“Coward,” Sen swore. “Fucking shit-drip, you hit me when I was down.”
“What do you think they’ll do in battle? Maybe you’re not meant for this, Hoshiakari. You should’ve stayed home and played with your mountain brothers, who hide in their fortress and only fight the wild people in the east.”
“Shut up!”
They went again. Sen felt only pieces – Tokuon’s knee hitting him in the gut, a fist like a rock on his head, a strike to his chest that sent him flying into the rail so hard it knocked the wind from him and slammed his jaw shut, cutting the inside of his lip.
He spat blood onto the deck.
“Enough,” Kiie called. “He’ll be useless if you kill him.”
“It’s a start.” Tokuon stood still as a mountain. “That was a good fight.”
“Eat shit,” Sen gasped, hand pressed to his side. It hurt to breathe. His wrist was on fire. “Damn it.”
Tokuon considered him. “Your master was wrong, you know. You don’t need balance. You don’t need compromise. You need to accept who and what you really are. You want to be kijin?”
“Yes,” Sen growled.
“You want to be one of us?”
“Yes!”
“Then stop expecting to be saved. You can’t be a killing-god if you think you’ll still be clean. Peace? It’s for ordinary people. We are those who kill. Our souls will never be in balance. Our spirits will never be clean. We are not on the path of enlightenment, Hoshiakari. To be a warrior is to have the shame of bloodshed, the curse of being reborn in these same, painful lives, again and again.”
Sen found himself shaking. “We have to be more than just killers. We have to be more.”
Tokuon laughed. “You want more?” He jabbed Sen in the throat so hard Sen gagged and fell backwards onto the wood. “Earn it.”
“Get off,” Sen croaked.
“If you hit, reflect,” said Tokuon. “If you are hit, be thankful for the lesson. Never let them see you cry.”
Sen lay on the hardwood deck, aching and bruised, as Tokuon walked off. Everything he’d learned with the crow monks had come to nothing. All his skills, the strength, the agility and speed – Tokuon could read him without effort. Sen flushed. He’d thought he was making progress, but Tokuon hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Sen’s throat ached. He spat on the wood. “I thought you wanted to help me!”
Tokuon paused, wooden sword still in his hand. He picked up a rag and began wiping it clean.
“I want someone who can win a war.”
Tokuon dropped the soiled rag at Sen’s feet, and left him there, heaving for breath, as a chill drifted through the mountainside and a scattering of snow fell lightly, white and icy blue.
“He’s a wildfire,” Kiie said with sympathy, coming close.
“He’s a fucking cowshit.”
Kiie chuckled. “Well, you’re talking like a soldier now, at least. I thought you liked him.”
Sen massaged his wrist. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“He’s worried that you’re weak,” Kiie said, helping him up. “He’s worriedheis, too. What is a warrior but someone who must fight? But if they don’t fight, who are they? People forget so quickly. We were exiled from the capital, but we were spat upon for long before that. They’d never touch us. They sent us to the wild, deal with sinful killers and hunters and trappers, and told us to manage their frontiers and kill their enemies for them. We talk about saving face, we talk about respect and dignity – but in the end, swordsmanship is really just a way to kill.”
“Has Tokuon killed?”
“Of course,” Kiie said. “Haven’t you?”
Sen sat near the cliff for several moments, trying to catch his breath. His wrist throbbed, a red-hot pain. It wasn’t broken, but he could barely close his fingers. The words lingered in his mind:Haven’t you?
