“Well, yes, but so was my exile. What if he keeps it?”
“Jato always finds its rightful owner, doesn’t it? Anyway, you can’t use it anymore. It’s time to hand it on.”
It was true that Takeo had not used the sword in battle since the death of Kikuta Kotaro and the loss of his fingers, but hardly a day had passed when he had not worn it, and he had become skilled enough in using his left hand to support his right, at least in practice combat. Jato had the deepest significance for him; it had been left to him by Shigeru and was the visible symbol of his legitimate rule. The idea of relinquishing it disturbed him so much he felt it was necessary, after changing into his night attire, to spend some time in meditation.
He dismissed Minoru and his attendants and sat alone in the darkened room, listening to the noises of the night and slowing his breath and his thoughts. Music and drums echoed from the riverbank, where the townspeople were dancing. Frogs were croaking in a pool in the garden, and crickets rasped among the bushes. Slowly he realized the wisdom of Gemba’s advice—he would give Jato back to the imperial family from which it had come.
THE SOUND OF music and drums continued late into the night, and the next morning the streets filled again with men, women, and children dancing. Listening to them as he prepared for the audience with the Emperor, Takeo heard songs not only about the kirin but also about the houou:
The houou nests in the Three Countries;
Lord Otori has appeared in the capital.
His kirin is a gift to the Emperor;
His horses stir up our land.
Welcome, Lord Otori!
“I went out last night to gauge the mood of the city,” Hiroshi said. “I told one or two people about the houou feathers.”
“It seems to have been very effective!” Takeo replied, holding out his arms for the heavy silk robe.
“People see your visit as a harbinger of peace.”
Takeo did not reply directly, but he felt the sense of calm that he had achieved the previous night deepen. He recalled all his training, from Shigeru and Matsuda as well as from the Tribe. He became grounded and impassive; all unease left him.
His companions also seemed possessed by the same confidence and gravity. Takeo was transported in the ornately decorated palanquin. Shigeko and Hiroshi rode on the pale gray black-maned horses, Ashige and Keri, on either side of the kirin, each holding a scarlet silk cord attached to the kirin’s collar of gold leaf–covered leather. The kirin walked as gracefully and unperturbed as ever, turning its long neck to look down on the adoring crowd. The shouts and excitement did not affect its composure, nor that of its attendants.
The Emperor had already made the short journey from the Imperial Palace to the Great Shrine in an elaborately lacquered carriage drawn by black oxen, and more carriages of noblemen and women milled around the entrance. The shrine buildings were all bright vermilion, newly restored and painted, and in front of them, within the gates, was a broad arena, the concentric circles already marked out in contrasting colors, where the contest would take place. The palanquin bearers trotted across this, followed by Takeo’s retinue, guards good-naturedly keeping back the excited throng but leaving the outer gates open. Pine trees lined the sides, and beneath their branches wooden stands and silken tents and pavilions had been erected for the spectators, and hundreds of flags and banners fluttered in the breeze. Many people, warriors and noblemen, were already seated here, though the dog hunt would not take place until the following day, taking advantage of this excellent viewing point to get their first glimpse of the kirin. Women with long black hair, men wearing small formal caps, had brought silken cushions and sunshades, food in lacquered boxes. At the next gate the palanquin was lowered to the ground and Takeo stepped out. Shigeko and Hiroshi dismounted; Hiroshi took the reins of the horses and Takeo walked with his daughter and the kirin toward the main shrine building.
The white walls and red beams gleamed in the brilliant afternoon sun. At the steps Saga Hideki and Lord Kono waited with their attendants, all dressed in formal robes of great splendor, Saga’s decorated with turtles and cranes, Kono’s with peonies and peacocks. Bows and courtesies were exchanged, and then Saga led Takeo within, to a dim hall lit by hundreds of lamps, where on the top level of a stepped dais, behind a delicate bamboo curtain that shielded him from the profane eyes of the world, sat the Emperor, the embodiment of the gods.
