There had been no sense in it.
Her head and arm swaying to the gait of his horse as she dangled over the saddle, the prince rode through the field of corpses. Hot tears ran down her forehead because her head was upside down.
Keelback, Hare, Jay, Robin, Monarch, Sunny, Badger, Sparrow, Ring, Lightning, Wraith, and Master Grey—everyone was dead.
Everyone was dead.
Everyone was dead.
Everyone was dead.
eleven
Hissing Blade
Prince Hissing Blade’s palace had a structure Ayame hadn’t seen anywhere else in Nara. A red stone wall encompassed the estate but only as tall as two men; the height wasn’t enough to be a fortress. Perhaps it was meant to discourage those inside from leaving rather than keeping out attackers—a bujin could scale it without a ladder.
Through the red wooden gate with golden dragons, it was a great flat terrain paved with rough stones. Not a single tree in sight, and to compensate, nearly a hundred concubines had come out in their flowery garments to line the road to the palace with bowed heads.
Some girls were young, too young, and when they accidentally looked at Ayame, they shifted their frightened gazes down.
The two princes led the way, and besides the handful of Ryu, one of whom kept shoving Ayame from behind, a few dozen of them stood like blue pikes in front of the gold and red palace shaped like a double-tier temple, complete with figurines of gods on the rooftop.
Dragon on everything, on the banner, on the backs of the men’s attires, wrapped around the pillars and peering down from the ledges, and all their eyes were mirrors. Ayame touched the necklace underneath her white robe, greyed with soot, to assure herself that she wasn’t alone.
“Hush,” she breathed when she felt Puff’s unease. She hated this too, but on the way here, being carried on the prince’s horse like a saddlebag, she decided that she couldn’t die. Had she been alone, she would have tried her luck, but she wasn’t alone. She resisted putting her hand on her belly because a gesture like that, the prince would catch.
The palace had numerous steps leading up to it, as if the building itself was on a dais, and inside, the rooms had strange round doors—perhaps not doors because they didn’t close. Rather, the rooms were separated by carved wooden screens with round holes. Furniture was everywhere, breathless as Naomi’s room had been. Interconnected rooms, no hallways, the palace was a maze.
Servants fluttered ahead of the princes, and when Locks split to the left, Ayame was instructed to follow Hissing Blade. She did as she was told.
The prince settled in a long, red wooden room—the length of two rooms. The shutters on the windows were carved, and the sunlight fell on the floor in shapes.
“I suppose you know how to clean armor and swords?” Hissing Blade asked, as one servant lit charcoal in the brazier and another helped him take off his obsidian armor. “My concubines can’t do shit but suck cock.” He smiled, the red tint in his irises prominent in the morning light.
Meant for horse riding and archery, bujin armor had numerous separate pieces tied together with silk ropes to allow for maximum mobility. The way Ayame had seen it done, usually male servants with specialized knowledge or other bujin helped put on or take-off armor, but all of Hissing Blade’s servants were female. Only poor warriors who couldn’t afford servants had their mothers dress them, but Ayame didn’t say such a thing. This was not the time to be stupid.
“So?” The prince cocked his head. “Which are you better at?”
“I can clean armor,” Ayame said.
“I’ll be the judge of that, but you’re welcome to try. Your friends made my gear dirty. It’s only right that you remedy it.”
Done undressing, he turned. His skin was covered in ink, verses of sacred sutras written in the old symbols, Ayame realized.
“Get to it then.” He walked away into another room, presumably to wash.
Ayame gathered the armor pieces and the single blade he wore, unlike any other bujin, and knelt on a sunspot by a granite table. She asked to be brought warm, clean water, clean cloths, charcoal or sand, choji oil, the things she required for the task at hand.
The servants complied without delay. No one spoke. The women only bowed. The palace was a deathly quiet place—surprising, considering how many concubines she’d seen. She would have expected the women to chatter or at least play an instrument. How could Lady Tamaki, who’d grown up at Moonlight, have endured it here?
She couldn’t. That was the answer.
Ayame decided to make the best of her imprisonment and to learn as much about Hissing Blade as she could. In her heart and mind, she had to drop the names of the dead down a well and slide a stone lid over it. She’d grieve for them later. She’d help the souls find peace by mending the in-between, but for that, she had to live. Moreover, her lord was alive and trapped in this snake pit and she dared not leave him alone. All that, and she hadn’t even gotten to the human soul nested inside her.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Then you should hurry up and start on that armor,” Puff whispered back.
“Right.” She nodded. She had a task at hand and would start there.
When the water in the bucket turned faint red as she wrung out the cloth over it, she tried to not think that was mostly Wraith and Lightning’s blood. She couldn’t close her eyes for too long because behind her lids, in the darkness, there was the demon head chomping on the Satsuma boy. The crack of Master Grey’s back when he was flung into the column rang in her ears.
“Puff, make it stop.”
“I can’t. Only you can.”
“I can’t.” She shook her head, then wiped her face with the back of her hand. She was crying and tried not to get salt water on the metal plates.
“Ayame, look at his armor and tell me what you see.”
