Daughter of the Sword: A Novel of the Fated Blades

by Steve Bein

  “I am also told,” said Ōda, “that you boast to be the only man who’s survived my Diving Hawk.”

  Tension mounted in Ichirō’s neck and shoulders, accumulating there as swiftly as the snow in the garden. Daigoro could see it, and he knew Ōda could too. But Ichirō’s voice remained calm, if a bit cold. “It is a fact that I survived it,” he said, “and as for boasting, that is something I try to avoid now.”

  “But you’ve spoken of it.”

  “People have spoken of it. I may have been one of them.”

  The muscles in Ōda’s jaws flexed. “I will not have it. Especially not from someone who was so rude to me.”

  “You’re one to talk of rudeness,” said Daigoro. He struggled to get to his feet, to put himself between the other two, but the weakness of his right leg and the cramped quarters behind the table conspired to deny him. “You came in here without invitation,” he went on, “and all you’ve done is hurl insults and insinuations.” He touched Ichirō’s shoulder. “Don’t listen to him. This is only your karma, brother. Let it run its course.”

  “Yes, karma,” said Ōda. “Karma to be insulted after insulting me. Karma to be sliced up like a huntsman’s deer after carelessly slicing up those you duel. How is your neck feeling, Okuma? Strong enough to keep your head attached, I see, but for how long?”

  Ichirō jumped to his feet, shrugging off Daigoro’s restraining hand. Before he could say anything, Daigoro said, “Wait, Ichirō! He cannot challenge you to a duel—not and keep his honor, anyway. He won your last match; to call you out again would bring him total disgrace.”

  “Someone should cut out his flapping tongue,” Ichirō said, his eyes fixed on Ōda instead of his brother.

  “Yes,” said Daigoro, “someone should, but let it not be you. You’re walking a different path now; it’s too soon to go back to your old one.”

  Ōda snorted. “That’s right. Listen to your little brother—your little, crippled runt of a brother.”

  “Enough!” Ichirō bellowed. “I challenge you now, you son of a whore! We duel with steel, in the middle of the Tokaidō! When I’m finished with you, I’ll send your arms east and your legs west, so everyone from Edo to Osaka can see what becomes of someone who speaks ill of an Okuma! Daigoro, give me the sword!”

  “Brother, I can’t—”

  “The sword!” Ichirō stepped over Daigoro, whose traitorous right knee fought his every effort to stand up. Fuming, Ichirō picked their father’s sword up from the floor beside his brother and strode right into the snowy garden. Ōda followed him, both men in stocking feet, heedless of the cold and the wet.

  Daigoro yanked his leg straight, pushed himself to his feet, and rushed for the door. He paused to don his wooden sandals only because he had to: his feeble right foot might betray him if he stepped on a rock hidden beneath the snow, and a sandal would mitigate that risk. He hurried to the road as quickly as he could manage, all too conscious of the fact that the weight of Glorious Victory Unsought was not on his hip to slow him down.

  By the time he reached the Tokaidō, a sizable crowd had gathered around Ichirō and Ōda. Wide snow-covered hats marked some as travelers; others, lightly dressed, stood in the doorways of nearby inns and eateries. Daigoro fought his way to the front of the crowd, which had cleared a wide egg-shaped arena around the two duelists.

  The first exchange could easily have been Ichirō’s last, had he not already seen Ōda’s Diving Hawk. Ōda was fast, and there was scarcely enough moonlight to see by. But Ichirō parried the blow expertly, returning with a slash that cut Ōda’s sleeve but not his arm. Daigoro wondered at that: the longer reach of the Inazuma should have drawn blood on that cut. But then he saw that Ichirō’s feet were splayed too wide; the sword had unbalanced him, leaving him just barely out of range.

  The next clash told much the same tale. Ichirō defended against a blindingly fast attack, then lost his balance just before cutting his opponent down.

  And then came the Diving Hawk again. Ōda stabbed, sidestepped, chopped for Ichirō’s neck. Ichirō anticipated the chop to the neck and parried as he did before. Ōda continued his swing, suddenly dropping to one knee. The fall surprised Ichirō, but only for an instant; then he moved in for the kill.

  Ōda’s sword ran him through from under the rib cage. It pierced the diaphragm first, then heart and lung, then emerged behind the shoulder blade. Bloodied steel glistened in the dim moonlight. Without so much as a cry of pain, Ichirō was dead.

