“If I am to fight Iuchiban,” Katamari said, seating himself on the rocks across from the rakshasa, “then I must know my enemy.”

“An astute observation,” Adisabah replied, refilling it pipe from a small golden box it had produced from its robe.

“You know more about him then you have said,” Katamari replied. “You told me that he was a Hantei.”

“Another astute observation,” the rakshasa answered. “Meat grows wiser by the moment.”

“So tell me more,” Katamari said, folding his arms and leaning back against a large boulder.

The rakshasa looked up at Katamari with a brilliant smile, a flash of sharp white teeth. “There is an art, in these lands we call the Burning Sands. This art has no true name, but its practitioners are called khadi – the Heartless. They are abominations, corruptions of sahir, who practice only pure magic borrowed from the jinn.”

“Jinn,” Katamari replied. “They are like the kami?”

Adisabah chuckled as he lit his pipe. “Adisabah thinks so… but do not tell the jinn Adisabah said so.” The rakshasa looked around nervously, as if to make sure a jinn had not overheard him.

“Fair enough,” Katamari answered. “Go on.”

“These Heartless are so called for the ritual that gives them their power,” Adisabah continued. “In which use complex magic to retain their life long enough to cut their own heart free from their chest, and secure it within an iron box. So long as the heart remains thus contained, it continues to beat. So long as the heart continues to beat, it keeps the soul within. The khadi continues to live. Invincible. Unstoppable. Immortal.”

“But why are these khadi such a danger?” Katamari replied. “So they cannot die. What difference does that make? Bury them alive. Cut off their heads. Their immortal life serves little purpose if they can do nothing.”

Adisabah nodded thoughtfully. “Quite true, and many foolish khadi have met their deaths because they failed to see such simple logic. However, other khadi have seen that there are even greater advantages in keeping one’s life and soul safe beyond one’s body.”

“Such as?” Katamari asked.

“There are some magics which draw a price when they are used,” Adisabah said. “They exact a toll upon one’s body, upon one’s soul. For a khadi, this price is easily paid. The universe can attempt to exact whatever toll it likes upon them – their body and soul remain safely out of reach.”

Katamari frowned. “In Rokugan, some shugenja practice maho, blood magic. It takes its toll upon the user in the form of the Shadowlands Taint.”

“An excellent example,” Adisabah said. “Now perhaps meat sees why the jailer found these khadi so interesting.”

“But how did he find them, far away in the Burning Sands?” Katamari asked. “How did he master foreign magics without discovery?”

“Avenues of travel always lie open for the ambitious,” Adisabah replied. “The secrets to power can always be found by those willing to seek…”

Sailing on the seas of Rokugan was a risky undertaking even under the best of circumstances. Despite the earnest labor of generation after generation of Mantis shipwrights, the kobune was an imperfect creation. The wooden slats that made up its hull and deck were loose-fitting, and depended entirely on swelling from sea water to ensure that they formed a watertight seal. The idea of relying upon such a thing for survival on the open sea struck terror in the hearts of most, but not those born to the Mantis Clan. The soul of a Mantis was one bred to live upon the sea. They thrived where others perished. That so few of their ships were lost to Suitengu’s watery embrace was evidence that they were intended by the Fortunes to move across the water like no other clan in history.

Yoritomo Kitao stood upon the deck of her personal ship, The Bitter Flower. She was dressed in the loose fitting garments of a sailor, her arms and legs bare. Her long hair spilled loose on the sea wind. She was a vision of exotic beauty, or might have been if not for the customary scowl that twisted her perfect face. The Bitter Flower’s captain was a complex woman, and ambitious woman, and of late a greatly displeased woman.

