He was hungry and thirsty. How long had he been out? His lips were parched, his eyelids glued together with sleep. He blinked repeatedly and lifted himself up onto one elbow, his head spinning. He was starting to see shadows and edges in the darkness, in the faint moonlight seeping through a window. Something was odd.
It couldn’t have been the ship. The floor was solid, unmoving, there was no trace of the familiar swaying he had become accustomed to over the months. No room on the Ladon was this big, not even the captain’s cabin. Certainly not that empty. He was in a house, on land, but where? Why? He closed his eyes, trying to recall the last thing he could remember before waking up.
The visit of the Qin pilot… The attack of the dragons… The rebel spy lurking in the shadows…
The explosion…
Bran opened his eyes wide in terror. The Ladon was no more, obliterated in the blast, sunk with everyone on board—Doctor Samuel, the old Weatherman, the cooks, the mechanics, all his new found friends in the crew. All dead, except those men and women of the Second Dragoons who were in the air at the time.
He was still alive, seemingly unharmed, not counting the headache and overall state of exhaustion. The magic of the Seal must have saved him and bring him here, wherever here was. He had no idea how powerful the Seal was, or how it chose its destination. Most likely he was somewhere in Qin. If so, his father would no doubt… His father—it had all been his fault, Bran remembered, gritting his teeth at the memory. If he hadn’t pointlessly Bound the boy like a spoiled brat, Bran could’ve stopped the Qin rebel. Everyone would be alive now. Everything would have been all right.
Bran punched the floor in anger. Somewhere in the corner of the room something clanked metallically. He stared in the direction of the sound, trying to penetrate the gloom. There was a little moonlight in the room, but it was strangely dimmed, as if filtered through gauze. Under the wall he made out a bundle on the floor. Slowly, Bran unwrapped himself from the blanket and crept across the soft floor towards the bundle. His bones and joints pained with every movement, but it was no more than how he would have felt on the morning after a tough training session.
He touched the bundle with his fingers—it was a neatly folded pack of clothes, but not his old ones. They were alien, made of very fine smooth cotton, almost silk-like. He felt farther and his fingers found the cold touch of a scabbard and a dragon-shaped hilt—his sword! Probing on, he found his flying goggles and a leather satchel lying beside it. He tried to unbuckle the bag to see if all his treasure was inside, but sudden weakness overwhelmed him.
Bran realised he was shivering with cold, his teeth chattering. It was an early spring night, he was naked and a chilly draught was blowing in through some crack in the wall. He crawled back to the blanket and managed to wrap himself back up before succumbing to deep dreamless sleep…
When he awoke again it was already light. He lay still with his eyes open, trying to get his bearings. The room was not as big as he had first thought in the darkness, but very neat, impeccably clean, with walls of light wood covered with grey paper on one side of the room and a lattice of black slats and white translucent paper on the other. The bundle of clothes still lay in the corner, as did his sword and the bag. The room had an ascetic atmosphere, but was strangely harmonious. Everything in it was divided with straight lines—the floor made of large mats of packed straw, all of equal size, lined with dark material, the walls and windows segmented by planks and slates into asymmetrical rectangles. There was a small cupboard in the corner with what looked like medical instruments, but no other furniture—no chair, no table, no bed. The room was made to look like a prison cell or a hospital ward.
The latticed wall slid apart and a young woman came in, carrying some towels and a porcelain bowl filled with steaming hot water. A Qin woman, though dressed oddly. She was wearing a white flowing robe with wide sleeves, as clean and sterile as the room, tied with a wide grey sash at the waist. Her hair was tamed in a threefold bun, with an ivory comb stuck through, a hairstyle that seemed oddly familiar. Her feet moved in tiny measured steps.
The woman noticed Bran was awake. She let out a quiet gasp, but composed herself momentarily and put the bowl and towels by his bedding. Then she rose, bowed and left, sliding the latticed door behind her.
Bran raised himself up on his elbows and waited until the spinning in his head subsided. He was about to move towards the water bowl when the door slid open again. The woman had a clay cup in her left hand and a small bowl of rice and a pair of chopsticks in her right.
