The Withering Flame (The Year of the Dragon, Book 6)

by James Calbraith

  “Out of my way, rōnin,” Kunishi, who carried the sacred silk pillow bearing the petition, snarled. “You can’t stop an official envoy to the palace.”

  “Sure, I can let you pass,” the swordsman said, “but not this lot.” He pointed the sword at the bulk of the Chōfu troops following at the back.

  Kunishi’s face grew red. He moved forward, until the tip of the enemy’s sword touched his chest.

  “Out of my way,” he repeated. Satō couldn’t help smiling in admiration. Lord Kunishi may have been haughty, arrogant, and often rude to her, but there was no doubting his courage.

  Several of the Mori retainers reached for their swords, ready to fight. This, of course, would have meant the failure of the plan, as the gates would shut at the first sign of spilled blood.

  The broken-nosed swordsman chuckled and lowered his sword. “Fine,” he said, “have it your way. Not that it matters.”

  The men in light blue uniforms moved to the sides, forming a corridor of mocking smiles and tabako smoke. The last stretch of the avenue remained empty, cleared even of the passers-bye. Soon, the head of the procession reached the palace gate. It was wide open. Satō looked up at the banners hanging from the battlements: the Chrysanthemum crest of the Mikado, and the crossed circle of the Satsuma.

  “No Aizu,” said Takasugi. “Looks like Izumi-dono kept his part of the bargain.”

  The first of the retainers passed under the raised gatehouse, and onto the wide gravel courtyard beyond. There were no crowds here — just small groups of curious courtiers, stopped in their daily duties by the unusual display. Judging by their incredulous stares, it seemed as if they were unaware of anything that was happening outside the palace walls.

  “Shouldn’t we leave part of our men on the city side?” asked Satō, looking nervously to the rear of the long column winding like a snake along the broad central avenue. “If we are shut inside, it would be prudent to have a reserve force nearby…”

  In case we are betrayed by Nariakira, she added in her thoughts.

  “They would never do anything so shameful,” replied Kunishi. “This is the Divine Palace. To defile it with violence would be unthinkable.”

  Satō raised an eyebrow. “Then why have we come prepared for battle?”

  Kunishi grimaced. “Taikun’s army was rumoured to be within a day’s march of Heian. Those northern bastards can’t be trusted with following the rules of proper etiquette. But it looks like they haven’t made it in time. We are in luck.”

  Luck. Satō put her hands together in silent prayer. All we need is a bit of luck. The Inner Palace was no more than a few hundred yards away. A group of courtiers waited on the stairs. Her heart skipped a beat. We’re going to pull it off!

  A dark shadow fell on the avenue before her. She stumbled. Odd, she thought, the sky was clear just a moment ago…

  CHAPTER XVII

  “The Chōfu envoys are heading for the palace, Your Majesty. The Regents await you.”

  The courtier waited patiently for the answer, bent in half in a deep bow. He was standing outside, on the gravel path, in the garden surrounding the moon-gazing pavilion where Mutsuhito was practising his calligraphy.

  “What do they need me for?” scoffed the Crown Prince. He moved the brush in a smooth curl along the fine rice paper, finishing the final line in a long column of Qin characters. He winced at the result — the poem he’d been trying to copy from an ancient manuscript was a difficult one. “I’m not the Mikado yet. They seem perfectly capable of ruling without me. Besides, I’m still in mourning.”

  It’d been ten days since his father had died — three days since the public announcement, and one day since the funeral: a subdued, solemn, and brief event, just like Kōmei had requested; and in all this time, the Council of Regents had only once asked Mutsuhito to join them at an audience — to approve the appointment of Aizu and Satsuma troops as the new Palace guards.

  “It is a personal petition from a daimyo, denka,” the courtier said. “The protocols require your presence.”

  “Fine,” Mutsuhito replied with an exasperated sigh. He put away the brush and tore the sheet of paper in two — another failed attempt. His calligraphy studies had not been going smoothly since his father’s death. He lacked focus. “Perhaps I could use a break.”

  He stepped down from the low veranda, slid his feet into the wooden sandals, and breathed in the scent of dew-moist morning glories.