The ship, of course, was not at fault. The Bitter Flower was one of the few things that Kitao could truly say had never failed her. It was an exceptional vessel, crafted by the finest shipwrights and hardened by battle in the War of Spirits. The ship had fought on both sides of that war, in fact, though its captain did her best to keep that detail secret and no professed loyalty only to the Toturi dynasty. Yoritomo Kitao would never fear the sea so long as she stood upon The Bitter Flower’s deck. Here, on her ship and among her loyal sailors, she was fearless. She was powerful. She was the soul of the storm itself. Beyond it, though…

Five years had not eased the pain of defeat. How well she still remembered that balmy day in the waters surrounding the City of Lightning. Her men had failed her, broken and driven before Kumiko’s guardsmen. She had failed to stop the Tainted upstart from crushing her utterly. Worst of all, Kumiko had faced the demon Settozai, erupted from the heart of her own henchman Ishada, destroying the Nightmare and cleansing her Taint in one fell swoop. The Mantis had united around her almost at once, Kitao’s humiliating defeat and Kumiko’s redemption destroyed all opposition to the rightful ascension of Yoritomo’s heir. Even Kitao had been forced to bend knee to Kumiko, if only to live to fight another day.

The memory sickened Kitao. She had spent weeks, perhaps even months festering under house arrest while Kumiko insured that her claims of loyalty were true, or at least true enough that Kitao’s soldiers no longer stood in a position to depose her. When she had finally been taken before Kumiko, the impudent girl had tossed a knife at her feet. “You have four choices,” the Daughter of Storms had said. “You may kill yourself, and perhaps find some measure of honor. You can try to kill me, and I will end the threat you pose forever. You can refuse, and be returned to your silken prison. Or you can serve me, and gain a measure of the power and prestige you once had in my place.”

Kitao had chosen to live, and to serve. Kumiko had proven true to her word. As the Mantis Champion’s emissary, Kitao had nearly the same political power she had held when she filled the Champion’s position. And despite herself, she had come to respect Kumiko, for they were not as different as she once believed. But in some dark recess of her heart, she still longed for revenge. She had hidden that feeling deep inside, where it would wait until an opportunity presented itself. Until that day, she could afford to be patient...

The captain’s scowl deepened as she studied the skies to the southwest. Far in the distance, the sky boiled with thunderclouds. The storm would be some time in coming, from the looks of it.

“Kitao-sama,” came a mild voice from behind her.

Kitao sneered and glanced over her shoulder. “What is it, Mogai?” The shabby little courtier was little more than Kumiko’s watchdog, placed aboard the Bitter Flower to ensure that its wayward captain did nothing to bring undue unrest to Kumiko’s rule. It was an insult, to be constantly supervised by such a pathetic excuse for a man.

“The others have inquired as to our time of arrival,” Mogai said, bowing respectfully to Kitao.

She waved her hand impatiently. “Tell Hiro that we sailed north to avoid the storm, just as I told him we would. We will reach the Phoenix port late tonight,” she paused to sneer at Mogai, “just as I told him we would. To doubt me is to waste my time, Mogai. Tell him that as well.”

Mogai frowned. “You should show more respect to the son of the Tsuruchi daimyo,” he said primly. “He stands above you.”

“I am captain here,” she returned, “and while I am captain I am your Lord, your Emperor, and your god. On the sea, none stand above me. I hold all your lives in my hands.”

“Is that meant to be a threat?” Mogai asked. To his credit, he did not look away. Kitao raised her estimation of the man slightly.

Kitao sighed. “You misunderstand me, Mogai. You fail to grasp the danger of the sea. A captain must rule her ship unquestioned, for only she truly understands what must be done to survive. I cannot be bound by etiquette at the helm of my own ship. If Hiro wishes me to show him the respect he is due he can wait until we reach land. Otherwise, we can all play your courtly games in the court of the Water Dragon, at the bottom of the sea.”

Mogai frowned and began to retort, but seemed to think the better of it. He nodded his head in a passing show of respect, then retreated into the meager chambers near the ship’s rear.

Kitao remained at the ship’s helm, staring at the storm clouds.

“Welcome, honored guests!”

The crew had not fully disembarked from the Bitter Flower before a Phoenix functionary arrived, a young woman clad in fiery orange robes adorned with an interlocking pattern of birds in flight. Kitao frowned slightly as she stepped onto the dock. “Greetings on behalf of Yoritomo Kumiko, Champion of the Mantis.” The practiced words slid off her tongue without effort. This time she had even kept most of the acidic sarcasm from her voice. “I am Yoritomo Kitao, captain of The Bitter Flower. I was not aware that we were expected.”

