Three men desired to enter the castle; one had a long beard, the other wore a grey hood, and the third had eyes as green as jade. But try as they might, they could not breach the mighty wall of grey stone that encircled it.
The fourth man, a red-haired merchant, had the key to the single gate in the wall. He would come to the castle once a year with a cartload of goods from the valleys and mountains beyond the grassy plain. The lord of the castle shunned him, but coveted the exotic wares from the cart.
After many long years, each of the three men devised a different way of breaking through the castle walls. The bearded one dug a tunnel underneath it. The grey hooded one rode a flying beast over it. And the jade-eyed one ambushed the merchant and stole from him the key to the single gate.
All three met at the courtyard and the lord of the castle came out to greet them and he was old, frail and trembling. They drew their swords.
Lady Kazuko was right. The priests at Kirishima had recognised her status and guided her to the more luxurious accommodation higher up the slope of Mount Takachiho.
She had not seen such opulence in Suwa, rich though the Kiyō shrine was. There was gold leaf and jade everywhere, precious silks and exotic woods. Her mattress was soft as snow, the clothes chest was encrusted with red lacquer and ivory. A servant maiden, who brought tea in an expensive Qin pot, wore richer robes than Nagomi herself.
Wandering around the compound she noticed the priests had put her in a room far away and separated from everyone else. She quickly guessed the reason. They may have been too polite to make any mention of her hair, but their nervous glances gave them away.
Their nervousness increased after the funeral of the fallen samurai, when the rumours of the wolf attack spread around the shrine. She caught a whispered “goblin” or “yōkai” whenever she passed by a group of younger acolytes or maidens. The elders still smiled and bowed at her welcomingly, though their smile disappeared as soon as she pretended to turn away.
There was plenty she could help with around the precinct. Of late a small earthquake had caused a landslide near the Offertory Hall and once Nagomi had rested she was more than happy to put her hands to some physical work to take care of the injured workers.
After a day of such work one of the chief priests took her aside.
“We appreciate your assistance, priestess,” he said, “but it does not speak well of our hospitality that we let a guest do such hard work.”
“Really, I don’t mind.”
The priest lowered his head.
“I must insist…”
“Oh.”
“The workers are simple people, they would not understand all the… circumstances. Any other time, perhaps, but not with all the rumours of the yōkai coming down from the mountains…”
“I see.”
“I’m sure there is enough to keep one as industrious as yourself busy. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Can you tell me what’s over there?”
She pointed to a fenced-off area to the north-west of the main compound.
“Oh, that’s… that’s just a storage area. Nothing of interest.”
“That’s a lot of guards for just storage. And a big fence.”
“Eeh! Very perceptive.” He laughed and lowered his voice. “It is actually our main treasury, priestess. We don’t need the thieves to know where we keep our most precious offerings, do we?” he said and winked.
“Of course not,” she said, winking back, feeling slightly sickened.
She was picking up the withered flowers at the altar of Mikado Jimmu to replace them with fresh ones, when she noticed Bran, browsing the souvenir stalls. She came up to greet him.
“You’re working?” he asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be a guest of the shrine?”
“I can’t stay restless for long. At Suwa I was always busy with something.”
“Did you find out anything interesting yet?”
“There’s a closed-off area in the north-western corner — I could see the roof of a large building over it. The priests say they store most precious treasures in there.”
“I’ll try to check it out tonight.”
“Be careful, there are many guards.”
“Oh, now, that definitely sounds interesting,” he said with an absent smile. He was twirling an obidame buckle in his fingers, a simple souvenir piece carved out of a deer’s horn in the shape of an orchid.
“What are these things, actually?” he asked.
“Noble ladies wear them around their waist sashes, tied on a cord — like that one,” she lowered her voice and pointed to an elderly, heavily built woman passing by, wearing too much make-up. Her kimono was as noisy and gaudy as herself, and her obidame was golden, encrusted with jewels.
“How is your arm?” she asked, as she had been asking every day. With Bran’s increased resistance and lack of attunement to the spirits, she worried his wounds might never fully heal.
“It’s barely a bruise now.”
“You seemed so surprised, back then. Don’t you have priests in the West?”
“We do, but they are not healers...”
“Miracle workers then? How do you call them... thauma...?”
“No, they’re not thaumaturgists, either, unless they decide to learn some magic on their own.”
“Then what is their power? I have never spoken to the Bataavians about their religion.”
“I... Nothing like this, certainly.” Bran hesitated.“I have rarely paid much attention to the Sun Priests,” he said at last. “Matters of religion are left to the Church and, in exchange, the Church tries not to interfere in the matters of wizards. These days, I don’t think they have any real power.”
Nagomi looked at Bran curiously, not sure if she understood him properly.
“No power? Then what good are they?”
Bran shrugged, “What priests are usually good for? They preach, they teach, they offer advice to the confused and help to the poor. The Church used to fight the wizards in the old days, blaming them for all sorts of calamities... Now, priests and mages mostly ignore each other.”
The priestess nodded.
“I see. I’ve heard about something like that. Sometimes a priest would be abandoned by the kami, lose the power of healing, and start some new cult claiming he’s found new, better Gods.”
