Ever since that distant night when the assassin’s blade almost took her life, she felt anxious whenever she had to pray to Lady Kono-hana, the Divine Paternal Grandmother of the Mikado line. She had a feeling that this had been the long-haired woman in the cherry blossom robe she’d “met” on the mist-shrouded slopes in her dying dream.
She barely remembered that faint vision and was almost certain that there was nothing to it. As real as the Gods were, Nagomi found it hard to believe that one of them would descend to bring her, a half-barbarian girl from a small port town, back to life. Sometimes, a dream was just a dream. Still, the sense of unease remained. The vicinity of Mount Fuji and the sulphuric fumes bursting from the fissures all around the town made her feel afraid of visions once again.
She turned away from the altar when something tugged at her mind, pulling it into darkness. No! she protested in panic. The pull came again, stronger. She saw a grey, bald mountain, a babbling stream, a gate of three vermillion stones. She had seen this place in a dream before.
“No! Not here. Not now …”
“It’s me, little priestess.”
“Torishi! You’re using the Eagle’s Path! Wait for me, I will fall asleep soon.”
“I have little time. I have a message from someone we both know. Listen!”
She sensed him retreat from the connection, making place for another mind’s presence. This one was rough, unstable, unused to the darkness. The first thought it sent was garbled, a jumble of emotions and words she did not understand. In the link of minds there were no accents and sounds, so she could not recognize the voice until it spoke clearly.
“Go north,” the voice croaked. “Go north, Shamo girl. Find the Gate. Find the man with two faces.” That was all she was able to discern. The onslaught of foreign sounds made her head hurt. She panicked and forced the voice out of her mind. Torishi returned.
“That was Koro!” she said. “But — he’s dead …”
“Did you get his message?”
“Only a few words. Why is Koro with you?”
“It’s very important that you follow the Ancient’s advice.”
“How did you find him? What’s going on?” For the moment, she didn’t care about what the little man had to say. Something was wrong and she sensed it in Torishi’s distant voice. “Was it Koro who taught you the Eagle’s Path? I don’t understand.”
“Not him. His master.”
“Prince Shakushain?” Now she was confused. “You met him too?”
There was a heavy, dark pause. She sensed the bear-man felt he’d already said too much.
It’s not possible. Koro, maybe, he died not long ago, but the northerner — he was already moving beyond the Mountains of Time when we last saw him.
Her heart raced and tears started flowing down her cheeks even before her mind grasped the truth.
“Little priestess …” Torishi said, sensing her rising despair.
“No.”
“Little priestess!”
“No, not you.” She dropped to her knees and scratched at the dirt in helpless, silent rage. “You were supposed to recover. You were supposed to come and help us. You were supposed to take care of me.”
“Little priestess—”
“How long have you been dead? You taught me the Eagle’s Path back in Naniwa. That means you’d already met Shakushain then. You … you lied to me!”
“I have no time for this!” The bear-man boomed, breaking her out of the frenzy. “You have to listen to me.”
“More lies?”
“No.” He flooded her mind with sadness. “I have to pass beyond the mountains soon. But there is still a chance to say farewell.”
“The Gate,” she guessed. “Is that the only reason you want me to go there?” Her heart hardened. “I have to find Satō first. If I have to choose …”
She grew angry at him for even suggesting that Satō could be less important.
Instead of speaking, he pulled away from the Eagle’s Path, leaving her mind open and receptive to threads of the future flowing through her. She grasped at them, but it was like catching starlings in flight with her bare hands. Still, an image of the days to come began forming in her head.
Bran, shot by a thunder gun. Satō, stumbling in a red darkness, confused, frightened and filled with anger. A beautiful Western woman, riding a silver dragon. Waves of a distant ocean, charging at the unsuspecting coast, drowning fishermen and farmers alike. Lights and jewels. Sinking ships. Three green lights, coming together. Dragons, everywhere.
“Enough,” she said, putting a stop to the visions. “What does this have to do with the Gate?”
“The wizardess — she’s not where you think she will be.”
