Episode 25: The Oldest Stories

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You ask me what the secret of my appeal is, dear prince, thinking you may steal it from me? For shame, Valentin, for shame – haven't you been taught not to pry at a woman's secrets where she may hear? Ah, but my darling boy, though I will punish you for your temerity later, first I will give you the answer you seek.

I tell stories, little prince – stories told time and time before, stories of sex and death. They are the oldest stories, the first stories, and there are none better, for though everyone knows the ending, they join and play their parts nevertheless.

I see that you do not understand, my darling. Someday, you will. But now you must pay me for what you have learned. Jenana, bind him—

From The Memoirs of Chastity Touraine, Third Contessa of Althea

Failure, Part I

Beneath a sky blackened by malice, the great army of the Touraine family withdraws from Shalebreak Field. Behind them, the aberrant cloud shudders, and a hundred dead – the only casualties of what was to be the Touraine family's moment of glory, their chance to find redemption in victory or obliteration – rise again.

With a sickening lurch, the foulness surges forward across the stony plain, into the lands of the Touraine.

The southern edge of Touraine lands is held by Azurite Touraine, Duke of Aoiyama. Unwilling to surrender without a fight, he rallies his portion of the scattering army, and regroups at Aoiyama Castle. Perched atop a rocky seafront precipice of blue stone, Aoiyama is a modern fortress, its thick, angled walls designed to resist cannon fire while providing defending artillery with a commanding view of all approaches to its doughty battlements. Azurite spent fifteen years designing it and building it, and it is considered even more impervious to siege than the red keep at Claypool. Azurite, his wife, four of his children, and half a dozen counts and their families gather within Aoiyama. They bring with them sixteen heavy cannon, forty lighter artillery pieces, gunpowder enough for a hundred discharges for each weapon, four hundred head of livestock – pigs, sheep, poultry – and grain to feed them for a season, half a year's supply of rice, dried meat, wine, and ale, and swords and spears for every man, woman, and child sheltering within the castle. They are prepared to hold their position until the Jitani armies give up their siege and move past the sanctuary to easier targets. When the other southern dukes gather to stop the Jitani advance, Azurite's forces will sweep out and catch them, hammer and anvil, from behind.

It is, the Touraine huddled within Aoiyama agree, a workable plan, and the best they can do for their family, and for Komaru.

When the Jitani arrive at Aoiyama, one among their number rises into the air, spreads his hands, and is surrounded by ripples of wrongness, like ribbons shaped of reality torn asunder. He hangs there in the sky for a moment, and then Aoiyama burns.

Seven hundred and thirty two Touraine nobles, retainers, soldiers, and peasants die as balefire consumes the blue stone of the mountain itself. The fire cackles and screams. It reaches a thousand feet into the air, its flames parodying the contorted, scorched faces of those who are seared to death by its fury. The fire burns for thirty days, and when it dies, Aoiyama becomes Otoshiana, the Pit.

But after three days, another man stands before the inferno. He extends his hands into the fire, and the flames part before him, welcoming into their depths. Veiled by the silvery blaze, he raises a battered flute, its metal as bright-hued as the fires themselves, and plays upon it a simple melody.

Seven hundred and thirty two charred corpses rise from the balefire to swell the ranks of the Jitani army.

Its numbers bolstered, the Jitani army moves north, deeper into Touraine lands.

Star and Light

Colette Sauviel and Risa Kamry never even have a chance. By the time the Numini are assembled, neither name is spoken as a serious candidate for Principal Light. Colette is turned away at the gate to Prophet's Hope by grim Church Guardians who tell her she is uninvited, unwelcome, untrusted, a rabble-rouser with no place among the leaders of the Church. If she will not leave peacefully, they will jail her as a heretic. She questions their willingness to oppose her, and they cite the example of Thierry Smith, already rotting in their dungeons. Vowing revenge, Colette rides north in the night.

Risa Kamry vanishes on the second day of the convention, hours after her grim condemnation of the madness that leads the Church to consider embracing the Jitani family and their shadowy agenda. She leaves behind an angry delegation of would-be sorcerers who are appalled by her refusal to support their unrestrained pursuit of ancient arts. The occultists seek Kamry, their erstwhile leader, and there are rumors she is taken by surprise in her own library and killed. It is said that those who slew her, one of the Numini who would decide the course of the election, were once her apprentices.

