The Lotus War - Kinslayer Part 17

I SMELL NOTHING.

Yukiko winced, flinching as if Buruu's thoughts were a solid hook to her temple. Another inexplicable surge of power, always when she was least prepared, her wall dashed to pieces. Breathing ragged, body sore, suddenly and terribly tired of this; her closest friend in the world being the source of almost constant pain. She fought the welling frustration, knowing it would only make things worse, send the Kenning spiraling out of control. Toward what? Another earthquake? Her skull splitting open, brain flopping about at her feet like some drowning fish?

She pressed her hands to her brow, squeezed her eyes shut.

You're so loud, brother ...

I AM SORRY. I HATE TO HURT YOU.

Anger flared then, despite her best efforts to press it back. The Kenning had always simply been, never changing, never failing; taken for granted as thoughtlessly as talking or breathing. It was as if her legs had suddenly betrayed her, sending her skipping when she wanted to stand still, tripping her onto her face when she wanted to run. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of it. Truly afraid of who and what she was.

She looked up to the monastery's silhouette, charcoal-etched against the lightning sky.

I hope we find our answers here, Buruu.

I DO NOT LIKE THIS, SISTER.

We've flown all this way. It seems foolish to stop at the threshold.

I THINK FOOLISH MAY BE BECOMING OUR SPECIALTY.

Thunder crashed again, rain falling like tiny hammers. Though part of her (part of him?) longed to be up in the clouds, her human side was s.h.i.+vering cold, drenched to her bones, the ever-increasing downpour doing little to ease the nagging ache at the base of her skull. She felt exhausted, sore from the flight, thirsty and miserable. A few moments out of the elements would be a welcome change, if nothing else.

We'll find no answers out here in the rain, brother. And every moment we waste is another moment Hiro's wedding draws closer.

A low growl, tail las.h.i.+ng. His volume receding slowly, not unlike an ebbing tide.

AS YOU WISH.

Tall double doors barred entry to the main building, heavy oak shod with iron. She lifted the knocker, rust flaking beneath her grip, pounding it against the wood. Waiting interminable minutes, pounding again, dragging rain-soaked hair from her eyes. She blinked up at empty windows, lightning reflected on cloudy, dust-dark gla.s.s.

n.o.body home.

STAND ASIDE.

Yukiko backed well away, Buruu lowering his head, talons scarring the flagstones. She could feel it gathering around him-a whisper-rush of static charge, the hair on her arms standing tall, ozone thickening in the air. The thunder tiger spread his wings, pistons on his false-pinions creaking, shuddering, tiny wisps of lightning trickling across his sheared feathertips. The world fell still as he reared up on his hind legs, Yukiko clenching her teeth, covering her ears as Buruu clapped his wings together, giving birth to a deafening peal of Raijin Song.

It was written in the old legends that aras.h.i.+tora were children of the Thunder G.o.d, Raijin. That to mark them as his own, their father had gifted their wings some measure of his power. Yukiko had thought the tales a myth until she'd seen it with her own eyes-the night Buruu had almost blasted the Thunder Child from the skies.

A thunderous boom rocked the courtyard; the crack of a thousand bullwhips splitting the air in two, the s.h.i.+vering walls bleeding mortar. Flagstones burst skyward as if black powder were being ignited underground, rainwater vaporizing as the shock wave collided with the ancient wooden doors and sheared them to splinters. Iron buckled, rivets popped, hinges squealed as the doors burst inward. One was blasted clear of its moorings, the other hanging from a single stubborn hinge, swinging like a broken jaw.

Dust in the hallway beyond danced briefly in the calamity, echoes dying with reluctance.

Yukiko brought her hands away from her ears, a smile curling her lips. She put her arms around Buruu's neck, stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. His purr set the broken stones at their feet trembling anew.

You are a little magnificent, you know.

ONLY A LITTLE?.

Gasping, hand to her brow as his thoughts bounced like boulders around her skull. Slamming the door on the Kenning again; a recalcitrant child marched off to its bedroom to ponder its wrongdoings. Buruu whined, stepped away, tail tucked. Yukiko could sense he wanted to apologize, but without the bridge of thought between them, he had no way to do so. She wondered what it must feel like for him when she closed off her power completely-to be locked in the cold outside her head, just as alone as she was. Reaching out, she ran her hand down his throat, curling her fingers through whisper-soft feathers, giving him the only comfort she could. As she kissed him again, she saw she'd left a smear of scarlet on his cheek.

