The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6)

by James Calbraith

  “That should hold them,” said Bran, gazing at the burning chaos below.

  Halfway across the strait, Bran saw the opposite shore burst into a wall of fire, far greater and brighter than the flames he’d instilled on Kokura’s side; the blaze glinted off the onyx-black scales of a winged monster soaring above it all, surveying the destruction it had caused.

  They’re already here. He’d been feeling the shielded Farlink for a few miles now and after Kiyō, he knew better what to expect of the Black Wings.

  He pulled on the reins and began a wide, descending turn back. Flying as low as it could to avoid detection, Emrys skimmed the water, touching the crests of the waves with its chest.

  “I’m sorry, Nagomi,” Bran said. “I can’t get you to Heian while that beast is there. We have to lie low for the night.”

  The contrast with the raging flames behind them made the night far darker than it really was and, to make things worse, thick clouds came from over the sea from the north. Bran was letting Emrys choose the flight path, as he searched the faint shores on either side of the strait for a good landing.

  “Where should we go?” he mused out loud. The priestess mumbled something, too quiet for him to understand. Her hands slipped from his waist; he grabbed them and pulled her back up. She felt nice and cosy against his back, and from the front, he was warmed by the Ninth Wind and Emrys’s hot breath; but the sea wind blew from the sides and without his flight hauberk, he was beginning to shiver. Nagomi spoke again, clearer this time, but the breeze carried her words away again.

  “What did you say?” Bran turned his ear to the priestess.

  “Ka… Karatsu,” she forced the words out over the howling of the wind.

  “Karatsu — ” The word sounded only vaguely familiar. “What’s that?”

  “South,” she managed. “Coast.”

  Was that a place, or a person? “South coast it is, then.” Bran drew the left rein closer, banking towards the nearer shore. The coastline here was a swampy morass, torn through by countless streams, rivulets, and canals flowing down from the nearby mountain range. It seemed like a good place to hide.

  It was a terrible place to hide.

  Bran slapped his neck, and looked at the palm of his hand: two more bloody smears. At the same moment three more pins pricked his skin. With every mosquito he destroyed, two more arrived to take its place. There was nothing he could do, other than wrapping the collar of his uniform tighter and throwing another bunch of wet leaves on the tiny campfire he’d managed to start. It’s either be choked to death or get eaten alive here, he thought, miserably.

  The thick, acrid smoke rose in a slow spiral up to the crown of the lone tree, the roots of which formed the small, grassy islet in the marsh, upon which they’d set up camp.

  Bran shivered and rubbed his arms. Emrys’s coiled body was their only shield from the sea breeze. He pulled the blanket covering Nagomi up to her chin. The small bwcler he maintained over her head to shield her from the insects was draining most of his remaining energy.

  A sudden strong gust of wind pushed the blue smoke from the campfire to the ground; Nagomi coughed in her sleep.

  “Koro!” she woke up with a cry. A cloud of panicked mosquitoes buzzed from her kimono, straight into the fire.

  “Shh.” He pulled her towards him and stroked her head gently, until her breath calmed down.

  “Who’s Koro?” he asked. “Is that the boy I saw stabbed on the beach?”

  “He wasn’t a boy,” she replied. “He was an Ancient.”

  “An Ancient?” He pulled her away a little and stared at her. “You mean like in Torishi’s tales?”

  She nodded. “Sacchan found him in Iwakuni’s prison… she sent him here, where she thought he’d be safe…” Her lips wobbled for a second, but she turned the beginnings of a sob into a deep sigh.

  Satō. Where is she?

  “I’m sorry it took me so long,” he said. “I barely made it in time to save you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” she said, taking his hand in hers and touching it to her cheek. “I’m sure things will only get better from now. I hope…Torishi-sama is fine.”

  Bran slipped his hand out to throw another branch on the fire.

  “He’s a shaman. He knows how to heal his wounds. What happened on that beach?” he asked. “Was that assassin… the same woman who hurt you before?”

  “I think so… I didn’t catch a good look. She took Koro’s stone.”

