Hiroshi was alive, at least. Iwata had no doubt that the Fox Hunter and his former lover were the same man.
Over the next eight years, Iwata stayed alert for any scrap of information about the Fox Hunter. Most said he was mad. That was untrue, Iwata knew. Most of all Iwata paid attention to the locations connected to the tales. The last he’d heard, the Fox Hunter was far in the north, several provinces away from the Nightingale Palace. He might be somewhere else by the time Iwata managed to travel so far, but he would make inquiries. He would hunt the Fox Hunter, and he would find Hiroshi. But only after his duty to his oldest friend was discharged. Until then, he would wait.
The Lord General of Prince Narita’s army was nothing if not patient.
THREE DAYS later the prince passed into the afterlife. Iwata wasn’t there when it happened. It was night, and at night Lady Mari banished the consorts, the children, everyone, to sit alone with her husband.
Iwata woke as soon as the soft tap landed on his door—a lifelong soldier, he fell asleep and woke in an instant. He’d been dreaming of a huge creature with green eyes and a young man with a scarred face… but he pushed the dream aside when he opened his eyes to darkness. He rose and threw off his blanket, the woven-reed mat scratching his bare feet. As he paced to the door, his stomach contorted into a sickly knot. There was only one reason anyone would wake him in the middle of the night. Enough moonlight crept through the slats in the shutters to show him the door. Iwata pushed it aside. Immediately the glow of a lantern made his vision turn white. He blinked, opening his mouth to snap at whatever servant was unlucky enough to be there. But as the lantern glow faded, he saw with a tinge of surprise that it was Lady Mari, her lined face set in a mask of determined calm.
“Lord General Iwata,” she said quietly. “My husband is dead.”
Iwata recoiled as if he’d been punched in the stomach, though he’d expected this for weeks. “When?”
“At the beginning of this hour.” Her voice quivered, but her expression didn’t change. “The Hour of the Lotus.”
The hour when night passed into day. There was something grimly appropriate in that, though Iwata couldn’t remember why.
“I’ll send servants to inform the consorts and the children in another hour. Before I do, you are welcome to see him.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
She nodded. For an instant her eyes glittered in the pale light. Iwata’s shock was overwhelmed by fear that she might begin sobbing on his doorstep. But Lady Mari had never broken in front of him, and she didn’t now. She turned and walked away, down the corridor. Iwata watched until she turned the corner and the bobbing light of the lantern disappeared. Then he went inside and opened the shutters, flooding the room with silvery light. The warm spring air carried the scent of jasmine from the garden. Iwata’s chest hurt. It was hard to breathe. He touched his face and was surprised to find it wet. Hiroshi had asked him once if he would cry should Prince Narita die.
Iwata, his face pressed into the silken braid that hung over his lover’s shoulder, had whispered, “I don’t know.”
“Well, Hiro,” he said quietly, “there’s your answer.”
The lump in his throat dissolved as he laid out what must be done. First he had to dress, then go to the prince’s bedchamber to bid farewell to his oldest friend, the man he’d loved and served most of his life.
THE EMPEROR didn’t attend his brother’s funeral, despite the speculation that he might. The townspeople simmered with indignation at the perceived slight, but Iwata knew better. From the prince, he knew that the Emperor was elderly and more burdened than ever by his rule. Iwata could not blame him.
Prince Narita’s cremation was held three days after his death. Pale gray clouds hung low in the sky, and fog shrouded the bier, so Iwata couldn’t see it until he entered the area set aside for mourners. In an hour the palace courtyard would be full of people: the prince’s family, nobles, as many soldiers and townspeople and servants as could cram into the space—Prince Narita had been well loved. But for the time being, it was only Iwata and a handful of black-clad priests.
The bier was elaborate. In the center rested the prince, his silk-draped body looking far too small. Offerings were piled all around: food, pottery, reams of silk, swords and daggers, his horse’s livery. The armor he’d worn in countless battles would remain on display in the palace.