“The Phoenix make it their business to know of all incoming guests, even those who are not aware of their own arrival,” the Phoenix woman said with a smug smile. Kitao despised shugenja, especially arrogant ones. “I am Isawa Tekkan, sent to escort you to Toshi no Omoidoso for the duration of your stay with us.”

“It was not our intent to travel near the Phoenix lands until we were forced to avoid a storm,” Kitao continued.

Tekkan smiled calmly and did not reply. Instead, she turned to the others. “Welcome to the Agasha lands, my friends.”

“Thank you,” Mogai said with a deep bow. “I am Moshi Mogai, servant of the Daughter of Storms. I am honored to visit the Phoenix lands.” He turned to the two young bushi standing beside him. “I am equally honored to present to you Tsuruchi Hiro, son of the Tsuruchi daimyo, and his advisor, Tsuruchi Nobumoto.”

The Phoenix bowed deeply. “This is a great honor, Hiro-sama. Welcome, Nobumoto-san.” She nodded to Nobumoto, who returned the gesture. “If you will permit me, I have made arrangements for your crew to be stationed nearby. The Agasha would be honored if you four would accompany me to Toshi no Omoidoso and partake of our hospitality for a short while before you depart.”

Mogai glanced toward Kitao. Annoyed by the entire encounter, she considered the woman’s offer. “The sails need patching, and any good resin will take some time to dry properly. Some minor repairs and restocking… we should be ready to go in two days’ time, although I’m certain my men would appreciate a short shore leave before we continue south to the Crane lands.”

“Outstanding,” Tekkan said with a smile. “If you would accompany me, my friends, I have made provisions for our short trip. Toshi no Omoidoso is but an hour’s ride, and we can be in my lord’s court well before evening meal.”

“Please do not be offended,” Hiro said as the group made their way into the village, “but I’m curious about your presence here. As Kitao-san said, our arrival was purely happenstance. How did you know to meet us?”

The shugenja smiled. “Knowledge is the Phoenix’s domain, of course.”

If there was any landscape that was more treacherous than the sea, Kitao thought, surely it was the court of a minor daimyo. In her experience (and she’d accumulated quite a bit in her checkered career), the minor courts were far more chaotic than those of Clan daimyos and Emperors. Low ranking courtiers were frequently ambitious youths or those whose greed, incompetence, or darkest secrets prevented them from progressing to higher ranks. They would lie, manipulate, betray, and deceive without hesitation if they believed they could benefit even a little.

Kitao fit into such arrangements perfectly. Sometimes, she even found such courts entertaining. This one, however, was boring her. The Phoenix seemed to involved in theological debate and pursuit of wisdom to involve themselves in any truly interesting skullduggery. She found it disappointing.

“Excuse me, madam,” a strangely accented voice said, “may I join you?”

Kitao turned toward the second balcony entrance and immediately drew back in surprise. The man was like no one she had ever seen. That he was gaijin was instantly obvious, but he bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Ivory Kingdoms representatives that she had met on occasion. His skin was a pale white color, slightly tanned by exposure to the sun. His eyes were large and wide-set, his hair short and curly brown. His clothing was strange as well, with a white ruffled shirt and what appeared to be a leather vest worn over it. His eyes were deep blue, like the ocean at midnight. He smiled a bit at her silence. “I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”

“No,” she said, returning his smile. “No, not at all.” She gestured to the balcony. “By all means, join me.”

“Thank you,” he said in his odd, clipped Rokugani. “I fear I needed a moment’s reprieve from the constant battery of questions.”

“Oh?” she asked. “I suppose they must ask a great deal about your native land.”

“No, not really,” he answered. “That would be refreshing, actually. The problem, I find, is that they want to ask exactly that, but ask about everything else under the sun first, out of an attempt to feel incurious.” He chuckled. “Their courtesy is slowly killing me. They waste my time, and I despise wasting time. Don’t you?”

Kitao found that she was smiling broadly despite herself. “Yes,” she answered. “I know exactly what you mean.”

