by Lian Hearn
He could stay and fight for her—if she was there—or he could escape with Sesshin. He made the decision, instantly regretting it, but not wavering. He hastened to collect his few possessions, sword and bow, the bag containing the mask, and saddled the horses. The servant girl met him halfway back.
“Hurry,” she said. “They are talking of killing you.”
He lifted Sesshin onto Risu’s back, tied him so he would not fall, and led both horses to the west gate. Risu was fretful; she did not want to go out in the dark, but the big stallion remained calm, and where he went she followed.
There were many people milling around, carrying armfuls of books, boxes and flasks, maps and charts that he recognized from Sesshin’s rooms. They were taking them to the summer pavilion and adding them to the firewood, already ablaze. No one looked at them as they passed under the gate.
Its transept was carved below the roof with curling dragons and flowers. Shika stood on Nyorin’s back and found a niche into which he could slip the two eyes.
Sesshin had not uttered a word, but now he said, “Make sure you behave yourselves. I am leaving my eyes to watch you, so don’t think you can get away with anything.”
“Who are you talking to?”
“I put some guardian spirits in the gates when I came to Matsutani. Migi and Hidari are their names. They’re quite effective, but they need a lot of supervision.”
Shika was shivering when he sat down again and took up the lead rope. It was almost completely dark.
“Where shall we go?” he wondered aloud. As soon as it was light he could find food, but they would need water. It was too dark to ride all night—it was the time of the new moon. He thought of the woodland pools he knew where deer and other animals would come to drink at dawn, and decided he would follow the stream that flowed into the lake from the northeast and find one of its pools in the Darkwood.
They circled around the back of the residence, following the wall, their way lit by the flames as the summer pavilion burned.
When they entered the Darkwood, Sesshin said, “We have been delivered from the Prince Abbot in a truly miraculous way.”
“Miraculous? You have lost your sight and all your possessions. Lady Tora has vanished and we are fugitives!”
“But now we know the true nature of existence,” Sesshin said. “And that is an inestimable gift.”
11
KIYOYORI
When he arrived in the capital, Kiyoyori went first to the palace of the Kakizuki, to pay his respects to the head of his family, Lord Keita. He bowed to the great lord from some distance and received a gracious acknowledgment, and was then summoned to the apartment of one of his senior counselors, Hosokawa no Masafusa, who was some kind of cousin to Kiyoyori’s father.
Like all the Kakizuki, Masafusa lived in great luxury, wore robes of brocade and damask of the kind that were once reserved for members of the imperial family, served elegant food on gold and celadon dishes, and provided an endless supply of wine, music, and entertainers.
Masafusa told him all the usual gossip in his barbed, amusing way, but Kiyoyori felt he had something more pressing, and at the end of the meal his suspicions were proved true.
Masafusa lowered his voice and said, “Your brother has submitted a claim to the estate of Matsutani to the tribunal in Minatogura.”
“What tribunal?” Kiyoyori replied.
“It was set up by the Miboshi to deal with land disputes in an organized and legal way. You must know Miboshi Aritomo has a passion for legality and administration.”
“He can have all the passion he likes, that doesn’t give him and his tribunal jurisdiction over Matsutani.”
“I don’t think there’s any cause for alarm, but you needed to be informed.”
“Even if the tribunal finds in favor of my brother, which I find hard to believe, he would have to resort to arms to get possession. I am perfectly capable of defending both my estates, Matsutani and Kuromori. And I imagine I could expect help from the capital. After all, Matsutani stands between Miyako and Minatogura. If it fell to Miboshi allies, it would leave Miyako wide open to attack.”
Masafusa nodded. “Of course, we are aware of all this.”
Kiyoyori mused for a few moments, then said, “Why is the claim being heard now? Are the Miboshi so confident of being able to distribute land currently under Kakizuki control? Are they planning something?”
“The Emperor is not well,” Masafusa whispered. “There is going to be a challenge over the succession.”
