All the death poems Iwata had seen were about the transitory nature of life or meeting one’s death with honor. A poem for Lady Kumomo would be a powerful statement indeed. It would boost her fame; it would make her immortal.
It would deal Lady Mari a blow so deep she might never recover.
Iwata recalled how she’d looked back at her husband. He recognized the look; he’d looked at the prince the same way once. But not, he realized, for a long time. He still cared for Prince Narita; he still owed him his devotion, would still die for him.
But what he felt now, looking at the prince, was as nothing compared to what he felt for Hiroshi.
A tap on the door interrupted them. The physician stepped in. “My lords, I apologize, but Lord General Iwata needs to rest.”
“Especially if you stubbornly insist on attending the funeral tomorrow. But it will be good to have you there, Sho.” Prince Narita clapped him on the shoulder, sending a wave of agony into Iwata’s chest. Iwata refused to let his smile waver until the prince and his consort were gone.
“My lord,” the physician said as he helped Iwata lie down. “You shouldn’t go to the funeral. You’re still—”
“I’m going.” Iwata couldn’t hide a grimace of pain. “I have to.” For the prince. For Lady Kumomo. For Hiroshi.
THE FUNERAL was as splendid as could be expected for the prince’s favorite consort. Iwata sat on a camp chair in front of his assembled regiment. Pain shuddered through his body every time he blinked, but he’d managed to limp to the funeral ground between the physician and a servant. He had argued with the physician about the camp chair, but as he lowered himself onto it, his legs howling in pain, he was grateful he’d finally given in. Lady Hagino, fanning herself in the heat and absently rubbing her pregnant belly, was the only other person who sat. The consorts were there, and Lady Mari. The prince’s other children were there, excepting two sons who were commanding units of their own in far corners of the empire. All the palace servants stood in one group, their heads bowed. In another group stood as many nobles as had made it to the palace in the four days between the fox’s flight and the funeral. The Emperor wasn’t in attendance, but he’d sent a lavish offering: a tapestry of a phoenix, symbol of the empire, woven with gold thread. It hung from the corners of the bier, to be consumed with flame along with the other offerings.
Kumomo’s body, covered with silk, lay on a wooden bier. A dozen priests chanted prayers, and funeral offerings were piled at every corner of the bier: jewelry, food, beautiful dishes, and robes. The boys had been brought back from their school in the imperial city and had arrived only that morning. They were twelve and ten. The elder resembled his mother and uncle; he had the same high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. The younger was stocky and had Prince Narita’s chin. The children stood silently on either side of their father, their faces schooled into stone, though the younger one wiped his eyes once or twice. Hiroshi wore his black military uniform. His expression betrayed nothing; he looked as if he was standing at attention on an ordinary morning, as if he hadn’t spent the previous night awake and grieving. Only the dark smears under his eyes gave any hint of what he’d endured.
Hiroshi bowed to the prince, who closed his eyes and gave a barely perceptible nod. Hiroshi turned and, without hesitation, lit the bier with a torch. Flames crawled over the silk covering Kumomo, the beautiful tapestry, the offerings. It took hours for everything to be burned to ash, but no one left; not a single murmur rose from the assembled mourners. They stood where they were, even the prince, though his face turned pale and once he laid a hand on the shoulder of Kumomo’s oldest son to support himself.
The fire radiated heat into the already scorching day. Iwata watched the silk shroud blacken and catch. He thought he saw a glimpse of rotted flesh, but it was quickly hidden by the creeping red flames. Hiroshi stood by the bier, the torch guttering in his hand as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. Despite the heat he didn’t back away, didn’t even move until the last flames sank and died.
When it was over, the priests moved in like crows to gather the ashes. Hiroshi finally raised his head, looking at the dead torch in his hand as if he didn’t remember picking it up. After a time the prince stepped away from his attendants and crossed to Hiroshi. He touched his arm, and finally Hiroshi moved, bowing to Prince Narita and turning slowly to walk back to the palace. Iwata followed him with his gaze, willing Hiroshi to feel his scrutiny and look at him. But Hiroshi only paused to speak quietly to his nephews before leading them away. Prince Narita stayed by the bier a moment longer, then followed them. Once the prince was out of sight, the rest of the crowd stirred, filing away in respectful silence.
