Emperor of the Eight Islands

by Lian Hearn

  The slaughter, now, was mostly over. Aritomo had moved into Lord Keita’s palace, which had survived undamaged. Preparations were under way for the crowning of the new emperor. Courts were being set up to share out the spoils of war. Miboshi elders were moving into official positions formerly occupied by their Kakizuki counterparts. Takaakira was one of these; his title now was Senior Counselor of the Left, but before he could begin carrying out his duties he had to find a house.

  On the edge of the city, below Rokujo, on the western side, he came upon a wall around a garden, neglected but, to his eye, not unpleasing. Wildflowers and long grass grew around the gate, which stood half-open, covered in morning glory vines. He dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to his companion, Gensaku, and walked quietly inside.

  A long, low building of excellent proportions stood on his left, looking out to the southwest. The garden was overgrown, the shrubs straggling, the pebbles and the pond choked with weeds. A cat had been sunning itself on a large, flat rock near the house. At the sound of his footsteps it lifted its head, leaped from the rock, and vanished under the veranda.

  Apart from the cat, there did not seem to be a single living being. Dust lay, mostly undisturbed, on the veranda. He noticed the cat’s paw prints and, lit by the afternoon sun, a child’s. He felt regret. He did not want to shed blood in the place he had already decided he was going to take for his own. He considered calling Gensaku and waiting outside until the deed was done, but something prevented him. He stepped inside.

  He could not see anyone, all the shutters were closed and the interior dark, but he thought he could hear the child’s light tread as it flitted from room to room. The pursuit excited him; it was like a childhood game. Finally he could see its eyes, shining in the half-light like a cat’s. He had cornered it. He grabbed it. It made no resistance; in fact, it seemed to be clutching something, its hands were not free. It did not cry out or struggle as he carried it out onto the veranda. He must call Gensaku and have him take it away and put it to death.

  On the veranda the sunlight fell on a girl’s face. She looked at him with a grave, resigned expression, but she did not speak. When had she last eaten? he wondered. She was holding a box in both hands and under her arm a folded text. He pried open her hands and took the box, but when he went to open it she said sternly, “No!”

  He put the box down and took the text from her. It seemed to be a treatise on herbs and medicine, esoteric perhaps. His interest was piqued. He had read all the works of the yin-yang masters and had dabbled a little in secret arts.

  “Why do you have this?” he asked.

  She sighed in a way so knowing and so mature, he was surprised and touched. She knows she will die. Yet she cannot be more than ten years old. How can one so young be so adult and so aware?

  At that moment he seemed to be shown all the years of her life as they might have been: growing up, learning to read and write, becoming a woman, marrying. Was all that going to be extinguished in a moment on his orders? And then he saw the alternative: he would save her. It was so simple, it almost made him gasp; simple and perfect. She would be Murasaki to his Genji. He had always dreamed of having a child he would bring up, like a daughter, to become a wife, a companion who shared his interests, who would be his equal in intellect and learning, who would love him. He imagined the clothes he would dress her in, the books he would give her, the games of incense matching and the poetry that he would teach her.

  “What is your name? Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

  She continued to regard him unwaveringly, then the ghost of a smile flickered over her lips.

  Takaakira thought, She trusts me, and a feeling of joy came over him.

  “Tell me your name,” he urged.

  “I don’t have a grown-up name,” she said. “Everyone’s always called me Hina.”

  “That’s charming. And your father’s name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  It would be easy enough to find out. But on second thought it might be better not to know. If she was from some high-ranking or important Kakizuki family it would mean a far more serious act of disobedience on his part. He guessed her family were provincial warriors who kept a residence in the capital but lived on their country estate. The house was pleasant but not grand, on the west side and too far from the Imperial Palace to be fashionable—and luckily for him, hidden from prying eyes.

  “Stay here,” he told Hina, and went to the gate to give instructions to Gensaku, to find serving women and cleaners, to put one of his men in charge of running the household, and to buy food, tea, and wine. Then he added casually, “There was a girl hiding in the house. Her father died fighting for us and she fled here. I will look after her for the time being until we can find her family. But there’s no need to spread this widely.”

  Gensaku bowed his head and designated one of his soldiers to inspect the house and find out what was needed.

  Takaakira returned to the veranda. Hina had placed the box on the floor and was kneeling before it, her lips moving in prayer as if she were thanking it. A slight chill came over him; there was something uncanny about her, as if she were a fox wife or had fallen from the stars. Yet this only made her more appealing to him.

  When he approached her she sat back on her heels and smiled at him. It was a little hesitant, but nonetheless it was a true smile.

  “Father promised to teach me to read,” she said. “But he has not returned.”

  “I don’t think he ever will,” Takaakira said quietly, grieving for a man he had not known, an enemy.

  The smile faded and her eyes shone with tears.

  “I will teach you,” he said, and while he waited for the house to be made ready he began to show her the characters, tracing them with his finger in the dust on the floor.

