2013-11-01

Three scintillating scenes from the Empire and its Colonies! Including the extra-special mega-long annual Halloween frightfest from Robert Denton!

 

 

Scenes from the Empire

Super Special Halloween Edition

By Robert Denton, Nancy Sauer, and Seth Mason

Edited by Fred Wan

 

My Son

 

Akodo Yusuke wanted a son. It was why he did not protest when his marriage was arranged, even to a Tonbo woman with a wiry frame and hair like straw. It was why he temporarily relinquished command of his unit to a gunso, even though privately he thought the woman was not experienced enough for this duty. It is why he did not attend the funeral of his brother; funerals were bad luck for expecting parents. It was why he suffered the meek presence of his wife’s uncle, and the indignity of the birthing traditions of his wife’s people. They insisted that the husband not be present during the childbirth, instead dressing in his wife’s clothes and dwelling in another room of the house, so as to distract malicious spirits that might wish harm upon the mother and child. Indeed, Yusuke did a great many things that were against his nature while his wife bloated with their first child, but in the end these did not matter. Yusuke wanted a son, and if he must inconvenience himself to have one, then so be it.

At least, that is how he felt at first. He endured these trials with the obedience and stoic silence of true samurai. His only protest came on the night of the childbirth, when his  uncle-in-law, a shugenja of the Tonbo tradition, bade him to don his wife’s clothes and paint his face as a woman. Yusuke’s revulsion was palpable; such a thing was beneath a warrior like him, humiliating and in stark opposition to his understanding of The Way. But the Tonbo insisted. It was the duty of the husband to be a decoy for harmful spirits while she was prone. So he wrapped himself in his wife’s kimonos, bulging the cloth uncomfortably, and fumbled with her obi, which was far longer and thicker than he was accustomed. The Tonbo thought Yusuke could not see the amused gleam in his eyes, nor hear his stifled chuckling. But Yusuke did, and as his face burned with humiliation, he swore never to forget.

When his wife finally gave birth, the house erupted into jubilations. The child was healthy, a testament to the skill of the shugenja. Yusuke’s sacrifices were forgotten in the wake of the birth. The child was a boy, and although he bore a slight birthmark (the mother’s uncle would chide her for staring too long into the hearth during her pregnancy), he was healthy and strong, a fitting child for the Lion. It seemed Yusuke’s wishes had come true.

Yet now, all these years later, Yusuke still grumbled that he wanted a son. Those who did not know him sometimes offered that he did have a son, and a good son at that. Ichiro was a bright and gifted child. He had his mother’s eyes and her talent with the ink-brush and shamisen. He grasped etiquette and stillness at an age where children were abundant with energy, remaining still when others would fidget. He could recite the entire line of his ancestors when he was only seven. Any father would be proud of him.

Words could not sway Yusuke. The child could not hold a sword, no matter how many times he was instructed by his sensei. He was the bottom child in his dojo, made to live at home regardless of his lofty age of eleven. Whenever he ran, he stumbled. Whenever he sparred, he flinched. He could hold a yumi but drew poorly, snapping his cheek when he finally released the arrow. He showed no aptitude at strategy whatsoever; anyone who witnessed his feeble attempts at go or shogi knew he would never be a leader of men. Yusuke knew his child was a failure of his bloodline. In his eyes, Ichiro was a boy, not a son.

Yusuke did not drink sake until Ichiro was born. After, it became his favorite drink. His wife Yuniko did not approve, but what did that matter to him? He was the master of his household, a true Lion, and she was but a low-born courtesan with blood thinned by peasant lineage. If she disapproved of him, he did not care. It was his right to disregard her words, and her job was to endure him. At night, when his heavy steps brought him back from his nightly visit to the sake house, she would already be asleep. It was only in these moments, lying beside her in the darkness of their room, that he wondered which Fortune he’d offended that cursed such a strong, gifted warrior with such a meek family. When he dreamed, he dreamed of all the feats he would have accomplished, the glories he would have achieved, if only he were not shackled to a woman of minor clan birth and their disappointment of a son.

He’d confided this one evening to one of his gunso after finishing a bottle of maneki nekko. “So what?” she’d replied, her own face flushed with drink, “you can always try again, can’t you?” She’d winked at him then. “I mean, she’s your wife. It’s her duty, right?”

That night, when he returned home, he sat beside Yuniko and laid his hand on her hip, gently stirring her awake. “We should try again,” he whispered, “to have a son.”

“We have a son,” she whispered back. In the darkness, she could not see his face.

Yuniko conceived their second child in the coldest months that winter. She was one of many expectant mothers that winter; when spring came, the village was filled with pregnant women beginning to show. The younger husbands in Yusuke’s unit looked tired, having spent much time tending to the needs of their wives and their unborn children. But they also looked happy. They saw no burden in staying up late when their pregnant wives could not sleep, tending to the baby’s cravings. Such men were not worthy of higher station, Yusuke thought.

When Yuniko’s pregnancy was in its sixth month, Yusuke caught her eating tsukemono pickles. Angrily he smacked them away, shattering the plate on the floor. He barked at the cowering servants, demanding to know who gave them to her. One of them cried, “She asked for them!”

“The baby wants them,” she argued, “and uncle says it is good to give it what it wants.” Yusuke did not care. He wanted a boy, a swordsman, someone worthy of his legacy. Eating pickles would ensure that the child would be a girl, and interested in courtly matters. “I will love her regardless,” Yuniko said. Yusuke growled that if the child was a girl, she had better be a warrior worthy of the Lion’s Pride.

“I won’t have another painter, nor a strummer of the shamisen!” he shouted. “If I am to have a daughter, let her at least be a worthy son!” Ichiro, quietly painting sumi-e in his room on the other side of the house, pretended not to hear.

