SHEETS OF GRAY rain washed over the House of Eight Plums, sinking winter’s fang into stone and flesh alike. The Tzukamida Run, usually a slim finger of cool water trickling from Mount Irusu’s peak, was now gorged with winter’s rush. It rushed down into a deep carved channel that divided the House’s garden in two, cleaving right between the plum tree grove. On the eastern side of the garden was a gap in the wall that ringed the property, where the Tzukamida cascaded out over a sheep drop of several hundred feet. The priestesses said the stream carried the moon’s tears to the villages that dotted the hills of the tree-lined valley below. The stream wept hardest during the winter, for the Golden One retreated to the south and the days grew short.

A wooden bridge spanned the Tzukamida at the head of the falls. It was painted red, with gold and black ornamentation that made it glow when the sun struck just right. Kinro-zhi stood on the bridge, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other on the railing, watching the sun set. It was no more than a suggestion through sodden, laboring clouds. Unlike his companion, who stood simmering behind him, huge arms crossed and scowling through the rain, Kinro-zhi seemed at peace on the bridge. He seemed at peace everywhere.

“Two days they’ve made us wait, Kinro! Long enough, I say,” the big man growled. He had come a long way with his companion, walking and riding over hundreds of miles of terrain just to reach the edge of these strange lands. Further from home than ever before, he was put off by the strange behavior of these folk. He knew these Hinoni thought him barbarous, even simple minded, but did they not have bandits and thieves? Were their hills no less dangerous than those in the west? Did they not bleed?

“Peace, Ulrem,” said Kinro. He held his chin high, letting rainwater track down his face.

“They make you wait only to mock you,” Ulrem said. He had visited many of the great cities in his roving, seeking glory and treasure. The Hinoni lands, and their Unbroken Dynasty, were no different, for all their manners and sophistication. Civilization was nothing more than a hat one wore to appear taller than others; a lie told to obscure the things that hunted in the dark, while your neighbors sat honing their knives.

“They will come,” Kinro said. “They must. Honor demands it. Hurecho’s ronijar will not allow him to hide very long, or he will lose their respect. He cares for nothing more than that.”

Ulrem started to say something, but his keen ears, honed in the wilds through hungry, hard years, picked up the faintest scraping of wood on stone. A door opening and closing. Whispered footsteps. He turned and saw two of the priestesses hurrying towards them across the House’s gardens, bent low under straw mat capes and wobbling hats.

Kinro bowed low to them. “Holy Mothers,” he said. Then the light of recognition sprang to his face. “Shojima Mother! I had hoped to meet you here. Have you been hiding from me? How may I help you?”

One of the priestesses was old, her back crooked and the flesh of her face deeply creased. She peered up at Kinro from under the brim of her hat, revealing one dull, milky eye, and another as black and sharp as a raptor’s. She ignored Ulrem entirely. He saw the other woman was the young priestess they had chanced upon in the temple two nights earlier. Her violet eyes met and held Ulrem’s over the older woman’s back, and she stared at him, her face openly curious.

“Hear this, Kinro-zhi. Master Hurecho has bid us deliver you a message, blademaster,” the old woman said in careful O-Hinoni. Ulrem’s ear for the lyrical tongue was still young, but he had enough to follow along. The smaller man offered a slight bow at the acknowledgment. “He says he will not join you in the rain. He says your game must wait.” Ulrem barked a sharp laugh, which made the girl back up a step.

“Thank you, Holy Mother.” The lines around Kinro’s eyes tightened a little, the only sign of his frustration.

“And for what it’s worth,” the old woman said, the formality dropping in an instant, “I think all this is nonsense. You ronijar have no business spilling one another’s blood! There are better things to do. I wish you would both leave.”

“That,” Kinro said, voice polite with apology, “is impossible, Shojima Mother. This was the oath we swore. It must be seen through.”

She waved a hand in his face. “Foolishness. You are not a young man anymore, Kinro-zhi, chasing the wind and singing prayers with other monks. You think me so old I have forgotten? I recall the two of you stumbling, gasping, to the very top of Mount Irusu. I remember binding your bloody feet, and helping you hobble to piss.” Ulrem blinked at the venom in the old priestess’ voice. The girl held a hand to her mouth and blushed politely.