  “What is the petition about?” he asked, as they walked, without hurry, down the winding garden path towards the Hall of Ceremonies.

  “Oh, you needn’t bother yourself with this, denka,” the courtier replied. “You merely need to be in the room.”

  “Don’t patronise me, Nijō,” Mutsuhito said sharply. The courtier seemed more surprised with the fact that the Prince remembered his name, than with the brusque reply. Never before had Mutsuhito bothered to recognise the interchangeable faces of the court officials. “I will be the Mikado soon, you know.”

  “Of course, of course. My apologies.” Nijō bowed. “The Chōfu request to be appointed the task of guarding the Imperial Palace, I believe.”

  “They, too?” Mutsuhito looked to the palace walls, peeking through the trees in the distance. “How many guards does this place need?”

  “They want to replace the Aizu troops.”

  “That’s ridiculous! I’ve just signed the Aizu appointment.” Mutsuhito stopped. “What if I refuse?” he asked.

  “The Regents have already agreed, denka.”

  “This will make me look like an indecisive weakling. Is that what the Regents want?”

  The courtier bowed his head low. Mutsuhito knew it was to hide his smirk.

  “Your honoured father would have approved of this, denka,” the courtier said. “He despised Aizu-Matsudairas.”

  “Then why did you make me sign it as soon as he died?” Mutsuhito was now fuming.

  “Your Majesty…” Nijō scratched the back of his neck. “There are factions in the palace… and among the Regents… this is why I told you not to bother yourself with these matters yet — not until you learn all about the inner workings of the court.”

  He’s got a point. I barely even recognise those names. Did my father really hate the Aizu? I never heard him talk about it…

  Mutsuhito calmed down. It was a fine, fragrant day; too fine to worry about politics. “Very well. I don’t suppose it matters. Lead on.”

  Mutsuhito was itching to scratch his ankle. He had been sitting in the formal fashion for over an hour now, and all his limbs were going numb, crawling with pins and needles.

  “What’s taking them so long, Nijō?” he asked, irate.

  “The streets are crowded, denka,” replied the courtier from behind the veil.

  The Crown Prince sighed. It wasn’t just the numbness that made him uncomfortable. He looked around: the Bamboo Room… his father’s favourite in the Hall of Ceremonies. This was where Kōmei had talked so joyfully with Maki Izumi, where he had lay dying — and where now Mutsuhito had decided to welcome the Chōfu delegates. It was smaller than the official audience quarters, and more intimate.

  The door opened out into the palace gardens on one side, and on the inner corridor on the other, though they were all now closed shut in expectation of the delegates. The Regents sat patiently on both sides of the veiled dais in silence; Mutsuhito heard only the constant wafting of their fans, like the flapping of the wings of a conspiracy of ravens.

  “Still, isn’t it odd?” he said. “Why does everyone want to guard the palace, all of a sudden?”

  He heard the silk on the courtier’s shoulders go up and down. “It is a prestigious position to hold, one that marks one’s standing in the court. Especially now, with rumours of war…” Nijō cleared his throat.

  War, thought Mutsuhito, is it really coming…?

  “There is always a moment of chaos when a Mikado dies as suddenly as your father,” the courtier continued, “when the fac
tions vie for spoils and status. I remember when your grandfather died — just as unexpectedly… back then, everyone wanted to control the School for the Children of Nobles.”

  “But why Chōfu? I’m not sure I even remember where that is…” Mutsuhito wrinkled his nose and scratched it. He was beginning to sweat under the many-layered ceremonial robe. This is torture.

  “It’s on the northern shore of Dan-no-Ura Strait, where, as you know, the young Mikado, Antoku—”

  “I know the history of my family, thank you,” the Crown Prince snapped. “Tell me about the Chōfu.”

  “They were the first to respond to your father’s order to vanquish the barbarians,” said Nijō. “And they claim to be here to ensure his will is done, one way or another. They want to protect Your Majesty from the foreigners and their lackeys.”

  He means Edo…

  “And you’re saying the Regents have agreed to this already?”

  “Yes, denka. It would seem that the arrest of Maki Izumi-dono swayed enough of them to the Chōfu side.”

