But here, high in the obscuring mists of Takayubi, where nothing seemed to have changed for a thousand years, it was easy to believe the fantasy of a stable world.

“The Yammankalu are involved?” Misaki asked. It wasn’t unusual for Kaigen’s more powerful ally to give them military support, especially where Ranga was concerned, but it added a new level of complexity to the situation. Yamma was its own player, with its own motives.

Hiroshi, colder than Mamoru and even more powerful for his age, Nagasa, with his sharp eyes and infectious energy, and now Izumo.

“It’s not your fault,” Misaki said. It wasn’t even Takashi’s, really. He must have realized that staying to hold the line meant certain death, that whoever he sent back up the mountain would have to head up the Matsuda house in his absence. Takashi himself could have exchanged places with Takeru, but Mamoru was too young. A fourteen-year-old could

Mamoru

“your Nagino Falleya mythology presumes to count the ancestors of all humanity on ten fingers.” “Sixteen, Matsuda-dono,” he said indignantly. “There are sixteen human ancestors.”

Misaki had grown up in a household of powerful, purebred jijakalu, but even she had never heard of such nyama in such a small child.

having his head taken off. The jointed staff whooshed over him, sending up a spray of snow.

“As I’m sure you’ve guessed, Takayubi wasn’t the only town the Ranganese attacked in these past few weeks. They came to Ishihama as well. That was what destroyed the Arashiki and the surrounding town, not a storm as the news reported.” Takeru nodded as if he had suspected this the whole time, as if he hadn’t slapped his son around the dojo for