She knelt down and watched him intently. The cup was filled with some greenish brew. He took a sip, but it was yet too hot for his parched lips. He looked at the rice. He had seen locals using chopsticks in Fan Yu, but never got around to learning how to use them. He didn’t want to seem barbarian, but was too hungry to pretend, so started eating the sticky rice with his fingers. The woman smiled approvingly, as if she was familiar with dealing with strangers. By the time he had emptied the bowl, the brew in the cup was cold enough. He drank it in one gulp, even though the taste was unexpected, bitter and savoury.
“Thank you,” he said feebly, trying to convey the feeling of gratitude in his words as best as he could. “Xiexie,” he added in Qin.
The woman smiled again and nodded. She brought in a large clay pot and a lidded black box then disappeared again, this time for good. Bran investigated the contents of the vessels—more rice and more of the green brew. The rice was bland, unseasoned, but it filled his stomach pleasantly and there was enough liquid to quench his most immediate thirst. He felt the energy and warmth slowly returning to his body.
He managed to carefully wash himself with a wet towel, hissing with the pain radiating from taut muscles. He tried to stand and, after a few attempts, managed not to tumble back down onto the bedding. He was not as exhausted as he had feared, after all. He picked up the clothes. There was a long strip of linen cloth the purpose of which he could not identify, but after not finding anything else resembling an undergarment he decided it had to be the kind of loincloth the porters wore in Fan Yu. He wrapped it clumsily around his waist and between his legs then put on a loose indigo-dyed gown and tied it over with a broad sash made of thickly spun silk. The clothes were comfortable and pleasant to touch, almost luxurious. The fine cloth felt cool against his skin.
He sat down, leaning against the wall, and checked the interior of the satchel. All the contents were there. The spyglass lay untouched in its selkie skin case, beside the small notepad and the precious Keswick pencil. The tip of his lucky tafl wizard was broken off, but the dragon figurine had survived unscathed, as had the black box. He held the spyglass in his hand, remembering poor Doctor Samuel, his sallow gentle face and wise dark brown eyes. Did he have a family of his own? Bran had never heard him mention anything about it, all he knew was that the Doctor’s ancestors had arrived in Dracaland in the days of Lord Protector. And now he was buried at sea, along with so many others.
Bran reached for the sword, and the warmth of its wyvern-hide grip reassured him. He shook off despair and suppressed the tears welling up in his eyes. There would be a better time to mourn. For now, he had to gather his racing thoughts and assess the situation. He was alive and healthy, alone in a strange place, maybe imprisoned—but fed and taken care of. He was now certain the Seal had brought him back to the land of Qin. The interior was unfamiliar, but Qin was a vast country, almost like a separate continent, and building styles might have varied greatly between regions. The locals looked like Qin, ate rice like them and drank a hot brew with their meals, although slightly different in taste to what he had become used to in Fan Yu.
He could still feel a faint delicate link to Emrys, which meant that his dragon was also still alive, somewhere. He remembered the beast desperately flying away into the starry night sky. This thought relaxed him. Things weren’t as bleak as they might have been, all things considered. The house he was in was pr
obably somewhere near the coast… His father would be searching for him, others too, and the local authorities were no doubt already alarmed to the presence of a Western boy. It was surely only a matter of days before he’d be rescued.
The moment he stood up supporting himself on the sword, the door slid open once more. The woman aided him back to the bed. He could smell the faint scent of flowers on her hair and clothes as she laid him back onto the floor. She brought incense, a cone of pressed powder sitting on a pile of ash in a clay bowl. The room quickly filled with the aroma of plum blossom.
This was all utterly different from what he had experienced during the Ladon’s journey so far—the aromas, the cleanliness, the freshness of air… If the room was not so small and poorly furnished, Bran would have thought he was in some nobleman’s palace.
The woman offered him some more rice with an encouraging smile, but he declined as politely as he could, already feeling full and warm. He found the blanket snug and cosy, and suddenly felt very tired again. He laid his head on the thin mattress. The Seal’s magic must have drained my energy, was his last conscious thought as a quiet dreamless sleep enveloped him…
The girls came at noon, their faces beaming with excitement. Ine led them hurriedly to a room at the back where she was certain nobody could hear them.
