Bloodline, 5/10
He nearly vomited his food back up after sprinkling no more than one or two tiny slivers of kerida blossom in his rice. But after only one day’s worth of meals, Nino’s fever had vanished. They kept it a secret - when one of Rumiko’s representatives stopped by for a visit, Nino hoped he was a solid enough actor, lying under his sheets and pretending to be writhing in restless agony.
He finally removed the bandaging himself one morning, staring down at what had been done to him. Six characters carved into his flesh, a language he didn’t understand. The wounds didn’t seem infected, which seemed to astonish Sho. Masaki’s antidote had kept inflammation away, leaving only the sore purple markings.
Nino couldn’t avoid his aunt much longer and after a week in his room, he had little choice but to go when she summoned him. Murderer, he was reminded upon seeing her cruel face again. The woman was a murderer.
Thankfully Rumiko’s bangle had been returned to her ankle, and she greeted him with a too-long hug. He’d been asked to meet with her far from the residential wing, far from the king’s apartments and the offices of the various royal advisors and their staff. Instead Nino found himself in one of the storage rooms that held dozens of sacks of grain stacked to the ceiling - the palace had stockpiles while citizens of the Sun Kingdom starved only miles away.
Without warning, she grabbed for his still tender arm, lips quirking in amusement at his wince of pain as she tugged him closer, pushing up his sleeve. He watched her reaction closely as his tattoos were unveiled. She made approving noises, not seeming to find anything amiss about their appearance.
“There were more who studied sorcery in the olden days,” Rumiko said, making Nino squirm as she pressed her fingers down on each symbol. “More who knew the language. Never enough to communicate in-depth but at least we remember and cherish these.”
“The language of the gods,” Nino murmured.
He watched Rumiko trace each symbol on the inside of his arm, tried to keep from jerking away as she pushed down on each of them almost as though she truly did mean to hurt him.
“The translation for these is far simpler than you might think, Kazunari,” she explained. “‘The wind blowing down mountains.’”
“The wind blowing down mountains,” he repeated.
“The gods were never straightforward, and in the olden days, neither were humans. But language evolves, simplifies. Six characters all to say one word.”
“And what word is that?”
“A simple one. Storm.”
He said nothing, unable to look away from the curse set upon him.
“It is just like the children’s stories say,” Rumiko said, reverence in her tone. “Sorcerer Raku went to the God of the Waters, telling him there was a drought in his land, that people were suffering and dying. ‘Send me the wind blowing down mountains,’ he demanded, ‘for my people would gladly drink of it since our wells are bone dry.’”
“But the God of the Waters didn’t send a storm. He sent his sons.”
The sorceress stroked his cheek with her fingernail. Nino thought of the young tattoo artist, stabbed in the neck, left to bleed out on his floor merely for carving a storm into his skin.
Rumiko smiled. “Oh no, Kazunari. The God of the Waters definitely sent a storm.”
She stepped away from him, clapping her hands.
“Bring him in!”
Nino took a reflexive step back, bracing himself when the door opened. It took three sturdy-looking members of the Kingsguard to haul him in, a man small in stature, shorter than Nino by an inch or two. He didn’t say a word, only moving stiffly in their grasp, struggling.
Skin tanned by the sun, the man wore a thin shirt of blue cotton that hung loosely from his small, slim frame and threadbare trousers. He was barefoot, his black hair cut short but sloppy and unstyled in contrast to most men Nino had seen at court. He had a round face, a small pouting mouth. His upper lip and chin were peppered with dark stubble, a deliberate flouting of what was considered right and proper. The soldiers wrangled the man like he was a wild beast rather than a human being.
But Nino realized soon enough that this wasn’t a human being at all.
Nino remembered when he entered the king’s audience chamber. He remembered how it had felt when he’d met Masaki’s eyes for the first time. The chill, the shudders rolling down his spine as he shivered. But it wasn’t the same this time. The feeling seemed a bit more muted, a warmth crawling up his tattooed arm instead, making the symbols burn anew. And yet it was familiar. Send me the wind blowing down mountains.
A god. Another god.
He watched as the Kingsguard pushed the god into a wooden chair, putting his arms behind his back and tying his wrists with rope. His ankles were tied to the base of the chair, and Nino could barely look into the god’s face as he gave up on openly struggling, instead looking at Rumiko with absolute hatred in his dark brown eyes.
Masaki’s brother, the other son of the God of the Waters, trapped here just the same. This was Satoshi, Nino realized. This was the one Sho had recommended he avoid as much as possible. Of course, the gods were unable to harm him. That was part of the blood magic, was it not?
And yet if looks could kill…
Satoshi didn’t seem to look much older than his brother, but his lean, unkempt appearance and the readily apparent rage in his eyes were Masaki’s complete opposite. He’d only spoken with Nino the one time, but Masaki had seemed resigned to his fate, making the best of an utterly unforgivable situation. In contrast, Satoshi was like a captive creature pacing its cage, waiting to pounce and have his revenge.
The soldiers stepped back, and Rumiko moved forward, circling the chair. Nino watched nervously as his aunt casually ran her fingertips up Satoshi’s arms, across his shoulder blades. She chuckled, sinking so low as to tickle a god. This only made Satoshi angrier, but he didn’t lash out. He couldn’t lash out at her. Everything was in his eyes. I would see you dead, his eyes spoke on his behalf. I would see you suffer for what you do.
