“I can sense them. The great trees speak to each other in the rustling of the leaves, the howling of the wind.”
“The trees?”
Bran eyed the forest suspiciously. There was a time when he would have dismissed this talk of Gods and Spirits as superstitious nonsense, but now he was curious.
“Of course, look!”
She pointed at an enormous gnarled cedar, its trunk bound with hemp rope and paper tassels, a gate of vermillion logs before it. Bran had seen these decorations many times already and often wondered what they meant.
“This one is old beyond measure, and many come from afar to revere and admire it. Its spirit is ancient and wise. Do your people not worship the mountain and the forest?”
“Our Gods are different, more… distant,” Bran replied. He was vaguely aware that there were nature worshippers living somewhere beyond Midgard, but for the most part those faiths had been eradicated by the Sun Priests. “We do not commune with the Spirits as closely as you.”
“What does the forest say?” asked Satō.
“They speak of the beginning of the rainy season, of how much water they’ll get this year and how great the ocean winds will be in the summer. Some trees will die in the typhoons, and some will be born from their seeds — but the forest will prevail.”
“How disappointing - I thought there would be some news.”
“The great trees do not concern themselves with mortal matters,” Nagomi admonished her friend then her face turned pale and serious.
“What is it?”
“There are also evil Spirits here. They speak of hunger and pain and death,” she said shuddering, and turned her back to the forested riverbank.
“Do you think there are some white foxes still left here, or racoon dogs?”
“I don’t know,” the apprentice replied uneasily, “could be… Perhaps the Yōkai War did not wipe out all the magic creatures in the deep forests.”
“Goblins maybe?”
“I don’t know,” Nagomi repeated firmly.
“What was the Yōkai War?” Bran asked.
“It was a war against the creatures of magic,” explained Nagomi. “It lasted twenty long years, and the result is the Yamato you see today — only humans and dumb animals remain.”
“What? But, why…?”
Bran remembered the Faerie people of his own land. Some of them could have been a menace, but he couldn’t think of anyone wishing harm to all of them.
“The first Tokugawa Taikuns waged it to bring peace to the land, protect humans from demons,” replied Nagomi.
“Or so they said,” added Satō. “I don’t know what harm the foxes or racoon dogs bring to ordinary humans, apart from the occasional prank. I think they just couldn’t stand anyone who didn’t respect their authority. The Yōkai have always ruled themselves, independent from humans.”
“Is this what happened to Yamato’s dragons?” Bran asked, dreading the answer.
Satō shook her head.
“The ryū were hunted to extinction in the times of legends. The chronicles say they were last seen flying in the Genpei War, and that was six hundred years ago.”
“Nothing since? Not even from Qin?”
“If there were any others, they are not mentioned anywhere. The dragon lore is forbidden. My father was the only scholar of the subject that I know of. Still is,” she corrected herself quickly.
“What about those Fangeds? Aren’t they magical creatures?”
“I don’t know,” replied Satō, pursing her lips.
“And you really have no other creatures left?”
“Nothing that would have a body that could be killed, but there are still ghosts, Spirits, lesser kami…”
Bran listened to this, baffled. To exterminate all races was an idea as preposterous as it was terrifying. One might as well consider destroying all animals. Again, the casual cruelty of the Yamato shocked him, but what intrigued him more was how had it been possible for the Taikun to achieve his victory without advanced magic or technology?
“What magic creatures do you have in your land?” Nagomi asked.
“Oh, there are plenty. Apart from dragons there are wyverns, lindworms, kelpies, selkies… all manner of beasts. Then there are the Fair Folk, Tylwyth Teg, and the small ones, Corianiaid, but they are only a little different from us.”
“What are they like?”
