The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) Read online

  The Fanged flicked her fingers again. The pain returned, even more intense this time. It radiated from the wound and spread throughout Satō’s body. She felt her mind slipping. Her throat was torn from screaming.

  “You know what I mean. The power you’ve yearned for so long is yours. Take it.”

  She wants me to use the blood magic, the wizardess realized in a faint glimpse of consciousness. But I have no blood to use …

  The pain decreased a little, allowing her to focus on its source. In her mind, it glowed with a purple light, a dark beacon of suffering. The light poured from the wound, oozing like blood.

  It was blood, she realized. I’m bleeding internally, and I can sense it. I can transform it into power!

  The Fanged scowled and drew another rune with her fingers. The pain returned with an even greater intensity.

  If I cast the spell … they will get me …

  The Silver Robe manipulated the level of pain deftly, keeping Satō at the edge of fainting, just deep enough to let her still have strands of clear, rational thought.

  Satō gasped and twisted in the shackles. She couldn’t take it any longer. She was ready to do anything to get rid of this pain. The Fanged’s eyes narrowed. She pointed her fingers forward and it felt as if she penetrated the wound itself with her claws. Satō’s world was aching and purple light.

  And then it all stopped. The pain was no more. A row of blood runes danced before the eyes of her mind. She did not understand them all, but she recognized them from a different time and different life, when she had fought to save Bran’s leg.

  They spoke to her, revealing their meaning. She could form them into words of power. A stream of energy poured from inside her stomach, feeding the spell. She could control it no longer — she just wanted the pain to stop.

  The rays of magic struck at her chains. The metal grew red hot, the links melted soft and snapped as Satō reached towards the Fanged with renewed strength. The blood spell followed her thought, taking the form of a crimson blade aimed at the Silver Robe’s heart. She manipulated it as easily as ice.

  How am I doing that?

  The spear of blood magic flew forward. The Fanged brushed it off with a wave of a hand, then pushed Satō back with a blow of energy. The wizardess hit the wall and slid to the ground.

  “Excellent,” the Silver Robe said. “We will continue this tomorrow.”

  The ordeal was repeated the next day. And the day after, every time ending the same way, with Satō using blood magic to release herself from the chains and attack her tormentor. On the fourth day, something changed.

  The moment she used the blood spell, all the veins in her hand shone through her skin. She proceeded with the attack as usual, but it was just a ruse to get rid of the Silver Robe — who by now demanded to be referred to as ‘Lady Yodo’.

  Once left alone, Satō studied her stomach. All the internal organs lit up, presented as if in a Bataavian anatomical drawing. Blood pulsated through her veins, her liver throbbed with each heartbeat. The wound was a shaft of darkness, radiating jagged, crackling purple rays. She looked at the wall and saw the faint glow of the circulatory system of the guard standing outside.

  Her scholar mind concluded she now possessed a blood magic that was the equivalent of Bran’s True Sight. It was fading fast as the energy released by the initial spell dispersed. Satō fed it a little more blood to sustain it. What was it that Dōraku had told her about the history of Western magic? The war between blood mages and elemental wizards? Each of the blood spells she’d used had a parallel in the Rangaku spellbook. A Blood Lance. A Blood Sight. Easier and more powerful than the elemental equivalents.

  This is the trap I cannot fall for. Except … maybe this one last time.

  Upon closer inspection, the edges of the stabbing wound proved susceptible to her power. She could manipulate them with a fair amount of precision, using the filaments of the purple light almost as a surgeon’s suture. She managed a few rough “stitches” before losing the rest of her energy. The Blood Sight expired, leaving her in the darkness, alone.

  Lady Yodo tortured her for two more days, before Satō grew too weak to counter her magic.

  She was spent, no longer able to regenerate the wasted blood through the food — food prepared to help her bodily fluids rebuild faster: fish livers, red seaweed, beans, raw, succulent tuna flesh … It wasn’t enough. Satō writhed in agony, unable to summon even the slightest spark of magic.

