The Initiate Brother Duology (34 page)

“Is it justice that I will never dance again?” she asked.

“Why do you say this? You are the foremost Sonsa of our time.”

“It means nothing, if to have me dance is to risk the displeasure of the Son of Heaven.” She said this without bitterness, a mere statement of the obvious.

“Displeasure? Our Emperor shows nothing but the highest pleasure whenever you perform.”

She sighed at this. “I fear that this will no longer be so, Tadamoto-sum. And there is the
new favorite
—she will not wish to see me, that is certain.”

Yes, Tadamoto thought, that may be true. But the Emperor seemed to express so much care for her, for her happiness, would he not wish her to dance if that is what created her happiness? “The Emperor is too pleased by your…dancing to wish that you stop. And if that were not true, which I’m sure it is, there are places, other than the Imperial Palace where one may dance.”

“If it were only the palace, I would not be concerned, but it is the capital we speak of, the capital and perhaps all the inner provinces. I would be exiled to the north or to the west….” She shook her head. “After all my years of training, how could I accept this?” She looked down at the pattern around her. “It is not
right
that this should happen to me!”

Jaku Tadamoto sank to his knees before her. “It need not be as you say, Osha-sum. The Emperor is fair to those who are loyal, the Jaku know this.” He reached out tentatively and took her hands. She returned his touch. “If I do not presume too much, when the time is right I would speak to the Son of Heaven on your behalf.”

She looked up now and held his eyes. He felt her take both of his hands between hers and, with a pressure so slight he may have imagined it, she drew him toward her. She kissed his hand. “You are a man of honor, Jaku Tadamoto-sum. I was a young fool to allow myself to be ensnared by the Emperor and his promises.”

She raised his hands and the warmth of her cheek against his fingers thrilled him. Jaku felt weak as his desire grew stronger. He bent down to her and their lips met in the most tentative kiss. Her breath was sweet, warm. Their lips brushed again, more certainly. He traced the curve of Osha’s neck with a finger and she sighed and pushed her face into his chest. He held her there, close to him, certain that she could feel the pounding of his heart.

“Come with me,” she said rising and drawing him to his feet. She swept
the lantern up off the floor and turned, not releasing his hand, to lead him back into the small shrine. A hidden screen opened into a hall that ended in a flight of seven stairs. Osha led him up, hurrying now, and then through another screen into a dark room. In the lamplight Tadamoto could see the form of a large, low bed under a protective cotton cover; the room seemed to contain nothing else.

Osha turned now and kissed him, with longing, with promise. But then broke away, and, going to the far wall, unlatched a shoji, opening it wide to the night. And the moonlight fell upon her like a caress.

“The chamber of the Empress Jenna,” she whispered, and laughed, a warm laugh. “What could be more fitting?”

“You are not as she,” Tadamoto said.

“In my actions, no, I am much more circumspect. But in my soul?” Again she seemed to glide toward him. “In my soul, I am reborn the Yellow Empress Jenna.” Taking his hands, she pulled him lightly toward the bed.

They removed the cotton cover and under it found rich quilts and pillows of the finest quality.

Kneeling on the bed, they kissed again, touching gently. With patience, Tadamoto unwound Osha’s long sash and opened her silk robes. Her outer robe slipped from her shoulders and she was left with the thin, gold fabric of her inner kimono clinging to her skin. He kissed her breasts shyly, the beauty of her dancer’s form stirring him. A shiver ran through Osha’s body and she pushed him down into the quilts, falling lightly on top of him. She untied his sash and he felt her skin soft against his own.

They made love until the sky showed signs of morning, each bringing all of their skills to their tryst, each bringing a strong passion. If anyone passing below had heard, they would have been certain it was the moans, and sighs of the Hanama ghosts who were known to walk the halls still; ever restless, ever dissatisfied.