  “Stone?”

  “The blue shard, just like yours.”

  Bran frowned.

  “So she wasn’t with the fleet?”

  “I don’t think so. She must have been tracking us all this time.”

  Bran felt slightly guilty for venting his rage on the sailors and soldiers now. But it’s not like they were all innocent, he thought. They were still in alliance with that Black Wing, and they attacked me without warning.

  How much of their invasion plan he had really scuppered? What did they even need that big a fleet for, if they had a dragon doing all the work for them?

  “An Ancient with a blue shard…” he said. “Like in Torishi’s stories. I wonder what the assassin wanted it for?”

  He felt a tingling at the back of his head.

  A Farlink. The Black Wing? He kicked the campfire down into the bog. In an instant, they were enveloped in pitch-black, stuffy darkness.

  “What’s going on?” whispered Nagomi. She clung close to him. Her breath warmed his neck.

  “A dragon is coming,” he whispered back. “We must lay low.”

  The beast was getting closer. Is it sensing me? Or Emrys? His own mount was fast asleep. Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, Bran thought frantically.

  The tree above them shook from the buffeting of the mighty wings. With the roar of a gale, the Black Wing tore the canopy of the crow-grey clouds right above them, and zoomed forth, bending the tree down with the sheer force of its flight — and then, just like that, it was gone, back into the clouds.

  Emrys stirred awake, purred groggily and, reacting to Bran’s soothing signals, went back to sleep.

  “That was terrifying,” whispered Nagomi. He felt her tremble. “Do you think it’ll be back?”

  “We should be fine for now,” said Bran, “but fire is out of the question, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “it’s not all that cold when the wind’s not blowing. It’s been just a few nights since the Obon, after all.”

  I have to tell her about what happened in Kiyō, thought Bran, and yawned. In the morning.

  “You should get back to sleep,” he said. He pulled the cloth pad from underneath the saddle and told Nagomi to lay on it before covering themselves with the remaining blanket. They nestled close to Emrys — the elemental fire churning in his stomach provided them with more warmth.

  “You were saying something about Karatsu,” he said, when they were settled under the blankets, Nagomi snuggling in his arms. “When we were flying. What is that?”

  “A castle, not far from here — I think,” he heard her whisper in the darkness. “We have to get there tomorrow.”

  “Torishi wanted me to take you to Heian.”

  “It will just be a brief detour.”

  He slapped his neck. A missed mosquito buzzed mockingly in his ear.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Nariakira slid the tiny piece of paper under the magnifying glass and proceeded to decipher the hair-thin characters.

  Atsuko’s missives from Edo were not only written in the family code, but also in the secret way that no one but she and Nariakira knew, which produced letters too small to read clearly without the Bataavian device. This way she was able to fit the entire weekly report onto a piece of paper the size of a maple leaf, easy to hide among other letters carried by Nariakira’s couriers.

  He put the letter away for a moment, and rubbed his strained eyes. The news did not inspire hope. The Mito rebellion was as short-lived as it w
as sudden; burned to ash by two Black Wings dispatched from Shimoda. The new Taikun was weak and in poor health, letting himself be ruled by the Council and the Gorllewin representative. And then there were the strange nightly visits from the Chief Councillor, after which the Taikun returned drained and pale… Atsuko suspected foul magic at play, and Nariakira guessed she was right.

  She was his most perfect spy. No man could ever match what she’d done for him. In this, and the devotion with which they served him, she and Kyokō were similar.

  If only I could have made either of you my heir… His fist clenched. His advisors always asked him to adopt a male to succeed him, but he could never find a suitable candidate. He never fully trusted any man — not like he trusted Atsuko and Kyokō. In the end, he knew, they would all betray him. Even his own brother, blood of his blood, Hisamitsu.

  He’s too impatient. He should know he would replace me sooner or later. All he needs to do is wait. Nariakira’s late wife had borne him no sons that lived past childhood. Some said this was a curse of the Gods, a punishment for his meddling with the barbarians and their magic. It didn’t matter now; he was ready to give Satsuma away to his brother and his heirs. A far greater prize was now in Nariakira’s reach.

