would have been enough. The other soldiers were present for show; the feathers of a peacock spread to impress his rivals.
The morale of the Daiyakawa men was worn paper-thin, courage hanging by a thread. It was rage that had given them the strength to defy the government and sow their fields with whatever crops they saw fit, plant the magistrate’s head on a spike along the Kigen road. But rage soon gave way to fear; to realization about what they’d done and where it must inevitably lead. Michi was only a child at the time, but in later years she would understand the listless steps and hollow eyes: the look of men who believe they are already dead, and are simply waiting for the world to confirm their suspicion.
But her uncle was a man of courage. He spoke with the voice of a tiger, the voice of a man whom other men would follow. Urging them to resist to the last. That if this was to be their end, then it should be worthy of remembrance. But the Iron Samurai cut through their overturned wagons and pitiful barricades without pause, sheared through leather armor and pitchfork spears like torchlight through shadow. And as they dragged her cousins and aunt into the street and executed them before him, Michi saw her uncle’s spirit shatter like glass. In that last moment, in that final breath before they bid him plunge his own knife into his gut, she knew he was broken. And the world knew it too.
She looked at the samurai captain, into cold steel-gray eyes behind his tiger mempo, and vowed she would never share her uncle’s fate.
Hard years followed, as Daiyakawa’s farmers tried to rebuild their lives, forget their exhilaration as the guardhouse went up in flames; their tiny moment of infinite possibility. The memory was a curse to most, a leaden weight on their backs, doubling the burden of the Guild yoke retied around their necks. And if they spoke of the riot at all, it was with hushed voices in darkened corners, shoulders slumped and tongues bitter with the taste of regret.
Michi’s parents had passed when she was five, and now without family to care for her, she felt like a burden and was treated as one. She longed for the day she would be old enough to find her own way. To leave Daiyakawa and the hungry ghosts haunting its streets far, far behind.
And one day a samurai came to the village. Old-fashioned swords were crossed in his obi, gilt cranes taking wing across the lacquer. He wore black cloth, like a man in mourning, a broad, bowl-shaped shappo on his head. A young girl walked beside him, covered in the dust of the road, long fringe and a black kerchief obscuring her features. And as they stood in the village square and the man tilted the hat away from his face, Michi recognized his eyes. The same eyes that had watched from behind an iron tiger mask as his men carved her kin to pieces.
Their captain.
She had screamed then; snatched up a switch of wood and charged, swung it with all the might a nine-year-old could muster. And he caught her up and held her tight against his chest, held her as she screamed and kicked and thrashed and bit, calling down the curses of all the gods upon his head. Held her until there was nothing left inside her, until she sagged, broken-doll limp in his arms.
And then he spoke. Of regret. Of guilt’s burden. Of the falsities of the Way of Bushido, and the crimes he had committed in the name of loyalty and honor. Of a group to the north who saw the truth, who had vowed as she had done, never to kneel again, and never to break.
He spoke with the voice of a tiger. A voice other men would follow.
“My name is Kage Daichi,” he said.
And in that moment, she knew she would follow him too.
18
CONTOURS
Ayane was starting to look like a human being.
Her stubble was a shadow across her scalp, black as the water in Kigen Bay. Even inside her cell, the mountain air had done her good, and the few supervised moments the Kage allowed her in the dappled sunlight had given her skin just the slightest hint of color. Fresh fish and wild rice had filled out the flesh on her bones, and when she laughed, her eyes lit up like kindling-wheels on Lord Izanagi’s feast day.
Kin was seated outside the bars of her cell, a sheet of rice-paper and some charcoal sticks spread out before him. The girl sat opposite, legs crossed, spider limbs curled at her back.
“You look better with eyebrows,” he smiled.
“They feel strange.” Ayane rubbed her forehead, frowning.
“Well, they suit you. Very distinguished.”
When she stuck out her chin and wiggled an eyebrow in dramatic fashion, they both laughed. Just like real people.
“I had a dream last night,” she said. “It is the first one I have had aside from my Awakening in as long as I can remember. Has that ever happened to you?”
“No.” A small shake of his head. “I only have the one. Over and over.”
“Awful is it not?”
“I’m used to it.” A shrug. “What was your dream about?”
The girl stared down at the fingers entwined in her lap. A faint blush lit her cheeks.
“You,” she said.
Kin was unsure where to look. He cleared his throat, lips twisting into something between a grin and a grimace, feeling his own cheeks flush. Embarrassment stole over Ayane’s face and she gave a short, uncomfortable chuckle, eyes searching the room, finally seizing on the paper spread out at his feet.
“So … this is your infamous defense perimeter?”
“Ah, it is…” He nodded, lunging toward the new topic as fast as his lips would take him. “A schematic, anyways. The real thing is almost complete. We salvaged seven heavy shuriken-throwers from the ironclad ruins, set them up near the pit traps. I’ve modified the feeders to work on hand-cranked power, but we’re still getting pressure loss in the firing chambers.” A shrug. “I can’t figure it out.”
“I do not know why you are asking me.” Fingers curled beneath her chin, earth-brown eyes scanning the drawings. “You are Munitions Sect. I am just a False-Lifer, remember?”
“You were a False-Lifer.”
Bumblebee lips curled in another small, embarrassed smile. “I confess I am still getting used to thinking like that.”
“Another set of eyes always helps. Besides, you have a way with machines. I can tell.”
“It would be easier if I could see the modifications firsthand. Instead of just plans.”
“I’m working on it,” Kin shrugged. “The Kage have other things on their minds.”
“Arashi … I mean, Yukiko?”
“It’s been eight days. She should be back by now.”
Ayane looked at him through the bars, head tilted. “Are you concerned?”
“A little.” A sigh. “But she’s with Buruu. He’ll take care of her.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, just…” Ayane sucked her bottom lip. “Just the way you speak about her, is all. I thought perhaps she was special to you.”
“Would you mind if we didn’t talk about this?”
“I am sorry.” She reached through the bars and placed a gentle hand upon his knee. “I am certain she is all right.”
Kin gave her fingers a soft squeeze, turned his eyes to the blueprints.
“Isn’t this a pretty picture…”
Ayane started at the voice, Kin turning more slowly, cold fear greasing his insides. They were standing in the doorway—three boys around his age; sword-grip hands and battle-hard stares. He felt a surge of adrenaline,
