Page 11 of Circle of Shadows
Sora nodded weakly. Not because she was disrespectful of Hana’s memory and didn’t want to go. But because every time she thought of her little sister, the mountain air suddenly felt too thin.
Daemon squeezed her shoulder. “Do you want me to come with you?”
She sighed. “No, I need to do this myself.”
“Then I’ll wait for you here.”
Papa came back out on the balcony, with a small slice of Autumn Festival cake on a plate. “Take this with you.”
The incense in the shrine would bring the spirit of the cake to the heavens, for Hana to enjoy.
Sora tried to stay composed. But despite all her taiga training, she couldn’t placate the quiver in her hands as she took the plate from her father.
Sora sat beneath the canopy of trees, in front of a small wooden shrine composed of red beams. There was a short dais, which held a vase of white chrysanthemums and a tiny brass cauldron full of uncooked rice, with sticks of white incense protruding from it. Sora had placed the slice of Autumn Festival cake next to the flowers. In front of the dais, a curved sword lay displayed on a white lacquered stand.
White was the color of mourning in Kichona.
She had been here for almost an hour, and the incense sticks had long ago burned out. But she just kept staring at the sword. It was supposed to honor who Hana had been—there were always ceremonial swords at the shrines of deceased taigas—but to Sora, it was also a symbol of everything thatcouldhave been. And everything that wasn’t. The tiny fingers that had never had a chance to grow big enough, strong enough, to hold a sword. The quick little legs that never got to experience a grasshopper or cheetah spell. The big, brown eyes that wanted nothing more than to be a taiga warrior, fighting side by side with her sister, but instead never saw beyond her sixth year.
Mama’s footsteps sounded on the gravel path leading down from the house to the shrine. Sora nodded but didn’t say anything when she sat down on the ground beside her. Mama carried a worn, leather-bound book with her,embossed on its cover with the Teira family crest of the sun rising out of a vase of flowers. Their family had always been renowned for their ceramics; Sora’s father was a tenth-generation pottery master.
“I know it makes you sad to be here,” Mama said. “But while we should always mourn your sister, we should also honor her memory by using our lives to do what she could not.” She opened her book to a page marked with a ribbon, its blue satin faded with years of age. “I wrote something a long time ago that I’ve never shared with you. Will you let me read it to you?”
Sora smiled a little, as much as one could when sitting before Hana’s shrine. Mama was a famous storyteller. While Papa told his tales on clay, shaping emotions and beauty into ceramic, Mama created in words. Her books were renowned throughout Kichona.
“I would love to hear it,” Sora said.
The branches above them rustled and then quieted, as if they too were settling in to hear Mama’s story.
She cleared her throat, and then she began.
A long time ago, a girl was born among the clouds and mist of Samara Mountain. She came writhing and screaming into the world, as if she were not ready to leave whatever dream she’d inhabited inside her mother’s womb, as if she were unwilling to enter this reality. The midwife had to swaddle her tightly to calm her hysterics, but even warm blankets could not quiet her wailing as it echoed off the cliffs and over the sea.
The baby cried the length of the day, and continued into the dusk. Her father rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and left their tiny house so he could have a moment of peace. Her mother curledinto a ball on the reed mats upon the floor.
In the deepest hours of the night, when the trees creaked in the darkness and the sea sparkled under the moonlight, a masked figure slipped silently into the house. She made not a sound but walked with sword drawn, the blade of it black as pride yet bright as honor.
It was Luna, goddess of the moon and divine protector of the Kingdom of Kichona. She picked up the baby and cradled the girl against her moonlit chest. The crying ceased.
Then Luna raised her sword and brought it across the baby’s back in one quick, shallow slash. A wound opened, then quickly healed, replaced in its stead by a swirl of silver triplicate whorls, like a birthmark upon the girl’s skin.
The baby did not shed a single tear. Instead, she smiled, for she was marked by Luna.
The girl had been blessed as a taiga.
When Mama finished reading, she closed the book in her lap and rested her hands on the cover, her fingers circling the family crest. The trees around them remained still, no breeze in the branches, the whole mountain hushed in appreciation of the moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Sora said. “Is it about Hana?”
Mama shook her head. “It’s about you.”
A lump formed in Sora’s throat.
“It is the greatest privilege in the land to serve Kichona as a taiga,” Mama said. “You have done well in school, and your father and I are very proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Your sister would have been proud as well.”
