Sora smiled a little, as much as one could when sitting before Hana’s shrine. Mama was a famous storyteller. While Papa told his tales on clay, shaping emotions and beauty into ceramic, Mama created in words. Her books were renowned throughout Kichona.
“I would love to hear it,” Sora said.
The branches above them rustled and then quieted, as if they too were settling in to hear Mama’s story.
She cleared her throat, and then she began.
A long time ago, a girl was born among the clouds and mist of Samara Mountain. She came writhing and screaming into the world, as if she were not ready to leave whatever dream she’d inhabited inside her mother’s womb, as if she were unwilling to enter this reality. The midwife had to swaddle her tightly to calm her hysterics, but even warm blankets could not quiet her wailing as it echoed off the cliffs and over the sea.
The baby cried the length of the day, and continued into the dusk. Her father rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and left their tiny house so he could have a moment of peace. Her mother curled into a ball on the reed mats upon the floor.
In the deepest hours of the night, when the trees creaked in the darkness and the sea sparkled under the moonlight, a masked figure slipped silently into the house. She made not a sound but walked with sword drawn, the blade of it black as pride yet bright as honor.
It was Luna, goddess of the moon and divine protector of the Kingdom of Kichona. She picked up the baby and cradled the girl against her moonlit chest. The crying ceased.
Then Luna raised her sword and brought it across the baby’s back in one quick, shallow slash. A wound opened, then quickly healed, replaced in its stead by a swirl of silver triplicate whorls, like a birthmark upon the girl’s skin.
The baby did not shed a single tear. Instead, she smiled, for she was marked by Luna.
The girl had been blessed as a taiga.
When Mama finished reading, she closed the book in her lap and rested her hands on the cover, her fingers circling the family crest. The trees around them remained still, no breeze in the branches, the whole mountain hushed in appreciation of the moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Sora said. “Is it about Hana?”
Mama shook her head. “It’s about you.”
A lump formed in Sora’s throat.
“It is the greatest privilege in the land to serve Kichona as a taiga,” Mama said. “You have done well in school, and your father and I are very proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
“Your sister would have been proud as well.”
Sora closed her eyes, already welling up. Maybe by shutting them, she could keep the sadness inside, stop it from spilling out into the rest of her life. As if that hadn’t already happened.
“I think you should have this,” Mama said softly, taking off her necklace. It was a simple chain with a golden pearl on it, more affordable than rare tiger pearls.
“But that’s your memorial for Hana.” Sora blinked the tears from her eyes. “I couldn’t take that from you. You’ve worn it since the Blood Rift.”
“And it helped me through my mourning. But now it has a new purpose.” Mama fastened the necklace around Sora’s throat.
“Your Honor, there’s something else I want to say . . .” Mama reached out and touched her knee. Sora stilled, holding her breath.
“Despite your high marks in class,” Mama said, “I know these years haven’t been easy on you. You carry the burden of your sister’s memory with you. But it’s time to stop.”
Sora frowned; she was unaccustomed to the reprimand in her usually deferential mother’s tone.
“Before I read you the story, I said that we should remember Hana by using our lives to do what she could not. Do you understand what I meant by that?”
Sora bowed her head and kept it down, even more respectful than if she were before the Council. “You’re saying I shouldn’t take being a taiga for granted.”
“Yes,” her mother said. “But not only that—honor your sister by becoming the best you could ever be.”
She looked up now. “The best taiga.”
“Yes, that. Try harder in school. Push yourself when you become a warrior. But more important, be the best person you can be.” Mama squeezed her knee, losing the harsh edge in her voice. “Think of Empress Aki. She has done great things for our kingdom, but she doesn’t brag and doesn’t require loud adulation. Maintaining peace and quietly improving our lives is harder than it seems, and it is not glamorous. But there is a nobility in the way that she leads.”
Sora’s cheeks flushed. She was suddenly a bit ashamed of how she’d courted the limelight by shooting off fireworks at Rose Palace, not to mention the umpteen other stunts she’d pulled off in the past.
“Your Honor,” Mama said, “it is your duty to do more than most. To be more than most.”
The moon seemed to shine brighter. It filled Sora, as comprehension set in. Hana never had a chance to reach her potential. But I do.
Her teachers had been telling her for years that she was wasting her talent, that she could be so much more if she simply tried. But Sora hadn’t wanted to.
Until now. Thinking of what Hana could have been—that little girl who was so proud to be a taiga someday, so proud of having a big sister who was already an apprentice—let Sora see her purpose in this world in a different light.
I’ve been so selfish, Sora thought. She moved her hand and clasped Mama’s fingers in hers.
“I carry Hana’s memory with me,” Sora said, touching the golden pearl with her free hand. “I understand what you’re saying—I live this life for the both of us.”
Mama nodded, eyes glassy with tears. She held Sora’s hand more tightly. Sora stopped fighting her own sadness, and she let the tears spill over onto her cheeks. Hana had been a part of Sora’s life for six years, but just because she was dead didn’t mean Sora couldn’t keep her close to her heart now. Hana would be Sora’s inspiration; her death would not be in vain.
After a little longer at the shrine, Sora and her mother climbed together up the mountainside and back home.
Sora immediately went to Daemon. He’d been outside her father’s workshop, admiring the latest ceramic vases and platters. She had put up her mental ramparts while she was away so that he couldn’t feel her sadness. But Daemon’s forehead creased as soon as he saw the dried trails of tears on her face, and he set down the bowl in his hand and rushed to her. “Are you all right?”
She paused, but then nodded. She told him what had happened at the shrine, and through their bond, she shared the small swell of ambition inside her. Sora was talented enough to be part of the Imperial Guard, eventually. It would take years to become one—only the most accomplished warriors, with at least a decade of experience, could qualify for the honor—but the path started early. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late to change the trajectory of their careers.
“Mama’s right—I owe it to Hana to be more than just a decent taiga. From now on, I don’t want to be just some mischievous kid. I want to see what I’m capable of.”
Daemon laughed. “Welcome to actually caring what people think of you.”
Sora made a face. “Well, let’s not take it that far. I’m doing this for you and me, and for Hana. Not for the Council.”