CHAPTER 10: THE REASON

Misaki wasn’t half as fast as she had been back in Carytha, but Mamoru was so startled that he just barely raised his bokken in time to block. The hard thwack of wooden blades against one another woke an old joy in Misaki, and suddenly she was moving on pure unfettered instinct, driving her opponent back.

Mamoru was strong, but Misaki had made a name for herself fighting theonites physically stronger than herself. If she met him muscle-to-muscle, the impact would devastate her joints. Instead, she let her blade ricochet off his and turned the energy back on him in her own strikes—a trick she had learned over years of fighting Kinoro Wangara. Wood had a spring to it that metal didn’t. The harder Mamoru hit, the more speed he gave her.

She could see on Mamoru’s face that his mind had gone numb with shock. His body moved on muscle memory, automatically matching each of her steps in perfect form, neatly countering each strike. But as quick as his reflexes were, that kind of conditioned movement had its limits. For one thing, it was predictable.

Misaki feigned a thrust. The movement was ridiculously slow compared to her feints of fifteen years ago, but Mamoru fell for it, which was all that mattered. As he brought his blade across to block, Misaki flipped her bokken over and struck him in the ribs.

Mamoru uttered an undignified yelp—more out of surprise than pain; Misaki very much doubted that she could hurt him with a wooden sword.

Stepping back, she clicked her tongue. “Now son, you shouldn’t have fallen for that.”

Mamoru’s eyes were wide, his hand on his side where she had hit him. “Kaa-chan… this… this is what you did overseas, when you were at school? You fought?” Mamoru shook his head, seemingly struggling to fit this new piece of information in with everything he knew. He brought a hand to his head, pushed it back through his bangs, and stared at his mother. “I… I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“You shouldn’t?”

“Well, Chul-hee has been telling me about the places he’s been—Yamma, Sizwe, and Kudazwe. In all those countries, female koronu are allowed to fight and serve in the military.”

Misaki nodded. “That’s how it is in most of the world.”

“Right,” Mamoru said slowly, “and you went to school outside of Kaigen, which means that you went to school with those warrior women, when you were getting to be fighting age. Aunt Setsuko is always saying you did really well there. So, I guess, it makes sense that you’d be able to fight just as well as anyone else. I just can’t believe I didn’t know… How did I not know?”

“No one does,” Misaki said.

Honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure that was true. It was common for one fighter to be able to spot another just by the way they moved, and Takeru and Takashi were two of the most perceptive fighters she had ever known. Sometimes, she found it difficult to believe that the brothers could have shared a roof with her all these years and not picked up on her combat background. Then again, it was very possible that the sexism inherent to their upbringing had created a blind spot so opaque that they weren’t capable of recognizing those abilities in a woman. In any case, it was not something she would ever discuss with her husband or brother-in-law.

“You understand why your father doesn’t know—why he can’t know,” Misaki said seriously. “He would never approve.”

Takeru would reject her love of fighting like he rejected everything from her past. She waited for a painful moment for her son to reject it too. Everything in his upbringing suggested that women shouldn’t fight, couldn’t fight. They were precious dolls to be protected—

“Why wouldn’t Tou-sama approve?” Mamoru asked. “I mean, I know it isn’t normal for women to fight, but everyone always talks about how important it is for Matsudas to keep the bloodline strong by marrying women from powerful families. If you can fight, doesn’t that just prove that Tou-sama married a powerful woman?”

“So… you’re not upset?” Misaki asked, surprised at how fragile her voice had become. In that strange moment, she realized that, however improper it was, the idea of Mamoru’s disapproval was far more upsetting to her than Takeru’s. “Knowing I can fight doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” Mamoru said. “This is good news. I’m the son of two great fighters, instead of one. This is good. It means that I must be strong. I should be proud.”

Misaki stared. It defied logic; how had a soulless block of ice like Takeru and a selfish thing like her created something so bright? Somehow, despite everything, despite this tiny village, his frigid father, his bitter mother, his brainwashing school, despite all of it, Mamoru was growing up into a good person.

