“Yes, that makes sense.” Satō nodded thoughtfully. “It’s just so… sudden. He wouldn’t even come back to say goodbye... again,” she added quietly, and Shōin wondered, not for the first time, what exactly connected the Westerner to his wife.
“Well, he couldn’t really be seen travelling up and down the streets of Chōfu,” he forced a chuckle. “Mori-dono has a reputation to keep.”
A shadow fell on his face. He looked up — it was Takasugi, handing him another gourd.
“Thanks, but I’ve had enough water,” Shōin said.
Takasugi laughed. “You think I’d bring you water? I brought this all the way from Naniwa — it will put you back on your feet.”
“Ah.” Shōin reached for the gourd. “It’s good that you’re here, Takasugi-sama. There’s something urgent I need to discuss with you.”
“You’re in bad shape, little priestess.”
Nagomi slowly sat up. Torishi slid the door closed discreetly, making sure there was nobody outside.
“I can’t take it anymore. I want it to stop.”
“Is it really so bad? Seeing the future?”
“I don’t want it!” she cried. “I hate Scrying, I hate what it does to me!”
“I don’t understand,” he said, frowning.
She hid her face in her hand.
“Scryers can’t be healers. It’s something I’ve learnt in Atsuta. And it’s true. My healing power has diminished. It’s now just a fraction of what it once was… At first I thought it was because of what happened on Ganryūjima, but now I know… I hate it,” she repeated.
He came up and knelt in front of her, putting his large hands on her arms. “If this is your true calling, don’t fight it. There will always be other healers to take your place.”
“True calling? All my life I wanted nothing else but to heal people.”
“You’re still young. You’ll change your mind.”
She wiped her eyes and sniffed. Her golden necklace jangled. She picked it up to the light.
“And who will train me, now that Kazuko-hime is dead? How will I even know which visions are true? I was already wrong about Sacchan. And now Bran…”
“What about him?” Torishi asked sharply.
“Shōin said Mori-dono has sent him on a secret mission. But that’s not what I saw.”
Torishi frowned and smoothed his beard deep in thought.
“You must renew your training at once,” he said eventually.
“Haven’t you been listening? I don’t know how. I don’t know anything. And there’s noone who can help me.”
She dropped her head. He reached out his hand and raised her chin gently.
“Do you forget?” he rumbled. “I am the Prince of the Kumaso. I am Chief Shaman. I know the ways of the Spirits.”
She raised her eyes. “You would help me?”
He put his fist to his chest in a solemn gesture.
“I will do all that’s in my power.”
Shōin stood up on the Western-style lectern, and looked at the small crowd of men before him. Some of them were as old as his father, if not more. Most were in their twenties; there was nobody as young as himself.
He still found it overwhelming to speak to them as a teacher. His authority over them was not his own: it had been bestowed upon him by the daimyo. He was not their superior in any of the usual samurai ways: experience, wealth, status, kinship. All he had going for him was his raw magic talent — and even that was not as exceptional as he wanted them to think — and the kind of wizardly intuition which put him ahead of the pack, and into Mori-dono’s attention.
And a willingness to betray those who put their trust in me, it seems, he thought bitterly, but then dismissed that notion. It was just some foreigner I met the day before. I had no obligations towards him.
If any of the men in front of him resented his position, they did not show it. They were all commoners or low-ranking nobles, and so, if anything, they looked up to him as an example of the kind of lightning-fast career that was only possible nowadays in an enlightened domain such as Chōfu, or — Shōin was the first to admit — Satsuma. They may have hoped to take his place, but it was a healthy ambition, without malice — and Shōin was ready to step down at any moment, should the need arise.
I’m tired of all this governing and conspiring, anyway. I’d much rather focus on my magical studies. I still haven’t even figured out my attunement…
And now they all stood here, waiting patiently for him to speak. Even standing by the lectern he had to look up to see their faces. He cleared his throat.
