by Lian Hearn
“Wait,” Kiku said. His brow was taut with pain and concentration. “What are you planning to do in Kitakami?”
“None of your business, brat.”
“You must be hoping to find someone who can feed you, someone you can serve.”
The warrior laughed. “And if I am, what’s it to you?”
“How would you feel about serving me?”
He laughed again but more bitterly. “The first requirement of anyone I serve is that they be rich!”
“We are rich,” Kiku said, pulling out the pearl prayer beads and fingering them. “But we don’t know what to do in Kitakami and we are afraid of being cheated. We found these horses, wandering. We want to take them to their rightful owners. Not for any reward, we don’t actually need it. Just to do the right thing.”
Kiku had been turning paler and paler while he talked, and now he swayed as if he was about to faint.
The warrior sheathed his sword. “Come, let me take a look at that cut.”
Chika knew he had a chance of killing him now, while he was unprepared. He saw the exact place in the neck where his blade would open the flesh and the blood vessels within. His hand flexed and clenched, his sword quivered. He was not sure if Kiku’s faintness was a ploy to get the man off his guard.
“Put the sword away,” the man said. “I may be one-eyed and crippled, but you still wouldn’t stand a chance against me. Here,” he tore a strip from his underrobe. “Run to the spring and wet this. We’ll bind his arm.”
“What is your name?” Chika asked after the wound was bound and Kuro and the horses had caught up with them.
“Yamanaka no Tsunetomo. And yours?”
“Kuromori no Motochika.” He used his adult name.
“Huh? Everyone at Kuromori was slaughtered. So why are you still alive?”
“That’s my business,” Chika said, making Tsunetomo laugh.
“That’s right, my friend. Some of us are called to die and some to survive at any price. If that’s your path, embrace it, without regret or shame.”
“Has it been your path?” Chika asked.
“Maybe it has,” Tsunetomo said. “At any rate, I am still alive. Now, let’s see what those horses are carrying.”
It was almost dark, a warm night with no moon, the starlight diffused by the hazy air. Kuro made a fire and unloaded the baskets from the horses’ backs. Tsunetomo inspected the contents.
“You found the horses straying, you say?”
Kiku nodded. His eyes were a little brighter in the firelight and his cheeks were flushed, but he no longer seemed faint, nor otherwise affected by the wound.
“What happened to the owners, I wonder?” Tsunetomo’s face was expressionless, his voice bland.
“No sign of them,” Kiku said.
“Maybe someone murdered them?” Kuro suggested.
“That’s what people are saying,” said Tsunetomo. “I’ve already heard one or two rumors—Akuzenji’s ghost, or some new bandit chief, or ogres who kill people to eat them. If such rumors continue to spread, more people will become afraid and soon no one will want to travel alone.”
“That’s good,” Kiku said. “We can offer them protection—you and your sword.”
“Am I to guard the whole length of the highway?” Tsunetomo laughed.
“You must know other people you can hire to help you.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“So will you serve me?” Kiku asked.
Tsunetomo stared at him. “I will,” he said finally. “You’re a strange creature, but there’s something about you … keep me in food and shelter, and a little extra for wine, and my sword is yours.”
6
ARITOMO
The fiery death of the Prince Abbot had not only shocked and grieved Lord Aritomo but had also alarmed him. His hold on power was weakened, his authority shaken. With his usual clear-sightedness he knew it would take only one more blow to dislodge him. He strengthened the capital’s defenses, while making plans to retreat to Minatogura, preparing boats at Akashi, in case attacks came from Shikanoko in the east and the Kakizuki in the west.
But his enemies did not take advantage of his momentary weakness. Shikanoko vanished into the Darkwood, Lord Keita and his retinue made no move from Rakuhara. Within a few weeks Masachika, whom Aritomo came to depend on even though he could not forgive him for Takaakira’s death and some days could hardly bear to look at him, finally captured Kuromori and went on to take Kumayama. The east was once more secure.
