CHAPTER 21: THE STORMLORD

Setsuko woke later that day, complaining of a splitting headache with her usual good humor. When Misaki softly told her what had happened to her husband, she got very quiet. It was plain that she had been expecting the news. If Takashi had survived the battle, he would have been the one at his wife’s side when she woke.

“How did he go?” She asked finally. “Was it possible to tell?”

“Fighting,” Misaki said. That much had been easy to deduce. In fact, it was a bit of an understatement. Decimating or slaughtering might have been a more apt description of the scene Takashi had left on the southern pass. “After sending Takeru up to the village to protect us, he was one of the last of our men standing.” He and Mamoru.

“His body?” Setsuko asked, strangely calm.

“Well... there isn’t really a body,” Misaki explained. The volunteers had formed slabs of ice inside the Matsuda compound walls, where they placed the collected bodies. But there hadn’t been much of Matsuda Takashi to collect. His bones had been placed in a woven basket.

“The volunteers retrieved his swords, but it seems like his death jiya was so strong, it turned all the blood in his body to spikes of ice. It was spectacular,” Misaki added on a whim. Maybe it wasn’t a very ladylike way to describe something so violent, but she thought Setsuko would want to know.

“Spectacular, huh?” the satisfied look on Setsuko’s face told Misaki she had thought right.

“And terrifying.”

“Well,” Setsuko managed a laugh. “Coming from you, I take that as high praise!”

The corner of Misaki’s mouth twitched, but she couldn’t quite return Setsuko’s smile. Part of her had hoped that the blow to Setsuko’s head had knocked out the memory of what she had witnessed during the attack on the Matsuda compound, the carnage Misaki had created, but if Setsuko was uncomfortable sharing her makeshift rubble bench with a monster, she didn’t show it as she leaned forward.

“Tell me more,” she said.

More? She wanted to know more about her husband’s gruesome death?

“I’ve never seen death jiya like it,” Misaki said and did her best to describe the bloody formation of spikes. “I’ve never known a fighter who was absolutely indomitable right to the last. From the look of the battlefield, he managed to take several fonyakalu with him at the moment of death, and that’s to say nothing of the hundred or so he killed before that.”

Setsuko smiled a strange smile that teetered on a blade edge between savagery and adoration. “That’s my husband,” she said, her eyes full of tears.

And that’s my Setsuko, Misaki thought as she clutched her sister-in-law’s hands, vibrant, unbroken, even in the face of the unthinkable.

“You hear that, Ayumi-chan?” Setsuko beamed through her tears as her baby woke and started fussing in her arms. “Your father’s a hero and a god!”

Misaki wished she had Setsuko’s strength. She had thought for so many years that what she had was strength—faking a smile through pain and anger—but this honest ability to smile from the heart was something beyond anything she had ever had. It was why she had followed Robin like a moth to a flame. It was why Setsuko was and always would be the most beautiful woman in the world.

“Come, little one.” Setsuko stood, nuzzling Ayumi to giggles. “Let’s go pay our respects.”

“I told you, there’s no body,” Misaki said.

“Yes.” The smile faded from Setsuko’s face as she looked at Misaki. “But I have to say goodbye to my brave nephew, don’t I?”

Misaki looked up at her sister-in-law in surprise. She had only just woken up. “H-how did you...?”

Setsuko put a hand to Misaki’s face, ran a gentle thumb beneath one of her eyes. “You’re not much of a crybaby, little sister,” she said softly. “I’ve never seen your eyes so red.”

Something in Misaki’s expression must have broken through Setsuko’s calm because for a moment, she looked sadder than Misaki had ever seen her. The hand on Misaki’s cheek tugged her in. She took the invitation and leaned her head into Setsuko’s chest.

No words. Just silent support.

Misaki closed her eyes, reminded of the way her mother used to hold her during a storm, assuring her children that the wind and thunder could never hurt them. It was a comfort Misaki knew she would never feel again, one she could never offer her own children.

“I think I should apologize to you,” Setsuko said finally, “since my husband isn’t here to do it himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Takeru came back to protect us on his orders... He could have sent Mamoru, and...” and Mamoru would still be alive. It was something Misaki had been trying not to think about. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Misaki said. It wasn’t even Takashi’s, really. He must have realized that staying to hold the line meant certain death, that whoever he sent back up the mountain would have to head up the Matsuda house in his absence. Takashi himself could have exchanged places with Takeru, but Mamoru was too young. A fourteen-year-old could not lead the family, let alone the whole village, in a time of crisis.

She ignored the little voice in her head that demanded to know why Mamoru couldn’t have gone up the mountain with his father. Why hadn’t Takeru insisted on it? How could he have left his own son to die without argument? How?

“It was necessary,” Misaki insisted as if it would do anything to lessen the ache. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“Mmm.” Setsuko rubbed Misaki’s back. “But someone should.”

A steady stream of corpses on stretchers came up the mountain all day. It was horrible to hear the cries of grief and denial from family members that greeted each new body, but Misaki found that it was more horrible still to watch a body appear over the ridge to silence. Some of these people had died along with everyone who might remember them. They lay alone on their ice slabs, with no one to mourn them.

