The Tiger's Daughter Page 4

  Shizuka has never been fond of potted plants. She receives them more than any other gift—but no, she has never liked them.

  She leans toward the window, lost in thought, lost in memory. Her eyes dance over poppies and jasmine, irises and hibiscus, champa and magnolia. And, yes—if she looks—she can see the golden daffodil.

  Her mother hated that daffodil. So did her uncle.

  It stands alone, at least two horselengths from the nearest bush, from the nearest tree. The grass around it is, for the most part, untouched. No one dares venture near it. Shizuka didn’t even know of the daffodil’s existence until one of her walks in the garden.

  She was five at the time, she thinks, or perhaps six—before she uprooted the gardens for Shefali’s sake, but after they’d first met. Her cousin Daishi Akiko came to visit from Fuyutsuki Province for the summer. Daishi was so far removed from the bloodline that her children would no longer count as Imperial, but she was the closest thing to a friend Shizuka had.

  Well, besides Shefali, but then she has always been an exception.

  Daishi was only two years older than she, but full of an eight-year-old’s audacity. And while their parents were off at court, Daishi convinced her to raid the gardens.

  “Raid.” That was the word she used. They were going to the corpse blossom, she said, and they were going to steal one of its massive petals. Then they’d sneak into the throne room at night to hide it beneath the Dragon Throne. Imagine Yoshimoto’s face! Imagine O-Hanae’s!

  But the moment they stepped in the garden, with the sun hanging overhead—Shizuka knew something was different.

  As the two girls strolled past a rosebush, Daishi suddenly stopped and covered her mouth. “Did you see that?” she asked.

  Shizuka, six, pouted and crossed her arms. “Those are roses,” she said, “not corpse flowers.”

  “Walk by them again,” said Daishi.

  Grumbling, Shizuka did so, and that was when the shock on Daishi’s face turned to awe. She pointed with her rough little hands. “They’re turning toward you!”

  Shizuka rolled her eyes. “Of course they are,” she said. “I’m the heir.”

  Daishi would’ve slapped her if she could have—but they both knew she couldn’t. That only made Shizuka more bold. “If I tell them to change colors, then they have to do that, too,” she boasted, and as she spoke, she reached for a pink one.

  But then—ah, it was as if the rose fell into a bowl of golden ink, for the color spread through its petals before their eyes.

  Daishi fell backwards, gasping, her hair flying out of its neat bun. Shizuka stood staring at the gilt leaves. She reached out to touch them again, only to find that they were as soft as any other rose’s—yet when the light hit them, they shone like her aunt’s hair ornaments.

  “What did you do?” Daishi said. “How did you—? That isn’t something people can just do!”

  And though Shizuka’s heart was a hummingbird, though her mouth was dry and her fingers trembled, she could not let herself be afraid.

  “Don’t doubt me, Aki-lun,” she said.

  Daishi wiped her nose and frowned. After getting to her feet, she, too, touched the flower.

  Shizuka yanked it out of her hand. “It’s mine,” she said, and tucked it behind her ear as her father did. Daishi could hardly argue the point.

  But she did smile. “You’ve got to make me one, too,” she said.

  And so Shizuka did.

  By the start of Seventh Bell, when court finished, Shizuka had changed half the Eastern Garden. O-Shizuru found them laughing, rolling along a patch of golden grass.

  But O-Shizuru did not laugh, not at all.

  When Shizuka pictures her mother, she sees that look: jaw clenched, thick brows nearly meeting, a look of fear and fury in her eyes.

  The moment they saw her, the girls froze, their smiles scattered like dandelion seeds to the wind.

  “Daishi-lun,” said O-Shizuru, “go to your father.”

  Daishi swallowed. She bowed to Shizuka, apologized under her breath, and ran as fast as her legs could take her.

  And so they were alone, mother and daughter. Shizuka’s face felt hot. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was her mother so upset?

  O-Shizuru thumbed her nose. She looked away for a moment, thinking of something her daughter couldn’t fathom. Then she shook her head. “Who told you about the daffodil, Shizuka?” she said.

