a crack, this time without warning. Something crashed down, slamming Oda in the back. He fell to his knees and knocked Daigoro flat. Then the whole damned roof came down.
* * *
When the roof caved in, it sent ten thousand fireflies swarming into the night. The flaming ruin belched forth a wall of heat that struck Shichio hard enough to stagger him. Shielding his face, he looked up to see a black form flying from the blaze. It streamed smoke and embers behind it, and it hissed when it struck the surface of the pool.
The sea dragon. Lord Oda. He’d made it after all.
Shichio gaped unblinking at the cold, black water, waiting for Oda to surface. Yellow and orange rippled across the water. No one emerged.
With the power of the mask Shichio could see a luminescent line glowing like a long, curved ember under the water. Glorious Victory Unsought. It had to be. It rested at the bottom of the pool, lying perfectly still for a very long time. Had Oda dropped it? No; if he’d survived, Shichio should have seen him surface by now. More likely he’d drowned with it—better than burning to death, Shichio supposed—and now his stubborn dead samurai hand still clutched the heavy sword like a chain fixed to an anchor.
No matter. Shichio knew how to swim. For anyone else, finding the sword in ink-black water would have been impossible, but Shichio’s mask would show him the way. But—wait. Was it moving? Yes. He would not have to go to the sword after all. It would come to him.
* * *
Cold water breathed life into every pore. Feeling came back to his hands and feet. His eyes opened, and the chill washed the sting and soot from them. In time Daigoro remembered he was a man, and not a dying creature.
When all was said and done—if he was still alive an hour from now—he would wait for the teahouse to burn away, then collect whatever was left of Oda Tomonosuke. A worthy foe deserved a worthy funeral. If there was any death worse than seppuku, it could only be dying by fire. Oda had thrown himself into that fate with the same detached resignation, the same unshakable courage, of a man driving a knife into his abdomen. He would be given a samurai’s farewell.
Daigoro came slowly to the awareness that his lungs were burning—not from the heat of the fire but for want of air. Releasing his father’s sword, he rose slowly to the surface. He breached like a sea turtle, with only his eyes, nose, and mouth. The cold air tasted like heaven. He could not see Shichio ashore—spots of fire still dotted his vision—but he knew the peacock was out there. Giddily watching the fire, in all likelihood, hoping Daigoro was burning to death inside.
Daigoro had to surface three times more, and wriggle underwater thrice more, before he freed his arms of Shichio’s ropes. The water had swelled all the knots, but his skin was slippery now, and he had his hands free. Once his arms were unbound, he untied all the coils around his chest. By the time he was finished, he could see normally again. The next time he surfaced he saw Shichio, watching not the fire but the sword. Daigoro had forgotten: somehow that mask enabled him to see it. But the peacock didn’t spot Daigoro; black water, brightly reflected flame, and the constant churning of the waterfall made the face of the pool a rippling cloak of camouflage.
The wisest thing to do was to flee, leaving his father’s sword at the bottom of the pool. Second best would be to let Shichio’s fixation on the sword distract him, then sneak out of the pool, creep up on the peacock, and stave his head in with a rock. But Daigoro was in no shape for a fight, much less a silent ambush. He was burned head to toe and bleeding badly. By now he must have tinged the whole pool red with blood. Besides, the Inazuma blade was his only weapon. Everything else he owned, including his Sora yoroi, was burning in what remained of the teahouse. A rock was no match for Shichio’s daisho. Daigoro would fight with Glorious Victory Unsought or he would not fight at all.
Then he realized the awful, inescapable truth: he could not win. Glorious Victory Unsought would not allow it. The blade guaranteed victory only when he did not want to fight. More than anything