Wiping one hand across her nose, she brought it away gleaming and b.l.o.o.d.y. And with a grim nod to the aras.h.i.+tora, the pair stepped across the shattered threshold and walked inside.

12.

ACRES OF SKIN.

Skin p.r.i.c.kling. Flinching at shadows. Teeth clenched so tight they ached.

A wide hallway stretched out before them into sodden-blanket gloom. Choked daylight streamed through filthy windows, leaking into the corridor as mud-bright stains. The wind was a hungry ghost, chilled fingers scrabbling at the shutters, moaning as it shambled about the halls. The timbers creaked like old men's bones, walls s.h.i.+fting as if the monastery were some slumbering giant, lost in nightmares and praying for dawn.

Yukiko reached into the satchels over Buruu's back, fetched a paper lantern and a wallet of matches. The crackling flare illuminated dozens of old tapestries, faded through the pa.s.sing of years and the sea's corrosive breath. Bitter cold winds howled through the blasted doors and set the talismans trembling on their hooks.

Buruu was all tingling spine and dilating eyes, wingtips sc.r.a.ping the walls. Brus.h.i.+ng the feathers at his throat, her fingertips crackled with static electricity. His talons gouged the stone as they prowled into the dark, ears straining for lifesound. But there were only the tapestries whispering in the gloom, the bl.u.s.tering storm and their own synchronized heartbeats.

They searched every room, found nothing and no one. Dust-cloaked furniture, fabric slowly rotting, lanterns unlit for an age. The sea howling below, rainsong on the tiles above.

At the end of the hall they found an empty doorway, spitting a flight of stairs down into a gloom-soaked room. Yukiko stood on the landing, candle held high, feeble light trickling into a stubborn dark. Down the twisting stairs, she could see a vast chamber, lined with row upon row of dusty shelves. Buruu loomed behind, too big to fit through the narrow s.p.a.ce, growling his displeasure, his nostrils filled with the pungent reek of old decay.

Bracing herself, she opened the Kenning again, reached for the thunder tiger's mind. His warmth was sullen, distant, as if oppressed by the deafening silence around them. She could feel nothing but the two of them-no rats, mice, birds. Not a single spark of life. After weeks inundated in the Iis.h.i.+, the hush should have been a blessing. Instead it planted the seeds of a slow dread in her belly, cold and deep, spreading through her insides with slick tendrils.

It looks like ... a library.

YOU INTEND TO GO DOWN THERE?.

If there are answers in this place, I'm guessing that's where we'll find them.

IT STINKS OF DEATH. THIS IS AN ASTONIs.h.i.+NGLY BAD IDEA.

This place has been deserted for decades, Buruu.

I WISH I HAD EYEBROWS, SO I COULD SCOWL AT YOU.

I can't sense anything. There's n.o.body here.

I WISH I HAD HANDS, SO I COULD WRITE A HISTORY OF YOUR EXPLOITS AND NAME THIS CHAPTER "THE WORST IDEA SHE EVER HAD."

G.o.ds, so just blast the wall with Raijin Song and come with me, then.

THE WALL IS SOLID GRANITE. WE WOULD HAVE BETTER LUCK KNOCKING HOLES IN IT WITH YOUR THICK HEAD.

Maybe you could just sarcasm it to death?

Buruu growled, fell into a moody silence. She could sense the worry in him, the affection clothed in sullen, sulky aggression. But beneath that, the pain was blooming again, the lubdub of her pulse like tiny hammer blows in the back of her head. Another surge was building, another squeal of psychic static to paint her lips crimson and make her ears bleed. She was tired of it. Tired of not knowing why.

I'll be back soon, brother. Wait for me here.

Buruu sighed from the tip of his tail.

ALWAYS.

She turned and crept down the stairwell, the stone slick beneath her split-toed boots. Lantern light flickered on granite walls, diminis.h.i.+ng the farther she descended. The temperature was chill, a faint smell of oil overlaid with subtle decay. Soft thunder rolled through the tiles overhead, long shadows dancing amongst tall rafters.

The shelves stood ten feet high, crisscrossing planks forming diamond-shaped part.i.tions. Her heart beat faster as she saw the alcoves were piled with scrolls-hundreds upon hundreds, stacked one atop another, running the length of the room.

Daichi said these monks tattooed their secrets on their flesh.