“You can see, can you not?”
“I can, but see it for yourself.”
Even as she thought he was trying to distract her, or help her focus rather, she studied the smooth metal plates and scales of the prince’s armor as she wiped it with the cloth, and rubbed soft charcoal on the pieces with dried blood that didn’t want to come off. The thing was lightweight, the metal much thinner than Kyuzo-dono’s chest plate. The skirt too, almost paper thin, it felt decorative rather than combat practical. Ayame furrowed her brows.
“Now you see it.”
Shiny and glossy, it didn’t have a single nick or dent, which was why it felt like a costume. She clearly recalled Lightning’s blade grating across the chest, yet not a mark remained. Picking up the war mask, she inspected it. The neck guard was part of the mask. Wraith’s blade broke on it but not a scratch either. Tossing it up, she weighed it in her hand. It was impossible that it stopped the blade. Yet it did.
“There’s no way,” Ayame said. “There isn’t a way that he took on Ishii’s finest and came out without a scratch.”
“Yet he did. Why do you suppose that is?”
Ayame unsheathed the sword, freed the wooden peg that held the hilt to the blade, and tapped the hilt off. It wouldn’t look odd if Hissing Blade came in. This was how one cleaned a sword. Swordsmiths signed their name on the tang, but this one had none. Surely the prince of Ryu carried a sword crafted by a famed smith who couldn’t resist signing his name. All the bujin swords were signed—except for one, the shinigami blade Lord Kyuzo had returned with.
“This is a death god’s blade,” Ayame breathed, barely audible to herself.
He’d walked into the fire with armor and all, Hiro had said. The bastard died with this armor on and returned with it. He’d walked through the black torii wearing it and now there was no mortal weapon that could cut it.
They never had a chance.
In the silent, somber palace, she heard a footstep approaching rooms away and assembled the sword, guard and hilt and slid it back into the lacquered wooden sheath.
Ring and Sparrow, he’d gone for the two archers first because he didn’t want to get shot in the face. Finding the eye slit in between the helmet and the mask was a grand task in the dark when the target was moving. Perhaps too grand a task for Sparrow, but she could think of someone who could blind his hideous red eyes from a hundred yards—light out.
Hiro and Jester left and there was only one thing Wraith would have tasked them with—bring the Ishii army. This was a waiting game, but that would take moons, perhaps as long as next spring, when the snow melted and ice thawed, making the northern roads passable again.
Hissing Blade walked in, his long black hair damp as he settled on a wooden stool with a backrest, crossing his legs at the knee. Unlike the first time she saw him, his attire was light colored—sky blue with white cranes, symbolizing longevity.
He tapped the silver bowl of a long wooden pipe on the armrest of his chair, reminding her of Naomi, pulled out a pouch from the drawer of a short table with a granite top, and began loading his pipe. Had he not been vile, he would have been handsome, but as he was, his appearance was no more than a pretty piece of rice paper placed over a pile of shit.
“Your armor is clean, Prince.” Ayame rose and carried the pieces to hang from an armor tree in the corner.
She came back, settled into the sunspot and reached for the blade, but he said, “Don’t touch my sword. Just the armor will do.” He was preoccupied with this pipe till he took a long, hard hit, the smoke rolling from his lips as if he was an actual dragon. Then his posture relaxed, and the smile reached his eyes.
“Should I put your sword on the rack, then?” Ayame asked.
“Yeah, do that.”
A servant rushed in with a pot to pour the prince tea. Then she knelt in the corner and waited with her head bowed.
“Kyuzo surprises me,” he said, sipping tea. “Tamaki was breathtaking. Naomi was all right. But you, you’re not much to look at.” Cocking his head, he studied her.
Ayame sat on the floor, keeping her distance from the prince. When he motioned for the servant to pour Ayame tea, she accepted the cup with both hands.
“It could be just your hair. It’s ugly short like that. Only widows cut their hair, did you know? Would you like to a be widow?”
“Tamaki was his sister.” Ayame frowned. “And priestesses wear their hair however they choose. We take no husbands for we belong to no man.”
“You’re not a priestess. You whore around with the warlord,” he said, then laughed. “Well actually, I take that back. All priests whore around with lords. Servants of the deities are always in dire need of money, isn’t that funny?
“Tamaki was his sister,” he mocked her voice. “I see what it is now. You’d believe him if he told you the moon was square. That’s an attractive quality in a woman, even a plain one.”
“Except she was his sister.” Ayame found herself arguing with evil incarnate for no reason. As a man, he was average height, built on the thin side, and not that daunting. He reminded her of Sora, just older.
“Do you ever wonder what else she was?” He tapped his pipe again. “No man charges in hot and heavy like that over a woman he isn’t smitten with.”
“An older brother does,” Ayame said. “Your mind is not well.”
He burst into laughter, cackled so much that he had to wipe his tears. “All right, that was fun. Now go clean yourself and wear something pretty. Fix that hair also. You look dire,” he said.
“I’d rather not. But thank you, Prince.”