As Setsuko went to speak to the fishermen who had collected her husband’s bones, Misaki stood before Mamoru’s body, one hand on Nagasa’s head, one on Hiroshi’s shoulder, and tried to explain to her sons. Nagasa didn’t understand. How could he at his age? He kept shaking Mamoru, asking why he wouldn’t wake up.

While Nagasa kept clutching at Mamoru’s sleeve, Hiroshi’s hand trailed down slowly and rested on the lacquer sheath of his brother’s sword.

“Mamoru-nii-san was firstborn...” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Misaki replied.

“And... Uncle Takashi was firstborn.”

“He was,” Misaki said, looking at Hiroshi. She watched his eyes narrow as his five-year-old mind carefully worked its way up the hierarchy he had been born into.

“So, I am...”

Hiroshi did not yet know the words ‘heir’ or ‘inheritor,’ but it was clear from the questioning way he looked up at Misaki that he had some notion of the concept.

In the space of a single day, he had gone from being the second son of a second son to the Matsuda heir. Even if he couldn’t fully understand the shift, he could feel it. His little shoulders had stiffened as if a physical weight had dropped onto them. His fists clenched and Misaki realized that her secondborn, who had been as steady as solid ice from the day he was born, was shaking. When she looked into his eyes, she saw something she had never seen there. Not even as he faced down a Ranganese soldier four times his size. Fear.

“I’m not big enough yet,” he said. “I’m not strong enough.”

“No.” Misaki tried to smile at Hiroshi as she stroked his hair and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not big enough, but you’re plenty strong. If nothing else, Hiro-kun, you are strong.”

Hiroshi didn’t seem to hear her. “He can’t go yet.” He stared through her, looking almost fevered. “He can’t.”

“He’s already gone, Hiro-kun. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But he can’t.” Hiroshi’s face twisted in anger, his eyes still unfocused. “I didn’t catch up to him yet.”

As Nagasa sobbed and Hiroshi shook quietly under her hands, it occurred to Misaki what a big piece of their world Mamoru had been. Not just a firstborn son, but a decade older than his younger brothers, he must have loomed so large to them. He had been a landmark and a bulwark between them and the far-off adult world. For Nagasa, he had been a friend and protector. For Hiroshi, maybe he hadn’t been a friend, but something more important; he had been something to chase after.

“I didn’t catch up to him yet.”

“Listen, Hiro-kun, that’s alright. You don’t have to stop chasing him. He won’t be here with us anymore, but I’m sure his spirit would be happy to know you kept following his example. You can still grow up strong, like him, in time.”

“But—I’m not firstborn,” Hiroshi protested, his voice strained with anxiety. “I’m not big enough.”

Misaki understood at that moment that Hiroshi was struggling to voice a terror beyond his vocabulary. The firstborn Matsudas—Takashi and Mamoru—had been ‘big’ to Hiroshi in more than their age and physical size. He was talking about the size of their skill, their strength, their responsibility. They had both been massively powerful figures in Hiroshi’s world, responsible for dealing with the nondescript adult dangers the rest of the family could not. Now, both of them had died facing those dangers, leaving Hiroshi standing where they once had. Still so small.

“I’m not ready.”

“I know, Hiro-kun. None of us are. But we’re going to do our best together, alright?”

Drawn tighter than a Katakouri bowstring, Hiroshi nodded.

“Right now, we have to give Mamoru our prayers and help him on his way. The only thing we can do now is let him go without worrying too much about us. If you have anything you would like to say to your brother, any last things you feel he should know, you should offer them now.”

Hiroshi stood, considering his brother’s body for a long moment. Then he stepped back and knelt down with his forehead to the ground.

Misaki could only guess what passed between Hiroshi and his brother’s spirit. It was impossible to tell if he berated Mamoru for leaving him, if he asked for strength, if he asked forgiveness for taking his place, if he made promises to grow strong and protect the family, but whatever he prayed, he must have felt it deeply, because his jiya rose with palpable force, turning the snow around him to ice. The whole time, Nagasa didn’t stop crying.

“What are we going to do about the funerals?” Setsuko asked as she and Misaki sat on the half-destroyed front deck of the compound with their children.

“I don’t know.” Misaki was rubbing slow circles over Nagasa’s back. For a long time, the boy had sobbed uncontrollably, but she had let him hold Izumo, which seemed to have calmed him down for the moment. “I don’t actually know how Takayubi deals with mass death like this.”

“You nobles probably have a lot of extra fancy ceremonies, right?”

“We do.” The day after Matsuda Susumu passed away, it had seemed as if every monk in Takayubi showed up to dress the body, sing Donkili, fuss over the ornamentation of the coffin, and prepare the cremation site. Misaki herself had spent waatinu making sure her hair, obi, and bone white kimono were all arranged just so, to avoid offending the spirit of her embittered father in law. After each of her miscarriages, the finawu had led her through so much prayer, and fasting, and purifying that she had thought it might never end.

“We should have covered the house shrine to protect it from evil spirits,” Misaki said, recalling the one ritual that was always observed after a tragedy.

“Oh.” Setsuko’s shoulders slumped. The Matsuda shrine was in the part of the house that had collapsed completely.

“We could salt the area?” Setsuko suggested.

“Right.” Misaki sometimes forgot that the lower classes considered salt a catch-all antidote to the supernaturally sinister. On a peasant’s budget, that was far more doable than sending for an exorcist monk every time a ghost came calling.

