Daughter of the Sword: A Novel of the Fated Blades

by Steve Bein

  “Ah. This modern world.”

  “The bōryokudan guys ought to have something for me by now too. I’ll be in touch. Until then, keep your doors and windows locked, and call 110 next time before you go drawing your sword on anyone, neh?”

  Yamada chuckled. “I’ll do that.”

  As she slipped back into her shoes, Mariko said, “Thank you, Dr. Yamada.”

  “What for?”

  “Distracting me. With your sword stories, I mean. It doesn’t do me any good to get all worked up over things I can’t do anything about, but sometimes I can’t help it.”

  “Impulse control, my dear. Study swordsmanship with me. You’ll learn something of it.”

  BOOK FOUR

  AZUCHI-MOMOYAMA ERA,

  THE YEAR 20

  (1587 CE)

  28

  The Okuma compound commanded a sweeping view of the east coast of the Izu peninsula, so Okuma Daigoro saw the rival swordsman’s company approaching many ri before it reached him. He watched as the horses rounded the curve beneath Kattō-ji, the temple on the mountaintop overlooking the road. The challenger rode under banners the color of dry moss. There were a dozen riders in all, and as the column drew nearer, Daigoro could make out long white centipedes snaking up the fluttering fields of green. It was the Yasuda clan, then. Daigoro had not expected a challenger to come from his family’s closest ally.

  He limped out of his study, which overlooked the eastern coastal road, and made his way ponderously to the main gate. As he stepped off the veranda onto the sand of the courtyard, his right knee buckled and he collapsed. He gripped his skinny leg through his wide, flowing hakama pants to ensure it was not injured. His knee was only as wide as his elbow, and ever since birth the nerve endings had been sluggish at best. His fingers were a better judge of whether it had dislocated.

  Finding no serious injury, Daigoro shifted his weight off his scrawny right leg and onto his left, and from there he pushed himself to his feet. He could hear hooves approaching, louder now than the ever-present chorus of waves beating the black rocks of the coastline. It would not do for his clan’s visitors to find him a dusty mess; he made a quick but thorough job of brushing himself off, then hobbled toward the gate.

  “I come to challenge the sword of Okuma,” called the young man on the roan mare. “I come to challenge Okuma Tetsurō!”

  He was young, not yet twenty, Daigoro supposed, with a meager beard that invited associations with mangy dogs or half-plucked hens. His forearms, however, were like stout twisted ropes, and his hands were thickly callused, sure signs of long sword training. He rode at the head of a column of ten samurai, and beside a smaller man whose hair was as white as wisps of cloud. The older man clucked his tongue and said, “Manners, Eijun.”

  Turning his gaze to Daigoro, the older man said, “I am Yasuda Jinbei of Shimoda. Good day to you, young Master Okuma.”

  “I haven’t forgotten you, Yasuda-san,” said Daigoro, “nor the mochi cakes you used to bring me on the New Year when I was a little boy. What brings you here?”

  Lord Yasuda dismounted his horse—spryly, Daigoro noted, in defiance of the many years the old man had spent in the service of the Okumas; Daigoro wondered whether he had ever looked so graceful himself. Once on the ground, Lord Yasuda was of equal height with Daigoro, which marked him as unusually small. Yasuda’s belly was rounder, his skin darker and etched with wrinkles. He bowed to Daigoro, and Daigoro returned it.

  “Begging your pardon,” Yasuda whispered, “but my grandnephew Eijun insisted on riding here to announce his challenge. I told him it would be the height of rudeness, to say nothing of pridefulness. I told him also that he stands no chance of victory, but still he persists.”

  “I’m sorry to announce that my father is not here,” Daigoro said, loudly enough for all in the company to hear. “He rode north more than a week ago, to negotiate a treaty with the great Lord Toyotomi. I regret that my elder brother Ichirō is also away. If you wish to challenge the sword of Okuma, I’m afraid the only one for you to face is me.”

  “You!” said Eijun, still in his saddle. “You can’t be more than fifteen years old!”

  “I turn sixteen this winter. As I say, I am the only one here for you to duel.”