Sophia Bellatrix is the next to retire from her candidacy. She preaches peace, but there is no peace in Prophet's Hope. With Colette expelled from the city and Thierry Smith in jail awaiting execution, the parts of the Church that identify most closely with the peasantry are adrift, leaderless. Andrew Bellatrix's allies keep peace, but with an implicit threat: support their candidate or be crushed. Balking at Andrew's militant nature, Sophia instead endorses Angelica Bellatrix: "The Church has changed too much in the past three decades. We must have sanity, and a chance to catch our breath and prepare for the future. This headlong rush into change will only deprive us of the Light. Look to yourselves, and ask if you have moved from the Light. I have, but no longer. I embrace the Light. Let Angelica Bellatrix lead us to it." Coughing, she returns to her seat, her final bid for Principal Light at an end.

In the wake of Sophia's withdrawal, the news spreads that Charlotte Bellatrix has snuck into the city, challenging the Numinous Council with her own candidacy. Surprisingly, Charlotte's pronouncements of candidacy sway the liberal Numini who see the Church as the peasantry's best hope for empowerment. But the conservative response to Charlotte's presence is swift and decisive: Andrew Bellatrix's supporters, aided by Angelica Bellatrix's, raid the inn where Charlotte Bellatrix is staying. In manacles and her nightgown, the elusive, infuriating renegade is taken to the dungeons beneath the city, and tossed unceremoniously into a cell beside Thierry Smith's to await execution.

Enraged, populist supporters attempt to storm the chambers of the conference. Among their numbers are Colette Sauviel's followers, who have infiltrated the city as agents of their mistress's promised revenge. Though they are bloodily repelled by the Illuminators and the Church Guardians, their spirit is unbroken. The populist movement's speakers declare their support for the surprise candidate Kaliska Soieko, whom to this point none had expected to have a chance at the position, while their most radical organizers plan further violence against their oppressors. Three candidates remain: Angelica Bellatrix, Andrew Bellatrix, and Kaliska Soieko.

Debates rage for days, and the tension in the Church city rises with each evening of impasse. A fire starts in the merchant quarter, consuming three blocks before the Church Guardians begin to contain it. As they fight the fire, three Church Guardians kill the younger brother of another, after he flings rocks at them. The fourth Guardian leads a pack of maddened peasants down upon the three firefighters, who fight back with brutal efficiency before falling. The fire spreads to another block. Another group of Church Guardians refuses to enter a collapsing building to rescue the woman trapped within, even as she shrieks and burns. In the night, rioting peasants descend upon their barracks, putting it to the torch. The fires spread.

Andrew Bellatrix attempts to regain control of the situation by ordering the Church Guardians to quash the rioters. Half of them, tasked with fighting against their families, refuse. Strained, Andrew Bellatrix orders the deserters arrested for insubordination, and they refuse to surrender their weapons or their positions as firefighters. One furious captain orders his men to use force against the resisters, and Church Guardian battles Church Guardian as the flames spread. Andrew Bellatrix's support collapses.

Prophet's Hope burns while Kaliska Soieko and Angelica Bellatrix duel for control of the Numinous Council. The votes are deadlocked: each is backed by five Numini, none of whom can be swayed from their position, and legal precedent blocks Kaliska from casting her vote for herself to settle the matter. As the sun sets, a month after the convention gathered, Angelica Bellatrix comes before the council, accompanied by a brown-haired, unassuming man.

"This is Celestino Jitani," she says. "He has come here to help us reclaim the city, to quell the fires, to end the violence. You will all cooperate with him, and together we will make it through this."

Celestino has brought troops with him. Some are human. Most are not. Some are not alive at all. They push through the gates of town, do battle with the fires, and ruthlessly crush the peasant rioters wherever they find them. When they find Alonso Sandriel, Numinous of the Radiant Crown, amidst a pack of renegade Church Guardians holed up in the garden quarter of the city, they do not recognize him until long after he lies dead beside the other renegades.

The news of Sandriel's death spreads quickly, and Angelica Bellatrix is one of the first to hear of it. Five votes to four, she declares that she is Alcasta, the new Principal Light. As her first act, she orders all of the traitors and heretics held in the dungeon beneath the city killed – a reminder that the Church will not suffer those who defy the Light. As her second act, she orders Kaliska Soieko to come to the council hall to recognize her, and sends a company of Jitani warlocks to ensure her compliance.

In the months that follow, the stories of Charlotte and Thierry's martyrdom take on a life of their own, growing to encompass miracles and impossibilities. Their spirits, united by love, are said to have appeared before Kaliska to place her duty upon her, to name her Shudaya, the true Principal Light of the Church. But for one month, the truth is known: of how Clarissa Bey and the riflemen of the Dawning Star infiltrated the city and fought their way into the dungeons beneath it, only to find Charlotte and Thierry already executed, an hour before Alcasta issued the order. More are told of how the Star gunmen blasted through the company of Jitani warlocks, felling them with withering volleys of bullets as they lifted the siege on Kaliska's compound, an army of fanatic peasants defending them. "Star and Light" is their battlecry, and it rings out across the city as Clarissa Bey, smiling inscrutably, offers Kaliska and her four frightened Numini the services of her forces, at least long enough to escape the burning nightmare of Prophet's Hope. "Star and Light" echoes through the hills of Bellatrix lands as, miles from the burning city, the four grateful Numini tell Kaliska Soieko that they owe her their lives for leading them from the inferno. They offer her the only thing they can: the mantle of Principal Light.