“Is my low breeding showing?” Setsuko asked at the look on Misaki’s face.

“No, it’s not a bad idea,” Misaki said wearily, “but the salt is in the kitchen.”

The kitchen, while it had not been hit by any bombs, had been utterly destroyed in Misaki’s fight with the two elite fonyakalu. The broken faucet had continued spewing water well into the night, flooding the floor and the surrounding rooms. When Takeru and the volunteers cleaned the house, someone had frozen the spigot shut and erected an ice wall to prevent the water from spreading throughout to the rest of the compound, but the kitchen itself was unsalvageable.

“We also have no cemetery,” Misaki said. “The fishermen who were helping search for bodies said it was destroyed.” The tornado had advanced well past the western village before the men of Takayubi managed to stop it, leveling the cemetery, shrines, and trees further up the slope.

“So, we don’t have any place for the ashes of the dead?” Setsuko asked.

Misaki shook her head. There had been graves ready for Takashi and Takeru beside their father’s since the brothers reached their thirties, but the wind had scattered headstones, ashes, and bones of ten generations of Matsudas across the mountain.

“I heard the Amenos have sent for monks to help with all the ceremonies,” Setsuko said.

“That’s good,” Misaki tried to sound reassuring. “They’ll know what to do.” But how much good could any fina really do in this situation? So many dead children. So many dead without warning. Was there any ceremony that could purge the miasma of so much pain?

“Where is Takeru-sama?” Setsuko asked.

“I don’t know.” Misaki shrugged. “Still giving the volunteers directions, maybe. I don’t know.” Frankly, she didn’t care. He had left Mamoru to die. And for what? So he could arrive in the village just in time to try to stop Misaki from going to save Hyori?

“Has he prayed for Mamoru?”

“I don’t know.” Misaki shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course, it matters...” Setsuko trailed off, staring at Misaki in confusion. “You’re upset with him,” she said after a moment.

“And you’re not?” Misaki said. “He left your husband to die.”

“He also saved me.”

“Your husband saved you,” Misaki snapped. “Takeru was just following orders.”

“Well, you can’t exactly blame him for leaving the frontline then, can you?” Setsuko said. “If he was just following orders?”

Misaki didn’t answer. She did, however, tug Setsuko’s arm when she noticed Yukino Dai’s body passing on one of the stretchers. The swordmaster’s face was covered with a cloth, which would have made him indistinguishable from the other Yukino men who had died holding the line, but Misaki recognized his katana resting in the stretcher at his side. Of all the beautiful swords in Takayubi, Takenagi was the one Misaki had envied. Lighter than other Kotetsu swords and so breathtakingly fast in Dai’s hands. She knew with a sad certainty that no swordsman would be worthy of the weapon again.

“We should go,” Setsuko said softly.

Misaki nodded. Leaving their children under the watchful eyes of the Kotetsus and some fisherwomen, the sisters-in-law went to be with Hyori.

They found her where she had collapsed that morning, half draped over the fallen stone Yukino insignia. Her head was resting in the crook of her arm as if she were sleeping, but Misaki knew before crouching down to Hyori’s eye level that she wasn’t asleep. There was a brittle tension in her shoulders that could only come from waking pain.

“Hyori-chan?” Misaki rested a hand on her friend’s back.

She was so stiff and still that for a horrible moment, she reminded Misaki of the corpses in the snow, rigid with a combination of ice and rigor mortis. She didn’t move as the men lowered Dai onto the ice slab next to the bundled remains of his son.

“Hyori-chan?” Misaki said again.

Dazed eyes blinked and she said miserably, “What?”

“They’ve found your husband’s body.”

Hyori turned away from Misaki with a strained sound of denial, like the bleating of a lamb in the wolf’s jaws. “No.” She buried her face in her arms. “No.”

“You should at least give him your prayers, Hyori-chan,” Setsuko said softly, “so he can move on in peace. He loved you so much.”

Hyori only curled more tightly against the stone, her knees twitching up to her chest. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean, Hyori-chan?”

“I’m not worthy,” Hyori said in a voice smothered with pain and muffled in her sleeves. “I shouldn’t touch him. I shouldn’t even look at him.”

“Hyori-chan, what are you talking about?”

“I failed him.”

“What?” Setsuko looked confused. “Are you talking about Ryota-kun? Hyori-chan, that wasn’t your fault—”

Hyori flinched away from the hand Setsuko tried to lay on her shoulder and huddled into herself, shaking her head. Misaki hadn’t told Setsuko about what that last Ranganese soldier had done to their friend—and she never would. That wasn’t the sort of a thing that a Kaigenese lady would ever put into words. The shame was too deep.

Misaki waited until Setsuko had stepped away to pay her respects to Dai before kneeling in the snow to put an arm around Hyori’s shoulders. She tried to make her voice low and soft, as her mother always had, trying to capture that magical power to comfort.

“Hyori,” she murmured, putting her forehead to her friend’s hair. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Hyori didn’t pull away. She curled up tighter with a tiny, miserable noise, but Misaki refused to let her friend shrink away into the darkness. Not because of one man’s disgraceful behavior.

“He was stronger than you. There was nothing you could have done, for your son or yourself. Your husband, of all people, would understand that. Any warrior who knows victory and defeat would understand.”

