The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5)

by James Calbraith

  “Maybe you should pray for a vision to guide you,” Torishi suggested.

  She glanced at the shrine before her. The sunlight turned the brass key in the fox’s mouth into a little ball of flame.

  “I am sick of visions.”

  That’s it, she realized. That’s what’s making me so tired!

  “What do you mean?” asked Torishi.

  She rubbed her eyes and exhaled, gathering her thoughts.

  “Ever since… ever since Ganryūjima, really,” she started, slowly, “I’ve been having these — flashes. Not full visions, like one sees in the Waters of Scrying… rather, various bits and pieces, random premonitions, blurred images I can’t quite piece together.”

  She moved her hand in a vague motion, trying to express her confusion.

  “They are growing more frequent, more intense. It’s sapping my strength just trying to control them.”

  Torishi ran his fingers through his beard.

  “Didn’t you always see these omens?” he asked.

  “Not like this.” She shook her head. “Rarely outside a shrine. Kazuko-hime said I had a talent for Scrying, and tried to teach me how to harness it, but my training was never finished — and now…” She bit her lips, “now it’s too late.”

  “Can’t the priests here help you?” Torishi looked to the main courtyard where a couple of acolytes were sweeping the sand.

  She scoffed. “They are worse than those in Kirishima.”

  “Another shrine, then?”

  “All the shrines and temples in Nagoya are the same. It’s this city — it’s too new, built from scratch by the first Taikun… it brings out the worst in people.” She shook her head.

  Torishi scratched the back of his neck.

  “What about that place… we were passing it when we first came here?”

  Nagomi strained her memory. More than a month had passed since she and the bear-man had disembarked from a ship which had carried them across the Inland Sea and around the Kii Peninsula. It was a long journey – the longest in her life, by far; an adventure in its own right, weeks at sea, raging storms at night, scorching sun in the afternoon… Cities, harbours, people — all of this passed around her, changing like the colourful images in those paper tube toys the Bataavians gave away to kids in Kiyō…

  What was it that she was trying to remember? Oh, that’s right.

  The shrine.

  The huge, crowded complex of ancient buildings straddling the Tokaido highway just south of Nagoya, all fresh, bright green thatch and golden cedar wood. Mom and dad had shown it to her briefly on the way from the harbour.

  “Atsuta,” she said, “that was the name. We will go to Atsuta.”

  This may have been the largest shrine compound Nagomi had ever been to; greater than Suwa, far more impressive than Kirishima… From beyond the mud walls and forest gates the size of the complex could hardly be appreciated. It was a city within a city; the main approach stretched for almost half a mile from the first vermillion torii to the vast courtyard in front of the main building, and it branched off into a myriad of wooded paths leading to smaller shrines and temples. The crowds reminded Nagomi of the streets of Kiyō during a festival, yet she knew this was just a normal summer’s day.

  Torishi followed her closely, stooped, and with his shoulders raised like a frightened dog. Unfortunately for him, this made him even more of a curiosity. Men snarled at him, women shrieked and a small troop of children ran after him, taunting.

  Nagomi felt bad for him. Had she not been dyeing her hair, she probably would have met with the same derision, or worse. Nagoya may have been a big city, but its townspeople were the same as everywhere in Yamato. She missed Kiyō’s open-mindedness.

  “You should wait in here,” Nagomi said, pointing Torishi to a small tea shop. Hidden away in the azalea bushes, it was almost empty. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “Why are there so many people here?” he asked, as they made their way through a narrow crescent-shaped bridge separating the inner and outer precincts. “Is this place so important?”

  She giggled. “Yes, it’s quite important.”

  Once she had recalled the name of the shrine, she began remembering all the other details. Atsuta was famous; perhaps the most famous in the land, after the Great Shrine of Ise. Deep within its sacred hall lay the Emperor’s Sacred Sword, Kusanagi, one of the Three Imperial Jewels; a source of great power and proof that the Gods protected Yamato… There was no point explaining all this to Torishi — he didn’t care much neither for Yamato theology nor the Emperor and his treasures. She led him to the tea shop — the few remaining patrons excused themselves promptly — ordered some food and a drink and hurried back to the main alley, into the throngs pouring straight from the Tokaido highway.