“She’s not dead. I’d know.”
“But she’s on this side of the Gate. Take it as you will ... I don’t understand it either.”
She sensed a rush of anxiety. The line of the Eagle’s Path trembled.
“She’s coming. I have to go.”
She?
“Wait—!”
“I’m sorry. Please hurry, little cub. Goodbye.”
The connection twanged like a broken shamisen string. She opened her eyes: the smiling acolyte stood over her, holding her by the hand.
“Good, you’re awake.”
“He was the last one,” she said. Her eyes focused at him. “I wasn’t dreaming.”
“I know. You had a Scryer’s trance. You chose a peculiar place for it — good thing almost everyone had gone to sleep. I will take you to the dormitory.” He helped her up.
“No, I — I have to go back to the town.”
The acolyte frowned and looked at the night sky. “It’s dark in the forest. There may be black bears coming down from the mountains.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Bears won’t hurt me. Please, unlock the wicket gate for me.”
Bran stretched himself on the mattress with his hands under his head. He had promised Nagomi to stay awake, but it was getting difficult. The windowless room was hot but not stuffy enough to keep him from falling asleep. The faint shimmer of the tarian made him drowsy.
He rolled out the map of Yamato and, struggling to stay focused, he proceeded to mark the positions of the dragons he was still able to identify. He could not account for all seven Black Wings. The ones in Chinzei were too far away now for him to sense clearly enough. He dared not trace the Gorllewin riders in Shimoda and Edo — they were too close to risk detection. Frigga had surprised him in Kiyō: he could not let this happen again here. For all he knew, a glamoured Black Wing may be hovering over the lake town right at this moment.
This was another reason why he insisted on Nagomi spending the night in the shrine. Separate, they had a greater chance of surviving a dragon strike. The Gorllewin and their Fanged masters may have been reckless in the defiant Imperial Capital, but this was Taikun’s own province, and his own shrine. He hoped that was enough to keep Nagomi safe, at least for the night.
There was one dragon Bran had no problem tracing. For several nights now, another mount was flying in their direction from the south. It had to be one of Dylan’s beasts.
Wulfhere again?
He hoped it wasn’t Dylan himself, having changed his mind and coming to take him back to Kiyō. But no, the rider couldn’t possibly have known where to find Bran. It must be an unrelated mission.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. I can’t even order them to run me a bath. He was effectively trapped inside the room without Nagomi’s “interpreting” services, unable to ask for anything other than in mime.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t stay in the room any longer. He descended to the bath wing. The inn was all but shut down for the night. The only lights and noises came from the kitchen. He tiptoed down the corridor and peeked through the door. The bathroom was dark and empty, but the water was hot. It poured from a bamboo pipe linked to an underground spring into a cypress-lined square hole in the floor.
He splashed hi
mself from a wooden bucket, then sat on the edge and sank his legs in the water. It was too risky to undress. He listened to the calming trickle of the hot stream and breathed in the sulphurous aroma.
He heard footsteps outside. Somebody was coming to the bath, one of the staff, he guessed, coming to clean up and shut it for the night. Bran preferred not to cause any trouble by being seen. He slid out into the dark corridor and hid in a shallow alcove.
The approaching man was not carrying a lantern, and his movements were too cautious for a cleaner. Bran held his breath. He shielded himself with a bwcler and waited. The man came a few feet away and stopped, sensing danger. Bran leapt out, barged at the assassin with the bwcler forward and pinned him to the wall. The Soul Lance flashed in his hand. A sword blade clanged on the floor.
The man was dressed in simple clothes, but there was something about the way he moved that betrayed he was not a commoner. He struggled to set himself free from Bran’s hold. He was surprisingly weak — and old — for a killer. Bran doused the Lance and summoned a flamespark over the assailant’s head. His face was contorted in a grimace of disgust and fury, but there was no mistaking the flared nostrils and thin, angular eyebrows.
“I remember you!”
The man didn’t notice at first that Bran was speaking Yamato. He kept fighting, his grip on Bran’s arm weakening.