  The Fanged smirked. She barked an order. A minute later, the mute servant entered the room, confused as to his purpose. Yodo’s eyes turned golden.

  She became a blur of movement, reaching for the servant with a clawed hand, pinning him to the oak table and plunging her teeth into his neck. She tore at the flesh, gulping and slurping the blood, as the servant shuddered in the throes of agony. When he at last stopped moving, she left him among the empty plates and bowls like just another dish. The pool of blood grew underneath him, and started dripping onto the floor.

  At first, Satō’s stomach churned at the sight. Then, she felt it: a terrible, insatiable hunger, unlike any she’d ever felt before. It was as if she hadn’t eaten anything in her entire life. In her mind, the dripping blood took the form of the finest, most desirable delicacy. The magic stirring inside her called for sustenance, and this was the only way she could provide it.

  She reached out and dipped a finger in the red liquid, then licked it off. It tasted vile. She bent in two and retched on the floor.

  Yodo covered her mouth with her hand and laughed. “It’s an acquired taste. You’ll get used to it.”

  On the tenth day, Yodo began her usual torture with an air of ennui in her eyes. Satō didn’t flinch. She stared the Fanged in the face, unmoved by pain.

  “You’ve done something, haven’t you,” said Yodo. She tugged at the magic strings again — and again, the result was a mocking silence.

  “I removed it,” replied Satō. “The pain. The wound. It’s gone.”

  “You shouldn’t have been able to do it yet.” The Fanged stood up and stepped away from the table. Something stirred for the first time in the blackness of her eyes. Was it … fear?

  Satō had worked hard on the mending spell. Every night, saving every scrap of power she could spare after the daily ordeals, piece by piece she applied magic. Blood of human sacrifices was the point of no return and she knew it well.

  I would sooner die.

  Fastening the gash inside her stomach, she mended the wound with the power of blood magic, better than a shrine priest could ever do. When she realized it had worked a wave of euphoria washed over her.

  There is nothing I cannot do.

  By the time Yodo-dono returned, Satō felt pangs of hunger and thirst that no amount of rice and fish could quench — the pounding headache and nausea — the urge to cast more magic, to use this almost unlimited power again, even at the cost of the remaining life force.

  I mustn’t let it. Father … Nagomi … She still had her memories and they gave her strength to fight the addiction. Bran … They could rescue her. Or maybe she could rescue herself …? She dared one more spell.

  The bronze cuffs snapped open with a metallic clang. A long blade of ice crackled in Satō’s hands, the frost crystal enhanced with speckles of bright blood. She stooped to a charge.

  Yodo shot across the room, grabbed Satō by the hair, and slammed her with full force against the table, breaking her nose. Satō slashed blindly at the air. Yodo smashed her to the floor and in an instant brought her face near to Satō’s. She hissed, baring her black teeth. Her breath was sickening, smelling of blood and sulphur.

  “Don’t you dare threaten me again in my own castle,” she said. “You’re not that irreplaceable.”

  She left the wizardess bleeding on the straw mat and turned for the door. “We’re moving to the next phase,” she said to somebody in the corridor. “Wash her and have her put on the robe. Saturn will arrive tomorrow; he won’t enjoy her like t
his.”

  Lady Yodo led her down a wide, windowless hallway, under massive timber beams, past rows of white sliding panels.

  A castle, remembered Satō, she said it’s her castle. Where are we? Not in Heian, that’s certain ...

  The hallway ended at a large octagonal room, with a gilded ceiling and a floor of tightly packed, superior quality straw mats. Its walls were covered with soot and runes drawn both in ink and dried-up blood. Old landscape paintings, landmarks of Yamato, showed from under the dark stains.

  Another Fanged was waiting in the room, sitting before a tray with a clay flask and two cups. He was wearing the snow-white robe of death. He had long black straight hair, falling over his shoulders and shaved into a peak over his forehead, a thin whisker over narrow lips and a small goatee. He seemed a few years older than Dōraku or Ganryū — or rather, he must have been when he was turned. The cunning and constant calculation visible in his black eyes reminded Satō of a more malevolent version of Nariakira.