The man bowed, although not in the traditional manner, pressing one hand against his abdomen and gesturing floridly with the other. “I am Garen Hawthorne, Captain of the Revenant, Ambassador of Thrane, my lady. It is an exquisite pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Yoritomo Kitao,” she answered with a more appropriate bow. “Captain of The Bitter Flower.” As an afterthought, she added. “Ambassador of the Mantis Clan Champion.”

“The Mantis!” he said with a gleam in his eye. He gave a crooked smile. “I have heard much of your clan. You are sailors, much like myself. I’ve looked forward to meeting one of you.” The gleam flashed again. “Of course, I did not expect you to be so beautiful.”

Kitao chuckled. “Does that sort of talk work on women in your land?”

“More often than you might think, yes.”

“Rokugani men have to work a bit harder to gain a woman’s favor,” she said primly. “The women in your land must be either weak-willed or just foolish.”

“Or perhaps they are honest enough to admit they enjoy a man’s company as much as he enjoys theirs,” he said. “But forgive me for such crude talk. My Crane friends cautioned me to show decorum when they left me here. I fear it doesn’t come naturally.”

“The Crane?” Kitao said. “Odd that they would put you in such a minor court.”

“Not particularly. There are some among the Lion who believe a gaijin was responsible for the recent unrest in Toshi Ranbo. Despite that I left well before the problems arose, the Crane felt my welfare would be best served by placing me here, with their Phoenix allies. The Lion do not send many ambassadors to Phoenix courts, I don’t exactly know why. Something about a misunderstanding… Lion distracted from their duty… Imperial capital burning to the ground… something.”

Kitao nodded. “Their clans had a dispute a few years ago.” She shrugged. “I suppose some are not able to let go of the past very easily.”

“That is very true,” Garen agreed. “However, I’ve found something that is wonderfully helpful in that regard. It’s this magnificent treasure your people call sake. Would you care to join me for a bottle?” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps two?”

Kitao’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be standing long after you’ve embarrassed yourself in a drunken stupor, Captain.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Garen said with a flourish. “I’ve been so bored.”

The waters around the Phoenix lands were quite deadly to an inexperienced sailor, one of many reasons the Phoenix stuck to land. For experienced sailors such as those who crewed the Bitter Flower, however, there was little risk. There was little for Kitao’s men to do other than the simplest of maintenance tasks, and even less for her. Boredom settled in mere hours after leaving the Phoenix port. A day and a half later, Kitao almost wished for a storm or an attack by pirates (although the thought of the latter was ironic enough to make her smile despite the boredom).

It was only a few hours after leaving Omoidoso Mura when she began to notice something was wrong. It was late in the afternoon, and the wind was picking up noticeably. The clouds, however, were not behaving in a manner consistent with any storm Kitao had ever seen. After several minutes of scanning the heavens for some idea of what was happening, she scowled. “Mogai!” she shouted above the wind. “Mogai, come here!”

The small courtier emerged from the cabin, clinging desperately to anything that would steady him as he staggered across the deck. “What is it?” he shouted, with none of his usual diplomacy.

Kitao gestured to the skies. “What is going on here? This is nothing natural, that much is clear. Is this some shugenja-spawned trickery?”

Mogai frowned uncomfortably. “I… am not a shugenja, my lady.”

“You are Moshi, are you not?” she replied.

“I am merely a palace functionary,” he replied.

“Then what use are you?” she shouted. “Get off my deck, you pitiful wretch!”

Mogai frowned, and did not move. His face darkened, and he opened his mouth for an angry reply. The conversation was interrupted by a red flash of lightning and a clap of thunder so loud that it seemed to crack the world. Mogai was sent sprawling and Kitao forced to her knees by the lurching of The Bitter Flower. The lightning had struck the cabin, shattering the wood and opening it up to the elements. As she watched, Hiro and Nobumoto leapt over the smoking remnants to land on the deck, weapons in hand. What exactly they planned to do with them, Kitao had no idea.

The clouds billowed and seethed. As she watched, they erupted into a blood red hue, lighting flashing throughout them with frightening frequency. For a moment, all was silent. Kitao felt a strange swell in the elements around her, a sense of anticipation she could not explain. Then, with another earth-shattering clap of thunder, the heavens poured blood down upon the sea.

