Iwata wondered the same thing. A death poem was a man’s final message to the world; many soldiers wrote them before they went into battle, in case they were killed. Iwata had read dozens: poems that were graceful, joyful, harsh, regretful, or serene. What had the prince planned to write, before that deathlike sleep had drawn him back into darkness?
“I’ll leave the writing things.” She took Iwata’s hand suddenly. Her skin was dry and cool, her grip firm. “Lord General, please be careful.” She released him and turned to Hiroshi. She touched his cheek, startling him enough to bring his gaze up to her face. “And you as well, Captain.” She looked back at her husband, her face drawn, mouth pinched in pain. Light blazed in her eyes, identical to the light Iwata had seen there one day when they’d both been very young, a day bright with sunlight when she had married Prince Tensho Narita, third son of the ruler of the Tensho Empire.
“Save him,” she whispered and left them.
They took up their usual posts by the door. Hiroshi drew his katana and laid it across his knees. Iwata did the same.
“Does your leg hurt?” Hiroshi’s voice sounded painfully loud in the stuffy air.
“It aches. Nothing serious.” Iwata wished he’d be quiet.
“Sho?”
“Yes?”
“If you died, I would weep for you.”
Iwata jerked his gaze from the prince. Hiroshi’s fingers strangled the hilt of his katana. His knuckles were white. “I know.”
Hiroshi looked at him for the first time since they’d found his sister. His dark eyes brimmed with rage, grief… and weariness. Exhaustion pulled down the corners of his mouth, smeared shadows beneath his eyes. He was too young to be so tired. No, Iwata thought, recalling the thing that lay beneath the floor. He might be young, but he was getting older all the time.
Something moved out in the corridor. It was a whisper, nothing more, but it brought both men to their feet. A shadow brushed past the door panels, low to the ground. Iwata’s nerves screamed with tension. He shut it away in a corner of his mind, concentrating on the shadow, on Hiroshi breathing quickly but steadily beside him, on the flow of blood through his own veins. Only a calm hand would win this battle.
The shadow vanished. The door cracked open. Orange light from the brazier fell upon a sliver of Lady Kumomo’s face. She smiled. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Lord General. May I look upon the prince a moment? I worry so about him.”
“I told you before, you won’t get near him again,” Iwata said flatly. There was no point pretending now.
A look of hurt touched her face. “My lord is cruel to say such things.” Her slender hand pushed the door open farther. She stepped inside.
“Younger Brother.” Her eyebrows arched slightly. “I didn’t realize you were sitting with the prince tonight.”
She was so lovely, so sincere in her surprise, that Iwata opened his mouth to warn Hiroshi not to trust her. But Hiroshi was already on his feet, the tip of his katana leveled at her throat. Her lips parted, trembled. “Brother?”
“I’m not your brother.” Hiroshi’s voice was hard, but Iwata heard the stream of guilt and rage running beneath it. Iwata rose and moved between Lady Kumomo and the sleeping prince. Her eyes followed him. “You’re a beast. A beast who killed my sister….” The steel in his voice shivered a bit. “…and stole her face.”
“How can you say such things?” Lady Kumomo smiled. But the smile didn’t stop where it should. It spread wider and wider, wider than any human mouth could stretch. Hiroshi’s blade flashed in the firelight. With the precision that had first caught Iwata’s eye, he drove his sword straight to where any human heart would be. The tip of his katana bit into the breast of her flowered kimono.
The creature vanished. The kimono fell empty to the floor, tangling Hiroshi’s blade. Something a little larger than a cat skittered out from under the robe’s hem and vanished into a dark corner. Iwata couldn’t make it out clearly; a fog shrouded his eyes. Furiously he wrapped his hand around his sword blade and yanked it through, opening a cut across his palm. The pain burned away the sleep. He saw Hiroshi, his katana finally free, his head swiveling like a hunting bird’s as he sought the fox. A pair of green eyes appeared in the darkness, luminous beyond the firelight. Hiroshi stood still, his entire body quivering like the string of a koto.
“Look,” Iwata growled. The spots rose higher, higher… and the creature stepped into the flickering light. It wore its true form now, and Iwata felt a shudder ripple through his body. It was a fox, but far larger than any fox had a right to be, the size of a bear at least. Its fur was snowy white, its eyes an unnaturally bright green. Yellowed teeth curved out of its jaws; one of its lower fangs was broken off. Seven tails bristled from its rear, each tipped with bloodred fur. Each of its paws was bigger than Iwata’s hand.