Bran chuckled. “Sounds about right to me.”
He studied her for a moment.
“You look healthy,” he said. “This place serves you well.”
“It’s a busy shrine,” she said, shrugging, “and that reminds me of Suwa… but I wouldn’t like to stay in this place too long. The priests here are… different.”
“We won’t be long here, anyway. In a few days it will be all over, one way or another.”
There was gloom in his words and she didn’t like it. It reminded her of her own dark visions that kept haunting her in the night.
“You can see the future, right?” he asked, as if reading her mind.
“Sort of… sometimes…”
“Can’t you tell how this story ends? Can’t you see if we are succesful?”
“Well…” she stumbled on words, “scrying’s not as simple as that.”
“But surely you have seen something about our future?”
“I have seen nothing that would show that we are going to fail,” she lied with a smile.
Satō wandered aimlessly about the shrine’s courtyard in the sizzling noonday sun. She came up to the talisman stall, picked up a few cloth pouches embroidered with lucky spells and then put them back without looking. She bought a few joss sticks, but forgot to light them. She drank some cold tea and ate some sweet bean mochi at the pilgrims’ teahouse.
She was feeling increasingly useless. She had neither Bran’s sixth sense nor Nagomi’s authority to investigate the shrine and its surroundings. In the end, she climbed up the hill towards the Butsu chapel beyond the cemetery, to pay for a prayer in Master Dōraku’s memo
ry.
She could not understand why the other two did not seem to mourn their guide in the slightest. He had sacrificed himself to save their lives! But Nagomi and Bran never mentioned his name again.
What is wrong with them?
As she stood before the chapel’s statue of the bodhisattva Jizō, her head bowed in prayer, she noticed somebody standing beside her.
“Who do you pray for, young man?” Kawakami Gensai asked. He was wearing a fine kimono of soft grey silk and only the short sword at his side.
“A friend.”
“Do you mind if I join you? I also have fallen friends to mourn.”
“Not at all,” she said, stepping aside. “I’m sorry for the deaths of your comrades.”
“Such is the samurai’s lot.”
They prayed for a while in silence, then bowed before the statue and to each other.
“Is that a Matsubara?”Master Kawakami asked, glancing at the handle of her sword.
“Yes.”
“Eeh! I have never fought anyone wielding a Matsubara before.”
It was the first time she had seen his face take on a genuine expression of joy. She gave it not a moment’s thought.
“I have little else to do today,” she said eagerly, “so whenever you have the time…”
“Most excellent. I will send a messenger in a short while — you’re staying in the annex, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” she said, embarrassed.
She stepped under the vermillion gate with some apprehension, hoping Bran would not notice. He was very vocal about them not leaving the precincts of the Kirishima Shrine, fearing the Crimson Robe’s attack. But she could not refuse Master Kawakami’s invitation and they obviously could not fight on the sacred ground.
The samurai’s servant led her off the main road, onto a glade of freshly mowed grass. Master Kawakami was there already, dressed in his grey and blue fighting clothes. A flask of saké and two cups rested on a lacquer tray on a tree stump.
“Welcome,” the samurai said, bowing.
“What is this place?”
“A duelling glade — for those who felt insulted on the grounds of the shrine. It is still maintained, though not used as much as it used to be.”
He gestured to them to sit down by the tree stump. Satō poured saké into his cup and then hers. She gulped the liquor.
“It’s sweet,” she said, surprised. It tasted quite unlike her father’s sakés.
“Northern style, from Aizu,” Master Kawakami replied. “You like it?”
She nodded. “It’s exquisite.”
“A refined taste for one so young. Now then, let’s see if your swordsmanship is just as good,” he said, standing up and drawing his sword. It was wider and longer than most katanas she had seen, a thick, heavy blade that seemed almost crude to an untrained eye; but she recognised it at once.
“Dōtanuki?” she raised her eyebrows.
“I know, I know. My teacher mastered one and I got used to the heft. It’s not as bad as you might think — of course, if you have the original, not a copy.”
He had the right part of his kimono pulled down for more freedom of movement. Veiny muscles rippled on his arm and torso, developed by years of carrying a blade a good pound heavier than usual. A grim, fierce tiger stared at Satō from an elaborate tattoo spread across the samurai’s chest.
She assumed a stance and noticed a glint of interest in Master Kawakami’s eyes. The stance of the Takashima school was significantly different from the more well-known styles; the blade closer to the chest, the hands on the hilt closer together. His stance also surprised her. She was expecting one of the slow, precise styles, suited to the heavy blade, but Master Kawakami stood softly and lightly on his feet, more like a martial artist than a swordsman.
He’s going to be fa —
She barely managed to reflect the coming blade. Her shoulder shook with the power of the blow. Her opponent gave her no time for respite; another cut came from above, then another from below, a quick one-two. She felt her wrist twisting dangerously, almost spraining. She jumped back, the samurai’s blade swishing where her head had just been.
That would have gouged my eyes!