  “Please, Okuma-sama,” whispered Lord Yasuda, and his eyes flicked down to Daigoro’s right leg. The hakama were wide and billowy enough to conceal his legs and feet entirely, but Yasuda had known of the disfigurement since Daigoro’s birth. “There’s no need for you to face him. The boy is slow, my lord. He nearly drowned as a child—held his breath too long and was never the same since. I accompanied him here only to humor him.”

  But Daigoro only winked to the old man. “Fifteen!” barked Eijun. “Not even of age yet, and undersized to boot! No, I’ll wait here to test my steel against Glorious Victory.”

  “You may be waiting a long time,” said Daigoro. “That’s my father’s sword, and I don’t know when he plans to return.”

  “Is there no one here I can fight? Are all of you cowards?”

  “Eijun!” barked Lord Yasuda, but Daigoro brushed off the insult with a wave of his hand.

  “It’s no matter of cowardice, but simply a matter of time. If you wait until my birthday, I’ll come of age and we can fight in the snow.”

  Eijun scoffed, but Lord Yasuda smiled and bowed to Daigoro. “As excellent a judge of character as your father,” he whispered. Then, louder, he said, “Shall we be on our way, Eijun?”

  “We rode all morning for nothing!”

  “I seem to recall telling you as much before we left.” Lord Yasuda stepped up into the saddle, nodded deeply to Daigoro, and bid him farewell.

  Only when the last of the Yasuda samurai turned his horse down the road did Daigoro release his breath. Challengers came regularly, as often to test themselves against Glorious Victory as against the swordsmanship of the Okuma clan. Both were famous, both as yet undefeated. For the past thirty years and more, Daigoro’s father had defended the clan’s honor, and that duty would never pass to Daigoro. His brother Ichirō would be the next champion—Ichirō whose limbs were whole, whose body was as big and strong as their father’s. Daigoro had trained as hard as anyone in the samurai arts, but the mark his father had set had always seemed unattainable.

  Thus it relieved him to see the dust settle on the road. With luck, he thought, he would not have to be the one to answer the door when the next rival came to call.

  29

  The following morning was hot. The sun reflected furiously from an unusually calm sea, and there was no breeze to speak of. Daigoro immediately thought it strange, then, when he saw the lone horseman dashing up the coastal road at a gallop. It was no way to treat a horse in such weather. When he saw the moss-green banner, he had no doubt it would be Yasuda Eijun. Once again he made his way to the main gate of the compound, and this time he loosened his katana in its scabbard.

  The younger Yasuda’s mount was foaming and panting as it clattered to a halt before the gate. “Your father!” Eijun shouted, panting as heavily as his horse.

  “He’s still not here, Yasuda-san.”

  “No,” said Eijun. “He’s dead.”

  The body of Okuma Tetsurō returned home via the eastern road, in a palanquin fit for the mightiest daimyo. Over a hundred red Okuma banners marched ahead of it, a hundred green Yasuda banners behind. Behind the Yasudas were the Nagatomos, the Ushidas, the Soras, the Inoues. In all, some six hundred men and a hundred cavalry escorted the body home. Many would ride all through the night to return home, for the Okuma compound could never house so many; only the lords and their immediate retainers could stay.

  His father’s body. It lay before Daigoro, swathed in a white kimono, wooden sandals on the feet so his spirit would be able to walk comfortably in the afterlife. There was an unnatural depression above the breastbone where the musket ball had struck. His black hair was without a touch of gray; the mustache and beard were trimmed, the lips pursed. Shaded by th
e roof of the simple shrine built for the occasion, his face did not have the pallor Daigoro had seen when the body was first removed from the palanquin. Six copper coins lay with him, and his best pair of chopsticks. He would leave this world with nothing that would not burn away.

  Sandalwood incense, the cries of the wailers, the weight of his father’s sword at his hip: these were what comprised Daigoro’s experience in the moment. Not grief. Not his mother’s shoulders quivering in his embrace. It was his brother who cradled their weeping mother in his arms. As for grief, Daigoro could not find it. He loved his father dearly, wanted very much to cry for him, but each time he grasped at grief, it slipped away like a rabbit through the trees of a forest.