The priests lined the bier on two sides, rolling beads in their fingers, chanting. The fog brushed damp fingers over Iwata’s face. Faint wisps of spice flavored the air, drawn from the incense arranged on the bier.
Since Narita’s death the sharp blade of Iwata’s grief had dulled and become familiar, now shot through with something that made Iwata cringe with shame.
Impatience.
That morning, in his borrowed room, Iwata had packed up all his meager belongings. They sat by the door, organized neatly into two saddlebags. After the cremation he would leave as soon as he decently could.
“Lord General.”
Iwata turned. He’d been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn’t heard Lady Mari come up behind him. “My lady.”
She moved to his side. Her white robe was the same color as the fog. She was as composed as ever. Only dark smears beneath her eyes revealed her grief.
She gazed at the bier and the chanting priests. “Shigeru wasn’t able to come. There’s too much rebel activity on the Yennish border. He can’t leave now.”
“He’s an excellent leader, like his father.”
“In a few days, Hagino will go to live with her son and his wife. Shigeru inherits the palace. He’s allowing Rin and her children to stay.” Rin was the youngest of Prince Narita’s consorts. “I’ve suggested she look for a new husband. She’s young yet.”
“Of course, Lady Mari.”
“And you, my lord. You are leaving to find your young captain.” She cocked her head, fixing him with her sharp gaze—the gaze he’d always suspected saw more than she revealed. “I liked Captain Sagawara. He and I had much in common.
“When you find your young captain, Lord General, greet him for me.” A fog-muffled footstep sounded behind them. “They’re coming. I won’t see you again.”
She laid a hand on his arm. He covered it with his own tanned, callused fingers. Her skin was cool and incredibly soft, nothing like a soldier’s. For a moment they stood together, heads bowed in shared mourning. Then Lady Mari slipped her hand from under his and turned away. Head held high, she strode away to the other end of the platform, which had been set up for mourners. There she would stand with her children, the two remaining consorts and their children arranged slightly behind. Iwata would be across from her with the other military, separated by the flames.
IT TOOK hours for the fire to burn down, but no one in the crammed courtyard moved. Nobody showed disrespect to the prince by weeping, but Lady Hagino’s eyes were red, and Lady Rin’s little daughters wiped their faces a few times. Incense heaped at the corners of the bier clogged the air with spicy sweetness, masking the smells of burning cloth, food, and flesh. The priests waited, their lips moving, but their prayers lost in the crackle of the fire.
The fire burned down at last, and the priests swept in to gather the ashes. The crowd began to disperse. Iwata bowed to Prince Narita one final time. As he turned to go, he caught sight of Lady Mari. She alone was not moving, her rigid gaze fixed on the smoldering bier.
Iwata made his way through the mass of people. Most recognized him and stepped aside. He was about to step into the palace’s central garden when someone behind him called, “Lord General! Lord General Iwata!”
He paused, his brows drawing together in annoyance. A young man was slipping sideways between the mourners, oblivious to the hooded glares of people disgusted with his rudeness.
“Lord General!”
“I’m right here,” Iwata snarled. “What do you want?”
The man stopped, his chest heaving. He resembled Prince Narita—the same square f
ace and powerful frame, the same open, friendly expression. The resemblance wasn’t unusual. Several of the prince’s sons looked strongly like him. But which one was this?
“I apologize, my lord.” The young man bowed. He wore white, like a mourner, not black like the soldiers. His smile was broad. “But I need to speak with you urgently. I know you don’t recognize me. I’m Daigo.” When Iwata didn’t reply, he added, “My mother was Lady Kumomo.”
Iwata recalled the consort’s funeral eight years before, and two little boys standing by their father, watching their mother’s body burn. The elder had resembled Kumomo, the younger, Narita. Daigo had been… ten, perhaps? Iwata hadn’t seen him before or since.
“Daigo. I remember you.”
“I hear… I mean, it’s said….” Daigo’s smile faded. He dropped his gaze to the ground, shifting his weight nervously. “Lord General, I know it’s rude of me to ask, but if you’re going to look for my uncle, I must go with you.”
