The garden was empty. Almost empty. It is winter, and snow covers the grasses. It is still early winter, and in the gardens of the Emperor, the spirits of fire keep away most of the chill. Most of it. The moon looked over them, his eye never wavering. They walked together, close, but not touching. The sound of silk moved between them. There was more between them than just silk. A silence, unspoken, but understood.
“I have heard of your skill,” she says to him, “but the stories I heard do not do you justice.”
He smiles, his blue eyes reflecting the moonlight. “I have a brilliant teacher,” he says.
“Toshimoko-sama,” she says the name, her lips kissing over the vowels, her tongue and teeth biting the consonants. “He has a reputation all his own. Insurpassable, I think. Rivalling even great Ikoma.”
“If you mean swordplay,” the Crane says, “no man rivals my sensei.” His hand touches the pommel of his katana. “But, I suspect, with the passage of time, even great Ikoma must admit my lord Toshimoko has lived a life the great Lion would admire.”
The garden is dark. Many shadows. Clouds have moved in front of the moon, obscuring his view. They turn a corner, and the Scorpion bows her head, just a little, letting her hair part, just a bit of her naked neck showing.
“You have built quite a reputation yourself,” she says. “For such a young man.”
He doesn’t nod, doesn’t smile. “Swordplay is my passion,” he says. “My only passion.”
She looks up at him, his pale skin shining against the darkness. “The Lady of Lions is a passionate woman,” she says.
He laughs. “Yes, she is.” He looks down at her, shaking his head. “But her passion does not make up for her lack of skill.”
Her own smile blossoms on her lips. “My lord… to speak so…”
“What else did Tsuko say about me?” he asks. “And do not feign modesty with me. I know better.”
Her head tilts, just slightly, her smile almost a blush. He cannot tell if it is an honest reaction or a trained response. And that makes him all the more curious.
“She has said nothing to me,” she says. “But she has said much. In fact, many women have spoken well of your… swordplay. But, in the end, they all say the same thing.”
He chuckles a little. “I can only imag–”
“They all say,” she says, her voice as dark as the night around them, “that not one of them ever heard you say that you loved them.”
He stops. She walks two more steps, then stops, and turns, the Moon over her shoulder. “My lord?” she asks. “I hope I’m not being too modest.”
He says nothing for a moment. Then, he speaks, a little mist escaping his lips as they slip into the cool, winter night. “I reserve those words for only one,” he says.
“I see,” she says, turning away again, the silver light filling her black hair. “And,” she says, her back still to him, “I understand.”
“How many men have spoken those words to you?” he asks. “Or, should I inquire, how many men have you made say those words?”
She turns quickly, the Moon still over her shoulder, her faced clouded in shadow.
He’s still there, his beautiful smile crooked on his face. “Come come, lady,” he says. “Don’t be modest.”
She steps forward, across the pathway, her steps making footprints in the snow. “If you wish to compare a list of lovers, my lord,” she says, “I think both of us will offend many this night.” She removes the fan from her obi, and delicately gestures toward his sword. “And while you have your blade to protect your honor… what do I have?”
He sets his hand on his katana. “The blade that protects my honor, my lady, would protect yours with equal skill and precision.”
“And passion?” she asks.
He smiles. “And passion.”
“Then, let us continue our walk,” she says.
They turn another corner, and the clouds move just a moment, and a shaft of moonlight falls down on the garden, on a stone table.
“Aha,” she says, stopping for a moment. “And Father Moon has found my only passion.”
She steps forward, and he follows. On the table are two bowls, each filled with small stones. A bowl of white, a bowl of black. The bowls are set so each could be reached with the right hand from the opposite sides. The spaces carved into the stone table are empty.
“It waits for two opponents,” she says, looking up at the Crane.
“I think, my lady, that you wait for an opponent.”
She looks up at him. “Perhaps I do,” she says. “You will not play?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
She smiles then, just a thin smile. The mocking smile. One of the seventy-seven her own sensei taught her. The one that drives to the heart of a man and makes him…
He doesn’t flinch. Not even for a moment.
“Something wrong, my lady?” he asks.
And she realizes, for a moment, her eyes were unfocused. Her thoughts unclear.
“Perhaps we should play,” he says. “My sensei always said I wasn’t very good at the game, but I think I might be able to rise to the challenge.” He moves toward the board, to the seat where the player may draw white stones with his right hand.
“That is the master’s seat,” she says.
He nods, her words not stopping him. “Yes,” he says. “It is.” He takes the seat, making himself comfortable, moving his katana aside.
She puts her left hand on the table, leans forward, her eyes falling to where his eyes are, her nose just close enough to touch his, her lips close enough that his own can taste her breath.
“You are the one to master me?” she asks, her voice more breath than sound.
And for a moment — just a single moment — his eyes lose their focus, his voice leaves his throat.
She laughs, a low, mocking laugh. Her fan is in her hands, unfolded, whispy. “I think not,” she says. She touches the chair with the black stones. “I think this is your chair… little pupil.” She puts the fan back up, hiding all but her eyes.
He watches her. Puts his hand on his katana and stands. He looks at the chair with the black stones. Then, he reaches down and plucks one from the bowl.
“This is mine,” he says. Then, he steps closer. She doesn’t move. He steps closer. The only thing that moves is her fan in her hands, lowering from her face to her breast. He steps closer. Close, but not touching.
“This is mine,” he says again, showing her the stone. Then, he takes the fan in his hand and moves it away. Her hair has fallen away from her neck, and he leans forward… his lips finding the soft skin there, cooled by the night air. His breath is hot against her skin and… she trembles, just for a moment.
His face rises from her neck, smiling. “And now,” he says, placing the stone in her hand. “It is yours.” He motions to the table. “Won’t you take your seat?”
Her eyes are dark as Lord Moon is obscured by the clouds again, but they are shadowed by more than just clouds. “The matter has not yet been settled, my lord,” she says. “A few minor skirmishes do not make the battle.”
He stands by the table, his fingers moving through the bowl of white stones. “You talk more like a Lion, my lady, than a Scorpion.”
“As I’m sure your friend, the Akodo monk can tell you, my lord,” she says, catching his attention. “There are many kinds of battlefields.”
“And many ways to achieve victory,” he says, now leaning against the table.
“But in this game, there is only one,” she steps across the courtyard, to where he is, to where the table is, to where the stones are. He puts his hands behind him as he leans against the table. She moves close. Close enough to touch. She leans forward, putting her own hands against the table, their silk making sounds across the courtyard.
Her face is close to his now. Her left hand reaches up and finds the pommel of his katana. “There is only one victory in this game, my lord,” she says. She leans further, and he feels the curves of her body under the cotton and silk. “And when it is over… you will be the one to take the student’s chair.”
“When this game is over,” he says, his eyes meeting hers. “The court will know who it was who made you sa–”
“My lady?”
The third voice makes both of them move. Standing side by side by the table. A hummingbird doesn’t move as fast.
The voice is still without a body… for a moment. Then, around the corner, a man in red and black steps across the snow. He sees them and stops, drops to his knees, his face in the snow.
“My apologies!” he says. “My lord, your father, asks for your presence.”
She turns to the Crane. “I see our game must wait,” she says.
“Yes,” he leans back against the table, his left hand on his katana, his right touching the bowl of white stones. “And you are the one with the black stone.”
She looks down at it, resting in her hand. Then, she tucks it into her obi.
“For now.”