The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Page 3

  “I’m sorry, heika. I will make sure you’re provided with entertainment more suitable for your age.”

  He means women, the young Mikado thought with revulsion. I should be choosing concubines by now, mothers of my sons. I should be producing heirs to the throne, not wasting my sacred seed on some southern courtesan.

  “There is someone with you.” He could barely distinguish the shadows through the many silk curtains. “Who did you bring this time to watch the monkey dance?”

  “It is Di Lan-sama of the Dracalish Empire, heika.”

  Mutsuhito looked closer, trying to pierce the veils with his gaze. The man standing beside Nariakira was tall and slim, wearing the straight-legged trousers and tight-fitting jacket of the Western fashion.

  “Another Gaikokujin?”

  He sighed, wearily. If his father were still alive, he would have ordered Nariakira flayed for the insolence of bringing all those barbarians to Mutsuhito’s quarters …

  “And is this one dumb as well?”

  “He speaks classical Qin, heika.”

  Mutsuhito perked up. This was mildly interesting. His own knowledge of the language was limited to what he needed to learn to read some poetry and philosophical commentaries, but it was better than depending on Nariakira’s translation … He closed his eyes and let the singing Qin words roll off his tongue.

  “Do you — do you know who I am, Barbarian?”

  “I’m beginning to guess … Your Majesty?”

  The young Mikado’s heart raced. He was touched by a profound understanding of history happening right here and now. For the first time since the Age of Dragons, a Mikado was conversing with a foreigner. It wasn’t exactly the Qin Emperor’s royal envoy, or a court minister from Chosun, nonetheless, he recognized the moment was a pivotal one.

  “Nariakira.”

  “Yes, heika?”

  “Leave us.”

  “I’m not sure that would be wise—”

  “I may be your prisoner, Nariakira, but I’m still your Mikado!” Mutsuhito rose from his pillows. “Does my word count for nothing?”

  “We’ve been through this, heika. You’re not a prisoner, you’re a guest. I am only concerned for your safety.”

  “If you brought an assassin into my chambers, it will be on your head. Do you not vouch for the barbarian?”

  “Of course, heika. I will leave you two to it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t eavesdrop this time.”

  Nariakira bowed. “Heika.”

  He heard the sleazy smirk in the daimyo’s voice.

  He waited until the movement of the curtains told him the door closed shut. The foreigner stood silent, waiting. Outside, water lapped softly against the sides of the ship.

  “Why are you here, Barbarian?” Mutsuhito asked.

  “Here in the room, or here in Yamato?”

  “Both.”

  “I’m in this room, I believe, because Shimazu-dono has something to prove to me.”

  “Has he succeeded?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I am more than what he thinks I am.”

  “You mean, more than just a hand holding an Imperial Seal?”

  Mutsuhito chuckled bleakly. “Well said. What about Yamato?”

  “I came looking for my son. He was castaway here.”

  He liked the man’s voice, he decided. There was a sincerity in it lacking in the voices of his courtiers — and certainly absent in Nariakira’s. Only his late father sounded this honest.

  “A son … Is he the one who brought me here?”

  “No. Although he, too, is a long … a dorako rider.”

  Just how many dragon riders are there flying around my country? The Taikun’s government has lost any semblance of control over the situation …

  “Have you found him?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Then you haven’t answered my question, have you, barbarian?”

  There was a hint of smile in the foreigner’s pause. “I decided to stay on as the Dracalish representative in this time of turmoil.”

  “And it is in this capacity that you stand before me?”

  “If it pleases Your Majesty.”

  “Come closer. Let me see your face.”

  The man hesitated. Even he must have sensed this was highly unorthodox, especially if he was aware of the customs of Qin. But then, decency and propriety seemed things of the distant past. Mutsuhito was a prisoner on a daimyo’s ship; his father a victim of an assassin; his palace burned to ash … He touched the green jewel on his neck.

  That thing, too.