Kitao screamed. Her flesh burned where the rain touched her. Her mind flooded with memories, images of Yoritomo Aramasu, of her betrayal of her daimyo to the Scorpion so that she could assume his role, of her own rage as Kumiko usurped her power in turn, of five years of choked ambition and shattered dreams. She felt a voice deep within, offering her the power she desired to wipe the past way.

She began to fight. She reached instinctively for a weapon, but her hand rested on the hilt of the dagger Kumiko had given her. A sense of hopelessness echoed through her. What victory was there in this fight? What did this life hold for her? Service in the name of a lord she loathed? That was not for such as her. She was strong, and should be given that which was her due. All who knew her name should fear or serve her. Those who refused would die.

She had agreed to serve Kumiko until she found opportunity. Should she now deny that opportunity?

Kitao’s laughter rang out across the waves, above even the thunder and the screams. What did she have to lose?

Kitao ignored the screams of her crew. One shrieked for his wife’s forgiveness. One old man moaned in self-pity that his son had died in battle years ago. Half of them flailed upon the deck. As she watched, some drew blades and attacked one another in screaming fits of pure madness. One even came at her, shouting that if he could not have her, no one could. She seized his throat in one hand and threw him into the bloody sea with a strength that surprised even her.

“We must get out of the storm, Kitao!” Tsuruchi Nobumoto shouted. The bushi still clutched his bow, glancing about in shock at the fallen sailors. One ran at him with a club, but Nobumoto struck him down with an arrow to the throat. “This rain is doing something to the crew. Hiro-sama!”

Tsuruchi Hiro knelt on the deck, his face buried in his hands. Nobumoto grasped his friend’s shoulder firmly. Hiro looked up, his flesh streaked with blood and his eyes gleaming with madness

“Nobumoto don’t you hear it?” he snarled. “The Song of Blood! Yutaka was right! The Wasp must rise again!”

Nobumoto paled. He wiped the blood from his face with one sleeve and blinked, unwilling to believe the words Hiro had spoken. “Hiro, no!” Nobumoto cried. “You must fight! Do not let the storm steal your soul!”

Kitao moved without thinking, striking Nobumoto across the face and knocking him over the side of the deck. The archer vanished into the sea.

“Nobumoto?” Hiro said. The young Tsuruchi looked about desperately, blinded by the rain of blood. “Nobumoto, help me!”

“Calm yourself, Hiro-sama,” Kitao said in a soothing voice. She knelt beside him. “Let the rain wash over you… let it show you the truth…”

“What truth do you speak of, Captain?” asked a deep voice.

Kitao turned, and was shocked to see that she faced Moshi Mogai. The courtier stood, still and silent, looking up at her calmly as the blood washed over him. His eyes were pure black, with no pupil or iris. His voice was calm, confident. He seemed stronger than before.

“This truth,” Kitao replied. “The simple truth that flows through everything that lives. The only truth is power. The storm has offered us power, we have only to accept it.”

Mogai nodded. “I am ready, my captain,” he said. “What is your first command?”

She looked back calmly at the fire that now spread through The Bitter Flower, the damage the lightning had done. Her ship would not survive long.

“Make for shore,” she ordered through blood-drenched lips.

Toshi no Omoidoso, the City of Remembrance, lay in ruin. The port village nearby had been burned before anyone even realized the Mantis had returned. The city, in turn, was ravaged even before the small detail of bushi who protected it could fully arm themselves. The Rain of Blood had already consumed the city in fear and chaos, despite the fact that few among the populace had fallen to its corruption. Those who had fallen opened the gates for Kitao, willingly joining her crew.

Within an hour, the village was no more and the city was in flames. Bodies littered the streets. Nothing had escaped the destruction. Kitao was drenched in blood, and not just the dried remnants of the rain that had transformed her. During the fighting, she caught a glimpse of herself in a shattered mirror. He flesh was pale, having lost the tan of years upon the sea. Her lips, her eyes, even streaks running through her hair had all become red. She was stunned by her own appearance, shocked to see how much she had truly changed.

