“That I don’t know, but there is more. If it was only a matter of hiding from the man in the crimson robe, or the authorities, I believe I could manage this without going through today’s ordeal. But the boy must leave the shrine and the city. There is something he must go looking for.”
“What’s out there that’s so precious to him?”
“The boy’s dorako.”
“The beast? It’s here?”
Satō could not contain herself again, rising from her knees, almost standing up with excitement.
“That’s what the boy said. He can somehow sense the creature coming. He says it landed somewhere south of the city.”
“Monsters from without,” whispered Nagomi. Lady Kazuko gave her a sharp warning look.
“Eeh?”
Satō turned to her friend.
“Nothing,” the apprentice replied quickly and shook her head.
“South… Father told me to go south if anything happened to him,” said Satō, now remembering her own urgency. “Kumamoto, Kagoshima... If our family still has any friends left, that’s where they would be.”
“You have been brought together by Fate,” declared Lady Kazuko prophetically. “I have meditated on this for long hours and I am now certain beyond any doubt. The boy, the dragon, your father, the Crimson Robe, the strange items in the boy’s box… You must venture south together, to find out the solution to this puzzle.”
“But how?” Satō still doubted. “Are we to wrap his face in bandages and pretend he’s a leper? Are we to mime our way throughout Yamato?”
Before the High Priestess could respond, the first ray of dawn pierced through the latticed paper window. The Westerner stirred again, violently this time, agony twisting his face.
“It has begun,” said Lady Kazuko. “Now you will have your answer. Observe!”
He dreamt of a battle, a siege of a great stone castle overlooking a raging sea, with walls smooth and curved, rising high towards the clouds. Horsemen charged against the sallying defenders with long swords and great bows and arrows. Footmen in black armour scaled the walls, rectangular banners flying on their backs. Bronze cannons roared, spewing cannonballs over the battlements.
A Bataavian man-o’-war of ancient design sailed up to the castle. A terrifying broadside from its guns shook the walls to their foundations. Still the defenders stood strong, jeering and mocking the hapless assailants for asking the barbarians’ help.
The final charge, one last push against the keep was his last chance to prove himself as an apt commander before the Taikun relieved him of his duty. All men were ordered forwards, all guns screamed in unison. The assault was exhilarating in its totality, a formidable rush of battle fever. They climbed past the first rampart, the second, reached the third…
A stray arrow buried itself in his chest. He fell off his horse. His men rushed to him, but it was too late. A retainer leaned over to listen to his final words - the death poem of a dying samurai.
Among the bullets,
At the start of the year,
The name of
Scattered flowers remains
The only certainty.
Satō was the first to notice the transformation.
“Look at his face!” she whispered, astonished. “What — ”
Lady Kazuko silenced her with a raised hand then leaned over the boy.
“Now is the crucial moment. Everything hangs in the balance.”
The Westerner’s face started melting and changing. His features rounded, his eyes narrowed, his nose became shorter and wider, his skin pale. There was a faint creaking of bones and strained ligaments. The boy squirmed in pain, but did not wake up. Nagomi turned her eyes away, unable to look at his suffering. At last the metamorphosis was complete, and on the bedding lay not a Western boy but a Yamato one, not unlike any of the boys she knew from the streets of her city.
“It’s not over yet,” the High Priestess remarked quickly. “We must pray that the Spirit who is in Bran-sama’s body does not overwhelm him and take over. The boy is strong and the power of his will is great but anything may yet happen at this point.”
She chanted another invocation. Her hand resting on the boy’s forehead glowed up with white light and the Westerner started grunting in his sleep.
“He’s waking up,” Lady Kazuko noted. “Satō, dear, would you call for Tokojiro-sama? He should be waiting in the common room.”
“Yes, High Priestess.”
The wizardess stood up, cast a confused glance at the boy’s transformed face and disappeared outside.
“I’m sure you have noticed the significance of the events we spoke about today,” the High Priestess said.
“The Prophecy,” Nagomi answered, not looking at Lady Kazuko.
