The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (26 page)

It was too late to return to the town. The shrine gates were closed, even the small wicket kept open for late pilgrims, and the forest was dark beyond the row of stone lanterns flanking the lake path. The shrine was not used to visitors outside the festival days. She wandered about the small courtyard, not yet willing to go to the dormitory where a plain mattress and a thin blanket waited for her, prepared by the smiling acolyte.

She prayed before each of the three
kami
worshipped at Hakone. As luck had it — there are no coincidences after all
—
the Gods of the shrine were the same as in Kirishima: the sacred first ancestors of the
Mikado
family.

Ever since that distant night when the assassin’s blade almost took her life, she felt anxious whenever she had to pray to Lady Kono-hana, the Divine Paternal Grandmother of the
Mikado
line. She had a feeling that this had been the long-haired woman in the cherry blossom robe she’d “met” on the mist-shrouded slopes in her dying dream.

She barely remembered that faint vision and was almost certain that there was nothing to it. As real as the Gods were, Nagomi found it hard to believe that one of them would descend to bring her, a half-barbarian girl from a small port town, back to life. Sometimes, a dream was just a dream. Still, the sense of unease remained. The vicinity of Mount Fuji and the sulphuric fumes bursting from the fissures all around the town made her feel afraid of visions once again.

She turned away from the altar when something tugged at her mind, pulling it into darkness.
No!
she protested in panic. The pull came again, stronger. She saw a grey, bald mountain, a babbling stream, a gate of three vermillion stones. She had seen this place in a dream before.

“No! Not here. Not now …”

“It’s me, little priestess.”

“Torishi! You’re using the Eagle’s Path! Wait for me, I will fall asleep soon.”

“I have little time. I have a message from someone we both know. Listen!”

She sensed him retreat from the connection, making place for another mind’s presence. This one was rough, unstable, unused to the darkness. The first thought it sent was garbled, a jumble of emotions and words she did not understand. In the link of minds there were no accents and sounds, so she could not recognize the voice until it spoke clearly.

“
Go north,
” the voice croaked. “
Go north,
Shamo
girl. Find the Gate. Find the man with two faces.”
That was all she was able to discern. The onslaught of foreign sounds made her head hurt. She panicked and forced the voice out of her mind. Torishi returned.

“
That was Koro!”
she said. “
But — he’s dead …”

“Did you get his message?”

“Only a few words. Why is Koro with you?”

“It’s very important that you follow the Ancient’s advice.”

“How did you find him? What’s going on?”
For the moment, she didn’t care about what the little man had to say. Something was wrong and she sensed it in Torishi’s distant voice. “
Was it Koro who taught you the Eagle’s Path? I don’t understand.”

“
Not him. His master.”

“Prince Shakushain?”
Now she was confused. “
You met him too?”

There was a heavy, dark pause. She sensed the bear-man felt he’d already said too much.

It’s not possible. Koro, maybe, he died not long ago, but the northerner — he was already moving beyond the Mountains of Time when we last saw him.

Her heart raced and tears started flowing down her cheeks even before her mind grasped the truth.

“
Little priestess …
” Torishi said, sensing her rising despair.

“No.”

“Little priestess!”

“No, not you.”
She dropped to her knees and scratched at the dirt in helpless, silent rage. “
You were supposed to recover. You were supposed to come and help us. You were supposed to take care of me.”

“Little priestess—”

“How long have you been dead? You taught me the Eagle’s Path back in Naniwa. That means you’d already met Shakushain then. You … you lied to me!”

“I have no time for this!”
The bear-man boomed, breaking her out of the frenzy. “
You have to listen to me.”

“
More lies?”

“No.”
He flooded her mind with sadness. “
I have to pass beyond the mountains soon. But there is still a chance to say farewell.”

“
The Gate,”
she guessed. “
Is that the only reason you want me to go there?”
Her heart hardened. “
I have to find Satō first. If I have to choose …”

She grew angry at him for even suggesting that Satō could be less important.

