The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1)

by James Calbraith

  She grinned mischievously, enjoying the look of panic in their eyes. She knew the ice would quickly melt in the scorching summer sun. One of the boys cried in protest, but the rest accepted the painful punishment in silence as was proper. The cicadas laughed.

  The wizardess walked up the hill near Sōfukuji Temple, and entered the small house of the Itō family, where Nagomi lived with her mother Otakusa, father Keisuke and elder sister Ine. It was empty and quiet, only the wind bells chimed in the breeze.

  “Hello, anybody here? Nagomi? Itō-sama?”

  She heard light steps on the wooden floor. Nagomi ran out to meet her, tying a red ribbon around her copper-coloured ponytail.

  “Sacchan! Finished the class already?”

  “I can’t do it anymore today, it’s too hot. Where is everybody?”

  “Daddy was called off to Nagoya. There’s an outburst of smallpox there. Mother went to see him off at the harbour. Ine is on a house visit, so I’m left to look after the home.”

  “Nagoya? But that’s on Hondo!”

  The main island of the Yamato archipelago lay days of journey away from Kiyō, and the city of Nagoya was right in the middle of it. One needed to have a really good reason to embark on such a journey.

  “Daddy was born there, actually,” Nagomi explained. “He only came here to study.”

  “I always forget your family is not originally from Kiyō.”

  “It was so long ago… He was just a herbalist’s apprentice then. Now the lord of the domain himself requested his presence.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “I am,” Nagomi answered, “but I wish he’d come back soon.”

  “Do you want to go to the bathhouse?”

  “I was going to prepare some talismans for the shrine shop, but I guess I could do it later…”

  Soon they lay naked on the stone bottom of a shallow steaming pool, only their heads bobbing above the surface. The spring water was steaming hot and crystal clear, with only a slight scent of sulphur. It was early in the day, so they had the bath all to themselves.

  “Aah,” sighed Satō, “that’s just what I needed. These kids make my head ache. They can’t even hold the sword straight!”

  “They are only thirteen.”

  “I could cut down a straw pole at their age!” protested Satō, “and shoot an ice lance through a wooden plank one sun thick!” She spread two fingers to show the thickness of the imaginary piece of wood. “But, of course, boys are so useless.” She sighed and lay back onto the stones. “All they care about is fighting. They just can’t focus. No wonder none of them could ever beat me.”

  “My parents say Takashima-sama should hurry and name you his heir, officially. No one in Kiyō would be better suited to the position‌—‌and he’s not getting any younger.”

  “That’s very kind of them, but it’s not easy. There is no law for a daughter to inherit a dōjō, and it wouldn’t be wise for us to draw attention to ourselves.”

  “He’s not planning to marry you off to some snotty-nosed son of a samurai, is he?”

  “Gods, I hope not!” Satō laughed briefly. “I doubt if he even thinks about these things. He’s not interested in anything apart from his experiments.”

  At least that’s what I must believe, she thought, that he’s just forgetful, or waiting for the right moment. Why else would he wait for so long? Nagomi’s parents were right‌—‌she was the best pupil her father could ever dream of having.

  “I hear there’s a new resident wizard on Dejima.” Nagomi reached for a face towel to wipe droplets of steam from her brow. “Have you met him yet?”

  “I have,” Satō replied with a nod, “he came to talk with my father before leaving for Edo. He’s… different. Small and round, but very clever.”

  And frightening.

  “Did he bring any gifts?”

  “Just another sparkleball,” she scoffed. “As if I was a child.”

  “I love sparkleballs! I need to come over and see it! What colour is it?”

  “It’s red, yellow and blue, a bit bigger and flashier than the last one. Father and I had really hoped for a new spell scroll or a blueprint, but I guess they’re not allowed that anymore.”

  The apprentice lifted herself up and sat on a cypress board lining the edge of the spring, with only her legs still in the water. She ran her hand through her long hair, sparkling fiery red now that her locks were wet. Sometimes they seemed to change their hue according to Nagomi’s mood.