“This is the message from Mori Takachika-dono to the students and staff of the Meirinkan Academy of Western Learning,” he started, unravelling a scroll sealed with the Mori crest. He hoped nobody would notice that the scroll was just an empty piece of paper. The daimyo had only given him rough guidance as to what he was about to say. You’ll know best how to talk to them, he’d said.
Shōin wasn’t so sure. He had consulted his words with a few others, including Takasugi and the strange samurai who had arrived at their wedding, and who seemed to be another mysterious acquaintance of his wife. They were more familiar with the ways of the world than he was, but each refused to actually speak to the gathering.
“You are our leader,” Takasugi, who now stood beside him in case any help was needed, had said, “whether you like it or not. You must start acting like one.”
Shōin took a deep breath.
“The attack on our loyal retainers in the forest of Hinoyama Mountain was an unforgivable breach of law, etiquette, and trust. The usual punishment for that kind of transgression is beheading of the ringleaders, and an order of suicide for the followers.”
He paused to see their reaction. Their faces remained grave, silent, unmoved. Were they really all ready to die for this? Shōin wasn’t sure he would have remained so calm himself in similar circumstances.
“However, having considered the loyalty shown personally to me by the headmaster of the school,” he continued, “and taking into account the progress made by the school in recent weeks and the incalculable benefits that its students bring to the well-being of our domain, we have decided one last time to remain gracious and forgiving in this case.”
Not to mention, it will rub Satsuma all the wrong way, Shōin thought with an inward chuckle. The message from Lord Nariakira demanding the rendition of Takashima Satō and those who helped her escape, could not have come at a better moment.
Not even a sigh of relief. The air in the hall remained dense with unease. They knew they wouldn’t be let off that easily.
“Those responsible will be punished, with fines and public shaming, the details of which will be announced at a later date.” This sounded harsh, but Shōin knew the punishments would be extremely lenient: fines for the noble-born, who could afford them, shaming for the commoners, who wouldn’t care. The real retribution was still to come.
“To avoid similar altercations in the future, we have decided to adjust the Meirinkan statute. It is no longer a school of Western learning, and you are no longer just students. With this decree, all those who decide to remain at the school are elevated to retainer status of the Mori clan. Loyalty will be paramount. Furthermore, the Meirinkan is to become a military academy, with the sole purpose of developing modern methods of warfare. There will be strict discipline. Your orders will be coming directly from the castle.”
Now there were gasps. And whispers. Every word of what Shōin said was revolutionary. To elevate so many of the commoners to noblemen, in one sweeping statement, was unheard of; to open a military academy without the Taikun’s permission was a crime. Why would a small, distant domain like Chōfu need to develop its own, new style of army? Was Mori-dono heading the same way as Satsuma — towards open rebellion?
“So there you have it,” Shōin rolled back the scroll. He didn’t feel at all well: his stomach rumbled, his brow was covered in sweat. I need to lie down, he thought.
> “We are now a war school. No more Western literature or history, except the history of warfare. No more medicine, other than dressing wounds and the like. No more studying artefacts, unless they can be somehow used for combat. And so on, and so on. In short, we are to become the Mori clan’s personal militia. Our new name is Kiheitai, ‘the Irregulars’.”
One of the students at the front raised a hand.
“Yes, Aoki-sama?”
“How long do we have before the changes come into effect?”
“The decree is read out publicly tomorrow at noon. Those of you who so wish can leave the school before then — except for those who took part in the fighting. For them, the only other choice is suicide.”
There were nods and murmurs, some of agreement, some of astonishment. It was a fair deal — almost too fair.
One voice broke away from the hubbub. “Isn’t it great? Shōin-sama saved us from the hangman! May he live ten thousand years!”
Shōin searched the owner of the voice out in the crowd. I don’t remember you having taken part in the battle, he thought. It was just as Mori-dono had warned him: they will crawl out in time of change, like worms crawl out of wood when there’s a fire. Turncoats, sycophants, trying to secure their position in the chaos.
He raised his hand, and they quietened down.