  The forest, he supposed, was shock. It surrounded him, so dense as to leave him no lingering sense of direction. His father was only fifty-three. Every samurai expected an early death, but Okuma Tetsurō was strong and crafty. If ever a frontline warrior was to die of old age, everyone thought Okuma Tetsurō would have been the one.

  Daigoro bowed to the visiting lords one by one as they offered their condolences. He felt distant from them, still deep in the forest, their voices so faint he could not make out the words. Each time he bowed, Glorious Victory pulled at his waist. It was heavy, surprisingly so, heavy enough that Daigoro could not imagine wielding it in one hand. A vision of his father sprang to mind, seated on his galloping horse, the huge ōdachi flashing in his right hand. He had been so strong.

  Even lost in the forest as he was, Daigoro noticed the eyes of those who had come to pay their respects; those that took note of the sword inevitably widened with surprise. Daigoro was the second son. Now that their father was gone, Ichirō was the head of the clan. By all rights the sword was his. Or rather, by all rights save one.

  Drawing himself out of his reflections, Daigoro found the area around the shrine was nearly empty. The shrine was enclosed on four sides by walls of white cloth hanging from lines suspended from tall posts. The long curtains flapped in the faint breeze, and within them, all that remained were Daigoro, his mother and brother, the body, and the first cords of wood to be used in the cremation. An enormous pile of logs lay just outside the cloth barrier; Daigoro had seen it as he entered and was astonished by how much wood was needed to cremate a corpse.

  “Come,” Ichirō said softly to their mother, “we should go inside.”

  Daigoro limped to the white curtain, the huge sword unbalancing him as he went, and parted a gap to allow his family through. As Ichirō ushered their mother to the house, his eyes strayed to the sword. Daigoro could not help but notice. “I’ll be in shortly,” Daigoro told him, and gestured for the Zen abbot and his priests to come in and begin the cremation. Even the abbot’s gaze lingered on the blade; was there anyone who did not think ill of him for bearing it?

  As he watched the first flames lick the logs under the body, Daigoro wished he had one last chance to ask about his father’s decision. Why did you bequeath it to me? Why not to your firstborn? I have never been a swordsman. You should have left it to him, Father. At the very least you should have told us why you chose me.

  The first wave of heat struck his face as the center of the pyre flared up. He smelled pine smoke at first, then a sickening, greasy smell like roast pork. Over the crackling of the fire and the chanting of the priests he could hear the sizzle of fat on meat. Holding back a retch, he limped as quickly as he could for the house.

  His leg betrayed him; he stumbled and fell as soon as he passed through the curtain. He landed on his right side, instinctively protecting Glorious Victory from harm. Two Okuma samurai ambling about the compound came immediately to help him stand up. He waved them off and with effort pushed himself to his feet. He’d done it a thousand times, but this time was harder. Was it because of all the eyes on him, or was it the weight of the sword?

  “Would my lord prefer an escort indoors?” asked a voice. At first Daigoro thought it was one of the samurai, but looking up he saw it was Lord Yasuda. His white robes bore a curled green centipede, and his silver topknot shone in the sun.

  “I can manage,” said Daigoro. “I’ve lived with this leg all my life.”

  “Of course,” said Lord Yasuda. “I assumed it was your grief on this tragic day, and not your leg at all, that led to your fall. Any one of us might be thankful for support on such a day.”

  Something deep inside Daigoro relaxed. “You have my thanks. Support I’ll decline, but I’d happily accept your company, Yasuda-san.”

  Daigoro dusted himself off, made sure the ōdachi and scabbard were clean, and limped alongside Lord Yasuda toward the house.

  “How fares the Lady Yumiko?” asked Yasuda.

  “Mother is as well as can be expected. Thank you.”

  “Good.” After a moment, Yasuda added, “I am happy to see you wearing your father’s weapon.”

  Daigoro gave him a sharp glance. “Are you always so forthcoming? I thought we might bandy about for a while before coming to the inevitable. The weather, the state of the war, perhaps your grandnephew, neh?”

  “I am an old man, my lord, at a younger man’s funeral. What little time I have left will not be spent wastefully.”