She accepts.

The story of Shudaya, the Star and Light, begins.

Two Principal Lights shine, and the Church is torn asunder.

Failure, Part II

After the burning of Aoiyama, three duchies comprise the southern half of Touraine lands, divided from the heart of the Touraine holdings by the duchy of Skye. As the Jitani army advances, Independence Touraine, Duchess of Shinrei; Zircon Touraine, Duke of Miramar; and Justice Touraine, Duchess of Twilight Flame make feverish preparations to turn them back.

Those preparations come to a grinding halt when the dead arrive at their estates, bearing the Jitani's demand that the Touraine surrender. In Shinrei, Independence Touraine receives the Jitani's missive from the ruins of her sister's body. In Miramar, the seared remains of Azurite's youngest daughter, still clutching her infant girl in her blackened arms, bears the Jitani's decree. In Twilight Flame, three blistered children make their delivery to the nauseated duchess.

Confronted by the evidence of their foe's nature, the three nobles gather in Shinrei, and ride south to meet the vanguard of the Jitani army. On their arrival, the Jitani send forth a delegation to meet them. One of the Jitani, a tall, handsome young man with pale skin and hair bleached orange by the sun, wears a ducal coronet on his brow. He bows to the three Touraine, acknowledging himself as their equal, and introduces himself. "Greetings, Your Graces. I am Raphael Jitani, Duke of Crystalfen. I gather you received our missives, and their meaning was clear?"

Justice's expression is stricken, and Zircon glowers, angry and defeated. Independence, her voice strained, says, "Your messages play upon doubts within our own minds, as you surely expected. You are right: Komaru and its rulers have demanded much of us and repaid our duty in suspicion and neglect. We do not wish to die for those who have turned their back on us. We have come to surrender." She takes a deep breath, hiding her trembling hands in her skirts. "But we have one request, Your Grace. You will need nobles who know your new lands to administer them. We ask that we be granted the chance to continue to tend to those under our care."

Raphael Jitani cocks his head in consideration, and then laughs. "Granted, Your Excellencies. Welcome to the family." Heartily, he clasps Independence's arm. "I am certain we will become the best of friends."

Behind him, seven hundred and thirty two flame-twisted corpses watch impassively. If they have opinions on what transpires before them, their thoughts are known only to the worms that writhe within their decaying, odious flesh.

Admission

Afterward, Ruby Touraine lays beside her, his calloused fingers tracing the lines of her shoulder blades as they bask in the afterglow of their exertions. He listens to her breathing deepen, and watches her rib cage rise and fall with a steady rhythm. Her skin is bare and warm to the touch, stained crimson by the rays of the setting sun that flood into her bedroom. Is she awake, to see herself transformed so? He props his elbow beneath him to see, and as he lifts his head into the light, it dazzles him. Tilting his head to study her, for an instant he sees not a duchess, not a woman, but a bright jewel, his namesake.

"My family asked me to kill you," he says, not knowing if she will hear him.

It does not matter. The weight he has carried for a month has slipped away with the admission. He feels rejuvenated, vibrant, hungry for her touch. "I don't think I will, Kimiko," he whispers to her as he moves against her, "I don't think I will."

Unfulfilled, Part I

The rosy flame of the setting sun kissing her skin and turning it black, Whispersong sits on another balcony in the Royal Palace, watching the Consort as he studies the city below. This close to him, her senses transform the world into a symphony: the prince's breath is a chime, the susurrus of palace activity a melody, and the hum of the city a distant orchestra. And if, teasing at the edge of her senses, she can hear a serenade of rustles and gasps, whispers and sighs, what of it? She is what she is, though she bears a woman's form. Their desire does not touch her.

The Consort's hand on her own startles her from her reverie. His brightness seeps out of him; she can feel it on her skin where he touched her, can see it radiating from his concerned smile when he asks, "Anya, cherah d'helva?" Sister, are you troubled?