  “What?” Mutsuhito pushed away the curtain. The courtiers instantly lowered their heads, so as not to look at his sacred countenance. “Izumi-dono was arrested? Why wasn’t I told?”

  “We — we didn’t think it would concern Your Majesty,” stuttered Nijō.

  The Prince rolled the curtain back and sat back on his knees, resigned. “He was the last man to make my father laugh,” he said. The courtiers sighed sadly in unison, rather too theatrically for his liking. “Why was he arrested?”

  “For plotting against the Taikun, I believe,” said Nijō. “It is all very recent — the news is coming sparse from beyond the palace, and everyone was so busy with the funeral—”

  An ear-splitting, unearthly, high-pitched roar shook the thin paper walls of the Bamboo Room, drowning any other sound.

  “What was that?” Mutsuhito jumped up.

  Nijō opened the door leading to the garden — and fell back, his legs giving out from under him. He was pointing at something high in the air, stuttering, unable to utter any legible words. The other courtiers followed him and also stared into the sky, in petrified silence.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” urged Mutsuhito. He stood up, but the numb, asleep legs refused to support him in a dignified manner.

  “It’s — it’s a…” Nijō struggled. “It’s a dragon, Your Majesty!”

  Satō’s legs trembled, and almost buckled under her. Fear and awe washed over her as she gazed at the black dragon materialising over her head. Within seconds, the beast revealed itself in its entire magnificent and terrifying glory, blotting out the sun from the sky; its edges were still shimmering with the remnants of the glamour magic that rendered it invisible until now.

  Not even the hours she’d spent studying Emrys at the Meirinkan had prepared Satō for this sight. The beast’s slow-moving wings spanned beyond the width of the main avenue; the two humans sitting on its back were like fleas on a dog. It defied belief that a creature this gigantic could stay in the air.

  She struggled to overcome the shaking of her hands enough to draw her sword; others were not able to do even that. Some of the samurai in the retinue dropped to their knees, covering their heads, others fell down, stricken by fear. Those at the back tried to hide in the shadows of the eaves of the residences lining the avenue, or beneath the canopies of trees. Others simply fled, back towards the gate.

  Only Lord Kunishi stood straight, unwavering, though his knuckles, clenched tightly on the pillow in his hands, turned white. But that was not enough to overcome the sense of doom overwhelming Satō.

  “It’s over,” she said. “We’re lost.”

  “No! Not yet!” cried Takasugi, launching a blue flare at the dragon. It was a feeble attempt, and the missile bounced off the beast’s scales harmlessly. But it was the gesture of defiance Satō needed. She shook her head, stamped her foot, and aimed the sword at the Black Wing, releasing a barrage of ice lances.

  “Kiheitai! To me!” Takasugi called out, his voice breaking through the chaos. He shot a few more magic missiles, more to show his position to the others, than in an attempt to harm the monster.

  The wizards hurried to form a circle around their commander; the sight of their loyalty seemed to break the dragon’s spell, as more samurai joined the fray, brandishing spears and waving swords. The aristocrats in Kunishi’s retinue tore off their ceremonial robes, revealing steel armour underneath.

  The dragon let out a deafening roar. The doors of the residences broke open, revealing dozens of armed men, who poured out all around them like water from a broken dam.

  This tactics seems familiar, Satō thought, turning to face the new threat.

  “Aizu!” Kunishi spat out the word like a curse. He hid the petition scroll in the compartment in his armour, and drew his sword. The enemy swarmed over them from all directions. There was no time to organise any lines of defence; the Chōfu troops were stretched all along the avenue and exposed to the enemy — it was a perfect ambush.

  Satō parried one swordsman’s blow and thrust her sword into the belly of another. She kicked him away, and whirled the bloodied blade, slashing the arms of the first warrior at the wrist. She dodged a new attack, rolled and cut an Aizu spearman on the thigh. Still on the ground, she touched the gravel and turned a swathe of it into ice; several foes slipped and fell down. She did not wait to see what happened when other Chōfu samurai got to them.

  Shooting ice bolts, cutting and slashing, dodging and ducking, for a few long moments she was too busy fighting for her life to pay attention to the rest of the battle.