  The foreigner stepped forward through the veils. His eyes were a curious shade of emerald green, cunning and bright. His son, Mutsuhito realized, was that other dragon rider, with the red-haired priestess …

  “What happened to your face?” he asked.

  “An angry dragon,” the barbarian replied, smiling.

  Mutsuhito reached out to touch the scar. A sudden jolt jumped where his fingers touched it. Power surged through him, and the jewel burning on his neck grew hotter. A furious silver beast — wings spread, facing a puny human in a blue uniform — flashed in front of him. His own hand turned again into a clawed, scaled limb. He pulled it away in fright.

  “Amazing …” He swallowed. “What made it angry?”

  The foreigner didn’t appear to have noticed anything amiss. “The dragons turn wild after several years of service. It’s something that can’t be helped.”

  “All dragons?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Even the black ones?”

  “I believe so.”

  “What happened to the silver one?”

  “I killed it.”

  Mutsuhito slumped back onto his cushions. “I wish you could tell me more about dragons.”

  “If it pleases Your Majesty, I may come later, for a more informal conversation.”

  “I would like that. Do you hear me, Nariakira?” Mutsuhito asked aloud.

  After a brief pause, the door slid open. “You called, heika?”

  Mutsuhito rolled his eyes. “Give up the charade, Nariakira. You will bring the Gaikokujin to me again. In a proper manner this time, with food, drink, and entertainment. You can even stay as an interpreter this time, in case my Qin proves insufficient. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, heika.” The daimyo’s eyes darted from the Mikado to the foreigner. He, too, was deeply aware of the importance of what had just happened. A bright grin lingered on his lips, as he considered the consequences of the meeting. “I will make the necessary arrangements.”

  The rooms were small, and the husk-filled mattresses even smaller, at the inn at Kurume that the alliance had commandeered for its staff. Dylan was used to rough conditions in a war zone, but the lack of space was beginning to annoy him. There was barely enough room for him to roll out the big map of Yamato he had brought with him from Dejima.

  Somewhere, on the ground floor of the inn, Gwen was taking her evening bath. She didn’t seem to mind the inn, but that didn’t surprise him — she was always able to turn to local customs faster than anyone among his staff. She even claimed to enjoy the taste of the local liquor, far too sweet and flowery for his taste.

  He touched the map and lit up the tracers. The red dots were all in the same spots as the night before. Wulfhere was with Nariakira, here in Kurume. Bran, or at least his dragon, for the past couple of days had not moved away from the great merchant port, Naniwa. This worried Dylan. Had Bran been wounded in the Heian disaster? Or, worse yet, captured by the Taikun’s forces?

  If they find out who he is, they will keep him hostage ...

  His fingers ran along the northern coast. The third red dot pulsated near Kokura. The hex on Frigga’s saddle — the most precious of the three he had managed to cast in Kiyō — remained undetected, giving him direct insight into movements of the Gorllewin detachment. For now, it oscillated between Kokura and several nearby ca
stles — no doubt conveying messages for the loyal daimyos along the front line.

  Why didn’t they destroy Wulf?

  The Seaxe’s story made no sense — there was no way the small green colt could have outrun the two Black Wings. The boy was lying through his teeth, embellishing his success in the sky duel. But his scouting report checked out. The Gorllewin wanted the alliance to know they were in Kokura, the same way Dylan wanted them to know he, Gwen, and Edern were protecting the southern cities … but they made no move against the “Imperial Army” as it marched northwards.

  Why? Another of Nariakira’s schemes? Reaching out to the Gorllewin behind the Taikun’s back would be just like him … He was just about to roll back the map, when the red dot under his index finger blinked and vanished.

  They found it!

  He focused on the map, drawing several enhancing runes, but for several long seconds nothing happened. And then he spotted it again: not in Kokura, but far to the north, on the tip of a peninsula south-west of Edo.