The seasons passed. Summer came. Yuniko swelled under the burden of her child. The time of birth was coming. She sent word for her uncle in the lands of the Dragonfly, and soon the Tonbo arrived at Yusuke’s doorstep, midwives and miko in tow. He was a meek shugenja who smiled often and laughed quickly, and although he was respectful of his host, Yusuke disliked him. He could not reconcile the man’s pacifistic tendencies. The Tonbo way was not the way of the Lion. Yusuke surrendered the farthest branch of his home to the man and then let him be. The shugenja spent his days preparing Yuniko for the birth of the child, just as he had for the birth of Ichiro.

Perhaps it is the Tonbo that are the issue, Yusuke thought. After all, they were peaceful, always speaking on non-violence, enlightenment, and all manner of nonsense. Their infuriating meekness would likely rub off on the child. As the anticipated day came ever-closer, this theory made more and more sense to Yusuke, especially after a bottle of his favorite sake.

“If this doesn’t work,” he told his gunso at the sake house, “then you and I will have to try. Perhaps two warriors can produce a proper son, instead of a swordsman and an artisan.”

She laughed at him. “I will be too busy with my husband’s child,” she replied. “You will have to find someone else.”

The birth came suddenly. Yuniko’s water broke just before dinner. The pains of birthing crashed into her with the force of a hundred hammers. She did not cry out, as it would be unbecoming, but the pain was somehow greater than in her first childbirth. She was unable to carry herself to a secluded room. Ichiro was soon banished to his room, and as the midwives prepared for the birth in a frenzy, Yusuke placed his father’s daisho within his wife’s reaching distance, then excused himself to his study to await the child.

He was alone, pouring himself a drink, when his uncle-in-law came into the room, carrying a woman’s kimono. “The child comes quickly,” he said, “You’d better put this on. The tradition must be done again.”

Yusuke looked at the woman’s garments, then up to the Tonbo’s face. He was smiling, and in the shadow of that smile Yusuke relived the humiliation he’d felt at the hands of this man, the heat in his cheeks, his uncle-in-law’s amused eyes, his stifled laughter. Coldness crept into Yusuke’s heart. He’d done everything this shugenja had told him, but what difference had it made? The Tonbo were soft-hearted, but the world did not work that way; why should Yusuke doom his second child to similar frailties?

He lifted the drink to his lips. “Make sure the baby sees the daisho first,” he remarked.

The Tonbo watched expectantly. Yusuke poured another drink and ignored him. “The garments-” he began.

“I am not wearing them again,” the Lion said. “It is beneath me.”

The Tonbo grew agitated, but maintained his calm expression. “You must,” he insisted, “for the sake of the child… for the sake of Yuniko. It is your duty-”

“Do not lecture me on duty!” Yusuke barked. The Tonbo clamped his jaw. For a long time, the two stared into one-another’s eyes, and Yusuke let all of his contempt for his uncle-in-law pour out of his sockets. A pained cry came from the common room of the house, and the shugenja retreated, leaving the clothing in a pile outside the door. Yusuke sipped his sake triumphantly. “At last,” he whispered, “a worthy child. Let him… or her… be a warrior at least.”

Hours passed. The labor lingered. The house echoed with the sounds of birthing, Yuniko’s painful cries coming muffled through a cupped hand. It did not occur to Yusuke that this evening was far noisier than Ichiro’s birth. He calmly sipped his Rugashi Hano sake throughout his wife’s ordeal, waiting for a sign that it would be over. As he sat, he dreamed of a child prodigy of the sword, who bested his own sensei and caught the attention of his clan champion. A child who could run without stumbling, draw a bow without faltering, fight without flinching. He imagined that this child was his, rising through the ranks, accumulating accolades, achieving the glories and distinctions that Yusuke had longed for before he was selected by nakodo for political marriage. For a moment, he imagined that the child was a daughter, and found that the notion did not bother him so much, as long as she could achieve what he’d failed. Yes, he decided, this child would be his greatest achievement. A leader of men. A true Lion. Someone he could be proud to call his progeny.

Perhaps this second child would rub off on the first. The notion nearly made him smile in the dark, parting his lips at the cheek to show only the barest hint of teeth.

Yusuke paused. All sounds had ceased. At once he heard steps approach his study, so he finished his drink in one pull. Expecting the Tonbo, he stood and smoothed out his kimono wrinkles, hoping that the newborn had touched the daisho, ensuring that he would be a great swordsman.

But when a figure appeared in the doorway, it was not the shugenja. A lone miko, one of the midwives, cast him a quiet look from just beyond the door. At first, Yusuke was confused. But then he saw how the miko somberly avoided his gaze, and the full weight of her silence washed over him in a single wave of dread. There was no sound, not even the cries of a newborn child. All dreams of a worthy progeny had died before they were born.

Yusuke slowly sat back down. “Leave me,” he said. She did as instructed, vanishing into the hall as he opened a new bottle.

None disturbed him until the twilight hours of morning. His uncle-in-law cast a shadow from the doorway. In the dim light, he looked far older than Yusuke had remembered.

“Yuniko sleeps,” he said. “At last.”

His back to the shugenja, Yusuke nodded. “And the child?”

The Tonbo looked grim. “I have taken care of it.”

Yusuke wordlessly sipped his sake.

“I wish you had done as I asked.”

The Lion turned in his seat. The shugenja’s eyes were angry, his mouth a tight, thin line, hands clasped into fists. Yusuke had never seen him show even a hint of temper.

“Why are you upset?” Yusuke slurred, bleary from drink. “I am the one who has lost my son.”

The Tonbo shook, but dared not speak the words of his heart. Yusuke shrugged and returned his gaze to his cup. “It could not be helped.”

The shugenja stormed from the room, leaving Yusuke alone with his dreams of lost futures.