Takeo prostrated himself, aware of the smoky smell of the oil, Saga’s sweat masked by the sweet incense, and the fragrance of the Emperor’s attendants, the Ministers of the Right and the Left, who sat on the steps below their sovereign.
This was as much as he expected, merely to be received into the presence of the Emperor, the first member of the Otori to be so honored since the legendary Takeyoshi.
Saga announced in a clear but deferential voice, “Lord Otori Takeo has come from the Three Countries to present a wonderful gift to your Majesty, and to assure your Majesty of his humble allegiance to your Majesty.”
These words were repeated by one of the Ministers on the dais in a high-toned voice with many additions of elegant language and archaic courtesies. When he had finished, everyone bowed again, and a short silence ensued, during which Takeo felt certain the Emperor was scrutinizing him through the chinks in the bamboo.
Then from behind the curtain the Emperor himself spoke, in hardly more than a whisper.
“Welcome, Lord Otori. It is our great pleasure to receive you. We are aware of the ancient bond that exists between our families.”
Takeo heard all this before it was relayed by the Minister, and he was able to shift his position slightly to study Saga’s reaction. He thought he heard the slightest intake of breath from the man next to him. The Emperor’s words were brief, but far more than he could have hoped for: recognition of both the lineage of the Otori and his own entitlement. It was a huge and unexpected honor.
He dared to say, “May I address your Majesty?”
The request was repeated, and the Emperor’s assent relayed back.
Takeo said, “Many centuries ago your Majesty’s ancestor gave this sword, Jato, to Otori Takeyoshi. It was handed on to me by my father, Shigeru, before his death. I was requested to return it to you, and I now humbly do so, offering it to you as a sign of my allegiance and my service.”
The Minister of the Right conferred with the Emperor, and spoke again to Takeo.
“We accept your sword and your service.”
Takeo went forward on his knees and took the sword from his belt. He felt a terrible pang of regret as he held it out in both hands.
Farewell, he said quietly in his mind.
The lowest of the ministers took Jato, and it was passed from official to official up the steps until the Minister of the Left took it and laid it down before the curtain.
It will speak; it will fly back to me, Takeo thought, but Jato lay on the ground, silent and immobile.
The Emperor spoke again, and Takeo heard in the voice not a god or even a great ruler but a flesh-and-blood human, full of curiosity, not easily swayed or manipulated.
“I would like to see the kirin now, with my own eyes.”
There was a slight flurry of consternation, as no one seemed sure of the correct procedure to be followed. Then the Emperor actually stepped out from behind the screen and held out his arms for his attendants to support him down the steps.
He was clothed in robes of gold with scarlet dragons embroidered across the back and sleeves; they added to his stature, but Takeo had been right in his judgment. Beneath the splendor of the costume stood a rather small man of about twenty-eight years; his cheeks were plump, his mouth small and firm, showing self-will and shrewdness; his eyes sparkled with anticipation.
“Let Lord Otori come with me,” he said as he walked past Takeo, and Takeo followed him, on his knees.
Shigeko was waiting outside with the kirin. She fell to one knee when the Emperor approached, and, with head bowed, held out the cord, say
ing, “Your Majesty, this creature is nothing compared to your greatness, but we offer it to you in the hope that you will look with favor on your subjects in the Three Countries.”
The Emperor’s expression was one of pure astonishment, possibly as much at being addressed by a woman as at the kirin. He took the cord carefully, glanced back at the courtiers, looked up at the kirin’s long neck and head, and laughed in delight.
Shigeko said, “Your Majesty may touch her—she is very gentle,” and the man-god put out his hand and stroked the soft fur of the fabulous creature.
He murmured, “The kirin only appears when the ruler is blessed by Heaven.”
Shigeko replied as quietly, “So is Your Majesty blessed indeed.”
“Is this a man or a woman?” the Emperor said to Saga, who had approached, in the same manner as Takeo, on his knees, for Shigeko had used the speech of a male ruler.
“Your Majesty, it is Lord Otori’s daughter, Lady Maruyama.”