“Stop it!” Bran hissed. “You’ll alarm the staff!”
That made the assailant pause. He frowned and stared at Bran, his nostrils flaring.
“You speak … our tongue—”
“Yes! Yes, I do. Aren’t you the man we met in Kumamoto? Takashima Satō’s friend?”
“What — who are you? How do you know me?”
Another man approached down the corridor. This time it was a servant, carrying a small lantern in one hand and a broom in the other.
“I was there, at the monastery. With Takashima and the priestess.”
Bran stepped away and slid the sword back to the samurai with his foot. The man picked it up cautiously and again aimed it at the boy.
“We don’t have time,” Bran whispered, annoyed, pushing the blade away. “That servant will call on the guards from the checkpoint. Come to my room, I’ll explain everything.”
The samurai lowered the sword. “Fine. But any wrong move and I will kill you.”
“I don’t believe you. It’s some kind of a trick.”
Master Yokoi stood in the corner of the room, refusing Bran’s invitation to sit. His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword. He studied the boy’s every move with narrow, tense eyes. Bran offered him a cup of water, but he declined that too.
“How would I know about all this?” Bran asked. “Even about how you liked the food in the monastery? There wasn’t anyone else with us there.”
“Barbarian magic,” the samurai scoffed. “You …” He made a pulling gesture near his head. “Sucked it out of my mind, like the Fanged did with Takashima-sama.”
“And the language? And all the information I have of Yamato? Did the riders in Shimoda show any sign of such knowledge?”
The samurai rubbed his chin.
“No, they were dumb, like all the barbarians. You … there’s something different about you. And you don’t have this.” He drew the sign of the cross on his forehead. He snapped his fingers. “I know! You’re from Dejima. One of Curzius-dono’s men.”
“I’m Dracalish, actually. Listen, Nagomi — the red-haired priestess — is here, in the shrine. She’ll be back in the morning. Will you believe her?”
“You could have brainwashed her. She is half-barbarian, anyway.”
Bran raised his hands in exasperation. “Look at me! Do I look like some evil wizard? I’m seventeen! I’m just trying to make some sense of it all, and save Satō from the Fanged.”
Yokoi let go of the sword’s hilt. His mouth dropped. “They got young Takashima-sama, too?”
“Yes, a few weeks ago … she got captured in the battle of Heian.”
“I heard about that. The rebels from Chōfu … burned by the dorako. Like us in Mito.”
“You were in Mito? What are you —”
Somebody was running up the stairs. Master Yokoi raised his sword. Bran jumped up, ready to summon the Lance, when Nagomi burst into the room. Bran ran to her and grabbed her arms.
“What is it? Have you been attacked?”
“No … no. I — I saw you under attack. I had a vision!”
Bran laughed. “I was, but as you see — I’m fine. It was Yokoi-dono here who struck at me.” He stepped back. “He thought I was one of the Black Wings.”
The samurai sheathed his blade and bowed. “Priestess-sama. We meet again.”
“I don’t remember—”
“Kumamoto,” Bran reminded her. “The nobleman who came to the monastery to speak with Satō.”
Of course, he realized, the samurai would not have been as memorable to Nagomi as to him. Yokoi was one of the first Yamato noblemen Bran had seen up close. Back then, he was trying to remember every detail of his adventure, every voice, every face. And Yokoi’s face was anything but forgettable.
“Yes, of course.” Nagomi bowed back. “But — Kumamoto? What are you doing here, then, tono?”
“You know, I was just about to ask him that myself …”
“I followed the rumours here to Hakone. The lights on the mountain—”
“Yes, we heard of that too.” Bran nodded.
“I was about to investigate those … when you arrived at the town. I thought, this is it. This is why the Gods kept me alive in Mito, and rescued me from Shimoda. I had a chance to avenge my fallen comrades by at least taking out one of the barbarian bastards …” He spat. “I couldn’t let this opportunity pass.” He grasped Bran’s mug and drank from it, his Adam’s apple, as sharp as his nose and eyebrows, bobbing up and down with each gulp. He wiped his mouth and stared at Bran. “I’m still not convinced you’re not one of the Grey Hoods.”