  The wrinkle-faced priest took off his tall cap to wipe the sweat from his balding, shiny head.

  “A vision, you say… It’s not something that we usually do here.”

  He poured Nagomi another cup of cha. They were sitting in one of several tea houses in the shrine garden, in the shade of a giant camphor tree, which the priest had assured her was at least twelve hundred years old. It was the only place in the entire shrine — in all of Nagoya, perhaps — that was cool on that merciless summer afternoon.

  “The daimyo does not want us to waste our talents on Scrying. He needs healers more.”

  “Waste your talents?” She picked up the cup. “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her strangely. “Don’t you know? Scryers can’t be good healers, and vice-versa. The Spirits won’t let this happen. It’s common knowledge among priests. I’m surprised the High Priestess didn’t explain this in your training.”

  Why… wouldn’t she mention something so crucial?

  “I still find it hard to believe Kazuko-hime is dead,” he shook his head. “News from the South does not reach us here as fast as you might think.”

  “Did you know her?” she asked, hiding her confusion.

  She was surprised that the name of the High Priestess was recognizable even so far north. Nagomi had omitted the details of her death, and the priest seemed oblivious to the charges.

  “Oh, certainly.” A smile flickered on his lips. “I met her a few times… First time was in Heian, a long time ago… She was buying pottery on the approach to Kiyomizu. We were both very young, and she had such beautiful eyes… ” He forced a chuckle and wiped his eyes with the edge of an embroidered sleeve. “She will be missed.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do to help me?” Nagomi pleaded, sensing a chance.

  He slurped his cha in thought.

  “There’s a place at the back of the Kagura stage… it’s a bit run-down, I’m afraid. An ancient well of sacred water. It may still retain some of its former power... But as I said, it hasn’t been used in a long time.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “It’s normally off-limits to the public… but then, you’re not really ‘public’. Yes, I’ll take you there after the evening worship, if you are willing to wait.”

  The sacred grove at the back of the Kagura stage was a far cry from the hustle and bustle of the inner precinct. Not even the smell of the giant incense cauldron standing in the courtyard reached through the camphor trees. The few tiny shrines standing here were dedicated to a minor associate kami, not as important as those worshipped in the main building. The shrines were simple wooden huts with no ornaments other than the decorative writing on the lantern posts. As the wrinkled priest had described it, the area was pretty run-down; the pilgrims rarely came here, and it seemed that the acolytes only cleaned and repaired the tiny huts before major festivals.

  Nagomi apologized to the spider kami before sweeping away the thick cobwebs guarding the well’s narrow, rectangular opening. She could barely see the surface of the water.

  “Will this do?” the priest asked, looking worried.

  “I will try,” she said. She threw a copper coin into the offering box and jin
gled the small bell to waken the Spirits. She stretched out her arms and began the shrine maiden’s dance, hoping for the best.

  Nothing happened. She grew tired, hot and sweaty, but the trance was not coming, and the water remained as still as ever. But she did feel something… Some power had awoken in the grove, but it was not coming from the healing well. She looked around, searching for the source.

  “What’s in that building?” she asked, pointing at a half-ruined shack overgrown with vine.

  “This is Doyō Den, the Midsummer Hall,” the priest answered. “This is where the Sacred Sword was once kept after it was retrieved from the thieves, a long time ago.”

  Nagomi stepped nearer the Midsummer Hall; her body quivered in the familiar way, first the tips of her fingers and toes, then her shoulders and legs. The fire within her body was waking up.

  “There is great power here,” she said through suddenly parched lips.

  She heard a distant, female whisper, multiplied as if spoken by a thousand mouths.