  He reached for a clean paper, tore off a square the size of a maple leaf, took the special, hair-thin brush, and began to write his response to Atsuko.

  Dear daughter, he started, I’m afraid I begin with bad news. Yesterday evening, after much deliberation, I decided to go to war against my Lord and your husband.

  Satō took a bite of her prawn tempura and gazed at a birch branch floating lazily on the river below. The current took it too close to the pillars of the inn’s terrace, and it got stuck among the timbers, bobbing on the waves. A curious egret landed beside it to see if there were any fish trapped among the leaves.

  Despite Takasugi’s assurances of safety, the wizardess felt exposed, sitting on the open, river-side terrace, in plain view of anyone who walked on the other shore.

  “So who were those guys?” asked Shōin. “Izumi-sama said Aizu, but they bore no crests.”

  Takasugi dabbed a slice of sweet potato in green salt and gulped it whole before answering. He had just returned from another fact-finding mission in the streets of Heian — mostly visiting the few of his father’s acquaintances who still lived in the city.

  “They call themselves a ‘new squad’. They replaced most of the city guards,” he replied, chewing a battered mushroom. “Under the nominal command of one of the Aizu-Matsudairas, but led by somebody called Koyata.”

  “Funny, I knew a policeman in Kiyō by that name,” mused Satō. “Or rather, my father knew him.”

  “Must be somebody else,” said Takasugi. “This Koyata is in high favour with the Matsudairas, and practically runs the city. His ‘new squad’ even tried to break into the monastery where our men are stationed, but Kunishi-sama fought them off.”

  “What’s Keinosuke doing among them?” Shōin shook his head in wonder. “I thought he was supposed to move to his mother’s estate in Chūbu.”

  “Do you think he recognised us?” asked Satō.

  “I don’t know. His eyes were open, but…” Shōin shrugged. “It’s not exactly a secret that we’re in Heian.”

  “Any word from Izumi-dono?”

  “He disappeared on the night of the attack. Nobody’s heard anything from him, or about him, since. It’s almost as if he’s run away from the city.”

  “I knew it.” She stabbed a prawn with her chopstick, splattering the batter and oil. They had been hiding for three days now, moving from inn to inn. She felt increasingly restless — and powerless. “We can’t wait anymore. We have to do something.”

  “Without a signal from Satsuma that the palace gates…” Takasugi began, but Satō pointed the end of her chopstick in his face; its tip covered in ice.

  “We have two thousand men ready for action. We have the Kiheitai. We have Shōin! We must break through those gates, and reach the Mikado — and we have to do it before the Black Wings get here. What do you say, Shōin?”

  The wizard looked up from his plate.

  “Are you sure you weren’t followed here, Hiro?” he asked. It was rare of him to use Takasugi’s first name.

  “I did my best.”

  “Then what’s that man doing over there?” Shōin said, raising his chopstick discreetly. “Don’t look. He’s standing by the terrace pillar, pretending to feed the kites.”

  “Bevries,” Satō whispered, covering her sauce bowl with a thin sheet of ice.

  She studied the spy through the primitive mirror.

  “I’ve got him,” she said. She put down the bowl and drew her sword an inch. “Pretend you’re still talking.”

  She left the terrace and walked back into the inn. Once inside, she sneaked past the kitchen and through the pantry ladder to the second floor, and onto the roof of a restaurant next door.

  The man was still there, now he was visibly disconcerted by Satō’s disappearance. What kind of a rubbish spy is he?

  She jumped down on the terrace of the other establishment. The patrons didn’t even raise their heads from over their bowls of broiled eel. This kind of thing must have been happening daily in the riverside district. Satō snuck between the tables and slid down the pillar, into the shallow canal running below the terraces.

  The splash alerted the spy; he turned around, but was too slow: Satō froze the water around his feet and leapt forward, aiming her sword at the enemy’s throat.

  “Who sent — Tokojiro?”