Rumiko was proving the truth of the curse. No matter what she did, Satoshi couldn’t fight back. Nino crossed his arms, embarrassed. Shamed. This was wrong.
Finally done with her teasing, Rumiko came back to him, pulling up the sleeve of her robe to reveal her own disgusting tattoos. “Today is your test, Kazunari,” she said. “Your day of reckoning.”
At that, Nino saw Satoshi’s murderous gaze finally turn in his direction. The god cocked his head, staring him down. The full force of those eyes ought to have made him feel faint, the same as when Masaki had looked upon him the first time. But there was only a light buzzing, concentrated entirely in his arm. The tattoos.
Nino realized that he didn’t need to be tested. He already knew. When Masaki had looked upon him, he’d been different, unmarked. But now the curse was running through his veins. Unlike his brother Jun, he had the power. His blood was strong, Rumiko might say. The power of the bloodline had passed to him.
He took a slow breath, unable to look away from Satoshi’s eyes.
Masaki had asked Nino a question in the library a week ago. Do you wish to control me?
He saw that question now mirrored in Satoshi’s dark eyes, watched his lip curl in disgust. But Satoshi’s unspoken question was slightly different as he stared Nino down.
Do you dare to control me?
His aunt didn’t seem to care at all about the silent conversation going on between nephew and god. Her hand was on his arm again, the pain a mere itch compared to the force of the god’s rage.
“He looks small, but this one is stronger than his brother,” Rumiko said. Her fingers almost lovingly caressed the tattoos on Nino’s arm. “There is divinity in every inch of his flesh, but look upon him, Kazunari. He looks no different from you or me.”
Rumiko called for a bucket, one of the soldiers grabbing an empty metal pail from the corner of the room and setting it down on the floor halfway between Nino and where Satoshi was tied.
“Speaking of brothers,” Rumiko teased, “We prepared this simple test for Jun when his fever finally broke, and he failed it. Again and again that pathetic boy tried, but he couldn’t manage it. He spoke the words so beautifully, I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember him crawling along the floor on his belly, sobbing like a child, taking hold of Satoshi here by the leg.” She looked over, smiling at the god. “What did that boy ask of you?”
Satoshi didn’t answer.
“Hmm,” Rumiko sighed. “This one’s always been stubborn. Come now, Satoshi. Our dear Kazunari wants to know. There’s so much he doesn’t know. Won’t you indulge him?”
Again, Satoshi chose not to respond. But Nino could see that the fight was going out of him. He was still angry, there was no mistaking it, but he knew he was stuck here in this horrible room until Rumiko decided she was done with him.
“Please!” Rumiko screamed, making Nino jump back in fright. Her voice was suddenly high-pitched, shuddering. “Please!”
The members of the Kingsguard didn’t react. Neither did Satoshi. Nino, on the other hand, was trying not to shake.
Rumiko started to laugh, leaving Nino’s side, going up to Satoshi and pulling his shirt into her fist. She tugged on it, still shouting. “Please!” she screamed. “Please! I’m the heir to the Sun Kingdom! You will obey my command!”
Satoshi looked away, features darkening as Rumiko toyed with him. She was yanking on him so hard Satoshi’s back was coming off the chair, his balance thrown off. Nino heard the fabric of his shirt tear. Before the chair could topple, leaving the defenseless god on the floor, Nino had had enough.
“Aunt Rumiko,” he interrupted, voice as strong as he could manage.
She stopped, finally letting him go, that awful blood red smile returning to her face. “Your brother’s words,” she said, her breath coming in heavy gasps. The woman had reveled in Jun’s failure, hadn’t she? “Your brother’s pathetic words that day.”
“How unfortunate,” he murmured in reply.
“His blood was weak,” Rumiko spat. “But I know that yours is not.” She pointed at him decisively. “You need only say it aloud. The wind blowing down mountains. But you must speak as they do.”
He listened as Rumiko spoke again, but the sounds were foreign to his ears. Almost beautiful, even in his aunt’s voice. Satoshi didn’t react, sitting there with his shirt nearly torn from him, his chest rising and falling as he awaited whatever would be done to him. If Satoshi wasn’t reacting to Rumiko’s command, the words “the wind blowing down mountains” in the language of the gods, then it must have meant that the bangle also managed to dampen her control over Satoshi.
This was Nino’s test alone. He needed only to repeat what Rumiko had said. He needed only to repeat it and he would know if his blood held power.
He wanted to cut out his tongue, to never hear those words fall from his own lips. Satoshi eyed him warily. Nino’s moral dilemma was of little concern to him.
“The wind blowing down mountains,” his aunt enunciated clearly in the language of the gods. “Don’t be afraid. It is your birthright, Kazunari.”
“I…I don’t…”
The three soldiers seemed almost bored, one of them itching at his nose while Nino wavered. If he spoke the words and Satoshi created water, then Nino’s place at court would surely improve. He’d be trusted, valued. If he spoke the words and Satoshi created water, it meant Nino could attempt to break the curse, as Yukio before him had tried.
But if he spoke the words and Satoshi created water, he could never take it back. Even if he never spoke them again, it was cruel, forcing Satoshi to obey his command. Whatever his intent, however hard he fought to free Satoshi and his brother, it could not and would not be forgotten. He would always be a man who forced another to do something he did not wish to do. That savagery could not be erased.