  He recast the tracking spell again, and again the hex tracer lit up near the Taikun’s capital, fainter and distorted, but unmistakable. Somehow, the black dragon had transported itself — and, presumably, its rider — several hundreds if not thousands of miles, in a matter of seconds. Dylan knew of no magic capable of such a feat. And yet …

  The door slid open. Gwen, wrapped in a light silk robe, her skin red with heat, brought in the smell of freshness and cleanliness. She noticed the map on the floor, and Dylan’s frown.

  “What is it? Something wrong with Bran?”

  “No, not Bran. Come here and take a look at this. Maybe you can explain it …”

  CHAPTER III

  The red dust plain stretched around Nagomi, vast, flat and empty, as always.

  Since fleeing Heian, all her dreams had been about waking up in this desolate place. Every night, she closed her eyes on Earth and opened them in the Otherworld.

  She looked around, resigned. There was nothing to draw her attention, just the endless, perfectly flat horizon, and an aimless breeze blowing from nowhere to nowhere. She faced the wind with closed eyes. For some unfathomable reason, it smelled of soot and smoke.

  It made her think of Kyokō, the Scrying girl burned in Karatsu, and her sisters, all equally remarkable; and then Nagomi’s thoughts ventured further, as she recalled the people she had met since leaving Kiyō.

  There were so many. It was almost as if we were characters in a play, or heroes in a story.

  But they were heroes in a story, she thought, with a sudden insight. Well, maybe not herself, but certainly Satō and Bran. If somebody ever wrote the history of this war, they would feature in it. “The Wizardess and the Dragon-Rider”. And what about the priestess? a member of the audience would ask. So sorry, we didn’t have enough actors. We replaced her with this wooden cut out of a girl holding a lamp.

  The breeze ceased and the plain turned quiet again, quiet and empty. Empty. There was something wrong about the emptiness. She opened her eyes.

  “They are all at the Gate,” said a familiar voice. “Storming it, trying to get out into our world again.”

  Torishi sat on a round white boulder that had appeared out of nowhere. He again wore his long mane and thick beard, and the rich ceremonial robes of the Kumaso. A bow and a broadsword hung on leather belts across his back. Though his body in the Otherworld bore no scars, she saw pain in his tired, grey face. He was pale, almost translucent. She wanted to embrace him, but he looked so weak, she feared it would exhaust him even further.

  “The Gates?”

  “The Gates of the Otherworld.”

  Bear is fearful, girl is bold.

  “You and Bran both speak of it as if it was a real place ...”

  “But it is, little priestess,” Torishi laughed. “Did they not teach you about it? Don’t tell me you Shamo priests no longer know of it?”

  “Of what?”

  “The bald mountain in the far north—”

  “Where the hermits go to die,” she finished for him.

  It was supposed to be at the far end of Yamato: a sacred peak where the forest hermits and itinerant monks ventured in search of a peaceful end. A place on the edge of the physical and spiritual worlds. The legend said that those who died there would pass straight into the realms of the Gods. In Kiyō, thousands of ri away, few believed it to be anything more than a myth.

  “It’s not a myth,” Torishi added, as if reading her mind. “You should have seen it in your visions.”

  “I didn’t have any visions. All I see is this place. Something’s changed, lost.”

  Torishi patted his beard in thought. The familiar gesture opened a dam of emotions in Nagomi’s heart. She reached her arms around his trunk-like chest.

  “Oh, Torishi, when are you coming for me? I’m worried.”

  The bear-man stroked her hair. “My wounds are not yet healed. I will come as soon as I can. Where are you now? Are you safe?”

  “In Naniwa. We’re hiding from the Taikun. It’s a long story.”

  “Have you found the wizardess? Is the boy with you?”

  “Satō is …” She stumbled. “She’s not here. Bran is somewhere in the city, hiding. I wish I had your herbs. I wish you were here.”

  Torishi scratched his head. His eyes turned solemn for a second, losing their spark. “I … may not be able to reach you for some time yet.”

  “What do you mean? You are all right, aren’t you? You will heal. You’re strong.”