In a tongue that rings like music, she answers him, "No, elder brother. My thoughts are on what you have asked me, and they are unchanged. We are memory, but we are not inspiration. We remember the World's pain while we slumbered, but the World's memories do not contain the truth of what was done to it by the earth-bound stars," the concept twists her tongue, an impossible concept belying an unimaginable blasphemy. "The World remembers the pain of two Ages ill-born, but the earth-bound—" she shakes her head, a mannerism she has learned from watching the humans, "they do not touch the World's memory. They are a thing outside the heart, an ephemera." She ventures a hesitant smile, another borrowed expression, "Like your race, and we both know how little power they hold over the world." She has made a jest. Will he laugh, she wonders?

When he laughs, she blushes with pleasure. "You are teasing me, sister. Two seasons ago, you would never have done so." Her blush redoubles, and she ducks her head to hide her embarrassment at his quick reversal. His hand moves from her own to her cheek, coaxing her to meet his golden gaze. His fingertips brush her skin, troubling her with their tingling warmth. She shifts on the padded bench, the comfort it once offered now vanished. "You are changing," he sings to her. Their shared language brooks no falsehood.

Her body is taut, and her heart is racing. She can still hear the distant serenade, the two humans twined together by passion. She half-rises from the bench, knowing he is right, knowing that she has been lying to herself. She confesses the truth to herself: her transformation has changed more than her form. She reaches out for him—

He snaps his gaze from her own, out across the city. His hand is gone from her cheek, and she takes a graceless step towards him as he turns from her. In a single racing heartbeat, she watches a nimbus of spectral light shimmer into being around him.

"What—" she sings a note, but then ends it, unable to keep her dismay and confusion from her voice.

"There is an earth-bound star here, now," he sings, fury burning in his voice. His song ends; he says, "Adriana."

Whispersong watches the Consort turn and go without a second glance at her.

Aching inside, she follows him.

Unfulfilled, Part II

"I want you to kiss me," she says a second time, closing her eyes. The curve of her breasts presses against his chest, through the silk of her wine-red kimono. His body reacts – no, keeps reacting, as it has since she invited him to her chambers, and met him at the door in a robe patterned with cherry blossoms, with her dark hair unbound.

Francis Sone kisses her. Her lips are moist, and they part slightly as they meet his own. She tastes like the plum wine they have been sharing. He has to bend down to meet her lips, but only a little.

"Ah," she sighs, breaking the kiss; but though her eyes open, she does not slip away. Her arms tighten around him, reminding him of her strength, reinforcing her femininity. Shyly, she watches him, her cheeks brushed with crimson.

He kisses her again, his arms encircling her to squeeze her against him. She arches her back, and his lips slip from her own to her neck. His kisses trace the line of the silver chain she wears, following it deliberately down to where it vanishes into the folds of silk over her breast. She gasps with surprise, but does not pull away from him; her hands begin to move across his back—

The door to her chambers blows open, and Hideo Sone strides into the room, wings of color trailing behind him. He speaks her name in a tone like a thunderclap, and the woman in Francis's arms stiffens. She twists in his grasp, firmly pushing him away as she faces her brother.

Adriana is livid, and her skin has turned the color of her kimono. Behind Hideo, the Naga woman Whispersong steps diffidently into the sitting room, her expression purest misery. Adriana is shaking, but with the icy wrath of a queen, she demands, "How dare you come—"

Hideo cuts through her words, "Adry, there is a monster in the city, the kind that poisoned me, the kind that tried to kill us. I can feel it approaching. We have to be ready for it. We have to go to safety."

Her knees wobble, and she stumbles against Francis, who moves to catch her. She is limp in his arms, her outraged shock driven away by genuine fear. Shaking, she wrests herself out of his grasp as he opens his mouth to speak. "Ad—Your Royal Highness," he cries, his memory of her body against his own already fading away.

"Francis," she answers him, "you must go somewhere safe. You don't know what these things are like." She chokes back a sob as she slips into her bedchamber, calling out, "I lost so many people, Francis...."

He protests, "Your Royal Highness, I want to—"

She emerges from her bedroom bearing a black bundle, brocade wrapped around something long and slender. She is composed now, made confident by the weight of the burden she bears. She walks to him, touches his face with her hand, her tears already drying in her eyes. "Francis, find safety. Don't let it get you. I…" Her eyes meet his, and for an instant they are connected again. He reaches out for her.

She looks away, to her brother, and then back at him. She has stepped away, out of his reach. She whispers, "I care about you, Francis. Don't let it catch you. Please?" The words ring hollow in his ears. Her fear is fading, to be replaced by something else: anticipation.

His chest aching, he watches Hideo catch her free hand and pull her towards the door. He hears them begin to run; not once does she look back.

Two short steps carry him to the couch where they dined on doves and drank plum wine. His descent into the cushions is unconscious; her scent lingers there, and it yet calls to him.

A shadow across his face reminds him that he is not alone. He opens his eyes, and sees Whispersong looking down at him, her silver eyes sympathetic and sad.