T
HE BRUSH WORK was rather plain, but strong and clear. Nishima took it up from the table and looked at it again. The mulberry paper was of the best quality, almost heavy, and colored a pale, pale yellow. An arrangement of green autumn grain had been attached to the poem, a symbol of growth, while yellow was one of the traditional colors of fall.

Lady Nishima set the letter on the table again and turned back to the view of the garden beyond her balcony. She wondered if Jaku Katta had written the poem himself. The brush work was his, no doubt, but the poem? This revealed another side of him if it was, indeed, his composition. The verse was not terribly sophisticated, but it was not marred by the overornamentation that Lady Nishima believed was the major flaw in the court verse of that time. It did contain the obligatory reference to a classical poem; in this case to “The Wind From Chou-san.”

He is bold, Nishima thought, and she was not entirely displeased. The contradiction that was Jaku Katta confused her thoroughly—the incident on the canal still seemed odd to her. And yet
it was possible
that such a thing could happen.

It was Jaku Katta who saved my uncle, she told herself again. And it can never be forgotten that he has the ear of the Emperor. Perhaps this would prove important to the Shonto in the future.

She took up her brush and wet her inkstone for the fourth time.

She set the smoke-gray paper down beside the letter from Jaku Katta and examined the brush work critically. As modest as she was, the lady could not deny the great contrast between their hands. He is a soldier, after all, she thought, but still, she could find little to admire in Jaku’s brush work once she had set it beside her own.

Lady Nishima read through her poem again and decided that it was exactly the tone she was looking for; discouraging, but not entirely so. She attached a small blossom of the twelve-petaled shinta flower to it—the symbol of the Shonto House. That would remind the general that the House of Fanisan was no more. She tapped a small gong to call a servant. The note must go off immediately, she had much to do to prepare for the Celebration of the Emperor’s Ascension.

*   *   *

The Lady Kitsura Omawara passed through the gate into the small garden attached to her father’s rooms. The sound of water was a subdued burble and, beyond the high wall, a breeze seemed to breathe through the last leaves of the golden lime trees. The young aristocrat was dressed in a formal robe of pale plum, with the hems of her four under kimonos in the most carefully chosen colors, revealed properly at the sleeve and the neck.

She slipped her sandals off as she stepped onto the porch. A harsh cough came from behind a screen set on the porch and pain flashed across the young woman’s face as though the cough had been her own.

“Father?” she said softly.

A long breath was drawn. “Kitsu-sum?”

She could almost see the smile of pleasure and, as though it were a mirror, her own face also creased in a warm smile. “Yes. It is a perfect evening, is it not, Father?”

“Perfect, yes.” There was a pause as the lord caught his breath. Kitsura examined the design on the screen, a stand of bamboo beside a tranquil pond.

“Did you see the mist…in the garden…this morning?”

“Yes, Father, I did. But you should not have been up, breathing that cold air.”

He laughed, almost silently, and to his daughter it sounded like a far off echo of his old laughter. “I cannot give up…the world just yet…Kitsu-sum.” The clear, autumn air rattled in his lungs like dice in a cup and he fell to coughing terribly. The young lady cringed, closing her eyes as though this would block out the sound.

“Should I call Brother Tessa, Father?” she asked, referring to the Botahist monk who acted as the Omawara House physician. He was unable to answer her, but just as she rose to summon a servant, he spoke.

“No. I will stop in a…” He coughed again, but then the fit ended and he lay gasping. His daughter waited, staring at the screen that allowed her father to maintain his dignity in the face of an illness that was certainly draining him of all life. If only he could be transported to the place I see on this screen, Kitsura thought. It looks so peaceful. May Botahara grant him favor for all that he has suffered in this life.

At last Lord Omawara lay quiet, and just when his daughter was sure he had fallen asleep, he spoke again. “Will you…go to the palace…for the Cele…bration?”

“I will, Father. I intend to meet Nishima-sum and we shall attend the festivities together.”

“Ah. Take her…my highest…respects.”