The thing had walked past the ward on the door as if it wasn’t there.
Iwata raised his sword. He glanced at Hiroshi. Hiroshi was also staring at the fox, but not with shock or fear. His narrowed eyes blazed with blind, black hatred.
The fox’s mouth fell open. A voice filled the room, deep yet feminine, touched by an unearthly echo that started chills up Iwata’s spine. “You are fools.”
Hiroshi answered, his voice grating. “And you are dead.”
The beast’s tongue lolled out over its teeth as if it were laughing. “You’re mistaken. Your sister is dead, and soon enough you will join her.”
“We’ll see.”
As Hiroshi spoke, Iwata edged to the left. The creature’s ribs were hidden beneath thick fur, but he could guess where the heart was. If he was quick….
“Iwata Sho.” It swung its pointed muzzle toward him. Ropes of slaver swayed from its jaws. Iwata froze. Hiroshi had seen what he planned, and now that the fox’s attention was diverted, he moved slowly around to its right side. Perhaps they could skewer the thing between them, if only he could somehow signal to Hiroshi the time to strike….
Icy laughter bubbled around the fox’s words. “You knew what I am. Who told you? A stupid slave like you could never figure it out.”
“I’m no slave.” Iwata kept his gaze on the fox’s green eyes. In the corner of his vision, he saw Hiroshi lift his sword.
“You are a slave. Your master is that dead man there. Your handsome boy knows it, and it gnaws at his heart.”
Hiroshi’s katana flashed. The fox looked at him. Iwata thrust forward his sword, expecting the blade to meet flesh and muscle; he braced for the impact. But none came. For an instant Iwata and Hiroshi stared at each other in surprise, their katana tips nearly touching. At the same moment they turned, seeking the creature. It had slipped from among them like a shadow. Now it stood between them and the prince, its head lowered. Its seven tails quivered, with tension or amusement, Iwata didn’t know.
His hands twitched. He wanted nothing more than to leap at the beast, but he knew better. He felt rather than saw Hiroshi glance at him. The younger man followed Iwata’s lead and remained in position, poised to spring. The fox stalked toward Prince Narita. Iwata’s breath caught in his throat. It stopped at the ring of salt, nostrils flaring. Had the priest been right? The fox snorted, scattering part of the line into a white semicircle. It planted a paw in the middle of the salt. The wards at the corners of the sleeping mat flared red. The fox bent its muzzle to the sleeping prince. Iwata’s shock shattered into fury. He ran at the creature, katana held low. His injured leg and his bleeding hand screamed in pain. He ignored them. He knew the fox would sense him coming; he only hoped it would be distracted by its prey and might react a heartbeat too late. Hiroshi hung back, giving him space.
Firelight touched the blade of his katana. Then the light vanished in a storm of white fur as the fox wheeled on him. It snapped at his sword hand. Iwata jerked away, and its yellowed teeth closed on his sleeve, tearing it loose. It spit out the black cloth, lips lifting in a grotesque grin. Something bit into Iwata’s injured palm; he was still holding the dagger. In frustra
tion he threw the dagger at the fox, but his hand was slick with blood. The dagger went wide, only nicking the beast’s ear, a cut too small to notice. Staccato laugher spilled from the creature’s panting mouth. The dagger clattered to the floor next to the sleeping mat.
“She was a fool like you two. She begged for her life. She cried like a baby.” The seven tails waved with amusement at the memory. Hiroshi’s jaw clenched in a spasm of pain. “You can weep and beg if you like, but it won’t do you any good either.”
The thing was goading him, trying to drive Hiroshi mad with rage so he’d do something stupid. “Hiro,” Iwata said. Hiroshi didn’t seem to hear; his gaze remained locked on the fox.
The fox sneered. “I have children,” it whined in a voice eerily like Lady Kumomo’s. A tremor raced up Hiroshi’s arm. Iwata adjusted his stance. The scattered salt crunched under his sandals. An idea struck him. The fox was focused on tormenting Hiroshi. Iwata crouched and gathered a handful of the coarse stuff. It burned into his slashed hand, driving fire into his fingers and up his wrist.
