by Leah Cutter
Junichi was going to have to set up a better spy network through the region. Pay more of the local farmers for their knowledge.
“I’ve protected the sacred wells and temple,” Taiga added. “We live in harmony with the kami and the ujikami. But this war with Masato—it threatens to destroy the very rocks under our feet, shake the mountain until it falls.”
Ah—so those were the vows Taiga meant. He was the keeper of the heart of the mountain, not the land or roads. So the mountain must have two guardians, both assigned by the Emperor.
The other guardian, Akimoto no Tayo, had considered his duty to the mountain and the lands here onerous. He’d happily capitulated to Masato, with only token resistance. Perhaps he hadn’t been born here, and had been sent to the provinces as punishment.
While Taiga had taken those vows to heart.
“Perhaps the mountain needs to be shaken,” Junichi told him. The land was pretty enough, but it wasn’t Kyoto, the city of the Emperor. “Maybe it needs to be leveled.” Though that wasn’t Masato’s intent. He’d had a vision of the Buddha stepping from the mainland Shina to the island of Yamato, his foot landing on the top of the mountain and setting it on fire.
“In time, even mountains wash away,” Taiga said. “That is the cycle of things.” He paused, then added, “And though some may claim that war is the natural way of man, Masato’s ways are not.”
Junichi chuckled at that. No, they were not. Junichi wasn’t the only sorcerer in Masato’s pay. Masato, himself, also still dabbled, though he’d never been able to master the more difficult arts. “Do you know what type of magic I practice?” he asked Taiga. How much did the old man know?
“You’re a Taoist magician,” Taiga said, still with no inflection, no judgment apparent in his tone. “You swim against the stream of life, searching for immortality. Your magic isn’t natural.” He shrugged, then added, “An unnatural war needs to be fought by unnatural means.”
Was this Taiga more, or less, than what he seemed? Was he ready to justify any and all acts in the name of his mountain? Junichi was very intrigued. How far would this honorable man go?
However, instead of asking about ethics, Junichi merely said, “You are very wise.”
Taiga laughed. “No. Just an old man.”
“Who wants to live a bit longer?” Junichi guessed. Maybe Taiga didn’t want the sword. Maybe he’d come to regret his childless state and wanted what Junichi could provide him—to live enough years to become his own legacy, instead of relying on sons and grandsons to bring him an unsatisfying type of immortality.
“Me? That isn’t my wish.” Taiga laughed again, a bit harder and longer.
Junichi noticed the servants nearby raising their heads. He guessed they didn’t often hear laughter in his compound. Not free and joyous like that.
Or maybe they were waiting for Junichi to become offended and take the old man’s head. But this Taiga still interested Junichi. If they had lived in a different time they might have become friends, drinking tea together in the afternoons, wisely debating the world.
Finally Taiga stopped laughing and added, “I’m ready to leave this vale of tears today if necessary. But the mountain—she isn’t.”
Taiga put his tea cup to the side and stared at Junichi, his gaze heavy and determined. “I want the sword. I want a chance to defend the mountain as she should be.”
“And what would you give me for such a prize?” Junichi asked. He didn’t hold Taiga’s gaze but instead, looked down and toyed with his cup. He expected the old man to offer something trite, like his life.
“My soul.”
Now it was Junichi’s turn to work at keeping his expression neutral, not allowing himself to show the joy that suddenly warmed him, like a welcoming sunbeam. He couldn’t afford to show Taiga how tempting his offer was. That would have been a bad bargaining ploy.
However, the old man’s offer was the perfect bribe. Particularly after the long night and intense struggle.
Immediately, Junichi started justifying the deal to himself. He and Masato had only talked about the sword containing a fox fairy soul. He hadn’t guaranteed it. It certainly wasn’t in the contract they’d signed.
He could always make another sword for Masato. Right?
Besides, how long would Taiga be able to hold such an artifact? He’d be sure to lose it in the first battle he had with Masato.