“But the Crown Prince is the most suitable, as well as the rightful heir.”
“Indeed. We have not seen a future emperor of such talent and intelligence for many years. And his wife is Kakizuki, Lord Keita’s eldest daughter. But certain persons—I do not want to name any names—favor his younger brother.”
Certain persons who dwell in Ryusonji, Kiyoyori thought.
“We are facing war,” he said, a statement rather than a question.
“You should be prepared for anything,” Masafusa replied. “Our lord is aware of your loyalty and devotion.” He did not, however, make any commitments or offers of support in the way of armed warriors and horses.
Kiyoyori returned to the house he kept in the city, below Rokujo, angered and disturbed by this conversation. The Miboshi were preparing to challenge the Kakizuki in the capital itself. They were so confident of success, they were already redistributing land in their law courts. And their most powerful ally, the Prince Abbot, had already turned his attention to Matsutani.
He felt he should return without delay to Matsutani, but he was also needed in the capital. He was angered by Keita and Masafusa’s apparent lack of concern. Would the Miboshi and the Prince Abbot really dare attack Prince Momozono? And would the Kakizuki have the ability and the will to defend him?
Even though he had sent some of his men on ahead, the house felt unusually cold and unlived in. Servants were often unreliable, but it was unlike his steward to let him down. He remembered when the man, Taro, from the insignificant village of Iida, had joined his household. He had seen something in his bold eyes and cunning expression that appealed to him, and his trust had been justified. Taro could read and write well, had many connections in the city, and was often a source of information that Kiyoyori would not have learned from anyone else. He was about to call for him when the man appeared, sliding open the inner door and saying, “Lord Kiyoyori, a messenger is here for you from Ryusonji. The Prince Abbot has summoned you.”
“Now? At this time of night? What does he want?”
“I have not been able to find out,” Taro replied in a whisper, indicating the monk half-hidden in the shadows. “But someone must have seen you arrive in the city and thought it important enough to inform the Prince Abbot.”
“I suppose I must go,” Kiyoyori said. “But if I don’t return you had better inform my wife what happened to me.”
She will have Masachika restored to her, he thought with pain. And what will become of my children? And Lady Tora?
The idea of never seeing Tora again was unbearable, but he could hardly send messages to her through Taro. Surely she was thinking of him, as he thought constantly of her, and neither of them would die without the other knowing.
The horses walked nervously, with pricked ears and exaggerated steps, shying at shadows. It was a cold night, the new moon a thin sliver in the east. He could smell the frost in the air, turning the breath of men and horses to cloud. The stars glittered, pinpricks in the curtain of the sky.
Ryusonji was close to the river and had been founded at the place where a dragon child fell to earth. The dragon’s spirit lived in a lake in the gardens. People believed only the greatest magicians could summon it up and use its power. The Prince Abbot was one of them. He was the Emperor’s brother-in-law and combined in his person all the prestige of the imperial family with the wealth and influence of the sect to which Ryusonji belonged.
They left the horses at the outer
gate and walked through gardens and courtyards lit by oil lamps on stands. Guards and servants waited silently on the verandas. One stepped forward and made a sign to Kiyoyori’s men to stop, and he was led forward alone. He was half-expecting to be seized, interrogated, and executed, which was what normally happened to people summoned to Ryusonji in the middle of the night. He had no idea what he had done, but obviously he had somehow come to the attention of the Prince Abbot. First the werehawk had been sent, and now he himself had been brought here.
He was, however, treated courteously and shown into the reception room where the Prince Abbot sat on a small raised platform matted with fresh, sweet-smelling straw and decorated with purple and white silk cushions. On the walls hung scrolls of sacred texts and pictures of protective deities, predominantly dragons. A golden statue of the Enlightened One stood in an alcove, flanked by vases of chrysanthemums. Gilt and jewels glittered in the lamplight.
Kiyoyori bowed to the ground and waited for the priest to speak.