Yusuke’s uncle-in-law parted the very next day, returning to the lands of the Dragonfly. He did not even stay for breakfast. Yusuke’s last vision of the Tonbo was a blurred silhouette against the rising sun. Although he could not see his face, Yusuke felt the glare of the man as surely as a knife’s kiss.

Yuniko vanished for many nights. Yusuke knew she was in the house; she stayed in their bedroom, never venturing out for any reason. Servants came only to deliver food and change her linens. Yusuke allowed his wife her privacy in grieving. He felt awkward and uncomfortable every time he approached the shoji door separating their bedroom from the hall, and, irritated at unfamiliar emotions, would leave it closed. He slept in his study. Indeed, he avoided that entire wing of his home, spending more time out of the house and distracting himself with his duties. He ran drills until long after the sun had set, forcing his officers to share his troubled evenings.

When at last he dared to enter their bedroom, he found it stale and colorless. The candles that illuminated the room during her labor had long since burned out, and were nothing more than sunken wax-puddles on the floor. The windows were closed and had been so for a long time, casting the room in a pall of darkness that settled over dusty floors and untilled bedsheets. Yuniko lay in a lump at the center of the bed, her thin arms cast above her head like limp cherry-branches. Her head rested in the nook of her elbows, her hair stiff and grimy from days without a bath. She wore the lotus-white of death. When she breathed, it was raspy and sore, as if life had been forced upon her. When Yusuke sat, she turned away from him and stared with reddening eyes at the place where the baby’s crib stood empty.

No hands can hold the heavens still. No chains can halt the turn of time. Weeks passed like the draw of a sigh, and slowly Yusuke fell back into his usual routine. It was slower for Yuniko, but one day she left her room to bathe, and, dressed in a fresh kimono, sat at the table for dinner. She was quiet to those present, but she did smile at Ichiro as he clumsily ate his rice. It was the first time she’d smiled since that night, but there was a sadness to that smile that would never again leave her face. Ichiro left the table early. His plate was empty, an oddity that Yusuke barely registered. He could not stop staring at the white obi his wife wore around her thin waist.

That night, he slept in their bedroom for the first time in weeks. Yuniko said nothing to him, but did not protest when he placed his hand on her shoulder. He thought, perhaps, he should speak, but he knew no way to console her. What could he possibly say that would cast aside the sorrow that drenched her heart in pain? Instead, he lay in the dark and felt impotent and powerless.

He woke again before the sun. He’d opened the window to banish the stale air several hours before; the sky, which was starless and black, cloaked the world like a sumi-e brush. Faintly, he became aware that he had not awoken of his own free will. The fog of sleep thinned in his mind, and he slowly sat up. Yuniko lay still, her quiet breath filling the space of the room.

Then he heard it. A quiet scratching against the shoji doorframe, like a fingernail being dragged against the wood. It was how servants would announce their presence before a closed door, rather than risk entering without invitation. Only now was a time of night where no servant would dare to stir, much less ask to be let in. Yusuke was quiet, but his haragei screamed, his heartbeat quickening to the pace of a ready warrior. Calmly, he lifted himself from his bed and made to his daisho, wordlessly taking his katana. Then, positioning himself against the rice paper wall, he slid the door aside. It opened with a loud bang, and he readied his blade for a strike.

In the hall, he saw a shadow against the wall dart away. His mind raced with the notion of an intruder in his home, and he chased it down the hallway, following the dragging shadow until it was engulfed by the open door of his study. Knowing that room had no exit, he leapt through, reaching out with his instincts, awaiting the cornered intruder to attack.

No attack came. Yusuke reached for the nearest lantern and, lighting it, looked back into the room. There was no one there. Only the seated armor of his father looked back at him. His scrolls, his furniture, and his meager cache of sake, were all intact. Nothing appeared to have disturbed his belongings, and there was no sign of anyone having entered this room. He mutely lowered his weapon and stared at the room. Had he been dreaming? Had his mind been playing tricks?

No. There was something wrong, he was sure of it. He took stock of his room one more. There! His eyes focused on the armor of his father; the face of the helmet was empty. The wooden mempo, which he was certain had been there before, was now gone. Only a yawning, empty space remained where the armor’s face had been. Cold anger now arose from within him, banishing any sense of sleepiness. Who dared to come into his home? Who dared to steal his father’s mempo?

“What’s going on?” his wife asked. He spun; she stood at the doorway, rubbing her eyes. She’d woken at his flight from their bedroom.

“Go back to bed,” he growled. It was the first thing he’d said to her in weeks.

He woke up all his servants, ordering them to search the house for any sign of the missing mempo. Fearful of their master’s wrath, they obeyed, but ultimately they could find nothing. Every servant approached with empty hands and a reluctant head-shake. More curious, there was no sign of intrusion. The front gate of Yusuke’s estate was still closed, the guards reporting nothing unusual. No footprints marred the soil outside the house. When Yusuke ordered that every servant’s belongings be searched, he found nothing unusual among them. No one had taken the mempo. None would dare! Yusuke searched his memories for an answer, and doubt began to settle in his mind.

Eventually, the servants concluded that he’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps it was only a night-terror. On cold nights where there were no stars, Yume-do was known to visit the world of mortals. As for the missing mempo, perhaps it had gone missing long ago, and only now did anyone notice. It was embarrassing, perhaps, and easier to blame on something other than memory. None dared to say this in front of Yusuke, of course. But he saw it on their faces; their eyes mocked him openly.

Yusuke’s nights were sleepless after that. The slightest noise would be enough to draw him from his bed, katana in hand, to stalk the halls and ensure everything was normal. He went into the servant’s quarters to count them. He looked in on his son to make sure the boy was sleeping. He checked with guards and walked beside them, lantern in hand, on their patrols. If even the thought of the intruder returning entered his mind, he would take to the halls again. As the days passed, he grew more tired, dark rings beneath his eyes burning permanently onto his features.