And hadn’t Masato, in his latest communication with Junichi, proclaimed himself the finest general in the world?
Certainly he should be able to overcome a minor lord like Taiga in order to fetch the sword for himself.
That way, Junichi could both have Taiga’s soul, and Masato would have his sword.
Junichi considered the man in front of him. He longed to drink down the strong spirit of him, like the sweet water that came from the hidden springs on the mountain.
“I would only use it as the guardian of the mountain,” Taiga added.
It took much more effort for Junichi to keep a straight face. The foolish man had just given the sorcerer a way to bind him. If Junichi worded the contract correctly, Taiga would never be able to attack with the sword. He’d only be able to use it for defense.
The strong will of the sword might also be a good thing in this deal. It would be the final arbitrator, deciding whether Taiga was a fit guardian or not.
Junichi was very curious whether or not the sword would accept Taiga.
Taiga turned away, gazing out at the far horizon. His profile showed no emotion, no trembling, no doubt. He could have been carved from mountain stone.
However, Junichi needed to be certain. “The sword contains a soul,” he said. He wanted to see if Taiga understood all the ramifications of his deal. A life had already been taken for the creation of the sword. This didn’t make the sword evil, but it wasn’t necessarily good, either.
The only reaction from Taiga was a quick intake of breath. However, he didn’t turn away from the course he’d plotted.
“I understand,” he replied. The sadness in his eyes told Junichi that he wasn’t lying. He was ready to accept this death for his mountain.
No wonder he’d earlier described his vows as being beyond shame.
Junichi called for his scribe, dictating the terms of the contract. He didn’t specify a length of time before he collected Taiga’s soul, but he knew it wouldn’t be long.
Taiga didn’t flinch when Junichi cut Taiga’s hand and used his blood to sign the pact.
His eyes did widen, though, when Junichi used his teeth to open his own wrist. However, Taiga didn’t say anything, and his hand didn’t tremble as he signed, using Junichi’s blood.
When they finished, Junichi rose to fetch the sword himself instead of sending one of his servants. He nearly fell when he stood, his exhaustion overriding his excitement.
However, he pulled himself straight. Even though he’d already reached an agreement with Kitayama no Taiga, there were still limits of what he’d disclose to another.
Only the vaguest fire still lit the kiln. Metal shavings and tiny grains from the sparks littered the floor. Tools lay scattered everywhere, along with bundles of herbs that Junichi had used to keep the space pure.
The sword lay slumbering. The surface of it was cool to the touch, pleasing to the eye. Its tears spotted its side, dappling its smooth steel skin like dew on a petal.
Junichi had braided thin strips of black–and–gray sharkskin around its handle. The bumps of the skin felt like raised chick flesh against Junichi’s palm.
The sword shivered as Junichi picked it up. It only fought against him a little as he raised it, pulling itself toward the earth, making itself feel heavier than it actually was.
“I name you Seiji—the lawful one,” Junichi whispered, the name suddenly coming to him. He passed his hand along the sword’s surface. When it shuddered again and nicked his fingers—questing for his blood—he merely laughed.
He was not afraid that the sword might turn against its maker. While
it might try, they were too intimately bound together. The sword would fail.
Junichi used a plain black–lacquered scabbard for the sword, not to humble it, but to allow the beauty of the weapon to speak for itself.
When Junichi stepped from the forge, he found that Taiga had instructed the servants to remove the table and place a crimson–and–gold silk pillow in its stead, between the two seats.
Junichi presented the sword without much ceremony, stating the sword’s name and setting it on the pillow as gracefully as he could manage, given his exhaustion, before kneeling down again.
Taiga greeted the sword properly, bowing to it reverently and speaking its name before he touched it.
The sword seemed to accept him. It allowed itself to be drawn from its scabbard without too much effort.
“He is beautiful,” Taiga whispered.
For the first time, Taiga seemed overcome with emotion. Junichi couldn’t understand the tears that now pricked the old man’s eyes.