  The Storm God’s sword… the Storm God’s sword…

  It’s the prophecy, she remembered in an instant. The Storm God’s sword is sheathed.

  She turned to the priest to tell him about the voice but her words didn’t come out, and the priest stepped back in fright.

  The sacred grove spun around her and everything disappeared.

  A bamboo flute trilled in the distance.

  She was looking out onto a city street in Nagoya. Her family stood outside with their bags packed, her mother sad, her father graven-faced, Ine rolling her eyes with annoyance. Nagomi shouted at them, but they didn’t notice her. She ran down to the door and struggled to open it, but it was locked shut from outside.

  The corridor was long, disappearing in the darkness on either side, with many identical doors along it, all closed. She waited, uncertain, until she heard the sound of the flute again, and the same female voice as before, whispering in the distance.

  What was whole is now in shards,

  Man and beast are torn apart.

  She wandered towards the sound, down the dark, stuffy passage, touching the wall, trying the doors along the way. They were all locked, except one, which was trimmed with golden leaf. When she touched it, the flute stopped. She slid it open by a crack.

  The stench hit her nostrils. Inside, surrounded by lit candles in the shape of a five-pointed star, sat a young girl in a long, flowing, crimson robe of silk. She turned around to face Nagomi.

  The priestess gagged and reeled back. The girl’s face was half-rotten, falling apart, and yet, somehow, familiar.

  I’ve seen her before.

  The decaying lips opened to speak.

  “You should not be here,” the corpse said with surprise. “Go away!”

  Nagomi shut the door and fled, stumbling, panting. The flute played again, and she heard torn fragments of the voice, carried by the draught.

  Turning, turning… three… stone… see…

  She raced until she ran out of breath. She stopped and dropped to her knees, heaving. When she looked up, the corridor around her changed. It was now a well-lit, and small vestibule, much like that inside her old house in Kiyō. Before her was a staircase to the upper floor. She climbed it carefully; the mouldy timber creaked dangerously under her every step. She reached the top and stood before a door of what, in her old house, used to be her room. The door, too, was decomposing, covered with rot and mildew.

  She heard a faint temple bell behind it. Holding her breath, she slid it open. It almost fell apart in her hands.

  Lit up by brass candlesticks and oil lamps, the room was decorated like the hall of a Butsu temple. A small golden Butsu-sama sat in the alcove, over a simple altar. Somewhere outside, the temple bell was ringing out a late hour. A monk brushed past her, carrying an orb of white crystal in his hands. He put the orb on the altar, and whispered a quick prayer — or maybe a spell? — before closing the black lacquer door. He turned around and raised a hand pointing at the darkness behind Nagomi. His face contorted in terror; his hand turned into a black dragon’s claw, black.

  She felt a creeping presence behind her; cold and powerful. She knew that presence well. She didn’t want to see the rest. She slid the door shut, and the presence vanished.

  She took a deep breath. The vision was far longer and more vivid than she had hoped for. She was growing tired of it.

  When will this end?

  The voice spoke again, crisp and clear. It was downstairs this time, and this time Nagomi understood the entire sentence:

  What was pure is now unclean.

  Find the boy who can’t be seen.

  She ran down, faltering, and searched for the voice; the corridor was now dark again, as if the day had already passed. The hazy grey light of dusk seeped through the dirty paper windows. A half-opened door stood at the end and she rushed towards it. As she ran, the wooden corridor morphed into a stone cave carved out of dirt-grey limestone. Something shone blue at the end.

  It was a large orb of blue crystal, the size of a skull, standing on a roughly-hewed stone column. Gathered around it, kneeling and praying, were little, dark-skinned men, wearing tunics of tree bark and bear teeth necklaces.

  Nagomi stepped nearer to the blue orb. She recognized the shade of the stone, and the way it muddled the light; it was the same material from which Bran’s ring was made. She brought her trembling hand nearer to the surface — it radiated heat, like the scales of Bran’s jade dragon. Cautiously, she tapped the stone with her finger and it cracked into three large shards. The little men cried out in anguish, and the light went out. Her feet were touching timber floor again, her hand reached out to pat a grimy wooden wall. She was back in the house.