Hyori sniffed and though Misaki couldn’t see the tears, she could feel salty water seeping from Hyori’s eyes into her sleeve.

“Dai-san treasured you. He would never have stopped loving you for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“Y-you think...” Hyori stammered, and through the grief, there was the faintest flicker of something that made Misaki melt with relief. Hope. “You think he could... forgive me?”

“No, Hyori-chan,” Misaki lifted a hand to stroke her friend’s head. “He doesn’t have to. There is nothing to forgive.”

“But I’m not—I’m not pure anymore.”

“Someone took that from you,” Misaki said fiercely, “dishonorably. Just like someone took his life from him.”

“You think he was killed dishonorably?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hyori-chan. Who could kill Lightning Dai in a fair fight?” Misaki didn’t mention that Dai’s head appeared to have been shattered by an attack from behind. That was the sort of detail a delicate thing like Hyori wouldn’t appreciate—and apparently, it wasn’t necessary, because the most fragile of smiles had crossed Hyori’s face. It was the most beautiful thing Misaki had ever seen and she squeezed her friend, desperate to hold onto it.

“I suppose you’re right...” Hyori said hesitantly.

“The people who did this—who fought without honor and destroyed without conscience—they are the ones who will burn in Hell’s fire for this. Not your husband. Not you.”

“A-are you sure?”

“Positive,” Misaki said. “If there is anyone here now who need’s Dai-san’s forgiveness, it’s me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I should have gotten there sooner. I knew you could be in danger; I should have gone to check on you as soon as I knew my children were safe. Nami forgive me, I knew the Ranganese attack might be coming. I... I had so many chances to do something, but I failed you. I failed everyone. So, let me ask Dai-san for forgiveness, and you...” Misaki drew back to hold Hyori’s shoulders in a bracing grip, trying to will strength into her. “You just send him all your love. Alright?”

Hyori was shaky, tears still trembling in her eyes, but she nodded. “Alright.”

After Hyori finished praying, Misaki and Setsuko sat with her. Neither had any words to ease her agony. But in the end, the words they chose didn’t seem to matter. Hyori just knelt and stared numbly at the body, seemingly unable to see or hear what was around her. They stayed anyway and held her hands as if their presence could make her any less alone.

Misaki was still murmuring soft reassurances when the flutter of familiar colors caught her eye.

“Oh.” She stood, wondering if she had imagined the symbol, but it was real. The white-crested wave of the Tsusano family, rising among the Ameno banners.

Setsuko nodded to Misaki as if to say, I’ll look after her.

Misaki squeezed her arm in a silent ‘Thank you.’ “Hyori-chan, excuse me a moment.” She brushed a hand over Hyori’s back before hurrying as quickly as was ladylike to meet the Tsusano party.

Her eyes fell immediately on her father’s blue and silver haori, but when the Tsusano leader turned to face her, it was not her father.

“Kazu-kun!” Her voice broke.

She had never been so happy to see her dumb baby brother, and she found herself lurching toward him. Maybe the emptiness of letting Mamoru go was too fresh in her heart, maybe Kazu’s face was just a reminder of a time before any of this. Before she found the self-control to stop herself, she had thrown her arms around him.

The Lord of the Stormfort grunted in surprise, opened his mouth as if to say something but ended up coughing as Misaki crushed him tighter in her arms. He smelled like salt and sea wind, like a home that no longer existed. She had to let Mamoru go, but at least Kazu was here. She could hold him like this, like she had when they were little children and he had run into her room afraid of the thunder.

“Nee-san!” Kazu could not have sounded more shocked if she’d punched him in the face.

When they were young, she had always been the one scolding him for breaches of decorum. If he had ever clung to her this way in public, she would have smacked him away and hissed that that was no way for a young lord to behave.

“Nee-san... are you alright?” he asked as Misaki drew back. “Are you...?” Insane? The implication was there. “What happened?”

Misaki shook her head, unable to voice it. Kazu’s men were staring, their expressions ranging from shock to worry. Through her haze of emotion, she realized that she recognized some of them. They were members of the Tsusanos’ vassal families, who had served her father and trained in his dojo as children.

“Umiiro-san, Hakuyu-san.” She detached herself from Kazu to bow properly. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Matsuda-dono.” They bowed deeply.

“H-how are things in Ishihama?” Misaki asked, turning from the vassal men back to her brother. “How is our family?”

“Our parents are comfortably set up with our cousins and everyone else has a place to stay in the short term at least.”

“Good,” Misaki nodded. “Good, I’m so glad.”

Unlike Takayubi, which was surrounded by poor fishing and farming villages, Ishihama had neighboring towns capable of accommodating a small influx of refugees.

“But Ishihama was only attacked a short while ago. How—”

“I know what you’re going to say, Nee-san,” Kazu said with a guilty smile. “I probably shouldn’t have left home so soon after the—after the disaster, but I’ve left Kaito and Raiki to look after the family.”

“Right.” Misaki had forgotten that even her youngest brothers were well into their twenties now, perfectly capable of looking after the family in Kazu’s absence. “Still...” The timing didn’t add up. “How did you get here so fast?” Ishihama wasn’t that close to Takayubi and the roads weren’t good. “How did you—”

“We started traveling two days ago,” Kazu said, “by sea.”