Instead of speaking, he pulled away from the Eagle’s Path, leaving her mind open and receptive to threads of the future flowing through her. She grasped at them, but it was like catching starlings in flight with her bare hands. Still, an image of the days to come began forming in her head.

Bran, shot by a thunder gun. Satō, stumbling in a red darkness, confused, frightened and filled with anger. A beautiful Western woman, riding a silver dragon. Waves of a distant ocean, charging at the unsuspecting coast, drowning fishermen and farmers alike. Lights and jewels. Sinking ships. Three green lights, coming together. Dragons, everywhere.

“
Enough,”
she said, putting a stop to the visions. “
What does this have to do with the Gate?”

“The wizardess — she’s not where you think she will be.”

“She’s not dead. I’d know.”

“But she’s on
this
side of the Gate. Take it as you will ... I don’t understand it either.”

She sensed a rush of anxiety. The line of the Eagle’s Path trembled.

“
She’s coming. I have to go.”

She?

“Wait—!”

“I’m sorry. Please hurry, little cub. Goodbye.”

The connection twanged like a broken shamisen string. She opened her eyes: the smiling acolyte stood over her, holding her by the hand.

“Good, you’re awake.”

“He was the last one,” she said. Her eyes focused at him. “I wasn’t dreaming.”

“I know. You had a Scryer’s trance. You chose a peculiar place for it — good thing almost everyone had gone to sleep. I will take you to the dormitory.” He helped her up.

“No, I — I have to go back to the town.”

The acolyte frowned and looked at the night sky. “It’s dark in the forest. There may be black bears coming down from the mountains.”

She wiped her eyes.

“Bears won’t hurt me. Please, unlock the wicket gate for me.”

Bran stretched himself on the mattress with his hands under his head. He had promised Nagomi to stay awake, but it was getting difficult. The windowless room was hot but not stuffy enough to keep him from falling asleep. The faint shimmer of the
tarian
made him drowsy.

He rolled out the map of Yamato and, struggling to stay focused, he proceeded to mark the positions of the dragons he was still able to identify. He could not account for all seven Black Wings. The ones in Chinzei were too far away now for him to sense clearly enough. He dared not trace the Gorllewin riders in Shimoda and Edo — they were too close to risk detection. Frigga had surprised him in Kiyō: he could not let this happen again here. For all he knew, a glamoured Black Wing may be hovering over the lake town right at this moment.

This was another reason why he insisted on Nagomi spending the night in the shrine. Separate, they had a greater chance of surviving a dragon strike. The Gorllewin and their Fanged masters may have been reckless in the defiant Imperial Capital, but this was
Taikun
’s own province, and his own shrine. He hoped that was enough to keep Nagomi safe, at least for the night.

There was one dragon Bran had no problem tracing. For several nights now, another mount was flying in their direction from the south. It had to be one of Dylan’s beasts.

Wulfhere again?

He hoped it wasn’t Dylan himself, having changed his mind and coming to take him back to Kiyō. But no, the rider couldn’t possibly have known where to find Bran. It must be an unrelated mission.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned.
I can’t even order them to run me a bath.
He was effectively trapped inside the room without Nagomi’s “interpreting” services, unable to ask for anything other than in mime.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t stay in the room any longer. He descended to the bath wing. The inn was all but shut down for the night. The only lights and noises came from the kitchen. He tiptoed down the corridor and peeked through the door. The bathroom was dark and empty, but the water was hot. It poured from a bamboo pipe linked to an underground spring into a cypress-lined square hole in the floor.

He splashed himself from a wooden bucket, then sat on the edge and sank his legs in the water. It was too risky to undress. He listened to the calming trickle of the hot stream and breathed in the sulphurous aroma.

He heard footsteps outside. Somebody was coming to the bath, one of the staff, he guessed, coming to clean up and shut it for the night. Bran preferred not to cause any trouble by being seen. He slid out into the dark corridor and hid in a shallow alcove.

