She smirked and stepped away from the hall. If I try to stop him, he will only get annoyed with me. She remembered her own study days, at the Takashima Mansion. She would study days and nights back then, too. There was no stopping a true wizard from honing his skill and power. The magic called out to all of them; a talent demanded to be polished.
There was a flash of red, and an explosion, and a cry of pain; the sub-temple fell dark and silent.
“Shōin!”
She struggled with the sliding door. The discharge had derailed it from its groove. Impatient, she blasted through it with an ice missile. She stumbled in the darkness. A dancing ball of light appeared in the air. Shōin scrambled quickly from the floor.
“Satō — what… what are you doing here?”
He shoved the papers and equipment from the floor with his foot into the far corner of the room. Satō didn’t pay attention to that at first, too fascinated with the light source. It’s a flamespark! He knows the spell — and he summoned it just as easily as Bran!
“I heard the noise,” she said, “are you alright?” She looked him over. “You’re hurt!” She grabbed his hands — both were covered with blood, but it had long dried up.
Shōin freed himself from her grasp with embarrassed irritation. “It’s nothing — I’m fine.” He returned to hiding his notes and gear from her, shoving it all haphazardly into a wooden chest.
“Wait a minute,” she said. Pushing past him, she leaned into the chest to examine the artefacts. “Are you serious…?” She raised a long, thin brass rod to the light; it was tipped with a sharp, bloodied needle. The tool still vibrated with absorbed power.
“Shōin.” She stood up; her hands were trembling with anger. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
He sat down on the blood-stained straw floor mat and scratched the back of his neck. “It is what it is,” he said eventually.
“But why — ? You don’t need that power. You’re strong as it is — and you’ll yet grow stronger. Without… this.”
“You use it,” he said.
“Only when it’s necessary!” she replied. “And I’m older than you.” It rang hollow in her ears.
He grimaced. “We don’t have time to wait. I have to grow more powerful as quickly as possible.”
“But why? Is it about the war? I’m sure we can manage without you doing something so drastic.”
Shōin shook his head. He reached into the chest and picked up several sheets of densely scribbled paper. “I have been working on this for months…”
“What is it?” She reached for the papers, but he refused to hand them over.
“You won’t read it — even I have trouble with my handwriting sometimes,” he said. “It’s all about me trying to find my attuned element.”
This again. “I told you, you have plenty of time — ”
“Not according to these.” He shook the notes. “I’ve studied all the theory there is, all the books I could get my hands on at the Meirinkan. Did you know the library there is almost as good as that in Kagoshima? Mori-dono really spared no expense — trying to figure out the way. But I was escaping from the truth.”
Satō clasped her hands on her lap; her palms were cold and clammy. She looked at the debris on the floor — burned wood, water stains, pebbles shattered into shards and dust, bits of scorched metal…
“You still think you’re a Prismatic,” she said.
“I know I am,” he replied. “I have no doubt about it. This is why I have no time to grow strong slowly.”
“But that’s just wrong!” she protested. “If you strain yourself too much, the power will drain you…”
“You agree with me, then.”
She snapped her mouth shut. No, it can’t be. I know the lore. I’ve studied the history of magic in the West. It should take centuries for the first Prismatic to be born… he’s just innately powerful, that’s why he’s not weak at anything in particular…
She studied his ashen-grey face, his sunken eyes, his thin, trembling arms, covered with a paper-thin skin. He looks terrible.
“You should take a break,” she said. “Despite all the power, you’re physically weak. Anyone would be tired in your place.”
He smiled. “Before I started learning magic, I was the best wrestler on our street.”
“A wrestler? You?”
“I may be small and lean, but I was always wiry. I had strength and stamina to stand against much older kids. It all changed when I went to Kiyō.”