In her voice like music, she murmurs, "She loves you, Francis Sone, but she loves him more. It is not easy to have given your heart away and have it not be as prized as another's, is it?"

A tear trickles from her eye, tracing a shimmering path down the flawless perfection of her cheek to vanish between her lips. Her pain seems easier to bear than his own, and he speaks, "You and her brother are inseparable. You speak to each other in a language no one else knows. You are beautiful beyond compare."

Her smile is sad, and a second tear streaks down the path left by the first. "But he is made for her, and not for me."

He aches for her: her perfect beauty, the pale jade of her skin and the gray lightness of her braided hair, not enough to win the one she loves. There are flowers in her braids, he realizes: tiny daises forming starbursts of white and gold. He can smell them, with their bright scent like spring, and beneath them he scents something else: an elusive, feminine perfume, like honey and woodsmoke. He feels dizzy.

He looks at her – not her sorrow, not his own pain, but at her. Her gray silken skirt is slit to her thigh, and her pale vest bares her arms and shoulders, but is pulled tight across her chest. His eyes linger on the dark line between her full breasts, upon the four strands of silver necklace that rest above it. He reaches out for her, his fingertip brushing the tear from her cheek. He says again, "You are beautiful beyond compare."

She trembles, and before his eyes begins to sob. "It is not enough," she laments, stumbling towards him.

He catches her as she collapses into the couch, into his arms, marveling at the lightness of her. Her face against his chest, he holds her, letting her cry until neither has tears to shed.

The Pale Ones

In part, Hideo is correct: a monster has come to Komaru City. In part, Hideo is wrong: neither he nor Adriana is its prey.

The Issorat returns to his townhouse after midnight, slightly dizzy from drinking at the Prowling Cat. He is earlier than usual: his intended paramour's loveliness is only matched by her fickleness, and her offer to allow him to escort her home proved less conclusive than he had hoped. He had considered finding another tavern, perhaps with more amicable company, but it would mean another carriage ride, when his home lay only a few short blocks away from his paramour's own townhouse.

When he opens the door and tosses his silk-lined jacket onto a carved wooden chair, he does not find it at all odd that the house is dark, and his two servants are not awake to greet him. He does not bother to wake them, and it is just as well, for both lie dead in their bedroom, their faces frozen in masks of agonized terror.

He removes his boots next, and replaces them with soft, velveteen slippers. Quietly, he pads upstairs, not needing a lamp in the house he knows so well. The ninth stair creaks, as always; the twelfth shifts beneath his weight. He needs to have someone repair the house; his manservant Arturo is getting too old to do carpentry, and the house shows it. At the landing, he unlocks the door to his bedroom, and slips inside.

He does not notice the shape in his bed immediately, nor when he lights a candle on his dresser. He does not notice it as he removes his pants, or as he pulls his well-worn stockings from his feet. But as he pulls his silk shirt off next to the bed, he starts, yelping with surprise. His bed is not empty: a woman, her long tresses as white as her skin, lies in his bed, watching him. He does not need the candle flame to know that her eyes are as green as his own.

"Katarina?" he gasps, as he recovers from the shock of finding her there.

Yes, the woman whispers in his mind. Yes, it is Katarina.

The man takes a deep breath, his surprise now replaced by uncertainty. "What are you doing here, Your Excellency? Not that I'm unhappy to find you here…" he adds cautiously. Childhood fantasies flicker in his mind: this woman, so far out of his reach, becoming his.

I am here for you, she murmurs, passion driving the words into his mind. Come to me.

Her summons ignites his daydreams into yearning lust. He stumbles towards the bed, reaching for her. "Katarina…" he groans, pulling the sheets that veil her aside. She is more beautiful than he could imagine. He reaches towards her with one hand, tries to finish disrobing with the other.

Yes. She catches the hand he extends towards her, pulling him to her. I found you. There are so few of you left.

She pulls him onto the bed. Twisting his arm, she rolls atop him, straddling him. The bones of his forearm snap; as she tears his arm off, the shredded flesh spatters blood across their snow-white skin. He gasps, arching his back. He begins to howl, but her hands close around his neck, choking him to silence. He bucks beneath her weight, so much less than his own, but as immoveable as stone.

She drives her blood-red nails through the wall of his throat. Blood fountains from his severed jugular across her arms and face, into the tangles and snarls of her pale hair. When he stops struggling, she rests atop him for a moment, peaceful in her moment of triumph. There are so few of you left, and now there is one fewer.

She pulls on his clothing, oblivious to the blood and the green silk kimono she has discarded at the foot of his bed. She stops at the base of the stairs to collect his jacket, pulling it on over his shirt. Barefoot, she pads out of the house, leaving behind only the dead as witnesses to her passage.

