I glanced at Rahh, watching him watching me, agitation in the beat of his wings, the hackles bristling at the base of his neck. The words I spoke did not soothe him.
“We seek to raise the monkey-armies against the sickeners. And when we have them beside us, you must speak it to the Skymeet. They not listen me. But if monkey-children fight, arashitora can do no less.”
A growl, low and deadly.
“Koh, no. Must return to Aerie. Khan wrath grow fierce if he learns what you do.”
“Leave to me, to fret on my grandfather. You must hold the Skymeet until I return.”
“Koh, this—”
“Trust me.”
“Koh—”
“Rahh. Trust me.”
Since we were cubs, we had been close. Born within a moon of one another. We had first taken to the wing on the very same day. When my kin had died, other thunder tigers had feared me, shunned me, thinking perhaps I carried a sickness that in turn could be given to them. But Rahh had helped me drag the bodies from their nests, gift them to the sky. It was I who first taught him to roll in the clouds, he who taught me where the best dartfish might be found in the mountain streams. And still he wavered. Fear of my grandfather. Fear of the Khan. I could see in his eyes; it pressed him hard. And yet.
And yet …
“I trust you, Koh.”
Listen to me now, monkey-child. Listen and hear me well. You have soft skin. Cherry-red lips and neat white teeth. Thunder tigers have beaks of black bone with strength enough to puncture steel. We cannot smile as you. We cannot laugh.
But that is not to say we cannot know joy.
“I return today. Wait for me, Rahh.”
A nod.
“Be swift, Koh.”
“Swift as the wind.”
The tips of our wings touched, the crackling of static current between our feathers, small and impossibly bright. My heart swelling. A purr in my chest.
And into the darkness, I dove.
“So tell me of yourself, Stormdancer.”
The Lady Ami knelt before young Jun, eyes narrowed in the dim light. They had built a small fire in the shelter of the lotus silo. An old metal bucket sat beside the flames, water within stained crimson. Ami dipped her silken rag again, torn from the edge of her own gown, returned to cleaning the wound at Jun’s shoulder. She seemed discomfited by her surroundings, the dirt and dust and cobwebs thick, but her breeding held her displeasure in check, like a mask held before an open, screaming mouth.
Jun sat still, sightless eyes fixed on the far wall. His world was darkness, all-encompassing, and yet his senses boiled with her. The smell of her perfume; jasmine and hyacinth blossoms, a hint of honey and fresh sweat. The softness of her hands upon his skin, the gentleness of her touch, the press of soft breath upon his face as she leaned close and mopped at his cheek. There was no pain in his world. Only her. The closeness of her. The herness of her; all smoky voice and intoxicating fragrance, leaving no room inside his head for the feeble achings of his wounds.
“What is it you wish to know, Lady?”
“Let us begin with how a blind painter comes to wield a blade with more skill than most masters.”
“In painting and swordplay, there is no end of parallels. Form and flow and surrender of control. To cease to feel and become one with the implement—blade or brush, it matters not.”
“But you had a teacher, surely.”
“My father studied under the sword-saint Kitsune Yoshinobu. He trained me also, before my sight began to fail.”
“Kitsune Yoshinobu? The Laughing Fox?” A frown in the Lady’s voice. “But he served in my father’s halls. In the court of the Kitsune Daimyo.”
“As did my father, Lady. For a time. Before my mother bid us move north for the sake of my sight. My father was a demon hunter, like his father before him. As I would have been. A sworn swordsman of your father’s house.”
“But, wait … that would mean…”
A smile on his lips. “You remember at last, Lady.”
“Gods, you were the huntmaster’s son!” the Lady breathed. “I remember you! That little light-fingered hellion who would steal my sister’s clothes while she bathed…”
“As I recall correctly, Lady, it was your idea to steal her clothes.” Jun inclined his head. “You simply roped me in to help you. And to catch all hells when things went sour.”
“Oh, gods,” Ami laughed. “I remember now! We would hunt imaginary beasts through my father’s gardens. And you would hide in the wisteria and frighten the maidservants. Gods, you were just a slip of a thing. You couldn’t have been more than eight or nine when you left?”
“Ten, Lady. As I said.”
“Maker’s breath, but you have changed Jun-san,” she sighed. “I would never have recognized you. Long years have treated you kind.”
Jun smiled, sightless gaze fixed on the flames. “No more than you, Lady.”
“And here you are, years later. Handsome as a fistful of devils. A master swordsman. A Stormdancer, no less. Blind as midnight, and still rescuing noble ladies from murderous assassins. Quite a change from the little boy I charged to do my evil bidding.”
Smoke in her voice. Wistful.
Hungry?
Jun cleared his throat. “I was not truly blind during the attack, Lady. I could see through the eyes of your cats. Even then, if not for Koh, if I were not intended to save this world, I would have fallen.”
“I am less certain. Prophecy or no, I sense the remarkable in you, young Stormdancer.”
Jun fell silent, heat rising in his cheeks.
“And yet he blushes!” Ami laughed, pausing in her ministrations. “Oh, you are a sweet one. Did the girls of your village not pay you such compliments as you grew up?”
Jun fought the flush in his cheeks to no avail, feeling again like a clumsy, provincial child. “In truth, the girls paid me little heed, Lady.”
“Then they were foolish.”
“A blind man does not a good husband make.”
“Not all trysts end in vows of forever. Some exist for their own sake.”
Jun felt her move closer, hand falling still at his cheek.
“… Surely there was someone?”
Jun stood quickly, stepping back, a nervous smile twisting upon his face. Hands outstretched before him as if to ward her away. What did she want? What was she doing? No matter what lay in their pasts, she was a married woman. The wife of a would-be Shōgun.
This was madness.
“There was no one, my Lady. If you will forgive me, I’d not speak of it further.”
“No one at all?” A smile in her voice. “The beautiful Stormdancer, yet unplucked?”
“Lady—”
He heard her rise, felt her fingers touch his, drawing away as if scalded. Blind there in the dark, he stepped back farther, snagging his heel on their pile of firewood. The Lady was swift, catching his hands, holding tight, preventing his fall. Fingers wrapped in his now, pulling him in, feeling her burning gaze searching his face.
“Surely you know you are beautiful, Jun?” she said. “Strong and fierce and proud and young. Surely you know how you must look, to someone like me?”
“I fear you see a trinket, Lady. A plaything, perhaps. One to be used and discarded.”
“Used? You think I do not see the want in you, too?”
“Your husband…” he floundered. “Your vows…”