She was focused on the unconscious boy, trying to understand what had just happened. The transformation was like nothing she had ever heard about. She had no idea the High Priestess was in possession of such power.
“Things are happening much faster than I expected,” continued Lady Kazuko. “Bran-sama and Satō must leave the shrine and the city - that much is clear. I will have Tokojiro-sama accompany and assist them, but what shall we do about you?”
“Me…?” she asked, looking back at the Priestess.
“You were there when the boy fell from Heavens and I believe your visions from last year portended his coming. It is obvious you too are greatly involved in this matter. But their quest is a dangerous one and I cannot put this burden upon you against your will.”
“Oh, I understand.” Nagomi lowered her head Her heart sank. When the High Priestess had spoken of Satō and the boy venturing upon a journey south, she naturally imagined herself accompanying them. Had she been expecting too much?
“Of course, if my duties to the shrine…”
The High Priestess scoffed.
“There are many ways to serve the kami, child. No, I don’t mean you are to stay here when your friend embarks on a perilous mission, but it is something you must choose to do of your own accord.”
“Oh, Kazuko-hime!” Nagomi said, lifting her eyes in renewed hope. “Need you ask? Of course I will go. Wherever Satō goes I will follow. If I am allowed, of course,” she added hastily.
“You have my permission, child, and I’m glad you’ve agreed. The quest could prove impossible for just Satō and the boy. With you, it will be merely difficult. They will need your protection.”
“My protection? But… they are the warriors, the wizards. They have swords and magic. I can only heal …”
“You can do much more than this. There are perils that cannot be subdued by steel or spell.”
What does she mean?
“I will do what I can — if there is anything I can do.”
“You can be yourself, for a start,” the priestess said with a smile. “Satō will need your cheerfulness, and Bran-sama...” She turned her head towards the door.
“I can hear Tokojiro-sama coming. Could you leave us alone for a moment?”
CHAPTER III
He winced, opening his eyes. His face felt sore, tense, and there was something wrong with his vision, although he couldn’t pinpoint what. He was lying in the Crane Room, the High Priestess and the interpreter, Tokojiro, sitting by his side staring at him intently.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked the interpreter.
Tokojiro glanced at the High Priestess. Without a word she produced a small, round, mirror of polished bronze. He looked into it warily and then dropped it.
“By Owain’s Sword! What… What trick is this…?”
The face in the mirror was not his - flat wide nose, narrow eyes, pale-yellow skin, high angular cheekbones. It was the face of a Yamato man. He knew now what was wrong with his vision. He was used to seeing the tip of his hooked Roman nose in the middle of his face. It was gone. He touched his skin. It felt alien, flabby, soft.
“What is this…?” he said, still in shock.
“You have aske
d me for help.”
Tokojiro translated Lady Kazuko’s words.
“If you want to seek your dorako throughout Yamato, you will need more than just a good disguise. Your current appearance is that of one of the Ancestors in the Cave of Scrying. I trust the ritual was not too painful for you.”
“Seek my…”
This wasn’t what he had in mind at all. When he had asked for help, he hoped the priestess would use her contacts to expedite his transfer to Dejima or at least let the Bataavians know of the danger posed by Emrys. He never considered actually travelling across the unknown alien land in search of the dragon. Certainly not looking like this…
“Can I — can I change back?”
Lady Kazuko smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t you try?”
“How? I don’t know...”
“Remember how you normally look. Focus your will. The change will come.”
It wasn’t easy to remember his own face. Bran did not yet shave, so he had little reason to be looking in mirrors. Even though he tried his best, nothing happened at first, but then several muscles in his jaw crackled and moved. He cried out with pain and surprise.
“It hurts,” he moaned.
The transformation continued against his will, muscles and joints slithering underneath his skin like living creatures.
“It will get better in time,” Lady Kazuko said, leaning over him and touching his face, “so I’ve read.”
Her hand was warm and soothing, but her words were not.
“You’ve read? Then this was something you had never done before?”
