Child of Vengeance by David Kirk

had grown ever colder the more he had heard. Now he was caught. No thoughts of fleeing entered his head, however, no urge to yelp and scatter; there was a silent, dread inevitability to it. Of course Munisai had known he was there—he had been some implacable phantom that had haunted the boy’s life from a distance for years, and now here he was in the flesh to crush him utterly.
    Wordlessly he slid open the door and entered the room.
    Munisai sat, his arm in the sling and his face grim and triumphant. Dorinbo gaped, aghast at the boy’s sudden appearance. The silence held for long moments.
    “Is what you said true?” said the boy. It was all he could think to say.
    “Yes,” said Munisai.
    “You killed my mother?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you are not my father?”
    “I very much doubt it,” said Munisai. “Look at you.”
    Bennosuke looked to Dorinbo, as though the monk might tell him that Munisai was out of his mind. But his uncle could offer nothing; he was ashamed and angry and shocked and his wits had escaped him. The boy turned back to the samurai.
    “And what happens now?” said Munisai. His eyes were narrow, twinkling in the candlelight. “We know how this should end. Are you samurai, boy? Like your mother? Because her killer sits before you, and you have your little dirk at your side. Do you have the courage to do what’s right? Attack me.”
    Bennosuke’s hand went to the shortsword at his waist instinctively. The room seemed to grow smaller, the swelling of his throat larger. But numb disbelief began to fade, replaced with the first inklings of hatred and anger.
    Munisai was the reason why he had been cursed to solitude, exiled, and humiliated for all these years, not some affliction of the skin. The boy began to realize that—he had heard it, but now he understood it—and now the man sat here with loathing on his face as though he were not guilty. His knuckles tightened around the grip of his sword, and at that Munisai grinned the grin of a snake.
    “No,” said Dorinbo, gaining some semblance of sense back—butonly some, for he stammered the first words that passed through his head. “You mu-mustn’t. This is holy ground.”
    “You’re right,” said Munisai, and suddenly he was up with his swords in his belt before Dorinbo could lay a hand on him. “Come on, boy.”
    The samurai’s good hand clasped Bennosuke around the throat and pushed him out of the hovel. He led the boy at arm’s length out into the night and down the slope toward the gate that marked the boundary between Amaterasu’s realm and the mortal world, where hatred and human fallacy were permitted and ever present.
    Dorinbo came with them, his black robe flapping as he tried to pull Munisai’s arm away, yelling at his brother to stop. The samurai ignored him, stronger than either of them, and where he chose to go the monk and the boy were condemned to go too. Bennosuke staggered and backpedaled, eyes never leaving those of Munisai, legs never thinking to resist.
    “Is your heart weak, mongrel?” snarled the samurai. “Does it falter with the gutterblood of your peasant father? The man I slaughtered like the animal he was? Draw your sword and attack.”
    Bennosuke longed to. He wanted to take the blade and swing wildly at the samurai, every slash cathartic and honest, years of misery and anger welling up in him. There was a sea of blind emotion before him, and to cast himself into it was so tempting, to become no more than vengeance and primal bloodlust. But something held him back.
    They passed underneath the gates, and now on earthly ground Munisai pushed the boy away from him, releasing his throat. The samurai stood with his good arm wide and away from his swords and his chest pushed forward presenting his heart to the boy, his useless left hand almost a five-fingered target where the sling clasped it tight to his breast.
    “Attack me!” said Munisai.
    “Munisai, stop this madness. Bennosuke—go home now,” said