  20

  TAMA

  In Minatogura, Lady Tama waited anxiously for news. Life in the convent was tranquil, but she was bored and restless. She worried about the children, she longed for Matsutani, homesick for its fields and streams and the mountains that encircled it. She wondered if the damage from the earthquake had been repaired, if the lake had been refilled, who was overseeing the preparation of the rice fields and the raising of seedlings, the airing of clothes, the spring-cleaning. She was certain that only she would do it properly.

  She had seen the Miboshi army depart, thousands of them, some by road, some by boat, and, though no one had told her directly, she assumed Masachika had gone with them. If Matsutani and Kuromori fell he would be there to declare them his, by right of conquest, and probably by right of law as well. She had found out his claim had not yet been heard. The tribunal, made up of old men who had retired from the battlefield, was still working through cases, trying to clear the backlog before the victories of the new campaign brought a fresh flood of demands for legal recognition.

  “We heard last night that Lord Miboshi has taken possession of the capital,” the Abbess told her one morning. “It seems the Kakizuki incited the Crown Prince to rebel against his father; he was killed in the fighting and many Kakizuki, too. The rest fled. The Emperor has passed away and his second son will succeed to the throne. We will observe a period of mourning and pray for the spirits of the departed.”

  She spoke calmly, but Tama could sense her distress.

  “If only men truly followed the way of the Enlightened One,” she went on, half to herself. “If they shunned ambition and the lust for power, refused to take life, and were content with what they had, they would not unleash waves of suffering on the world.”

  Tama bowed her head to show agreement but could not help asking, “Is there any word of our thief?”

  “It was he who brought me this news.”

  “So where is he now? Why did you not tell me at once?” She could not hide her impatience.

  “Your time here has not altered your determination to claim your estate?”

  “I
am more determined than ever, but I am afraid it is all too late. I must speak with Hisoku.”

  “Stay here with us,” the Abbess pleaded. “Abandon your claim and find peace.”

  “If Hisoku has returned without the deeds, I will have to. But if I have documentary evidence I intend to present it to the court.”

  The Abbess sighed. “Go to the pavilion. I will send him to you.”

  * * *

  Hisoku bowed to the ground before Tama and then they sat knee to knee on the small veranda. The cherry blossoms had all fallen and the tree’s green leaves gave a dappled shade. Her heart was beating a little faster from his presence and she suspected his might be, too. She had no intention of becoming intimate with him—she would not risk her reputation—but the knowledge that he was attracted to her was reassuring. It meant he would do anything for her.

  From the breast of his robe he drew out a small package and placed it on the ground between them.

  “You found them without any difficulty?”

  “Lady,” he said, “I don’t know how much you have heard…”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “When I came to your estate at Matsutani, Lord Kiyoyori and his daughter had already left for the capital.”

  “Kiyoyori left? I thought he would stay and fight for the estates. I imagined, if Matsutani were taken, he would retreat to Kuromori, which could be defended indefinitely.”

  “That is what his men have done, apparently. Matsutani had been damaged by the earthquake and the garrison left there had no hope of taking on the Miboshi. They fled and are holed up in Kuromori.”

  “Waiting for Kiyoyori to appear, I suppose. Where is he?”

  “It is assumed he died with Prince Momozono, but it is not confirmed.”

  She felt unexpected grief well up within her. Ah, she would never see him again, her husband of seven years, the father of her son!

  “And the children?”

  Hisoku had been speaking in a dry, unemotional tone, but now his voice faltered. “All Kakizuki children in the capital were sought out and killed. Again there is no confirmation, there were so many and they were so young. Most of the corpses were burned without being identified.”

  The bright day went dark and she could see nothing.

  “Lady Tama? Are you going to faint? Let me call someone.”

  “No,” she said. “Finish your account.”

  “All I have just told you, I heard by report. I have not been as far as the capital myself. I wanted to hurry back with your documents. Matsutani was deserted. The guards fled long before the Miboshi arrived.”

  “Was it the damage from the earthquake? I did not think it was so bad—surely it can all be repaired?”

  “It was not the earthquake,” Hisoku said. “Rebuilding had already begun. Sawn planks were stacked up in piles, cut to the right lengths and ready to put up. But there were no workmen, no guards, no servants. I saw some farmers working in the rice fields, so I went to question them. They told me the residence had fallen under the influence of evil spirits; one of them who fancied himself an expert on these matters explained that Master Sesshin must have put them in place to protect Matsutani, but since his departure they had felt abandoned and neglected and had turned spiteful. It seems two men, a guard and a carpenter, had heard their names called in Lord Kiyoyori’s voice and had run into the building only to be crushed beneath falling beams, dislodged with great force from the roof. Witnesses said they heard laughter and one even claimed to have seen the spirits crouched in the rafters. After that no one dared go in the building. The shrine priest came and conducted a divination from which he concluded the spirits were beyond his capacity to deal with and should be left alone until Sesshin or some other master could exorcise them.”

