Then another thought struck her: they will know. As soon as news of a series of freak storms reached the castle, Hotta and Iesada would figure out somebody had used the orb without their permission.
This was too much to handle on her own. She needed to consult someone with more knowledge and experience.
And she knew just the right person for the job.
CHAPTER XIII
A lone hill sprouted sideways from a mountain range and loomed over a flat plain of small villages and rice paddies. A large lake glittered blue on the western horizon. Somewhere beyond it lay Heian and, further still, Naniwa.
A dark dense forest covered the entire hill, except its summit. Here, the mass of trees parted to reveal first a gargantuan stone staircase, and then, at the very top, a massive granite platform, surrounded by a low rampart. A hundred feet across, and rising several feet over the foliage, it was flat and featureless, except for a few cracks in the stone pavement, and several eroded boulders scattered at random throughout.
The stone, exposed to the summer sun all day, burned Bran’s feet. Nagomi slid down the dragon’s neck and gingerly touched the pavement with her sandals. She hissed.
“What is this place?” she asked, looking around.
“I don’t know.” Bran knelt down and touched the floor. It radiated heat like the inside of the furnace. He closed his eyes. “But she was here. I can feel it.”
The tattooed runes on his leg lit up. The purple jagged line appeared faintly in his mind, tracing another hex disappearing to the east. He had grown skilled in detecting its magic in the past few days. This was more than just True Sight — in fact, he was barely using the spell at all. Somehow, through the runes running around his thigh, he had gained a new connection with Satō and the blood magic used to transport her from place to place.
“There’s something else,” said Nagomi. She too leaned down to touch the smooth boulders. She was pale and her hands trembled. “A presence, hiding underneath this hill.” Her eyes widened, and her pupils danced. She was having a vision.
Bran caught her arms to stop her from falling.
“There was a castle here …” she said, her lips shaking. “But now it’s prison.”
“A prison?” He looked to his feet. What monster needed to be sealed underneath this mass of granite? “For whom?”
“I … don’t know. It’s dark. I don’t want to pry.” She grasped his hand. “Are you done here?”
“Yes, I found what I wanted.” He looked to the sky. “We need to find shelter, it’s almost dusk. We’ve been flying all day. Emrys has grown tired and hungry.”
“We can’t stay here ...”
“No, I suppose not.” Bran agreed reluctantly. He had planned to spend the night on the stone platform. Walled and secluded, it looked safe enough compared to the wide open fields stretching in all directions. The forest would have provided Emrys with game. He sensed the dragon’s stomach rumbling. But he could not ignore the fear in Nagomi’s eyes.
“We’ll have to try to reach those peaks, then,” he said, pointing to a ridge looming blue and faint to the east. “That’s an hour’s flight, at least.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re right. If the Fanged deemed this place safe to use, it can’t be any good to us.”
He helped her climb back on Emrys and took one last look at the platform with True Sight. He saw nothing but faint traces of the Fanged’s blood spells, a lattice of dark blue and purple vanishing into the ground. If there was another power here, it was ancient, native Yamato magic that only Nagomi could sense.
He picked up a small pebble from the pavement and leapt on the dragon’s back.
With the power of blood magic still buzzing in her veins, Azumi had no need for sleep. Right now, this was a curse rather than a blessing. For the first hour, she tried to fight her way out of the iron binds. Finally, she stood on shaky legs only to drop back to the floor in piercing agony, cursing the Renegade’s name.
She crawled up to the basket. She peered inside and pulled away. Bile rose in her throat. Dōraku was right. The stench was unbearable. How had she not noticed it before?
Maybe it’s a different basket, she thought. Maybe it’s some kind of a trick to break me.
But the hope was brief. She had recognized the container with certainty the moment the Renegade rolled it along the floor.
The night passed slowly, punctuated only by the muffled, hourly cries of the watchmen coming from the deck and the gentle lapping of water. She didn’t mind the darkness, but the loneliness was beginning to gnaw at her. She wanted to hear Ozun’s voice, telling her everything would be all right … She clung to the sliver of hope that Chiyo-dono fled with the head. Would she agree to exchange her for another hostage?