“Well… you had no time to exercise, with all the study… and the change of climate…”
“I thought so, too,” he replied. He put away the paper sheets and played with a broken piece of brass wire, wrapping it around his finger. “But then I saw you — studying magic and training in swordsmanship. You’re as good a fencer as anyone in the Kiheitai, even Takasugi. And I watched everyone else — no wizards get as drained when using magic as I do.”
The thin wire snapped in his hands. “I’m burning within,” he said. “All day, all night. I can’t sleep. I try to take breaks as you asked, but if anything, that’s even more exhausting. If I don’t cast spells, I get all jittery and anxious.”
She reached out and cupped his hands in hers. He stopped trembling. “That’s still no reason to use blood magic,” she said. “It will only drain you more.”
He pulled out his hands and flipped through the papers. He drew one sheet from the middle of the pile. Satō noticed it was scribbled with drawings of dragons on the margins.
“Do you remember what Dōraku-sama told you?” he asked. “About the ancient dorako and blood magic.”
“The dragons were created to counter the Necromancers and blood mages,” she said. She tried not to think of the night when she’d saved Bran’s leg; most of it was a haze anyway, but the story of the origin of dragons stuck fast in her memory.
“I was thinking… maybe it works the other way, too. If it comes to the worst, and we’d have to fight the Black Wings…”
“The Kiheitai will deal with any threat,” she replied, and forced a smile. “Besides, I’m sure Bran will show up in the end to help us. That must be what his secret mission is all about, isn’t it?”
“Bran-sama…” His face contorted in a painful grimace. She hadn’t seen him so perplexed before. He must really hate me mentioning that name… “Satō… I don’t think you should count on him in your plans.”
“Why not?” She grasped his hands again, with a little too much force. He winced. “What do you know?”
“I can’t say anything — but I’m almost certain he won’t be coming.”
What is Mori-dono using Bran for that’s more important than being here in Heian? Maybe he’s been sent to Edo?
“It’s fine,” she said, “we can manage without him — and without you destroying yourself with blood addiction.” Her hands twitched as she said it. She tasted iron on her tongue. For a moment, the room went dark.
Join us, she heard the hissing voice speak. You could be so much more…
She shook her head. “Promise me you will stop those experiments,” she pleaded.
He leaned back slowly, but did not let go of her hands. “Only if you do the same.”
“What?”
“You’ve worked with blood magic far longer than I have. I saw you on the battlefield, your spells are also unlike anyone else’s, and that thing you did with Bran-sama’s leg… you must be in even worse shape than I am.”
Did he notice just now…?
“You’re right,” she said, and slumped. “I’m not one to talk.”
“If you don’t use the blood magic, neither will I. I promise.” He raised a hooked little finger.
She laughed. It was childish, and did not suit the solemn subject, but she felt a weight lifted off her heart. Shōin’s face was serious and grim. She hooked her little finger with his. “I promise.”
She stood up. “Let’s go back to sleep. There’s still some time b
efore dawn. Leave it — ” she said, when Shōin started picking up the papers and scattered artefacts. “We’ll send someone to clean it up in the morning.”
CHAPTER XVI
The porters hauled the mahogany bureau over the threshold and into the study. Dylan pointed them towards the wide northern window. It opened onto the lush garden, filled with a rainbow of summer flowers. The grass had grown high in the absence of the gardeners, and the carp pond was covered with a layer of scum; but the original beauty of the place could still be glimpsed in the noonday sun, when the tapering tongue of the Kiyō Bay below shimmered silver and gold like a dagger blade. Directly ahead, between two dark hills, the white needle of the Dejima Wizardry Tower pierced the sky, topped with the orange banner.
It looks as bright and beautiful as Fan Yu did, before we got to it, he thought sadly. I wonder, can we really do things differently this time…?
If he strained his eyes, he could see the remnants of the fallen bridge to the island; with the only land connection gone, Dejima’s usefulness as living quarters had become severely reduced, especially for those now deemed friends and allies of Lord Nabeshima and the bugyō.
