“I am the servant of my Empress,” he replied like a reflex.
“As you are aware, no one knows the circumstances under which the Emperor died. The woman who was found with him—she was his mistress?”
Tadamoto took a long breath before answering. “Yes, Empress.”
“She was a Sonsa dancer, was she not? I believe I saw her dance in a program created for Lady Okara’s paintings.”
“That is correct, Empress.”
“How very sad,” Nishima said, obviously touched by yet another death. “She was a beautiful dancer.”
“Very beautiful, my lady.”
“Did they go to their end together? A lovers’ ending?”
Tadamoto took a long unsteady breath as though he fought down physical pain.
“Are you well, Colonel? You were badly injured.”
“I am well, Empress.” He paused again. “There were signs in the room that the Emperor was about to escape. A suit of Imperial Guard armor. The Emperor himself was dressed as a guard without rank. Those who guarded him said a boat was being prepared to leave the capital.” Tadamoto stopped again and Nishima wondered if he indeed spoken the truth when he said he was well. “It is my belief that Osha-sum pushed the Emperor from the balcony and he dragged her after him. I do not believe that she intended to make her end with the Emperor.”
Nishima was quiet for a moment. “But she was his lover, Colonel. Do you know something that my advisors are not aware of?”
Tadamoto sat stiffly, controlling pain, certainly, but Nishima realized now that it was not physical pain. He met her eye briefly and Nishima herself looked away.
“She did not love him, Empress,” he said quietly but with great certainty.
Nishima gave a single nod. “I see. Her family, where are they?”
“I do not know, Empress,” he moved a hand in the tiniest gesture. “The Empire is in chaos, everywhere. It is difficult to know where anyone might be.”
“Sadly true, Colonel. Someone must see to her ceremony. Is there someone you might suggest? Did she have friends in the capital?”
Tadamoto clasped his hands together on his knees. “I would see to Osha-sum’s final needs if that would be acceptable, Empress.” He fought to keep his tone even, but it was not a successful battle.
“That would be acceptable, certainly.” She looked at Kamu who gave a small nod.
Nishima gave Tadamoto a moment to recover his surface of calm. “I will tell you honestly, Colonel Jaku, that my advisors do not agree on what should be done about you. Most of those who supported the Yamaku do not pose this problem—they will be exiled to far corners of the Empire and their power stripped away. Opportunists are not to be trusted. But you, Colonel, there are some who believe you were loyal to Wa and to the Throne and, as I have said, the Shonto value loyalty. You are also a man renowned for your intellect and knowledge of the court and its intrigues. Was it you who convinced the Emperor to restore order to the roads and canals?”
Tadamoto nodded.
“Why?”
“The dynasties that provided stability have invariably held the throne longest, my lady. It is as though history has passed its own judgment, sweeping away those Imperial families that do not care for their charges, though often not quickly enough, I fear.”
Nishima produced a fan from her sleeve and tapped it in slow rhythm against her palm. “If you were offered a position in the new government, Colonel, would you accept it?”
Tadamoto did not hide his surprise, though his deep sense of sadness did not lift. “I am honored that you would ask, Empress.” Language failed him for a moment and Nishima spoke to cover his lapse.
“You have suffered great losses, Colonel. You have sacrificed love for loyalty to principles. Your brother….” She did not complete the thought. “If the principles of the sovereign were the principles you were loyal to, it is unlikely that you would find yourself in this position again, Colonel. Let us speak of this when you have dealt with the other matters that occupy you. If you will swear loyalty to me, Colonel, I will not require guards to be present when next we speak.”
Tadamoto’s head rose, Nishima could see the surprise in his green eyes. The look on his face said that he had not expected the world to ever bestow another act of kindness upon him. “Empress, I have knelt before the ruler of Wa more often than I am able to count, yet only today have I heard words of wisdom and compassion. I will swear loyalty, Empress—I would lay down my life that your rule may not falter, for the people of Wa need wisdom and compassion no less than they need food and water.”