“The Corianiaid are short and stocky, long-eared and narrow-eyed. The Tylwyth Teg are very tall and slim, their hair is golden or silver — but not what you usually call that, it looks like actual gleaming metal. Their eyes are like those of a cat and they can see at night. One of the Tylwyth was a soldier on Ladon. I wonder if he survived the disaster…”
His voice trailed off as he gazed at the cypress grove in quiet contemplation. What happened to the soldiers of the Second Regiment? Were their dragons able to fly all the way to the mainland? They must have been tired after the battle with the rebels. And what of his father? Was he now fighting in the siege of Jiankang or trying to find his son? No, Dylan always put his soldier’s duty before family. Bran could only count on himself — and his new found friends.
On a sudden impulse, he reached out, put his hand on Nagomi’s shoulder and smiled at her. The girl was startled at first. People in Yamato did not touch each other, he had noticed, except the closest of families. He didn’t care. What he did seemed natural enough to him. She smiled back, uncertain. They looked at each other in silence.
The boat halted for the night at Haki, a small timber port built at a confluence of Kumagawa and another unnamed mountain stream. The Kuma River flowed a bit wider here, dark mountains reflecting ominously in its calm shimmering waters.
The riverside inn at Haki was a simple one, used to welcoming lumberjacks and mountain hermits, not samurai, and the landlord would not stand up from his prostration until Bran and Satō told him that it was all right for him not to have the finest horse meat — the specialty of the region — on the menu.
“So tell me, the book from my Academy in Gwynedd,” Bran started, as all three settled to a meal of rice, local pickles and dried taro tuber, “how did it find its way here to Yamato?”
Satō sprinkled her rice bowl with some shredded taro before answering.
“If truth be told, I don’t know. My father always had smugglers bringing strange things to the house, but they were almost always Bataavian, from Dejima, sometimes from Qin. The man who brought us the Dragon Book… He spoke with a strange accent. I don’t believe I have ever heard it before, or since, come to think of it.”
“You don’t remember what he looked like?”
Satō shook her head.
“I could only hear the conversation between him and my father from my hideout — I was never allowed near the smugglers. I don’t think the man realised how valuable the book was, as he was satisfied with just a regular fee. He did seem to be in a hurry, but then thieves and smugglers always do.”
“What happened to the book?” asked Bran.
“Oh, it’s buried in the well, along with everything else. I figured you can teach me everything I need to know about the dorako anyway,” the wizardess replied, smiling.
Bran nodded.
“I’m not sure if I will make a good teacher, but I can certainly try to answer any questions you may have.”
“I have plenty, don’t worry about that! Finish your rice and we can start the first lesson. That taro gets chewy when it’s cold.”
He reached for the chopsticks, but a sudden trembling of the floor caused him to drop them.
“It’s happening again!” he exclaimed. ‘so it was not a dream!”
“What, you mean the tremors?”
“You can feel it too?”
“Of course, it’s just a small earthquake.”
“Earthquake…?”
Bran felt cold. He imagined the terrible death and devastation he had associated with the word. The Ruin of Olisippo, the Fall of Ragusa, the Devast
ation of Trinacria... Eithne had studied earthquakes a lot, he remembered. It had always been the geomancers’ main ambition to predict and prevent these disasters. How could Satō be so calm about it?
“Nothing to worry about; the worst that can happen around here is a landslide,” the wizardess said with a shrug. “Now look, your taro is completely cold. You should order another one.”
On the third morning of the cruise the boat emerged from the deep narrow canyon hemmed in between tall walls of granite onto a wide flat valley where several other mountain streams joined Kuma River as it spilled lazily over the flood plain.
“Who rules from this castle?” Satō asked the tiller, pointing to a large sprawling keep on a flat-topped mound across the river, surrounded by a small trading post town. Unlike all the other castles they had seen since leaving Kumamoto, this one was not a ruin and still seemed to be in use.
Instead of answering, the man laughed broadly and burst into song.
Koko no Hitoyoshi
Yu no deru tokoro!
Sagara otome no
Yuki no hada!
This here is Hitoyoshi
The place to go for a hot bath!