  The disembodied voice whispered again. Nagomi tilted her head and listened. She was certain she would now find the source of the whispers; it was just around the next corner, just beyond the next door, in another corridor…

  She staggered on, stumbling and stopping for breath every few steps. She felt as if she’d been running around this strange house for days since the vision began. A sudden light came from outside; the fiery blaze of a bloody sunset. The flute was wailing a sad melody.

  There were no more unlocked rooms, and she already made a full circle around the house. She remembered one more place she hadn’t looked: the garden. She retraced her steps, and this time, found her way to the backyard. She slid the panels aside, squinting from the sun. The garden was filled with smoke and the smell of sulphur.

  A giant green dragon filled the entire garden, long-necked, serpentine. It was greater than Emrys, larger than the house; a giant monster from some nightmare. It roared in rage, spewing fire and lightning from its terrible jaws.

  Nagomi cowered behind a pillar. She summoned all her courage to peek out and noticed the sun reflecting off something near the dragon’s front leg… a sword. Not the sleek katana of the samurai, but an ancient bronze broadsword, stained and notched. It was embedded in the dragon’s claw like a thorn in a cat’s paw, pinning it to the ground.

  She heard the tinkling of a tiny bell. A white fox with a bushy tail jumped out of the flowers and hopped across the garden, stopping briefly by the bronze sword, before leaping away.

  As she struggled to overcome the paralyzing fear she heard another sound behind her. A rumble came from inside the house. She felt the air in the garden suddenly grow cold, and the same dark, dreadful presence she had sensed in the room above, creeping towards her. Hoar covered the grass.

  The veranda door creaked and cracked under a powerful blast. She screamed. Another bang and the door burst into splinters. A slobbering monster slithered forth from the corridor, an eight-headed, eight-legged serpent. Each of its black scales was marked with the hollyhock crest; each of the eight pairs of eyes burned gold, each of the eight jaws had teeth black and twisted, and each of the eight feet was clawed with sharp nails. Ripping the wood from the floor, it charged at her.

  The green dragon in th
e garden raged at the monster with a roar so powerful it tore tiles from the roof, adding to Nagomi’s terror. Covering her ears, and blind with panic, she forced her legs to move, but tripped and fell into wet dirt. Mud trapped her legs. She struggled to crawl, but she couldn’t budge an inch. The hissing demon caught her and plunged its many teeth and claws into her soft flesh.

  She kept screaming and crying long after she woke up.

  “We were so afraid,” Nagomi’s mother wailed, holding her daughter in her arms and stroking her head frantically.

  “You slept for two days,” said her dad. He was standing at the foot of Nagomi’s bed with his arms crossed. “Tossing and turning, and crying.”

  Two days…? No wonder I was so tired.

  “Even the priests of Atsuta didn’t know what to do with you!” her father added. “They — ”

  “It doesn’t matter,” her mother interrupted him, “what matters is that she’s awake. We can finally start packing for the journey.”

  Nagomi released herself from her mother’s embrace.

  “The journey? What journey?” she asked, still in a daze.

  Itō Keisuke showed her a piece of paper sealed with a hollyhock crest.

  “The High Council invites us to Edo, to present my research before the Taikun,” he said proudly.

  Hollyhock…

  She gasped and dropped the letter. “You can’t go,” she said.

  Her dad laughed nervously. “You’re not asleep anymore, child. Don’t spout nonsense.”

  “No — you must refuse — ”

  Her father exchanged worried looks with her mother.

  “Refuse the Taikun’s invitation? Why would I do that?”

  “You will die — ”

  “I will die if I refuse! You are still tired and addled. Taki, dear, let her sleep some more.”

  Nagomi’s mother nudged the girl gently down onto the bedding.