“Been in the wars, boy?”
“Just a skirmish.” Kin rubbed his input jack again.
“Serious enough to pop your lining.” The man pointed to Kin’s arm.
Kin realized the scuffle with Isao and his fellows had opened up the wound he’d earned during the ironclad attack. Blood was seeping through the fabric at his shoulder, staining the gray a deep, somber red.
“You should head to the infirmary,” Ryusaki said. “Get it looked at.”
“Old Mari has called me a fool twice already this morning.” Kin gestured to the woman. “That’s enough of her ministrations for one day, I think.”
Ryusaki aimed a toothless grin at Mari. “Been picking on our little Guildsman, mother?”
“Hmph.” The old woman scowled Kin up and down. “Boy is foolish enough to take on three young bucks at once, he should thank Kitsune some burst stitching was the worst of it.”
“Three?” Ryusaki raised an eyebrow. “Who did you tangle with, boy?”
“It is no matter, Ryusaki-sama.” A bow. “My thanks for your concern.”
The captain stared for half a moment, shrugged, and turned his eyes on the ’thrower.
“We took the entire line for a test run early this morning. ’Throwers four through six did surprisingly well. Number one popped a seal and lost power; two, three and seven are still suffering pressure failure. But we’re getting there. Kaori was dark as thunder when Daichi approved this madness of yours, but there might be reason to it after all.”
“I think I can fix the pressure issues.” Kin hoisted his schematics. “I almost have it right in my head.”
“A good thing. That earthquake has the oni riled up worse than a Docktown whorehouse on soldier’s payday, no mistake.”
Mari slapped his arm. “Watch that toothless filthpit of yours before I fetch the soap…”
A soft chuckle whistling through missing teeth. “Forgiveness.”
The captain turned his gaze to the northwest, grin slowly fading, eyes narrowed in the dim light. Kin stood beside him, looking out into the growing gloom. The wind was picking up, howling through the trees, a storm gathering strength among the surrounding peaks. Thunder cracked somewhere to the north, dead leaves falling around the captain like rain.
“I know you weren’t there for the battle last summer, boy,” Ryusaki said, voice somber. “I know you’ve never seen one of these things up close. And you strike me as the sort who doesn’t put stock in what he hasn’t seen with his own eyes. But these oni, they’re spat direct from the Yomi underworld, make no mistake, and our scouts have seen packs of the bastards moving near Black Temple over the last two days. I’m thinking that earthquake tore one of the cracks in the mountain wider, let a few more of the little ones squeeze through. Straight from the Endsinger’s belly, full of all her hatred for the world of men.”
“… We’d best get to work, then,” Kin said.
Ryusaki nodded. “I’m heading out tomorrow, by the by. I’ll be gone two weeks or thereabouts, so you’ll be reporting direct to Kaori.”
Kin groaned inwardly at the thought. “Where do you go, Ryusaki-sama?”
The captain hid his distrust well, but Kin could still feel it prickling on his skin.
“… South,” Ryusaki said.
Kin pursed his lips, nodded slow. No more than he should have expected, truth be told. Turning to the ’thrower, he pried off the firing mechanism housing. Placing it on the ground with a wince, he rubbed at his bloodstained shoulder. The old woman watched him, something a few feet shy of guilt in her eyes.
“Listen … if you wish to come back with me, get that wound restitched…”
“I am fine,” Kin said. “Truly.”
Mari clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You remind me of my husband, Guildsman. He was stubborn as a mule too. Right up to the day he got killed.”
“I appreciate the concern, Mari-san.” Kin turned his eyes to the machine, tried to keep the anger from his voice. “But I can take care of myself.”
“Have it your way,” Mari sighed. “I’ll be in the infirmary when the dust settles. But you’re a fool if you think you can deal with all your troubles alone.”
The boy plucked a torque wrench from his belt, looked over the ’thrower emplacement with a sigh.
“A man can dream…”
Hundreds of eyes, red as sunset, staring up at Kin with as much adoration as glass could muster. A sea of brass faces, stretching into dark corners, smooth and featureless. Infinite repetitions of the same iteration; no individuality or personality, no expression or humanity in each razor-sharp contour. His own face, but not his at all. Over and over again.
Walls of stone, yellow and dripping, the songs of engine and piston and gears blurring into a monotone hum, a broken-clock rhythm that seeded at the base of his skull and sent out roots to claw the backs of his eyes. And he stood above them on the gantry, stared down at their upturned faces, felt the comforting weight of metal on his bones and knew that he was home.
They were calling his name.
He held his arms wide, fingertips spread, the lights of their eyes glinting on the edges of his skin. The gunmetal-gray filigree embossed upon his fingertips, the cuffs of his gauntlets, the edges of his spaulders. A new skin for his flesh; the skin of rank, of privilege and authority. Everything they had promised, everything he had feared had come to pass. It was True.
This was Truth.
They called his name, the assembled Shatei, holding their hands aloft. And even as he drew breath to speak, the words rang in his head like a funeral song, and he felt whatever was left of his soul slipping up and away into the dark.
He knew he was asleep; knew this was only the dream of a thirteen-year-old boy, huddled in the Chamber of Smoke as the poison crept into his lungs. The same vision that had plagued him every single night since he Awakened. But he could still taste the lotus on his tongue, feel the weight of his skin upon his flesh and the gut-wrenching fear as his What Will Be was laid bare before him.
The multitude below fell silent. He looked down at the scarlet pinpricks in the dark, swaying and flickering like fireflies on a winter breeze. His voice was a fierce cry, hollow and metallic behind the brass covering his lips.
“Do not call me Kin. That is not my name.”
In the dream, he felt his lips curl into a smile.
“Call me First Bloom.”
19
CATCHING THE SKY
The pain in her lungs was a living thing; a fire pressing against her ribs as black flowers bloomed before her eyes. The shock of impact, the water’s chill clawing at her marrow, rocks as sharp as demon’s teeth tearing her flesh—all of it secondary to the burning in her chest, the screaming in her head, the desperation forcing her mouth open to the black and the salt and the death that lay inside a single lungful.
Breathe.
She swam up. Or down. One as good as the other, the swell tumbling her like throwing sticks between forests of cruel stone, slick with grasping weed. Dull roaring in her ears, pressing her down, the blinding desire for oxygen becoming more than just a need; a reflex impulse over which she finally lost all control.
BREATHE.
She opened her lungs to the ocean, and the ocean dived inside.
Yukiko woke with a start, sobbing, gasping as sweet, blessed air filled her lungs. Her clothing was drenched, hair plastered to her face in thick, black drifts. She tried to claw it from her eyes, felt restraints around her wrists; leather thongs binding her to the flanks of an iron bed frame, clean sheets entwined about her ankles. She thrashed for a moment, vertigo swelling, staring around the dank, gray room without any idea where she was.