“Perhaps you wish to explain what exactly were you planning to do with this… stray,” she asked Nagomi.
“We couldn’t have just let him drown in the tide, could we?”
“When he’s alright, we’ll just send word to Dejima,” said Satō.
“When he’s alright? How long do you think I can keep him here?”
“I don’t think he comes from Dejima… He fell from Heavens, not from a ship,” said Nagomi.
“Fell from Heavens?” Ine raised an eyebrow.
“He was cast down to the beach on a beam of white light,” Nagomi said.
“Some kind of Western magic,” Satō added. “Father already used his contacts to ask around. There were no boys of his age on Dejima this year. And he doesn’t look like one of the Red Hairs.”
“Whoever he is, the Bataavians need to take him away,” said Ine.
“Won’t they report him to the authorities, though? You know how concerned they are with observing our laws,” said Nagomi, worried.
“Not if my father asks them not to,” replied Satō, “they owe him too many favours.”
“Good,” Ine said with a nod, “he’s awake now, so he can be moved somewhere more suitable. This is a respectable infirmary, not a smugglers’ den.”
“Eeh! He’s awake? Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”
Nagomi and Satō started down the corridor to the infirmary room, but Ine stopped them with a single sharp word. She had learned this assertiveness the hard way, running the infirmary single-handedly whenever Keisuke was away. The patients rarely believed a woman could, or indeed should, know enough to be a scholar of medicine. They often objected to the treatments they deemed too bizarre or expensive, but Ine did not care for their protests. Once inside her infirmary, regardless of class or wealth, they were hers to command. Illness made everyone equal, this much she had learned from her father. For the treatment to be effective, all her patients had to be obedient, peasant and samurai alike.
“He needs rest. He’s still disoriented and weak.”
“Is he saying anything?” Satō asked, her fingers tapping on the hilt of her sword.
“No, we didn’t talk yet. He’s mostly asleep. Whatever happened to him must have been exhausting. He did eat some rice, though.”
Ine slid the door a bit to see if the stranger was still sleeping. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, examining the many straps of his new clothes. She had explained to him before, in mime, how to put on the paper-lined kosode robe and tie it with a broad sash. Ine nodded to the girls, putting a finger to her lips.
“You can come in, but be quiet.”
The door slid open and a girl and a boy entered, along with the woman who took care of him. He faintly remembered seeing the girl when he awoke for the very first time, but the boy was a new guest. His haircut was odd, neatly and close cut all over except a ponytail at the back. His face was smoothly shaven, soft and handsome. The girl’s shiny copper hair was tied in a long braid falling down her back, almost reaching her waist. They were both rather short and Bran found it difficult to tell what age they were, although the girl seemed younger.
The pair sat down under the wall, staring at him curiously. Bran gazed back at them, especially the fiery-haired girl. He had no idea the Qin could have hair like this, glinting almost like dragonflame in the light of the sun seeping through the paper-covered window. Her locks were redder even than Eithne’s, almost orange, like fox hide. He remembered a student at Llambed with similar hair, a wizard named Willem, from Bataave.
The girl wore a billowing, pleated vermillion skirt and jacket of thick white cloth, pure and immaculate like freshly fallen snow, as was everything Bran had seen in this place so far. She was quite pretty, he assessed, in an innocent childish way. Why were these two youngsters here at all?
The elder woman sat down in front of him and looked intently in his eyes.
Biting her lower lip, Ine managed to recall the first words of Bataavian she had ever learned.
“Spreekt u Bataafs?”
The foreigner thought for a moment then shook his head.
“Seaxe? Latina? Brezhoneg,” he replied instead. “Umm… Ne Hao?”
“No, not Qin,” she replied, but the boy didn’t understand her.
As almost anyone of importance in Kiyō, Ine knew some Bataavian, but she was only vaguely aware of other Western nations, much less of how they spoke. They had to revert to more primitive means of communication. She pointed at herself.
“I-ne. Ine.”
“Ine,” repeated the boy. “Bran,” he added.
She struggled.
“Bu-ran?”
He smiled and nodded.