“Please,” hissed the fox in Lady Kumomo’s voice. “I’ll give you anything.”
He knew Hiroshi would strike before the fox finished speaking; his lover’s mouth twisted into an ugly snarl and his eyes flashed dangerously. And Iwata was right. Hiroshi suddenly charged the beast. A wordless, anguished cry tore itself free from his throat. Iwata’s muscles howled to go to him, to help, but he forced himself to wait. He needed the fox to be facing him.
The fox stepped out of his way with exaggerated casualness. Hiroshi swung again, too angry to think straight. The strike was too wide, Iwata saw at once. The fox ducked under Hiroshi’s arm and barreled into his chest, knocking him off his feet. Iwata’s chest tightened. Hiroshi’s katana was too long to be effective at such close range, and once down his throat was exposed. Iwata lost sight of him as he was borne to the floor in a cloud of white-and-red fur.
“Demon!” Iwata rose, one fist clutching the salt. The fox raised its head, ears twitching, and backed away from Hiroshi. Hiroshi didn’t appear to be hurt. He raised himself onto his elbows, venom in his face. The fox’s claws had torn open the front of his kimono. As the fox swung to face him, Iwata stiffened. It was grinning at him, a sick parody of a human smile. Hiroshi was a toy, that grin said, a mouse to a cat. Iwata was the real challenge. The fox licked its chops and sprang into the air, lifting all four feet off the ground at once. For a moment Iwata saw nothing but the huge muzzle, the black lips, the cruel teeth. He yanked his gaze up to the green eyes. What he saw there made his heart stutter in his chest, but he compelled his arm to move, his aching fingers to open. The crystals of salt struck the fox full in the eyes. The creature jerked in midair and landed heavily beside him, furiously shaking its head. It coughed hoarsely. Its eyes were squeezed shut, its tails rigid.
Iwata prepared to slash at it, but before he could, a black shape rushed in. Hiroshi raised his katana over the beast’s neck to slice off its head. Iwata saw the fox’s ear swivel toward Hiroshi. It could hear him coming, even with its eyes closed and streaming. The fox lunged sideways, its shoulder catching Hiroshi in the stomach. Just before he was lifted off his feet, he struck desperately; his blade bit lightly into the fox’s neck before it was jerked away as he fell. A silvery liquid bubbled up from the wound, streaking the white fur. It was bleeding. Iwata jabbed at the wound on its neck. The tip of his katana brushed the fur before the fox snaked its head around and slammed its jaws shut on the blade. It opened its swollen eyes. The green was shot through with silver veins. The fox ground its teeth. The characters traced on Iwata’s sword glowed frantic red. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The fox bit Iwata’s katana in two. The snap of steel turned Iwata’s stomach.
The fox let the pieces drop. Its lolling tongue was blistered and blackened. At least some of the priest’s magic had done a bit of good, Iwata thought as the beast launched itself at him. There was no time to move. The stink of dust and blood and cooked meat enveloped him as it forced him to the ground. Pain tore through his wounded leg the moment its paws crashed into his chest.
It was heavier than a bear, far too heavy for its size. Iwata’s stitches snapped as he hit the floorboards, small sharp points of agony. His head hit the ground hard, filling with pain. His vision was knocked askew. The fox’s huge paws were planted on his chest, pressing the air from his lungs. It lowered its muzzle to his face. Silver blood mixed with saliva dripped onto his skin.
“I tore out her throat,” it whispered. “She tried to scream, but only blood gurgled out. It will be the same for him.” The creature ducked its head and buried its fangs in Iwata’s neck.
The pain was paralyzing. Searing cold shot from his neck to all his limbs. The creature’s jaws were stained with Iwata’s blood.
“Watch as I kill him,” it snarled, and Iwata’s dazed mind realized with a start that the beast had meant Prince Narita. Not Hiroshi.
Abruptly the fox jerked and yelped. Its weight disappeared. With great effort Iwata turned his head, feeling the blood pumping from his neck, burning down his skin into the reed matting.
Prince Narita was propped on one elbow. His free hand was raised, his bony fingers curled into claws. His gaunt face was white as the fox’s fur, but a spark of the old determination flared in his eyes. The dagger Iwata had thrown sprouted from the fox’s back paw. Silver blood oozed around the hilt. The prince sank back down.