Nishima gave the scholar a half bow. “We will speak again, Colonel Tadamoto. If you would offer the benefits of your experience to Captain Rohku Saicha of my guard, I would be in your debt.”
“Empress, I will be in your debt, always.” Bowing low, Tadamoto retreated from the room.
“She who renews,” Kamu said softly, “renews honor and hope.”
Nishima pretended she did not hear, but Kamu’s words gave her pleasure. “This Sonsa dancer was his lover,” Nishima said.
Kamu nodded.
“Have I let compassion blind me, Kamu-sum? I fear it is my weakness.”
“I believe, as you have said, that Jaku Tadamoto was an honorable man torn between honor and loyalty and love. In a lifetime of service to the Shonto I have never once felt so torn.” He made a sign to Botahara that would have been out of place if Nishima had not known him so long. It was for her father and she did the same.
“May I suggest that, once you have spoken to Lord Komawara, it would be appropriate to speak with others tomorrow or at a later date.”
“You coddle me, Chancellor,” she said.
“Not at all, Empress. One cannot rebuild an Empire in a day and, if driven to the point where one’s tranquillity is destroyed, one can do no good at all.”
“You sound now like Brother Satake.”
“It is a compliment I shall always cherish, Empress.”
She smiled. “I will meet with Lord Komawara, please, Major Chancellor.”
Kamu slapped his thigh once and then retreated, the Shonto guards in his wake.
The doors opened and Lord Komawara, dressed in white robes, knelt with his head touching the floor. His hair has grown back sufficiently, Nishima thought, and then smiled at the triviality of this.
The hero of Wa came forward stiffly as though he suffered from the performance of his deeds. The agony she had seen in his face at her father’s funeral had not faded and there was no doubt in Nishima’s mind that this pain had no physical cause. So shaken was Nishima by what she saw that she could not speak immediately. The hero of Wa, she thought, his spirit destroyed by the horror of his own deeds. Suddenly she was ashamed of what she had said to Lady Kento—a sword, a suit of fine armor, and the greatest horse in the Empire will satisfy Lord Komawara. I have given up the life I dreamed of, Nishima thought, but, Botahara save him, Komawara has sacrificed his soul.
“Lord Komawara,” Nishima began, intending to express the gratitude of the Empire, but suddenly she found it was a pose she could not continue. Her voice quavering unexpectedly, Nishima said, “Your spirit, Samyamu-sum, it is like a stone in water. How has this happened?”
“Have you not heard, Empress?” he answered, his voice as cool as rain, “I have become a great hero. To accomplish this I have written no poetry, played not a song, nor proposed laws indicating great wisdom. Instead I have become the greatest butcher in ten generations. And so I am honored throughout the Empire.”
Nishima put her hand to her face. It will be easier to rebuild an Empire than to heal the wounds of this man, she thought. Oh, father, look what we have done.
“Samyamu-sum,” she said as gently as she could, “what may I do?”
A bitter smile passed across his face like the shadow of a quick flying bird. “I am told Lord Butto prepares to pursue the barbarians who retreat north. I would accompany Lord Butto, Empress.”
“Do you not feel
you have done enough? Will you not leave this to others now?”
Komawara moved his shoulders. “But Empress, there is not a warrior in all of Wa more suited to this than I. There is not a trace of my humanity that has not been washed away, washed away by the blood of others.”
“Lord Komawara, I would ask you to stay in the capital. Please, you have done more than any sovereign has a right to ask.” Shuyun, she thought, perhaps he would know what to do for this man. But Shuyun could not be reached and Komawara knelt before her asking to be sent back to war—sent to search for his own death, she was sure.
“Empress,” Komawara said firmly, meeting her eye, “it would be better if you gave me a blade, as you have the others, and sent me north.”
She felt her face grow hot at this but forced herself to meet his gaze. He did not look away. Are you unreachable, then, Nishima asked silently. Is there no trace of the young man I knew that I can appeal to. “Lord Komawara,” Nishima began, “I will not order you to stay in the capital…but I will beg you to remain.”