  “I accused him of being a sorcerer,” Tama said, “but I had not realized he was so powerful.”

  “The priest told me you had his eyes put out and sent him away into the Darkwood.” His voice expressed no emotion that she could discern. She did not want to dwell on memories of that terrible day. What did it all matter now? Her son was dead, her home cursed.

  “You should have killed me as you were ordered to when you came before,” she cried, and tears began to fill her eyes. “Kill me now and put an end to my suffering.” She could no longer hold in her feelings and for many minutes she wept bitterly.

  Finally, Hisoku spoke with some hesitation. “As I said, Lady Tama, I found the documents.”

  “You went into the house? You weren’t afraid?”

  “A little afraid, yes, but very respectful. I spent several days talking with the spirits. I brought them placatory offerings, spring flowers, rice wine, and so on. I know a little about these things—my father was a gardener at the Great Shrine in Miyako and often had to soothe spirits that were displaced or offended by garden works.”

  “You really do have many talents,” Tama said.

  “In my line of work, when I have so many enemies, I don’t need hostile spirits as well. I try to keep them on my side. Eventually I told the spirits I had to collect something from inside the house and they let me in. The documents were where you told me, in the cavity in the well in the kitchen.”

  She did not look at the package. “It is all my fault,” she said. “I have destroyed the place I love. If I had not treated Master Sesshin so cruelly, if I had not turned him away, he would still be protecting my house. I did not know he had been doing it for so many years. I thought it was thanks to Heaven’s blessing, Kiyoyori’s ability, my own efforts. But, in truth, it was not Sesshin I was punishing. It was my husband. He started it all by bringing another woman into my house. Jealousy of her, and fear for my son when he was snatched away, made me act so cruelly and unwisely.”

  “You must have loved your son very much.”

  “I did not know how much.”

  “And his father, too?”

  “That is no concern of yours.” In fact, Tama was amazed at how strong and painful was her grief for Kiyoyori.

  “From all accounts,” Hisoku said, “he was a better man than his brother. Well, you yourself admitted as much to me when you said Lord Kiyoyori would have come to kill you himself, rather than send an assassin like me.”

  “Where is his brother, Masachika, now?” Tama said slowly. She was going to have to fight Masachika in the courts for Matsutani. But she found within her a determination to do it. She would rebuild and restore her home and make it the safe and beautiful place it had been when Kiyoyori, Hina, and Tsumaru were alive.

  “He accompanied the Miboshi forces into the capital,” Hisoku replied. “I heard he fought with distinction at Shimaura and the Sagigawa. Now he is assisting Lord Aritomo with the reassignment of official positions. He has been made a captain of the guard of the right.”

  “One brother’s fortune rises while the other’s falls,” Tama said. “Their father wanted to have one son on each side, so that no matter who prevailed, Kuromori would stay in their family and their line would survive. He was farsighted, I suppose. But he never took into account that Matsutani was mine and still is. I will make one final effort to claim it, and if the judgment goes against me I will become a nun and pray that the departed will forgive me.”

  Hisoku was staring at her with open admiration. “I will help you in any way I can.”

  21

  MASACHIKA

  Masachika himself watched the Prince Abbot’s men go through the ruins of Momozono’s palace. He wanted to be sure Kiyoyori was dead and he wanted to give his remains a proper burial, to pacify his spirit and put an end to the conflict and rivalry their father’s decision had caused between them. People were already talking about the return of the murdered Crown Prince as a vengeful ghost, and priests gathered every day at the site of his death in elaborate attempts to placate him. Their chants and the smoke of incense were the background accompaniment to Masachika’s restless searching and waiting.

  If anyone were to return as a vengeful ghost, he tho
ught, surely it would be Kiyoyori. Even though no trace of his corpse was discovered, he concluded he must be dead—it was what he wanted to believe—and ordered the priests to add Kiyoyori’s name to their prayers. No one told him the rumors that Kiyoyori had been rescued somehow; they did not want their tongues torn out.

  Masachika went to the old house below Rokujo, but found the doors guarded and was told it had been taken over by Yukikuni no Takaakira. There was no arguing with that. Takaakira was too close to Lord Aritomo, and Masachika had no intention of making an enemy of him. He had never cared for the house anyway. It was where their mother had died and it held only sorrowful memories for him. Tsumaru was already dead, he learned, and Hina must have also perished. He had never seen his brother’s son, and had last set eyes on Hina when she was an infant. Naturally, he felt some twinges of grief for them, and for the brother he had known before the rift. Memories of their shared boyhood rose fresh in his mind: their horses, their hawks, their first bows and swords. They had been close friends then; he had admired Kiyoyori deeply, and sought his approval in everything, until he had grown old enough to realize his unenviable position as a younger son. Then he had begun to resent the brother who, by accident of birth, had everything while Masachika had nothing. His marriage, his wife’s brother’s unexpected death, had seemed to redress fortune’s balance in his favor until his father’s brutal decision had taken away his wife and his estate and bestowed them on Kiyoyori.