  “She is ready, Father Saturn,” Yodo announced. “I cannot teach her any more for now.”

  Teach? Is that what you think you were doing?

  “I understand, Sister Moon,” the other Fanged replied. “Leave us.”

  There was a hint of fear and revulsion in the way the Silver Robe bowed before “Father Saturn”. She glanced at Satō, then back at the Fanged, bowed again and backed out of the room.

  Interesting.

  The wizardess sat down, wrapping her robe around her knees. It was made from the same silver silk as the one worn by Yodo.

  “Are you the leader here?” she asked.

  “At your level of initiation, it would be enough for you to believe it,” the Fanged replied. “But you’d soon realize this isn’t the whole truth. No, I am not the leader. I am, however, the chief strategist of the Serpent.”

  “The strategist — so the war plans are all yours?”

  “The general outline, yes. I tend to leave the others some independence. It doesn’t always work out, as you may have noticed.”

  He smiled an odd, nostalgic smile. He seemed different from Ganryū and Lady Yodo, the only other Heads of the Serpent she’d met so far. She sensed little malice from him, compared to the others. She even noticed a slight resemblance in his demeanour to that of Dōraku, as if the two Fanged were two sides of the same coin, one a Leader, the other a Renegade.

  “And what do I call you? Strategist?”

  “I’ll settle for Yui,” the Fanged replied. “Others call me Father Saturn, or Master Yui, but I won’t insist on titles until you decide to use them yourself.”

  He pushed the tray towards her. She started pouring, and dropped the clay flask in fright. It was filled with dense, bright-red blood.

  “It’s ox blood,” said the Fanged. “I’m not as cruel as Moon … as Yodo-dono.”

  “I-I don’t believe you.”

  “But you know it to be true. At least you should be able to tell the difference by now. If you’re truly ready, that is.”

  Satō put the flask to her nose and took a sniff. It smelled nothing like the blood of the dead servant. The scent still awoke in her the pangs of hunger, but it wasn’t as delicious or enticing as before. She took a sip, fighting back the gagging reflex. The moment the first drop touched her tongue, the world around her lit up, her senses sharpened, her magic powers tingled in anticipation. No longer able to withstand the urge, she poured herself a cup and swallowed it in one gulp.

  “Why are you doing this to me,” she asked in a hoarse voice after the first astonishing effects of the ox’s blood melted away and she was able to think clearly again.

  “And what is it, exactly, that you think we’re doing?” he replied with a question and poured himself some of the blood as casually as if it were a cup of cha.

  “Making me addicted to blood magic. Turning me into one of your slaves.”

  He smiled again. “It wouldn’t take us nearly that long, I assure you. We can be pretty effective if we put our hands to it.”

  “Yodo-do … Yodo said the same. That I will join you of my own will. But how is it my own will if my decisions are guided by an addiction?”

  “The addiction is just an unfortunate side effect of our power.” The Fanged twirled his whiskers. His voice trickled like honey, charming and alluring. “But if it makes you feel more at ease, I can offer you as much blood as you want to keep your addiction at bay, with no strings attached. We desire for you to become one of us, and that can only be achieved through persuasion, not force.”

  “Why would I ever do that? You are monsters! Blood-thirsty demons. You are the enemy of everything I believe in.”

  He stood up and started pacing around her with unhurried steps, his hands behind his back. “You don’t know much about what we’re really fighting for, do you?”

  Satō shrugged. “Power. Rule over Yamato.”

  Yui stepped over to the wall and touched the runes. A map of the world appeared, drawn in glowing red lines. He laid a finger on a cluster of dots off the eastern end of the largest continent.

  “This tiny speck of land? Who would want to rule that? Who would want to spend so much effort to gain control over something so insignificant?”

  “You can’t believe you’d be able to conquer the world. Not even with your powers.”

  “Maybe not.” Yui returned to his place on the floor. “Not yet, at least. No, our mission is not power for power’s sake. What I say now may come as a shock, considering how many lies you’ve been fed by the Renegade, but … we do what must be done, because it’s the best way to protect Yamato.”