“Kaa-chan?” Mamoru said uncertainly. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She shook herself. “We have work to do. You’re going to need to take a proper swing at me.”

Mamoru looked nervous. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Misaki smiled. Eighteen years ago, if a boy had said that to her, she would have bared her teeth and said, ‘Try it.’ Now, she just smiled. “They’re just wooden blades, son. I trust you.” She took up her stance and gave Mamoru an encouraging nod. “I trust you.”

After a moment, Mamoru returned her smile—and attacked. He didn’t come at her full speed. If Misaki was being honest with herself, she probably couldn’t handle him at his full speed. But if he was going to give her openings, she was going to make him sorry. Side-stepping a particularly hesitant stroke of Mamoru’s bokken, she struck him across the knuckles.

“Ow!” He stepped back, shaking out his hand. “How are you so strong?”

“I’m not. I’m bouncing off your misplaced force and redirecting it against you. I’m sneaky like that.”

“You’re amazing!”

“Maybe for an old lady.” Misaki rolled her shoulder and felt a few joints in her back pop. “You should have seen me in my prime. I would have eviscerated you.”

“You were that powerful?” Mamoru said and—bless his heart—he didn’t even look skeptical.

“No,” Misaki said honestly, “I was never as powerful as you, nor as talented. But I was decisive and willing to fight dirty.”

Of the three friends who had taken up crime-fighting on Livingston’s streets, Misaki was the only one who had never had her picture on the news or trading cards. There was a good reason for that. Firebird and Whitewing were symbols meant to draw attention. They stepped onto a street intending to be seen, heard, and feared. Nobody thought to fear their creeping Shadow until it was too late.

Misaki was an ambush predator. Her preferred tactic was to take out a criminal’s Achilles tendons before he noticed her crouched in the shadows. If he saw her before she could spring her trap, she still had the element of surprise, as few fighters ever expected a diminutive Kaigenese girl to have her unflinching ferocity. And if it came to a head-on clash, blade-to-blade—well, she still had plenty of surprises.

In the next bout, Misaki used one of her favorite maneuvers. She took a swing and missed. Like everyone, Mamoru moved to take advantage of her moment of imbalance. But on the follow-through, she flipped the bokken into a reverse grip. While Mamoru was still starting his swing, she shot forward to meet him. His bokken thumped into her calf; in a real fight, she would have suffered an ugly leg injury—but her blade was at his throat.

“I win,” she breathed as Mamoru uttered a short gasp. “Why did you let me in?”

“I fell for the feint.”

“Only for a dinma.” She had watched his eyes closely. “You had a moment to correct, and with your speed, a moment is all you should need.”

Mamoru shook his head. “It wasn’t enough. You were too fast.”

“No,” Misaki said. “Ten years ago, I might have been too fast. Right now, you’re just slow.”

When Misaki attacked again Mamoru blocked the strike to his neck—perhaps only because he was already expecting the feint. His counter was terrifyingly fast, but Misaki anticipated it and ducked. Mamoru’s bokken whistled through the empty air above her head. As always, he swung too hard, needlessly throwing himself off balance. In the split second before he recovered, Misaki spun into his ankles, taking both his feet out from under him with a sweep of her bokken.

Mamoru landed hard on his back, but it was Misaki who grunted in pain as they both straightened up. She hadn’t put that kind of strain on her knees in years and they were shrieking in protest.

“Are you okay?” Mamoru asked.

“I’m fine,” Misaki said tersely. “You, on the other hand, are an idiot. Your father and I are both slower than you. Do you know why we can both get through your defenses?”

“I…” Mamoru looked down at his arms. “I’m too tense.”

Misaki nodded. “And you swing too hard on your attacks. It creates an opening, during your follow-through in which you’re vulnerable.”

“I’m not sure what you’re—”

“I’ll show you. Come at me.”

Mamoru did as he was told and Misaki realized, with a ringing pain in her forearms, that he was starting to fight her in earnest. She stayed on the defensive until inevitably, he swung too hard.

“There!” she exclaimed and darted forward.

Mamoru, with his superhuman reflexes, managed a quick back-step. Misaki’s bokken brushed the front of his kimono.