Was it because of the sheer beauty of his work? Or did the sword mean more, somehow?
However, when Taiga tried to rise, he found he couldn’t lift the sword. The old man staggered, but he didn’t fall. The tip of the sword refused to leave the earth, though.
It seemed that the sword had rejected the old man. Junichi wasn’t certain why—maybe it was because of the pact Taiga had just signed. The sword would only acknowledge a true protector of the land, not one who served a second master, as Taiga now did, his soul wholly owned by Junichi.
Taiga didn’t say a word to Junichi about it, claiming some sort of breach of contract. He understood his own lack of worth. He walked away with as much dignity as he could, dragging the sword behind him.
What Taiga did with the sword didn’t really matter to Junichi. Taiga only had one, maybe two weeks of life before Junichi would drink him down, use the steady, strong force of the old man to fuel his own long life. He considered the bargain fair.
It didn’t occur to Junichi until much, much later, that maybe Taiga had never intended to use the sword himself. Junichi always assumed that old men were as childless as he was, especially since Taiga had come to call on Junichi by himself.
Junichi had never thought that this Taiga might have a son.
Four
Morning Crept In
Hikaru
Morning crept in on tired feet, with gray, mouse–colored clouds and a sad sun. I felt weary unto my bones, hollowed out by my grief, as if the slightest breeze would bowl me over. Yukiko watched me like a hawk, convinced, I’m sure, that I would slip away, feeling as though my burdens were too great to bear.
She didn’t understand how the promise of revenge kept me on my feet. Made me rise and continue moving through my day.
We supped that morning on cold soup, made from watery chicken broth and wild spring onions. How my Norihiko would have loved it, such simple food, such comfort for the soul.
The silence spilled around Yukiko and me, too thick to be broken. We ate in my rooms, hidden from the other guests. Morning showed the thick cobwebs gracing the corners of the beamed ceiling, the poor quality of the sleeping mats, the lack of poems or paintings hanging on the walls.
The innkeeper tottered around his garden in the back, fussing over his plants as I would imagine one fussed over particularly recalcitrant children. He saw us looking out from my simple room, I’m sure, but he gave space to grieve.
I’d placed the tiny pinecone Norihiko had given me on the window sill, one of his many presents of love. The branch it clung to was still fragrant. I meant to place it on Norihiko’s funeral pyre later that morning. I’d lost the raven’s feather long before.
The humans had lent us a small Shinto temple for us to conduct our rites. Trees grew right up to the walls surrounding the building, making the complex feel as though it was still part of nature. The torii was neither broad nor tall, just a simple gate with crude guardian lions merely carved into the wood on either side, not brightly painted or decorated. The building itself was as humble as its surroundings: plain wooden walls with a rounded, thatched roof.
Yukiko and I spent little time inside, being blessed by the single priest we’d hired to chant the sacred prayers. The villagers respected my need for solitude, though I knew they’d be curious about the fine lady and her great sorrow.
The main room of the temple held a single offering table at the front, covered with bowls of fine rice that Yukiko and I had donated. A bamboo door hid the statue of the kami the temple was dedicated to.
If it had been Norihiko and I praying, making a side trip to visit a local temple, like any tourists we would have asked for the priest to open the door, to have allowed us to pray before the spirit itself.
I was unfamiliar with this particular forest spirit. I didn’t know if she was a real kami, or just a convenient myth for the local priests, an easy way for them to be supported. The only way I would have been able to tell was by viewing the kami’s home directly.
As the priest finished his prayers, he dripped fresh water over Yukiko’s and my head. I felt blessed by a calm I hadn’t expected.
Maybe the kami was real.
Once the ceremony inside the temple was finished, there was nothing to do but go to the funeral pyre set up outside. Oh, how I longed for the comfort of my mother and sisters at that time! I had insisted that the ceremony be kept short—I didn’t have the strength to endure hours of public grieving.
Yet, when faced with Norihiko’s body, I was selfishly glad that I had these last few moments with my love, alone.