We still have a chance to be together again.
It was difficult to think with the overwhelming stench of rotten flesh coming from the corner of the room. Was it always like this …?
As the night turned into day — judging by the increased activity on the deck — her doubts grew. She remembered Chiyo-dono’s disgust whenever she mentioned the basket; the flies swarming around her in the scorching heat …
Maybe I have gone mad. Maybe there never was a chance for Ozun to come back to me.
This meant the Renegade spoke the truth and Chiyo-dono had lied. She had thrown away the basket before going onto the Sakai ships. Ozun’s head rolled off into the sea, or was cremated with the bodies of the fallen.
Hours passed. The floor warmed up — the midday sun reached even here, into the cargo hold. By the time Dōraku returned and sat on the barrel of tar, she was tired, confused, in pain, and near to losing all hope.
“I’m thirsty,” she said.
“No you’re not,” he replied. He was right. “Chiyo’s magic will keep you sustained for days.”
“Where — where am I?”
“You’re on a Tosa warship, sailing west around Iyo Island. In a few days we should reach the Dan-no-ura Straits.”
This place again. I thought I finally got away from Ganryū’s shadow.
She knew nothing about the Tosa clan, except that they controlled most of Iyo, the smallest of Yamato’s four islands. Neither Ganryū nor Chiyo had ever sent her on any missions there, so she had no reason to acquaint herself with them or their land.
So, yet another clan joined the rebellion. What a mess.
None of this meant anything to her. She cared about politics only as much as was necessary to do her job.
“You said … you said I wasn’t broken yet.”
Dōraku smoothed his whiskers. “There is still too much hope in your eyes, girl. To become a true heir to the Fanged, you must become broken,” said Dōraku. “Become a husk of a human, devoid of emotions — devoid of hope. I’m guessing Chiyo was going to use whatever that thing in the basket was as leverage.”
“He’s not a thing!” she snapped.
He waited, silent, expecting her to continue.
“His name is Ozun,” she said finally. “His head was in the basket. I hoped … I know your kind has the power to raise the dead. Chiyo promised she would bring him back when I fulfilled my contract.”
“Lies upon lies. Chiyo doesn’t have that power,” he scoffed. “She was only ever interested in taking life, not bringing it back.” He kicked the basket and it rolled to the dark corner. “Besides, with Necromancy, you’d need a whole body, not just a rotten head. That would be monstrous. You can’t create a man from dirt.”
Deep inside, she knew he was right. She’d always known. Ozun’s body was buried in Chinzei, when she was fleeing from the dragon’s wrath. Even if she could find the grave, it would only be a mass of decomposed flesh and bones. How could that ever rise to speak, feel, touch …?
“But Ozun could raise spirits …” She clung to her last hope, “to serve him in battle—”
“Oh, so he was the onmyōji I kept bumping into.” Dōraku leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees
. “Is that what you wanted for your man? To be brought back as a puppet of some mountain hermit? A living, rotten corpse?”
No. She remembered the mindless creatures Ozun had summoned and shuddered with dread.
The Renegade smoothed his whiskers again. “Another onmyōji could, maybe, bring your lover’s Spirit back from the Otherworld for a short while. You could say your goodbyes. Takasugi could arrange this for you. But that is the most that anyone can do. I’m sorry.”
“Liar,” she said, but her voice lacked faith.
“I feel like we’ve made some real progress today,” said the Renegade and stood up. “I will leave you to your thoughts. Grim as they may be, remember one thing: I knew many people whose bones have turned to dust by now. They can’t make any choices anymore. They can’t amend their sins or find new love or see the sun. You are still alive and your mind is still your own.”
“We had a deal!”
The small, pale-faced man slammed his fist at Komtur’s desk. A trickle of spittle appeared in the corner of his mouth. His eyes gleamed with fury from under raised, bristling eyebrows.