“Empress,” Komawara said, taken aback by this. “You cannot say such a thing. You do not understand— it is what I am intended to do.”
Nishima shook her head, a tight gesture. “I will beg you. I do beg you. I will bow my head to the mat before you….”
“My lady, you cannot!”
Nishima stepped down off the dais into the space between them, placed her hands on the floor, and began to bow.
Komawara leaned forward and caught her shoulders. “You are the Empress. This is beneath you.”
Nishima came back to her knees facing him, catching his hands. “If I let you go, you might find the death you are seeking or you will complete the destruction of your spirit. I could not bear it, Samyamu-sum, I could not bear it.”
As though overcome by turmoil he did not speak for a moment. “Lady Nishima, I am of no use to you here….”
She felt a tear streak her cheek at these words and he stopped at the sight of this. “I will stay. If it is your wish, I will stay.”
Nishima squeezed his hands. “I know you have seen terrible things….”
He shook his head as though there were something he tried to cast off. “No,” he said, and the word came out like a moan. “I have done terrible things. You should not even touch my hands.”
Hearing this, she took the hand that wielded his sword and raised it to her lips and then pressed it against her cheek. “You have a fine and noble spirit—we will find it,” she said, “I do not know how, but we will.”
“I do not know myself, Empress,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
Nishima returned his hand gently to his lap. “I do know how we will begin,” she said suddenly. Turning back to the dais she removed the brush, inkstone, and brush-stand from the table.
She pressed the inkstone into his hands. “This belonged to my mother,” she said.
“Lady Nishima, I could not accept this.”
She stopped him as he tried to return it, saying firmly, “I am not above begging.”
“But it is a treasure.”
“Nonsense,” she said with a sly smile, “I gave Hojo a palace and Lord Butto a province. You can certainly accept a much used inkstone.”
It did not bring a smile to his lips, but there was something different about his eyes for a second as though whatever haunted them had released its grip briefly.
She held out the brush-stand on the palm of her hand— a swan, delicately carved of jade. “This was a gift from my adopted father.”
Almost timidly, Komawara took it up, turning it slowly from side to side.
“And this brush,” she said pushing it into his hands, “is a gift from a woman who might have been a poet had not duty forced her into other pursuits. If you write poems to me, I will answer them.”
“Empress, you have more important things to do than trade verses with a poet of little ability.”
“I remember your poem in my father’s garden, Samyamu-sum. Do not speak to me of your lack of skill. And I have nothing I would rather do. Will you not help me keep a tiny part of my former life alive?”
Looking down at Nishima’s writing implements, he nodded. “I thank you, Empress.” Komawara did not look less distraught, but she thought the hard edge of bitterness and the struggle with suppressed rage were less evident.
Sadness is not destructive to the soul, she told herself. We all have reasons for sadness.
“Everything that can be restored to you, Samyamu-sum, I will restore, ten times over.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Empress.” His discomfort was acute, Nishima could see, but she was also sure she could see signs that he responded to her words. He cares for me, this young man, she realized. And this touched her.
“You have duties,” Komawara said, quietly, bowing low. Nishima thought it best not to protest and let him go, clutching her mother’s inkstone. When the doors closed, she sat staring at them for a moment before rising and crossing to the windows again. She expected Kamu to enter; when he didn’t, she remembered that this was the last of her official duties.
The day’s interviews had not been what she had expected. She had been so young during the Interim War that she had been shielded from its effects—had not seen the cost. I thought I would give out accolades and rewards. The faces of Tadamoto and Komawara were not easily erased from her thoughts. They were too young. Not hardened veterans like Hojo.
She wished Kamu had returned. His council had been wise. Another who must be thanked for his part in this mad war, she thought. Touching the frame of the window, she felt Lady Okara’s letter in her sleeve and took it out. Returning to the cushion on the dais, Nishima broke the seal and read.