“Oh.” Understanding lit his face as he looked down at his own chest.

“You see?” Misaki said.

“I do!” Mamoru exclaimed happily. “I see!”

Against someone with faster legs or longer reach, he would have been cut in half.

“So, how do I fix it?” he asked, looking at her with eager eyes.

“The first thing you need to do is relax your shoulders and stop gripping your sword so tight.”

“Right.” Mamoru let out a breath. “I’ll try.”

“Then you have to keep your body relaxed all the way through your cuts,” Misaki continued. “You’re trying to slice through your target, not smash it with a cudgel. You don’t need to swing so hard.”

“But if I don’t swing hard, how will I ever cut through anything?”

“With confidence,” Misaki said. “If your stroke is fast and decisive, you won’t have to throw all your muscle behind it.” If she had been fighting as hard as Mamoru, she would have completely worn herself out by now. “A cut is the quintessential final decision—your life or your opponent’s. If you don’t have confidence in your choice, you won’t commit to it. And if you don’t commit, you will fail.”

“Then…” The tension returned to Mamoru’s body, his hands clenched around the wooden sword handle. “I’m a failure.”

“What? I didn’t say that.”

“But I am. I’m a failure!” Mamoru hit himself in the head with his bokken. “I have too much doubt in me. Tou-sama said my doubt is making me weak, and he’s right. I can’t—”

“Mamoru, Mamoru!” Misaki caught the bokken before he could hit himself in the head again. “I think you’re making this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“What?” He blinked at her, a red welt forming between his eyes.

“You feel disillusioned with Kaigen. I understand that. But just think for a moment; does that really change your reason for fighting?”

“I... I guess it doesn’t?” Mamoru frowned. “It just doesn’t feel right, thinking that people have fought and died and we’ll never know the truth about it. I don’t know if I want to fight for an Empire that disrespects its koronu like that. There are warriors who aren’t remembered for what they did—”

“Well, do you fight to be remembered?” Misaki asked.

“I… I didn’t mean that—”

“I’m asking honestly,” Misaki said. “Do you fight for personal glory? So the name Matsuda Mamoru will go down in history? Or do you fight for the thrill? Or the privilege of serving your Emperor? You need to ask yourself these questions. The only way to find that conviction you’re missing is to know beyond a doubt what you’re fighting for.”

“Well… where did you find your conviction, Kaa-chan?” Mamoru asked. “Back in your school days, when you were at your best, what did you fight for?”

Finally, a question that was easy to answer. “I fought to protect the people I cared about,” Misaki said. “It was simple. My friends had grand ideals they represented. I just didn’t want them hurt. Some people called me selfish—and they were right—but I was honest with myself, and it made me unstoppable. I never had any doubt about why I was fighting, and there was nothing I couldn’t cut through.”

“Kaa-chan…” Mamoru’s voice had gotten quiet, like he was afraid to ask the question on his tongue. “Did you ever kill anyone?”

“No.”

At Daybreak, Misaki had taken a combination of combat and medic classes, then trained herself to cut with clinical precision. She would strike a criminal’s weak points, rendering them unable to fight, and then clot the blood to prevent them from bleeding out before the authorities got there. She had taken tendons, eyes, and limbs, but never a life.

“I never had to kill anyone, but…” Misaki paused to rub the skin between her thumb and forefinger where a blister was forming.

“But what?”

“I would have.” Misaki lifted her head to look her son in the face. “If it came to it, I would have killed without a second thought. If it was to save Robin, I would have killed as many people as I need to.”

“Who’s Robin?” Mamoru asked.

“He’s…” Warmth. Hope. The sun burning through the fog. “A robin is a Carythian bird. It’s a metaphor.”

“Oh.”

“I know everything seems complicated now,” Misaki said, “but I suppose the only question that really matters is… If strangers came here intending to kill you, and me, and all your little brothers, what would you do?”

“I would kill them,” Mamoru said resolutely. “I wouldn’t have to think about it. I would kill them all.”

“There.” Misaki pointed to his chest. “That’s all you need.”