  Shizuka paused. “No one,” she says. “These are roses, Mother, they’re different—”

  “I’m well past the age of knowing what a rose looks like,” Shizuru cut in.

  Shizuka winced. Her mother’s warm voice was a sword when she was upset.

  O-Shizuru must’ve realized she was too severe, for she sighed and took her daughter’s hand. “Come with me,” she said. “I suppose it’s time you heard the story.”

  At the time, that walk had seemed eternal. Frightening, too. Her father never took her to that part of the garden. The farther in they went, the more Shizuka saw random objects sticking up out of the ground—a statue of the Daughter, jade coins. Was that a bamboo mat? What were these things doing in the garden?

  But then she saw it, standing alone.

  A single golden daffodil.

  Shizuru sniffed. “When your father and I were wishing for you,” she said, “an old scholar told me I had to bury something I loved.” She gestured vaguely at all the detritus around the garden. “I tried, and tried, with all sorts of things. But when I buried my short sword—that’s when the flower showed up, gold as the sword’s pommel. And then you did, not long after that. It’s been here ever since.”

  And Shizuka remembers the breeze through the garden, remembers the daffodil’s quiet dance to unseen music.

  She reached out for the flower, but her mother touched her hand.

  “Don’t touch it,” she said sharply. “The scholar said—Shizuka.” She took a deep breath. “The day you touch that flower is your last day in the Empire. That’s what he said. Do you know what that means?”

  “That I’d be going to live with Shefali and the Qorin,” Shizuka said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Shizuru palmed her face. “Shizuka,” she said. “You and that girl. Like two pine needles.”

  At the time, Shizuka had no idea what it meant. After all, she hadn’t seen Shefali in years, and when she spoke of running off to join the Qorin, it was just something that popped into her head.

  But she knew it sounded right.

  “I don’t like this,” said Shizuru, more to herself than to her daughter. “Changing the colors of things. Priests telling me they can’t read your fortune, flowers following you around. You should have a good life. A nice, quiet life, with none of my foolishness and too much of your father’s.”

  A pause. And then.

  “Whatever happens,” said O-Shizuru, “keep Shefali with you. Whatever is going on with you will also be going on with her. Now, come on. Your uncle’s not going to like this, and the Mother knows we’ll hear about it tomorrow.”

  Years later, Shizuka can say that her mother was right. The next morning, in full view of the court, the Emperor railed against the perils of hubris, against the ungodly affront to His Divine Power in his garden. His thundering reprimands rained down on O-Shizuru—but she remained kneeling, and if she wanted to gut her brother-in-law like a catfish, she had the good sense not to show it.

  Shizuka did not attend court that day. Instead, her parents swamped her with tutors. Calligraphy, poetry, zither, dance. One of them had to catch her interest. One of them would teach her calm, and caution, and to consider her actions.

  One did, of course. Calligraphy. But Shizuka had never needed a tutor for that, beyond her brush and inkwell.

  But once all that was through—once she made her way home—that was when she heard the words for the first time.

  Her mother’s voice near to breaking, her father’s smooth and comforting. They had not yet n
oticed her.

  “What if that Qorin woman was right, Itsuki, what if our girl is—?”

  “Then who better to mother her, Zuru? Who better to keep her humble and noble? Better we raise her than Iori. And she will have Shefali, and the two of them will be like two pine needles. She will never be alone.”

  Iori. Had that been the Emperor’s name, before the throne? It matched Itsuki, as was traditional for Imperial children. This was the first time she’d ever heard it, but the sad venom in her father’s voice left little room for doubt.

  Shizuka’s breath caught. What were they talking about? Was this about her birthday? For she was born on the eighth day of Ji-Dao, the eighth month, at eight minutes into Last Bell in the Daughter’s year. All the palace soothsayers told her it was a good omen.

  Though they didn’t use those words.

  They just said she was destined for greatness. They said the Daughter had been born on the same day, at the same time.