“Kyuzo’s here, I’ve been told.” He got her attention. “But he can wait till you go put on something more pleasing to me.” He leaned back into the chair, smoke curling from his lips like incense at the altar.
“What shall I wear?” Ayame’s voice came out small.
“Borrow something from one of my concubines. If doesn’t please me to look at it, I’ll rip it right off you. Choose wisely. Now, off you go. I want some rest. It’s been a long night.” He sank further into the chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
Ayame eyed his sword on the wall. The closest guard stood outside the door, perhaps thirty feet away. The sword was on her way out. If she grabbed it and turned, would she… Ayame stopped herself. Musings like these would get her killed. She followed the servant with her head bowed, not allowing any other foolish thoughts to endanger her child.
Short as her hair may be, coming down to only a little below the chin, it had absorbed the stink of the night and she washed that vigorously. Other than that, she rushed through the entire thing. The prince’s household servants were far more superstitious than typical, so she scared them by claiming that a possessive ghoul would eat them should they see her naked when she didn’t want to be handled.
She stole a hairpin, solid silver and as sharp as a pick, and tucked it in her sash. A concubine brought her an emerald silk robe with a white camellia pattern. The garment was rather stunning, and that was at least something.
The palace was called the Hall of Serenity, Ayame learned, and because it had no interior wall to speak of, no hallways, and no separation of rooms other than wooden screens, she could see Hissing Blade sleeping but wasn’t allowed near him. No one would wake him, and she waited for hours, her chest growing tighter with each breath.
The weather outside was taking a bad turn, a blizzard brewing perhaps. Ayame got up and paced when she could no longer sit. She made the servants nervous. But who cared? She stood by the window and played with the red ring, rolling it between her fingers—she’d forgotten that was Puff till he sneezed.
Beyond the window, there were two other palaces, both smaller than the one she was in, and rows of soldiers like pruned trees guarded each. Where was Lord Kyuzo? Not outside. Had he even come or had Hissing Blade lied? A part of her hoped he was many miles away already, on his way back to Yukiyama. What did the prince want from her lord and why not kill Sora when he had the chance?
Too many questions, not a single answer. Ayame paced and paced till anger overwhelmed self-preservation, and she picked up a large vase and smashed it on the floor. The servants gasped, cowering with faces buried in their hands, but Hissing Blade woke up, which was what Ayame had wanted.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just clumsy,” she muttered.
The prince slept on a bed with tall legs like a stool, not a mat, and when he sat up and glared at Ayame, she shrugged. Then he lounged around for another hour, eating, looking in a glass mirror, brushing his pretty hair, and putting on a black robe. She hated him because he killed her friends, but she also loathed how spiteful he was. All this irritation served to diminish her fear of him. Had he truly walked into the fire, there was a certain tenacity to it, but other than that, he was just an annoying man who happened to summon demons.
As they were leaving, he said, “I don’t like this garment. Bring me my robes.” Then burst into laughter. “You should see your face, Priestess. You’re too honest for this world.”
“My lord is waiting.” Ayame looked down to hide her anger, perhaps not so well.
“It’s too bad that I need him. Otherwise, you would have been a fun thing to play with,” he said. Ayame jerked her head when he tried to touch her face. “I see what your charm is. You’re untamed. The thought of breaking you is tempting.”
He turned, walking away with his hands clasped at the back. Singing an old tune, he wasn’t armed, and Ayame followed him along with his servants.
“Oh, by the way.” He paused his song but didn’t look back. “Tamaki’s robe is exquisite on you. It’s a fine choice. You’ve done well to please me.”
It’s his sister’s robe. Her heart sank. Hissing Blade had done it on purpose, she didn’t doubt. He was a vile child with a bitter black heart. How did he manage to find his way through the Swamp of the Lost? Walking into the fire, that was too much faith for someone so full of himself. Yet, he’d managed both, hadn’t he? Perhaps there was more to him than the character he put on.
“Where is Lord Kyuzo?” Ayame asked when the prince was finally done with his vanity routine and led them out of the palace. His light steps fluttering down the stairs, he continued his merry song.
“Hall of Reflections,” he said. “To rethink the shit choices he’s made.”
twelve
Hall of Reflections
The Hall of Reflections was the single tier building right behind the palace. The whole thing one grand space with a dais and a throne where an altar would be, it reminded Ayame of the abandoned Ryu temple she’d seen in the Ishii mountains—the walls were tall panels of mirrors.
Prince Locks, still in his armor, was on top of Lord Kyuzo. A rope around the lord’s neck, the prince was choking him from the back. Lord Kyuzo had one hand caught in the rope, keeping it from digging into his neck, and with the other he elbowed Locks, trying to get the prince off him. But the prince was in full gear, taller, larger, and twenty years younger.
Ryu soldiers lined the hall like pillars, and her lord was alone and on the floor with Locks on his back. Having a grand time, the prince was laughing.
“Do you know what Tamaki used to say to me?” Locks asked, breathing into Kyuzo-dono’s ear. “Please stop.” He mocked a high pitch of a woman. “Please stop. Don’t, you’re hurting me.”