“By sea!” Misaki exclaimed in surprise.

A group of powerful jijakalu could propel themselves across a body of water on hydrodynamic ice formations faster than any car or train. But despite its speed, free ocean travel was a dangerous method of transportation, usually reserved for emergencies. Even the most powerful jijakalu were foolish to put themselves at the mercy of the ocean. Kazu and his men must have crossed hundreds of clicks of open sea, far from the coast, to get here so fast. It certainly explained why they all looked so exhausted.

“You must have left Ishihama before the Ranganese even got here,” Misaki said in confusion.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Kazu said. “I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances, but it’s good to see your face, Nee-san.”

Misaki nodded and took a moment to look her brother up and down. At thirty-two, this Kazu was far removed from the giggly, hyperactive boy who had cried at the sound of thunder. To Misaki’s surprise, he looked... well... lordly, with his benevolent gaze and his shoulders filling out the haori that had once belonged to their father. The Tsusanos’ massive ancestral sword, Anryuu—the Riptide—was tied to his back, marking him not only as the head of his house but Ishihama’s foremost warrior.

His skin was littered with cuts and bruises that looked like they had come from falling rubble. A few of the deeper wounds on his face were obviously going to scar, despite the well-knit scabs he had formed over them. Amused surprise flickered through Misaki as she realized that Kazu wasn’t going to look bad with scars. He was going to look hardened, intimidating. Eyes trailing down, she tilted her head at a deeper wound across his right collarbone that looked suspiciously like the work of a blade.

“Ah...” Kazu quickly pulled the neck of his kimono up to cover the injury. “You know, I forget how cold it is up here.”

Misaki gave him a knowing look. None of her younger brothers had ever shared her proclivity for deception, but Kazu had always been the worst liar of the bunch.

“And you look like you had some... fun?” Kazu’s eyes passed over Misaki’s bruises and the cuts the fan-wielder had left on her forearms. A normal brother would have worried for his sister, but Kazu undoubtedly remembered all the times Misaki had trounced him in the Tsusano dojo and knew to worry for her enemies more than anyone else.

“Misaki-nee-san...” He lowered his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “You didn’t go to the frontlines?”

“Oh, Kazu-kun, I’m flattered that you assume I would have survived that, but I didn’t have to.” She gestured to the wrecked village behind her. “The frontlines came to me.”

“We should have gotten here sooner.” He sounded pained. “Have the military representatives arrived yet?” He glanced around him and Misaki saw an echo of the jumpy boy who had been so scared of the thunder.

“No. I mean, planes showed up to bomb every last fonyaka off the mountainside, but no one has spoken to us yet. I haven’t seen any imperial troops on the ground.”

“Good.”

“What?”

“Not here,” Kazu said quickly.

“So... did you know?” she asked. “The storm you wrote me about... was it really a storm or—”

“I said not here,” he repeated more firmly. “Misaki-nee-san, I’m sorry. I know this is a difficult time for you, but I need to speak privately with your brother-in-law. Can you take me to him?”

Misaki shook her head. “Matsuda Takashi didn’t survive the battle. My husband is the head of the house now.”

“Oh...” Kazu said as a few of his men uttered sounds of surprise and denial. “I’m so sorry. Can you take me to your husband, then?”

“Yes.” Misaki nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry. You and your men must be tired and hungry. I would invite you inside for tea, but there isn’t much left of my kitchen... or the whole house, really.” She nodded toward the Matsuda compound.

“What about your family?” Kazu asked anxiously. “Other than your brother-in-law—nyama to his soul—is everyone alright?”

Misaki looked down, pressing her lips together.

“Nee-san?”

“Come with me,” she said softly.

Kazu and his men followed her through the breach in the compound wall to where the volunteers had laid the dead. Mamoru’s body had been covered, but the boy’s katana rested beside him, and Kazu knew his nephew’s sword.

“Oh, Nee-san...” His voice shook.

For a moment, he looked as he had when he was a boy, on the verge of tears. A lord of the house did not cry in front of his men, of course, but Misaki found herself feeling ridiculously grateful for her brother’s moment of weakness. It was good to know that one of the men in her life cared that Mamoru was gone.

One by one, Kazu and his men paid their respects to Mamoru, bowing before the body and offering their prayers. Unable to watch, Misaki turned from the scene and went to find her husband, as Kazu had asked.

She hadn’t spoken to Takeru since the previous day when he had tried to stop her from going back for Hyori. He must have heard by now that Mamoru’s body had been found. His firstborn son was dead. But the knowledge didn’t seem to affect him as he swept about the village, organizing supplies and ordering volunteers around.

“I’m busy,” were the first words out of his mouth when he saw her.

“I know, Takeru-sama.” She lowered her gaze, made her voice soft. It was the only way to hold off the anger simmering in her throat. “I’m sorry, but my brother, Lord Tsusano, is here to see you. He says it is urgent.”

“Ameno-san,” Takeru addressed the lead representative from the Ameno family. “Please, take over operations here.”

“Yes, Matsuda-dono.” The man bowed.

“I hope to be back shortly,” Takeru said and followed Misaki to where Kazu was waiting. He walked right past his son’s body without so much as glancing at it.

