Master is in my hands before the Blood-archer finishes speaking. “Lady Knight, release your grip on your cousin’s hair so I may take his head without injuring you.”

To my surprise she draws her own sword and steps in front of him as the old man grips my left arm. “Stay your hand. The boy knows nothing of the truth, only the stories he heard at his father’s court… the same court, and the same stories Lady Sword-son knows.”

The boy is her younger brother. No wonder she’s prickly as a Rock Rose. My anger's still prowling like a caged beast, but I take a step back and speak in a voice only my swords can hear. ‘Old friend, what should I do?’

‘Speak the truth, no matter the cost, no matter the pain’, he whispers back, adding, ‘And you be still’, to Apprentice, who is so angry she’s rattling in her sheathe.

Everyone’s gaze, except the old healer’s, goes to the short sword as she subsides, but the eyes of the old man on me are blue as the summer sky. I sigh and lower my katana. He lets go of my arm and steps back as I turn towards the knight. “Lady Sword-son, as head of your House I understand your obligation to your younger brother. But my lady’s honor is at stake and I cannot let his insult pass. So, I will sit upon the rock behind me and clean my katana while you both listen to my story, and if he will offer the Ogra an apology I will accept it in her name and nothing will be held against him.”

“But if he refuses you will claim his life… and I will be honor bound to defend it.” Lady Sword-son looks at her younger brother in disgust a moment before schooling her face in a stern mask as she turns back towards me. “We will do as you ask. Tell us about this Ogra-Magi.”

I nod and step up onto the stone, walking a few steps until I’m close to the far end. Then I turn and sit down, crossing my legs as Lady Sword-son pushes her younger brother down onto the rock in front of me and sits cross-legged herself.

I pull a rag out of my trousers’ side pocket, the only clean piece of cloth I own, and as the old healer climbs up on the rock to stand behind them, I begin to speak. “Ghostdog is a good name for me, for I am a mongrel,” my fingers carefully cleaning the black metal as I look for specks of dirt or gore. “My mother gave me to my first master shortly after my birth, and every day I was reminded that I was only as valuable as my master thought I was, and that a ghost dog has no honor. My first vivid memory of childhood was killing a man when I was about six years old.”

“That is impossible,” Lady Sword-son scoffs.

I shake my head. “Strong men held another man down as my first master put a sharp knife in my hand and showed me how to make the cut. I didn’t like the spurting blood, but the strong men praised me, and afterwards my master gave me sweet sticky rice with vanilla mango. I liked the treat so much I asked him when I’d be able to kill again. He laughed and began training me the next day.”

The old healer has poured the small cup with steaming wine which he hands to me. “Your last master, the one I saw you with in the imperial city. How old were you when he bought you?”

I accept the cup and drink it down before handing it back to him. “I was twelve. Every four years the Imperial City holds a competition during the Festival of Lust to find the emperor a new concubine, with the sponsoring lord often gaining the emperor’s favor. My master bought me and a girl named Myna to enter the competition as ghost dancers, and we trained for it until we were both sixteen.”

“Theirs was a dance not seen in a hundred years or more,” the Summer-mage says, his eyes grown distant with old memories. “Most of the dances are gaudy affairs: fire and colored smoke, Daemo fighting battles against ill-trained warriors, and other nonsense, but the dance of Myna and Ghostdog was stark, just two dancers alone on the stone floor of the Imperial Amphitheatre. He had such tight control over the shadow that we never lost sight of either one, their movements inhumanly fast then normal again, both of them in perfect sync with the other without a single misstep.” The old healer sighs. “So clearly in love.”

I snort. “That was pure illusion. I was a means to an end, for Myna and our master both.” I resume polishing the black blade. “She wanted to win and he wanted the emperor’s favor. They both got what they wished for.”

Memories cry to me like ghosts in the Grey do at times and I stop speaking, the old healer picking up the tale. “The emperor already had a favorite concubine, so he gave Myna as a gift to the Daemo prince who was his patron. Ghostdog had to take her to the edge of the Shadowlands where the kingdom of the Daemo begins.” 

Myna’s pleading as the Daemo prince’s slave mistress took her away echoes in my head as the old healer continues. “Ghostdog’s master rose in favor with the emperor because of his slave, giving the master a place at court. The emperor himself commanded Ghostdog be trained in the ways of the knight.”

“I was a hollow knight,” I reply, my voice harsh to my ears. “I have no honor but I learned to pretend I did. I learned the graces a knight must know, and practiced the Warrior’s Code in public.” I sigh. “In private, I did whatever was required.”

The old man gives me a knowing look. “Your master rose too far, too fast, and in the end several rivals brought him down, burning his compound to the ground and nailing him to the weeping cherry tree near the entrance to his compound. You were the prize they sought, being the Emperor’s Hound… but you vanished.”