Bran ignored that. “How did you manage to escape from Shimoda, then?”
“Their Yamato interpreter helped me. We waited until a gap in the guards’ schedule and escaped.”
Brain scratched his scarred cheek.
“That’s it? No magic, no fighting, you just slipped away when they weren’t looking?”
“It wasn’t as easy as that …!” Yokoi scoffed.
Bran hid his face in his hands and started chuckling.
“What is it?” asked Nagomi.
“Don’t you see?” said Bran after calming down. “They let you go. And now they’re probably following you to get to the rebels or the Fanged, or whoever they think you’re leading them to.” He closed his eyes and tried to remember the faint signals he had detected when Frigga appeared over the Kiyō magistrate. He felt the tingling, a sense of direction, but not the distance. But that was enough. “The Black Wings are near,” he said, standing up. “Not here yet. Waiting for your next move.” He went to the door. “We have to go. You’re coming with us,” he told Yokoi. “I have some more questions about that island you’ve mentioned …”
They snuck out of the inn through the small vegetable garden at the back, onto a narrow alleyway. Bran concealed a flamespark in his closed hand — it let out only enough flame to lightt up the dirt path under his feet.
“They must know I’m here by now,” he whispered to Nagomi. “We need to be careful. Have you found out anything at the shrine?”
“Yes, I — I had visions. You — shot, Sacchan in the Otherworld, a woman on a dragon … And Torishi, he’s—”
“Wait.” Bran stopped. They reached a crossroads on the outskirts of the town. Beyond it, on a rising slope, lay rows upon rows of thick-leaved bushes: tea fields. “Did you say shot?”
She nodded. “Yes, from a thunder gun.”
He looked to the sky. “Are you sure it wasn’t a vision of the past? The fight at the castle?”
“I’m sure. It was so clear and immediate. I knew I had to warn you!�
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Yokoi only has his sword. Then it had to be either Aizu … or a Grey Hood.
He didn’t like it. Nagomi’s visions were growing too close to reality. It was one thing to try to decipher flashes of symbols and metaphors, to piece together a future from surreal images and phantasms. But this was different. This wasn’t Scrying. There were no different paths to choose from, no leaves scattered in the wind.
You will be shot, from a thunder gun. It sank into his mind. It raised too many questions, too many paradoxes. If we know what happens in so much detail, how can we not avoid it? A sudden urge arose within him, to prove Nagomi’s vision wrong, to face his destiny head-on, instead of fleeing from it.
The whooshing of wings announced Emrys arriving at the tea field before them.
No fire, Bran ordered. Don’t let them see you.
He helped Nagomi onto the dragon and then turned to Yokoi. The samurai kept a distance. His face turned pale in the light of the flamespark.
“Oh no.” He shook his head. “I’m not getting onto that.”
“We don’t have much time.” Bran glanced nervously at the star-flooded sky. “Emrys is a gentle dragon, not at all like the Black Wings. It’s almost like riding a horse … only in the sky.”
“I never liked horses, either,” mumbled Yokoi. He touched the dragon’s scales. His hand shook. “A samurai fears no beast,” he said at last. He took a deep breath, grabbed a rein and leapt on the dragon’s back. He had the face of a man halfway between fainting and retching, but he held fast in the saddle.
“Emrys will take you across the lake,” Bran told Nagomi. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
“Wait.” The priestess grabbed his hand. “You’re not coming with us?”
“There’s no place on the dragon for three people. And somebody has to draw the Black Wings’ attention.”
“What … what about my vision …? I can’t let you stay here!”
He slipped his hand from her grip and sent the command. The mount launched gently, guided by Bran’s thoughts.
Skim the water. Don’t go above the treetops. Find a secluded place to land.
The jade dragon flew like a comet, silently, leaving a stream of smoke and sparks in its wake.
The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Page 19
