“For fighting with us?”
“For what came after.” Kiie rose. “Ah, but this talk has got me weak. Memories need drinking, eh? And something to fill this great empty belly. Shall we?”
“I’ll stay a little longer.” Sen gestured to the books. “If that’s all right. A few minutes.”
Kiie nodded. “Good to know your history. Good to know your past. Where you come from. Then you can understand why we have to fight for what we had. Don’t stay too long, Hoshiakari, the clouds will grow tonight.”
He stopped before the door: “Nephew.” Sen turned to find Tokuon watching them, wearing a deep indigo shirt and pleated pants bound with wrapping below the knee. He had a wooden sword in his hand.
“Hoshiakari.” He spoke with no preamble. “Can you fight?”
Sen blinked. “Yes.”
Tokuon dropped the sword at his feet. “Show me.”
They went to the long deck overlooking the cliffs, where mist layered like a sea and a great drop fell away from the cordoned edge. Half the temple slumbered underneath thick snow, its arches hanging perilously in the wide wind-music of empty air. A flutter of snowflakes kicked about, swirling with the same liquid elegance as Tokuon himself, and they squared off.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ye—”
Tokuon moved before he finished the word. His strikes fell like lightning, too fast and without pause for Sen to catch his breath. He could do nothing but defend. It was as if Tokuon could see into his mind, knew what he was planning before he did. Tokuon’s insight was incredible; his eyes, scanning, seemingly at nothing, saw it all.
“You have good technique,” Tokuon said, “but no real-life experience. You must be a killing-god, not some mud-walker. A real warrior would cut through you in seconds.”
“You’d be surprised.” Sen gripped his wooden sword.
“Prove it.”
Sen took a breath – in an instant, the blow came from nowhere, snapping around his wooden sword and through the other side, cutting in too fast for him to regain the distance. Tokuon struck him in the wrist, jarring his arm. When he stepped back with a shout of pain, Tokuon came up and met him, knocking his sword aside with a backhanded motion that sent it clattering to the deck, and at the same moment, performed a foot-sweep that toppled him. Sen hit the railing at the side of the platform, tottering at the edge for a moment before Tokuon struck his shin and he fell to the wood with a cry.
“What the hell are you doing!” he shouted.
“Testing.” Tokuon loomed over him. “Get up.”
Sen did, warily, and before he could bring his sword to bear, Tokuon had knocked it aside once again.
“Not good enough,” said Tokuon. “I thought the Ogami’in taught you how to fight. I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“Fuck off!” Sen turned, grabbing for his practice sword, but before he could get a good grip, Tokuon lashed out and cracked his own against Sen’s wrist again, nearly breaking it.
“What is wrong with you?” Sen shouted.
“Nothing,” Tokuon said. “Fight.”
Sen glared. His wrist throbbed. He reached for the practice sword again – again Tokuon hit him, and this time the pain in his already-injured wrist was so great that he saw white and fell back with a sob.
“You’re going to break my wrist!”
“Then stop me.”
He reached for it again. Tokuon kicked him this time.
“Stop me!”
With a growl of anger, Sen rammed him – like Rui had done that day on the cold evening in the woods – and they landed together on the deck.
“Better,” Tokuon said.