“Tsusano-dono,” he said with a cordial bow. “It has been a long time. I am glad to see you here.”

“Likewise, Matsuda-dono,” Kazu said, dipping into his own bow, notably lower than Takeru’s. Misaki knew that her brother had always been intimidated by Takeru, but he did an admirable job hiding it as he straightened back up. “I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Takeru offered a gruff nod.

“But it is good to see that my sister’s husband, at least, survived the attack,” Kazu added. “I’m relieved to know she will be taken care of.”

Another nod.

“Is there someplace more private we could talk, Matsuda-dono?” Kazu asked.

“Regrettably, my house is occupied by the wounded at the moment.”

“Somewhere else, then? Out of earshot of everyone?”

Takeru nodded. “Follow me, Tsusano-dono. Misaki, you may leave us,” he added over his shoulder.

“No—I would prefer that she come along, if that’s alright with you, Matsuda-dono,” Kazu said haltingly. “She is my sister, so I’d like her to hear what I have to say as well. I would think, as her husband, you wouldn’t mind—”

“Fine,” Takeru said with a dark look at Misaki, “but you will keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.

Kazu’s eyes flicked from his sister to Takeru in obvious discomfort, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t his place to say anything. Not only was Takeru the new Matsuda patriarch, but he was also more than ten years Kazu’s senior. A young lord didn’t comment on an older lord’s treatment of his woman—even if the woman in question was a sister who had once rocked a certain young lord to sleep and taught him his first sword forms.

“Do you have anyone else you would like to include, Matsuda-dono?” Kazu asked.

“What?”

“I’m sure you have other men you trust?” Kazu said. “Men you would like included in this meeting?”

Kazu was so ready to accept Takeru’s authority, it probably didn’t occur to him that the secondborn Matsuda hadn’t even been the head of the house for a full day.

“My brother’s closest confidants were myself and Yukino Dai,” Takeru said. “The latter is dead.”

“Lightning Dai?” Kazu said in shock. “He’s gone too?”

“We lost most of our best.” Takeru slowed his steps before what remained of the Mizumaki house, where Kwang Chul-hee and his father were helping the Ameno men organize and distribute the meager supplies the volunteers had brought up the mountain. He seemed to consider for a moment, his eyes passing over each of the high-ranking Ameno men, the two surviving Mizumaki elders, and the crippled Katakouri man, who had been unable to join the fight.

The visiting Amenos, while they were doing a wonderful job helping, were not typically very involved in Takayubi affairs. The Mizumakis and Katakouris were close and trusted allies, but these remaining men were not their leaders. Katakouri Hisato, with the twisted leg, was a fifth son who had spent his entire adult life working as a cashier in the western village’s convenience store. The Mizumaki elders had been fine men in their prime, but these days one could only remember half of what he heard, and the other could not hear at all. Takeru’s eyes narrowed in thought.

Then he made up his mind. “Kwang Tae-min.”

“Yes?” The northerner looked up.

“Your son can take over the work you are doing, yes?”

Tae-min glanced at Chul-hee. “Sure.”

“You will come with me.”

“Oh—” Tae-min looked surprised. “Of course. Just give me a moment.”

“He’s... a northerner,” Kazu whispered with an apprehensive look at Takeru. Kwang Tae-min may have forgone his hanbok and bogolan vest in favor of a Shirojima style kimono, but his accent was unmistakable. “He’s not one of us.”

“He is a citizen of the Empire, as we are,” Takeru said, “and he is well-traveled, giving him insights we might not have.” Misaki had plenty of the same insights, although Takeru didn’t seem particularly interested in listening when they came from her mouth. “He is also one of the few men of sound mind who survived.”

“He didn’t fight, I take it?” Kazu said.

“His strengths lie in other areas,” Takeru said. “The two of us have spent a few months now working together on one of the mayor’s projects.”

All Misaki knew of her husband’s relationship with Kwang Tae-min was that the two had worked together closely on the plan for the info-com towers. She knew that Takeru had been the one to suggest the project in the first place, and he had evidently grown close to the northerner as they worked together to make it a reality.

Takeru was always pressing for more modern development—a paved road one year, better power lines the next—and on the rare occasions his projects were approved, he was always the one who ended up managing them. The mayor was—or rather had been—more of a figurehead, a dull but harmless government official, content to let his staff do his job better than he could. The Empire didn’t typically send its best and brightest to oversee tiny mountain villages.

“And the mayor?” Kazu asked.

“Dead,” Takeru said, displaying no emotion for the man who had employed him for many years. “He was at home in the western village when they came.”

Having finished giving instructions to his son, Kwang Tae-min hurried over.

“Tsusano-dono, this is Kwang Tae-min, a representative from Geomijul Communications,” Takeru said. “Kwang-san, this is Tsusano Kazu of Ishihama, Lord of the Arashiki and my wife’s brother.”

After the two men bowed and exchanged greetings, Takeru led them out of the village, up toward the mountain’s summit. The snow grew deeper as they ascended, but it parted before them at the touch of Takeru’s jiya.

Two of Kazu’s men followed them up until Kazu turned to them. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Ensure that nobody follows us.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the men took up position in the snow, Misaki had the feeling that her suspicions were about to be confirmed. This attack and whatever had taken place in Ishihama were connected, and the government was going to considerable trouble to hide it.