She blocked another blow and stepped back again. She had to be careful: the grass under her feet was moist and slippery. If I could use my magic… but that would be against the —
Master Kawakami pushed on with the attack, thrusting and slicing without pause, not letting Satō strike even once. Blood flowed away from his face, giving it a morbid pale hue, like a kabuki mask. His expression was solid, focused, only his eyes moved swiftly, following and anticipating her every move.
Is he mad?
Her back touched a tree trunk. There was nowhere else to retreat. The dōtanuki blade flashed again before her eyes. She cast her head back and hit herself on the tree behind. In a daze, she slashed wildly, without looking. The two weapons clashed, and she let out a cry of pain as her left wrist finally gave way. Her sword whirled in the air before falling into the grass. The tip of her opponent’s weapon hovered an inch from her eyes. The samurai’s face as fierce and focused as that of the tiger on his chest.
“I yield!”
He smiled, took a step back and bowed, before sheathing his sword. He hardly even broke a sweat, but Satō felt so tired she feared she’d throw up.
“Well done,” the samurai said, handing her the dropped weapon, “but why were you holding back?”
“I did not!” she protested, panting. She needed to sit down.
“You hesitated. You have skill, but lack confidence.” He studied her for a moment. “You have fought recently, and lost.”
“I have,” she said.
“Why does it trouble you so? You are still young. There will be many fights you will lose.”
“I chose a coward’s way.”
“You ran from a fight — so what? Don’t believe all that bushido nonsense. These are just some rules in an old book. The real war has no rules.”
She stared at him in confusion.
“I did not get to where I am now by dying whenever somebody bested me in combat,” he said. “If you survive now, you get a chance to win later. Take time to train, study your opponent, grow stronger, and come back to fight again. Shinmen-sama often had to run away from a fight before he became the master.”
“Shinmen-sama…?”
“Have you not heard of Shinmen Takezō, the greatest swordsman in Higo?” He seemed taken aback by her ignorance, and she was herself surprised that there was a famous samurai she had not yet heard of. “I have to send you one of his books later. My master learned everything he knew about fighting from his works, and so did I.”
“I will be most grateful,” she bowed deeply.
“And if I may offer more practical advice, you will be slightly faster on the upper block if you hold the sword like this,” he said, taking her hand in his and guiding her in slow motion. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he added, seeing her wince, “you need that wrist looked after by a priest.”
“It’s… nothing, really,” she said, stepping quickly away. Her ears were burning. The samurai looked at her curiously.
Did he see through my disguise?
She sheathed the sword and tightened her kimono. “I was not aware Kumamoto Castle had not one but two such great swordsmen.”
“Two? My teacher is long dead, and though I loathe boasting, I’m not sure who might be the other man you speak of.”
“What about Dōraku-sama?”
Master Kawakami frowned.
“I am not familiar with this name.”
“He came from Kumamoto. He said he was a retainer of Yōkoi-dono.”
“A retainer? What did he look like?”
She described the fallen samurai in great detail, including the two swords he had wielded with so much prowess. Master Kawakami was silent for a long time after she had finished speaking.
“I have never heard of such a man, either in Kumamoto
or anywhere else on Chinzei — and believe me, I would. I know the school of sword you describe — it was one of the styles invented by Shinmen Takezō — so he must have been trained locally. How did you meet him?”
“He… on the road from Hitoyoshi.”
“And where is this elusive swordsman now?”
“He fell defending us from the same wolves that killed your comrades. It was him that I prayed for at the chapel.”
“Ah. Well. Nothing to worry about then.” The samurai’s lips twitched in a smile. “An odd story, no doubt, but finished now.”
He tilted the flask, but it was empty. He let out a short “Hah!” and gestured at the servant to take it away.
“I need to go down to the market,” he told Satō, “I cannot trust my servants to pick the right flask by themselves.”
She raised her eyes. “Oh — can I go with you?” she asked without hesitation. It was her best chance to go down to the town safely. Surely, not even the Crimson Robe would dare attack a samurai of Kawakami Gensai’s stature.
“I’ll be honoured,” he said with a smile.
The small town below, huddled between the mountain and the river, was filled with visitors from all over the province, here to see the famous kagura dance of the Kirishima Shrine. All the guesthouses were full, all the tea and saké shops were brimming with patrons, loud and rowdy, their faces flushed from too much of Kirishima’s famous black yeast spirit, shōchū. The main street was lined with stalls on both sides, and the crowd moved slowly from one vendor to another like a giant, easily distracted caterpillar.
Master Kawakami disappeared inside a large liquor warehouse, leaving the two girls to themselves. Satō had taken Nagomi along. The priestess had been at first reluctant to leave the shrine but once they reached the lively market she forgot all her fears.
“Look here!” she led Satō to a stall marked with a dial of a Batavian clock.
Here were sold items which were rarely seen out in the open anywhere other than Satsuma. These were Batavian goods — from toys and sugar candies to simple magic items, like perpetual whirligigs, bouncing balls or tiny glass baubles with electric sparks trapped within for eternity.
“How much for this?” asked Satō, pointing at a glass lens hidden among mostly worthless colourful trinkets.
The Year of the Dragon Omnibus Page 61