When Iwata rose from the camp chair, his knees buckled. Two of his junior officers sprang to his side. Annoyed at having to accept help in public, Iwata sulked all the way back to the palace. The physician had gotten back before them and greeted Iwata with a frown. “Lord General, you’ve overexerted yourself. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to stay in this room until you’re strong enough to walk on your own.”
“I won’t argue this time.” Iwata winced as the physician helped him sit on his sleeping mat. “I’m not lying down just yet, though. Have someone bring tea.”
A servant arrived with pale cherry-blossom tea, and Iwata poured a cup. And another. An hour passed. Iwata sat by the tea table, drinking and waiting.
Hiroshi came two hours later. Iwata looked up as he entered, lips parted to speak, but what he saw turned his tongue to stone. Hiroshi wasn’t wearing the dark uniform of the imperial military. Instead he wore rough pants, a peasant’s tunic, and straw sandals. His sword, wrapped in cloth and tied with cord, dangled from his sash. A bedroll was strapped to his back, and he held a pointed straw hat in one hand. His hair, always before plaited into a tight military-standard braid, was loose. It hung down his back, as long and thick as his sister’s.
“Sho.” Hiroshi hesitated at the door. His eyes couldn’t seem to settle on anything; they moved over the mat, the tea table, the dresser, the window. Finally, reluctantly, he looked at Iwata. He was chewing his lower lip, a sign of nervousness he rarely showed. He managed a smile. “Are you well?”
A sick feeling had gathered in Iwata’s throat. “Not well yet. Better.”
“For four days I was sure you were going to die.” The slight tremor in his voice spoke of the terror and grief he’d endured. Iwata wanted to rise and throw his arms around him, assure Hiroshi he was alive and planned to stay that way, but his legs were too weak to allow him to stand. And Hiroshi remained where he was, too far away for Iwata to touch.
They were silent a moment. Iwata considered inviting him to sit and have some tea. But if Hiroshi wanted tea, he would have taken it; it had been six months since he’d needed an invitation from Iwata.
Hiroshi swallowed. “I resigned from the army earlier today. Before the funeral. The prince was gracious enough to allow me to wear my uniform until after the cremation.”
“Why?” Iwata’s tone was steady, but a cold stone filled his stomach.
“Because I can’t be a soldier and avenge my sister as well. I had to make a choice.” Hiroshi was breathing as if he’d been running; his chest rose and fell beneath his thin tunic.
“Where?” It was the only word Iwata was able to get out, but Hiroshi seemed to understand what he asked.
“It fled to the mountains. Some of the townspeople say they saw it that night, and the mountain villages have been reporting strange occurrences for the past few days. It was wounded; it must be hiding out in the mountains until it’s healed.”
“You’re going to try to kill it.”
Hiroshi’s lips pressed stubbornly tighter. “I will kill it.”
Iwata gazed at him. Hiroshi was gritting his teeth so hard it must ache. Lady Kumomo’s spirit screamed for revenge, and only Hiroshi heard her cries. “I know.”
The priest had said no one had ever killed a fox before. Most likely Hiroshi would die in the attempt.
Iwata didn’t ask if he’d be back. Instead he got up, slowly, painfully. His knees shook like rushes in the wind, but he forced them to bend. Slowly, painfully, he limped to Hiroshi. Hiroshi had started forward, as if to offer assistance, but then he halted. Wrinkles of anguish appeared around his eyes, but he didn’t rush forward to help; he knew Iwata would hate that far more than the pain.
Iwata finally reached Hiroshi. Hiroshi blinked at him, torment and wariness mixed in his face. Iwata reached out and touched Hiroshi’s hair. The strands were silky between his fingers. Iwata realized he had never seen Hiroshi’s hair loose, not even in the darkest hours of the night when they were alone.
Iwata dropped his hand. “You could have killed it then, if you’d left me.”
“But I didn’t.” Hiroshi stared at the front of Iwata’s robe. His mouth twitched. “And if I thought you would ever love me, I would stay by your side now.”