“You are now all retainers of the Mori clan,” he said, finishing his speech. He could barely stand. The strain of the last two days was taking a terrible toll on his frail physique. “At the beck and call of the daimyo. It is a harsh duty — but a great privilege. Remember this when…” he gasped and clutched his chest. Takasugi ran up to him and helped him down, then climbed to the lectern.
“That will be all,” he said. “You are dismissed.”
CHAPTER XV
“Are you sure you don’t want me to try pleading with Mori-dono one last time?” Satō asked Nagomi.
The wizardess looked stronger and more warlike than ever, wearing the raven black uniform of the new Chōfu army, with the sword and the thunder gun thrust under the belt. Across her chest ran a white sash with a golden hem, marking her as an officer in the Kiheitai militia. Shōin and other officers had already boarded the ship that would take the newly-fashioned troop on its first assignment to deal with a minor peasant revolt in the eastern part of the province.
“I’m sure,” replied Nagomi. Her voice was shakier than she wanted it to be. “There is something I need to work on with Torishi-sama, and I need peace and quiet.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of that here,” said Satō with a wry smile. “Almost everyone is leaving with us…”
The priestess nodded. She was to be left with just Torishi for her companion. Lord Mori’s house arrest remained in place for them both. But she didn’t mind. In her current state she was not fit for travel — or combat, if that was what Satō was expecting of her.
This is nothing but another gust of wind, isn’t it?
Everyone else was leaving the Meirinkan for their own particular reasons. Bran had his secret mission from the daimyo. The Swordsman had “borrowed” a few of Satō’s students on some errand of his own and disappeared the day after Bran’s waking. Satō and Shōin, too, had their orders. The priestess was the only one without an assignment, the only one who could go where she pleased, and with whom she wanted — and she was growing weary of it.
I have to follow my own mission. As soon as I learn to control those visions…
Torishi had assured her he already had something prepared. For the first time in weeks, she was again full of hope.
“Takasugi-sama will be disappointed,” Satō said with a snicker.
“W-what?”
“He keeps talking about how you dealt with those guards and spies — he thinks you’re some kind of a shinobi.”
Nagomi felt her cheeks burn red. She looked away.
“You know I don’t like to remember that day. Too many people died.”
“Then I suppose it’s better that you don’t come with us,” said Satō, nodding in sympathy. “We are going to a war. People will die.”
“Don’t take me for a coward, Sacchan.”
“I’m not! You’ve always been the bravest of us all. But you’re not a warrior, and I respect that.”
Satō waited for her to answer, but Nagomi remained silent, looking at the wizardess, and to the ships and beyond, across the strait. There, past two tiny, nameless islets, the hump-backed mountain she was seeing often in her dreams lately rose up.
Mekari-yama… what secret do you hide from me?
From asking around the school, she had gathered that the shrine had been damaged in a fire the previous year, and hadn’t since been fully rebuilt. But that wasn’t much to go on — minor shrines like that one burned down all the time.
“Nagomi?” Satō’s voice broke her out of her daydream. “I have to go.”
“Yes,” she said distractedly, and then she wrapped her arms tightly around the wizardess. Satō laughed nervously and looked around to see if anybody noticed this unusual public show of affection.
“We were supposed to stick together,” Nagomi whispered.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon,” Satō said, patting the priestess on the back.
“I’ll be waiting,” said Nagomi, though she knew from her visions it would be a long time before they’d meet again.
From the safety of his hilltop hideout, Shōin watched the village patrol return from its round and disappear beyond the make-shift palisade.
“They seem well organized,” he said. “Not at all the sort of mindless rabble my father used to tell me about.”
“I didn’t know your father was a soldier,” said Satō. There were just the two of them in the observation post. Most of the militia — once teachers and students of the Academy, now “officers” and “soldiers” of the Kiheitai — were hiding in the thick forest at the foot of the hill, preparing for the battle.
Shōin chuckled quietly. “He was a tailor in the army train. There are no warriors in my family.”
