40

Deber City, Benjamin
7 October 3136

The surgical suite was cold and smelled of antiseptic soap. Chomie gathered a green surgical drape around her neck and shivered, mindful of the IV line taped to her wrist.

Standing alongside her, Emi frowned. ‘‘Cold?’’

‘‘No,’’ Chomie lied. ‘‘Just . . . worried.’’

Emi’s eyes crinkled above her mask. She was also gowned, and a blue cap covered her hair. ‘‘Don’t worry. He’s a good doctor, and I’m here. I’ll stay with you through the first trimester. Longer, if you want.’’

Chomie was grateful for her sister-in-law’s presence. Yet there really was only one person she longed for. But Theodore had departed for the Dieron District to aid Yori Kurita in her campaign for Dieron.

All the procedures of the past several months: the endless array of pills, then harvesting eggs as her ovaries yielded their bounty. When the doctor performed the intracytoplasmic sperm transfer, she’d watched, awestruck, as chromosomes from one of Theodore’s unaffected sperm was injected directly into a harvested oocyte. That had been five days ago. She’d seen the tiny . . . what was it called? Blastocyst? Yes, that tiny ball of cells the doctor said was perfectly healthy and minus the dreaded Parkinson’s gene. She’d stared, absolutely stunned, at the tiny cluster of cells that would be her son—their heir.

Movement at the foot of the gurney caught her attention, and she saw that the doctor, in blue scrubs and cap, had appeared. ‘‘Here, I stole this from the autoclave,’’ Makoto Shouriki said, and then he tucked a warmed blanket around her body. ‘‘I keep forgetting that while I’m doing all the sweating, you’re probably freezing to death.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ she said gratefully. She watched as he selected a syringe from a nearby tray, checked the level of fluid and then cleaned off a rubber-capped port on her IV line with an alcohol swab. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘Giving you a sedative.’’

Anxiety spiked her chest. ‘‘But I don’t want to sleep.’’

‘‘You won’t,’’ he said, pushing in fluid, then withdrawing the needle. Then he clasped her chilled hands. His fingers were very warm. ‘‘This will help you relax. Be at peace, my lady. Emi is here, and I won’t let anything happen to you or your son.’’

Later, a little dreamy, Chomie stared past the lights at the ceiling as Shouriki worked. She felt no pain, just an expansive sense of well-being, as if her mind were free of her body. She imagined her heart rose, too, and called to her husband across a void that only love could bridge.

I do this for you, my love. I do this for us all.

 
Imperial Palace, Luthien
Pesht Military District, Draconis Combine
15 October 3136

The data crystal contained an encrypted, holographic message from Shouriki: ‘‘While the next few months will be critical in terms of potential for miscarriage, I am optimistic. Preimplantation genetic testing confirmed that the embryo was free of disease, and the fetus is developing normally. Our prince will have his heir, and he will be pure, Tono. He will be free.’’

The message terminated. The crystal disengaged with an audible click. The pillar of light collapsed like a pirate’s spyglass and winked out. Yet Vincent didn’t move. Couldn’t because he was afraid this was a dream.

But no, this is a miracle wrought by men, not a sometime god. If such a thing is possible for mere mortals, then we shall yet endure.

He rose from his desk and padded to the alcove where his gold-inlay black and Kurita-red samurai armor stood next to a double katana stand of carved ivory. Alongside it squatted a low rosewood table. Kneeling, he tugged open its single long drawer. The drawer held a series of rice-paper scrolls, each bound with red ribbon and outwardly indistinguishable one from the other. But he knew the scroll he wanted. Gently pulling away the red ribbon, he carefully unrolled the paper.

The demon painting pulsed with raw malevolence. Why he’d kept it, he hadn’t known until this moment—until he felt the sting of tears in his eyes and the wet on his cheeks. Still kneeling, he used both hands to pull open his black kimono and bare his breast. Then he plucked his katana from its ivory stand. He held the sword with outstretched arms, the weapon’s sterling silver dragon-head tsuke in his left hand, the leather-wrapped saya in his right. Pressing the sword’s handguard with his left thumb, he pushed the blade from the scabbard’s throat and, in one fluid motion, drew his sword.

The weapon felt good and solid in his hand. Its scent was of fine, acid-free camellia oil. Vincent raised himself on his knees, took up his katana in his right hand and fixed his streaming eyes upon those mocking demons.

‘‘Not yet,’’ he said. ‘‘You may snatch the best and the brightest; you may think you’ve won or that you will, that you will bring me and my house low. But I tell you now, and before all your dark lords, I make this vow.’’

Vincent drew his blade across his breast. He did this slowly, deliberately. The weapon bit his flesh, and he savored that hot spike of pain, derived a savage delight from the line of bright crimson that welled up to stain his blade. Vincent cut deep, and he cut true, welcoming pain as a long-lost lover. He cut silently, in a kind of ecstasy.

Then, leaning over the painting, he drizzled his hot life-blood so it seeped into the paper, branching along filaments and fibers. And with his blood came his curse as his defiance bloomed to its full fury.

‘‘Bring your demons and your spells! Bring on the fire! No man draws my blood or blood of my kin and lives, nor will I suffer any demon to believe that he may defeat me or mine. So I swear now with what I have drawn by mine own hand. By my blood,’’ Vincent said, ‘‘we are not finished yet.’’