What kind of man was Ninomiya Kazunari?
He supposed that had been decided weeks ago back in Toyone-mura. Standing on the hill, watching the smoke of the bonfire. Seitaro’s words, Seitaro’s faith in him. He was the only one who could do this. The guilt might eat away at him for the rest of his life, but what did his guilt, his selfishness, matter?
He had to forfeit his soul to try and save everyone else’s. That was the task Matsumoto Yukio had set for him. A man he’d never even know.
“Kazunari,” Rumiko said, voice growing impatient.
How easy it must have been for someone heartless like her all these years, how powerful it must have felt to take and take and take from someone who could do nothing to stop you.
Nino took a breath, taking a step forward. He now had Satoshi’s full attention, and his arm throbbed with the burden of the six symbols of Satoshi and Masaki’s centuries-long enslavement. He held the god’s gaze for what might have been seconds or minutes. He inhaled, exhaled. Before him, Satoshi inhaled, exhaled. The hardened set of the god’s jaw didn’t waver. His pride and anger never faded. But he now watched Nino with a heavy sadness in his eyes, no longer straining against his bonds.
Be done with it, those hypnotic brown eyes suddenly seemed to tell him. Just hurry up and be done with it.
The foreign, unfamiliar words slipped from his mouth quietly but firmly.
“The wind blowing down mountains.”
The room was filled with a heavy, penetrating silence Nino felt all the way to his bones. He held his breath, arm burning. The anger drained from Satoshi’s face, the hardness. The rage. In that instant, Nino saw another man. He likely saw the Satoshi who’d arrived here hundreds of years ago, sent on his father’s command. He was innocent, hopeful.
In that instant, he was beautiful.
In that instant, Nino was lost.
He watched tears start to fall from Satoshi’s eyes, and he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t look away even as he heard Rumiko’s thrilled cheers. He couldn’t look away even as he heard her pick up the pail from the floor, heard the sudden slosh of water inside. This was like no other feeling Nino had ever had.
The tears of a trapped god had left him completely undone. Though Satoshi was the one lashed to the chair, it was Nino who suddenly felt in thrall.
Their eye contact was abruptly severed when Rumiko suddenly came to stand before him, holding the pail of water out with pride in her eyes. Nino let out a trembling breath, jaw trembling as tears filled his own eyes. I’m sorry, he couldn’t afford to say. I’m sorry.
“Look,” Rumiko whispered excitedly, demanding that he see what he’d done.
The pail was full almost to the top with water that had obviously not been there a few moments ago. The god had cried, blessing them with fresh water.
She held the pail in one hand, dipping in the fingers of her free hand. Nino watched as Rumiko sucked the droplets from her fingers. “Fresh. Clean. And cold. Sorcerer Raku’s bloodline continues in the name of Matsumoto Kazunari.”
He stepped back when she stepped forward, urging for him to taste what he’d forcibly stolen from the son of the God of the Waters. “I don’t need to try it. I’ve already drunk my fill, bathed in it. This entire palace overflows with what we’ve taken.”
Rumiko laughed. “Soft hearted still, even with such power at your command. It will be my privilege and pleasure alike to help you grow stronger. You will fill streams and wells, fountains and cisterns. It will all flow from you, Kazunari.”
She moved away, carrying the water with her. She moved to Satoshi, still tied to the chair, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, eyes reddened and pained.
“Congratulate my nephew, Satoshi,” Rumiko said. “He is strong like his father, may the Gods favor him. He is strong like his grandfather.”
Satoshi maintained his silence.
“Congratulate him!”
When Satoshi said nothing, Nino cried out in shock as Rumiko upended the pail of water over the god’s head and flung the pail aside with a loud clang. Nino could only watch, horrified, as the water splashed down his face, soaking into his clothes, puddling on the floor. The god lowered his head, anger renewed as his whole body quaked in irritation, and Nino couldn’t find words. Black hair plastered to his head, drops falling from the tip of his nose, his chin. His torn clothes stuck to his frame while Nino bore witness to the god’s humiliation.
“Remove him from my sight.”
The soldiers didn’t hesitate, loosening the ropes and tugging the drenched god from the chair at Rumiko’s command. His wet hair had fallen across his eyes in clumps, but as he was dragged away, he shook it aside, kept his eyes on Nino as he was nearly carried out the door.
He barely registered Rumiko’s arm coming around his shoulder, her hollow praises poisoning his eardrums. All he could think about was that moment when he saw the god change, when he saw the tears form in his eyes. A beautiful, perfect god that Nino now knew he could compel without consequence.
“We will have to meet with Father. We will have to share the good news.”
Nino could only stumble away, nauseated and sickened. In the hallway he saw a small trail of water leading off in one direction. He went the opposite way, ignoring the greetings of courtiers and advisors, their groveling. Their praise. He got turned around, dizzy and infuriated, hands scrambling against the wall as he desperately tried to get away.
Mirei was cleaning his washbasin when he returned to his rooms, and he raised his voice.
“Leave me alone!” he hollered, and he needed only say it once. She fled without another word.
He knocked aside the screen with the pelicans, dropping to his knees and going for his chamber pot, emptying the contents of his belly into it until there were tears in his eyes and his throat ached.
-
He managed to keep Sho and the maids out for three days save for bowls of miso soup Sho clearly snuck inside during the night, as he found it cold when he woke. The infection in his arm had been kept at bay before by the kerida blossom, but after three days without its rotten taste permeating his meals, the fever had taken hold again.
