Great and Noble House of the Crane
Shinsuke Province, the Jun Empire
He took his afternoon tea on the grass beneath the cherry blossoms.
It had been an affectation in his youth, one that had grown on him as his skin pruned with age. The young Jiaoshen had taken great pains to maintain appearances. The Great and Noble House of the Crane expected no less from her favorite son. Once, it had been a house to fear, not so long ago. Once, these halls were alive with children’s laughter, sweet and pure.
Now an old man sipped tea beneath a canopy of late-blooming sakura trees.
The servants kept to the daily rituals, which they performed with the excellence of long practice. When the sun had passed its zenith just so, they approached from the appointed door at the southwest of the courtyard. Thin slippers barely rustled the ground as they carried the trays, swift footsteps carrying them in imitation of the aryu, an homage to the wind spirits. It was to wind and water the Great and Noble House of the Crane owed its first allegiance. The tea ceremony was perhaps the purest expression of that loyalty, a fact of which he reminded himself often. The blade-dance was an ugly thing in comparison. But such was his gift; he had no aptitude for tea service.
Beside him on the grass lay his implement, a manacle in the shape of a blade, never farther than arm’s length since the day he’d taken it up. Folded steel, honed to an edge that was his duty to maintain. It was the masterwork of another man, the fulfillment of another calling. It fell to the Great and Noble House of the Crab to smith the weapons, for their allegiance was to earth and stone. His blade had cost his house dearly, a price paid in more than gold and gemstones. But he had not been the one who sacrificed for the sake of trade. It fell to lower souls to trade their gifts away for glories. Unthinkable, for a blade-dancer to traffic in such fare.
No, the price he paid was in a calling left unfulfilled. Smiths could create masterwork blades. Tea service could be sipped and enjoyed. Those gifted at masonry or carpentry could relax beneath the fruits of their labors, solid roofs and sturdy walls around them. Gifted mathematicians could see truths, and philosophers, too, in their way. All around him, men and women grew ripe with age, their talents put to good use. They created; they built; they left a legacy of finished works adored by all.
Jiaoshen waited.
He waited for a challenge, for an enemy. He waited for someone foolish enough to test the mettle of the Crane in open combat. In his youth, he thought it the honor of all honors to be adopted into this bloodline. It could be said well and truly that no house in all of the Everlasting Empire boasted a finer tradition of swordsmen than the Great and Noble House of the Crane. Now, seasoned with age, he had come to see that ruin came in many forms, not always borne on the edge of a sword. Tragedy could strike, an earthquake, or the great tsunami that showed the disfavor of the koryu, the water spirits. An ill-advised trade, a caravan taken by bandits as it lumbered across the steppes. Seeds could fail to take root; crops could wither. Blight. Plague.
And pride.
Pride above all. Pride in the glory of the honored tradition of his house. Pride that turned away generations of hopefuls, come to him to learn at his hand. Pride that scoffed to teach the unworthy, that shunned the thought of adopting fresh blood into a legacy that traced its line unbroken to the last God-Emperor himself. Pride that grew old, content with a reputation that made clear: Seeking a place with the Cranes was naught but wasted effort. Pride that convinced itself the waning reputation of the Cranes was a woeful mistake, that one day a worthy student would come and shine bright the glories of his house once more.
The smiths had their steel. The carpenters had their woodwork. The traders had their fortunes. And Jiaoshen had his pride.
The servants finished the tea ceremony, and he sat contemplating. He remained there under the cherry blossoms until evening fell. As the sun hid beyond the horizon, more servants rushed to light the paper lanterns that decorated the courtyard. Still he sat, cross-legged on the grass beside his sword.
The servants had relit the lanterns twice by the time the stranger entered and sat across from him.
The stranger was dressed all in white to signify he was hanarun, unclaimed by a bloodline. His head was covered by a hood and a mask, like one of the jinata, though it would have been a queer tactic for one of their assassins to approach him so boldly, and in white instead of their traditional black. The man wore white gloves, and laid a sheathed blade in a white scabbard beside him on the grass before he sat.