  “It’s so hot today,” she complained, “I can’t sit still for more than ten minutes.”

  “It’s better to come here in the winter,” Satō agreed.

  “I won’t be able to do it as often when the summer ends.”

  “Why not?”

  “After the Kunchi Festival I’m moving into the shrine permanently. I’m becoming a full-time apprentice.”

  “That’s…” Satō hesitated. “That’s great!” she said without conviction.

  “Oh, you are always welcome to come up and see me.” Nagomi smiled. “I’ll just have to pay more attention to my duties, that’s all. Besides, I’m sure you will be busy too, with all the training and teaching…”

  “I guess so.” Satō nodded solemnly. The lazy, relaxed mood perished. She became keenly aware of the passing of time. Even in Yamato nothing ever remains unchanged, she thought.

  She stood up abruptly. The hot water rippled before splashing onto the cold stone floor.

  CHAPTER XI

  The training at the dōjō continued throughout the winter. Six months in, only the two most talented and persevering students remained in Satō’s little class of Rangaku.

  Shōin was a son of a family of tailors and cloth merchants from Nagato, tall for his age, but thin, with his ear-long black hair always messed up and uncombed, and simple unkempt townsman clothes. Keinosuke was his opposite, an heir to a rich samurai family from Chūbu, always impeccably dressed in a black and white kimono with the crest of his clan, Sakuma, on the shoulders and back. The boy usually kept to himself unless asked directly, silently observing the world from under thick eyebrows.

  In the winter months the class moved from practising in the courtyard to studying the theory of magic in a small eight-mat room on the upper floor of the main hall of the Takashima mansion.

  “Remind me, what did we start on after the runic alphabet?” Satō asked, checking her notes.

  The boys sat at a low table covered with small scrolls of paper written over in the scribbly Yamato letters and runes of the West.

  “Potentials,” answered Shōin eagerly, rising slightly from his knees.

  The other student just nodded.

  “Ah, that’s right. Answer me this, then: which is easier, encasing a boy’s hand in a block of ice, or freezing a cupful of water?”

  The tailor’s son looked to the ground, sheepishly.

  “Freezing a boy, sensei,” he said quietly.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because… Freezing water is True Magic not a mind trick?”

  Satō shook her head.

  “That’s not quite it, Shōin. When you’re frozen, you not only think you’re frozen‌—‌that would be an Illusion. The ice is real, it melts and leaves puddles on the ground. Keinosuke, do you know why?”

  The other boy raised his eyes as if surprised that somebody would mention his name.

  “Water… is not alive. It is fixed in form, unchangeable. It has no, er… potential,” the boy replied, struggling.

  Satō smiled and nodded.

  “Every living thing, from a tree to a samurai, has the potential to change itself and its nearest environment. The Bataavians call it mogelijkheid. That’s how it’s written.” She presented them with a piece of paper with the new word inscribed in decorative runes, and waited for a minute until the boys scribbled it clumsily to their notepads. “This is what makes living things grow and transform, from a single bean to a beanstalk, from an egg to a sea-hawk‌—�
��and that’s what a magic user taps into if he wants to enchant something that is alive.”

  “So our nature is actually making it easier for you to enchant us?” asked Shōin. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It may seem unfair,” Satō agreed, “and if there was no power other than mogelijkheid involved, wizards would be truly terrifying people, once they’d reach their full power. However, as you grow up, your resistance to enchantments grows also. Without realising it, you become more and more resilient to magic, even if it’s beneficial to you. That’s why it’s so hard to heal adult men, compared with children.”

  “Is this why the Spirit healers have to use sakaki wands and boiled rice to heal old men, but prayer and touch is enough for us?” Shōin guessed.

  She nodded. “Eventually, even the power of kami cannot heal the injuries or extend life for infinity. Some say if it wasn’t for this natural resistance, we could be immortal.”

  “Is it also something we have no influence over, like mogelijkheid?”

  “You can train it, to some extent. Your resilience will grow as you become more attuned to your magic talent.”

  “Can you train yourself to become completely immune to magic?” Keinosuke asked softly and unexpectedly.