“What is Bu-ran? Is that his name, nationality or profession?” Satō asked from the back.
“His name, I think,” Ine answered. “Be quiet. I need to teach him a few basic words, we can’t communicate with signs all the time. Luckily it seems he’s got his wits about him.”
“Go-han. Gohan,” she said, continuing the lesson, pointing to the bowl of rice.
He nodded, uncertain.
“Ha-shi. Hashi,” Ine said, picking up the bamboo chopsticks, still clean and unused.
“He’s not a Bataavian.” Nagomi whispered.
“I know!” replied Satō. “Isn’t this exciting?”
“Where could he be from?”
“Well, he’s definitely not from Dejima. They wouldn’t let in anyone who doesn’t speak their language. He’s looking at you again. Maybe he fancies you,” said Satō and giggled.
Ine noticed the boy’s gaze and turned around to see Nagomi look away in embarrassment, her cheeks flushing red. Her little sister wasn’t used to men paying attention to her. Of the two sisters, Ine was always the pretty one. She had the same black braids, dark eyes and flat nose as any other girl in Kiyō. She did have a hint of something eccentrically exotic in her features, but it made her seem only more attractive to the Yamato men. In contrast, they looked at Nagomi with barely hidden disgust. This was unfair; both girls knew there was little difference in looks between them other than the colour of their hair.
But there was no repulsion in this boy’s eyes. Of course, Ine reminded herself, in the West people’s hair and eye colours varied. They could have hair of copper, bronze or gold, their eyes could be brown, green, grey or blue. He did not see anything out of the ordinary in Nagomi’s auburn tresses.
Satō interrupted her thoughts.
“What’s he saying now?”
The boy raised his hand as if to ask about something important.
“Qin?” he asked again, making a wide gesture.
Ine sighed and shook her head. She spoke
slowly and precisely.
“Dat is niet Qin. Ya-ma-to.”
“Yama…”
The boy collapsed, his head hitting the pillow with a thud.
“Yamato…” he repeated.
Ine was disturbed by his sudden weakness. Obviously this was not the answer he had expected. She wiped his forehead with a damp cloth.
“What is it?” Nagomi asked, “what’s wrong?”
“Our conversation must have tired him,” Ine replied, “it’s best we leave. Satō, please open that window before you go. He needs fresh air. This attic gets stuffy in the evenings.”
CHAPTER XIII
“Dat is niet Qin.”
He didn’t know Bataavian, but this sentence was easy to understand. His head started spinning again, and he had to lie back on the floor. This is not Qin. This was Yamato; a strange, alien uncharted country, the land of his grandfather’s mysterious romantic adventure, the land of the black box. There would be no Westerners here, except a few cunning Bataavian merchants interested only in profit. Nobody else knew how to get here. His father would not be coming to his rescue. He was all alone, far away from home and from anyone who could save him.
The woman and the two younglings left the room. Bran’s thoughts raced. Why did the magic of the Seal bring him to this strange land? The last thing he remembered thinking about, on the deck of the disappearing Ladon, was his family and friends. Mother, Father, the Academy… The spell must have brought him to the closest place that had some ties to his home in Gwynedd, or maybe one of the items in his satchel resonated with the Seal’s magic?
Yamato…
The large wooden orb covered with blue paper, darkened black with age, was affixed to a brass stand at the poles. The golden stains of continents had turned grey, and very few symbols could still be deciphered.
Satō strained her eyes by the light of the oil lamp. Biting the tip of her tongue, she traced the lines of islands and continents with black ink on a sheet of rice paper. She could only hope the boy—Bran, she remembered—would understand what she had copied from the old Vasconian globe. She tried her best to replicate as many distinctive features as she could—the few meandering rivers, a couple of cities marked with clusters of houses—she could only name two of them, Rome and Noviomagus, and she wasn’t very certain which was which. There were also animal symbols, the meaning of which she was not aware—a two-headed bear drawn on the northern wastes of Varyaga, a man with an elephant’s head in what must have been Bharata, in the south, and three dragon heads on the westernmost tip of the great continent. She copied them all, just in case.
The Shadow of Black Wings (The Year of the Dragon, Book 1) Page 17