  The Inazuma blade fell with a dull thump in the slush. “That,” Ōda said over the corpse, “was the Rising Phoenix.” His voice carried strangely. At first Daigoro thought the night had grown unnaturally silent. Then he realized Ōda was speaking loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the crowd. “If ever I fail to kill with the Diving Hawk,” Ōda said, “the Rising Phoenix claims the prey.”

  He’s trying to restore his reputation, Daigoro thought. He’s glad Ichirō fought him so publicly.

  After a long moment, Ōda rose from his crouched position and lowered Ichirō’s body to the ground. It was no small effort for him to reclaim his katana, for the corpse’s innards seemed to be gripping the blade with inhuman strength. As Ōda struggled, Daigoro limped forward and bent to take up Glorious Victory Unsought.

  “I challenge you, Ōda Yoshitomo.” Daigoro tightened his fingers around the Inazuma’s corded grip, still warm from his brother’s hands.

  Ōda looked up, surprise in his eyes but a smile on his lips. “You? You’re nothing but a cub. You want to face me?”

  “Want to? No. But you stand there gloating over the body of my fallen brother. You insult him, and thus you insult my family. What choice have you left me?”

  Ōda looked at Daigoro’s sword, then at his own, which was still stuck in Ichirō’s body. “That sword’s almost as tall as you are. Why don’t you go home, little cub? Come back when you’re older.”

  Daigoro stood his ground. “I won’t fight you unarmed,” he said.

  “Then you’re a fool. It won’t go well for you if you let me retrieve my sword. You’d do better to kill me now.”

  Daigoro took two shuffling steps backward. “If you die tonight, at least you’ll have a sword in your hands. Pick it up.”

  Ōda eyed Daigoro, then resumed his grip on his weapon. At last he broke the vacuum of the body and withdrew the bloody sword; foul steam rose from the wound and the blade.

  Daigoro stepped into the middle of the road; the crowd widened around him. Ōda faced him, three or four paces distant.

  “You shouldn’t have begun this, boy.”

  “I didn’t. My brother began it. You worsened it. I only walk the path already laid out for me.”

  Daigoro could feel the veins in his neck pumping hard. His skin was cold, more from the thrill of adrenaline than from the wintry air. As he and Ōda circled, he drew nearer to his brother’s corpse. Ichirō’s face had gone slack, now resembling the serenity their father’s face had worn in death. Ah, Ichirō, he thought; you walked your own path too long to avoid its ending.

  All warfare is based on deception. The phrase returned to Daigoro’s mind as he limped to his right, taking two steps for Ōda’s one. He was a canny fighter, Ōda; undoubtedly he knew the line from Sun Tzu as well. He’d been attempting to deceive Daigoro from the moment he’d heard Daigoro’s challenge. For all his bravado, Ōda was scared, and Daigoro knew it. Ōda had two killing moves, his Hawk and his Phoenix, and Daigoro had seen them both. The Diving Hawk hadn’t worked on Ichirō a second time; once was enough to know the trick of it. The Rising Phoenix would be no different. Ōda blustered and threatened because his best secrets were laid bare. He had relied on them too long, and without them he had nothing.

  So Daigoro acted as if he was still scared of them. He breathed faster and shallower than he needed to. He let his shoulders slacken, admitted a subtle quake in his wrists. The best tactic was to point his sword at the enemy’s throat, to prevent a sudden lunge; Daigoro let his
long blade aim at Ōda’s thigh.

  All who looked upon him saw an undersized, crippled boy whose sword was too heavy for him. When Ōda made his first thrust, Daigoro parried at the hands.

  The Inazuma blade took Ōda’s right hand off at the wrist. Daigoro allowed the weight of the sword to carry him forward. Ōda stumbled past him, bleeding terribly. He whirled back around with a wild left-handed slash.

  Daigoro parried; steel clashed. Ōda’s sword passed just in front of Daigoro’s nose. Daigoro’s passed through Ōda’s left collarbone.

  Ōda dropped his weapon, his left arm hanging like a wet cloth. “Kneel,” Daigoro said. “Quickly. You can no longer commit seppuku. Let me give you the honor of a proper beheading.”