Enlightenment

Another popular game, "Nine Enlightenments," is based on the folktale of a prince who was confronted by eight enlightened beings while on a journey to find his bride. One by one, each enlightened being challenged the prince with a riddle, and when he correctly answered all eight, they revealed a beautiful princess whom he took as his wife. Within the houses of clouds, the story is retold as a combination of a riddle-game and an auction. A courtesan dons eight kimono, and takes her place on the center stage of her house. As drinks are sold to the clients of the courtesan house, customers are encouraged to overpay for their refreshments. Those who pay enough are brought their drinks in unique decorated vessels. Occasionally, the courtesan will stop performing, and rise to describe one of the special vessels. The patron who possesses that container then rises, and states a theme on which he seeks enlightenment. The courtesan will then pose a riddle. If the patron answers it correctly, the courtesan will remove her outermost kimono, bestowing it upon the patron as a gift that symbolizes the prince advancing past one of the eight enlightened beings. It is common custom that the patron who removes the last kimono wins the courtesan as well, at least for one evening.

From Among the Houses of Clouds, by "Sable Blaze"

The courtesan strummed the cittern one last time, closing her eyes as the echoes of music died away around her. Graceful even beneath the five kimono she yet wore, she rose. In her dulcet voice, she chanted, "The sun sets, turning the hills the color of flame. Amidst the trees, foxes watch the man as he slumbers, dreaming of love. When night falls, they will don their womanly robes and comfort him, but with the dawn, they will vanish, leaving him grasping for a memory of joy he will never savor again."

Beside Emerald, Valor Touraine smiled, at last releasing her hold on him. She rose quickly, sweeping the tiny ruby-toned ceramic cup into one slim hand, but by then, Emerald was already gone.

As he vanished into the second-floor halls of the courtesan house, to the private rooms of screens and cushions, desire and release, Valor raised the cup to the courtesan and answered her, "Teach me of revenge." In one swallow, she drained the cup, its contents searing her throat like liquid fire.

The same fire raged inside Emerald's veins, igniting buried resentment and suppressed jealousy into a conflagration of hate. He knew she had arranged for him to see everything: Verity and Marius laughing together on the floor of the house, his hands on her, his lips against hers, and then his riddle—

"Teach me of lies," Marius had asked, smiling at Verity, who had flushed like the sun.

Emerald remembered Verity's letter, her apologies that she could not see him, that she had a commitment to another. He had asked if it was Marius, and she had laughed and told him no, that she would shopping for dresses.

Marius had won the third robe, and together, the two had vanished into the back halls, the private rooms, Marius's hands already teasing loose the laces of her dress—

He had risen then to confront them, as he had when they first arrived together. As she had before, Valor placed her hand upon his own, restraining him. "Bide a while," she said again, "and speak to me before you act, Your Excellency. We have spoken of the family's pain, and of its betrayal – of a generation of our brothers and sisters who had prepared themselves to die for the family, and were stripped of the chance to do even that, as cowards and politicians betrayed us to our enemies. Your own father, your own mother – they lie dead, consumed by fire at Aoiyama, perhaps even made to rise again." She squeezed his hand so tightly it hurt, demanding he look at her. "The family feels your pain, Your Excellency, but moreover it rages. A price must be paid by those who turned their backs upon us. There is something you want," she raised her chin to follow the path of the couple's departure, "and if you take it, you can serve your kin. Everything is arranged for you, but you must not falter, Emerald," she had said. "Do not fail us, as so many others have."

She had held his arm, as strong as he, until his blind, thrashing fury turned to focused, drunken hate. Only then had she released him.

He stumbled down the hallway, stopping at sliding doors to listen. He had no idea how he would find them, two lovers among dozens in a building built to hide secrets. He slumped against a thin interior wall painted with blossoming irises. It shifted under his weight, and beyond it he heard a muttered oath and a woman's encouraging laughter. "Honey," she crooned to her partner, "let them watch if they want, but I'm yours alone."

Yours alone, Emerald thought, hastily fleeing deeper into the house. That was the problem. Verity was not his alone, and would not be – did not want to be. She had both him and Marius wrapped around her finger, and relished making them compete for her affection. But she had lied to him tonight to be here, alone, with Marius. Was he losing her to him? Couldn't she see how much better he, Emerald, was for her?

Lost in his fears, he tripped over the sword, sending it clattering to the ground. His sword, leaning against the sliding panel of a private room. Beside it, he saw Marius's shorter, heavier blade, a message left for him. Everything is arranged, she had said. Valor, at least, had not lied.

