The Last Stormdancer

our parents made remain intact, do you think? Or will the Bull supplant you with the one he truly loves? Whomever that might be this week?”

Ami licked once at trembling lips. Palms pressed flat to her thighs. She glanced at the maidservants behind her, breath strangled in her lungs. Tatsuya’s latest favorite, a tiny slip of a thing named Chiyoko was watching the back of her head, turning her eyes to the floor as the Lady met her gaze.

Lady Mai finally glanced at her sister, dark lips curled in a smile.

“By the by,” she said brightly. “You will be an aunt soon.”

The doors to the Chamber of Passing opened wide, the volume of the mourning hymns rising. Beyond the threshold, their husbands awaited. Lord Tatsuya and Lord Riku, Bull and Bear, swathed in heavy armor of ink- black, surrounded by a legion of samurai and beggar monks. Beyond them, carried by a multitude of hunched servants, the old Shogun’s body awaited on his funeral bier.

Lady Mai smiled at her husband, rose with practiced grace and drifted to his side. Lord Riku was somber as occasion would dictate, yet still leaned down to kiss her brow, place a comforting hand upon her midriff. Lady Ami watched the pair—mirror to her and Tatsuya, and yet nothing alike at all.

Her husband glanced at her, still kneeling on the floor. Still reeling from the blow. Hand pressed to her empty belly. Blinking faster than the tears could muster.

“Ami-chan,” Tatsuya said with faint annoyance. “Come.”

Lady Ami breathed deep. Stood slow. Walked to her husband’s side. If she noted the Bull’s stare lingering on Chiyoko and the other maidservants behind her, she gave no sign.

The procession trudged from the House of Passing, down a vast flight of stone stairs and into the Kigen streets. The people were a throng, a crush, lining the Palace Way. Each citizen dressed in black, head bowed, burning sticks of incense held in clasped hands. Those few with the courage to look at the royal entourage as they passed noted each of the Shogun’s sons were as stone, hands on their katana hilts, eyes downturned. The Lady Ami was pale as death itself, thin lips pressed into a bloodless line. And though it was improper to show emotion at an event such as this, the young woman wiped once at her eyes, as if brushing away errant tears.

And the Lady Mai?

She walked beside Lord Riku, palms crossed over her belly, her face as rigid and cold as a mask. But every now and then, she would glance from the cobbles beneath her feet to her sister walking at the coffin’s left-hand side. To the once-perfect kohl painted around her sibling’s eyes, smudged now with sorrow.

And she would smile.

* * *

The boy hung from my claws, limp and bewildered as we circled ever higher. I held him beneath his arms, talons not yet piercing his flesh. He did not struggle as most other monkey-children I had seen did in his predicament. He did not plead in his jabber-tongue nor buck in my grip. He simply clutched the broken body of the dead sparrow in one hand, lashes crusted with frozen tears.

This makes no sense.

His voice in my mind again, warm as summer breeze.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

I snorted, circling higher still, the Four Sisters laid out below us, snow-clad and beautiful.

WHAT YOU EXPECT, MONKEY-CHILD? BE STORMDANCER? BE HERO? LUCKY SKYMEET NOT TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB.

I care nothing for heroes. I care for the sickness. It took my mother. My father.

A chill in my belly.

And I am supposed to stop it.

SUPPOSED?

It was foretold. It is my destiny.

FOOLISHNESS.

Though he could see only darkness, the boy’s gaze was affixed on the ground far below; the vista of mountain and earth, of stone and soil and green stretching all the way to the horizon. He opened his bloody palm, let the sparrow’s body fall, spinning and tumbling end over end until it became only a speck, and from there, nothing at all.

He spoke then. Monkey-words I did not understand. Perhaps a song. Perhaps a prayer.

We ascended.

THIS SICKNESS YOU SPEAK. HAS SPREAD FAR?

The boy’s eyes were downturned and vacant. His body shivering from altitude’s deathly kiss. He was light as air, feeble and soft. Numbed to his core. I shook him once to regain his attentions.

ANSWER, MONKEY-CHILD!

… It has spread far. It does not just kill people, as I said. All the great spirit beasts suffer and die from it. Phoenix and henge and kappa and dragon. Arashitora alone seem immune.

IT IS COUGHING? BLOODY BREATH AND DYING?

The boy nodded.

My kind call it blacklung … But how could you know the symptoms?

MY KIND NOT IMMUNE, MONKEY-CHILD. ARASHITORA SICKENING ALSO. MANY OF US. MY MOTHER, FATHER, BROTHER, ALL GONE. OUR EGGS GROWING THINNER. BREAKING IN WOMB OR BENEATH THEIR MOTHER’S WEIGHT.

Then … why would your Khan not help? Why did you kill my friend?

KHAN FEAR MONKEY-CHILDREN. FEAR MACHINES. HE OLD. NOT UNDERSTAND NEW WAYS. CHANGING WORLD.

But you do?

NO.

Thunder rolled in the skies about us, sending a thrill through my belly. The voice of Raijin, the Thunder God, father to all arashitora. Telling me not to be afraid.

BUT WANT TO.

You … you will help me, then?

I circled lower, descending through the freezing squalls, down to the broken crags at the Four Sisters’ edge. I dropped the monkey-child into a thick drift of snow, alighted beside him, sinking deep into sharp chill. My breath roiling in the air between us. My eyes upon his, sightless though they were, seeing more than the leader of my race ever would. I had lost my family to this sickening. And though the Khan might bid us simply leave Shima and its woes behind, though I had no words at the time for concepts like “forever” or “extinction,” I found myself unwilling, in that tiny, frozen moment, to lose my home along with my kin. Not without at least knowing why.

This seemed important.

This boy seemed important.

I HELP, MONKEY-CHILD.

And your friends? Your kin?

ARASHITORA NOT FIGHT MONKEY-CHILD BATTLES FOR YOU.

What if we were to convince my people to help also? Would you fight beside us?

CANNOT SAY. PERHAPS WE FIGHT. BUT ONCE KHAN SPEAKS, HIS WORD IS LAW. MUST RETURN BEFORE SKYMEET IS DONE. A DAY. TWO AT MOST. OR ELSE, WILL BE TOO LATE.

The boy smiled, grinned like a fool.

Grandmother was right …

KNOW NOT GRANDMOTHER.

She spoke a prophecy, a vision—

NOT CARE ABOUT VISION. NOT CARE ABOUT YOU. NOT FRIENDS, BOY. NOT THINK YOU STORMDANCER. NOT DO THIS FOR YOU. DO THIS FOR MY KIND. MY CUBS, YET UNBORN.

You have a bride? I did not know. Do you wish to tell her—

BRIDE? FOOLISH. SEE NOTHING.

I felt him, then. A frown upon his face, reaching out through the frost-clad space between us and slipping