The approaching man was not carrying a lantern, and his movements were too cautious for a cleaner. Bran held his breath. He shielded himself with a
bwcler
and waited. The man came a few feet away and stopped, sensing danger. Bran leapt out, barged at the assassin with the
bwcler
forward and pinned him to the wall. The Soul Lance flashed in his hand. A sword blade clanged on the floor.

The man was dressed in simple clothes, but there was something about the way he moved that betrayed he was not a commoner. He struggled to set himself free from Bran’s hold. He was surprisingly weak — and old — for a killer. Bran doused the Lance and summoned a flamespark over the assailant’s head. His face was contorted in a grimace of disgust and fury, but there was no mistaking the flared nostrils and thin, angular eyebrows.

“I remember you!”

The man didn’t notice at first that Bran was speaking Yamato. He kept fighting, his grip on Bran’s arm weakening.

“Stop it!” Bran hissed. “You’ll alarm the staff!”

That made the assailant pause. He frowned and stared at Bran, his nostrils flaring.

“You speak … our tongue—”

“Yes! Yes, I do. Aren’t you the man we met in Kumamoto? Takashima Satō’s friend?”

“What — who are you? How do you know me?”

Another man approached down the corridor. This time it
was
a servant, carrying a small lantern in one hand and a broom in the other.

“I was there, at the monastery. With Takashima and the priestess.”

Bran stepped away and slid the sword back to the samurai with his foot. The man picked it up cautiously and again aimed it at the boy.

“We don’t have time,” Bran whispered, annoyed, pushing the blade away. “That servant will call on the guards from the checkpoint. Come to my room, I’ll explain everything.”

The samurai lowered the sword. “Fine. But any wrong move and I
will
kill you.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s some kind of a trick.”

Master Yokoi
stood in the corner of the room, refusing Bran’s invitation to sit. His hand rested firmly on the hilt of his sword. He studied the boy’s every move with narrow, tense eyes. Bran offered him a cup of water, but he declined that too.

“How would I know about all this?” Bran asked. “Even about how you liked the food in the monastery? There wasn’t anyone else with us there.”

“Barbarian magic,” the samurai scoffed. “You …” He made a pulling gesture near his head. “Sucked it out of my mind, like the Fanged did with Takashima-
sama.
”

“And the language? And all the information I have of Yamato? Did the riders in Shimoda show any sign of such knowledge?”

The samurai rubbed his chin.

“No, they were dumb, like all the barbarians. You … there’s something different about you. And you don’t have this.” He drew the sign of the cross on his forehead. He snapped his fingers. “I know! You’re from Dejima. One of Curzius-
dono
’s men.”

“I’m Dracalish, actually. Listen, Nagomi — the red-haired priestess — is here, in the shrine. She’ll be back in the morning. Will you believe her?”

“You could have brainwashed her. She is half-barbarian, anyway.”

Bran raised his hands in exasperation. “Look at me! Do I look like some evil wizard? I’m seventeen! I’m just trying to make some sense of it all, and save Satō from the Fanged.”

Yokoi let go of the sword’s hilt. His mouth dropped. “They got young Takashima-
sama,
too?”

“Yes, a few weeks ago … she got captured in the battle of Heian.”

“I heard about that. The rebels from Chōfu … burned by the
dorako
.
Like us in Mito.”

“You were in Mito? What are you —”

Somebody was running up the stairs. Master Yokoi raised his sword. Bran jumped up, ready to summon the Lance, when Nagomi burst into the room. Bran ran to her and grabbed her arms.

“What is it? Have you been attacked?”

“No … no. I — I saw
you
under attack. I had a vision!”

Bran laughed. “I was, but as you see — I’m fine. It was Yokoi-
dono
here who struck at me.” He stepped back. “He thought I was one of the Black Wings.”

The samurai sheathed his blade and bowed. “Priestess-
sama
. We meet again.”

“I don’t remember—”

“Kumamoto,” Bran reminded her. “The nobleman who came to the monastery to speak with Satō.”