That was all it would take, then. A word from Iwata. All he had to do was tell Hiroshi what he’d realized the day before, speaking to Prince Narita. A word to keep Hiroshi here with him. To make him abandon the demon fox.
And Lady Kumomo would still cry for vengeance. And Hiroshi would be racked with guilt for not heeding her. And he would be miserable.
“No.” Iwata said quietly. He took a deep breath to steady his voice. “Good luck, Hiro. Good-bye.”
Hiroshi closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his expression was different; his face had hardened into the stony stillness he wore in front of the regiment. He raised his gaze to Iwata’s face, and something struck Iwata.
He’d thought Hiroshi had shattered, but he had actually snapped cleanly, like a broken katana.
Broken swords were not discarded. They were reforged.
“Good-bye, Sho.” Hiroshi leaned forward and kissed him. Iwata’s heart stuttered; he clenched his fists to keep from grabbing Hiroshi and pulling him close. For a moment his lips parted, his hands rose of their own accord… then he forced his arms down and pulled away. Hiroshi stood a moment with his head bowed. Abruptly he turned and went to the door. At the threshold he paused a moment to put on his peasant’s hat. He slid it open and left, not looking back.
The moment the door closed, Iwata’s knees gave out. He sank to the mat, his head pounding. The cold had returned, nipping at his hands, his feet, his heart. When he stood, he felt dizzy and sick. He lay down where he was, staring at the featureless ceiling until his vision blurred. Fighting the burning behind his eyelids, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, to forget for a while. But for the first time in years, sleep evaded him.
BOOK 2:
FOX HUNTER
To Becky and Steph Marie, who gave me the best gift of all—their time and attention.
PRINCE NARITA’S illness had progressed slowly over the course of a year, but in the middle of its second winter, it began to gallop. Each day he grew weaker and thinner. One of his eyes skewed to the side, and most of his graying hair had fallen out.
“I’ve seen this before, with my own mother.” The prince’s physician sighed, shaking his ursine head. “There’s a mass of flesh growing in his skull, and nothing we can do about it. They trepanned my mother, but it never did much good, and the prince doesn’t want it. He asked for you, Lord General. You’d better go in. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll be awake.”
Iwata went in. Lady Mari, the prince’s wife, knelt by his sleeping mat. Her shoulders sagged wearily, but when she saw Iwata, she rose with a fluid grace that belied her years. She hesitated a moment as she passed him. Iwata’s gaze flickered toward her, a question in his face. She shook her head almost imperceptibly in answer. Neither spoke. Where Prince Narita was concerned, their thoughts were the same.
She left them without a word. Iwata crossed to the sleeping mat. Eight years before, the prince had been dying, his life drained away by a creature Iwata couldn’t begin to understand. Back then his taut face and glazed eyes had tied Iwata’s stomach into knots. But this was a thousand times worse. The prince was little more than a skeleton, his gray skin stretched so tightly, it seemed as if it would tear should he move too quickly. But he rarely moved at all anymore. Iwata knelt where Lady Mari had been. Prince Narita’s eyes were closed, the lids so thin Iwata could see their maps of blue veins. He appeared to be asleep, so Iwata settled in to wait. But as soon as his knees hit the floor, the prince’s eyes flew open. One fixed on Iwata’s face while the other drifted sideways to the open window.
“Lord General Iwata Sho.” Despite his appearance, Prince Narita’s voice was still rich and deep. “I have something to tell you.”
“My lord?”
“There’s speculation around the palace that when I die, you’ll either retain your position under Shigeru”—Prince Narita’s son had already taken over his father’s army—“or slit open your belly. Which is it?”
Iwata wasn’t surprised at the gossip. The palace and nearby town ran rampant with it. But he’d never managed to train himself not to let it annoy him. “In truth, I hadn’t thought of it, my lord.”
Prince Narita wheezed a stuttering laugh. “Liar. You wish to pursue a third option. If you’re going to ask my permission, do it now while my mind is clear. It comes and goes, you know.”
“A third option?”
“Damn it, Sho. Stop playing the fool. You’re a terrible liar.”