“The ritual of the Caves had not been performed since the Civil Wars,” the High Priestess admitted with slight embarrassment. “The Spirits in those days had turned… belligerent. It was getting difficult to conduct the ritual peacefully.”
Spirits? he thought, trying to understand. Ancestors? What kind of magic is this? What happened to me in that cave?
“But you knew it would work for me?” he asked.
“I had prayed it would, but there was always a risk.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“You told me the dorako was your friend. Would you not have faced the risk for a friend’s sake?”
Bran thought carefully about the answer. Yes, the priestess was right. What good was notifying the Bataavians? Emrys was his dragon, his responsibility. He had to find it on his own.
“I would,” he admitted at last.
The priestess’s face wrinkled in a gentle smile.
“Remember about how you feel right now. Remember this conviction. It will help you go through the hardships of the journey.”
Hardships?
“Your face has returned to normal.”
The priestess presented him with the mirror again. It reflected his round, jade-green eyes in a Prydain, lightly olive-toned face.
“Try not to do that too often. If you forget to transform back and are seen in public, your life is forfeit,” she warned him, and clapped her hands twice.
The door slid open and the two familiar youths came in.
“Now, I believe some introductions are in order.” The High Priestess gestured to the two. “You will, after all, travel together.”
“We will?”
Bran blinked. How much of this had the woman prepared beforehand? Was it really fine to trust her?
The boy approached first, looking at him slightly suspiciously. He bowed deeply and spoke in a bright tinkling voice. The interpreter tried his best to translate the formal noble manner of the boy’s speech.
“I am Takashima Satō. My father is Takashima Shūhan, son of Takashima Shirobei. I am the heir to the Takashima-Ryū School of Western Magic. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Bran nodded. School of Western Magic… Lady Kazuko had mentioned there were wizards in Yamato and Satō’s father was one of them, but a whole school? Was Satō a wizard as well?
He looked at the red-haired girl.
“Itō Nagomi…” she said, shyly, “daughter of Itō Keisuke. I’m the apprentice here in Suwa, training to become a priestess. I was with Satō when we found you on the beach...”
Bran bowed back.
“I am Bran ap Dylan o Cantre’r Gwaelod.” His name sounded strange to his own ears. “Graduate of Llambed College of Mystic Arts, dragon rider.”
“You will all need new identities,” declared Lady Kazuko, “and disguises — except Bran-sama, of course, he’s already as disguised as is possible for a man…”
“Wait,” Bran said, raising his hand, “this is all happening very fast, I need time to…”
“I’m afraid there is no time. You must leave today.”
“Today! But…”
“We don’t know when the magistrate will return with a search warrant, how long your dorako can stay in captivity. This all means our time is short — very short.”
“The magistrate? I don’t understand any of this.”
With Lady Kazuko’s permission, Tokojiro quickly explained to Bran the arrival of the magistrate officials at the shrine. The news shook him. Focusing on his own problems he had forgotten of the risk his presence was posing to the others. He glanced at Satō’s arm injured arm; the boy was hurt because of him. And the High Priestess — what could happen to her if she was discovered disobeying the laws of the city? He still did not fully understand the situation, but he could clearly sense the overwhelming sense of danger.
“Now you see why we must hasten,” the High Priestess said.
“Still — ” he replied slowly, hesitating, “is it really safe for me to go outside? I may look like one of you, but I can’t yet speak your language, don’t know your customs…”
“You have sworn the vows of silence,” declared Lady Kazuko, and Bran again wondered how much of this she had planned ahead. “Tokojiro-sama has agreed to come with you — as translator and guardian.”
“Guardian?”
Bran looked at the young interpreter doubtfully. He noticed Satō doing the same.
“I have the reputation of being as skilled with the sword as with the tongue,” Tokojiro said, bowing slightly and smiling. He then repeated it — Bran guessed - in Yamato, for the benefit of incredulous-looking Satō.