One morning, he found two bokken missing from his sparring room. This sparked another search, but again nothing turned up. “I wonder how he is getting in,” Yusuke told his gunso one evening at the sake house. “I am sure someone is coming into my home, but I can never catch him. So far, nothing has gone missing besides the mempo and the two bokken. I have laid some of my wealth out to trap him, but none of it has gone missing.”

“You should get some sleep,” she advised, noticing the listless tint of his eyes. “I hear that soldiers without not enough rest sometimes see things. It is not good for the mind to be so restless.”

“I am not seeing things,” Yusuke snapped, and finished his maneki nekko.

Life continued in this way until his commander, finally noticing the state of his chui, privately ordered him to stay home and rest for a few days. Yusuke did as commanded, but found that even during the day he could not sleep. Instead, he roamed the house, thinking that perhaps he could find a weakness in his defenses. During his second pass he walked by his son’s room and heard something on the other side of the shoji. Coming close to the door, he heard his son’s voice talking quietly. The words were obscured by the thick paper, but it sounded as though he was having a conversation. At once, Yusuke threw aside the door and barged into the room.

Ichiro sat on the floor, his eyes saucer-like and startled as he looked up at his father. The window was open, the sun painting the room in an amber, afternoon cast. Yusuke nearly demanded to know who the boy was speaking with, but then noticed the two straw dolls grasped in the boy’s hands. When he locked eyes, the boy blushed with embarrassment. Yusuke’s face twisted in a contortion of anger and he stormed from his son’s room, slamming the shoji so hard that it nearly broke from the frame. Ichiro quietly lowered his head in his disappointed father’s wake.

“When will the boy finally grow up!?” Yusuke demanded. He was drinking with his gunso that very afternoon. “His gempukku comes ever-closer, yet he still plays with toys! Talking to himself! Making imaginary friends with dolls! He’ll never grow up at this rate!”

“You should count your blessings,” she replied, looking into the depths of her cup.

“Blessings? Ha!” Yusuke barked after emptying his cup for the sixth time, “No, I have been cursed. Cursed with an abyssal failure for a child. He is completely unworthy of my line. Not even a hint of warrior’s blood in him. He should have been the child of a whimpering Crane!”

“Enough!” the gunso shouted. He stared at her in shock. Her eyes were watery with drink, but there was fire in her lean, Matsu features. “All you do is complain about Ichiro! You have complained about him as long as I’ve known you! But at least you have a son! At least you have a child of your own! Some of us will never-”

She bit off her words, teeth clenched, brow pinched in anguish. The water in her eyes seemed less like inebriation now, and they welled for a long moment before finally looking away. “Nevermind,” she whispered. “What does it matter, anyhow?”

Any thought Yusuke had of reprimanding his gunso died instantly. He turned to his own drink and watched his glimmering reflection on the surface of his sake. It distorted in the cup, and he did not recognize it.

Yusuke was walking home from the sake house when he saw his son. It was just before nightfall; on the hill outside their home, the boy stood against the blood red of the sinking sun. He was holding a sword and striking the space before him in one of the Lion’s kata.  Coming closer, Yusuke noticed that the boy’s form had improved to that of a novice. He was not stumbling as he moved, and his grip on the sword, one hand on the pommel, the other below the tsuba, was nearly perfect. Stunned, he watched his son practice on the hillside, unbelieving that Ichiro had made such significant progress. A drum of pride began to beat in his heart. His pace quickened as he rushed towards his son, wanting to fully witness his performance of the kata. That it was not perfect no longer mattered to him. This was the promise he’d been hoping to see for years, and at last it seemed something had clicked within his son’s heart. It no longer mattered that the boy played with dolls, or talked to himself, or preferred the arts of painting and music. None of that mattered as long as he could wield the sword! He reached the top of the hill as Ichiro finished. His back was to his father, his footwork placing him in the perfect finishing stance. “Ichiro!” Yusuke cried, “You’ve done it, my son! You’ve-”

The boy turned. Yusuke halted, his breath frozen. Ichiro did not wear his own face. His lips and eyes were gone, empty holes gaping in their place. His mouth was a white slash against the darkening sky, a grimace of exposed teeth. His sockets were blank and hollow. As icy horror gripped the Lion’s heart, the ruined thing leapt forward and stabbed his gut.

Yusuke awoke with a start. He was in his bedroom. Yuniko slept beside him. It was night; the open window showed a sky full of stars. He felt immediately disoriented. He knew that the vision, his faceless son on the hillside, was just a dream. But it had felt so real as to have been memory. He searched his mind in the dark. How had he gotten here? Between his visit to the sake house and when he went to bed, he found only emptiness in the timeline of his mind.

Something darted from the bedside. He sat up; the shoji door slid aside and something shadowy leapt from the room. Fully awake in an instant, nightmare forgotten, Yusuke grabbed his katana and chased after it. He saw it only as it turned corners in the halls, never witnessing its uncloaked body. But he stayed on top of it regardless, never missing one turn, one step. He followed it to the hallway outside Ichiro’s room, where it flung open the door and darted within. Seconds behind, Yusuke entered.

The first thing Yusuke saw was the open window, the hill beyond illuminated in starlight. Ichiro was awake and sitting up in his bed, staring fearfully at his father as he had that afternoon. Yusuke swept the room in his gaze; nothing seemed out of place. No sign of an intruder. Yusuke went to the window, but there was no one there.

“Who came through here?” He demanded, spinning to look at his son. The boy looked confused and sleepy. Yusuke’s gaze trailed to the boy’s bed; laying at his feet was the missing mempo and one bokken.

Yusuke’s eyes widened at the sight, and his lips curled into an angry snarl. Ichiro began to shake. Yusuke snatched the mempo with a deft hand and all but thrust it before the boy’s face. Ichiro cringed, shrinking away from his father, unable to break his gaze from the man’s furious eyes.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing!?” Yusuke shouted, spittling the boy’s face, “You think I don’t know what’s going on!?”