  Is that what her mother meant, in the garden?

  A crow’s creaking startled her parents. They saw her then, and their faces softened.

  “Shizuka,” said Itsuki, first to rise. He did not wear his normal smile that day. “Shizuka, how were your lessons today?”

  Did you mean what you said? Shizuka wanted to ask him. “Boring.”

  “Better boring than difficult!” said Itsuki. “What I would give to have a boring day, my dear.”

  He hugged her, fixed her hair ornaments, doted on her as he always did.

  But something felt different. As if she were wearing another girl’s clothes, as if they were afraid of touching her.

  She did not sleep that night. Instead, she stood by the window, staring out at the golden daffodil surrounded by her mother’s old things.

  In the morning, her uncle’s men came for her. Twice-eight tall men in Dragon armor, twice-eight faceless warriors with wicked spears, politely asking her to come to the gardens with them. Her mother insulting them. Her father, squeezing Shizuru’s shoulder, telling her that it would pass.

  When they arrived, her uncle was already there. His litter was there, at least, held up by eight men, curtained off from the early-morning sun. Shizuka’s mother forced her head down when they approached him.

  “Brother,” said Itsuki. “What a beautiful day the Daughter has made! You should come for a walk with us. The scenery will do you good.”

  The scenery.

  They stood in front of the gold rosebush, and the men in armor had torches.

  “Is that what you call this, Itsuki?” said the Emperor. “A beautiful day, and not an affront to our divine authority?”

  Shizuka’s chest went tight. “Mother, what is he doing?”

  “Whatever you’re planning,” said O-Shizuru, her voice harsh, “you know she meant no offense. We’ve been over this. She is six years old, Iori, six years old, and if you hurt her—”

  From inside the litter, the Emperor clapped. Two soldiers stood on each side of Shizuru. Itsuki grabbed his daughter by the shoulders.

  “Willful child,” said the Emperor. “Was this your doing?”

  She spoke before she could think about it. Things never went well when she honed her thoughts. Then speaking became like dragging knives across her tongue. Talk, she thought. Just talk. The words will come, and they’ll fix everything. They always do.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was. All I did was change their color. If you are the Son of Heaven, you can change them back. Gods can do whatever they wish.”

  Her father squeezed her tighter. That wasn’t the reaction she wanted! He was supposed to be proud of her, he was supposed to relax!

  “The Son of Heaven,” she continued, “shouldn’t have to tell his guards to hold my mother back, either. Are you afraid of her?”

  “Discipline her,” said the Emperor.

  An eternal moment hung in the air, punctuated by black caws. Shizuka’s heart punched against her ribs.

  O-Shizuru stepped in front of her husband and daughter. She didn’t draw the white sword at her side—but her hand was on its pommel. “Go on,” she barked at the guards. “Lay a hand on my daughter, and I’ll lay your hand on the ground.”

  “Shizuru—,” said Itsuki.

  “I mean it!” roared Shizuru. “Try me, if you are so brave!”

  The guards all wore masks; Shizuka could not see their faces. Still, she knew they were pale.

  “Wearing war masks to fight humans,” said Shizuru. “To discipline a six-year-old girl. How dare you?”

  “Hold the girl down,” snapped the Emperor, “or face Imperial justice.”

  Shizuka remembers to this day the rattling of the guard’s armor. Remembers how they stood trembling in front of her mother, remembers the fear in their eyes.

  And she remembers her father whispering in her ear. “Shizuka, I’m sorry, but your mother is going to hurt those men unless you kneel. Please play along, and this will be over soon.”

  She remembers thinking, distinctly, that she didn’t care if those men were hurt, because they served her uncle.

  But if her mother hurt them, then … what would her uncle do? If she gave him a reason, a real reason? What if he sent O-Shizuru North, what if he told the guards to kill her?

  Shizuka’s jaw hurt. She didn’t like being this afraid. She knelt.

