“I AM DISGRACED.”

Kinro knelt before the square prayer stone. He bowed low, touching his forehead to the foot of the altar. A copper censer hung above the stone, belching spiced smoke that made Ulrem’s eyes sting. The walls were packed with squat wooden states of a man with broad features and a serene face. He held one hand up beside his head, and in the other a sword pointed down. Lord Zanakanda, the Revealer, the prophet of the Hinoni tribes. They revered him like a god, and claimed that when his hour of death came, his followers carried the Lord Zanakanda to the peak of the mountain which now bore his name. Graced by the first light of a new day, the dying man stood and stepped up into the fading stars to join the Golden One forever, his cycle of rebirth complete.

The Hinoni told many stories that Ulrem found strange, for indeed, he had no gods. His fathers, the old kings of mist-cloaked Oron, had been exiled by the greater powers at the dawn of the new age. Why pray to gods who ignored them? Why prostrate themselves before those who had sent them away to the edge of the world, to wage war on one another until the Oroni blood was extinguished? No, he kept no gods, and his people told no tales of them, except the betrayal that birthed them. His father had taught him that the gods and their Inheritors answered no prayers, but honored those who forged their own destiny. Ulrem tightened his fist around the ring on his finger. He of all people knew the truth of that.

The House of Eight Plums was quiet, now, watchful like a prey that had escaped ambush.

“There was no honor in that duel,” Ulrem said. “That bastard Hurecho used sorcery against you. He deserved worse than I gave his man.” Kinro looked up sharply, doubt on his face. “I felt it,” Ulrem explained, holding his ring up. It glittered, as all rings do, but beneath its golden shine was an eye-twisting complexity. No ordinary band of gold, it was imbued with a terrible power: an Inheritor’s ring. The ghosts of those who had borne it yet lived within that unyielding band. They hated sorcery as much as he did, and their fury mingled with his own, feeding one another.

“I accepted my fate when I drew my sword,” Kinro said. “The winds carried me to this place. I know the path I walk, Lion. I do not shirk from the dangers.”

“He would have struck you down!”

“And disgraced himself and his master. Their victory would have turned to ash in their mouths. No blademaster would employ such low-handed tactics. By striving so desperately, Hurecho poisons himself.”

Ulrem growled. “And you would be dead, too. Count your stars that I’m faster than that snake.”

“Hurecho would not have allowed it.”

“You’re mad, Kinro.” The big man paced, his steps echoing sharply off the stone walls. “Ever since we climbed this blasted mountain. Why are we here? What do you have to prove to this coward?”

Kinro began a chanting prayer, ignoring Ulrem. The sound of it filled the shrine, a soothing noise, discouraging intrusion. Ulrem felt suddenly like he was caged. Years of action and battle had forged him to move, to strike, to hunt. This land, with all its custom and tradition, was a maze to him, filled with invisible walls. He wanted to lash out, to smash something.

Sorcery. Ulrem did not trust men who worked dark powers, pulling like spiders at webs he could not see. There was no courage in it, no honor. Worse, to infect a duel, to use it for murder. It was a mockery, a venomous scorn.

Kinro’s prayer faded, and quiet engulfed the prayer hall again, except for Ulrem’s pacing.

“They won’t leave it alone, Kinro,” Ulrem said. “In the dark, they will come, blades out.”

“Yes.”

“And you will sit there like one of these wooden men?”

“No. Zanakanda taught us to live peaceably, but carry a sword. If they come, I will fight, Lion. But you will not.”

Ulrem fell to perfect stillness, like a great cat catching sight of prey. “No one commands me.” The words were dangerous, edged. The ring grew warm as his anger rose. “I will not be sent away like some stray!”

Kinro sighed. “When we were young, Hurecho was still an honest boy. We studied together at the old school. We hoped to be more than ronijar, to be o-shinikenjar, swords of truth. Blademasters, you might say. But only one could claim that title from our master. Our closeness corroded as we grew older, and the contest became the purpose of our lives.”

“Who won?”

Kinro’s eyes had the look of a faraway, painful memory. “We were ordered to race to the top of Mount Irusu, and there, make our stand against one another. I struck Hurecho down, and earned the right to be called o-shinikenjar, but I did not kill him. I was so weak from the run up the mountain, and the duel, that Hurecho was forced to carry me back here to the House of Eight Plums.”

“The old woman said she bound your feet.”