“From the land where women rule? Lord Otori has brought many exotic things! Everything we hear of the Three Countries is true. How I should like to visit there, but it is not possible for me to leave the capital.” He stroked the kirin again. “What can I give you in return?” he said. “I doubt I have anything that can compare.” He stood as if deep in thought for a few moments, and then spun around and looked back as if struck by a sudden inspiration. “Bring me the Otori sword,” he called. “I will bestow it on Lady Maruyama!”
Takeo remembered a voice from the past: So it goes from hand to hand. Kenji. The sword that Kenji had given to Shigeru after the defeat at Yaegahara, and that Yuki, Kenji’s daughter, had brought to Takeo, had now been put into the hands of Maruyama Shigeko by the Emperor himself.
Takeo bowed to the ground again, and as he sat up, he saw the Emperor was observing him shrewdly. At that moment, the temptation of absolute power glittered before him. Whoever was favored by the Emperor—or, to put it more bluntly, controlled the Emperor—controlled the Eight Islands.
That could be myself and Kaede, he thought. We could vie with Saga—if we defeat him tomorrow in the contest, we could displace him. Our army is prepared. I can send messengers to Kahei to advance. We will drive him back to the north and into the sea. He will be the one in exile, not me!
He entertained the fantasy for a few short moments, and then put it from him. He did not want the Eight Islands; he wanted only the Three Countries, and he wanted them to remain at peace.
THE REST OF the day was spent in feasting, recitals of music and drama, poetry competitions, and even a demonstration of the younger noblemen’s favorite game of kick ball, in which Lord Kono proved himself to be unexpectedly adept.
“His languid demeanor hides his physical skill,” Takeo remarked quietly to Gemba.
“They will all be worthy opponents,” Gemba agreed serenely.
There was also a horse race just before sunset, which Lord Saga’s team, mounted on the new Maruyama steeds, won easily, adding to the crowd’s general admiration of the visitors, and the pleasure and astonishment at their unparalleled gifts.
Takeo returned to the mansion pleased and encouraged by the events of the day, though still anxious about the morrow. He had seen with his own eyes the skill and horsemanship of their opponents. He could not believe his daughter could defeat them. But Gemba had been right about the sword. He would have to trust him in the matter of the contest.
He had raised the oiled-silk curtains of the palanquin to enjoy the evening air, and as it was carried through the gate he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the shadowy outline of someone using invisibility. It astonished him, for he had not expected the Tribe to operate in the capital—none of his records, nor the Muto family’s knowledge, had ever indicated that they had penetrated this far to the East.
He felt instinctively for his sword, realized that he was unarmed, had the immediate customary flash of curiosity as he faced again his own mortality—was this to be the assassination attempt that succeeded?—all in the instant it took before the palanquin was set down and he descended. Ignoring the attendants, he ran to the gate and searched the milling crowd with his eyes, wondering if he had been mistaken. His name was being chanted by many voices, but he thought he could distinguish one he recognized, and then he saw the girl.
He knew her at once as Muto, but it took him a moment or two to remember who she was: Mai, Sada’s sister, who had been placed in the foreigners’ household to learn their language and spy on them.
“Come inside at once,” he commanded her.
Once they were within, he told the guards to close and bar the gates, then turned to the girl. She looked exhausted and travel-stained.
“What are you doing here? Do you bring news from Taku? Did Jun send you?”
“I must speak to Lord Otori in private,” she whispered.
He saw the grief in the lines around her mouth and in the expression of her eyes, and his heart began to gallop in fear of what she had to tell him.
“Wait here. I will send for you directly.”
He called for maids to help him change out of the formal robes, and then dismissed them, telling them to send the girl to him, to serve tea and then make sure he was left alone; not even his daughter, not even Lord Miyoshi, was to be admitted.
Mai came into the room and knelt before him. A maid came in with bowls of tea, and Takeo took one and put it into the girl’s hands. Night was falling: despite the warmth of the evening she was pale and trembling.
“What has happened?” he said.
“Lord Taku and my sister are dead, Lord.”