In and out of a restless nightmarish sleep, he felt that it was what he deserved.
When someone set to knocking on the evening of the third day and refused to stop, he finally pulled himself from his sweat-soaked sheets and prepared to tell them off. He hadn’t, however, expected to find Masaki standing on the other side, his fist raised mid-knock.
He staggered back, mouth stale and dry. His arm felt cool as Masaki’s eyes met with his. The power manifested differently, Nino realized. With Masaki, his arm felt cold. With Satoshi, he’d felt heat. He wasn’t sure what it meant, and at the present moment he didn’t care.
“You can force me to create water,” Masaki said calmly, eyes rather amused as he stayed on the other side of the threshold. “And you can force me to leave.”
“I could also call the guards to do that for me,” Nino said bitterly.
“You could, Your Highness.”
He stood aside, feeling a little lightheaded after having moved from his bedroom to the door so swiftly. Masaki walked in, and Nino shut the door.
“Sakurai Sho fears for you.”
“He ought to fear for himself,” Nino muttered. “He will die soon because I wasn’t clever enough to save him.”
The god helped himself to one of Nino’s cushions, setting it on the floor before the low table and sitting casually with his legs crossed. Nino doubted Masaki had plans to leave any time soon, so instead of going back to bed, he grabbed a cushion of his own and joined him on the floor.
Masaki reached into the pocket of his trousers, setting down another glass vial of kerida blossom. “I thought, perhaps, that you might have run out.”
Nino left the vial where it was. The kerida blossom had been his saving grace, had kept the fever at bay when he’d ingested it. It ought to have assured him that Masaki was someone he could trust. But he still didn’t know if he could afford to. He met Masaki’s cool, placid eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Masaki cocked his head. “For what?”
Nino narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”
“Ah,” the god replied, an oddly cheerful smile appearing on his face. “Your test.”
“If I said the words right now, you’d have no choice but to obey me.”
Masaki nodded. “Yes.”
“Do I have to provide you with a glass or would you simply flood the room and ruin my floor?”
Masaki leaned his elbow against the table, propping up his head with a hand to his chin. They sat together, prince and god, as though they were comfortable friends. “Your bathtub would suffice, I suppose. Or the pool in your courtyard. Typically I’m given a direct order in terms of placement.”
“You can speak of it so casually.”
“I speak practically, Ninomiya Kazunari. I’m merely answering the question you’ve posed.”
He leaned back, resting his hands on the floor behind him. He knew that Masaki could see the tattoos on his arm, and yet he didn’t seem bothered.
“Do you always cry?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you do it willingly?”
“Yes.”
“If the curse was lifted and you could kill me right now, would you?”
Masaki’s smile slipped away.
“Would you?” Nino pressed.
His voice was different when he responded this time, heavy and serious.
“No.”
“If I spoke the words and made you fill my bathtub or the courtyard or the entire palace until everyone inside it drowned, would you feel differently? If I asked in your language for the wind blowing down mountains, wouldn’t you long to see me dead?”
“No,” Masaki repeated, this time more decisively.
Nino sat up straighter, leaning until he could reach the vial of kerida blossom. He gave it a push with his finger, rolling it back in Masaki’s direction.
He took a long, measured breath, his mind still whirring from the poison flooding his body. He looked sharply at the god sitting before him. “Does it hurt when you’re being controlled?”
“Yes.”
He shut his eyes, tapping his fingers nervously on the table. “Why did you give me the kerida blossom when you’ve done nothing of the kind for the men and women who have come before me?”
“There is a phrase in our language,” Masaki said quietly. “You might translate it as ‘last hope.’”
He opened his eyes, his tattooed arm stiff and cold as Masaki stared him down. “Shall I have that marked on me next?”
Masaki’s seemingly infinite well of patience and reserve was drying up. “For the better part of a millennium, I have been here, within these walls. There was always a successor. Always, without fail. There has been a Matsumoto king or queen for generations, and I gave millions of my tears to them. But this generation is the generation of last hope.”
“Because Jun can’t hurt you.”
Masaki’s smile was bitter. “I’m not talking about Jun.”
“You’re saying I’m the last hope?”
Masaki nodded. “Yukio tried to break the curse for most of his life, but he never did.”
Nino’s eyes widened. So Masaki had known what Yukio had been up to. It was likely Masaki knew why Nino had been called here, that Nino was here to try and break the curse himself. All this time Nino had wavered about trusting the long-confined god, and yet it seemed as though Masaki had trusted and believed in him from the start. The kerida blossom had truly been intended to help him, to ease Nino’s suffering so that hopefully Masaki’s might be eased as well someday.
He felt ashamed.
“What if I can’t do it?” Nino whispered. “What if I’m not strong enough either?”
“Until the other day, my hopes were more wishful thinking than anything else. You were raised away from this horrible place. You were raised by a man with a conscience. And as a healer, you’ve seen the suffering of this world and have fought hard to diminish it. A man like that would be repulsed by the idea of compelling my brother, compelling me. A man like that would take no pride in what his ancestors have done for so many years. He would want our imprisonment to end.”
“And you’ve moved past wishful thinking, have you? You think I’m truly the last hope, here to set you free? You don’t really know me, you don’t know anything about me. What has you so convinced?”