YOU ARE WONDERING WHY THEY KEPT A LIBRARY.

You're amazing. It's like you can read my mind.

Buruu's amus.e.m.e.nt echoed in the Kenning like a tiny earthquake, setting her temples throbbing. Approaching the first shelf, Yukiko set her lantern down, picked a scroll at random. The paper was greasy under her fingertips, a thick, heavy vellum that felt almost ... moist.

Unfurling the scroll, she held it out in the guttering light. Browned with age, edges slightly uneven. She could see kanji inked on the surface, tiny verses she realized were haiku. Flicking her hair aside, eyes scanning the page, budding amazement coming to full bloom.

G.o.ds, Buruu, this is labeled as Tora Tsunedo's work ...

WHO?.

He was a poet in Emperor Hirose's court. Four, maybe five centuries ago. He was put to death by the imperial magistrates, all copies of his work supposedly burned.

POETRY SO AWFUL HE WAS KILLED FOR IT. IMPRESSIVE.

They actually put him to death for "licentiousness." Listen: She brought the scroll closer, squinted at it in the guttering dark.

Between your petals, Awaits silken paradise, Your love unfurls oh, Izanagi's b.a.l.l.s ...

Yukiko dropped the scroll to the floor, wiping her hand on her trouser leg. Face twisted in revulsion, mouth dry, she looked around the shelves in growing horror.

"YOUR LOVE UNFURLS OH, IZANAGI'S b.a.l.l.s." YES. I CAN SEE WHY THEY MURDERED HIM.

Oh my G.o.ds ...

I TRUST IT WAS A PAINFUL DEATH?.

Buruu, it's a nipple.

The thunder tiger poked his head through the doorway above and blinked.

YOU MAY NEED TO REPEAT THAT.

On the scroll. The scroll has a G.o.dsd.a.m.ned nipple, Buruu. This isn't paper, it's skin.

She backed away from the shelf, one trembling hand to her mouth.

All of this is human skin.

RAIJIN'S DRUMS ...

"h.e.l.lo, young miss."

Yukiko whirled, hand on Yofun's hilt as thunder crashed again. Buruu roared, hackles rippling down his spine, wings crackling with electricity. Lightning streaked across the sky, brilliant blue-white illuminating the gloom, and in the brief flash, she caught sight of a figure standing in the shadow of the stairs.

"Peace, young miss." The figure raised its hands. "You have no need of steel here."

Yukiko refrained from drawing the blade but kept her grip on the katana's hilt, squinting in the gloom gathered after the lightning flare. The figure stood a little taller than she, wrapped in a simple monk's robe of faded blue. A deep cowl hid its face, but the stature and voice were definitely male.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"Is this the custom in s.h.i.+ma now, young miss? A stranger breaks into your home, and you are expected to make introductions?"

The voice was calm, somewhat hollow, almost breathless. Her heart was thumping in her chest at the sudden fright, fingertips tingling with adrenaline. Feedback crackled down the Kenning, sudden stress opening pathways to her synapses, Buruu looming louder than the storm. She could feel his senses layered over her own, that old familiar tangle-wings at her back, talons at her fingertips, not knowing where he ended and she began. All of it underscored with a vague fear of the waiting pain. The control slipping through her grip.

"My name is Kitsune Yukiko," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "That's my brother Buruu."

"Well met," the figure bowed. "My name is Shun. I am master of this monastery."

The figure drew back its cowl, revealing a thin and pallid face. Hairless scalp, mouth creased with age, wisdom gleaming in the depths of heavily lidded eyes. His irises were milky, almost white, as if he suffered from cataracts. Yet his gaze was focused, drifting from her feet up to her face. He blinked. Three times. Rapid succession.

I CANNOT SMELL HIM.

Buruu's thoughts crackled across hers with all the fury of the tempest above. She winced, tightened her grip on her sword.

I can't feel him either. No thoughts. Nothing.

"Are you in need?" the pale monk breathed. "Do you hunger? Thirst?"

"I seek answers, Brother Shun, not comforts."

"We have those in abundance, Kitsune Yukiko."

"We?" Looking around the ghastly library, raising an eyebrow.

"The Painted Brethren."

"Is it true you keep the mysteries of the world here? Secrets forgotten?"

Shun gestured to the shelves and their horrid burden. "Never forgotten."

"Do you know the secrets of the Kenning?"

"Hmn ... I believe Brother Bishamon wore some lore about beast-speaking."