The village below was one of two fortified camps guarding the opposite banks of the Nishiki River, and formed part of the rebel rear-guard — the first of several lines of defence they had formed around Iwakuni, the harbour city besieged by the rebels for nearly a month now.
That was all the information Shōin had, and all that he needed. He was only an observer in this campaign. He knew nothing about fighting battles, waging wars; he left that part to Takasugi, a man much better suited to the job thanks to his education and samurai upbringing.
Not that much fighting was necessary until now. The bulk of campaigning was done by the domain’s regular troops, and the rebels seemed to melt away before them like sand before the storm.
“I can’t believe our first task is to destroy a rebellion of commoners,” Shōin said, shaking his head. “This wasn’t what I had in mind when I started teaching at the Meirinkan.”
“Why are they revolting now?” asked Satō.
“I don’t know,” replied Shōin. “The peasant revolt my father saw was before I was born, almost thirty years ago. There have been no disturbances since then. And now this,” he nodded at the village below.
“Don’t they have any demands?”
“Oh, you know.” Shōin shrugged. “The usual. Lower taxes, less work, more respect from the upper classes… the grievances of the common folk are always many. And always right,” he added, quietly, to himself. “But,” he said quickly, before Satō could think on his words, “there is something odd about this one. Nobody knows what caused it in the first place, who the ring-leaders are… They have better weapons and tactics than usual — or so I’ve been told — and they were joined by some warrior monks and onmyōji from the mountains, which is why we’re here. Look out — ” He pointed to the bare hillside, where a man camouflaged in a coat and hat made of green straw climbed quickly towards them. “Takasugi’s coming back.”
The newly-appointed commander of
the Kiheitai scrambled into the observation post and took off the straw garments, revealing the black-and-white uniform underneath.
“How did it go?” asked Shōin.
“It went well, I think,” replied Takasugi. “But they made no promises. I don’t think they believe us yet.”
“I don’t believe it myself,” said Shōin. “It’s too radical. Mori-dono will never consent to it.”
“What’s radical?” asked Satō, “what are you two talking about?”
Takasugi reached for the gourd at his waist and drank from it in deep gulps, before answering.
“There’s a group of dissenters among the rebels,” he said, wiping his mouth. “We made them an offer in exchange for joining our side. It remains to be seen whether they accept it or not.”
“Have you learned what the rebels’ plans are?” asked Shōin.
Takasugi nodded. “That’s what caused the dissent. The leaders are very keen on capturing Iwakuni. The others, not so much. The peasant headmen I talked to simply wanted to present their grievances before the daimyo.”
“What’s so precious about Iwakuni?” asked Satō. Takasugi shrugged.
“A city… a harbour… a residence of a minor branch of the Mori clan… not much worth fighting for, except maybe the provincial treasury and they must know that doesn’t amount to much — Iwakuni is a poor land.”
“Odd,” said Shōin, looking down again at the twin villages. The river between them flowed calmly, the water was bright green in the noon sun.
“When do the samurai attack?” he asked.
Takasugi looked at the sky. A lone black kite flew between the hilltops in search of prey. “Any minute now.”
As if in answer, the blast of a war conch resounded over the hills, followed by a salvo of arquebus fire. Before the smoke dispersed in the wind, more than fifty samurai, bearing Mori banners, poured forth from the forest, screaming and waving swords, towards the furthest of the fortified villages.
“That’s our cue, sensei,” said Takasugi. Shōin nodded, put his hands together and shot a beam of red-coloured flame from his fingers high into the sky. At the signal, the soldier-students of the Kiheitai emerged from their hiding places. In their simple black-and-white uniforms they looked nowhere near as impressive as the samurai, in their simple black-and-white uniforms; and there was maybe twenty of them altogether. But they moved in a tight formation toward the nearest village, silent, determined, ominous. Takasugi had only a week to transform this random group — hand-picked from among the students of Meirinkan — into some kind of fighting force. At least in their appearance they looked the part.
The Chrysanthemum Seal (The Year of the Dragon, Book 5) Page 23