  “Protect? You’re the ones Yamato needs protecting from!”

  He shook his head. “I understand. Really, I do. You only know what the Renegade told you about us—”

  “You killed my father. You almost killed Nagomi. I knew what your kind was like long before I met Dōraku-sama.”

  Yui winced. “Brother Mars — I suppose you knew him as Ganryū, yes? His methods were, shall I say, unorthodox. And that silly feud he had with the Renegade … We gave him a free hand over the Chinzei operations because he had promised us he would deliver something very important and valuable. But that proved a mistake — for which I apologise unreservedly.”

  He bowed so deep, his forehead almost touched the floor. This took Satō aback. The last thing she expected from the Fanged was an apology for Ganryū’s actions.

  “You’re lying,” she said through clenched teeth. “You slaughtered my companions in battle; you’ve abducted and tortured me. I still can’t move for pain.”

  He nodded with a sad, concerned face. “We had to force you to reveal your true potential. This required some drastic action. As I said, we are short on time. I hope you will be able to forgive us.”

  It appeared he had an answer to everything. She searched her memory for more accusations. The heady, sickly smell of blood and the exhaustion from Yodo’s torments clouded her mind.

  “What about Heian? You’ve destroyed an entire city. My husband died there.”

  “We?” He gave her a wounded look. “That was a barbarian dorako, acting on orders from the Taikun. We merely offered some assistance in battle against the rebels, hoping to protect the city. Your husband died a hero.”

  “That’s it—” She snapped her fingers, glad at last to have found blame to pin on the Fanged. “You support the Taikun against the Mikado and the uprising. No matter what else you say, this makes us enemies.”

  “And why wouldn’t we? He is the rightful ruler of this country.”

  “He is a tyrant who bows to barbarian invaders!”

  Yui traced the edge of the cup with his fingers. “Barbarians … like your friend, Bran-sama?”

  “He’s … he’s different.”

  “Your father’s friends from Dejima, then? Or the priestess’s father, Von Siebold? The Dracalish who support the rebels? Those barbarian invaders?”

  She struggled to find an answer to that.

>   The Fanged pushed the tray away. “I see you are confused and weak. Why won’t you go back to your room. We’ll return to this conversation tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Satō’s torments didn’t end after the meeting with Yui. The moment she stepped out of the octagonal room, she felt an exhilarating pain, as the thin blade sliced through her kidneys. Lady Yodo threw her bleeding out onto the floor of the holding cell, forcing the wizardess to expend all the precious energy on healing the wound all over again.

  The breakfast next morning was brought by an automated servant, whirling gears and clacking pulleys. Satō guessed they did not want to tempt her with a living, bleeding human. The food also changed from her usual fare. The fish was alive, pinned to a wooden board with a knife through its gills. Instead of pickles or seaweed, the third plate contained an entire heart, still warm, freshly torn out from some small animal. She devoured it all, consumed with shame and pain.

  Once again she was brought to the octagonal room, the tray and cups set up before her. She sniffed the flask — the smell was different this time.

  “It’s deer’s blood today,” explained Yui. “You will learn to tell them apart in no time. The pig’s blood, we found, is the closest in taste and regenerative potential to that of a human — but we’d have to buy it from the Bataavians, and that is difficult for the moment.”

  She felt wretched at the thought of drinking blood again. Until recently, she hadn’t even been eating any red meat. Her stomach lurched, threatening to expel the entire content of the breakfast. Her hands grew cold and clammy; she shivered all over.

  Yui poured himself the red liquid and downed it. He wiped his lips and whiskers with a silk handkerchief. Not a single drop stained the snow-white robe.

  “So, Takashima-sama. What are your rebels fighting for?” he asked. “Why did you join them? Think carefully before you answer.”

  This wasn’t an easy question, and they both knew it. There was a great disparity of goals among the various factions. Nariakira had his own selfish agenda. Mori, too, and even the kiheitai, ostensibly under his instructions, fought for their own cause. There was pretty much only one thing they all agreed on.