As the heir to the throne, Mutsuhito should have no reason to wish for anything from the Spirits. On the one hand, his every worldly desire would be immediately granted by the myriad courtiers and servants; on the other, he had been raised to control his needs and not express excessive wants. His robes were embroidered with golden thread, but not woven from golden silk; his quarters were elegant but simple. If a box of pickled fish for Obon was a good enough gift for the merchant’s son, then it was also good enough for the heir to the throne.
“We cannot stand too much apart from our subjects,” his father had taught him, “lest we turn away from their needs.”
But this year was different. Mutsuhito dipped the brush in the ink made with morning dew gathered from taro leaves, and put it to paper:
How happy are the Gods
Who need not suffer the pain or disease,
But can freely meet on the shores
Of the Heavenly River.
It wasn’t a very good or original poem — a variation on Master Hitomaro’s Tanabata piece in the Ten Thousand Leaves Collection — but it did a good job of expressing his stormy emotions.
The Mikado was ill. Mutsuhito did not know the cause of the illness, but he knew it had to be serious: even he was forbidden from entering the Bamboo Room, where his father was tended to by the best of Yamato’s healers and herbalists.
As far as Mutsuhito’s memory reached, Kōmei had never been sick before, he had always been of a remarkable, ruddy, and resilient disposition. He guessed the stress of recent events had finally got through the Mikado’s natural defences.
The Crown Prince was now spending most of his free time praying for his father’s health in the Itsukushima Shrine, and preparing prayers to be sent to other shrines all around the city. The need to do so filled him with the sense of helpless futility.
We are Gods ourselves, he thought, ruefully. We shouldn’t be asking other Gods for favours.
He rolled the coloured paper in his fingers and tied it in a knot around a branch of the young bamboo tree. It will do as much good as any prayer.
He turned to return to his study, where another batch of shrine letters waited for his signature, when he heard the dull tapping of several pairs of sandal-clad feet on the gravel path.
“Denka! Denka!” cried the courtiers. “Come quickly!”
“What is it?” he asked, and waited for the elderly leader of the courtiers to catch his breath.
“His Majesty… requests… your presence.”
“But I am forbidden in the Bamboo Room,” Mutsuhito replied, surprised.
The courtiers exchanged looks. “This is urgent,” said the leader. “We think… we think your Divine Father, denka… he… ”
“Spit it out, old man,” Mutsuhito urged. A sudden chill ran through his body, despite the summer sun beaming with full force.
“He might not live to see tomorrow,” another courtier said, lowering his head.
The priest from the Shimogamo Shrine, tending to the sick Mikado, hesitated before unveiling the silk curtain.
“Prepare yourself, denka,” he told Mutsuhito.
“I’ll be fine.” The Prince waved his hand impatiently. How bad can it be? “Hurry up.”
The curtain spread open; Mutsuhito looked at his father and gagged. If the priest hadn’t supported him, he would have staggered to the floor.
“I warned you,” said the priest. In his voice, there was the tired sadness of a man who had to convey bad news too many times to too many people.
The Divine Mikado Kōmei lay unmoving, deathly, among the white silken pillows. Every inch of his exposed skin — face, neck, hands — was covered with scarlet pustules seeping black ooze. The pustules were so numerous that they joined each other in places, making it seem as if the Mikado wore a horrible demonic mask. Thick, dark blood seeped from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth.
The Mikado opened his eyes with effort, the rest of his face remained unmoving under the layer of pus, and the effect was unreal, as if what lay on the silk pillows was a mere automaton, not a real human being.
“Draw the curtain, priest,” Kōmei ordered. At least his voice was still as strong as ever. “There’s no need for my son to suffer too.”
The priest reached for the silk, but Mutsuhito stopped him. “I’m fine. Just… bring us some water.”
The priest bowed and shuffled out of the Bamboo Room. The Crown Prince gazed at his father, his despair growing with every second.
“I don’t understand,” he said, “it’s been a few days since I last saw you, you were fine then. I thought it was just some weakness.”