“Really?” Mamoru thought for a moment. “It’s that simple?”

“It was for me. Then again… you may not want to take your old lady as an example.” After all, Mamoru wasn’t much like her. Now that Misaki thought about it, he was more like the people she would have killed and died for. “You may well find that you have a higher ideal that you want to fight for. You’re a nobler person than I am.”

Mamoru looked surprised. “You’re noble, Kaa-chan.”

“That is the dumbest thing you’ve said all day. Square up.”

Now that Mamoru had absorbed the fact that his mother could indeed fight, his koro’s brain had started to pick apart the way she fought. As he caught on to her tricks, she had to pull out more and more creative ways to counter him. It was a dance she had once danced with the most important people in her life—her teachers, her closest friends, her most dangerous enemies. But her body had changed since then. Her blade didn’t cut as fast as her thoughts, and her joints screamed more insistently with each bout until finally, she couldn’t bear it any longer.

Realizing that her muscles would give in the next few dinmanu, she parried Mamoru’s overhand strike and went for one of her spinning attacks—just to see if she could still do it. She fumbled the stepping and came up short, but she could see on Mamoru’s face that he was impressed.

“I’ve never seen anyone fight in that style,” he said, “not even Uncle Kazu. Those aren’t Tsusano techniques.”

“No, they’re not.” Misaki put her hands on her knees and tried to conceal how painfully winded she was.

Her first teacher had been her father, who had trained her alongside her brothers for fun, not realizing he was planting the seeds of what would become a deeply rooted love for fighting in his daughter. But he was not her greatest influence. That distinction went to Master Wangara, the wild swordsman of Yamma.

“Where did those techniques come from?” Mamoru asked.

Misaki shook her head and managed to gasp between heaving breaths, “We don’t talk about it.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” She nodded, kneading her right forearm, “just at the end of my strength. Sorry, son. I think that’s all I have in me. The muscles aren’t there anymore.”

“Have you not trained in all these years?”

“Of course not,” Misaki said. “Housewives don’t fight.”

“I’m sorry,” Mamoru said. “I didn’t realize—That must have been hard for you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Misaki laughed. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years. You’re going to have to keep practicing on your own until your father gets home. If anyone asks, I was never here.”

“You really love fighting,” Mamoru said. It wasn’t a question. “How could you give it up?”

“I…” Misaki paused, still massaging her arm, trying to come up with an answer that would make sense to her son. “Something I learned is that the act of fighting in and of itself isn’t important. What was really important to me was protecting the people I cared about. I’ve never needed a sword to protect you—to raise you the way your father wanted. Caring for my family meant putting away the fighter, so I did.”

Mamoru was quiet for a moment and Misaki looked up to find him staring at her with a confused expression on his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Why do you call yourself selfish?”

Before Misaki could think of a way to answer, a whimper echoed down the hall and Mamoru turned to the sound. “Izumo.”

“That’s for me to worry about. Eyes forward, now.” Misaki put the tip of her bokken to his jaw, turning his face forward. “You just worry about what’s ahead of you.”

……..

Izumo’s crying had woken Nagasa, but both boys had slept far longer than Misaki expected.

“Thank you,” she murmured, ruffling Nagasa’s hair before reaching into the cradle to pick up Izumo. Thank you for giving me that time with Mamoru, was what she meant, but the two little boys were far too young to understand that kind of sentiment.

“You’re welcome, Kaa-chan,” Nagasa responded politely as Izumo kept crying.

After feeding Izumo, Misaki tied the infant to her back, helped Nagasa into his coat, and swung by the elementary school to pick Hiroshi up from training. Having Nagasa along slowed her progress through the snow, but today, she was thankful for the little boy struggling along beside her. It gave her a periodic excuse to rest her own worn-out legs.

“Uh-oh!” Nagasa exclaimed as he fell down in the deep snow for a third time. “Too slippery!” Misaki took his arm and lifted him to his feet. “Snow on me,” he observed and shook the snow from his sleeves, his jiya sending it wide in twinkling clouds.