Perai leaned back in his chair. He glanced at the two guards at the door, who trained their pistols at the little man and his interpreter. “I don’t think I appreciate your tone of voice, Councillor,” he said. “May I remind you that you’re on my ship, in my cabin, surrounded by my soldiers.”
“We had a deal,” Councillor Hotta repeated, quietly. “You let the Tosa fleet sail to Sakai unhindered. You let the rebels flee!”
Perai waved his hand. “A small, insignificant bunch of marauders and deserters. The story of their disastrous defeat they bring with them will do more for ruining the rebels’ morale than any of your propaganda.”
“This was not up to you to decide! I ordered you to stop them!”
The Komtur leaned forward. “I don’t take orders from you. Merely advice. And this advice has already cost me a rider. One of my dragons is out of action, maybe for good. The Dracalish and Qin riders are fighting me in the South — you’re dragging Gorllewin into an international conflict. This isn’t what we bargained for.”
The Councillor also moved closer. His face was now inches from the Komtur’s. Perai winced at the odd, metallic smell coming from the man. “Are you saying you renege on the deal?”
“I’m saying my men need to rest and regroup before I send them out on another mission at your whim. I need more details, more intelligence. The situation is different than we had planned for.”
The Yamato pulled away with an odd grin. “Don’t take too much time, Komtur. Soon we may not need your help at all.” He nodded at the interpreter, and both men stormed outside.
Perai rubbed the tip of his nose. “We should’ve stayed in Huating,” he remarked to himself. “The Black Lotus seems reasonable now compared to this bunch.” He stood up, and took out some papers from the desk drawer. “If anyone needs me, I’m off to see our new guests,” he told the guards.
He paused by the wharf to watch the sloop bobbing in the water like a piece of cork. He still could scarcely believe the tiny boat managed the long and treacherous journey around the Izu Peninsula. The vessel was sturdy enough, but hastily built by people unfamiliar with the Western design. The foremast had broken in half in the strong wind off the southern capes, half the journey was made with only one sail.
The two dozen men who had achieved this feat — hardy, bearded, deep-tanned men all — were now cooped inside several huts along the waterfront, under the watchful eye of the sailors and soldiers from Perai’s flagship, the Star of the Sea.
After the Prydain boy’s escape, the Komtur was taking no more chances: the guards stood by the entrance to each hut, and patrolled the perimeter around them, not letting anyone in or out unless accompanied by Perai himself, Vice Komtur Aulick, or either of the seneschals.
There was yet another heavily guarded hut, a little further inland, with another captive. Not even the Chief Councillor knew about it.
Over the past weeks, the Shimoda outpost had turned, much to Perai’s dismay, into something of a prisoner of war camp. He had half of his manpower dedicated to guard duties. Apart from the riders, and those maintaining the dragons and stables, there wasn’t much for any of the Gorllewin soldiers to do in the narrow strip of land around the harbour that was designated as the embassy territory.
At least it keeps the men occupied, he thought.
A few of the bearded newcomers were lounging on the muddy lawn between the huts. As Perai neared them they stood up and glowered at him expectantly.
“I need to talk to you,” Perai said to the commander of the Varyagan crew, Admiral Otterson. “In private.”
Otterson grunted, and the other men went inside the hut.
“Unless you’ve agreed to let us go, we have nothing to talk about,” said Otterson, his arms crossed over a muscular, hairy chest.
Perai winced. “I told you, this is for your own good. Edo is a dangerous place for foreigners right now. Even we don’t like going there — and we have dragons.”
“My Khagan will hear of this, Komtur. And when he does, he will be very angry with your government.”
“He won’t be the only one.” The Komtur wiped his face. “Look, I’m sure we can work out some kind of a deal. Help me, and I will take you to see the Taikun. Who knows, maybe he’ll agree to add your signatures to the treaty.”
“Help you?” Otterson raised an eyebrow.
“You know the Yamato better than I do. You speak their tongue, and seem aware of things I can only guess at. I—” Perai glanced from side to side. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about my mission here. Things aren’t exactly going as planned. I need your expertise.”