“I was poisoned, Mutsuhito,” said Kōmei.
“Poisoned? Who would dare?”
The Mikado’s lips curled in a strained smile. “There are many who always wanted my death… but they could never think of a scheme that would destroy the entire bloodline at once… until now.”
“The bloodline… you mean this attack was aimed at both of us?”
“A disease — ” Kōmei explained, “ — a perfect crime. It was those damn handkerchiefs… or maybe that bottle of spirit… soaked in the concentrated pus of a black pox victim they got from Gods know where…”
Black pox!
“Father, I — I have something to tell you…”
The Mikado raised a feeble hand. “I know, son. Iwakuni had you vaccinated in secret. He told me as soon as we discovered what had happened to me.”
Mutsuhito bowed his head.
“I’m sorry. I know this was against your wishes.”
“How can you say this?” Kōmei coughed. Droplets of bloody spittle fell on his white robe. “You will live, that’s all that matters. I was a stubborn fool. I’m glad my advisors proved wiser.”
“You will live too, Father.” Mutsuhito wiped tears from his eyes. He reached to grab his father’s hand, but Mikado moved it away with surprising swiftness.
“We don’t have time for this foolishness,” he said, and sniffled. “This is the final stage, I will not see tomorrow’s dawn. I have something very important to tell you.” He coughed again, a longer and more violent fit this time. “Where did that damn priest go? How long does it take to bring water?”
The priest rushed to him with the pitcher and put it to his parched, cracked lips. The Mikado drank eagerly. Mutsuhito reached for his cup; the water had a sweet, almost flowery taste. He recognised it — it had come from the well that was used to wash babies newly born within the confines of the palace.
First water, last water, he thought. How fitting.
The priest wiped the Mikado’s lips with a brocade cloth.
“Now go,” Kōmei ordered. “And make sure we are not interrupted.”
The priest disappeared again. The Mikado took a deep, gurgling breath, before reaching for a small lacquer and ivory box, which, until now, had been hidden within the layers of his robe. He opened it, revealing a small silver necklace with a comma-shaped jade jewel.
“It belongs to your mother,” he said, seeing Mutsuhito’s confused stare. “She brought it with her from the South, and sent me this from the monastery as soon as she learned of my disease.”
The Divine Mother, First Concubine Yoshiko, was not allowed to visit the dying Mikado.
“My mother! But it’s so…so simple.”
“It is not worn as an ornament, it is an artefact. A powerful onmyōji relic.”
“Mother is an onmyōji? I thought she was just…a healer.”
Kōmei chuckled. “She is much more than that. And so are you, because of her.” He reached out and touched Mutsuhito’s thigh through his robe. “Show me your leg.”
“You — you know about this, too?” Mutsuhito revealed his lower limb from under the kimono, unravelling a flesh-coloured cloth he was using to conceal the scales. They were now nearly reaching up to his waist; even his feet were deformed, the toes turning slowly into claws.
Oddly enough, he never once considered what was happening to hi
m as strange. His personal physician had long given up trying to explain the transformation, and limited himself to prescribing various softening balms. They eased the Prince’s discomfort somewhat, but did not halt the growth. A healer, brought under oath of secrecy from the Shimogamo, had also thrown his hands up in surrender, and called it the curse.
I’m turning into a monster, Mutsuhito thought, with surprising calm. It also occurred to him that he’d never thought to ask his father for advice.
“We always knew, your mother and I,” said the Mikado. “It is her legacy. This is why she sent this necklace. Put it on, son.”
Mutsuhito picked up the necklace by the chain. The jade jewel vibrated in his hand. He put it around his neck and struggled for a moment with the dainty clasp.
“You wear it under your robes,” said the Mikado.
As soon as the jewel touched Mutsuhito’s naked skin, a deep shiver went through his body; a wave of a burning, itching sensation ran down his torso and legs. He looked down and gasped. The scales and deformations vanished; his skin was smooth and… human. He touched his leg to make sure this was not an illusion.
“What — what is this?”
“This is an amulet to keep your legacy in check. Without it, you would one day transform…irreversibly.”