Iwata stared at him. His annoyance had blossomed into anger, but he schooled his features into indifference. “We shouldn’t discuss this in the middle of the courtyard.”
Daigo flushed red. “Of course, my lord. Forgive me.”
Iwata stalked back to his room, the boy clinging to his heels like a hopeful puppy.
DAIGO KNELT by the door, his fingers plucking nervously at the fabric of his kimono. As soon as they’d entered the room, his gaze had fallen on Iwata’s saddlebags, and he’d brightened. “I’m already packed too, my lord. I just arrived last night, so I never unpacked my things.”
Without a word Iwata went to the window and knelt beneath it. The sun shining through the panes was warm on his neck. He regarded Daigo with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw, but said nothing.
Impatient silence had always worked on his men, and now it worked on Daigo as well. “My older brother, Shiro, followed Father into the army. He’s married and has children.”
Iwata granted him a curt nod. The eldest son of each of the prince’s ladies went into the military. It was tradition.
“But I never felt drawn to any particular profession. I only finished my education a month ago, and I worked as a teacher at the school since then. When I arrived here for Father’s funeral, I heard of your intention to leave and find my uncle. I knew this was my only chance….”
He fell silent, tangling his fingers together. Iwata snapped, “Chance for what?”
Daigo fixed Iwata with eyes the same color as the prince’s. “My mother told me when I was a child that when I became a man, I should do what made me happy. When I was ten years old, a fox murdered her. Now I’m a man, and what will make me happy is to avenge her. I know Uncle Hiroshi has been stalking it all this time. If anyone can find my uncle, it’s you. Lord General, you’re my best chance at finding him and avenging my mother.”
The scent of jasmine from the window was suddenly overpowering. Despite his stony expression, Iwata’s mind clamored. Daigo’s request was an obstacle he hadn’t anticipated. Everything in him resisted agreeing. When he saw Hiroshi again, he didn’t want anyone else there. And yet…
Lady Kumomo had been murdered. Her son had the right—no, the duty—to find vengeance for her. And wouldn’t Hiro want to see—
Before he could complete the thought, Daigo leaned forward, pressed his palms to the floor and his forehead to the backs of his hands. “Please, my lord. I swear I won’t be a burden. I have money and a horse. Even if I can’t help, I won’t be a hindrance.”
The sight of Prince Narita’s son prostrating himself irritated Iwata. He rose and turned his back on the young man. In the courtyard beyond the window, a knot of white-clad servants hurried to a door leading to the kitchen.
Iwata looked back at Daigo, who was watching him cautiously. “I’m leaving in a quarter hour. If you’re not in the stable and ready to ride out, I’ll leave without you.”
Daigo’s face split into a broad grin. “Thank you, Lord General!” He bowed deeply, backed toward the door, and closed it behind him. The thump of his feet in the corridor faded quickly.
Iwata closed the shutters, dulling the smell of jasmine. He slung his saddlebags over one shoulder and left the Nightingale Palace for the last time.
THEY RODE through town, Daigo trailing Iwata through the narrow streets. Prince Narita’s regiment had stopped there often enough that most of the townspeople recognized Iwata. He nodded to the ones who bowed. They would be away soon, traveling north. Iwata found that he was looking forward to not being noticed.
The crowded streets forced them to keep a slow pace. After what seemed a very long time, the buildings began to thin. They were riding among scattered huts, barns, and sheds. Horses and pigs peered curiously at them from swept yards. Chickens pecking at the side of the road fled the horses’ hooves.
For two nights they stayed in inns, but when Iwata noticed Daigo nervously counting his coins, he started watching for roadside shrines, simple structures where any traveler could stay the night for a prayer and an offering to whatever god inhabited it.
He’d been afraid Daigo would want to talk, but Hiroshi’s nephew proved to be a fine traveling companion. They rarely spoke, except to plan their halts. On the fifth day, dusk descended an hour after they’d left a village. Then a light rain began to fall, pattering on the leaves and on Iwata’s face, slight but annoying. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
Behind him Daigo called, “Lord General, I think there’s something over there, to the left.”