“Expertis in dealing with the Abominations, you mean.”
“You know that, too?”
Otterson scoffed. “I can smell them from a mile. We feared this is what you Gra Huvar were planning. You want my advice? Here’s my advice.” He leaned forward. “Break whatever deals you’ve agreed to. Get the helvete out of here while you still can.”
“That I can’t do. There’s too much at stake. I can’t leave this place to the Dracalish and their allies.”
“The Drakalander are here too?” The Admiral now looked genuinely surprised. He murmured something to himself in — Perai only caught a name, ‘Samuel’. “Are they in Edo? Is that why you don’t want to go there?”
“No, this has nothing to do with the Dracalish … I’ll explain everything — if you agree to help with my predicament.”
“Fine. It’s not like I have much choice.” Otterson waved his shovel of a hand. “What do you want from me?”
“I need to introduce you to another priso– another guest of mine, Admiral.”
The inside of the small boathouse was cramped and stuffy. The thatched lean-to standing on the edge of the sea, its daubed walls splashed with the coming tide, was barely suitable to host its single inhabitant, much less the three men who accompanied the Komtur.
Perai wished he didn’t have to rely on this small crowd of translators. He still did not trust Otokichi — Yamato fisherman-turned-interpreter. Rescued from a reef in the middle of the Great Ocean a year before the Star of the Sea sailed from Fragrant Harbour, he had been eager to prove his loyalty to the Grey Hoods. But who could really tell what the people of Yamato were thinking?
Brother Gwilym’s skills were sufficient in simple reading and writing, but he struggled with the speech patterns of the locals. This visit was more a chance for him to learn, than to do any actual work. And so, it was up to Admiral Otterson to complete this trinity of Yamato speakers with his knowledge not only of the local language but, hopefully, of the culture and customs as well.
The inmate, wearing only a loincloth, sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, stoically ignoring a fly climbing the edge of his large, flared nostrils. His broad lips and thin eyebrows remained motionless as he studied the faces of the four men. Sweat trickled down his angular fa
ce.
It was even more crucial to keep this prisoner secret from the Edo courtiers than the Varyagans. Here was the last survivor of the Mito rebellion, a bloody and brief affair put down by the Black Wings in the north of the country. The Mito were supposedly vanquished without a trace — but Perai had sensed this thin, intense man might yet come in useful. This time, it seemed, had come at last.
Perai reached into his pocket and put a piece of cloth on the floor. The prisoner glanced at it, then back at the Komtur.
“Do you know what it is?” Perai asked.
The prisoner spoke to Otokichi.
The fisherman cleared his throat. “Yokoi-dono asks if you have brought his sword, as he asked.”
Perai rolled his eyes. “Tell him that’s out of the question. He’s too important. And besides, we don’t do things that way here.”
“Here? This is Yamato, is it not?” asked the prisoner, through Otokichi.
“This is a Gorllewin land, by treaty. An embassy now, soon — a factory. Yamato laws are not in force here.”
Yokoi-dono lowered his eyes. He gazed at the pencilled scribble on the cloth. It was an outline of three triangles, forming a larger triangle, traced off a carved design.
“This is the crest of Hōjō, my clan. As you well know, barbarian.” He nodded at the bundle of tattered clothes in the corner. “What about it?”
“We found it on a small tidal island, halfway between here and Edo. Do you know it?”
The prisoner’s nostrils narrowed. He looked up sharply. “Enoshima is my clan’s family shrine. Have you defiled it with your barbarian feet, as well? The Gods will punish you!”
“The man who brought it to me was punished enough,” replied Perai. “He died on the mission.”
“Was he one of your soldiers?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” A faint smile visited the prisoner, Yokoi’s, lips. “One less barbarian throat to slit. And for what? A piece of cloth with my crest on it. I could’ve told you you’d find it on Enoshima. It’s hardly a secret.”
“And yet somebody didn’t want us to find it there. Turn it over.”
The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Page 15