“Transform into what…?” The answer lingered in his mind, though he dared not yet utter it. “A monster? Yōkai? Father, what am I?”
“Have you not yet guessed? Have you not read the legends? You’re a hanryū, a half-dragon… like your mother, and her mother before her.”
Mutsuhito laughed.
“The ryū do not exist, Father. They were all slain in the Genpei Wars.”
Kōmei raised his finger. “But they left behind their offspring with humans. Remember the legend of Princess Tamatori, who seduced the Dragon King Watatsumi? Yoshiko’s lineage descends directly from her. For generations they kept their identity a secret. Even I didn’t know anything before I got your mother pregnant.”
The Prince felt dizzy. He gulped down another cup of the cold, sweet water.
Hanryū? Dragons? It all sounded facetious; but then, so did having one’s toes transform into dragon claws. So that’s why it doesn’t feel strange. It’s in my blood, in my nature.
“So as long as I wear the necklace,” he said, with a nervous giggle, “everything will stay as it is? Nobody needs to know anything… I can live a normal life?”
“Your life will never be normal, son. I have asked the Scryers… The future is dimmed and dark, but they were able to tell me this much.” The Mikado spat blood and phlegm into a handkerchief before continuing. “Tomorrow, I die. But you will live. An heir to a hollow throne, helpless against the Taikun, the Regents… even the Barbarians. They will try to kill you again. When disease and poison fails, they will try magic — then they will know.”
They?
“Know about this?” Mutsuhito pointed at his leg. “How?”
“The Hanryū are immune to almost every kind of magic. No spell will ever harm you, and one day they will understand why.”
Mutsuhito drew a shaky breath.
“Almost every magic?”
“Except that powered by blood.”
Blood? “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, son,” the Mikado replied sadly. “This is what a certain onmyōji once told your mother. I used to dismiss it as nonsense, until… until…” In a spasm, he grasped Mutsuhito’s hand; his touch was trembling, slippery.
“Are you in pain, Father? I will call for help—”
“No! Son, listen, the Scryers predicted a war — a terrible war of blood and fire — it is almost here. Before my body is put in the ground, the war will ravage this city.”
That’s — that’s just a few days away…
“When the war comes to Heian, you must — ” Kōmei spasmed again. “ — save yourself. You are the last of both lines — in you the lines of Prince Hikohohodemi and Princess Tamatori are combined. You are the Jade Jewel of the Imperial Palace. Without you, the war of blood will be lost, and Yamato will succumb to darkness.”
He fell back on the silk pillows, coughing and heaving. Mutsuhito called on the priest and stepped back as the attendants struggled to ease his father’s pains.
“He asks for you again,” the priest said, once the crisis had subdued. “He is very weak.” His eyes told Mutsuhito everything.
The Crown Prince leaned over the dying Mikado.
“You may leave now, Mutsuhito,” Kōmei whispered. “It’s over.”
“I will wait by your side, Father,” the prince replied, swallowing tears.
“You were all a father could want in a son,” said Kōmei. “Tell Yoshiko, she… she was always my favourite.”
Mutsuhito knelt down, holding his father’s hand. Time did not seem to pass, even though attendants and courtiers moved in and out of his view. The Divine Mikado remained conscious until the end, but he never spoke again. At the stroke of the Hour of the Rabbit — the same as the year in which Kōmei was born — the attending priest put a small bronze mirror to the Mikado’s lips. He stood back and bowed.
“His Imperial Majesty, Ruler and Protector of the Sacred Islands of Yamato, the Divine Mikado Osahito Kōmei, has joined the Spirits of his ancestors,” he announced, and wept.
Mutsuhito’s eyes were dry. Only his shoulders slumped, succumbing to the enormous weight the Gods and Fate had just dropped upon his back.
CHAPTER III
“Absolutely out of the question,” Torishi bellowed, tearing at his beard. “I vowed to protect you. How can I if you’re walking right into the bear’s den!”
She waited patiently until his outburst receded. She knew there was little he could do to stop her once she put her mind to something.
