“Toranaga– sama,” Yori began, “I—”

“Apologize!”

“Sumimasen. Gozemashite.” The words escaped Yori’s lips before she thought to argue again. “I am truly sorry for my transgression, Hatsuwe– san. Please forgive.”

Seeing her humbled, even after losing the call to first blood, was the best Hatsuwe was going to get this day. He nodded once. A dismissal of her apology. “Very well,” he said.

“Now leave the crew to their labors,” the warlord ordered. “We have ten more minutes under thrust. There will be no excuse for incomplete work. Hai? ” the warlord called out.

“Hai!” Several dozen voices answered as one.

They scattered, samurai and crewmen, leaving only Yori Kurita standing in the warlord’s shadow. And Kisho lingering nearby.

“The honor was mine,” she said softly, and with great respect.

Toranaga would have none of that. His craggy face, set with deep lines in a permanent scowl, twisted into a mask of utter contempt. “You think it is so easy?” he asked. Though only as tall as her, the warlord exuded a physical presence far in excess of his size. It overpowered and humbled.

“Your honor will always—always–be suspect, Sakamoto Yori-san.” Refusing her the name she had only recently been honored to acknowledge was a stinging slap. “Your grandfather’s taint is not erased because of your performance at the Sun Zhang academy. It is not balanced by the favor, and the incredible patience, I have shown you. This will never be. Wakari-mas? ”

His words, though spoken low, whipped at Yori like a scourge, biting into her flesh. She dropped her gaze to the nonskid deck. “Hai, tonoe.”

“Dismissed,” the warlord said abruptly.

Yes. Yori supposed she was.

Terra

Republic of the Sphere

14 March 3135

Tara Campbell stepped awkwardly into the magnificent vestibule of Paris’ Republic Cathedral wearing her rumpled uniform, a small military gear bag slung over her right shoulder. If a traveling soldier could feel more out of place, she did not want to go looking.

Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, painted with a frieze of a blazing sun battling dark thunderclouds, the entire expanse held up by flying buttresses detailed in scroll-worked wood and golden gilt. Rich-grained mahogany stained reddish black paneled the walls, polished so fine and lacquered so thick your reflection, when you found it, looked trapped deep, deep inside the wood. A second soul, staring back at you from where the cathedral touched that other plane of existence.

Floors were rose marble shot through with veins of blue and gray. Her bootheels fell against the beautiful stone with imperative clicks, hard and demanding in this soft, elegant place. She ended up shuffle-stepping, sounding even more awkward. A few heads turned, knowing her hesitant footfalls to be out of place in the dark of morning when only the cathedral’s devout caretakers were usually about.

Acolytes looked over from where they worked around an alcove of polished stone. They guarded a delicate display of pottery and stained glass.

A Catholic priest in her dark robes broke from the conversation of hushed tones she’d been having with a shaven-headed Buddhist monk. Both stared.

Tough room, she decided.

But the atmosphere, at least, was both warm and comfortable. Scented with candle wax and wood polish, and a light touch of incense. Nothing Tara could grab hold of and put a name to, much like the best perfumes did not announce their presence, but invited.

“Countess Northwind?”

The monk, stepping forward with his sandaled feet whisking softly against the glassy marble. His orange robe contrasted with the cathedral’s dark colors, but somehow did not seem to clash. He walked around one of the carpet runners, as if not allowed the luxury, and approached with casual ease.

Tara nodded, and the man smiled. Why had she thought the room a hostile one? Under the beatific gaze of the monk, all seemed right with the world.

“Your companion is waiting in the funerary. This is where our paladin lays in state. I will take you there?”

Of course he would, but the man did not presume. He asked. Tara nodded again.

“I would appreciate that,” she said softly.

Their walk from the vestibule bypassed the tall, arched doorways that led to the cathedral proper, angling instead for a smaller door tucked in next to a hanging tapestry of The Firmament—the dividing of the lands from the waters. It was simple, and yet strong. As the ceiling frieze had been.

Thinking about it again, Tara found her gaze wandering back up into the vaulted ceilings above. A simple depiction that pushed thunderclouds into competition with a large, blazing sun; its magnificent rays always holding back the darkness. It drew the eye like an uncompleted puzzle often ensnared her, and it took a moment to understand why.

Worked into the frieze, subtly, were the outlines of two great hands. They cupped the overhead artwork, implying an always-larger hand at work behind the universe.

In fact, the entire cathedral seemed designed to both intimidate and comfort. A cross-purpose that seemed impossible to achieve, and yet the artists—what they accomplished here transcended mere architecture—had pulled it off.

“I like that,” she told the monk when he held the door open for her.

“You see what most do not,” he told her, never doubting that she had spotted the greater design. “That can be a gift.”

Or not, he did not need to say. Tara had spent too much of the last few years looking at The Republic’s troubles from many different angles. As Countess Northwind and commander of the Highlanders, she had served double duty on the political and military fronts. Her unique view had allowed her to rescue Terra itself, mankind’s cradle, from the Steel Wolves, and yet still turn down the paladinship offered by Exarch Damien Redburn.

She had accepted Redburn’s charge to aid Skye against the Jade Falcons, but then (possibly) allowed herself too much leeway in her method of interpreting those orders. Or maybe it had been her strong feelings for Jasek that colored her view. Either way, she was due a dressing down.

But to do it over the body of Paladin Victor Steiner-Davion? That seemed a bit melodramatic. Not to mention disrespectful.

The funerary was dimly lit and cold so early in the morning, yet to be warmed up by the sconce lighting and the thousands of people who daily walked through to pay their final respects to the legendary man who lay within. It smelled more astringent than the vestibule. Less welcoming. Victor’s tomb was made of granite and ferroglass, resting at the head of the room on a small stage. Thick drapes hung along the walls, to absorb sound and keep the room soft. Velvet ropes cordoned off the wooden pews.

Only one man waited within the room for her, seated in the very front where the ropes did not prevent him. He rose at the draft of the opening door, and waited for her at the head of the short, wide aisle.

“Drop your gear, Tara.” Paladin David McKinnon’s voice was strong and strident in the quiet room. “Just set it on a pew. No reason to stand on formality here. Victor knew the details of a warrior’s life.”

Tara had started at McKinnon’s strong voice, and glanced apologetically to her side, where she thought the monk had remained. But the man had simply let her in to the funerary, and shut the door after her.