His voice was high-pitched but measured as he gave Kiyoyori permission to sit up, every syllable enunciated clearly, his language that of the court. His face was rather long, his complexion pale. His shaven head was covered by a priest’s cap, richly embroidered like his clothes. He thanked Kiyoyori for coming, commented on the night temperature (which was plummeting—there was no heating of any sort in the room), and then fell silent, contemplating the younger man’s face.
Finally he said, “Well, Lord Kiyoyori of Kuromori, tell me what you are up to in your Darkwood.”
“My lord?”
“You are dabbling in matters you do not understand. I want to know who is leading you astray.” His voice had not lost its calm politeness, but there was menace behind the words.
“I am not sure what Your Eminence is talking about. My estate is small and insignificant, but within it I am the master. If I go astray it is my own doing. No one leads me.”
“I know differently,” the Prince Abbot replied. “Let me be frank with you. I am an adept in these matters. I see what is happening in all the worlds. I have messengers that fly throughout this realm and bring information back to me. Not long ago I sent one of these to Matsutani—I had become aware of powerful forces that threatened to come together in a way that bodes disaster for our Emperor’s realm. It did not return, but, around the time it should have reached your estate, a stag came into my room at night and stared me in the eye. It disappeared before it could tell me who had sent it, but I believe it was someone from your house. I prayed and meditated on these events and came to the conclusion that you have within your walls—you probably have not even noticed: for all your boasts of independence you seem remarkably unperceptive—some being, or beings, possibly not fully human, who are practicing evil magic.”
Kiyoyori could not prevent a shudder, remembering the hideous werehawk and the events that had followed its death. He realized that all he felt and thought was transparent to the priest.
I must not think of Tora.
But immediately passion swept through him and he longed for her. He knew he had failed to mask it when he saw the Prince Abbot’s contemptuous smile.
“They have bought you with sexual pleasure? I would have thought the Kuromori lord’s price would be higher.” He leaned forward. “You are in grave danger, but you can save yourself. First, those beings must be captured and handed over to me. My men will accompany you when you go home. Then you must be reconciled to your brother. His claim to Matsutani is very strong and the Miboshi will recognize it. Your father’s decision was both foolish and high-handed. No one blames you for it, but you must return the estate and the wife. I suggest you retire from the world, shave your head, and make atonement for all your father’s mistakes and your own.”
Kiyoyori thought, That was my original desire, but it certainly is not now! He said nothing, trying to judge how best to respond to this outrageous request, which he had no intention of obeying.
The Prince Abbot mistook his silence for acquiescence and after a few moments went on. “The Kakizuki have been all-powerful in the capital for many years, but their influence is waning. Their arrogance and lack of justice have turned many against them. Warriors flood the capital seeking compensation for their services, but the Kakizuki spend all their money on their own ostentatious pleasures. The Miboshi rule by law and reward those who serve them fairly. I intend my nephew to be the next emperor, and that may be sooner than was thought, very sadly, of course. I am giving you a chance to be on the winning side. Take it for the sake of your children, if not your own.”
“I am amazed that Your Eminence should concern yourself with my welfare,” Kiyoyori murmured.
Somewhere not far away a child was crying. It had been crying for some time, but he had not registered the sound, partly because it had been so unexpected. Now his blood turned to ice; he thought he recognized it as his son. Disbelief and bewilderment shook him physically. He half-rose, gazing toward the interior of the temple.
“Don’t be alarmed. We will not harm him if you obey me.” The Prince Abbot struck a bronze bowl at his side and, when a monk appeared, commanded, “Bring the child here. Sit down, Kiyoyori!”
Tsumaru was wearing his outdoor clothes, a jacket over a robe. They must have seized him while he was playing … but how was it possible? How had the children been left alone? Had someone in his household been involved?
“Father,” Tsumaru cried, struggling to get away from the burly monk who held him, but the man gripped him more tightly. Tears ran down the child’s cheeks, but he struggled to control his sobs.