Takeru led them to a snowy clearing overlooking Kumono Academy. The temple-turned-school was the only structure that seemingly hadn’t been touched by bombs or fonya. It stood as proud and serene as ever against the rock. Perhaps it was too high up the mountain, too removed from most of the action, for anyone to have bothered with it. The climb had certainly taxed Misaki’s aching lungs.

“Now then, Lord Tsusano.” Takeru turned to Kazu. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”

“I...” Kazu started hesitantly. “First, I wanted to apologize, for not warning you properly.”

“Explain.”

“As I’m sure you’ve guessed, Takayubi wasn’t the only town the Ranganese attacked in these past few weeks. They came to Ishihama as well. That was what destroyed the Arashiki and the surrounding town, not a storm as the news reported.”

Takeru nodded as if he had suspected this the whole time, as if he hadn’t slapped his son around the dojo for suggesting it.

“Based on where all the other so-called storms hit the coast, we—my father and I—figured the Ranganese were targeting Kaigen’s old warrior houses. We thought Takayubi might be next. Of course, we hoped not, but...” Kazu shook his head. “The least I can do is warn you about what is going to happen next.”

“What do you mean?” Takeru asked. “Should we be expecting more attacks?”

“No, no, Matsuda-dono,” Kazu said hastily. “Nothing like that. I wanted to warn you about the Kaigenese military, before they get here.”

At the look of confusion on Takeru’s face, Kazu continued, “There is a reason I couldn’t explain our situation in the letter I wrote my sister. As soon as the Kaigenese troops arrived in Ishihama, they made it clear that we were not to discuss the attack amongst ourselves or tell anyone else what had happened.”

Takeru’s brow had furrowed in thought. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Kazu shook his head. “They wouldn’t tell us, but it was clear that they were trying to keep news of these attacks contained. The Emperor’s soldiers even moved us all into the neighboring town while the Yammanka troops helped them clean up the damage.”

“The Yammankalu are involved?” Misaki asked.

It wasn’t unusual for Kaigen’s more powerful ally to give them military support, especially where Ranga was concerned, but it added a new level of complexity to the situation. Yamma was its own player, with its own motives.

“Yes. The Yammanka soldiers were there almost as soon as our own military.”

“How did they act?” Misaki asked. “Did they say anything to you, or—”

“You were told not to speak,” Takeru said shortly.

“Um—” Again, Kazu’s eyes flicked uncomfortably between Misaki and her husband. He might not have had the courage or authority to speak up for his sister, but he did answer her question. “The Yammankalu barely interacted with us. Most of them communicated only with the Kaigenese military and then went to help with the clean-up, or... whatever it is they’re doing in the area affected by the attack. We haven’t been allowed back in to find the bodies of family members or retrieve belongings. I don’t know if anything’s changed, but that was where things stood when I left.”

“And you think we can expect something similar here in Takayubi?” Takeru asked.

“Maybe. I just wanted to warn you before the Kaigenese troops arrived. I’m so sorry my men and I didn’t make better time,” he added earnestly. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to offer more meaningful support.”

“Don’t apologize,” Takeru said. “As you saw, our warriors were more than sufficient to hold the hostiles back until the Emperor’s forces arrived.” He said it with his usual disinterest, as if the deaths of his brother, his son, and so many civilians meant nothing.

“We didn’t face anything like this in Ishihama,” Kazu said.

“The Ranganese didn’t send as many soldiers?”

“I don’t know. I think most of the Ranganese involved in the attack never actually reached us.”

The Tsusanos’ town, perched high atop that sheer cliff, was far more defensible than Takayubi—or indeed any place in the world, as far as Misaki knew. No army in history had ever breached it, and she was relieved to hear that even this terrifying new Ranganese force was no exception.

“Did they attack with a tornado?” Takeru asked.

“Initially, yes. When we saw it forming over the water, my father realized almost immediately that it was the Ranganese.”

“Oh? Had your father encountered fonyakalu before?” Takeru asked, probably thinking of how he and Takashi had been uncomprehending in the face of the tornado for several siiranu until Misaki and Chul-hee had convinced them that it was the work of the Ranganese. She wondered with annoyance if he had the decency to be embarrassed.

“No, Matsuda-dono.”

He’s just not an idiot. Misaki thought angrily.

“I think,” Kazu said more tactfully, “my father had just seen so many hundreds of storms in his life that he could sense right away when one was not behaving normally. Knowing that the houses nearest the edge were lost, we evacuated as many homes as we could and gathered the warriors to face any Ranganese who made it ashore.”

“And?”

“The tornado broke apart when it hit the cliff,” Kazu said and it didn’t surprise Misaki that the Ishihama Cliff had done what even the jagged rocks and steep slope of Mount Takayubi could not. “Obviously, our Arashiki was destroyed, along with the houses that sat near the edge. The wind off the tornado threw some of the Ranganese over the lip of the cliff—about two dozen, I think. We killed them.” That explained the blade wound across Kazu’s clavicle. “The rest of the Ranganese, I assume, tried to scale the cliff, but they didn’t make it before the Yammankalu showed up to shoot them down.”

Takeru nodded. “So, you did not suffer heavy casualties?”