Hoping to placate the vengeful spirit of the Prince Abbot, Aritomo gave orders for Ryusonji to be rebuilt, exactly as before, and for the dragon child to be worshipped there, yet the construction progressed slowly. After a series of inexplicable accidents, the carpenters refused to work, saying the place was occupied by ghosts and untethered spirits whom no one could control now that their master was gone.
The Imperial Palace, which had burned to the ground in the Ninpei rebellion, was also being rebuilt. In the meantime the Emperor, Daigen, and his mother were living in a nearby temple. The treasures that had been destroyed were slowly being replaced, but expenses were high and even Aritomo’s new taxation system could not produce enough revenue. It was his custom to visit Daigen weekly, to take part in the rituals that bound Heaven and Earth through the sacred person of the Emperor. Daigen had been the Prince Abbot’s choice and Aritomo could not fault him. He was intelligent, courteous, and, most important, biddable, seemingly resigned to his role as a figurehead and happy to play it in return for beautiful companions, wine, and poetry. There was no reason for harmony not to be restored, but, as the years passed, the drought worsened; rain hardly fell, the lake shrank and the river dried up.
Aritomo tried to wipe Takaakira’s dying words from his mind: Yoshimori is the true emperor. Yet they haunted his dreams and he often woke suddenly in the night hearing a ghostly voice speak them in the empty room.
On one of his visits the Emperor’s mother sent a message through a courtier that she wanted to speak to him. He had to obey, yet he went with reluctance, fearing she was going to grumble about their living conditions or demand some new luxury for which he would have to find the money.
Lady Natsue received him alone. He prostrated himself before her, as was required, feeling a twinge of pain in his hips, regretting his sedentary life, longing for a horse beneath him, a hawk above, the brisk air and huge skies of the east.
It was a warm spring day and water trickled through the garden. The room was not unpleasant; it faced south and was elegantly appointed with flowing silk hangings and a few exquisite pieces of lacquered furniture. He could not see what she had to complain about.
“Please sit up, lord,” Lady Natsue said.
He dared to look directly at her. She had been the late emperor’s second wife, always, it was whispered, jealous of the first, Momozono’s mother. Yet surely no one could have surpassed her in beauty. Even now, in apparent middle age, she seemed perfect, still youthful. She spoke at length about the joys of the season and the various flowers and birds of the garden, then told an amusing anecdote about a court lady and a mouse, which His Majesty had turned into a poem. When she fell silent he said, half-irritated, half-charmed, “What can I do for Your Majesty?”
“I need to speak to you about Ryusonji.” She gestured that he should come nearer. The tone of her voice changed though it was no less attractive. “My late brother and I were very close,” she whispered. “He shared many of his secrets with me. Under his rule Ryusonji became a place of great power. Now he is gone it lies empty; its power leaks from it.”
“I am trying to rebuild it,” Aritomo replied. “But the work is proving difficult and slow. No one can replace the Prince Abbot.”
“I had heard about the problems. Last week I went to see for myself. I wanted to prepare for the anniversary of my brother’s death, pay my respects and mourn him. Women, as you know, are not usually permitted to enter into spiritual mysteries, yet my brother
recognized that in me dwelled an ancient soul that had acquired great wisdom. He often sought my advice and he promised me that if he died before me he would attempt to reach me from the other world. When I knelt before the half-completed altar I felt him call to me. He wants me to move into Ryusonji. I will be able to ensure that the repairs progress smoothly and the various disruptive spirits are appeased. My son will come with me. It is fitting that the Emperor should be in the spiritual heart of his capital.”
“I am not at all sure that it is fitting,” Aritomo said, wanting to speak with his customary frankness yet fearing to offend her. “How shall I put it? The events that took place there, the deaths, the dark forces unleashed…”
“I can handle any darkness at Ryusonji. The shadows are a source of power just as much as the light. When the new palace is finished maybe my son can live there. But it is imperative that I move quickly, for someone else is about to take possession of the temple.”