My Empress:
Upon hearing the news of your ascension my heart sang, for I knew the Empire would need the wisdom of your open heart if it was to heal. If I do not presume too much, my heart then became heavy for I was aware of your desire for a life of contemplation and art. This is a great sacrifice you have made, and greater so for it is no small talent that you have been given. How is it that fate would call a great artist to govern the Empire ?
It is my belief, Empress, that Wa requires your artist’s soul to heal from the betrayal of the Yamaku and from the loss and ruin of the war. Art, true art is a force for compassion and tranquillity. Let us have an Empire ruled by compassion rather than greed and warfare. Let us have art in the fabric of our lives.
And then, Empress, came the sad news of your great loss. Motoru-sum was an old and trusted friend and his passing is a loss to all of Wa. May Botahara protect his soul.
Out of the gray winter mists
An Empire in blossom
Spring
Drawn from the pigments of the soul.
May Botahara walk beside you,
Okara
Nishima folded the letter with great care, and then offered a prayer asking Botahara to protect all those she loved.
Sixty-five
BROTHER SOTURA MOVED slowly through the barbarian encampment, and though he searched with a practiced eye there were no signs that Shuyun had made even the slightest error.
He is a marvel, Sotura thought. He was never taught to manage an outbreak of plague such as this, and yet…. The tribesmen the senior monk saw appeared well, if somewhat underfed.
Tents off to the west housed the sick. Sotura made his way in that direction, receiving many bows from the barbarian warriors who lazed about in the warm sun. Among some crude shelters he found a Botahist Sister praying with three tribesmen. She is making converts here, he thought, not sure why this bothered him.
Nearby, men cooked by a dung fire, apparently impervious to the smoke and the smell. Horses were being moved about the area and staked where there was less-trampled grass. Nowhere was there evidence of weapons—skinning knives were all the monk saw. Quiet, Sotura realized, it is so strangely quiet here. And it was true any who spoke did so in subdued tones; there was no laughter, no calling out. A military c
amp and it was as silent as a temple.
The population of the camp thinned noticeably as Sotura approached the tents of the sick, but there were tribesmen standing guard here, watching him warily.
Why would they guard the tents of the sick, Sotura wondered and then realized the answer. It was Shuyun—some would brave the plague to meet the Teacher.
Many Brothers of the Faith had forsaken their vows to come to Shuyun and minister to the barbarians, so the tribesmen who stood guard did not question Sotura as a stranger in the camp.
The sound of men coughing came to the monk as he stepped over ropes guying a barbarian tent. A Sister hurried past and Brother Sotura spoke to her. “Brother Shuyun, Sister—where may I find him?”
She stopped and eyed him carefully, suspiciously even, and then pointed toward a tent across an open area. He bowed his thanks. To Sotura’s surprise he found himself nervous as he crossed the sward.
Four barbarian warriors bearing staffs guarded the tent and stopped Sotura as he approached. Speaking in their tongue, he asked for Brother Shuyun.
“The Master is at his labors, Brother,” one warrior answered. “If you require instructions it is best to speak to Sister Morima.”
Morima! Sotura almost said aloud, she has become Shuyun’s shadow.
“I have come with a message from the Botahist Brotherhood. It is important that I speak with Brother Shuyun.”
The tribesmen exchanged glances. “I will ask,” one offered and retreated toward the tent. In the dim light inside the door Sotura saw the man gesturing to a young Sister. She stared out at Brother Sotura for a second and then hurried off.
A moment later Shuyun appeared, drying his hands on a scrap of cotton. If he was surprised to find his former teacher, he did not show it.
“Brother Sotura,” Shuyun said, bowing low. “This is a surprise and an honor. Please.” Shuyun gestured off to one side and ushered the senior monk away from the tent, out of hearing of the young Sister.
A breeze ruffled the heavy fabric of the tents and overhead a plague banner fluttered on a tall staff, adding its staccato to the eerie silence of the encampment. Once assured of privacy Shuyun did not hesitate, as though matters of great importance required his attention. Yet he was unfailingly polite.
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