Even though it was what he had expected, the news hit him like a physical blow. He stared at her, hardly able to speak, feeling the terrible tide of grief begin to well up through his veins. He made a gesture that she should continue.
“They were allegedly attacked by bandits a day’s ride from Hofu.”
“Bandits?” he said in disbelief. “What bandits are there in the Middle Country?”
“That is the official version put out by Zenko,” Mai replied. “But Zenko is protecting Kikuta Akio. Rumor on the wind is that Akio and his son killed Taku in revenge for Kotaro’s death. Sada died with him.”
“And my daughter?” Takeo whispered, the tears beginning to force their way from his eyes.
“Lord Otori, no one knows where she is. She was not killed at the same time, but whether she escaped, or whether Akio has her…”
“Akio has my daughter?” he repeated stupidly.
“Maybe she escaped,” Mai said. “But she has not found her way to Kagemura, or Terayama, or any of the other places where she might have fled.”
“Does my wife know?”
“I don’t know, Lord.”
He saw there was something else going on, some other reason why the girl had made this long journey, presumably without permission from anyone in the Tribe, and unknown to them, even to Shizuka.
“Taku’s mother must surely have been told?”
“Again, I don’t know. Something has happened to the Muto network, Lord. Messages are misdirected, or read by the wrong people. People are saying they want to return to the old days, when the Tribe had real power. Kikuta Akio is very close to Zenko, and many among the Muto approve of their new friendship—they say it’s like things used to be between Kenji and Kotaro, before…”
“Before I came along,” Takeo stated bleakly.
“That’s not for me to say, Lord Otori. The Muto swore allegiance to you, and Taku and Sada were loyal to you. That’s enough for me. I left Hofu without telling anyone, hoping to catch up with Lady Shigeko and Lord Hiroshi, but they were always a few days ahead. I just kept following them, until I found myself in the capital. I have been six weeks on the road.”
“I am very grateful to you.” He recalled that she was also grieving. “And deeply sorry for your sister’s death in the service of my family.”
Her eyes went bright in the lamplight, but she did not cry.
&n
bsp; “They were attacked with firearms,” she said bitterly. “No one could have killed them with ordinary weapons. Taku was hit in the neck; he must have bled to death in seconds, and the same bullet knocked Sada from the horse, but she did not die from the fall—her throat was cut.”
“Akio has firearms? Where did he get them from?”
“He has been in Kumamoto all winter. He must have been supplied by the Arai; they have been trading with the foreigners.”
He sat in silence, remembering suddenly the feel of Taku’s neck between his hands when he had woken and found him in his room, in Shuho. Taku had been a child of nine or ten; he had thickened his neck muscles to give the impression he was older and stronger than he really was. The memory, followed swiftly by so many others, nearly overwhelmed him. Covering his face with his hand, he fought to control sobbing. His grief was fueled by rage against Zenko, whom he had spared only to see him connive in his brother’s death. Taku wanted Zenko dead, he remembered; so even did Shizuka. And now we have lost the brother we could least spare.
“Lord Otori,” Mai said hesitantly. “Shall I call for someone to come to you?”
“No!” he said, regaining his self-mastery, the moment of weakness over. “You do not know our circumstances here. You must say nothing of this to anyone. Nothing must interfere with the arrangements for the next few days. There is to be a contest, involving my daughter and Lord Hiroshi. They must not be distracted in any way. They must not know of this until the contest is over. No one must know.”
“But you should return to the Three Countries without delay! Zenko…”
“I will return as soon as possible, earlier than I had planned. But I cannot offend my hosts—Lord Saga, the Emperor himself—nor can I let Saga get a whiff of Zenko’s treachery. At the moment I am in some favor—but that may change at any time. Once the contest is over and we know its outcome, I will make arrangements to return. It means we risk being caught in the rains, but it can’t be helped. You will travel with us, of course, but for the time being I must ask you to stay away from this house. Shigeko might recognize you. It is only until after tomorrow. Then I will have to tell her, and Hiroshi, the news.”