Masaki grinned faintly. “You made my brother cry.”
Nino waved his hand. “You’ve already said that it makes you cry so…”
“I was answering the question you asked of me. You asked if I cry. You did not ask about Satoshi.”
“I…I assumed that if one of you…”
“My brother has not cried since the day we arrived. He has not cried since Sorcerer Raku betrayed us. Hurt us. Broke us.” Masaki’s gaze was far away, lost in memories that were centuries old. “No matter the pain, he refused to show your predecessors his tears. Me, on the other hand, well, I’ve always been the crybaby of the family.”
The storage room had slipped into Nino’s fevered nightmares. Images had flashed through his mind again and again. Satoshi tied to the chair. Rumiko dumping the bucket of water over his head, throwing his coerced gift right back in his face. The way his arm had burned when he felt the fury in Satoshi’s eyes on him, the heat that had tethered them together as the god’s tears had fallen.
“I really hurt him,” Nino murmured in horror.
Masaki leaned forward, his hand ice cold as he wrapped it around Nino’s wrist. “No, no, it isn’t like that.”
“Then what is it like, Masaki?” he spat back. “What have I done to him that was so different from the torture generations before me have inflicted on him?”
Masaki paused, squeezing Nino more gently.
“For centuries members of your family have barely waited for the ink on their arms to dry before seeking us out. They’ve passed out chasing us down. They’ve locked us in dungeons. They’ve never slowed, they’ve never hesitated.” Masaki refused to look away. “All they cared about was proving themselves. Their legacy, their power. Their bloodline. Yukio fought most of his life to free us, but the day he turned twenty he held a dagger to my throat and said the words.”
Nino shook at the very thought of it.
“I compelled him,” he whispered. “I still said the words.”
“Condemn yourself all you wish, Ninomiya Kazunari, but it doesn’t diminish what I believe. It doesn’t diminish what my brother probably knows in his heart is true, though he is a stubborn character, you’ll find. You’re different from them, and you’ll prove it.”
Masaki let him go, rolling the vial of kerida blossom back across the table to him.
“Don’t stop taking this. If you’re truly to save us, I obviously need you alive. I need you sane. Do whatever you must do to convince them of your sincerity. Play their wicked game so you can turn it back on them tenfold.”
Masaki got to his feet, heading for the door. Nino felt the weight of the god’s faith in him, felt it in the lingering chill in his tattooed arm. Would he ever be strong enough?
“All I can do is try,” Nino vowed quietly, Masaki pausing at the door but not turning around. “I promise to try.”
He heard what might have been a thank you as Masaki opened the door and closed it behind him. Nino picked up the vial and squeezed it tightly, desperate to curb his doubts.
-
Masaki was waiting in the king’s audience chamber two days later, standing behind the throne with a calm, passive look that made it seem like the conversation in Nino’s sitting room had never happened.
The entire path to the dais was lined with Kingsguard outfitted in full armor, swords sheathed at their sides as Nino made his way up the red carpet to where his grandfather sat, eager to test him. Rumiko had also managed to win an invitation to the event, though she mingled amongst the advisors and courtiers who’d been kept back to either side of the chamber by the Kingsguard.
Matsumoto Jun had also found his way to the audience chamber that day, though he hung back several feet behind the throne, leaning back against the wall with what Nino could only describe as a bored expression. Nino wondered how many people Rumiko had told about the events in the storage room, how many people knew that Nino had the ability that the heir to the throne lacked.
For his own part, Nino did nothing to downplay his power. Instead, he’d chosen to flaunt it openly, as his aunt liked to. As he’d heard that most of his predecessors had. Sho had winced that morning as Nino had taken all of the fine shirts and tunics that had been gifted to him, ripping the sleeves from all of them so his tattoos might be more easily seen and admired.
“You might have simply asked for new ones without sleeves instead of destroying these,” Sho had pecked at him, but Nino had been grateful for the small bit of levity. It helped to offset the new attitude he was putting on display, strutting around as Jun had the first time they’d met. He’d tied the black ribbon of mourning around his bared bicep instead.
It wasn’t enough that Nino bore the power of his bloodline. He had to sell it. He had to convince the court that he would be the best choice to carry on his family’s legacy. He had to convince them that he was beyond reproach. Kazunari the prince. Kazunari who could compel the gods.
He approached the throne with all the arrogance he could muster, even as his heart raced. He was walking a dangerous line. He knelt, lowering his head to his grandfather.
“A few weeks in the capital have changed you,” King Kotaro declared, his rasping voice echoing throughout the chamber as everyone watched with hushed interest. “Though your sartorial choices leave much to be desired.”
He heard a few obedient chuckles from the gathered crowd, and he smiled.
“Approach.”
He rose to his feet, moving up the steps until he was beside the throne opposite Masaki. Kotaro looked aside, gesturing for Nino to lean over. His breath was foul, warm against Nino’s ear. He felt the old man’s gnarled fingers wrap around his tattooed arm. He smiled through the pain, feeling the cool sensation that was having Masaki’s gaze upon him.
“Do not say the words so that all can hear them. I don’t need a spectacle. I merely need proof of your capabilities,” the king demanded before letting him go.
Nino offered the king an ostentatious bow, wondering if anyone could see through his bravado. Looking back to the wall, he could see Jun examining his fingernails instead of paying close attention. But after learning what he had from Sho and learning what he had from Rumiko, Nino wondered how much of his brother’s behavior was an act as well.