Jiaoshen met his eyes. Young eyes, ringed by smooth skin visible above his mask.
“Honored master,” the voice said in accented tones, though the newcomer spoke the Jun tongue. “I have come seeking your skill with the blade.”
Almost Jiaoshen flew into a rage and dismissed this upstart from his presence. He dared to beseech the Great and Noble House of the Crane without bothering to learn the proper forms for the hanarun’s request? A long, indrawn breath kept him centered. Let this young fool speak what he will. Jiaoshen would respond in proper form.
“Bloodless,” he intoned, voice rasped from the hours he had spent in silence. “Crane has need. Would you make an offering?”
The newcomer bowed his head. A gesture of refusal?
“No, honored master. I do not stand before you as hanarun.”
“You wear white,” Jiaoshen said, breaking the ritual exchange.
“Once, this was worn to signify a man’s intent to take up the God-Emperor’s path.”
He nearly laughed. Perhaps the claim was true; Jiaoshen was no philosopher, to remember ancient writings and whispered memories. Instead, he asked, “This is your intent then? You seek to become a God?”
The man nodded gravely. Was he serious?
He did laugh at that. “Well then, young man, you must tell me. How can the Great and Noble House of the Crane assist you on your divine path?”
“As I said, I have come seeking your skill with the blade.”
It took a moment for Jiaoshen to realize his meaning. Blasphemy.
He snatched his scabbard and rose to his feet in a smooth motion, teeth grinding in a snarl.
The young man looked up at him, still cross-legged on the grass.
“You are an old man,” the newcomer observed in even tones. “You could surrender willingly.”
“Make your challenge,” he spat, voice dripping with cold venom.
The stranger sighed, reaching for his scabbard as he stood.
“Very well.” The stranger drew steel, and Jiaoshen copied the motion fluidly, like water from a cloud. “Jiaoshen of the Great and Noble House of the Crane, I challenge you to the surakai, my gifts wagered against yours.”
Jiaoshen had never heard of the surakai but he took the boy’s meaning clearly enough. This was forbidden. He knew deep in his bones. This was wrong.
“I accept.”
Nodding as if it were a foregone conclusion, the stranger paused to remove the white glove from his left hand. Jiaoshen stifled a gasp as the stranger revealed a hand twisted and black, covered in sores, with protruding veins of blue and purple.
“What vileness is this?” he demanded, a touch of fear creeping into his voice.
“Not all gifts are won easily, honored master,” the stranger said softly.
Locking eyes, he felt fear settle in, deep into his old bones. What had he done?
“Begin,” the stranger said, setting his guard. By the ancient rites of the duel, first attack went to the man who had been challenged.
Swallowing hard, Jiaoshen let his long years of practice take over. He snapped into the One Thousand Fans, a two-handed form that rained high cuts from the left and the right.
His opponent adopted the Steps of the Wind, considered the perfect complement. Together, the blade-dancers executed the opening stanza in unison, the prearranged steps playing out precisely as they should. Neither man flinched or made a mistake, and so the steel rang out its song, a rhythm of cuts and parries that Jiaoshen had practiced ten thousand times before. The blade-dance was art refined to science. The slightest misstep would result in a killing blow, on either side. Every move and countermove had been prescribed, practiced, and tested. The end result a beautiful harmony that filled the courtyard now, blade against blade, steel against steel.
The passage ended, and Jiaoshen bowed in spite of himself. He felt tears streak down his face at the beauty of the dance.
“You would have been a worthy apprentice,” he said softly.
“You would have been a worthy teacher, honored master.”
The stranger’s turn to begin the next stanza. The man in white raised his blade in his right hand, and brought the twisted mockery of his left up level with the hilt. This was no form he recognized.
The left hand pulsed then, a sickly purple glow.
Jiaoshen felt his lungs constrict, and recognized sorcery for what it was before he died.