  “So be it,” Daigoro said, wanting to smile but refusing to indulge that inclination. If he could not feel grief, at a minimum he would not be seen grinning like a fool even as his father’s body burned. “If we are speaking candidly, tell me, Yasuda-san, why are you pleased that the famous Glorious Victory should rest at the hip of a cripple rather than in the able hands of his brother, a warrior of some repute? Why does it please you that, contrary to tradition, the younger brother should inherit the sword, and not the new head of the clan?”

  “Since when has it been contrary to tradition to uphold a father’s dying wish? It seemed possible, my young lord, that your brother would claim the sword as his birthright, even in defiance of the late Lord Okuma. It was made by the great master Inazuma, after all; wars have been waged over the possession of such a blade. Hence it pleases me to see it with you because the late lord’s request was so earnest and so specific. He had clear reasons for bequeathing it as he did, even if those reasons were clear only to himself.”

  Daigoro felt his heart quiver and his throat stiffen. Something was stirring within him: perhaps at last it was grief, but now it was mixed with anger. It was impure, so he suppressed it. “How,” he said with some effort, “do you come to know so much about my father’s dying wish, when his own sons and wife received it just yesterday, and only in writing?”

  Lord Yasuda bowed his head. “It was my hand that wrote it, Okuma-sama. It was I that tended to him at the last.”

  Daigoro stopped in midstride. Until now he’d assumed his father had written his last will himself, and Daigoro had taken comfort in the idea that even in dying his father had maintained such a steady hand. Nor was Daigoro the only one; his mother had been the first to suggest that the graceful handwriting indicated their father had not been in significant pain.

  He shuffled half a step closer to Lord Yasuda and whispered, “How many know you wrote his last letter?”

  “My young lord and myself,” said the aging daimyo. “There were serving women as well, two of them, ministering to your father. Shall I have them dispatched?”

  “No. There has been enough blood already. But they will say nothing of his death. To anyone.”

  “It goes without saying, my lord.”

  Daigoro nodded. At least his mother would be spared that much grief. He turned, and Yasuda turned with him, to face the column of gray smoke ascending from within the square of billowing white curtains. “He suffered much, then, before he died?”

  “The ball pierced his breastplate and smashed his spine. The bleeding was bad, but worst was that his arms and legs were like a dead man’s. He could not move them at all. But if his body was like a dead man’s, I do not think it pained him.”

  “But he could not move his hand to write.”

  “No, my lord.
”

  With a curt nod from Daigoro, they continued toward the main house and climbed the wide, shallow stairs to the broad veranda surrounding the building. But instead of heading left, toward the main gathering, Daigoro led the two of them slowly around the right side of the house. “The gunman,” he said. “You saw him?”

  “No, my lord. Your father came to us in the middle of the night. How he managed to stay on his horse that long, I’ll never know. I gather he rode all the way from Edo, and half that distance with a musket ball in his chest. The men that rode with him were too weary to stand, and they were uninjured.”

  “What did they tell you of the—the assassin?” It was the right word. Assassin. His father was dead. An assassin had killed his father.

  “Very little,” said Lord Yasuda, and Daigoro had to struggle to remember what this was in answer to. “His bodyguards said they saw blue smoke after the shot, a cloud of it in a tumble of rocks near the water. They fired arrows at it, and saw the back of a man as he made a dash for the sea cliff. This was just south of Odawara castle.” Yasuda closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened his eyes again. His gaze was fixed on Daigoro’s feet. “My lord, the gunman escaped. Your father’s bodyguard told me he put an arrow through the man’s thigh, but the assassin was still able to leap into the sea. One of them searched the shoreline to kill him or collect the corpse, while the others brought your father to me. As soon as I heard, I sent my fastest riders to assist in finding the killer, but his body never resurfaced.”

  “Never mind,” said Daigoro. “He is dead.”

  “He may be,” Yasuda said with a bow, “but my men still scour the coastline in case he is not.”

  “Leave them there if it will ease your mind, Yasuda-san, but any assassin who would use one of these southern barbarian guns is no man of magic. A shinobi would have used an arrow; there’s no telling where a musket ball will fly. No, it was a lucky shot that killed my father. No assassin worth paying would rely on the southern barbarians’ weapons. I would not be surprised if it was a disgraced rival, resorting to the musket since he could not win with the sword.”