The creature coiled its body, trying to grasp the dagger with its teeth. While it was occupied, Hiroshi struggled to his feet. Dimly Iwata saw him lunge toward the beast. It saw Hiroshi, but the blade of the dagger had pinned it to the floor.
With a great heave, it tore loose its paw, sending a gush of blood into the mat. One of its toes was left behind. It lurched away, but not quickly enough. Hiroshi’s katana traced a long gash in its side. The fox hissed and turned to flee, impossibly fast even with its wounds. It jumped for the window. The ward crackled dully as it crashed through the shutters, sending splinters of wood to the floor.
Iwata caught a glimpse of the pale moon through the window. Then Hiroshi’s face filled his dimming vision. The hate had sloughed away, replaced by terror. “Sho? Sho!”
Iwata tried to answer It’s hurt, you fool! Go after it, follow the blood trail! But the relentless cold of the fox’s bite froze his voice, froze even the pain in his leg and hand and neck. Hiroshi’s braid hung over his shoulder, brushing the floor. Iwata willed his fingers to touch it, to wrap around it and give it a reassuring tug, anything to melt the despair from Hiroshi’s eyes. But his hand refused to move. His gaze grew foggy, and Hiroshi grew faint before everything faded into darkness.
FOR A long time, there was nothing but pain and cold… cold so deep it crept into his bones and froze the marrow. He heard voices sometimes, though the words were unclear: the physician, Lady Mari, the shrine master. Confused, fleeting dreams chased each other through the darkness; silver blood, an unrelenting summer sun, Prince Narita laughing, Hiroshi’s bare skin pressed against his, a dead woman under the floorboards.
But when Iwata woke, only the physician was there. He crouched by the sleeping mat, his broad face solemn. “Welcome back, Lord General.”
Iwata’s entire body hurt, a deep, throbbing ache that turned to stabbing pain when he tried to move. Clean linen covered his dagger wounds. More was wrapped around his neck and shoulder. His throat felt thick and dry. Hours passed before he was able to sit up with help from the physician; it was later still before he could talk.
“Prince Narita is recovering,” the physician told him before he could ask. “Only four days have passed, but already he’s able to walk.”
“Captain Sagawara?” Iwata croaked.
“He was unhurt, except for a few bruises. You’ve no cause to complain, my lord. The captain never left this room until this morning, and only because the prince requested his presence. Lady Kumomo’s funeral is tomorrow.”
Of course. Hiroshi had to see to hi
s sister.
The physician suggested he sleep. Iwata scowled. “I’ve been asleep too long. What happened to the fox?”
“After the captain alerted the palace guards, they went after it. They tracked the beast to the forest but lost it at the foot of the mountain. The rumor is that you two did it quite a bit of harm, so perhaps it won’t try to return. Here, my lord. Drink this. It will ease your pain a little, according to the priest Lady Mari brought to see you.”
Sometime in the afternoon, Prince Narita came to see him. He limped in, leaning heavily on the arm of his youngest consort. Though he was still thin, color had returned to his face, and his eyes shone as fiercely as they ever had. The consort helped him kneel by Iwata, then retreated to wait discreetly by the door.
“Well, Sho.” The prince beamed. “It seems you’ll live. The physician wasn’t at all certain before today.”
Iwata smiled. “Nor was I.”
“It seems I owe you my life. How many times is that now?”
“I lost count, my lord. But I can’t claim credit this time; it was Captain Sagawara who drove the beast away while I lay on the floor.”
Prince Narita’s face changed; a shadow of sadness settled over his features. “Sagawara. He’s a fine young man. You’re lucky to have him, you know.”
“Where is he?”
“Sitting vigil with his sister until morning. I sent a servant to tell him you were awake. You know the funeral is tomorrow? I don’t expect you to attend in your condition, Sho.”
“I’ll be there.” He imagined Hiroshi, alone with his grief in the room that held Lady Kumomo’s body, the silk shroud covering her remains, the choking incense meant to disguise the stench of decay. Sitting vigil was a solitary office meant for the deceased’s closest kin. Not that Iwata could have dragged himself to that room anyway.
The prince sighed. “I never thought I’d bury her, old man that I am. I was even prepared to write my death poem, yet Kumomo is the one who ended up dead.” A wry smile curved his lips. “My death poem was going to be about her. How lovely and dignified and kind….” He trailed off and looked away.
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 5