  “There… there are legends of such feats, usually achieved by powerful priests or demi-Gods in ancient time. They were called Hanryū, Half-Dragons. Can you guess why?”

  “Because the ryū are immune to magic?”

  “The ryū were said to be immune to magic. But it may just be a legend‌—‌nobody has seen one in Yamato for hundreds of years. Anyway, going back to the lesson… Now, to easily freeze a cup of water, which is, as you said, fixed in state and has no mogelijkheid of its own, you need to use one of the two methods. The first one the Bataavians call thaumaturgie, or wonderwork. That’s the most difficult and complicated school of Rangaku, and I doubt you’ll ever need to concern yourself with it. It’s the art of transforming lifeless matter. Look at this sparkleball.”

  Satō produced a round object the size of a large orange, which glittered and sparkled in all colours of the rainbow. Colourful flames travelled over the surface of the ball, sparkles formed random flowery patterns. It was impossible to tell what the ball was made of. It was cold and firm to touch, its edges blurred by all the glittering points of light.

  “My father says this is what young thaumaturgists practise on,” said Satō. “They take a round polished stone and change it into this‌—‌it’s called twinkelbal in Bataavian‌—‌forever. It will never cease to sparkle, it is Truly transformed.”

  “Does Takashima-sama know any thau… wonderwork?” Shōin asked.

  Satō shook her head.

  “Only very little. It’s most difficult to perform in Yamato. From what I understand, when many people start using magic in one place, a field of mogelijkheid grows into which one can tap. The Bataavians call it morfisch veld. However, since we have so few wizards in Yamato, our field is very weak. Do you understand?”

  The boys nodded, but their expressions were blank.

  “Still…” Satō continued, “that’s thaumaturgy, but there is another way to freeze water, and that’s to use the elemental magic‌—‌wizardry. This is something not only the Rangaku use‌—‌the shamans of the Northern Tribes know it, and priests of the mountain temples use it in their purification rituals, even if they don’t understand how it works. It may well be the oldest magic known to men. Through it, we use the potential of the Earth itself, the mogelijkheid of Nature, of elements. This is the power of water drilling through the rock, of wind eroding a mountain. Now, our scholars recognise five basic elements, but the Westerners only concern themselves with four- Are you writing this down, Shōin?” she interrupted.

  “Of course, h-here it is!” the tailor’s boy stammered, and presented his notepad.

  There were several words written on it in the runic alphabet, full of spelling mistakes, and a doodle of a sparkleball.

  Satō sighed. After a few months of performing teacher’s duties she had learned she couldn’t really expect thirteen-year-old boys to absorb that much knowledge all in one go. Even Nagomi often got bored when Satō became too involved in describing some peculiar aspect of an enchantment.

  The wizardess looked out through the window, the black frame cutting a serene painting out of the city landscape. A thin blanket of pure snow covered the roof of a nearby house and the boardwalk of the street visible beyond. It was a rare occasion in Kiyō. The snow fell in soft gentle flakes and the world outside was silent and calm. Only a lone hotpot vendor praised the qualities of his dishes into the empty streets.

  She knew it was her duty as an heir to teach the boys‌—‌but she wasn’t an heir yet. Until her father officially passed the inheritance, was she truly obliged to do anything for the dōjō?

  Of course you are. Heir or no heir, you’re still a Takashima.

  “Just remember about the four Great Elements‌—‌earth, fire, air and water,” she told the boys, “you can write it down in normal characters, not runes‌—‌Chi, ka, fuu, sui.” She paused and waited as they struggled with their calligraphy. “Like our Butsu scholars, the Rangakusha don’t count the Void, ku, as a Great Element.”

  The boys stared at her blankly. They have no idea what I’m talking about. She cleared her throat.

  “We’ll get back to that next week. You don’t have to remember it all yet. It’s too nice outside to stay indoors,” she concluded, “that’s it for today.”

  Shōin jumped up immediately. He bowed fast, picked up his notebook and brush, and ran off before the other boy had even managed to reach for his bundle.