“Only two of our warriors died in combat, but the flying debris caused devastation for clicks around. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to evacuate the entire area, and the tornado shattered the weaker parts of the cliff’s edge, raining rocks on us, some as big as houses. Many people were killed by those rocks—we think close to a hundred.”

“You think?”

“That’s how many were missing after we reached safety and took count, but like I said, we haven’t been back to our houses and the soldiers won’t tell us anything.” He shook his head. “I just wonder what they stand to gain from covering all of this up.”

A sense of security, Misaki thought. If news of the attacks spread, people might panic and become more difficult to control. Then again, that didn’t explain what secretive business the Yammankalu were up to.

“It doesn’t matter,” Takeru said. “Thank you for the warning, but it is not our business to question the will of the Emperor. If these are his orders, our only job is to obey.”

“Matsuda,” Tae-min said, looking uneasy, “I get the feeling you may not like what the Emperor asks of you.”

“What are you talking about?” Kazu asked, shifting to Kaigengua as he turned to Tae-min.

“I know that the media would suggest that the heart of the Empire is strong and overflowing with resources, but I’m a native of Jungsan, and I just think...” Tae-min paused, looking apprehensively between the two Shirojima men. He was taking a gamble; he didn’t know Kazu, and how well could one really know Takeru? “The reality of the Imperial army is very different from the image it projects.” He turned to Kazu. “If the military has already made an appearance in Ishihama, you already have some idea.”

“Well...” Kazu was frowning. “I didn’t interact with the soldiers very much.” The hesitation in his voice revealed that there was some truth to what Kwang Tae-min said.

“I don’t say this to belittle the Empire or to upset you, Tsusano,” the northerner said carefully, “but Matsuda...” He looked to Takeru. “Your village is in a difficult position at the moment. So far, we’ve accounted for forty-two living, many of whom are injured. You have only what remains of the Matsuda compound and the very little that remains of the Mizumaki house to accommodate all those people. My son is still inventorying the food we’ve recovered, but it isn’t going to be enough to feed many—”

“I’m aware of that, Kwang,” Takeru said tersely. “What does this have to do with the military?”

“I just want to warn you... I don’t want you to make the mistake of assuming you can rely on the Empire to support your community through this time. I’ve been around enough to know that you will be disappointed.”

“You shouldn’t say such things of the Empire,” Kazu said, his frown deepening.

“So, your town has received the aid it needs, Tsusano?” Tae-min asked.

“I didn’t stay long after the attack,” Kazu said. “I’m sure they have by now.” He didn’t sound sure. “Besides, Ishihama didn’t need aid the way Takayubi does. My people still have roofs to sleep under, a way to get back on our feet. If this village doesn’t get help...”

It will cease to exist, Misaki thought grimly.

“Whatever the Emperor orders, our only job is to obey,” Takeru reiterated firmly. His words made it sound simple, as if lives didn’t hang in the balance. “It is a privilege to serve the Kaigenese Empire in whatever way we can.”

“Of course,” Kazu agreed, “but I will admit that all of this is strange. Not just the business with the Imperial troops and the Yammankalu; the attacks themselves don’t seem logical.”

“What do you mean?” Takeru asked.

“A smart fighter strikes at his enemy’s weak points.”

“Yes?”

“So, what is Ranga doing launching these concentrated attacks on the towns of Kaigen’s most powerful fighters? If their goal was to penetrate into the interior and they had the element of surprise, why target the homes of the people most likely to repel them?”

Kazu made a surprisingly good point. It was like deliberately aiming a sword stroke at armor or a Blood Needle at bone. At worst, doomed; at best, wasteful. There were so many places a Ranganese force of this size and skill could have come ashore and killed everyone with ease, or even snuck through completely unnoticed in the night.

“Maybe penetration wasn’t their goal,” Misaki suggested, even as Takeru shot her a disapproving look. “These attacks could be part of a more complicated plan. Maybe their intention was to weaken the great houses.”

“At the cost of so many soldiers?” Kazu said incredulously.

There again, he had a point. There were ways to do away with your enemies without losing hundreds of good fighters. Granted, none of the ways that came to mind were particularly honorable—most of Misaki’s immediate thoughts involved assassins and poison—but slaughtering children was not honorable. Burning blacksmiths in their homes was not honorable. Raping your enemy’s women was not honorable. If the Ranganese were willing to commit those atrocities, why not stoop to poison or a single well-placed bomb? Why sacrifice so many fighters?

The rank and file soldiers in yellow may have been an expendable resource to the Ranganese Union, but those soldiers in black were one in ten thousand. When Misaki had been at Daybreak, Ranganese special forces had been limited to Ranga’s strongest bloodlines—Sheng and Tian. Soldiers of their caliber were incalculably valuable assets. Why send dozens of them to die in a head-on battle?

Before the men had a chance to discuss further, one of Kazu’s fighters ran up the slope to them and stopped, panting, winded from the climb.

“I’m s—” He cut off, struggling to catch his breath, his lungs unaccustomed to Takayubi’s thin air. “S-sorry to interrupt, Matsuda-dono, Tsusano-dono.” He bowed.

“What is it, Hakuyu-san?” Kazu asked.

“The Imperial troops have arrived. They’re asking for the head of the village.” Hakuyu looked to Takeru as he straightened up. “I told them that was you, Matsuda-dono.”

“I’ll be right there.”