“Shojima Mother!” she gasped.

“Bah,” the other woman said. “Live long enough, Lilac, and you grow tired of the games these boys play.” She pointed down over the valley that sprawled below the spray of Tzukamida waterfall. If you are truly the o-shinikenjar, then there are men and women who need your blade. The shadows move. Even here, on holy Irusu, we hear tell of dark things in the north and west. Creatures come down out of the mountains, and giants, and hordes of plagued things.”

Ulrem raised an eyebrow. That last bit had caught his attention. He stared out over the valley, suddenly eager to explore those strange forests with their pole trees and tall rugged pines.

New horizons, new glories, came an echo from within him. The ghosts bound to the ring on his finger, rising from their slumber. Ulrem nodded, though no one noticed. Here may be a challenge worthy of the Lionborn.

Kinro inclined his head. “We will ply ourselves to the task, Holy Mother. After I have settled my account with Master Hurecho.”

Shojima Mother gave him a withering look. “I wonder. Or will you wander off after the winds again?”

Ulrem’s companion looked away. A measure of shame, at that. He kept his peace, though, perhaps afraid to spar with the old woman further.

“Settle your debt before tomorrow!” the old priestess said. “Then get out. I’ve had enough of your honor for a lifetime. Go do something worth doing.” She turned and dragged the young woman with her. The purple-eyed priestess cast a final look at them over her shoulder, before giving in and hurrying along.

The two men stood alone on the rainswept bridge. The falls hissed and gurgled below them, and the winds moaned along the cliff face.

“What will you do?” Ulrem asked, shoving himself up off the rail. He had had enough of rain. Old Shojima’s argument had been persuasive to him, at least. He would give no complaint if they quit the House of Eight Plums and went off hunting the old woman’s shadows.

“Hurecho has forced my hand,” Kinro said with resignation. “I did not expect subtlety from him, but he has outplayed us. When we were young, he was always chasing my heels. It seems that I am behind him, at last. He sent Shojima Mother to me, and she has spoken her word. He leaves me no choice, Lion.”

“We go to him?”

“We go to him.”

#

The corridors were empty, as if the House of Eight Plums was holding its breath. The floors that connected the temple hall to the main guest quarters were paved in smooth river stones set in curious, winding patterns that encouraged the foot to step as if in a dance. Though the temple could host more than fifty pilgrims at a time, the old priestesses had wisely separated Kinro and Ulrem from Hurecho’s ronijar, giving them rooms in the empty servant’s quarters. With winter on, most of the servants had gone home to their families in the valley. Now Ulrem padded after Kinro, his eyes sharp and ears alert, for the quiet of the house greatly unnerved him. It made his skin tighten and his ears ring as he hunted for the baited trap, for the ambush lurking out of sight.

None of the priestesses, all of whom seemed very old, save the purple-eyed girl, were about. They had retreated into the depths of the temple, as far as they could get from the boisterous crowd of men that occupied the western wing of the House. Ulrem could hear their callous laughter spilling down the corridor. A string of syllables in O-Hinoni that he couldn’t follow. Kinro stiffened.

“What did they say?” Ulrem growled. He spied a flash of white beyond a door as they passed. A cat, its green eyes shining in the dark. Ulrem bared his teeth in a grin, and it dashed off.

“They know we are coming,” Kinro explained, his voice placid and steps measured. “They must have had a spy in the hall.”

“That’s not what they said.”

Kinro never translated their remarks. They stopped before the thin door to Hurecho’s quarters in its lattice of spars. The thick, papery material of the door did little to hold back the raucous bawling from within. He heard an ape chattering, and then a few harsh words issued with the impatient command of a man ill at ease. Ulrem had heard that tone before, and never from men he found particularly useful.

