Six Crimson Cranes: Chapters 1–6

Within minutes, he sent one of my brothers—along with a retinue of stern-faced guards—to fetch me.

“Stop yawning,” Hasho chided.

Any mention of him went in one ear and out the other, as my mind drifted to more pleasant thoughts, like cajoling the palace chef for his red bean paste recipe—or better yet, stowing away on a ship and voyaging across the Taijin Sea.

Being the emperor’s only daughter, I’d never been allowed to go anywhere, let alone journey outside of Gindara, the capital. In a year, I’d be too old for such an escapade. And too married.

Inside, my father and his consort, my stepmother, sat at the head of the cavernous chamber.

The embroidery alone weighed as much as a sentinel’s armor, and freeing my shoulders and arms of its heft was like growing wings.

My paper bird landed in the middle of the Sacred Lake, floating on its still waters with unflappable calm—as if she hadn’t just upended my entire morning.

But my stepmother was quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the world.
Striking opalescent eyes, a rosebud mouth, and ebony hair so lustrous it fell in a long satin sheet against her back.

Your father dotes on you. He spoils you.

“Fine, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to talk to her.”
“Must you be so petulant?”

“Do not sulk, Shiori. It is unbecoming.”

I crossed my arms, indignant.

They were lounging in the park, away from the manicured pavilions, the vermilion gates, and the white sand squares.

The Summer Festival was packed with hundreds of revelers by the time I arrived, but I found my brothers easily.

He winked and leaned close, letting me in on the stash of glutinous rice cakes under his cloak.

“Some of us have been working on the kite,” he replied testily.

He clasped his hands, then gestured at my dress, plain compared to his opulent robes.

“It is the color the gods notice most,” I replied cheekily.

Without waiting for him, I traipsed down the aisles, heading for the rice cakes.

“Humans revere dragons, but it’s not the same the other way around. It’d be like I brought a pig to dinner.”

“Shiori’anma,” I said haughtily, though he already knew it. “First daughter of Emperor Hanriyu, and most favored Princess of Kiata—Kingdom of the Nine Eternal Courts and the Holy Mountains of Fortitude.”

“Inspiritation?”
“You can imbue things with bits of your soul. It’s almost like resurrection, but not quite so powerful. You won’t be bringing corpses back to life. Or ghosts, for that matter. But you could probably get a wooden chair to dance on its legs, or revive a few wilted flowers—if you so desired.”

Seryu gazed at my peonies, his red eyes unusually pensive.

I nearly jumped with joy. Thank the Eternal Courts, that meant I was free!
Exuberantly, I put away my needles and threads.

The same way she’d disapproved of a match with Lord Yuji’s son, and insisted on sacrificing me to the barbarians in the abysmal North.

My nonchalance was feigned. To this day, I didn’t understand why that moment had ruined everything between my stepmother and me, and I cared more than I pretended to.

“They’re the very source of our power—magic in its purest, rawest form. Demons and enchanters covet nothing more, since they enhance their abilities.”

I wore a coy smile. “You just called me pretty.”

“Just as it’s tradition for the royal princes and princess to fly kites during the Summer Festival?” Seryu said wryly. “You humans have many traditions.”

“Don’t you know? She’s a powerful sorceress. Magic emanates off her. Even when I was at your Summer Festival, I noticed it.”

“She isn’t one of those greedy fools bound to a thousand-year oath, sworn to serve whichever master possesses their amulet. It isn’t as grand as it sounds. Between masters, they have to spend their days in their spirit form, usually as some mangy beast without access to magic—or much intelligence.”

“Well, if you won’t ask your grandfather, then I’ll have to find out.” I shot Seryu a deviously smug look.

But Raikama’s mysterious past did invite plenty of outlandish rumors about where she had come from, how she had met Father, and how she’d gotten her scar. Her fondness for snakes certainly didn’t help the speculation.

Once, a minister had tried to convince Father that Raikama was a demon worshipper—one of those heretical priestesses who came by the palace every year, throwing ashes at the gates and chanting nonsense about dark magic returning to Kiata.

“Every hour I waste spying on her is a missed opportunity to improve my skills.” So is every minute you waste complaining, quipped Kiki, my unlikely voice of reason.

When I sighed again, she poked at my cheek. Why so despondent, Shiori?

Ever so subtly, a faint but unmistakable ring of gold flickered in her eyes.

This was no ordinary pool—the water was opaque and held no reflection.

It was more rhythmic, the words lilting and round.

“Forget everything you’ve seen,” she repeated, her voice deep and sonorous.