  She pushed another hapless samurai off her blade and watched him fold and fall down to the ground. For a second there were no more enemies in her immediate vicinity. The Aizu forces just about surrounded the head of the Chōfu army, despite Takasugi’s wizards bombarding the enemy soldiers with all they could. The avenue, and the houses around it, were scorched, frozen, and shattered with the magical energies.

  “Pull back!” Kunishi cried beside her, wiping blood off his sword into a silk handkerchief. “Pull back! We’ll be cut off from the rest!”

  Satō jumped backwards as the Chōfu vanguard turned direction. The Kiheitai focused their attack on clearing a path through the enemy to link with the main body of the fighting force. Kunishi ordered the Mori retainers to hold their back line. An Aizu swordsman got too close to the wizardess; in a split second she pressed her hand to his face and froze his eyeballs, then swerved to avoid a spear blade; the shaft shattered under her icy grasp.

  She was running out of energy, but she had not yet thought of using the glove. She didn’t want to do it as recklessly as before, and not just because of a promise she’d made to Shōin. The after-effects of blood magic disturbed her — the tiredness, the short temper, the headaches — it was like waking up after drinking too much saké. Blood, she decided, was to be the last resort, when all else failed.

  The Aizu men made an attempt to halt them, lining across the avenue, but the Kiheitai and the retainers punched through the encirclement with barely any casualties, leaving more than a dozen bodies writhing on the gravel in pools of blood.

  The ease with which the Chōfu moved about the palace compound gave Satō pause. They had plenty of time to prepare this ambush, she wondered, parrying a halberd and piercing its owner through with an ice blade. Would they have made such a shoddy job of it?

  Something wasn’t right. She looked up: the dragon hovered over the battlefield, roaring and snarling, but not doing anything to stop them from escaping the palace. Why isn’t it attacking?

  “Retreat to the gate!” ordered Kunishi. “We’ll regroup on the courtyard.”

  “No!” she cried, suddenly realising. “That’s what they want us to do!”

  But it was too late. A squad of Aizu swordsmen barged their way between her and the commander, and he couldn’t hear her desperate plea. Satō grabbed Takasugi’s sleeve, mid-spell.

  “It’s
a trap,” she gasped.

  “I know,” he replied, glancing up at the black monster. “I’ll try to keep the Kiheitai out of harm’s way as long as I can.”

  He assembled the surviving wizards around him and they pushed sideways, fleeing from the exposed avenue onto a large, empty estate of some rich nobleman.

  “Block that entrance,” said Takasugi. She froze the gap in the estate’s clay wall with a layer of ice. Three Aizu men leapt over the fence, and were promptly dispatched by forked lightning, shot by one of the students. A stunning silence fell on the garden. The battle seemed to have moved on farther, towards the main gate.

  “We’ll make our way through the back gardens,” ordered Takasugi. “To the Western Gate. They won’t dare burn down these residences just to get the few of us.”

  “We can’t abandon our own!” protested the young wizard who’d shot the lightning earlier.

  “You’re free to join them, if you have the strength. But most of us have already exhausted our power. I’m trying to save the Kiheitai for a fairer battle.” The other wizard tried to protest, but Takasugi silenced him with a gesture. “No time to argue. Come with me if you want to live!”

  He ran up to the wall separating the estate from its neighbour and leapt over. Satō and most of the wizards followed, but a small group broke her ice wall and charged back out onto the street.

  It seemed Takasugi was right; residence after residence, they encountered little or no resistance. The enemy was busy forcing the bulk of the Chōfu army towards the grand courtyard, leaving only a token force in the rear-guard, spread throughout the aristocrats’ gardens. They were almost at the last of the inner walls. But something still bothered Satō. She glanced up at the dragon again, trying to spot its rider. He wore a hooded cloak hiding his face, but she thought she sensed his eyes on herself.

  He can see us.

  The man sitting behind the rider raised his hand and waved at somebody unseen on the ground.

  Who is he signalling to?

  She turned ahead and spotted a glint of metal in the narrow gaps of the final bamboo fence. A movement — a shadow — a glimpse of light blue fabric…