Iwata squinted into the gloom. Trees clustered thickly on either side of the road. Daigo pointed to a break in the foliage, wide enough for a horse. It was flanked by two stone pedestals holding statues of some kind of animal. The statues were old, their contours worn smooth and patched with moss. Iwata raised his hand in acknowledgement and turned his horse into the opening. Daigo followed.
A few paces brought them to a clearing of packed dirt before a rough wooden building, little more than a shed whose door gaped emptily. The forest encroached on all sides, caressing the shrine like a lover. Iwata unsaddled his horse but didn’t bother to stake it—the beast was trained to stay near him.
Daigo ducked out and returned with some tolerably dry wood. Iwata built a fire in the pit at the center of the shrine while Daigo mixed water and mushrooms for soup. The shrine soon smelled of acrid smoke. The swelling flames threw light against the walls, exposing a scroll hung on one. It was tattered around the edges, but the colors were still vivid. Iwata’s heart stuttered in his chest. The figure on the scroll was a fox, its fur rich orange and creamy white, its eyes piercing green. It had four tails.
Behind him Daigo drew in a sharp breath. Iwata glared at the scroll. A shrine to Inari, the fox god. He closed his hands into fists. Four tails were nothing. The one that killed Kumomo had boasted seven. He breathed deeply of the smoky air, then deliberately turned his back on the fox scroll and knelt before the fire. Daigo stared at the painting a few moments longer, his jaw muscles twitching. Iwata stirred the soup, politely ignoring him, until Daigo sank down across from him, lips pressed into a hard line.
“Does that fox look like the one that killed my mother?”
“No.”
“My lord, may I ask another question?”
Iwata suppressed a sigh of irritation. “Yes.”
“What is my Uncle Hiroshi like?”
Iwata started. A shiver coursed through him. To hide it he stretched his hands toward the fire, though he wasn’t cold. He would have preferred to answer more questions about that cursed fox. For years Iwata had rarely spoken Hiroshi’s name, but his lover had haunted his thoughts daily. He’d held his memories close: Hiroshi’s easy smile, his slender, confident hands, his sharp mind. The night Hiroshi, exhausted after a battle, had sagged half-asleep against Iwata’s shoulder. How Hiroshi had stood perfectly still, watching his sister’s body burn.
“You don’t remember him at all?”
Daigo dropped his gaze. “Only a little. He was almost a
lways away with the army. But he visited when he could. He used to growl like a demon and chase me around. And I remember the last time I saw him at Mother’s funeral. He told us to behave and work hard. I wished he’d smile, but he didn’t.”
“Your uncle is a good man. He’s brave, and he loved your mother.” And me, though I was a stupid fool.
Iwata saw Daigo bite his lip in disappointment, but he was unwilling to offer more. The Hiroshi of his memory had been his alone for so long that he no longer knew how to share him.
They ate their soup in silence. Iwata heard Daigo’s restless, wakeful breathing even as he fell asleep beneath the cold gaze of the fox.
THEY CONTINUED north. The air chilled until it stung Iwata’s throat. They’d left the spring of the southern provinces behind as if they were riding backward through time. Iwata replaced his sandals with boots and unpacked his cloak. Frost rimed the grass when he woke in the morning.
When they reached the crossing at Bear Province, Iwata asked the border guard, “Have you heard anything of the man called the Fox Hunter?”
The young guard had been gaping at the name on Iwata’s border pass. He looked up and bowed, dropping the pass into the road. He scrambled to retrieve the wooden square, wiped it on his robe, and handed it back.
“The Fox Hunter, my lord? There are stories, but—”
Iwata shifted impatiently in the saddle.
“I think someone said… in a tea house… that he turned up in a village farther north. That was a day ago, Lord General.”
“Which village?”
“My lord?”
Iwata’s frustration splintered his mask. “Which village? What’s it called?”
“I think… Kikuchi, Lord General.”
Kikuchi. Iwata spurred his horse forward, forcing the guard to jump back to avoid being trampled. Behind him Daigo said, “Thank you.”
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