“What do you mean?” Ever since he had been told of the details of the confrontation between the Prince Abbot and Shikanoko, he had had nightmares in which a masked half-human figure confronted him in judgment. Now the Empress’s words summoned up that image. He feared it was what he would find at Ryusonji. Yet Shikanoko was surely far away, in the Darkwood.
“An old man is there, camped out in one of the cloisters. He plays the lute and sings. I was told he was harmless, wandering in his mind, but his presence seemed offensive so I ordered him to be removed. However, no matter how many times he was thrown out, he always returned. Finally the guards lost patience with him and beat him to death, they thought, but the next day they heard the lute and his voice—he was back in the cloister. Now no one dares approach him. I believe I know what he is doing there. He has obtained the Book of the Future and means to erase my son’s name and inscribe that of Yoshimori.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The trickling of the stream seemed suddenly louder and birds called from the garden.
“Who is he?” Aritomo whispered.
“The monks who survived told me he is Sesshin, once many years ago a fellow student of my brother. He became a great master who gave his power away to the evil man they call Shikanoko.”
“Gave his power away?” His skin was crawling. He had heard of Sesshin before, some connection with Matsutani and Masachika. And then he remembered, and the terrible day Takaakira died came back to him.
“So he could pass as a foolish old man,” Lady Natsue explained. “But little by little he is gathering knowledge again. He has all the time in the world since he has made himself immortal.”
He stared at her in disbelief, wondering if he had misheard.
She repeated the word, “Immortal.”
“What is his secret?” Aritomo said hoarsely.
“That interests you, Lord Aritomo?” Her gaze pierced him. “Would you steal it from him? Would you wish never to die?”
“I want more time,” he replied. “I don’t want to die before I have achieved all I strive for.”
“None of us can know the hour of our death,” she said, her eyes not leaving his face. “The water from the well at Ryusonji is reputed to prolong life. My brother and I have both drunk from it. I am much older than you think, but I am still as mortal as my brother proved to be.”
The wind had risen and leaves rustled from outside, a branch scraping against the roof. A crow called harshly as if it were sitting directly above them. He felt parched, almost feverish. Surely it was hotter than it should be?
“Lord Aritomo,” she said. “Are you unwell?”
“No!” he replied, his voice suddenly loud. He was never sick; he denied illness access to his body. Even battle blows glanced off him, hardly leaving a wound. But the idea of an immortal at Ryusonji, slowly rewriting the Book of the Future, had struck deeply inside him. He struggled to regain calm.
“I will inspect Ryusonji myself,” he said. “If I consider it suitable you and His Imperial Majesty may move there.”
“Let us not waste any more time.” Lady Natsue inclined her head graciously.
* * *
When Aritomo returned to his own palace, the one abandoned by Lord Keita when the Kakizuki fled from the capital, he sent for Masachika, who, he knew, had just come back from Minatogura. It was not long before the Matsutani lord was kneeling in front of him, apparently in perfect submission. Aritomo studied him for a few moments. Masachika was undeniably a handsome man, and he had gained great popularity and respect since the discovery and capture of the Autumn Princess, but Aritomo thought he could read his deeper character clearly, seeing how opportunistic and self-serving all his actions and words were. He did not trust his loyalty, yet, though he did not like admitting it, Masachika had made himself indispensable.
First he told Masachika of the Empress’s request and asked him to inspect the temple and make all necessary preparations.
“I will come with you. I have not visited Ryusonji myself since the Prince Abbot died. But what news do you bring from the east? I hope you have sorted out your personal life.”
Masachika smiled, a little embarrassed. “I finally convinced Keisaku and his daughter that I was never going to marry her. I could have taken her as a second wife, but I did not want to distress Lady Tama, after all she has suffered. I found a suitable husband for the young woman, and released Keisaku from all obligations to me. They will hold Keisaku’s estate in vassalage to you, which protects Minatogura from the north. It seemed an acceptable solution all around, provided Lord Aritomo agrees, of course.”