“He is a fine boy,” the Prince Abbot said, gesturing for him to be brought closer. “What a slender neck! Can you imagine the ease with which a sword would sever it? In the event he lives, I will make him my acolyte and educate him.”
If I concede to my brother, that will be his only future, Kiyoyori thought wildly. If I resist and am defeated he will die before me. I must buy time. I must agree for now. When I get home I will consult with Sesshin; he will tell me what to do.
“It is gracious of Your Eminence to interest yourself in such a worthless child,” he said, the false words scalding his tongue. “If I have your word that no harm will come to him in your care I will do everything you request. I will return at once to Matsutani.”
“I suggest you go tonight, before dawn,” the Prince Abbot said. “I do not want your departure to give rise to unsettling rumors.”
In other words, the Kakizuki are not to be alerted. They are not to suspect that the Miboshi are to be handed a road straight into the capital.
“Father, don’t go!” Tsumaru wept, and then, “Hina! Where is Hina?”
The monk put him down and he ran to Kiyoyori, burying his face against his father’s leg.
“May I ask, where is my daughter?” Kiyoyori said.
“I believe she is at home,” the Prince Abbot replied. “She will be recovering now.”
He could feel the fury building within him. He knelt before Tsumaru and held him by the shoulders, looking into his eyes. “Don’t be afraid. Continue to be brave. Soon you will be home again, too.”
Tsumaru took a deep breath and nodded.
Kiyoyori touched his son’s hair briefly, bowed to the Prince Abbot, and followed the monk to the outer gate where Tsuneto and Sadaike were waiting anxiously. They were joined by several more monks, one of whom carried a bird cage holding two of the same werehawks.
“We are returning to Matsutani,” Kiyoyori said to his men when they looked questioningly at him.
At his own residence he told Tsuneto to assemble the rest of the warriors and horses while he went inside. The burly monk who had held Tsumaru followed him, standing and watching him insolently.
Taro, the steward, was waiting inside the room. In the dim light Kiyoyori thought he saw something in his expression beyond his obvious relief.
“I am leaving at once,” Kiyoyori told him. “Pack my things. I am not sure when I will return t
o the capital.”
“Shall I prepare some food?”
“Put something together for the journey, but we have no time to eat now.”
Taro bowed, glanced at the monk, and said, “Lord Kiyoyori might wish to wash or use the privy before he leaves.”
“Good idea,” Kiyoyori replied.
“I will bring water and a lamp.”
The monk looked after him suspiciously as if he might scale the garden wall and escape, but Kiyoyori was not followed and for a few moments he was alone in the darkness. Then Taro appeared with a lamp and a jug, set them on a shelf, and helped Kiyoyori with his robe.
He said in a voice tinier than a gnat’s, “I can get your son away.”
“How did you know?” Kiyoyori whispered back.
“Someone came shortly after you left, and told me. He works in the gardens, saw the child arrive, and knew it must be your son when you were called to Ryusonji. He can show me how to get into the temple. I think I can rescue him.”
“They will be watching him day and night, and they will kill him if your attempt fails.”
“They will kill him anyway and you, too, once you have given them what they want. Trust me.”
“Your life will be forfeit to me if he dies.”
“You can take it. I give it to you freely. I did years ago when you gave me the chance to serve you.”
The monk’s voice echoed, closer than he had thought. “Lord Kiyoyori, we must leave.”
There was no time for further discussion, either to give permission or to withhold it. Taro poured the water over Kiyoyori’s hands and held out a small cloth to dry them. His touch was impersonal and he did not speak again. Kiyoyori began to feel he had imagined the whole conversation. His last glimpse of Taro was the man standing on the veranda, the lamp in one hand, the other raised in a gesture of farewell. The first cocks were crowing as they rode away in the darkness.
They were halfway home when they met Kongyo. Kiyoyori brushed aside the man’s shamefaced apologies.