He picked up his sword, and thrust it through his belt. Clutching Marius's blade in his other hand, he threw the sliding panel open, and stepped inside.

Her dress lay crumpled on the floor in a tangle with Marius's shirt, surrounded by a scattering of boots and sandals. She was kneeling in from of him, her back to Emerald, her new kimono trailing behind her, pulled down to bare her honey-gold shoulders. Marius sat, bare-chested, on the edge of the low futon bed, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure from Verity's ministrations. His composure unshaken by Emerald's sudden entrance, Marius lifted his chin to meet his eyes. "Hello, Emerald," he called out, unruffled. "What a surprise it is to see you here. Haven't you heard of knocking?"

Verity leaned back onto her hands, turning to peek at him over her shoulder and reveal exactly what she had been doing for Marius. He saw that she was embarrassed, but her voice sounded excited, "Emerald, my darling. Have you seen my new kimono?" She pushed herself up unsteadily, giggling as half the robe slipped off her shoulder entirely, baring her flesh from collarbone to hip. "Marius won it for me. Do you have a kimono for me?" She put her right hand on her hip, and pouted provocatively at Emerald. Even as she flirted at him, he watched her reach out to caress Marius with her other hand.

White-hot, Emerald's anger burned at his self-control, inciting him to rage, to howl, to kill. He drew his sword, shaking with fury. "I'm tired of this game. Move aside, Verity. Marius and I have a matter of honor to settle. I challenge you, Marius Komaru. Let us put an end to this."

Verity laughed, looking delighted. "Emerald, darling, you don't need to—"

Marius clapped a hand to her arm, pulling her to him. "He's serious, Ver." Before she could protest, he pulled her close and kissed her, his hands moving intimately across her skin, his eyes never leaving Emerald's own. Emerald took an involuntary step towards the two, raising his sword, and Marius shoved Verity down onto the futon, where she collapsed with a surprised shriek into a mound of golden skin and violet silk.

Marius said, "I don't know how you managed to get a sword in here, Emerald, but I do not have one of my own, unless that is it in your hands."

Emerald snarled, "I should make you fight with the blade you defiled her with, Marius, just for the pleasure of cutting it off." He flung the sword at Marius, "Swords it is."

Chuckling, Marius plucked the blade out of the air. "You always were jealous of me, Emerald. You were a good friend, but you could never quite keep up with me, could you?" He slid his sword out, tossing the sheath onto the bed beside Verity, who had righted herself but now wore an expression of alarm. "I never defiled her. I just gave her what she wanted – satisfaction. Something you couldn't give her yourself."

Emerald lunged at Marius, who spun away from the blow, laughing. Emerald slashed at his face, and Marius parried the blow agilely. "Done arguing, Emerald?" Marius taunted him. "Yes, I imagine you're too busy to say anything. We both know I'm the better swordsman." Contemptuous, he flicked his blade at Emerald's wrist. Emerald parried quickly, but felt steel graze his upper arm.

Wrathful, Emerald lashed out again, feinting with his blade. His free hand caught the tray of refreshments beside the bed, flinging it across the room to shower Marius with rice wine and fragile glass-stemmed goblets. Marius beat at the missiles with his sword, shattering them, and Emerald charged him.

Broken glass crunched beneath Emerald's booted soles, and into the soft skin of Marius's bare feet as he riposted, driving Emerald back. Marius cursed him, "Bastard," and savagely attacked.

The rhythm came back to Emerald as he fought Marius, his slim blade dancing with the heavy curve of Marius's wakizashi. They had fought a dozen times before – for sport, for honor, for the love of the woman who watched in silence from the bed. It was comfortable, familiar. There was no man in the world he knew as well as Marius, now that his father, once duke of Aoiyama, lay dead.

There was no man who he knew as well as Marius, and when he faltered, his bare feet bloody with jagged glass, Emerald drove his sword through Marius's familiar heart and held it there, until Marius slumped into his arms.

"I loved her," Marius coughed, spitting blood onto Emerald's shoulder. "But I loved you too, Emerald."

"Yes," Emerald acknowledged, sinking to his knees. "We both loved her more than each other."

On the bed, Verity whispered, "Let me heal him—"

Emerald reached for Marius's blade, slicing his fingers as he grabbed for the hilt. He raised it, pointing it towards Verity without glancing at her. "No. Be silent, Verity. This is between the two of us. We cannot go on like this." He heard her begin to cry.

Marius's face contorted in agony. "I cannot forgive you for taking her from me," he wheezed. "But treat her well."

Emerald murmured, "I will." He pulled Marius against him, and held him in his arms, until he died.

"Rakshasa," Emerald whispered, smearing Marius's blood across his face as he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes.