Ichiro just stared, confused and trembling. A child, a boy. Not a son. Hot anger boiled over into his limbs, and without thought, he struck. The boy reeled from the blow, the sound cracking through the room like a thunderbolt. Tears fell down the boy’s face like hot rivers. Disgusted, he left his son crying in the darkness.

In the morning, Yusuke ate his breakfast silently, avoiding the eyes of his wife. When Ichiro appeared, she noticed the mark on his face right away. She asked questions, of course, but the boy said nothing. He didn’t even look at his father, plopping himself down at the table and staring at his miso soup. Yuniko leaned over and laid her hand against the boy’s cheek, then told a servant to fetch a damp cloth for her son’s face. From the corner of his eye, Yusuke watched her tend to the boy’s swollen cheek, and he saw a look of gentle love in Ichiro’s eyes as he looked up at his mother. He swallowed his guilt with a mouthful of rice.

“My wife babies my son,” he told his gunso at the sake house that evening. “That is why he is soft, I think.” He met her eyes as she swallowed a drink. “I have not made things better.”

“Have you ever taken the boy under your wing?” she asked. “Ever shown him why it is so important that he follow in your footsteps?”

“No,” he confessed, “I assumed he would know.” His face flushed. “I do not know how to be a father. My own father died when I was young. I was raised by my sensei.” A pause. “I thought that was how it should be.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder. Days ago, he would have growled at the gesture, but now his heart was filled with doubts. “Perhaps,” she suggested, “you could still show him.”

She was right. Yusuke went home early and told his son that they would visit the family shrine in the morning. Ichiro nodded mutely and did meet his father’s eyes.

The shrine sat at the far end of the estate, hugging the woods that bordered the village. It was a small square building with a pagoda roof, surrounded by ancestral markers and four torii arches. The building itself had only three rooms: a foyer, a purification room, and the innermost shrine. It had been some time since Yusuke last visited, and ivy now crept up the side of the shrine. Once inside, Yusuke took a bundle of incense from his satchel and gave it to Ichiro to light. Together they knelt before the shrine to their ancestors. Yusuke whispered a prayer to his father, while Ichiro sat beside him and said nothing. The shrine was dark, lit only by a single candle that Yusuke brought with him. In the darkness, Yusuke could only see half of his son’s face.

“You remember the deeds of your grandfather?” Yusuke asked. Ichiro nodded, and then quietly recalled the moment of his grandfather’s death as it was told in stories. The man had died a warrior’s death at the Battle of Aichi, in 1172. It hadn’t been far from where they now sat.

Yusuke nodded at his son. “For my father’s deeds,” he said, “my uncle was given this estate. It was passed on to me. Someday, it will be yours.” Quietly, he drew a bundle from his side. “And so will this.”

The bundle contained his father’s katana. Ichiro looked at it with wondering eyes.

“Our line is prestigious,” Yusuke continued. “We have the blood of heroes in our veins. Heroes that served Matsu Tsuko during the Clan Wars. We must always strive to be worthy of them.” He looked up with reverence. “I always wanted to be worthy,” he confessed, “to show the world that I was destined for great things. I wanted to prove myself to my uncle. To my family.”

He avoided his son’s wondering gaze uncomfortably. He’d never opened up to his son before. He’d never even showed emotion to his wife. But now, in the shadows of the family shrine, he felt at last that his heart could open.

“I never had my chance,” he said. “I was chosen by the nakodo to marry young for politics. The needs of family took over. I knew that I would never be called upon to serve in war as long as I had a political marriage. Not unless the need was great.” He softened. “I… I knew I would not have the chance to prove worthy.”

“It’s my fault,” Ichiro said, snapping his father from his reverie. He looked at the ground. “If it were not for me, you would have been able to follow your dreams.”

Only then did Yusuke feel sorry for his son. A wave of guilt crashed cold upon him. “It is not your fault,” he said, and surprised himself by meaning it. His son looked into his eyes, and Yusuke allowed himself a wistful smile. “This is… just the way of things. But this is why you must grow up, my son. This is why you must put aside your toys and be a man. You will do great things one day. You will be worthy of our ancestors’ legacy. Where I have failed… you will succeed. It does not matter what becomes of me,” he affirmed, “just so long as you become a true warrior.”

His son nodded. “I have been practicing,” he said, trying to ease his father’s mind. “I’ve practiced every day with the bokken. I am getting better.”

Yusuke managed a weak smile. “Oh? Have you been practicing with your sensei?” He knew the answer already; his son was at home too often for that to be true.

Ichiro shook his head. “No. I have practiced with Jirou.”

Yusuke’s brow furrowed into a look of confusion. “Jirou?” he asked. “Who is…?”

“Jirou is my friend,” Ichiro said, helpfully. “He lives with us, father. He lives in my room. I’ve been practicing my kata with him for a long time now.”

Coldness gripped Yusuke’s heart. His eyes widened. Memories flashed through his mind.The shadow racing through the house. The missing bokken. The mempo by Ichio’s bed. The open window in his son’s room. He remembered his dream; the faceless thing practicing kata by the hill outside. His son smiled, eyes flashing brightly. “I’m sorry, father. I didn’t want to tell you before. I thought perhaps you wouldn’t approve. But now you know Jirou’s been helping me.”

“For… how long?” Yusuke asked, cautiously.

“Since that night,” Ichiro said, “When uncle was here. When mom… got sick.”

Only now did Yusuke realize that they’d never explained what happened to his son. Looking back, had he even visited Ichiro during those weeks following her failed labor?