  “How?” murmured Ōda. His face had gone as pale as the snow on the rooftops, and his bleeding was already slowing. “How could I lose to you?”

  “‘All warfare is based on deception,’” Daigoro said. He stepped behind Ōda, keeping him at sword’s length. “‘When capable, feign incapacity; when active, inactivity. When near, make it appear that you are far away; when far away, that you are near. Pretend inferiority and encourage his arrogance.’ You know the passage?”

  Ōda sunk to his knees. “I know it.”

  His head lolled heavily; Daigoro wondered whether he’d knelt of his own volition or whether his body no longer had enough blood to supply the muscles of his legs. “It was your arrogance that killed you,” Daigoro told him, quietly enough that only Ōda could hear. “I’m sorry to say the same is true of my brother. If either of you had had more self-control, we would have seen no bloodshed tonight. Now two braggarts will die here, all for want of the right path.”

  Daigoro’s cut was neat and quick. Ōda’s head fell in his lap.

  50

  Daigoro hired a palanquin to carry Ichirō’s body home. Encumbered as they were by the snow, the palanquin bearers took three days to reach Shimoda, but mercifully the weather remained cold and the body did not ripen.

  As the procession neared the Okuma compound, armored companies fell in behind as honor guards. The Nagatomos and Ushidas, the Soras and Inoues, all of them committed at least a dozen samurai to the growing file. At last, as Daigoro marched into Shimoda, the Yasudas contributed fifty men and twenty horses under green banners. Yasuda Jinbei rode among them, just as the lords of all the other houses rode at the heads of their own columns. Lord Yasuda had even dispatched a rider to summon more Okuma troops, so that Ichirō’s own family would not be outdone by any of the attending clans. In all, some two hundred samurai and fifty cavalry accompanied Ichirō to the home of his birth.

  The funeral was scheduled to take place the morning after Daigoro and the body reached the compound. A carrier pigeon from the Yasudas delivered the news in advance, so the Okuma fiefdom had fully prepared to receive its fallen son. As he rode through the front gate, Daigoro was met by the sight of a funeral pyre, and in that moment he felt something inside him release its grip on his grief. The stacked wood held the promise of finality, and the sight of it obliterated Daigoro’s last attachment to his brother. During three days of riding he had been left more or less to himself, and in all that time he could not cry. Now, in the presence of his family and all its allies, the tears forced themselves upon him, and it was all he could do to maintain his composure long enough to limp into his quarters and slide the door shut.

  He cried not just for Ichirō but for their father. That grief had waited a long, long time, and after being held back for so long, it burst from him like floodwaters through a collapsing dam. When at last he composed himself, Daigoro reflected on the nature of attachment. Detaching from his brother was not difficult; he’d been disentangling himself from Ichiro’s problems for many months before Ōda cut him down. Freeing himself from the vines his father had cast on him was a different matter. Ichiro’s injury—and the trouble with the duels that had precipitated it—had distracted Daigoro from any concerted effort to come to grips with the loss of his father. But in dealing with Ichirō, Daigoro found he’d learned something about attachment and detachment. He had learned how to love and respect his family without becoming entangled, and now, grieving for his brother, he was finally able to grieve for his father.

  As it happened, the morning of the funeral was also the morning of Daigoro’s sixteenth birthday. In ordinary circumstances his coming-of-age would have warranted an elaborate celebration, but the funeral did not allow it. Even so, Ichirō’s funeral amounted to a confirmation of Daigoro’s coming-of-age, for now Daigoro was the only son left to lead the family. Daigoro had become the undisputed head of the Okuma clan, and thus, at all of sixteen years of age, the most powerful daimyo on the Izu peninsula.

  Daigoro watched as Ichirō’s body was committed to the flames. He saw the snow shrink away from the terrible heat of the pyre, watched the dark gray pillar billow up past the rooftops toward the white clouds. A sudden breeze cut the pillar in two, giving Daigoro a glimpse of a familiar figure he had not expected to see.

  Katsushima Goemon still wore large, bushy sideburns, though today he did not have his sleeves and pant legs tied back for combat. Daigoro remembered him well—not six months had passed since Ichirō had bested him—and he and Katsushima circled the blistering heat of the funeral pyre to greet each other.

  “I hope my attendance does not offend you,” Katsushima said. “Your brother was a ferocious fighter, Okuma-sama. He deserves to be remembered for that.”