He moved back to the carpet, standing with his hands on his hips as the doors at the rear of the chamber opened, and red-robed servants came one after another with some of the massive cookpots from the palace kitchens. Nino swallowed, counting as they were brought in and set down, one right after the other. He counted twenty in all, each of them high enough to nearly reach Nino’s shoulder. They could hold a lot of water, and all he’d managed to do before today was have Satoshi fill a pail.
Once all of the cookpots had been settled, the servants were ordered to the back of the room. Nino could hear murmurs among the crowd. The king had said he didn’t want a spectacle. But then what was this? What was this silly set-up? What might the king actually consider a spectacle?
The king raised a hand for quiet, and the room fell silent.
“Masaki,” the king said simply, and Nino took a deep breath as the god moved from behind the throne, taking the steps down to stand on the carpet just at Nino’s side.
Their eyes met, and Nino couldn’t read the look in Masaki’s. The god had told him to do whatever was necessary. He didn’t want to, especially knowing that Masaki would likely fill every cookpot to the brim without needing to be controlled. But Nino supposed that wasn’t the point of this exercise.
He looked over, seeing that the king had waved his hand and that Jun was begrudgingly moving forward, standing beside the throne with his arms crossed. Jun was trying very hard to look bored, but Nino doubted that was the case. Their grandfather was doing this all intentionally. He wanted the entire court to see what his illegitimate desert rat of a grandson might do. He wanted the entire court to see Jun humiliated yet again.
Today Nino would earn the king’s respect and likely his brother’s enmity. And in the process, he didn’t know how much Masaki would be hurt. All for the greater good?
Nino moved to the first cookpot, Masaki mirroring his movements and standing on the other side. Nino set his hands down on the rim of the pot, not letting them shake despite the growing chill in his fingers, moving up his hands. Masaki placed his hands on the rim as well.
The room was so quiet, Nino could easily hear Masaki’s calm, even breathing across from him. In response, he offered a wicked smile.
“The wind blowing down mountains,” he said quietly.
Nino kept his arrogant smile plastered on his face even as he saw Masaki’s large, expressive eyes redden and fill with tears. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Whatever power was used, it wasn’t instant. Perhaps Nino’s powers were still weak. Water gradually appeared in the cookpot, slowly filling as though an invisible faucet was above it. But there was no invisible hand turning it. Only the power of Masaki’s tears, the power of the curse running under Nino’s skin.
It was perhaps a minute before the enormous pot was full to the brim, and Nino took his hands away, droplets falling from his fingers. He didn’t react even when he saw the tears staining Masaki’s face. Because this wasn’t over. This was far from over.
“A cup!” the king called.
A servant emerged from the right side of the chamber, hurrying over with a jeweled cup. Only the most obnoxious in the king’s collection, Nino imagined. The servant knelt down, holding it out to Nino.
He dipped the cup into the cookpot, filling it and approaching the throne. The king took it and all eyes in the room were on the old man’s throat as he swallowed water down. When he lowered the cup, he looked deeply into Nino’s eyes, an expression that was neither pride nor suspicion.
“Fill them all,” he commanded.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
The court seemed to collectively hold its breath as Nino moved from pot to pot, each time whispering the words that held unimaginable power, watching Masaki as he did as he was ordered. Masaki filled each pot to the edge until water flowed over Nino’s hands and he moved on to the next, letting the overflow splash out onto the floor to show off before stepping over to the next pot.
By the tenth cookpot, he could see how much it was weakening Masaki. He was thousands of miles from the sea, thousands of miles from the source of his power. His movements grew sluggish, his strength draining with every second that passed. Instead of a “Yes, Your Highness” with each command Nino whispered, he stopped talking altogether - nodding by the eighth cookpot, desperately trying to keep upright by the tenth.
Nino moved on to the eleventh as Masaki held on to the tenth pot. He wanted to stop this before Masaki was severely hurt. What did it prove if he filled twenty pots with water when he’d already filled ten of them? His power worked each and every time, and from the exhaustion in his face, the shaking of his jaw, Nino knew that Masaki wasn’t faking. He wasn’t pretending to be compelled.
Nino kicked at the empty copper cookpot before him with the toe of his boot, letting the clang ring out through the chamber. “You will obey me!”
Masaki shuffled along, clumsily moving his feet. Nino wasn’t sure how much more of this either of them could endure. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout his apologies until his throat was raw. But this was the price he had to pay.
He waited until Masaki was standing before him again, leaning heavily against the pot. His face was red and swollen, his nose dripping as his whole body shook. They were only halfway. But now they were at least far enough away from the throne for Nino to say something.
“Will you be able to finish?” he mumbled under his breath.
Masaki’s eyes were hazy, puffy from crying. “Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m truly sorry.”
“Please…” Masaki muttered, “just keep going.”
By the fifteenth filled pot, Masaki was crawling along the floor, body heaving. Nino berated him, kicking at the pots and letting the noise echo through the throne room. “What kind of god are you?” he shouted. “You are weak! You are nothing!” He kicked the pot again, taking comfort in the pain that radiated through his foot, up his leg. “You are mine to command!”