“He came into my room,” Ichiro continued, “He was so small and frail. He came in through the window. He was covered in dirt, like he’d been buried. He had no face, father. I felt sorry for him. I kept him in my room for a long time. He got stronger, father. Bigger. Soon he was my size. Eventually, he grew a mouth, and so I started to feed him. He said he would help me become worthy in your eyes if I helped him. He said his name was Jirou.”

Jirou. Second-born son.

Yusuke’s vision began to swim. He slowly started to stand, but his legs felt weak and he toppled forward. Ichiro looked concerned; he had no idea what was troubling his father.

A twig snapped outside. Yusuke snapped to attention, spinning in the direction of the shrine’s entrance. Ichiro stood and looked with his father. “It’s him,” he said softly. “He wants you to see him, father.”

There, in the doorway, appeared the silhouette of a young boy. It wore one of Ichiro’s kimonos and hakama, his hair pulled back into the same topknot. It’s limbs were thin and lanky, its fingers too long for its hands. It was wreathed in the light of the day, but the darkness of the shrine engulfed its features. Yusuke could not see its face. But he knew what was there.

Yusuke drew his father’s katana, allowing his haragei to guide him. “Get back!” he shouted, shoving his son into the corner of the shrine. The darkness swallowed the boy. The thing remained still at the doorway, head tilted oddly, as if watching Yusuke with a curious hint. Yusuke struggled to calm his beating heart, to return his breathing to normal, but something was scratching him from within, as if desperate to escape his mouth.

Then the thing moved, or rather it blurred and then vanished. Yusuke took a step back and listened. Nothing.

The thing’s strike came so suddenly, Yusuke barely registered it before his legs gave way. It re-appeared in the space of an eye’s blink, striking the Lion soundly in the flank with an open palm. Yusuke felt a thousand tiny needles break through the skin, and when it pulled its hand away, it drew an arc of blood that splattered the floor, forever tainting the shrine. Yusuke fell, his fingers numbing as the katana clattered away.

His eyes rolled up as he lay on the floor. His side felt warm, his arms felt cold. His legs could not move; he felt pins and needles working in his legs, as though his blood was filled with razors. His teeth chattered against his will as he shook violently on the floor. Wordlessly, it lifted a foot to stamp on Yusuke’s face.

“No!” Ichiro was on it with a shout, battering it with both his fists. The creature crumpled under Ichrio’s leap. The boy scrambled on top of it, beating it with his knuckles. “Jirou! Leave father alone! Leave him alone!” The boy’s eyes were wild and wide, tears coming free in the wake of his friend’s betrayal.

“Son!” Yusuke managed through teeth clenched in chattering pain, trying to roll onto his stomach, “It’s unnatural! Bakemono! You must kill it!”

Ichiro did not question his father. He reached for the sword on the floor.

The creature exploded into a frenzy of slashing limbs and frantic movements. It kicked Ichiro just as the boy grabbed the handle of the katana. The candle tilted and fell, pulling the light away and falling behind Yusuke’s shadow. Ichiro was again consumed by the dark, and the thing called Jirou leapt after him.

Yusuke struggled against his treacherous body, fighting the sensations of weakness that flooded him. He could hear the sounds of a struggle, the cutting of flesh and the splashing of blood, but the darkness did not yield to his eyes. He could not see the fight, but he heard it. Shouts of pain and anguished cries echoes through the chambers, a voice that was his son’s and a voice that was not. He dragged his struggling body across the floor, digging his fingers into the floor, impotently pulling himself towards the sound. He knew he trailed the blood from his side as he crawled, but he didn’t care. He had to stop the thing. He had to…

Silence. Sudden and deafening silence. There had been one final, bloodcurdling shriek, and then nothing. Nothing but the ominous drip on the floor. At once, Yusuke’s limbs felt warm again, the chattering of his teeth gone. He still felt weak, and his legs would do no more than kneel, but his strength was slowly returning. He stared into the darkness of the corner and saw a glimpse of movement stirring there.

“Ichiro?” he asked.

Into the light came his son. The boy looked shaken, stunned even, and bore slashes on his cheek and neck. The katana dripped wetly from his grip, the blood of the slain covering him up to the elbow. Weakly, he met the gaze of his father.

“I did it,” he whispered. “I killed him, father. He’s… he’s dead. He won’t bother you anymore.”

Yusuke stared at his son. The boy seemed oddly calm for having killed his former friend. His eyes traced down to the blade. His grip on the sword was greater than novice, his stance almost perfect in the flickering light of the candle. It was uncanny, how improved the boy’s form seemed…

He looked into the boy’s face. It looked just like Ichiro. Dark eyes, pointed features. Hair pulled into a youth’s topknot. Yet there was something in the boy’s eyes that seemed different. They were a warrior’s eyes. Eyes that his son had never before had. Eyes at home in the dark. Eyes that were vaguely inhuman.

“You can be proud of me, right father?” It spoke with the voice of his son, but walked with no stumble.

Yusuke looked into the boy’s eyes for a long time. At last, he nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “You are my son. A son I can be proud of.”

 

*

 

Ichiro’s gempukku was only a week away. Soon he would be tested by his Sensei. But Yusuke did not worry. In the months after the incident at the shrine, he had risen in the ranks of his dojo. His Sensei remarked on the boy’s incredible improvements, and praised him as the top student in the class. Soon, he became the instructor’s assistant, a position meant only for students that could be trusted with blades while others were trusted with shinai. It was a great honor, the first of many. His Sensei said that the boy’s skill with the blade had caught the eye of the local governor. Ichiro would have a great future.

Yusuke watched his son complete his kata against the setting sun. The boy practiced at the top of the hill just beyond their estate. He watched his son silhouetted in twilight red. The boy’s form was perfect. Better even than Yusuke had been in his youth. He’d never been prouder of his son than in this moment.

