Rain soaked her to the core. Drifting Lilac knelt on the bridge in the gardens, cold mud clinging to her silk robe, staining the beautiful fabric.

Beside her, Shojima Mother whispered a prayer to the Golden One, her breath misting in white clouds as she shuddered. Master Hurecho’s ronijar stood on either side of the two priestesses, swords in hands, rain drops beading on naked steel.

“Quiet!” one of the swordsmen snapped at Shojima Mother. Her name meant Teller of Hard Truths, and so she had been all through the spring, summer, and autumn, always finding fault with the young priestess, always questioning her. Now, the old woman, who had been so stern that she might have been carved of fired oak, seemed as fragile as a lone leaf, shaking in the rain. She was bedraggled, her wet clothes in a most undignified state. Her hands, a mass of swollen knuckles, rubbed at prayer beads. She kept praying as if she had not heard the harsh ronijar.

Drifting Lilac did not know why the brutes had dragged her and Shojima Mother to the bridge that straddled the Tzukamida Run. They had caught her in the hall when they came for Kinro-zhi. Eight of them, swords bared, black veils drawn up over their faces, hiding all but their eyes. They looked like robbers, bandits in the night. Not honorable men, not servants of the emperor’s will. Not true ronijar.

Master Hurecho appeared out of the screening rains. He was dressed for battle in full suit of armor. It was quite unlike any Drifting Lilac had ever seen. The helmet, formed of scalloped plates of painted metal, reminded her of a beetle’s carapace. Where many swordsmen’s helmets would have born a fierce face, or a demon’s leering mask, Hurecho’s faceplate was a roaring black dragon chased with silver wiring. His eyes shone through the mask, impatient and small. He wore a heavy rain cape over his shoulders and walked with one hand out, tenting the material over the hilt of his sword, which was inlaid with pearl and agate. A masterwork like the rest of his armor. Plates of painted orange and yellow, all covered with carefully drawn blessing scripts, sheathed his limbs.

His men quieted, and even the old priestess ceased her praying as he approached.

“Not long now, Holy Mothers,” Master Hurecho said, stopping before the two women.

And indeed, it was not long, though the minutes felt like hours in the sapping drizzle. The sun was setting, casting a long shadow over the House of Eight Plums. The dull light flattened everything around them, and Drifting Lilac could not help but wonder if she were trapped in some waking dream.

“You disgrace yourself, treating us so,” Shojima Mother said to the armored man. Though terrified, her voice had the same hard edge as ever. “What right do you have to drag us out into the rain and treat us like chattel?”

“A regrettable necessity,” Master Hurecho said, voice full of pain. “But you must witness what is about to occur, Holy Mother, just as you witnessed our bond five years ago.”

“I don’t care one whit about your bond!” the priestess spat. She had been dining with the ronijar master when his men arrived. They had treated her with no more grace than they had Drifting Lilac.

“It isn’t about you,” the man said, clasping his hands behind his back. “It’s about a promise. When I am the o-shinikenjar, shall I remember how you helped me, Holy Mother, or will I have reason to rue you and the House of Eight Plums?”

Shojima Mother bit back her remark. Or softened it a little. Voice broken with shivering, she said, “You speak as if being named a blademaster will make you an emperor, Little Hurecho.” He turned away from her, waving a dismissive hand. “You should not promise or threaten what you cannot deliver.”

“You think I will fail?” he snapped, glaring over his armored shoulder. “I came prepared. I will not be denied!” Drifting Lilac glimpsed the fury in his eyes behind the dragon mask, and something else, too… Fear?

“You brought a hebshita into the House!” Drifting Lilac cried. The accusation escaped her before she knew it, but she wasn’t done yet. “What will you win, fighting with no honor?” The ronijar around her stiffened. Master Hurecho held a hand up. He loomed over her, and all she could see was the hateful black dragon’s mask leering down at her, fangs bared in a thunderous snarl.

“Perhaps I will give you to my men as a gift to celebrate my new title,” Hurecho said quietly, voice dripping with poison. The words sank into her breast like a knife. Shojima Mother squeezed her hand. The ronijar commander looked up and made a sound of surprise and delight. “Ah. They have him.”