  Shizuru started shouting at her, at her father, at her uncle, at the world. Every harsh syllable made Shizuka’s head pound. Fear choked her. Something awful was about to happen, wasn’t it?

  Yes.

  One of the guards lit a torch, then another, then another, then another.

  One by one, they marched toward the bushes.

  And the others?

  The others set fire to the roses. To the jasmine, to the dogwood, to the lilies; to cherry and plum; to all the flowers she’d come to know like old friends.

  To all her father’s favorites. Her father held her as they watched, as Shizuka screamed and screamed and screamed.

  That day, thinks Shizuka—that was the day she learned to truly hate her uncle.

  She sniffs.

  To a lesser extent, that was when the public learned to hate him as well. The Hokkarans, that is. The Qorin knew Yoshimoto for a snake before he assumed the throne, but only the destruction of beauty appealed to courtly, art-obsessed Hokkarans.

  By the time Shefali next visited, the gardens were coming back to life—but only just. Not that Shefali seems to have noticed. For the better, then.

  The daffodil still stands, untouched, unharmed by the fire so many years ago.

  Shizuka—no, Empress Yui—shakes herself away from the past. She has spent long enough staring, long enough dwelling in painful memories.

  The book in her hands smells of pine and horses. She holds it to her nose and takes a deep breath.

  Part of a person’s soul is in their scent, as Shefali would say.

  Shizuka has long missed this one.

  LET THE WINDS OF HEAVEN BLOW

  When we were eight and I stayed with you for the winter, your father gave you a choice.

  “Either you learn the naginata or the sword,” he said. “You may choose only one.”

  You did not have to think about it. “The sword,” you said. “It is about time Mother recognized my talent.”

  Your father smiled in his soft way. He reached out to muss your hair. Perhaps he decided not to; he drew back after half a second. But the smile stayed.

  “Are you certain, my little tigress?” he said. “The sword may be your mother’s weapon, but it is far more dangerous. You must be closer to your opponent. If we lived in the best times, you would never have to draw your sword; if we lived in better times, you would only fight humans. But…”

  “I do not care whom I have to fight,” you said.

  O-Itsuki looked away. The smile on his face didn’t change—or at least the shape of his mouth did not.

  Once, when he was a young man, O-Itsuki took the field against the Qorin. He did n
ot do much fighting. For the most part, he sat in his brother’s tent, listening to their generals panic.

  Many times, when he was a bit older, O-Itsuki accompanied his wife into battle. He did not do much fighting then, either. But he watched good men and women writhe in agony. He watched Shizuru put them down rather than let them become monsters. He watched Shizuru slay creatures twice her size. Perhaps these things were on his mind. But they were not on yours.

  “I was born to hold a sword. If the gods saw fit to give my mother one, they’ve seen fit to give me one, too.”

  “The gods did not give your mother her sword,” Itsuki said. “Her ancestors did.”

  “My mother is an ancestor. I’ll have her sword one day,” you countered. You crossed your arms.

  If your father had any more arguments, he did not voice them. Your teacher was selected, and swordplay was added to the schedule of your daily lessons. You left the room triumphant. For the rest of the day, it was all you could talk about. During our walk around your gardens, you spoke of it.

  “A sword, Shefali!” you said. “At last! Now that I’m being properly taught, my mother will have to recognize my talent.”

  Only the plum trees were blossoming. We stopped beneath one of them. Was it my imagination, or did the flowers turn toward you as we approached?

  I plucked one of the sprigs of flowers, already tall enough to do so. I can’t say what possessed me to do it—the penalty for defacing the Imperial Garden is twenty lashes, at minimum. Perhaps I knew you’d never go through with such a punishment. What I did know, as soon as the flower was in my hand, was that it deserved to be in your hair. I stopped us with a small motion, swept your hair back between your ear, and slipped the flower there. The bright pink petals echoed the ones on your favorite winter dress.

  What a pretty sight you were. I got the feeling it would be strange to tell you that you were pretty—that you might take it differently than you did when other people said it. So I changed the subject.

  “Why not a naginata?”