The Yamato were not willing to wait for the cumbersome boat passage every time Curzius and Dylan were required for a discussion. An alternative arrangement had to be found in a hurry.
Dylan watched as the servants finished setting up the furniture he had borrowed from Curzius around the room. The house had, until recently, been a residence of one of the city’s Rangaku wizards, and so was built in the same amalgam of Yamato and Western styles as the buildings on Dejima, with a pleasant, bright veranda in the south, and a pillared porch to the north, overlooking the garden and the sea.
Outside the main gate, on a small, cobbled plaza, Edern was busy surveying the place for a dragon stable. The snoring of his mount, at long last resting after the sea passage and the flight to Kagoshima, rumbled throughout the building; Dylan felt it under his bare feet.
Gwen entered the study wearing a Yamato robe he had not seen before. It was light and summery, but dusty and creased.
“I found a chest of clothes in the loft,” she answered his unspoken question. “There are also robes for men, if you’re interested. Some even seem your size.”
“I’ll look at it later,” he replied. He looked at the bureau and, unsatisfied with the work of the porters, pushed it closer to the wall. “The owners must have left in a hurry.”
“What happened to them? I hope they weren’t removed for our sake…”
“No,” he said. “Curzius said many of the Western scholars left Kiyō for Satsuma, fearing the purges. The atmosphere in the city is volatile.”
“I’ve noticed.” Gwen nodded, straightening the creases of her robe. “I set up some armed guards around the perimeter, just in case.”
“Bataavians?”
“Locals, with Bataavian guns.”
“Is that wise?” Dylan raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve given these people a dragon, and you worry about a few rifles?” She laughed. “We have to start showing the commoners a little trust, too, if we want them to trust us.”
“I doubt it will ever happen,” he said with a smile, “but you’re right, of course.”
He looked around the room once again. “You realise what this place is going to become, if all goes to plan?” He asked.
“An embassy,” she said. “With you at the helm.” She grinned. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Dylan. We haven’t won any battles yet, and you’re already planning a victory parade.”
“You’re right again, which reminds me.” He looked at his pocket watch. “Time to check on our little riders.”
He came up to the bureau, pulled out a map of Yamato from the drawer, and put his fingers to it. A faint dot lit up near the centre.
“Is that Bran?” Gwen asked, coming closer.
“He’s almost at the Imperial Capital, despite that odd detour earlier,” Dylan replied. “And Wulf is right behind him.” Another dot appeared next to the first one.
“How long will those tracking hexes last?”
“Long enough, I hope. Hard to tell in this country. The magic potentials are all over the place.”
The shimmering, vibrating crash of a brass gong announced a guest at the main gate. Dylan felt another rumble with his feet: Nodwydd stirred in its slumber, but did not wake.
Lord Nabeshima, with his interpreter, waited for Dylan in the garden, by the pond; he would not enter a house that had not been thoroughly cleaned and rid of servants for his welcome.
“Is everything to your liking?” he asked, when Dylan climbed down the gentle slope.
“More than we could ask for,” replied Dylan, with a bow. “We are most grateful for your generosity.”
The daimyo gave him a cold, studied smile. “It’s the least I could do to show my appreciation for all your help, Di Lan-sama.”
He turned to face the glimmering sea below. Dylan did the same, and they watched, in silence, as the main sails on the Soembing unfurled. The ship was almost ready for the long journey back beyond the Sea Maze; and this time, it carried cargo more important than any silver or silks: the news of the arrival of the Black Wings, and of the Bataavian-backed rebellion against the Taikun.
“I know what you want, Di Lan-sama,” said Lord Nabeshima, still smiling. “What you expect to achieve in exchange for all this assistance — for yourself, and for your government. But you’re wrong.”
“Oh?” Dylan touched the thick leaf of a camellia plant. A premium tea bush. Better than what we grow in Bharata. The thought distracted him from the daimyo’s speech.
