Shadows on the Moon (12 page)

They had done this to me. They were liars, traitors, cowards, and murderers, and yet I was running from them. They had killed my father. They had killed my cousin, the sister of my heart. They had taken everything —
everything
— I loved from me.

Why had I run?

What did I have left to lose?

I knew then that I would die that night. I did not care. I would die, but I would make them suffer first. I dropped to my knees, scrabbling in the dirt of the herb garden for the sharp fragments of stone that edged the borders. I would have used anything. Any weapon was good enough. I felt as if I could tear out my enemy’s throat with my teeth, if only I could get close enough.

I would wait, here in the dark, hidden from everyone. The only one who could see me was Terayama-san. He would find me, and when he did, I would not run. I would not give him the satisfaction. I would let my weaving fall, and I would scream out the truth for everyone to hear. When he reached for me, I would put out his eyes.

For my father. For Aimi. For myself. For all of us.

Even when they killed me, and even if they all thought me mad, they would still hear the truth. Maybe they would wonder, and rumors would start. Or maybe they would all be too afraid to talk. It didn’t matter. I would see him bleed. I would hear him scream. My face would be the last thing he would ever see. Just this once, Terayama’s prey would turn on him.

Something moved in the kitchen doorway. I whirled, clutching a sharp lump of rock in each hand.

“Little Mistress?”

I heard doors opening not far away, and saw light spilling out into the garden. They were coming. I twitched, but did not move.

“It is you under there, Little Mistress? Your weavings have grown powerful since you visited me last.”

Oh, no. I let the shadow illusion drop as I stepped toward him. “Youta,” I said urgently, low voiced. “Get back inside. It isn’t safe here now.”

His head went back a little. “Why is it not safe? Why are you holding those rocks as if you thought they were knives?”

“Youta, go away. I do not want you in this fight.”

The voices and the lights were moving. Not in this direction yet — they were heading toward the trees — but it was only a matter of time.

“Fight? Who are you intending to fight?”

I growled with impatience. “Terayama-san! I can’t escape him, so I must face him.”

“You want to fight him? He will kill you!” His voice shook. It was the most upset I had ever heard him, and part of me was sorry, but it was too late now.

“Listen to me: I know what I must do, and I am not afraid.” I turned from him to look at the lights bobbing between the trees. “Go inside before he catches you out here with me.”

A hand clamped over my mouth and an arm as thick and strong as a tree branch wrapped around my middle. The rocks dropped from my fingers as I struggled, trying to pry Youta off without hurting him. His breath barked in my ear, and I could hear the strain in his voice as he whispered, “Be still. If you do not wish them to find us together, be quiet. I will not let you go.”

He dragged me into the kitchen, where the muted glow of the fires showed blanket-wrapped forms huddled in sleep. There was an open door to the right, and Youta pushed me inside. There were no fires within — only the moonlight falling through a row of small, high windows showed that we were in a storage space filled with barrels and firewood. Youta finally took his hand from my mouth as he turned to carefully pull the door closed behind us.

“How dare you!” I said, shoving myself away from him. “What right have you to interfere?”

“As much right as anyone in the world and more, you foolish girl,” he said, leaning against the door. “I did not save your life so that you could waste it like this.”

“Terayama-san betrayed my father and committed treason against the Moon Prince. He knows I have discovered it. He cannot let me live. Why should I not die with honor, fighting?”

Youta blanched, then shook his head. “He has not caught you yet! I can smuggle you away. He cannot search the whole city for you, not if he wishes to keep his secrets.”

“Then what? Where can I go? Shall I beg on the streets? Sell myself to a brothel? I have no one to turn to.”

“You have me.”

“I do not want you involved in this. Please, my friend. You have helped me so much; I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

He drew himself up, his shoulders straightening, his posture commanding despite the dirt and rags. “Very well. Repay me now. Leave Terayama-sama’s punishment to the Moon or fate or the demon of the river, and let me hide you.”

I shook my head slowly, sorrowful but determined. Every shred of honor I had — the honor of the house of Hoshima — told me what I must do. “I will not hide from my father’s murderer.”

“Then I will go to Terayama-sama and tell him what you have told me. Repay your debt to me, or send me to my death. Choose.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He stared at me as if I were mad. “I cannot watch you die.”

I let out a choked sob and slumped against the wall. The furious anger that had given me strength died down, sinking into my bones with a deep, sullen ache. The ache of failure. The ache of knowing that I would leave my father and cousin unavenged, and dishonor my house with cowardice, in order to save the life of this man.

“I cannot watch you die, either,” I whispered.

He breathed out slowly. “Then make your oath to me that you will not put yourself in Terayama-san’s way. That you will not attack him or go after him. Promise me you will hide, and stay alive, and I will promise to do the same.”

I squeezed my eyes closed. Fought against myself. Then, finally . . .

“I promise.”

I opened my eyes to see Youta slowly slump down until his position echoed mine, relief carved into his face. It was done.