Kinro drew the door aside with a single, smooth motion. Within, a dozen men sat or lounged on cushions. They wore a motley of robes, most cut in the style of Kinro’s senshaama, pinned with ornamental broaches. Their swords lay on their knees, or near at hand, and bottles of the sour wine were scattered around. Ulrem picked out the spiced stink of a drug fume coming from somewhere. At the head of these ronijar, who seemed not particularly noble, arrayed as they were like a pack of drunken thieves, was a man in a white robe slashed with a coiling black dragon across the breast and arms. He sat on a low platform above the others, legs folded neatly, sword primly across his lap. Beside him sat a withered looking man with pale blue eyes, swathed in a black cloak. He held a bowl of some fuming drug or another up near his face, watching the door through pale smoke.

The others feigned disinterest, looking anywhere but at Kinro framed in the door. One knave had a knife out and was picking at his nails idly. Their leader, though, glared at Kinro with naked hatred, his thin lips drawn down into a rictus of disgust. An old scar cut across his scalp and down over his left eye, and it had turned white even as the man’s face grew more flushed.

“Hurecho,” Kinro said, bowing his head. “The Holy Mother told me it was too cold and wet for you to fulfill your word. Very well. I have come to you.”

The ronijar sat up, barking at Kinro for the insult to their master. Hands drifted to swords. Hurecho held a hand up, stilling them.

“You speak to me as an equal, Kinro-zhi?” He stood slowly, rising like a cobra, his arms flexing to spread at the elbows. “We are no longer the same.”

Kinro inclined his head, acknowledging this with a chuckle. “Indeed not. I do not gorge myself on the adoration of fools, brother.”

“Bastard!” Hurecho spat. “You are no brother of mine! Take your foreign dog and flee the mountain, or the old women will bury you here.” His men leaped to their feet, ready to act. Kinro stood perfectly still. Beside Hurecho, the robed man cackled.

One of the ronijar took a few crabbing steps forward. He was no more than twenty summers, the arrogance of youth radiating from his glaring eyes. “Allow me to trim this beggar’s pride, my lord.”

“I came here to fulfill my promise to your master,” Kinro said. He kept his eyes on Hurecho. “Do not throw your life away.” The younger man spit with anger. Ulrem’s hands curled into fists, knuckles popping.

“Why should I allow you to fight me?” Hurecho said, voice a thin, haughty sneer. He gestured at the men around him. “While you were wandering, no more than a vagrant, Kinro-zhi, I was honored by the emperor at the Palace of the Dawn. From his hand I received a Flame of the Throne. I commanded the left flank at the battle of Istutanisu, where the Usurper Nephew tried to drive home his claim. I held the River Sarunchi with just fifty men. And when I returned, the emperor gave me leave to form my own school. These are the students of the School of Kakuhebii, the Striking Serpent. Any of these men are easily your measure. I have surpassed you, Kinro-zhi! I am the o-shinikenjar!” Ulrem’s ear caught on that word. He had an intimation of what it meant. Hurecho held one clawed hand up. “Bow before me, and I will let you keep your head, as a gift to an old friend whom life has left behind.”

“Your name has carried you far,” Kinro acknowledged with a glance at the younger men. “Yet you surpass me only in pride.”

“You deny that I am the true blademaster?” the man in the white robes shrieked.

“You may call yourself by that name when you have taken it from me.” Kinro inclined his head. “Please, send these boys home to their mothers, Hurecho.”

“Twice he has insulted us, master!” cried the young man. “I cannot allow his tongue to wag!”

Hurecho scowled witheringly at Kinro. He held up a hand, and his men waited, impatience written clear across their bodies. The man with the drug bowl leaned forward, leering. Something about that caught Ulrem’s eye, but the man seemed no more than any other emaciated degenerate. What kept him at Hurecho’s side?

“Very well, Istachii-zho. Show the worm what you have learned,” Hurecho said. He sat down heavily, as if he had been forced to do something he gravely regretted.

The ronijar drew his sword with a jerk, sweeping it up over his head in a high guard. The other men formed up behind Istachii-zho, a wall of leering, scornful faces. They had their hands on their swords too, as if they might draw them and fall upon Kinro. More likely to trip and fall on one another’s blades, Ulrem thought.

Kinro stepped back. “I follow the winds,” he said with sad resignation. His sword came out of its sheath with no more than a whisper. He held it before him, feet spread in a fighter’s stance. Ulrem had seen Kinro flow into a storm of death, quick as lightning from that guard. It was as dangerous as a tiger’s crouch. He hung there, waiting.