“I will, Father. She has often expressed a desire to visit you and asks always after your well-being.”

“She is…kind.” There was a long silence punctuated only by the lord’s fight for air. “You must…assure her…that…my affection…is undying…. But to…see her…would be…”

“I understand, Father. I will explain this to my cousin.”

“What of…Motoru-sum? Has he…gone…to Seh?”

“I will speak to your staff who are not to worry you with such things.”

The echo of laughter came from behind the screen.

“But, as you know so much already, yes, Lord Shonto left for Seh some ten days ago.”

“I am…concerned.”

“He is wise, Father. Lord Shonto Motoru should never be a cause for worry.”

“There is more…than the eye…sees…Denji…Gorge, Seh.” He fell into silence.

“Lord Shonto goes nowhere without the greatest care, Sire. Our concern would be better placed elsewhere.”

“Wise…Kitsu-sum…. Your mother?”

“She is with you, Sire. This is her happiness. How could she be cause for concern?”

“She…does not rest…. Worries.”

“But she is not happy otherwise, Father, you know that.”

“She worries that…” he coughed again but weakly, “that you are unmarried.”

“Father. I am hardly an old maid!” She laughed her infectious laugh. “There will be time yet.”

“Yes…but Kitsu-sum…the Emperor has…three sons only.”

“What a pity. If he had had a fourth, perhaps he would have a son worthy of consideration!”

The laughter echoed, ending in a wheeze. “I have…raised you with expectations…that are too high.”

It was Kitsura’s turn to laugh. “Why do you say that? Because I consider an Emperor’s son beneath me? Well, to be honest, I would not let any of them marry my maid!”

“Ah. Then…the Princes…must have…cluttered rooms,” the lord said.

Kitsura laughed. “I tire you, Father. I will have Brother Tessa lecturing me again.”

“Yes. I am…tired.”

“I must go, Father.”

The curtain in the screen moved slightly, and a pale, withered hand pushed through the opening. Lady Kitsura reached out and took the cold fingers within her own. It was all she had seen of her father in over four years.

*   *   *

From the balcony, Lady Nishima could look down upon the celebration, a mass of swirling color, as the courtiers and other nobles moved through the three large rooms and out onto the open terrace.

The Emperor could be seen on his dais, surrounded by lords and ladies known for their discerning taste in the area of music. The Highest One involved himself in the judgment of a music competition.

Very close by, on the edge of the dais, sat Lady Kitsura Omawara. She had been invited to judge the music and was now the object of much of the Emperor’s attention. Nishima could see her cousin struggling to remain polite, yet still keep her distance from the Son of Heaven. Nishima found the Emperor’s behavior shocking, yet there was nothing she could do to help. Already the Empress had retired from the gathering, and the Emperor did not seem to notice. Somewhere in the halls, Nishima had seen the young Sonsa dancer who had been the object of the Emperor’s affections so recently. Tonight, however, she was being entirely ignored and looked as one does in such circumstances. Lady Nishima stood at the rail thinking longingly of the quiet life of Lady Okara—if only….

Young peers presented themselves before the distinguished judges and offered their very best compositions. The prizes for the winners would, no doubt, be lavish and the guests at that end of the large hall sat listening in complete silence. Strains of music drifted up to the Lady Nishima, but somehow this did not lift her spirits as it usually did.

In the next hall, the Hall of the Water’s Voice, Chusa Seiki sat with a group of her most promising students and a few courtiers, composing a poem-series. A wine cup was set floating down the artificial stream and as it passed, each participant in turn would pick it up, drink, and recite a three line poem which echoed the verses before, incorporated a reference to a classical verse, and also added something original. Nishima had been asked to participate, but seeing that Prince Wakaro was one of the poets, she had politely declined. Besides, her mind was on other things and she did not feel
that she would live up to her reputation. The subdued lamplight of the Hall of the Water’s Voice did not draw her tonight, as it often did.