Drifting Lilac could not help herself. She threw a glance over her shoulder. Slung between two men was the limp form of Kinro-zhi. His head lolled on his chest, and blood spattered his worn senshaama. She gasped, and the men laughed at her.

They threw their quarry down on the bridge at Master Hurecho’s feet. Thin and compact, Kinro-zhi did not look like an o-shinikenjar to Drifting Lilac. He looked like any common man dragged before his lord to answer for crimes. He stirred, picking his head up. One eye was badly bruised, and his lips were swollen. He bled where the beating had torn his skin. Groaning, the man pushed himself to his elbows and knees. He spit, and she saw blood in the glob. Shojima Mother gasped, and Drifting Lilac could feel her fear and pain. The old priestess wanted to go the man, to help him. She barely restrained herself.

“Momikun?” Hurecho asked, eyeing his men.

“Dead. He killed Nan-cho and Myoto, too,” one of the ronijar spat. A strip of bloody silk was tied around his forearm.

“And wounded two others. Fights like a devil.”

“But no more than a dog,” Master Hurecho said, scowling down at Kinro-zhi. “Look at him!” The men laughed, and their derision burned at Drifting Lilac. Hot tears mingled with icy raindrops.

“Leave him alone!” she cried, hands balled into fists. She tried to get to her feet, but one of the men shoved her back down. “He’s hurt!”

“He’ll be dead, soon,” one man jeered. They laughed at that too, like chattering, spiteful monkeys.

Master Hurecho silenced them with a glare. He squatted down beside Kinro-zhi, gauntleted hands on his knees. “Why do you fight? You are already defeated.”

Kinro rose, so that he was kneeling before Hurecho. His face was calm despite his injuries. He held out a hand. “My sword.”

“A final offer of mercy for you, old friend. Name me o-shinikenjar, and escape with your life.”

“My sword.”

Hurecho stood and shrugged. “Give it to him, then.”

“Kinro!” Shojima Mother moaned. One of the men slapped her, and she cried out, falling into Drifting Lilac. She caught the old priestess, and they clung together. One of the ronijar flung a sheathed sword down before Kinro. It was a plain thing, as unremarkable as they came, its lacquered black sheathe battered and chipped, the wrapped hilt stained and ugly. The pommel was no more than a bronze cap.

Master Hurecho backed up five paces, and slowly drew his own jeweled blade. He held it by his side, dragon mask leering at Kinro with demonic impatience.

Still kneeling on the bridge, the other man used his sword to lever himself to his feet. He seemed steadier once he was up. The small man spared a glance down over the valley. Drifting Lilac could not help but wonder what was going through his mind. A prayer? A memory of a better, sunnier day? Kinro-zhi had spoken so kindly, so warmly to her, that she craved another word from him. He brushed the hilt of his sword, almost absently, a lover’s fingers tracing the back of their beloved.

A stir ran through the ronijar, and then a shout of alarm.

“The savage!” They fell back before the outlander like children before a mad dog, swords shaking in their fists, eyes wide with fear. The giant lumbered forwards, his huge sword leaning against his shoulder. He carried something in a bundle of torn silk cloth at his side, swinging heavily back and forth.

“You!” Hurecho spat. “You were to be dealt with!”

The big man tossed the thing he was carrying onto the bridge. It bounced once with a sick thud, and rolled forward unevenly, the silk coming free and revealing what was inside.

A head.

Drifting Lilac screamed as the hebshita sorcerer’s dead eyes stared back at her. The ronijar howled, falling back even further. Behind his mask, Master Hurecho’s eyes went wide.

“What…” he spluttered. “How?”

“If any man interferes,” the outlander said, pointing at the shaking ronijar his sword, “I will give him worse than your hebshita got.” They cringed back from his blade, leaving Master Hurecho and Kinro-zhi alone on the bridge. Shojima Mother began to hum a prayer as the sun’s last rays settled over the rusty valley.

Kinro-zhi turned to face his adversary. Drifting Lilac saw the pain in his face, but also another thing. Determination. Iron will, a hardness she had not guessed at before. He drew his sword with a sweep, and cast the sheath clattering aside. The blade rose until it hung over his head, raindrops spattering off the unforgiving arc of steel. The wind billowed in his wet senshaama, rippling at the fabric, feeble fingers trying to pull him over the hissing waterfall.