“It will be good to have someone loyal in between the port and the Snow Country. I had hoped Takauji would be removed. I cannot trust him not to challenge me sooner or later. But I hear the cousins failed in their efforts to get rid of him?”
“Yes, and they are all dead now. The mother arranged an archery contest. An unknown archer, who she claimed was the deer god, came out of the forest to win it, and the challengers were all killed. She said it was the judgment of the forest. Takauji is, unfortunately, more secure than ever.”
When Aritomo made no response Masachika said, “He is the son of the man who betrayed you. You cannot trust him.”
“I am fully aware of that,” Aritomo snapped, enraged that Masachika should speak so of Takaakira, who had been so superior to him in every way. Yet he knew he was right. Unless he was removed, Takauji would be a continuing threat. “I cannot deal with him now,” he said, more calmly. “First we must destroy the Kakizuki. Did you find out the identity of this so-called deer god?”
Masachika said, “All the evidence—the antlered mask, the skill with the bow, the fake wolflike creature—suggests it was Shikanoko.”
Aritomo kept his face still, his expression impassive, yet a kind of dread was welling up in him.
Masachika went on. “By the time my men investigated he had disappeared again. The archery contest took place weeks ago. Shikanoko could be anywhere by now. Takauji was extremely hostile and my men were lucky to return alive. Unlike those I sent immediately after the disaster at Ryusonji, who never came back. Remember, we are not dealing with an ordinary fugitive but with a sorcerer.”
“Is it his power that makes the rain dry up? How do I combat that? I don’t mind facing a thousand men on a battlefield, but this one sorcerer keeps evading me.”
“Shikanoko has no men, no army,” Masachika said. “All were destroyed at Kumayama. If he had been going to challenge you he would have done it immediately after the death of the Prince Abbot. I don’t think he will ever emerge from the Darkwood. If you don’t provoke a snake it will not bite you.”
“Is he completely alone?”
“He has a few companions, I believe: the ones they call the Burnt Twins, one is a former monk from Ryusonji, the other from Kumayama, and one other whose name and identity I have not been able to discover.”
“So some survived from Kumayama?”
“These were already with him. But there are always some survivors. So
me hide, some run away, some are left for dead but recover from their wounds.”
“I will never eradicate all my enemies,” Aritomo said.
Masachika nodded in sympathy. “But we will do our best to control and weaken them. I did find out something else, probably not very important. One of the women left at Kumayama told me. Shikanoko’s mother became a nun, after her husband, Shigetomo, died. Apparently she is still alive and is in a convent a little way from Aomizu, on Lake Kasumi.”
“What would she know about anything? It must be years since she forsook the world.”
“As I said, it’s not likely to be important.”
“Well, follow it up anyway,” Aritomo said. “Arinori is in Aomizu now. He can look into it. There’s no need to go yourself. Write a message.”
Arinori had served him for years and had been rewarded with Lake Kasumi and the surrounding districts. He was an experienced seaman, ambitious and determined. Aritomo trusted him far more than Masachika, though he had to admit the latter was considerably more intelligent.
* * *
The next day they rode in an ox carriage to Ryusonji. Both had dressed carefully and soberly in formal clothes, each with a small black hat on his head. A large retinue followed on horseback. Aritomo traveled frequently around the capital, inspecting new buildings and repairs, overseeing merchants and craftsmen, keeping an eye out for excesses of luxury and extravagance that would attract new taxes to pay for horses, armor, and weapons.
People dropped to their knees as he went by, but he inspired fear, not love. The city ran smoothly, his officials keeping every section meticulously administered, but neither he nor they could make the rains fall at their appointed time or save the crops when they failed.
The lake at Ryusonji had shrunk; the exposed bed was muddy and foul-smelling. A charred spiral of black across rocks and moss still showed where the burst of flame had scorched the ground and set fire to the buildings. Most of the blackened beams had been removed and new lumber was stacked in the courtyards. There seemed to be some desultory activity, workmen sawing planks and preparing floors, but it was still far from finished.