Kaori stepped close to Kin, her face inches from his. “If it weren’t for your damnable machines, none of this would have happened!”
“Your people are the reason this happened! The shuriken-throwers were
“You are wasting time.” Ayane’s voice cut through the clamor, soft as silk, sharp as the limbs on her back. “With respect, this man has precious little left. If we do nothing, he is as good as dead. I do not see how allowing me to try can make matters worse.”
Kin ran his hand over his scalp, met Kaori’s stare with defiance.
“What say you, Kaori? Will you trust Ayane, or watch your father die?”
Kaori’s eyes drifted to her father. His struggles had grown feeble, shallow breath sucked ragged through bloody teeth. Fear carved long furrows across her brow, into the corners of her mouth. Clenched fists, clenched jaw, trembling breath. She looked at Ayane, moments ticking by like minutes, like hours, like
“Can you really save him, girl?”
The chromed arms uncurled from Ayane’s back one pair at a time, like peacock feathers, gleaming in the lantern light. She touched the blood spattered on her face, smearing it between her fingers as if savoring the sensation.
“I can save him.”
Kaori sighed.
Nodded once.
“… Then do it.”
28
MOVING PICTURES
There is power in words.
There are words that bid us laugh and make us weep. Words to begin with and words to end by. Words that seize the hearts in our chests and squeeze them tight, that set the skin on our bones to tingling. Words so beautiful they shape us, forever change us, live inside us for as long as we have breath to speak them. There are forgotten words. Killing words. Great and frightening and terrible words. There are True words.
And then there are pictures.
It was a slow process at first. Sitting opposite one another on the metal cot, Yukiko pushing images into Ilyitch’s mind, waiting for him to form his clumsy replies. His eyes were wide, mouth slack. And though he had no idea how it was all happening, the boy seemed enthralled enough by the process that he didn’t waste time seeking explanations.
Ilyitch’s images were blurry impressions; finger paintings in the rain, running and bleeding at the edges. By comparison, Yukiko’s thoughts were intricate, full of light and color. But they found an equilibrium between them, and she soon found enough meaning in the gaijin’s mental shorthand to understand his intentions. She tried to inject emotion into her thoughts, to make him feel like she was a friend, but had no idea if she was succeeding.
Her nose started bleeding almost as soon as they began, and it took a long time to explain that the blood was nothing to be concerned about, that there were more important things at stake. Her skull was close to splitting, the wall she’d once again built herself trembling with the strain, barely keeping the Kenning’s fire at bay. But something held it in place, stopped it collapsing utterly; something fierce and bright and desperate inside her. Born perhaps of fear for Buruu, lost out there in the dark, or perhaps rage at her own helplessness to save him.
She started by showing Ilyitch an image of Shima’s armies in retreat, packing up and flying home after Yoritomo’s death. She tried to show him the war was over. That she was not an enemy, or at least, not his.
In turn, the young man showed her burned crops and gutted buildings. Gaijin soldiers cut down under white flags, prison camps, wailing children dragged into sky-ships and flown away, never to be seen again.
She showed him Yoritomo, murdered in the Market Square. An empty throne.
Ilyitch replied with the image of a tall woman in a stone chair, grim and terrible. She had blond hair, the same mismatched eyes as Katya—one black, the other glittering rose quartz. She wore a suit of iron, black feathers adorned her shoulders, a huge bird’s skull with a cruel, hooked beak on her head. Twelve stars lay at her feet, and she gathered them in her lap, one by one.
He showed her legions of stern-faced gaijin, skins of great wolves and bears upon their shoulders, naked swords in their hands. A fleet of ships, iron fortresses floating on a storm sea, powered by the lightning they hauled from the sky.
And then Ilyitch showed her an hourglass, its sand almost run out.
So Yukiko turned away from the war and focused on Buruu. She formed pictures of the great hunt on the
The boy projected a stylized picture of Yukiko, katana held aloft, sunlight in her hair, thousands of samurai kneeling at her feet. The picture was tinged with uncertainty.
His eyebrows raised in question.
She smiled and shook her head. Showed the Kage village in the mountains; a peaceful place, herself and Buruu laying in dappled sunlight. A quiet life.
He frowned at her then, as if he didn’t quite understand.
Yukiko projected an image of Buruu, bleeding and twisted on the rocks. A compass needle pointing north, and the pylon she’d seen near Buruu in her dream.
Ilyitch shook his head, pushed her a childish version of the map she’d seen on the wall downstairs. Dozens of pylons, studded all over the islands around the lightning farm. Not all of them were connected directly; most of the cables threaded amongst multiple towers back to the central hub, like strands of a crooked spider’s web. If the picture she’d shown him was correct, Buruu was trapped at the very end of the lines.
Miles away.
Yukiko used one of his own images; the hourglass running out of sand. A picture of food. An arashitora skeleton on black rocks.
She reached out, leather thong tight around her wrist, fingers stretching toward his own in vain. He frowned, put his hand in hers. She squeezed tight.
“Please,” she said, tears welling. “Please.”
Ilyitch sighed, glanced at the doorway behind him. Avoiding her eyes, the boy stood, pointed at Red and spoke a stern command. Red lay flat and wagged his tail.
“W-wait.” Yukiko sat up straighter, frowning. “Where are you going?”
The gaijin spoke a handful of words, held up both hands as if urging her to be still. Then he turned and clomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Yukiko listened to Ilyitch’s footprints receding down the hall. She had no idea if she’d convinced him, no clue as to whether he was headed to get supplies to help her, or to turn her in to Danyk. But for the first time since she’d arrived here, she found herself alone with Red.
So either way, she wasn’t going to wait to find out.
The dog had gnawed through one of the tethers binding her wrists and was halfway through the second