The smaller man nodded. “Shojima Mother was kinder, then. That was the last night I saw Hurecho. As he left in disgrace, he swore to me that in five years’ time, he would meet me here, and claim the title that was his. He would be the true o-shinikenjar.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“I told him,” Kinro said, voice thick with old pain, “that I would give him the chance, for that was his right, but I knew Hurecho would never again be my brother.”

Ulrem crossed his arms. This was not so different from the law of his father’s lands. Any man had the right to challenge another, even a king. The blood debt, they called it, answerable only by the death of one man or another. The law of the strong. This he understood, in his barbarian way.

Someone politely cleared their throat behind him. Ulrem turned and found the young priestess in the door. She held a small tray of steaming food, her head bowed low. The white cat circled her feet, its tail curled around the young woman’s leg. It peered at Ulrem, green eyes shining.

“I was sent to bring you this,” the girl said politely, venturing a few steps into the hall. She knelt, holding the tray out before her. Quietly, voice pitched low so that it would not echo in the stone room, she said, “Master Hurecho dines with the other priestesses tonight. They regret that you cannot join them, Master Kinro, but he would not allow it.”

“Our thanks, Holy Mother.” Kinro stood and bowed at the waist, his curved sword jutting out behind him. She set the tray down and rose with practiced grace. It seemed to Ulrem that she looked at everything in the room but him.

“There is another thing,” she said uncertainly. The priestess pulled something from the sleeve of her white robe. A script of paper. She held it out, but Ulrem didn’t need to read it to know what it said. Kinro took the script and unfurled it.

“Dead,” he read. “Shojima Mother writes that the ronijar you wounded is dead.”

The young priestess bowed at the waist. “May the winds guide you, sir,” she said, bowing her way out.

When she was gone, Ulrem pointed at the tray of food. There were mounds of dumplings, and spiced beef, and bowls of peppered rice steeped in vinegar. “That’s a gallows meal, Kinro. They expect you to die tonight.”

“Shojima Mother has paid me a kindness,” Kinro said. He crumpled the note in his hand. His jade eyes fixed Ulrem with a madman’s intensity. “This is more than a duel, Lion. It is a debt, sworn to by steel and blood. You must not interfere again. Even if he strikes me down.”

Everything in Ulrem wanted to argue, but Kinro turned back to pray at the stone, shutting him out. Becoming another wall in the invisible maze. Growling, Ulrem swept out, leaving the food uneaten.

He prowled into the hall, head low and ears sharp for the sounds of sandaled feet. Instead of finding ronijar creeping up on the prayer hall, he nearly bowled over the girl. She let out a gasp, arms wheeling as she staggered backwards.

Ulrem caught her arm, but he did not let her go.

“Were you spying on us, priestess?” he rumbled.

“No,” she said. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she was too frightened to try and free herself from his grasp. He realized then that she had been crying. The white cat wound around their legs, purring and rubbing itself along Ulrem’s calf.

He let her go, and watched as she rubbed her eyes. In a moment, her features were composed and collected again, with only a hint of redness betraying that something was out of sorts.

“What do you want, then?”

The priestess glanced up the corridor, ensuring no one was watching. The House of Eight Plums was silent, save the gentle patter of cold rain on the slate roof. When she was sure it was clear, she raised her face to him, trying to look brave.

“They are coming to kill him. I heard them.”

“Listening at their doors too, are you?” Ulrem gave her a wolfish look. “Well, he seems eager for it. Where is Hurecho’s sorcerer?”

She demurred, looking at the ground. “He is a wicked man, that hebshita. The sorcerer, you call him. The other priestesses do not like him.”

“Where is he?”

“He does not leave the rooms Master Hurecho and his ronijar have taken in the western part of the House.”

“Good,” Ulrem growled. He glanced down the dimly lit corridor. Shadows shifted, men along the walls. Watching him, watching her. “Go to your other holy mothers. And stay out of the hallways.” Ulrem spun, making for the huge painted doors they had come through in the previous night’s storming rain.

“You will leave him?” she said to his broad back, her voice high, almost angry. In the faltering light of the candles on the wall, he looked very much like a demon to her, his eyes pools of shadow, his mouth wide with promised violence. Anticipation was wrought through his muscular form, and seemed to fill the air around him like a bloody aura.

“No,” Ulrem said, voice full of terrible promise. “I intend to make it a fair fight. Take that cat with you. It will not be safe to wander about tonight.”