He could sense the air shifting in the room. The nobles and advisors and servants were petrified of the power Nino was showing. The king, however, was thrilled beyond measure. Rumiko as well, her smile visible from across the room. And Jun, Nino realized as he waited for Masaki to pull himself to the sixteenth pot…Jun had left the room entirely at some point. In disgust? In fear? Nino presumed it was the latter.
Jun’s remaining sway or goodwill at court had likely just vanished, all because of water in cookpots.
The twentieth cookpot filled the slowest of all, and Nino hid his horror at how much Masaki had changed from the first. He’d been standing tall, strong. Healthy, as much as a god might be judged to appear so. But now he looked nearly dead. All the color had drained from his face, and his eyes had swollen shut.
He lay curled up on the floor in a near-fetal position, his hand pressed against the cookpot to give what strength he still possessed to fill it with water. His breaths were long and shuddering, and Nino had not heard such sounds since he’d been in the caravan. He’d heard these rattling breaths as he ground up a handful of peritos seeds to ease the suffering of a young boy who was only minutes away from passing into the next world.
A god couldn’t die, Nino knew. Or at least that’s what the stories had always said. But the sight before him made him question what he thought to be true.
The pot was halfway full when he saw Masaki’s hand fall away, and he stopped moving. Nobody in the room made a move to help him, and Nino walked around the pot, sliding his arms under Masaki’s and dragging him across the floor, away from the pots and away from his suffering. A quiet moan let Nino know that he was ill, but he was still breathing. Still alive.
Nino hoped the king could not see him shaking in anger, shaking in self-loathing as he moved back to the twentieth cookpot. Nino shoved it with an agonized shout, letting out only a fraction of his fury at what he’d been made to do. The members of the Kingsguard closest to the sudden rush of water didn’t move a muscle, but the courtiers jumped away as the water splashed across the checkerboard floor, soaking their shoes.
He turned back to the king. “Your Majesty!” he shouted across the room, wanting nothing more than to look at Masaki, to help him. But he kept his gaze light and focused on his grandfather. His grandfather who had likely known all along how much this stunt would tax the god. All of this to see what Nino might accomplish. “Your Majesty, I’ve brought you water if you have thirst for it.”
To his surprise, the king rose from his throne. This prompted everyone in the room, from Rumiko down to the lowest servant, to fall to their knees. Even those who had moved away from the flood of water now knelt in it, unable to move.
“Kazunari, my blood,” the king declared, standing at the opposite end of his audience chamber, looking at Nino with sheer delight in his wrinkled face. “Most impressive.”
Nino didn’t kneel. He decided that after what he’d done that he’d never kneel to the man again.
“My pleasure.”
-
Sho had taken the task of grinding up Nino’s kerida blossom upon himself, kneeling on a cushion before Nino’s sitting room table and pounding it almost to dust. Nino ignored the stink of it, pacing back and forth. His appetite had fled him anyhow.
“Wearing down the floor in here will not bring news to you any faster,” Sho reminded him.
“She said she would return within the hour!”
Sho returned his focus to the bowl before him. “It has not yet been an hour.”
“Within the hour means less than an hour, Sho.”
He could tell that Sho was trying not to laugh at him, but Nino wasn’t in the mood for it. The Kingsguard had dragged Masaki’s exhausted body from the audience chamber, but Nino had not been dismissed at the same time. Instead he’d had to play nice, making small talk with the king and his aunt who praised him for his outstanding performance.
They’d kept him there for nearly two hours, mostly the king regaling him with what he probably thought were shining examples of his dominance over the sons of the God of the Waters. Nino had had to stand there, tattooed arm hanging heavily at his side, weighed down with the enormity of the suffering he’d inflicted on Masaki. The king had gone on and on with stories of his youth.
One time he’d had Satoshi forced down an empty well as punishment for some likely meaningless infraction, the king jokingly shouting “the wind blowing down mountains” every hour or so before slamming the well cover closed and leaving him alone once more. Satoshi had spent nearly two days in the dark, claustrophobic well, desperately creating water at a grueling pace in order to float himself back to the surface and to safety. The king told Nino this story with a twinkle in his eye, clearly fond of such a memory. Nino assumed Satoshi felt differently.
Masaki had once been personally tasked with halting the flow of water to an orphanage. One of the workers there had been accused of making threatening remarks about the king. The Kingsguard had been sent to patrol outside, to keep any of the people inside the orphanage from escaping. Masaki had been sat down before a pipe in the middle of the verdant, water-rich palace gardens, knowing that a few miles away innocent children were suffering from thirst.
Instead of simply cutting off the water, Masaki had been ordered to keep already flowing water from moving further down the pipe, a task of concentration. If he lost control, if even a drop of water made its way to the orphanage before the criminal surrendered to the Kingsguard, then the orphanage would have been burnt to the ground with everyone still inside. It wasn’t so much a test of the criminal as it had been of Masaki’s own loyalty, his strength. The criminal surrendered after six days. Masaki had been left “incapacitated” by the incident, the king laughed, for another six after that.
And these were but two examples from Kotaro’s reign alone. The cruelty and abuse stretched back centuries. The kings and queens of Sorcerer Raku’s bloodline were born, lived, and died. The common factor through the years was their sadistic treatment of the gods who’d only been sent to provide help.
Now Nino was one of them.
When he’d finally been dismissed from the audience chamber, he’d raced back to his room, grabbing hold of Mirei and almost shaking her by her narrow shoulders. “Find where they’ve taken him. Find where they’ve taken Masaki.”
