Touka folded her hands in her lap, leaving her teacup where it sat. "Humans only pray to the gods when they need help, or when they want us to do something for them. That's all it ever was at home - an endless stream of peasants asking us to curse their neighbors or heal their cattle or make the grass grow faster. Even things they could do themselves, like making sure their traps didn't break." She shook her head. "He's not worthy of the respect my family shows him simply on the memory of a man long dead."

At Takeshi's request, she blinked. "Do not draw it from its sheath," she warned him warily, handing him the blade. Straight-edged and surprisingly light in the master swordsman's hands, the sheath and hilt were made of the same dark wood, lacquered such that it was difficult to tell which end the hilt was on.