The beauties of Sagara
Have skin white as snow!
“Sagara clan,” the man added merrily, “and they have done so for the last seven hundred years.”
“So we’re not in Satsuma yet?”
“It depends on whom you ask. The Shimazu like to think this land is under their control, but in truth the border lies across these mountains to the south.”
The boat moored at a busy harbour across the river from the castle, where countless barges waited for the load of timber from the forested slopes surrounding the valley. Workshops and manufactories lined the shore. Satō sniffed; the air smelled sweetly of fermenting rice. Her mood improved at once.
“There’s a hot spring!” Nagomi rejoiced at the sight of a small building with yellowish steam billowing from beyond the bamboo fence.
“You go and have a bath, I’ll find us an inn,” Bran said, and sneezed. It had been raining since morning and his clothes were all soaked.
“You should go to the hot spring too,” said Satō, curious of his reaction, “or you’ll catch a cold.”
“I’ll come in later. I’ll go arrange our lodgings first.”
Half an hour later they found Bran just outside the hot spring entrance. He tried to seem as if he had just arrived from the inn, but Satō knew he waited deliberately until they emerged from beyond the bamboo fence, in fresh yukata gowns, their skin clean and flushed with heat.
“You must try it,” said Nagomi, pulling him to the counter.
“Where’s the inn?” asked Satō. The hot spring was excellent; a good cold drink would make a perfect ending to the evening. Who’d have thought there was such a nice town so deep in the mountains?
“Across the road from the big shrine,” Bran explained, pointing east to where a mighty thatched roof rose high above the houses and bamboo tops.
The Aoi Aso Shrine in Hitoyoshi was the most ancient building Nagomi had ever seen.
Its thick thatch, blackened with age, resembled a giant haystack stuck on top of a wooden frame. The wood was painted black instead of the usual vermillion. She didn’t know much about art or architecture, but even she could tell the style in which the shrine had been constructed and decorated was much older than anything she was familiar with.
At every stop since leaving Suwa the apprentice had made sure to visit a local shrine. Some were tiny and poor, chapels served by itinerary priests, where a local kami accepted even the merest of offerings. Others were grander, town or castle shrines, dedicated to protectors of clans, great chieftains or the Heavenly Kami — Gods of Yamato.
Nagomi prayed at all of them. She prayed for her parents’ and Lady Kazuko’s health, she prayed that Satō could save her father and Bran would find his dorako and a way home. She never asked for anything for herself; she trusted in the protection of the kami.
Everywhere around her, in the stones, in the trees, even in the old brooms and sandals she felt their the presence. She was never alone, but now she was lonely. She missed her parents, Ine and, most of all, the High Priestess. Unlike Satō, she was used to having people around her. There were always crowds at Suwa, pilgrims, priests, miko, servants... Even if some regarded her as a freak and outcast, at least they were there.
For many days now they had to hide, flee and avoid people. She endured, with the support of kami, but this was not enough. She needed more; she needed something the Spirits could never give her.
She sighed and finished her prayers. As she stood up, she saw a young priest looking at her with a bright smile.
“Rarely do we see such devotion as yours, young priestess-sama.”
“I’m just an apprentice,” she said.
“Which shrine, if I may ask?”
“Su…” She hesitated. Should she be saying that? She was never sure how to behave. This was another thing Satō was better at, having grown up in a household full of plots and conspiracies. “Suwa,” she said at last.
“Eeh! Suwa!” The young man clapped his hands joyously. “You must see something. Come, come!”
She followed him to a building at the back, standing between two great black pines. It looked even more ancient than the rest of the shrine, covered with an thicker layer of thatch. Inside it was dark, damp and filled with strange smelling fumes.
“These are vapours that come all the way from the Aso Mountain,” said the priest, seeing recognition in the apprentice’s eyes. “They say they are even more potent than your Waters of Scrying.”