I’d directed the priests to put Norihiko’s body in the northern–most corner of the shrine compound. Priests had trimmed the tree limbs directly above the pyre, so that the flames wouldn’t set the surrounding woods on fire. The trees still overshadowed the entire complex, silent guardians of Norihiko’s final resting spot.
I wished I could see his face one last time. I had covered his entire body with the finest cloth I could find in this tiny outpost. But even the incense constantly burning beside the pyre couldn’t hide the truth: my love’s body was already rotting, spoiled with death magic.
I imagined Norihiko clearly, though, with his eyes closed, hiding the twinkling brown, a slight smile on his full lips, his body which always had been so full of life and energy, relaxed and at peace.
At Yukiko’s insistence, I gave a short eulogy. The words I spoke were stiff, formal, and ugly. I longed for more beauty, to give my love the poetry he deserved—to describe the weeping sky, the stillness of the sacred space, the elegance of the white mourning silks we wore.
Yet, this ugliness had its place as well, reflecting the hidden, disastrous wounds on Norihiko’s body, the echoing loneliness I felt, the pitying glances cast on us by the priest.
Many have railed against the strictness of the funeral ceremonies that those of the court must go through. They don’t understand—or have never experienced—the totality of grief we felt. It was a blessing, truly, to be told where to stand, what to say, then be led away when it was time to go.
I never would have made it without Yukiko to guide me. Her solid presence gave me a wall to lean on when my grief became too much. Had she lost someone before, to become so well practiced in the rituals?
I would never ask, though. Despite how closely I relied on her that day, she was still a servant.
And keeping our roles distinct, well, that was essential to the ceremony of our lives.
Ξ
Yukiko and I started our journey back the next morning. I will always think of the days during our ride home as dark, full of angry storm clouds and thunder.
In truth, it was still spring, with only light showers and pale blue skies. The carriage I’d purchased was cheap, the hay in the cushions smelled musty, and the fabric covering them was rough. It was an open carriage—I didn’t care what scandal I caused traveling this way. We needed speed, not decorum.
Most of the rain that fell that trip was in the form
of my tears. I let myself grieve greatly all the way through the dismal handful of days it took to get back home. I would have torn out my hair and shredded my clothes, but I didn’t want to be more of a spectacle than I already was, a constantly weeping woman, face ash–smeared, in increasingly soiled white mourning robes.
I hid us with magic and glamours when I could, turning curious eyes away from Yukiko and myself, letting us pass without notice. Too many people remembered us from when we’d traveled the other way.
When I was forced to let the humans notice us, so we could get food, fresh horses, or a place to stay, they stared at me, pitying the weeping bride, their sorrow amplifying my own.
It wasn’t difficult for me to grieve with all my soul as the days passed and we moved from forest, to field, to foothills. I knew I had to let all of my sadness out, to encourage the floods to come now, because I wouldn’t have time for them later.
Generally, brides as young as I was went into mourning for a full year. They were attended only by their families. Not even close friends could call. A mourning bride couldn’t see any young men, either.
I couldn’t be hidden away like that. It would cause a scandal, but I didn’t care.
Norihiko’s revenge demanded that I act quickly. I had to find whoever had killed him. Find the caster of the foul magic.
I also needed to finish my tears before I got home, so my mother wouldn’t try to stop me enacting my revenge, wouldn’t insist that I stay there with my tears.
Yukiko stayed silent through much of our journey. She’d wailed with appropriate feeling over the death of her fellow servants, but after that, she lost her words. She stared grimly out over the horses, as if willing them to run faster.
She stayed with me through the long days and nights, holding me as I cried, without another tear coming from her own eyes.
By the end of the ride home, I’d finished my weeping and grown as silent as Yukiko. Particularly when I burned my white mourning robes and replaced them with black.
I think Yukiko understood that this wasn’t the end of our journeys. I didn’t know where fate would lead me to seek my revenge, only that I couldn’t rest until I’d found it.