Verity's distressed wail made him rise to face her. Her cheeks puffy and streaked with tears, she shrank from him, back into the far corner of the futon. "I'm afraid of you," she sobbed. "I've never seen you like this. You killed him."

Emerald inclined his head. "I killed him." He felt no remorse, but he felt loss, and a need to explain. He knelt at the edge of the futon. "I did it for you."

Her sea-green eyes were rimmed with red. "Why?" she whispered.

"Because I am yours, Verity. All I think of is you. Every woman I have desired, I have desired because I see you in her. I cannot share you with any man. So I will kill to have you," he confessed, resigned.

"You will kill to have me," she repeated, no longer crying.

"Anyone who stands between us," he confirmed, watching her.

"No one else has done this for me," she whispered. She placed a hand in front of her, and then another.

"I would do it again," he vowed.

On hands and knees, she crawled across the futon towards him. She stopped, a foot from him. She was trembling. "You're hurt," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face, smeared with Marius's drying blood.

He caught her hand in his own, pulling her close to him. Her skin was feverishly hot. She craned her neck to meet his lips with her own. Her tongue forced its way into his mouth, even as her hands tore at the clasps of his bloody doublet.

He caught at the sleeve of her kimono as she dragged it across his arm. "You'll ruin your robe," he gasped, tearing his lips free from hers.

Savagely, she threw her weight against him, pushing him down into the bed. "Tear it. Stain it. Destroy it. I don't care. You didn't give it to me, Emerald, so it doesn't matter." Laughing, crying, she ripped the kimono off, flinging it away. "I'm your woman now, Emerald. Yours alone."

Violet silk covers pallid flesh, the gift ruined, the giver dead.

Outside the door, Valor Touraine, her new kimono folded over one arm, listened until she was satisfied. She walked away, the lovers' gasps fading behind her. Downstairs, she found the madam of the house, handed her a hefty pouch, curtseyed politely, and departed.

A Fair Deal

Tarano's manservant bows to him, taking his riding gloves and jacket. He moves to leave, but then hesitates. Tarano notices it at once. "What is it, man?" he asks.

The manservant clears his throat, and, in a scandalized voice, says, "The baroness Kagome Minamet is here, my lord. She asked me not to tell you. She is waiting for you in your chambers." He bows twice more, and then turns to vanish in the stables, leaving Tarano alone with his thoughts.

His feet carry him into his manor, the small keep of Thornspoint. Guardian of a pass far from the front, he has restored it from tumbledown ruin to inhabitable fortress. After years of work, Thornspoint at last can keep rain and livestock out. He climbs the spiraling stone staircase to his chambers, wondering.

She is not in his sitting room, but the panel that divides it from his bedroom lies half-opened. He moves the sliding panel aside, and finds her waiting there for him, crumpled before the simple interior shrine. He recognizes the kimono she wears as her best: black embroidered with mountains, blended color turning their slopes green and gold. Her swords lie at her side, sheathed. The stink of decay fills the room.

Numb, he touches what is left of her, the pale, blood-spotted bag of skin peeled from her body, wrapped in the corrupted ruins of her clothing. The Minamet teach that the body is a husk, and he hopes it is so, for what he sees contains no trace of her.

Later, he finds the letter on his writing desk, rusty brown ink on a patch of her skin.

You killed my woman.

Now I've killed yours.

That seems a fair deal to me.

Ambition

He knows her by reputation, but has never met her. He had not known how much he wanted to meet her until now, when she stands before him. To his last day, he will never forget the sight of her.

Though she is taller than his wife, her head scarcely rises to his shoulders. Her hair is long, trailing down to brush against her thighs as she walks, the color of darkness kissed with highlights of flame. Around her ears, it is twisted into fine, delicate chains; a web of braids pulls the bulk of her hair from her face. Woven in are tiny scarlet blossoms.

Something stirs in him, something so long-suppressed he thought he had left it behind him. Lust.

She curtseys before him, her amber eyes holding his own. Her collarbone is flawless, the long, sun-kissed lines of her shoulders the edge of a cliff that plunges down over an expanse of creamy flesh to the black velvet bodice that contains her bosom, and barely that. Her midriff is bare, and her stomach is smooth and muscular. A single red jewel nestles in her belly button, above the low-cut line of her gauzy black skirt. Copper bells tinkle at her wrists and ankles as she settles with exquisite grace onto one knee.

He desires her.

"Your Highness," she whispers, and he remembers her voice from childhood dreams. "My name is Seriah. You know – all of Komaru must know – that this land must have a king. I have come to offer you the crown. Will you take it?"

She reaches out towards him. Her fingertips extend, offering him the world, the gift of a woman with nails the color of blood.

Wordlessly, he takes her hand.