  His mane shook as he laughed. “Yes, I am strong. But it took me a great effort to reach you today.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, cub,” he patted her head. “I just wanted to teach you something that may come in useful when I’m not around.”

  “Teach me — you mean, like a spell?”

  Torishi had never divulged even the slightest secrets of the Kumaso magic. She tensed with anticipation — and a niggling anxiety. Why now?

  The bear-man twirled a strand of beard between his fingers. “It’s not the same as I use … but it’s similar. It will let you reach the boy’s mind — or anyone’s, as long you have something that belongs to them.”

  “I can arrange that. What are the words? And components?” She was eager to learn, but she hoped it wasn’t too complicated.

  Torishi smiled. He rose from the boulder. “In here, we don’t need words. Close your eyes and free your mind, little priestess.” He laid his heavy hands on her head.

  Like a swelling tide filling out the estuary, the power of the spell filled out the nooks of her mind, and carried with it the words and the patterns she needed to invoke the magic. She gasped and reeled back from the impact.

  He grasped her hand to stop her from falling.

  “This — this doesn’t sound like your language at all,” she said, after playing the spell back in her head. It was a simple magic, without flames or herbs, just a handful of bird feathers, a shape to draw on a willow-wood stick and an incantation. The words sounded funny and there was a jarring dissonance in their melody.

  “No. Had I known it before, I would have taught you sooner. I’ve learned it here, in the Otherworld.”

  “Who taught it to you?”

  Torishi shook his head. “It doesn’t matter for now. Do you remember it all?”

  “I think so.”

  He turned serious. “Do not fear it. The Shadows will smell your fear on the Eagle’s Path — and even though they’re busy elsewhere, they will come for you. Use it with care and only when necessary.”

  “I understand.”

  The warning was unnecessary. She sensed a faint malevolence in the spell and knew she would not want to use it often. Whoever Torishi had learned it from, was somebody she little desired to meet.

  Who lives here that can teach a magic like this? Who lives here at all? A kami? A demon?

  A grimace of pain ran through the bear-man’s face. He reached to his side. There was no woun
d visible there, but she knew in the real world his body must have been in agony for the pain to break through to his phantom self.

  “You’re straining yourself,” she said. She touched the place of the wound. She couldn’t do anything to heal it. “You should go back.”

  “You’re right.” He rubbed her shoulder with a gesture filled with sadness and longing. “I must leave.”

  “I don’t know how long we will stay in Naniwa, and where we will go from here. Please hurry.”

  “Stay safe, little cub.”

  He clasped his hands together, bowed, and vanished.

  Nagomi remained alone on the red dust plain. She sat down on the boulder — is it going to remain here forever? — and waited for the dream to end.

  Nodwydd stretched out its long silver neck as it climbed over the rocky ridge. Beyond it, the mountain sloped steadily northwards, easing into a broad muddy plain that stretched all the way to the sea. Dylan pulled on the reins, slowing down almost to a hover.

  “This should be it,” he told Gwen. “This is where Wulfhere’s report ends.”

  Gwen unfurled the banner she’d been holding on her knees. It was a piece of green cloth embroidered by a Kurume tailor. The three dragons were drawn in a fanciful Yamato style, snake-like and whiskered, but from a distance, the banner was recognizably that of the Dracalish Empire.

  “How long do we wait?” she asked over the flapping of cloth in the wind.

  “As long as it takes,” he replied. “They are soldiers; they are bound to patrol the border at regular intervals.”

  “What if they decide to blow us from the sky?”

  “They won’t. They let Wulf escape.”

  “Maybe they didn’t deem him enough of a threat.”

  “Trust me.”

  “If I haven’t trusted you, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Squinting in the sun, Dylan located a wide road leading from the mountains to the sea. He followed its course. He made no effort to conceal their presence, flying low enough for all below to see. The dots and dashes of men and carts stopped in their tracks as the silver dragon soared above them. The land tapered into a triangular peninsula, leading to a harbour city at its end and a narrow strait beyond it.