“You are truly beautiful.”

The voice was unexpected. Kitao was busy freeing her weapon from the corpse of Isawa Tekkan with a satisfied smile. The voice was unexpected but familiar. “Hello, Captain Garen,” she said with a smile. “I’m so glad you’ve come. I was worried there was no blood left to spill before we departed.”

“And I’m afraid you were correct,” the handsome gaijin said with a rueful smile. “But never fear. There is so much more in your future. In our future.”

“Arrogant man,” she hissed. “No man tames me, especially no gaijin fool.” She lifted her sword and advanced toward him.

“I would not have you tamed, not for an instant,” he replied, neither retreating nor making a move to defend himself. “You are the only woman I’ve ever met worthy to sail at my side.”

“At your side?” she laughed. “You think me a servant? A subordinate? You are a greater fool than I imagined.” She wrenched her weapon free and moved toward him.

“Not a servant. An equal. A fellow captain.” For just a moment, a wave of shadows washed over him and his image changed. His features seemed to melt away, revealing something else beneath. Something ancient and deadly. Something powerful. He reached out casually and removed the sword from her hand.

Kitao stopped and drew in a breath excitedly. “What are you?”

“That would require more time than we have to explain,” he said. “Regretfully, I cannot stay long. My absence would be noticed. Luckily you have ensured that all who saw us together at the city did not survive. None shall know that we have ever met. At least not this time.” He raised a hand toward her, creating an image of a secluded coastline near razor-sharp rocks to appear in her mind. “Do you know this place?”

“I do,” she said breathlessly. “It is but a half-day’s travel north along the coast. Will I see you there?”

“Soon,” he said with a smile. “And you shall find your new ship there. The Eternal. I believe you will find it appeals to your new sensibilities. I give it freely to you to captain, my poisonous flower. We shall meet again very soon.”

The chamber was all but empty. A Moshi shugenja stood off to one side, serving as a witness for her family. Likewise, a representative of the Yoritomo was present, a young man bearing the trappings of a courtier. Both seemed pale and timid in the stark interior of what was still called by many the Palace of the Wasp. Two Tsuruchi were present as well, one kneeling on a cushion and the other standing nearby.

“Please, my lord, do not do this,” Nobumoto said. Numerous bandages covered his arms and the side of his face, but he stood by his lord’s side as if the pain of his escape from The Bitter Flower was nothing.

Ichiro smiled sadly. “There is nothing left for me. This is what is best for the Tsuruchi.”

“I disagree,” Nobumoto said forcefully. “You have made us what we are. We need you to survive this madness.”

“I lost all I had to the rain, and nearly lost myself. You were not here. You did not see the carnage that enveloped the castle, while I only thought of my son. Knowing that he would lead the Tsuruchi… it was all that carried me through the rain intact. Now he is gone. I am no longer fit to lead.”

“No,” Nobumoto said firmly. “I do not believe that.”

“It matters little.” Ichiro withdrew a long blade from the folds of his robe. “I have made my choice, Nobumoto. My only regret is that others must now bear my burden.”

The old man lifted the blade, regarding it with a look of finality. After several moments, he tightened his grip and lifted the blade to his head. With one quick cut, he severed the long, graying topknot that reached down his back. He hefted it in his other hand, then cast it to the floor. “I retire from my position as Tsuruchi daimyo,” he announced formally, glancing at the two visitors. “I shall travel to a monastery and take up study of the Tao.”

“Where will you go?” Nobumoto asked quietly.

Ichiro smiled. “I have a place in mind.” He glanced back to the others.

“What will the Tsuruchi do?” Nobumoto asked.

“That is your decision now, Nobumoto-san,” Ichiro said. “I name you as lord of the Tsuruchi provinces, master of our armies.”

“I am not worthy,” Nobumoto replied immediately.

“Then prove yourself worthy,” Ichiro said, an edge of irritation creeping into his voice. “The choice has been made.”

“Hai,” Nobumoto said, bowing his head. “I shall dispatch our hunters at once, we will find Hiro. We will save his soul, Ichiro-sama… however we can.”

Ichiro nodded gravely, looking much older than before, and said no more.