Master Hurecho seemed suddenly less sure of himself. He looked to his men, but the ronijar had withdrawn. They watched him with pale faces. Gone was their boasting, their easy confidence. Fear and anger stirred in their eyes as they watched their commander. He shuffled his feet, crouching a little lower. He fixed his gaze on Kinro-zhi, who waited patiently.

The two men glared at one another, their old rivalry at last come to an end, one way or another. Frigid water rushed below their feet, and cold rain drenched everything. For a moment, they were motionless, eyes locked.

Drifting Lilac’s breath caught as Hurecho leaped forward in a slashing surge. The two men seemed to pass through one another, like twin bolts of seething lightning. They traded blows, one, then another, faster than she could account. The men leaned forward, all except the outlander, who watched with his gray killer’s eyes, one fist on his hip, sword propped on his shoulder.

The fighters clashed, their blades ringing like steel thunder, diving in and slipping back. Shojima Mother gasped as Kinro-zhi thrust suddenly with his sword, knocking Master Hurecho’s helmet askew. The ronijar commander ripped it off his head, and the dragon mask bounced off the bridge and slipped into the Tzukamida, vanishing over the falls in an instant. Hurecho’s face was flushed, his eyes wild with rage.

“I’ll strike you dead!” he snarled.

Kinro-zhi merely waited. He gripped his blade in one hand, extended out in a deadly ward, and held his other hand curled in a fist at his shoulder.

Master Hurecho charged, screaming, sword wheeling from overhead in a blow Drifting Lilac knew would smite the smaller, unarmored man. She reached for him without thinking about it, horrified that he might be snatched away, snuffed out like a candle between cruel fingers.

Kinro-zhi spun, swift as the gorged river. Hurecho’s blade parted nothing but air, and his scream choked off. He staggered forward a halting step. Then another. His right arm sank to his waist, and his jeweled sword fell from nerveless fingers. He collapsed at Shojima Mother’s feet. Bloody bubbles formed on his lips, and Drifting Lilac watched as the light of a soul left those frightened eyes. The man lay dead in the rain, and his ronijar followers stood in mute, shocked silence.

“Kinro-zhi stands as the o-shinikenjar,” Shojima Mother said in slow, formal o-Hinoni. She sounded incredulous, as if a miracle had played out before her eyes. She climbed to her feet, crowing into the night, “Kinro-zhi is the blademaster!”

The ronijar backed up another step as the outlander turned on them, hefting his terrible sword. They broke with a cry, scrambling over one another to escape his wrath, which seemed certain to hound them to the hells below. In moments, the only sounds in the garden of the House of Eight Plums were the Tzukamida waterfall, and the slow patter of rain on the bridge. Kinro-zhi knelt beside dead Hurecho, his face composed and calm. Drifting Lilac saw there was a tightness to his eyes, though. Unspoken grief.

The big man sheathed his sword and stood beside his friend. “Wasn’t much without his tricks,” he said in rough O-Hinoni.

“I am a poor master, Lion,” the o-shinikenjar said sadly, “for I have but one lesson to teach.” He touched Hurecho’s gray face with tender fingers, brushing hair back where it had strayed into the dead man’s face.

“The iron law. He accepted his fate.”

“Did he have a choice?” The big man grunted at that. Kinro-zhi looked up at the priestesses. “Holy Mothers. I will bury him here under the trees, with your permission.”

Shojima Mother accepted Drifting Lilac’s help as she got to her feet. The old woman gathered her robes up in one fist, scooping the soiled hem out of the mud. She looked nothing so much as a grieving mother right then, staring down at the corpse on the bridge.

“And then, o-shinikenjar?”

Kinro stood and looked out over the valley, steeped in dark now. Villages stood out like clustered constellations among the trees, and the speckled lights of farms glimmered in the outskirts. The rain had stopped, though the chill remained. A breeze caught them up, sweeping into the valley, down among the trees and the common folk, down to where they huddled against the winter, offering up prayers and awaiting an end to darkness and rain.

“Then we follow the wind.”