Sweat beaded on Istachii-zho’s forehead. His companions issued encouragement as he followed Kinro out into the corridor. The younger man matched him step for step until they stood opposite one another in the middle of the corridor, eyes locked, jaws set.

Something shifted in the air around the two men. Ulrem saw it as no more than a darkening shimmer, a warp in the shadows along the wall. His sword was out in an instant, his barbarian instincts leaping ahead of his mind. The ring on his finger warmed, rising to a dimly perceived danger.

Sorcery! The echoes of the ring suddenly surged up into his mind. It drifts on the air, like fetid smoke! Ulrem could not feel it himself, but the ring often stirred in its presence, warning him of the arcane trickery. It had saved his life on more than one occasion. He caught the faint scent on the air, at the very edge of perception. Yes, there was no doubt.

Ulrem searched the faces of the ronijar who even now were emerging into the corridor, ready to draw their blades. They watched the swordsmen, who stood still as stone in the winter.

Istachii-zho screamed suddenly, a rising war whoop, and swept his sword down crosswise at Kinro. The smaller man was silent as he fell back half a step, his sword flicking back and lashing out again, a rattlesnake lash. The ronijar caught it, parrying the blade with a screeching clang that reflected harshly off the walls. Kinro’s arm was thrown aside by the force of the blow, and he staggered back, thrown off balance. He had struck with sledgehammer force, wielding far more strength than any man his size could have mustered.

The other men shrieked in triumph as the young man raised his sword high again to strike Kinro down.

“When you reach the hells, tell them that Istachii-zho, son of—!”

Ulrem brought his own sword around in a savage strike from the side. The heavy blade bit through the meat of the ronijar’s arm, severing the limb just below the elbow. It flopped to the ground with a spray of blood, and the sword clattered beside it a moment later. Istachii-zho screamed and fell to his knees, clutching the spurting stump of his ruined arm. The other ronijar scrambled back, drawing their swords halfway, snarling curses and threats.

Ulrem stepped around the mewling wretch on the ground, pressing the crowd of swordsmen back against the wall. A few faded back into the room beyond.

“Dog!” they cried. “Filthy mongrel! How dare you raise a blade against us?”

“I am Ulrem the Slayer!” he raged at them, pointing with his sword. “Let he who calls me a dog again come forward! I will give him a taste of the lion’s fang!” They cringed before the force of his wrath. Over their heads, he caught sight of Hurecho, standing impotently, hands on his sword as if to draw steel. The thin man in his black robe had climbed forward onto his knees. He gazed intently at Ulrem, a thoughtful look on his sharply boned face.

“Lion! Hold!” Kinro shouted. Ulrem hesitated. In all his years traveling and fighting with the man, he had seldom heard that tone.

A woman’s scream rang up the hallway. Two of the old priestesses came rushing down the dim corridor, their robes hitched halfway up to their knees, the plain habits they wore over their hair flapping in disarray.

“What have you done?” they cried. “Why would you do this?”

“Holy Mothers,” Kinro said, bowing deeply. “My apologies.”

“You have spilled blood on the temple stones!” one of them said, heaving for breath. The other made clucking noises over the bleeding man, terror clear on her face.

“You were to keep this outside! You gave your word, Kinro-zhi! You disgrace yourself! All of you!”

Ulrem glanced back at the gathered men. They looked like ashamed children, now. Hurecho’s face had gone as white as his robes, though whether from rage or fear, Ulrem could not know. And the man in the black robes was still staring at him. His pale blue eyes seemed to pierce Ulrem, to see through and into him. The ring swelled with heat, power flowing up the big man’s thickly muscled arms. It wanted more. It wanted to crush these ronijar, to drive them before him. He felt its anger like a conquering flame.

“We must withdraw, Lion,” Kinro said, touching Ulrem on the shoulder. It brought him back to himself. He lowered his sword. Blood dribbled from the end of it, leaving little flower drops of crimson on the river stone tiles. “Come. We do not belong here.”

“None of you belong here!” snapped the priestesses. “But yet you stained our house with your sin! You’ve ruined his poor man! Your part here is done! Be gone!”