Yusuke coughed into his fist. He pulled away a splatter of blood, but he ignored it. It didn’t matter. He’d become quite weak in the days since the ordeal at the shrine. The wound was infected, and with every day he’d become weaker. His skin was yellowing, and his body radiated the stench of rot. His eyes were sunken into his head, his hair graying far beyond its time, his limbs growing weaker. Weaker, as his son grew stronger.

And there were the nightmares. They came every night now.

Behind him, his wife Yuniko set a small tray of tea. She, too, looked far older than her age, as if her youth was being siphoned away. She was a cherry-tree limb in loose-hanging robes. Weakly, she looked at the silhouette of the boy as he weaved a web of steel in a flawless kata.

“He has become quite good,” she remarked.

“Yes,” Yusuke replied, never pulling his eyes from the boy, “he honors us with his skill.”

Hesitantly, she looked at her husband. She trembled. “What if…” she breathed, as if fearful that the boy might hear, “…what if he’s… not…?”

“No.” Yusuke cut her off before she could dare to whisper the thought. His crazed eyes were red from lack of sleep, the rings beneath them dark as the sockets of a corpse. “No,” he repeated, “that is our son. My son. A son I can be proud of. He will be a great swordsman some day.” Weakly, Yusuke smiled, even as a wave of pins and needles crept into his legs once again. “My son,” he whispered, “he is my son.”

 

The boy paused in his kata and looked back towards his parents. He smiled, his mouth impossibly wide, a white slash against a starless night sky.

 

* * * * *

 

Virtues

 

Iweko Seiken slowly raised his katana, careful to keep the blade always parallel to the floor.  An endless eye stretched in all directions.  He stepped carefully forward, deliberately keeping himself to a fraction of his possible speed.  A dragon’s coiled body looped through the Ivory throne room, the infinite temporarily deigning to acknowledge the concept of ‘finite’.  Seiken turned and executed a cut, slowing himself when he realized his heart was beginning to beat faster.  Shinjo Tselu sprawled in the dragon’s grip, his life’s blood spreading down the length of his own blade.  Seiken froze in place, grimaced, and shoved the image out of his mind.  Taking a deep breath he focussed his concentration on his body, allowing his mind to fill with the sensation of air moving in and out of his lungs and the smooth slide of muscle against bone.  Then he began moving again, gracefully tracing out the kata’s ancient movements and allowing it to wash him free of tension.  When Seiken finished he felt whole, clean, and ready to have tea with the Scorpion Champion.

With a brisk motion he sheathed his blade and departed from his private study.  Seiken had chosen not to have his meeting with Bayushi Nitoshi in his own rooms; that would have been too great an honor and might have been taken by others as a sign that the Scorpion had a particular association with him.  By having tea in one of the middle areas of the palace he would still be visiting an honor upon Nitoshi, but without implying anything about how he felt about the Scorpion.  Seiken reflexively stopped himself from sighing.  Both of his parents had impressed upon him the importance of court life in the proper functioning of the Empire, and he was trying to learn, but everything seemed overly complicated and layered with falsity.  It was a pity that he hadn’t been able to bring Shibatsu back from the Colonies: his younger brother had an eye for this type of battlefield, a knack for seeing the real in the situation.   He would know, or know how to find out, what Nitoshi wanted from this meeting.

The parlor had been set up exactly has he had instructed.  The windows had been opened wide, allowing a good view of the palace’s gardens.  The table was set with a teapot in a severely simple style, and the leaf used was one that Seiken’s father was known to favor.  Any reference to fathers in the Scorpion Champion’s presence was a calculated risk, but Seiken hadn’t wanted to reveal his own taste in tea and he happened to like most of the ones his father drank.  Seiken shook his head.  More minutia.  He seated himself and waited.

At exactly the appointed time a servant scratched on the door and announced that Bayushi Nitoshi had arrived.  In response to Seiken’s permission the door slid open and Nitoshi entered and immediately prostrated himself.

“Nitoshi-san,” Seiken said, “please rise and join me.”  He gestured to the seat across the table.  The Scorpion lord rose in an easy motion and knelt at the indicated place.  As he did so Seiken noticed that the other man wore a mask of a design he had never seen before.  It was painted with red lacquer and featured prominent teeth, as most of Nitoshi’s masks did, but on this one the mouth was opened wide enough that Nitoshi’s real mouth could be seen.  It gave Seiken mixed feelings: On the one hand, he appreciated that Nitoshi had come prepared to actually drink tea with him.  On the other hand, he felt very much like he was in the presence of a dangerous creature prepared to bite whatever came into reach.  Perhaps, Iweko’s son reasoned, this was the Scorpion version of sincerity.

“I thank you for allowing me this time,” Nitoshi said.  “I know that your duties to the Empress take up much of your day.”

Seiken nodded.  “You are one of the greatest of my mother’s vassals,” he said.  “I am sure that you did not ask for this meeting for frivolous reasons.”  He gestured slightly, and a servant came forward to pour them both tea.

“I am gratified by your regard,” Nitoshi said.  He picked up the cup and sniffed the vapors rising up from it.  “Old Pine Leaf, from the northern Lion provinces.  A soldier’s tea–cheap, widely available, and of a predictable mediocre quality.  One of your father’s favorites, I believe.”

“Do you find it an inappropriate tea for an Imperial consort?” Seiken said, a slight challenge in his voice.  Nothing in Nitoshi’s tone had implied disrespect, but something about the Champion’s blandness nettled him.

“That would depend on the consort,” Nitoshi said.  “Iweko Setai has neither flaunted his history nor tried to hide it, making this tea a pointed statement about the kind of man he is.  Had he been another sort of person, it would be a mere affectation.”

Seiken picked up his tea and drank while he thought this over.  Somehow he had lost control of the conversation, and while he wasn’t necessarily surprised at having lost it to the Scorpion Champion it was sobering to think about how fast it had happened.  “I assume you did not come here to discuss the philosophy of tea drinking,” he said finally.