The toddler had long since developed the ability to move water particles but he lacked the control to move them where he wanted them to go. He still needed his mother to clear the path before him and to hold his hand where it was too icy. Mamoru and Hiroshi had both been more powerful and skilled than Nagasa at three, but what Matsuda Takeru’s third son lacked in jiya, he made up for in chatter.

“I fell down, Kaa-chan,” he explained as Misaki picked him up and brushed the snow from the front of his coat. “Three times.” He held up three fingers. “I fell down three times. If it’s again, then it will be four times. Now we’re walking more. I can see our house.”

Misaki had learned that he didn’t really need her to respond; he kept going all on his own. She had no idea where Nagasa had inherited his overgrown vocabulary and love of talking, but it could be convenient to have a child capable of entertaining himself with his own running monologue.

“Hey, there are birds up there. Those birds can fly, way up there. Maybe Izumo can see the birds. There’s Ryota’s house!” he said, happily pointing at the Yukino compound. “See? Izu-kun, see Ryota’s house? Can we go see Ryota?”

“We already saw Ryota-kun today,” Misaki pointed out. “You played with him for a long time, while Hyori was visiting.”

“I like playing with Ryota,” Nagasa said. “Ryota has toy cars at his house.”

“I know, but right now we have to pick Hiroshi up from training.”

“Okay,” Nagasa said and then promptly launched into another ramble about where all the birds might be going.

When they reached the elementary school, Ameno Samusa was waiting at the door to see his youngest student off.

“How did he do?” Misaki asked.

“He’s getting stronger,” Ameno said. “It’ll be quite a while before he’s ready to be taking on serious opponents, but it’s very unusual for someone his age to have such good control. I’ve been teaching here for two decades now and I don’t think I’ve ever seen his equal.”

“What about Mamoru?” Misaki asked, just out of curiosity.

“Mamoru was exceptional,” Ameno said. “This one may be better.” He shrugged. “Only time will tell.”

“Thank you, Ameno Sensei,” Misaki said, bowing. “Hiro-kun, get your shoes on. Time to go.”

“What does ‘only time will tell’ mean?” Hiroshi asked as they made their way back to the Matsuda compound.

“I think Ameno Sensei means, we’ll have to wait until you’re big enough to fight your brother.”

“He thinks I could beat him?” Hiroshi seemed vaguely fascinated by the idea.

“In ten years, maybe,” Misaki said with a laugh.

“Mamoru-nii-san is strong,” Hiroshi said. “He is bigger than I am.”

“He is,” Misaki said.

“But I could grow. I could beat him.”

“Maybe.”

“Like Tou-sama beat Uncle Takashi?”

“Hiro-kun!” Misaki stopped so quickly that Nagasa ran into her legs. “Who told you about that?”

“The teachers talk about it sometimes,” Hiroshi said.

“Oh—well—just, try not to mention it in front of your uncle, alright?”

“Yes, Kaa-chan.”

The results of the Matsuda brothers’ last duel were common knowledge throughout the village, though most were polite enough not to discuss it. The fight had been years ago when Takeru had wanted to leave Kumono Academy to work in the mayor’s office and Takashi had wanted him to stay. Their father, by that time very old and uninterested in their professional careers, had crossly demanded that they settle the matter in single combat instead of bothering him with it.

Only a few people had witnessed the fight itself—Yukino Dai, who served as the referee—and a few other men, but people talked. One Whispering Blade was not necessarily equal to another. Takashi was a creative, devastatingly powerful swordsman with an explosive fighting style and a thousand tricks up his sleeve. But when it came down to jiya against jiya, his ice was not a match Takeru’s focus.

“But you know, Takashi-nii-sama has had his share of victories against your father in the past,” Misaki pointed out. That was the fate of all male Matsuda siblings, wasn’t it? To beat each other into greatness like hammers on steel? “They’ve always been close in combat ability, but you should keep in mind that they are close in age. It will be ten years before you’re big enough to challenge your older brother and even then, he will be much more experienced than you.”

When Misaki looked down at Hiroshi, she was unnerved to find that her ever-serious second son had something like a smile on his face.

“I’m going to grow as fast as I can,” he said.