  “He will be, though I fear his ferocity may be the only thing he is remembered for.”

  “No. He will be remembered for his brother as well. The stories on the road say you stood over his body and defended him like a bear. The Bear Cub of Izu—that’s what they call you now.”

  The wind off the pyre was hot enough to redden both of their faces. Daigoro feared his face would have flushed anyway. “I thank you for coming, Katsushima-san. I hope you will do us the honor of staying as our guest tonight.”

  “And I hope you will do the honor of facing me in a duel, Okuma-sama.”

  Daigoro was taken aback. “How can I face you, Katsushima-san? You are close to thrice my age, unless I miss my guess. What little wisdom I’ve managed to accumulate regarding swordsmanship cannot hope to rival yours.”

  Katsushima bowed. Snowflakes gathered in his bushy hair, highlighting the white and graying the black. “You have the advantage of youth. The years have slowed me.”

  “Even slowed, I daresay you outstrip me at my fastest. You must have walked a hundred ri to get here. It’s an effort for me to limp from this courtyard to my own bed.”

  “In truth I borrowed a horse to come today.” Katsushima allowed himself a small, embarrassed smile. “I dared not come late.”

  “Then I shall give you what you ask,” said Daigoro, “but only on the condition that you will stay the night and share a meal or two. I want to discuss swordsmanship with you, and Bushido as well.”

  “I accept,” said Katsushima. “I expect we have much to learn from each other.”

  It was as sincere a compliment as an older man could ever pay a boy of sixteen. In that moment Daigoro knew their duel would be but a formality, a conversation conducted with blades instead of words. Daigoro’s bow to Katsushima was deeper than it should have been—the only way he could repay a compliment so profound. As they parted company, Daigoro was thankful for the gift Katsushima had given him: not just the compliment but the brief moment’s respite from grief and pain.

  With startling speed the body burned to nothing. Daigoro watched side by side with his mother, her shoulder trembling under his hand as she wept. He could not be seen to cry in front of his bannermen and their samurai, so he squeezed her shoulder and meditated on impermanence. It seemed impossible that someone so vibrantly alive as Ichirō could simply cease to exist, but at the same time it seemed that in the blink of an eye there burned wood and nothing else.

  When it was done, Ichirō’s ashes were committed in the shrine built to hon
or their father a few short months before. Leaving the shrine, Daigoro saw Yasuda Jinbei waiting for him, his thin topknot the same color as the snow in the courtyard.

  “Lord Yasuda,” he said, bowing to the small man, “I noticed your grandnephew Eijun among your bodyguard. He honors my brother by coming.”

  “He honors you, Okuma-dono.”

  “He honors us both—as do you, Yasuda-san. Your family does a noble thing in forgiving my brother’s rudeness in his duel with Eijun-san. I thank you for it.”

  Yasuda bowed his head. “There is nothing more to forgive, my lord. If I may say so, I fear your brother has paid the price for his rudeness. I do not ordinarily listen to rumormongers, but I have heard that his behavior in his duel with young Eijun was not unique.”

  “As direct as ever, Yasuda-san,” Daigoro said.

  “An old man cannot afford to waste time getting to the point.” Yasuda bowed. “I have also heard that you fought with bravery and cunning to defend your family’s honor. They say your father’s skill lives on in you.”

  “I doubt it. He fought in many wars; I have only the one duel to my name.”

  “I had in mind his skill as a diplomat as well as his skill with the sword. If I may ask, what became of the one you killed, my lord?”

  “I called for him to be cremated, and for his remains to be returned to House Ōda. I also ordered a small portion of his ashes to remain at the Ashigara checkpoint, to be interred where he fell. Tomorrow some of Ichirō’s ashes will be sent there as well, to be laid to rest in the same grave.”

  Yasuda smiled. “A gesture worthy of your father,” he said.

  “It is more than a gesture. I had no time to compose a death poem for Ōda, and so he and my brother will have to share one. I will have it etched on the stupa marking where they lie.”

  “May I trouble you for the poem, my lord?”

  Daigoro felt his cheeks warm. He’d spent more time than most as a scholar—his leg had never left him much choice—but even so he’d never considered himself a poet. Nevertheless, he withdrew the folded white rectangle from his overrobe and handed it to Lord Yasuda. It read,