  Keinosuke bowed slowly and deliberately.

  Satō finished rolling up her scrolls and noticed the boy was still in the room.

  “What is it?”

  “Takashima-sensei, do you have any books or writings about dragons‌—‌or hanryū?”

  “Keinosuke… this knowledge is forbidden. I’m not even sure I should have told you about those legends.”

  “I see.”

  The boy seemed dejected.

  “I’m sorry, but my family is in trouble as it is. Even the Bataavians aren’t keen to mention these matters openly. Maybe one day you’ll get to talk to one of them about the dragons… but you’re way too young for it now.”

  “Yes, sensei, but…”

  “What else?”

  “You didn’t say you don’t have the books.”

  How does he know…?

  “The class is over,” she said abruptly, and slid the door open, “see you next week.”

  The samurai son bowed again, unsuccessfully concealing a satisfied smirk, and left without a word. Satō followed him down the stairs, made sure he put on his winter sandals and watched him walk past the guards at the gates. Returning to the upper floor, she entered her father’s library. She knew Shūhan would still be in the elemental laboratory he had set up on the other side of the residence, across the courtyard, far away from his precious books. A tall, Bataavian-made bookcase stood in the corner. Satō rose on her toes and reached to the top-most shelf with an effort. From among many identical leather-bound tomes she chose one without hesitation, wiped the dust and spoke a magic word. Crimson fiery letters appeared, burning upon the leather cover.

  She did not know the language of the book‌—‌it was some Western tongue, but not Bataavian‌—‌but she knew what the letters said, for the smuggler who had brought it from Dejima had told her father as she listened through a hole in the floor, hiding upstairs while the men talked in hushed, rasping voices one moonless night.

  The fiery letters spelled the long, mystic title: Applied Dracology, Student’s Handbook, Year One. Property of Llambed Academy, Ceredigion, Gwynedd.

  Satō did not open the book, just gazed at it admiringly. She did not understand many of the foreign words of the title, but still it invoked in her mind an image of a great hall filled with books of lore and magic scroll
s, a tall tower of stone‌—‌as she had seen in a Bataavian painting once‌—‌around which dragons of all shapes and colours soared, and a crowd of wizards practising their powerful spells on wide bright courtyards. This image appeared in her dreams ever since she had first heard of the “Llambed Academy”, dreams full of mysterious words like “Ceredigion” and “Gwynedd” and of majestic winged, serpentine creatures, spewing fire and lightning.

  Keinosuke’s words made her uneasy. How could the boy possibly have known the secrets of the Takashima library? Had he been spying on her? But how? The residence was guarded, surrounded by tall walls… she shook her head. He was just a kid! It must have been something else. Maybe she had blabbed something unwise in improper company… Or maybe he had overheard Shūhan talk about the book with his father. Master Sakuma was a renowned Rangaku scholar in his own right, and as frequent visitor to the Takashima mansion as the conditions of Shūhan’s house arrest allowed. Yes, that must have been it.

  I hope the kid knows how to keep his mouth shut. He must realise his family would also get in trouble if they were caught dabbling in dragon lore…

  She heard familiar steps on the squeaking stairs. Quickly, she slid the book back among the others and sneaked out of the library.

  The shrine gardens overflowed with sweetly-scented blossom bursting from the branches in waterfalls of white, overhanging the gravelled pathways, showering the lawns and ponds with heart-shaped petals.

  Watching the cherry trees bloom was something best done in company.

  Nagomi wore the plain clothes of a shrine maiden, a white haori jacket and red split hakama skirt. Her long hair was pale strawberry blonde, as if the whiteness of the cherry blossom reflected in its gleam had weakened the mysterious hue. She stood at the top of the three hundred steps leading to the main entrance of the Suwa Shrine and watched her friend run up from the riverside, past a pair of stone-carved lion-dog guardians, by granite lanterns and under a row of stone torii gates. The wizardess clutched a bamboo leaf box in her hand.

  “I brought pink sea bream,” she said, catching her breath, “and pumpkin mochi.”