Nitoshi nodded and put his cup back on the table.  “I am here to ask for your help, Seiken-sama.  I am told that you spent a day in the SecondCity in concealment, observing conditions there.  You know the service my clan renders the Throne–I think it would be useful to know what you observed.”

“Me?” Seiken said.  “Do you not have your own agents there?”

“Multitudes of them, all of them highly trained and eager to serve,” Nitoshi said.  “But at times the problem with a Scorpion agent is that they are a Scorpion agent, and prone to see events as happening in a certain way, for certain reasons.  As an Imperial trained by a Kitsuki, you would be seeing things from a different perspective.  I would be foolish indeed to pass up such a source of information.”

Seiken mulled this over while their cups were refilled.  His sensei among the Lion tended to criticize members of the Scorpion Clan for their lack of honor, though he knew nothing about Nitoshi to suggest that the man himself was dishonorable.  Nitoshi was clearly intent on pursuing his duties to the Empress, and that certainly spoke well of him.  And if Seiken himself wanted to be anywhere but sitting at the same table with him–well, that was a personal weakness of Seiken’s, and one that he would not allow to interfere with his own duties.  “I think I understand, Nitoshi-san,” he said.  “Where would you like to start?”

Nitoshi smiled behind his mask, living flesh imitating carved and painted wood.  “Excellent.  Please, let us begin with what you have observed about the Spider Clan.”

 

* * * * *

 

Clarity

 

“You should have returned to your post at the Aerie by now,” a voice came from the entrance to the dojo. In the open doorway, Kitsuki Fujimura eyed the young man who knelt in solitude. “I am given to understand your master Jakuei’s business has concluded here and he has left.”

“With respect, Fujimura-sama,” Mirumoto Kyoshiro said quietly, not opening his eyes, “I believe you are mistaken.”

The Kitsuki folder her arms and frowned. “I believe I am not,” she said curtly. “In point of fact, it was I who signed Jakuei-san’s travel papers.”

“You are mistaken that Jakuei is my master,” the bushi responded.

There was silence as Fujimura eyed the other Dragon critically. “You remain here because Doji Iza-san remains here, is that correct?” The Mirumoto’s feud with the Crane woman was relatively well known among the samurai in the Colonies, though few spoke of it. Nearly no one understood the cause of the anger, but Kyoshiro was not shy about making his feelings clear. Some simply passed it off as another oddity from the Dragon Clan, and it seemed somewhat unimportant in the constant conflicts that had suffused the Colonies of late.

“I stay here to right what has been wronged. I must defeat her, I must find a way.” He let out a slow breath. “Jakuei-sama agreed to release me from my obligations to him, and so I am now under my own guidance. I am at your disposal, or the disposal of any here among the Dragon, but my priorities are my own after that.”

“You could kill her easily, I think,” Fujimura noted casually. “I have seen her often, and I believe she neglects her practice since she arrived here. Her time working with the Mantis on behalf of her clan is all-consuming. You, by comparison, have spent what time you can honing Mirumoto’s art.”

“It is not enough that I kill her,” Kyoshiro said bitterly, but in a whisper the woman could hear. “I must defeat her. And I will not underestimate her. She is trained by the Kakita – she is beautiful, brilliant, talented, and skilled. She has a peace in her heart, despite what she has done. I hate her, and I envy her… and I hate her all the more for that.” The young man opened his eyes and looked at the blade laying beside him. “What would cutting her down do to change all of that? She will be dead and forever remembered as a skilled duelist despite her death and a cunning orator besides that.”

“What is your plan, then?”

Kyoshiro grabbed his sword and stood. “I do not know I can defeat her,” he said simply. “This breaks one of Mirumoto’s most basic teachings. I must have confidence that she will fail, and I must do what it takes to make that happen.”

Fujimura frowned. “Kyoshiro-san, I do not like what you are saying.”

The young Dragon looked the woman in the eyes, and the Kitsuki found none of the hatred or burning rage his words seemed to express. His eyes were flat, unfeeling.

Dead.

“I am not a dishonorable man, Fujimura-sama,” he said quietly. “I will not shame my family, my ancestor, or the Dragon. You have my word. But she is responsible for the death of my kin and she simply does not care.”

“Your feud has been poorly articulated to the courts, Kyoshiro-san. You are already bringing shame to your house through your action and inaction. The others speak of you as if you are a madman, crazed for vengeance over some imagined slight.”

The Mirumoto nodded. “A failure on my part, yes,” he agreed sadly. “That is why I have decided to petition the Ivory   Court for an exhibition duel between Iza and myself, in celebration of the Otomo Governor’s return to her position.”

Fujimura took in a slow breath, realizing immediately what Kyoshiro planned. “The Crane will never agree to it,” she said, knowing full well she was not stating anything the other man did not already know. “She is too wrapped up in matters with the Mantis. They will, at best, send someone in her stead.”

“Yes,” Kyoshiro agreed. “And I will defeat them. I know I can defeat whomever they send. It is likely they will even send a swordsman superior to Iza-san, and the Ivory Court will witness that Crane’s loss to the Mirumoto Technique.” He placed the sword back into its position at at his side, and he looked off, clearly seeing the events in his mind’s eye as he spoke. “And Iza will wonder if it could have been her. She will wonder if it should have been her. Perhaps she will think if she would have only gone to bow before me in an exhibition, this would all have ended. Or perhaps she will feel cowardice bite at her soul for avoiding the match entirely, though she had every honorable reason to do so.”

Kyoshiro looked back to Fujimura now, and his eyes were perfectly calm and clear. He continued, “Others will whisper the same concerns she silently holds in her heart. She will lose faith in herself. Slowly, but she will be one step closer to being the woman I can defeat.”

 

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