That made him smile briefly. “In that case, I ask the prince’s permission to resign my post after his… death.”
“To do what?”
“To find the man known as the Fox Hunter.”
The prince sighed. “I knew who the Fox Hunter was. I was sure you knew too, but I never mentioned it. I was too ashamed.”
“Ashamed, my lord?”
Prince Narita reached for him. Iwata took his hand. It lay lifeless in his own, as if simply reaching out had drained his strength. “Listen, Sho. I know how much you sacrificed all those years ago. I could have ordered you to go with him, but I didn’t because you’re the only man I completely trust. I could have ordered Hiroshi to stay, but I desperately wanted vengeance for my Kumomo. My position kept me from hunting the fox down myself.” He coughed. “Find Hiroshi. Destroy the fox—or don’t. It hardly seems to matter now. I’m so near the afterlife that sometimes I can hear her voice.”
Iwata gently laid Prince Narita’s hand on the mat. He bowed to the floor, ignoring the twinge of pain in his back. “Thank you, my lord.”
A smile ghosted across the prince’s face. “Sho—ah!”
Prince Narita arched up, knocking aside the blankets and revealing his wasted frame. His limbs went rigid. His eyes rolled back, and spittle ran down his chin.
Iwata shot to his feet, shouting, “Lady Mari!”
She was there so quickly that Iwata knew she’d been waiting just outside the door. Forsaking dignity, she flung herself on her husband’s thrashing body. “Help me turn him on his side!”
He complied. The prince’s flailing arm caught him in the eye. Iwata recoiled but refused to let go, even when vomit dribbled from Prince Narita’s mouth onto Iwata’s kimono. After an eternity the prince’s convulsions ceased. He flopped onto his back, limp as a dropped doll. The sour stink of vomit filled the air, but Lady Mari didn’t even blink as she wiped his face.
Something of Iwata’s surprise must have shown in his expression, for she smiled grimly. “I’ve had five living children, Lord General. A little vomit won’t make me faint.”
“Shall I call a physician?”
“No. These fits have become more frequent of late, so I’ve learned what to do. And don’t bother with a servant. I’ll clean up.”
Of course no servants—let the prince keep his pride. Iwata nodded, at a loss in the face of Lady Mari’s efficiency. He bowed to her and left them.
On past visits to town, Iwata had stayed first in the barracks and later, as he ascended the ranks, in a nearby inn. But at the moment, he stayed in one of the palace rooms, where an unseen servant arranged f
lowers every two days. Iwata slammed the door behind him and stripped off his outer kimono. There were damp spots on his under-robe as well, so he took that off too. As he went to the dresser for fresh clothes, he glanced down at his right leg. The ugly scar on his thigh had faded from red to a lumpy pinkish gray years before. It still ached sometimes, but he rarely noticed it among the pains in his knees and back.
He breathed deeply of the air, untainted by the sweetish scent of illness. It was shameful how relieved he’d been to flee the prince’s bedchamber, leaving the mess to Lady Mari, alone with her dying husband.
For the prince would be dead, perhaps very soon. And though the thought made his chest clench tight, it also meant something else. It meant Iwata would be free from his duty to Prince Narita, so he could go out into the empire. And find Hiro.
The first report of the Fox Hunter surfaced a year after Hiroshi left. Iwata had heard two soldiers talking over a fire as he passed; usually he ignored camp chatter, but this time two words snagged his attention. “…Captain Sagawara.”
Iwata had paused, halted, and turned. The two soldiers crouched before their tent went pale as he strode toward them. They scrambled to their feet and bowed, chorusing, “Lord General?”
He’d glanced from one to the other, taking his time even though the question quivered on his tongue. “Captain Sagawara?”
“There are rumors, my lord,” one said cautiously, “from the east of the empire. They say there’s a man looking for a fox in order to kill it.”
The other added, “Lord General, we were wondering if it might be Captain Sagawara.”
They bowed their heads, but their eyes flicked upward. Iwata scowled at them, but his heart was galloping in his chest. They watched him nervously. His relationship with Hiroshi had been known among the men—soldiers gossiped worse than women. Without another word Iwata turned on his heel and stalked away.
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