For another moment, I fought with myself, weary and heartsore, but eventually, compelled by my sense of honor, I admitted, “I don’t know how I can hide. Terayama-san can sense me, even when I use shadow-weaving. He almost caught me earlier.”

Youta rubbed his face with his hand. “That is . . . bad. He must be desperate to find you. Wait here.” He left quickly, closing the door behind him.

What was I doing? I had made my decision, chosen my own fate — everything had seemed clear. Now nothing was. I only knew that I could not be responsible for Youta’s death.

Youta returned with a bundle of fraying bluish cloth. He sat down cross-legged on the tiled floor and gestured for me to do the same.

“Take off your kimono and jewelry.”

As I twisted and fumbled to undo the complex folds of my obi, Youta mixed water into a cup of ashes with a twig, creating a thick black paste. Then, when I was wearing only my under-robe, Youta took my kimono, obi, the garnet combs from my hair, even my filthy socks, and folded them into a tight bundle, parceling them up with dirty rags and stuffing them into a gap between the floor and the largest pile of firewood. He helped me don a thin, much-patched kimono, which he said he had taken from the garbage dump outside — it certainly smelled like it. He gave me his own grimy
haori
to wear over it. Both were shapeless enough to conceal my figure.

“Give me your hands,” he commanded. When I obeyed, he slapped a dollop of the ash-and-water paste into my palm. “Work this into your skin — your nails, your arms, your neck and face. Your skin is too fine. If Terayama-san looks closely, it might give you away.”

The stuff was cold, gritty, and slimy. I cringed as I covered myself with it. Youta rubbed it into the spots I missed. Then he handed me a bone-handled knife. “I am sorry. No drudge has hair like that. It must go.”

“Drudge?” I said, staring at the knife.

“A drudge is what you must be, for a little while. I will make up a story about who you are and where you come from. You are so small that you can pass for a younger girl — thirteen, perhaps. First, though, you must look the part. You must be so dirty and unappealing that no one will ever see the beautiful Suzume-sama hiding within.”

I looked at my hair, which had fallen down when I removed my combs, and now curved, sleek and glossy, to my waist.

What did it matter? I took the knife. I gathered my hair into a thick rope and began to saw at it. It parted easily, long, silky hanks slithering down like ink blots onto my kimono and the floor. “I cannot hide forever,” I said dully. “Tomorrow, or a week from now, or a month, I must be myself again. What will I do then?”

“Tomorrow, a week from now, or a month can take care of themselves. We will talk of that another day, when the knife is not at our throats.”

When a ragged shoulder-length curtain was all that was left of my hair, Youta gathered up all the cuttings and took them to be burned. I rubbed the remaining ash paste into my scalp. My head felt wobbly without the weight of my hair holding it straight. I was just finishing with the paste when Youta ran back into the storeroom, panting. “Quickly! I can hear them outside.”

He manhandled me back out into the kitchen and to a blanket spread out on one side of the fire. I lay down, bringing my knees to my chest inside the overlarge kimono. Youta put his back against mine and dragged another blanket over us.

“Stay down and out of sight,” he whispered. “Keep quiet. Nod, but do not speak. Keep your eyes on the floor. The shadow-weaving ought to be enough to hide you from anyone except Terayama-sama, but there is no need to attract undue attention. You need a name. Something simple . . . Rin. Your name will be Rin.”

Rin. It meant “cold.”

As if it had been an instruction to my body, I began to shiver.

When, minutes or hours later, servants from the house came to wake the kitchen staff to ask if they had seen poor lost Suzume-sama, I could barely force my eyes open enough to look at them. A tall — or he seemed tall from down on the floor — young man ripped the blanket from me and nudged me over with his foot, holding a lamp close to my face. I gaped vacantly up at him, a feat which took little acting skill. I was so exhausted.

“Moon’s sisters! This one has a face like the back end of a boar. Why are we searching this dung heap for the lily? Why would she be here?”

“Master’s orders. Your lily is a bit weak in the head, if he’s to be believed. Might be hiding anywhere.”

“Nothing wrong with a weak-headed woman. Less nagging that way. Did you check that one?”

“Old enough to be my grandmother. Come on.”

The noises died away and I wriggled back under the blanket and, somehow, fell asleep.

A kick in the ribs woke me. I jerked upright and flinched at the sound of laughter. “This is Youta-san’s niece? She looks like a wet fish-owl!” someone said, sniggering.

“Quiet, Yuki.” A tall woman with thinning gray hair bent over me. “Up with you, Rin. It is time to dunk your head.”

Remembering Youta’s words from the night before — he was nowhere to be seen now — I wrenched my gaze down to the ground as I got up.

“D-dunk?” I didn’t have to fake the high, scared note that crept into my voice.

“Wash,
baka,
” the woman said, not unkindly. “Face and hands and that mop of hair. I can’t have you shedding dirt all over my floors.”