“Have you tried them?”
“I don’t have the Gift,” the young priest replied, shaking his head sadly, “do you?”
“A little…”
“Really?”
He looked at her with honest admiration. She felt her face redden.
“Would you like to try our mists? I’ve never seen anyone scry before…”
“It’s not that easy…” she started, but his eyes gleamed with such anticipation she could not resist. “I suppose it can’t do any harm…”
“Excellent! Please, stand here, priestess…”
“I’m only an apprentice,” she reminded him, “and my name is Nagomi.”
“This mirror is what the Scryers of old used… Nagomi-sama.”
“And what are these?”
She pointed to a set of three strange masks carved into a pillar, high by the ceiling, painted white. They were disembodied heads of a child, an adult and an old man.
“I do not know,” the priest admitted sheepishly. “They have always been here. This shrine is old, full of things nobody remembers anymore.”
She positioned herself in front of the bronze mirror and breathed in. The fumes were stronger than at Suwa, more odorous.
“Do you — do you need anything?” the young priest asked.
“No, just… peace and silence.”
What am I doing? Scrying is dangerous. Kazuko-hime isn’t here. This boy will have no idea what to do if anything goes wrong. Why did I agree to this?
She could feel the onset of the vision surge through her body, like slowly building lightning. Her hair stood on end, her skin was covered with goosebumps. Everything around disappeared, only the mirror remained — and the three carved heads.
One of them, the head of a child, suddenly opened its eyes and looked straight at Nagomi.
Something appeared in the mirror. The vision, but unlike any she had ever experienced. It was not symbolic or dream-like, it was crisp, vivid and showing something real, familiar.
She saw herself and Bran on the beach in Kiyō, the boy reaching out his hand to touch her hair; then at the infirmary, him looking at her with unabashed curiosity.
“I like your real hair better.”
She was reminded of Bran’s quiet words at the inn on the day of their departure from Suwa, the dragon figurine from his satchel, th
e strange markings on the base, neither Yamato nor Bataavian runes. She felt his hand on her shoulder at the boat.
Nagomi did not understand. Why was she shown all this? This was no vision, just memories. She had seen all this before. What kind of scrying fumes were these?
The mirror dimmed and she was ready to step away when the second mask, the one of an adult, turned towards her with a mischievous grin. She was entranced, unable to move. The polished bronze surface revealed another image.
This one was not from her past. It showed the courtyard of the Kiyō magistrate, a rectangle of sand surrounded by a low stone wall. The cherry trees on the looming slopes of Tamazono were dressed in green, waving in the gentle wind. The courtyard was filled with onlookers, many priests and priestesses among them, standing silent, waiting.
A group of men marched out of the magistrate building with an older woman in tow. It took Nagomi a while to recognise Lady Kazuko with her hair uncombed and wearing a ragged gown. She seemed tired and her face was even more wrinkled than usual. The men were all armed and looked hostile. As the entire group reached the middle of the courtyard, the men stopped. One of them unrolled a silk scroll sealed with the mallow crest, and started reading.
“By the order of the great and illustrious Taikun, His Excellency Tokugawa Ieyoshi, we sentence one Hosoki Kazuko, former High Priestess of the Suwa Shrine, to death by sword for conspiracy with enemies of the court, harbouring fugitives and treason against the Divine Mikado.”
The people gathered in the courtyard were ashen-faced, but none dared so much as to gasp. The High Priestess looked up into the sky as if searching for something.
The vision ended, but the apprentice was still entranced. She could feel tears falling slowly down her cheeks, but she couldn’t wipe them. The third mask opened its eyes. They glowed red.
The mirror showed her a wide empty road running through the middle of a forest. Tall walls of mountains rose on both sides. A narrow path branched out to the left, into the woods, barely visible, overgrown by ivy and fern. The vision led Nagomi down this path, deep into the dark heart of the forest, until it reached a circular open glade.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 41