“I am sorry, Torishi-sama” she said. “I know it’s dangerous. But everywhere is dangerous for us now.”
“But Heian? Why not Edo! I’ve heard what your God-King ordered. ‘Expel the barbarians.’ That means me and you, too.”
Nagomi stared at him in surprise.
He understands more than I give him credit for.
“What else would you have me do? We can’t go back to Chōfu.”
“Hide somewhere. Hide here. Ask the boy for help, if you can still reach him.”
Nagomi bit her lips. Hide somewhere and hope for Bran to return and rescue her on his jade dragon… that was something the old Nagomi would have done. Wait for a gust of wind to come and pick her up in another, random direction.
But there was no more time to wait for another breeze. The flames in her dreams grew higher; the darkness grew closer. The world spun faster.
She tightened her small fists under the cuffs of her kimono and shook her head.
“We must follow the Prophecy,” she said firmly. “And besides, I believe that’s where Satō and Shōin were sent, too. We will be safe with them. The Mikado ordered the defence of the Imperial Capital, and Lord Mori’s army should be there as well.”
This was a new guess, an idea that came to her in the morning, after a sleepless, anxious night.
I never wanted to know any of this, she thought. All this politics and intrigue.
She lowered her head.
I was supposed to be a simple priestess. Selling talismans and praying for the patrons’ health and good luck was supposed to be my destiny.
But maybe she never had that choice in the first place? Could she have refused the role Lady Kazuko had wanted her to play? Ignore the beckoning of the Spirits that chose her as the medium for the Prophecy, never asking her what she wished?
Nagominagominagominagomi… the Spirits called.
But then Satō would be alone in her exile, she thought. And Bran… Bran would be dead.
A magpie screeched outside. She looked up. Torishi, now calm and serious, waited for her to gather her scattered thoughts. She rubbed her eyes.
“How do you want to get there?” he asked.
The Overwiza
rd wiped the sweat from his eyes. Even the wind machine clacking away in the corner could not handle the heat of a Kiyō summer.
I will have to order a new batch of elementals from Satsuma before the year’s end, he thought.
He studied the wood grain of his table, taking deliberately long to reply. The eyes of the Dracalish officer sitting opposite drilled into his skull.
“Where is your son now?” Curzius asked.
“In my room, asleep,” replied Commodore Dylan. “He’s exhausted.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to tell me if his story can be true.”
“You doubt your own son?” The Overwizard raised his eyebrows. “You must have seen stranger things in your journeys!”
“Well, yes, I have seen many strange things. Ghosts and wraiths in the Xhosa wars and Yoruba shamans pretending to speak with the dead. All illusions, tricks.” Dylan waved his hand.
“Necromancy wasn’t a trick,” said Curzius, leaning forward. “Neither were the Abominations.”
“That’s ancient history.”
“This is an ancient land.”
Dylan scratched his chin. “You’re telling me these people really can commune with spirits? Spirits that can transform a Westerner into one of them, teach him the language of the natives overnight? I don’t know… sounds pretty far-fetched.”
For a moment, the Overwizard pondered whether he could gain anything by lying to the Commodore. He still held a grudge for the damage done to Soembing and the arrogance with which this man strolled about Dejima as if it were already his own domain. Curzius had met many Dracalish officers like him before coming to Kiyō. Privileged, haughty, gauging each new land with a surveyor’s eye, treating every port and people as a potential new addition to their Empire.
And who could blame them? he scoffed, bitterly. He glanced over Dylan’s shoulder at the map of the world hanging on the wall opposite. A good third of it was marked with the Dracalish crimson. It all used to be orange, he mused.
Any other time, he would’ve likely dismissed the officer’s worries and convinced him to take the boy and leave Yamato as if nothing had happened. But this wasn’t any other time. Between the Varyaga’s underwater ships, and the dragons of the Gorllewin, Curzius felt even more trapped on the little island than before. I have no allies left, he thought. Except that boy. And if he’s here, maybe he will convince his father to help me.
The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6) Page 3