And still she was gone, likely making the most delicate inquiries with other servants she deemed trustworthy. After Nino’s harrowing display in the audience chamber, he suspected that Mirei and the other girls would find themselves with greater power and clout in the servants’ quarters. While Nino had spent the last few weeks as a non-entity in the palace, he might now be its most infamous resident. He’d likely gain enemies, he was certain of it. Those loyal to the king might be concerned that Nino was powerful enough to overthrow him. Those loyal to Jun might resent him for the same reason.
But none of those politics mattered to him at present. He cared only about Masaki, his recovery. Nino knew dozens of remedies and solutions for illnesses, for exhaustion. Would any of them work on a god?
There was a knock at the door minutes later, and Nino hurried Mirei inside.
“Well, where have they brought him?” he said in a rush. “Did you find out? Is he going to be okay?”
She nodded. “He was brought to Prince Jun’s apartments.”
Nino was confused, hands on his hips. “On whose orders?”
“On Prince Jun’s orders, my lord.”
Then there was no way Nino would be able to see Masaki tonight. He’d been all but forgotten by his brother since he’d arrived at the palace. But today had changed all that, he was sure of it. Jun would not be extending any invites. Perhaps Nino would have to invite himself. He looked over, saw that Sho had stopped grinding up the kerida blossom.
“Will he be treated well there?” Nino asked Sho warily. Just because Jun was lacking in magic didn’t mean he was going to be sitting at Masaki’s bedside spoon-feeding him broth.
“Yes,” Sho mumbled in response. “He will be able to rest.”
“You speak like this isn’t the first time.”
“That’s because it’s not,” Sho replied.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. He better understood why his mother had never spoken of her life here. Nothing but violence begetting violence, barbarism begetting barbarism. He needed to get back to the library. He had to put a stop to this, once and for all.
He addressed Mirei. “I’ll be going to the library at first light. No visitors, no summons. If and when they ask, I am studying and will not be disturbed. That will be all.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mirei said, inclining her head and leaving the room.
He watched Sho put the ground up kerida blossom into a clean vial, watched him move to return it to the secret panel in the wall.
“He’s fond enough of you to have argued in favor of keeping you alive,” Nino said when Sho returned to him. “Prince Jun.”
Sho eyed him nervously.
“You will go to him tomorrow, and you will tell him I wish to become better acquainted with him. After all, we’re brothers.”
He saw Sho’s nose twitch. It was almost cute.
“You will not leave until a meeting is arranged in the next few days. A meal, perhaps, or a stroll in the gardens.”
“Why? You needn’t fear for Masaki. He is many things, but Prince Jun is not a monster. Masaki will not be harmed while in his care.”
“So you’ve said. But I will need allies in the days to come. I’m wondering if my brother should be among them.”
Sho’s brown eyes were curious. “This is about more than just breaking the curse now, isn’t it?”
Nino remembered his grandfather’s words, how easily he had described the torture he’d inflicted. His aunt was no different. Prince Yukio had spent a fruitless forty years trying to free Satoshi and Masaki. Nino didn’t have the luxury of time. He had to gather allies around him - Kotaro and Rumiko had to be stopped before things got any worse.
“Arrange a meeting. Dismissed.”
Sho bowed, leaving him alone.
Nino exhaled, tired after saying that simple phrase again and again. The wind blowing down mountains. It was nothing compared to what Masaki had endured, but he ached either way. He headed to his sitting room, the thin curtains blowing in the breeze. He moved to shut them completely when he felt a burning sensation start to seep up his arm.
He wasn’t alone.
Instead of closing the curtains, he pulled them wide with a flourish, startling the person who’d been sitting on the flat roof three floors up, spying on him. He was perched opposite Nino’s sitting room, barefoot with his slim but muscular legs dangling over the edge.
Nino looked up at him, squinting in the moonlight as his legs started to move.
“Wait!” he called out, and the movements stalled. He left his sitting room behind, walking out into the small courtyard. Even with the gentle breeze, he felt a rush of warmth as he looked up at the shadowy figure on the roof.
He called out as loudly as he dared, not wanting his voice to carry to any other rooms in the residential wing.
“How long have you been watching me?”
Nino didn’t receive an answer, but the figure in the dark stayed put. He’d been in the palace for about a month now, and he’d felt uneasy several times, as though someone had been watching. Yet every time he’d come out, there’d been nothing. But now he was tattooed, now he bore his family’s birthright.
He didn’t need to see. He needed only to feel that familiar rush of heat.
“I won’t force an answer out of you, Satoshi,” he continued, unsure if he was cheered or frightened about being under a god’s surveillance.
How much did Satoshi know? How much had Satoshi overheard? Conversations between Nino and his maids, Nino and Sho, Nino and Masaki? All of those conversations? None of them?
“If you’ve been up there a while, then you already know where he is,” Nino said. “Your brother. He’s in Jun’s apartments. He’s being helped.”
He felt slightly foolish, holding a one-sided conversation with a powerful god.
“I’m sorry,” he called out.
With nothing but that odd lingering silence hanging in the air, Nino gave up.
“Well,” he said, watching the unmoving pair of feet above him. “Good night then.”
He closed the curtains, the heat not fading from his tattooed arm even as he moved away and into his bedchamber. It clung to him, wrapped around him. Perhaps his eavesdropping god had no plans to move from his rooftop any time soon.
Part Six