“Let us pray your reputation never needs to be tested,” said the High Priestess. “If you should encounter on your journey anything you’re not capable of dealing with, send word. As long as I’m alive, Suwa will assist you to the best of its abilities. Now, let’s not dwell too long on this. Bran-sama, a bath is ready for you.”
Bran agreed, still a little dazed. He was conscious of the smell of sulphur and sweat that his body emanated and for some reason he was growing increasingly ashamed of it. Nagomi and Satō bowed and left the room hurriedly. Bran stood up, his head spinning slightly, and headed for the door.
“You will need to tie your hair in the samurai manner,” Tokojiro said after consulting with Lady Kazuko. “I will help you with that, and with the proper way to walk. Playing dumb will only get you so far if you don’t learn a few basics.”
What’s wrong with the way I walk now?
“Hai — yes.”
“I’m sorry everything’s so sudden,” the High Priestess said, pursing her lips. “I know it must be difficult for you.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, though he wasn’t certain it was. “I understand it is for the best.”
“I’m glad somebody thinks so,” she said.
He made sure all the elements of the dark kimono were properly adjusted, the mountain crest on his shoulders — he was now a member of an Aoki clan, he reminded himself, like the man whose kimono he was wearing — in plain view. He then felt to see if the newly tied knot of hair at the top of his head was in place, buckled the leather satchel tightly and thrust his Prydain sword into the silk sash. The metal scabbard was painted black and the shrine blacksmith — the moustached man from earlier — had prepared a rough replacement hilt, a long wooden handle wrapped in black cord, that m
ade the cavalry blade look almost like the swords he had seen other Yamato men wear. The proudly sculpted dragon-shaped handgrip, far too elaborate for the simple local style, was hidden in the satchel.
He was trying to wrap his mind around what was happening to him. His face and body changed. He traced the still unfamiliar features with his fingers. The intricacies of the magic involved evaded him — maybe he would understand it better if he knew thaumaturgy. The transformation was perfect, seamless; after the initial odd sensation had passed the new face felt as if it had always been there.
His thoughts… There was something going on there too, something the priestess had not told him about. When he had been given a bowl of breakfast rice, after his bath, his fingers reached for and deftly grasped the quaint bamboo chopsticks. His hand brought morsels of food to his mouth without hesitation, without mistake.
The many-layered robe felt much more familiar than before. The bowing seemed more natural than handshaking. Something was happening to him, and he wasn’t sure he liked it. The High Priestess didn’t know all the details of the ritual. What if the Spirit within was slowly taking him over?
He looked out through the door at the pouring rain. There was no more time to linger. According to Lady Kazuko’s plan, Satō, Nagomi and Bran were to leave the shrine one after another at intervals and meet inside an inn at the bottom of the long stairs. Bran was to go last, accompanied by Tokojiro. The interpreter waited impatiently outside under the grey-tiled eaves. It was their moment to leave.
The dragon rider gingerly touched the cold red scabbard of Satō’s sword, lying on the straw mat floor. As the Yamato boy was disguising himself as a commoner, he could not bear a weapon — it was decided that Bran would carry it for him. Bran had already noticed that most noblemen in Kiyō walked around with two swords at their belts, so it made sense for him to do so as well. Curious, he pulled out the blade for a few inches. It was of damascene steel of great quality, razor sharp, with a rich hardening pattern and a blacksmith’s signature carved near the circular guard.
His Prydain weapon, a sturdy heavy blade of ancient design, was more a mark of his graduation from the Academy than a martial tool. A proud sign of an age-old legacy going back ten centuries to the times when wild dragons roamed the land and brave warriors stood in their way, and later, when dragon riders flew to battle alongside regular horse cavalry against humans cast in steel and mail. A little more than a decorative piece of iron, although the edge was still sharp enough to cut through muscle and bone. Yes, it could maim and, in skilled hands, kill. The runes carved along the fuller shimmered with gentle magic at the touch. They enabled the sword to break through magical shields and armour. Bran was taught how to use it to hack and slash with great force, like a carving axe or, in a bind, thrust.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 26