  The one-eyed interpreter spread his arms apart. The grains of rice fell from his open hand, straight into the eager beaks of the ducks at his feet.

  “Has all of Kiyō moved to Heian while I was away?” Satō scratched her head. Namikoshi Tokojiro, his hands bound behind his back, joined their table with an unhappy face. “Now I won’t be surprised if that Koyata person is from Kiyō after all!”

  “He is,” said Tokojiro. “He’s my boss, and he’s the one who sent me here.”

  “You’re as bad a spy as you were a swordsman,” remarked Satō. Tokojiro glanced at her gloomily with his one eye; the other was hidden under a leather patch, forever a reminder of the bout he had fought with Bran.

  “I wasn’t spying — I was waiting for an opportunity to speak to you.”

  “I’m sorry, Satō,” Shōin broke in, “but how do you know each other?”

  “He’s a Seaxe interpreter, employed by the Suwa Shrine,” she replied. “He helped us when we first met Bran — before he betrayed us.”

  “And I have paid for it already,” said Tokojiro. “I’ve since tried to repay for the bad decisions made back then.”

  “By more spying?” scoffed Satō. Tokojiro gave her a spiteful glance.

  “What does the commander of the ‘new squad’ want from us?” asked Takasugi. Since the interpreter’s arrival, he’d been observing the river and the opposite shore nervously, searching for any more spies. “If he knows we’re here, why not just send his men to capture us? Why send you?”

  “I bring a message from Maki Izumi-dono,” said Tokojiro.

  “You know where he is?”

  “Of course! Don’t you? He’s in the Magistrate prison, arrested with the rest of your agitators.”

  The revelation took everyone by surprise, but the most surprised seemed the interpreter.

  “This isn’t even supposed to be a secret,” he shook his head.

  “How can he be arrested? He’s a palace courtier!” Satō cried, before remembering they were still supposed to be hiding. “The Mikado will be furious,” she added in a quiet voice.

  She struggled to get to grips with the situation. Why were the interpreter and policeman in Heian? Why was Tokojiro suddenly fit to carry messages between the rebel forces?

  I suppose we were not the only ones whose lives were changed.

  “The Mikado is in no position to make demands,” Tokojiro replied. “The Tai
kun controls the city. Besides — and this is a real secret — the palace hadn’t been heard from in days.”

  “He’s ill. So we’ve heard.” Satō shrugged. “The court should still function.”

  “The state of affairs in the city is precarious as it is. Which brings me to my message.”

  “Spit it out, then.”

  Tokojiro cleared his throat, and lowered his voice. “Izumi-dono is still in contact with the Satsuma guards, and the plan remains in place, however, he tells you to wait until His Imperial Majesty is fit enough to accept the petition.”

  “Wait!” Satō threw her hands in the air. “We’ve done nothing but wait since we got to this accursed city.” She pointed her hand accusingly at Tokojiro. “This is just a trick to keep us useless until the Black Wings arrive. A trap.”

  A bell began to ring out at a nearby temple.

  “He does have a point,” noted Takasugi. “If the Mikado is too ill—”

  “How do we even know he’s telling the truth? He’s betrayed me once already!”

  Tokojiro nodded. “We figured you wouldn’t trust us. I have a way to prove both mine and Koyata-sama’s loyalty on me, but — ” He raised his tied hands.

  Satō rolled her eyes and nodded at Shōin to cut through the rope. “No more tricks,” she warned, and laid her dagger on the table. “I will kill you if you try anything funny.”

  The interpreter reached into his sleeve slowly, and pulled out a wooden paddle. It was marked with the Chrysanthemum Seal and the Satsuma crest. “This is Izumi-dono’s sceptre of office,” he said.

  “You could have taken it from him in prison,” scoffed Satō.

  “Maybe this will convince you, then,” replied Tokojiro, handing her a piece of paper. It contained a complex pattern of lines, spirals, and runes, drawn in red ink.

  “This… this is…” she stuttered. “What is it?”

  Tokojiro blinked. “I thought you’d recognise it.”