“Why do you think we let only the Bataavians, of all the people in the West, stay in Yamato all this time?” Lord Nabeshima asked.
“Because they offered you the best deal?”
The daimyo scoffed. “Because they alone did not want to change us. They alone treated us like equals. Everyone else thought us savages. The others did not want trade — they wanted to conquer or convert, or both.”
Of course. The Vasconians were here first, just like in Qin.
“That was centuries ago. The times have changed, daimyo. As have the attitudes.”
“Have they, Di Lan-sama?” Lord Nabeshima looked Dylan in the eye. “Does your government truly treat us as equals? Do you? I can see the contempt in your face. I heard what you said about the treaties. Civilised nations, indeed.”
Dylan winced. Time for damage limitation. He stepped back and bowed deeply. “My apologies. I have insulted you and your countrymen.”
The corner of the daimyo’s lips curled. “If a retainer had offered me as false an apology as yours, his head would already be rolling. But — ” He rubbed his palms. “ — I will take it for now.”
He took a step forward. Their faces were now just a few inches away. Dylan smelled sandalwood on the robe, and another, very faint scent on his breath…
Cursed Weed? Some other drug… Lord Nabeshima’s pupils were slightly dilated.
“Make no mistake, Gaikokujin,” the daimyo spoke. “We only need you for your weapons, and your dorako. We don’t need your ideas, your philosophies, we don’t even need your money. We have existed for centuries without any of that. And, Gods willing, we will continue to do so.”
“I understand.”
In whose name are you speaking now? Yamato, the Rebels, or just yourself…?
“I sense you disagree,” said the daimyo.
“Only because I heard others say the same before.”
“You mean Qin.” Lord Nabeshima nodded. “This is exactly why we must win this war. The Taikun would sell us out, lead Yamato to destruction.”
Again with the we.
“You realise the precariousness of my position as the Dracaland’s representative …”
The daimyo’s dark, clever eyes drilled into Dylan’s.
“You put your name on the treaty. I trust you’ll honour this vow.”
“Of co
urse,” said Dylan, pulling back his shoulder-blades. “I am an officer of the Royal Marines.”
Lord Nabeshima turned back towards the house with his hands behind his back. “This is a fine mansion,” he said, looking the building over. “It served its previous owners well. I hope it will serve you well, too — for years to come.”
They were climbing up a narrow mountain path, a shelf over a bottomless precipice, so narrow that they had to cling to the wall of rock: Satō in front, Bran in the middle, Nagomi at the back. Below, a stormy ocean raged against the cliff, so fierce that the sea spray reached Bran’s ankles; above, the wall overhung at a nauseating angle beneath the steel sky. Sea birds circled around them, swooping once in a while to strike them with their beaks and claws in defence of their unseen nests.
He didn’t know where they were going, or for how long more would they have to climb. He tried not to think about it, focusing only on the foot-wide breadth of rock under his straw sandals. His hands were slippery with sweat, and he was losing grip on the sharp edges and shallow protrusions.
“We’re almost there,” said Satō, with a tired smile.
The mountain shook violently. The path cracked and gave way under her feet. He lunged forward and caught her outstretched hand; this made him slip. He started falling, when he felt Nagomi grab him from the other side and pull towards her.
“I — I can’t hold it,” said the priestess.
“You can do it,” he said. “Pull us slowly. Don’t trip.” His heart raced. Satō’s grip slipped from his wrist. “Hold on!” he cried to her. “We’ll get us out of here!”
“It’s no use,” the wizardess said. “She can’t hold both of us.”
“Don’t be a fool. Just keep tight a little longer. Nagomi, pull with all your strength!”
“I can’t!” Nagomi wept. She, too, was beginning to slide inch by inch towards the precipice.
“It’s alright,” said Satō. “Save yourselves. Don’t worry about me.”
“What?” Bran glanced down just in time to see Satō let go of his hand and, with a sad, knowing smile, fall into the grey sea haze below.
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 21
