By Lucas Twyman
Edited by Fred Wan
“The fires of the heart
Will burn us all to nothing
Ash floats in the wind”
-The Poet Rezan
Year 1133, One night prior to the Battle of Oblivion’s Gate
Red clouds hovered over the Shadowlands, roiling across the night sky. Strange purple lightning crackled and arced from cloud-peak to cloud-peak, leaving the world flickering and strobing in the dark. The moonless sky had its own ambient, sickly glow, unnatural and disheartening, and the strange visible darkness seemed to grow brighter as it swallowed up the pinprick-lights of the rapidly disappearing stars. Immediately ahead, the Kuni Wastes stretched outwards with sober stoicism, the stillness of it almost comforting, like a poorly-placed rock garden. In the distance, the shifting ground of the deep Shadowlands was hammered relentlessly by the raging winds of storms stretching from the heavens to the earth, storms that twisted and screamed as if they were made up of thousands of living things.
“It’s almost beautiful, isn’t it?”
Shiba Katsuda’s quiet meditation was broken by the voice, and he looked over to see the petite form of a Scorpion shugenja peering at him. She was pretty, very pale and thin, and around the edges of her mask danced carvings of flame, like the trimmings of Katsuda’s own armor. He shook his head. “It is chaos,” he said softly, “I… I dislike it.”
The Scorpion shugenja walked around Katsuda and stopped right in front of him, looking up into his eyes. She smiled softly, and placed her open palm near his cheek – not touching him, but so close that he could feel her warmth in the evening cool. Her eyes were bright and she looked at him so intently that he could see the slight adjustments they made, back and forth, as they looked at his face.
He grabbed her wrist, gently, and lowered her hand to her side. Her eyes grew wide. “Do you not recognize me, Katsuda?” she asked, finally looking away from him.
Katsuda looked down at the ground to her left and frowned. “Of course, Jomyako. You have changed little over the years.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” she replied, smiling again, “Neither of us has changed much. We were just children that winter, and despite everything our clans have endured since then, we both show little indication of the damage done.”
“I am a yojimbo, and I have bled for my clan as much as any,” Katsuda replied, placing his hand on his chest, “I am just fortunate that my scars are easily hidden, Jomyako.”
Soshi Jomyako turned and looked back over her shoulder, at the vast waste stretching out before them. “You never answered my letters.”
Katsuda’s voice was stern. “I never read them. Writing to me after your clan was disbanded was foolish.”
Jomyako looked back up at Katsuda, “Not one?” He looked away from her, avoiding her gaze. She continued, “After what we had, you never read one?”
“We were little more than children, Jomyako. Duty…”
“I LOVED YOU!” Jomyako screamed, and she grabbed Katsuda’s robe and shoved him to the ground, “And you told me that you loved me as well! I petitioned Lord Bantaro himself to have our marriage arranged!”
Katsuda pushed himself up to his knees and scowled at her. “And then your Lord Shoju betrayed the entire Empire.”
Jomyako’s body trembled, then began shaking as she began to cry. Katsuda stood and stared at her, uncertain. Finally, after a long moment, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You will ruin the dye on your mask,” he said softly.
“It doesn’t matter,” the Scorpion replied. She leaned closer to him. “Nothing matters.”
He stepped back. “I can’t. My duty…” He shook his head. “I have a wife, a loyal wife who has given me two sons. I am here to fight for their future.”
She nodded, “But they are not here now.” She pointed across the wastes, “Tomorrow we fight the Darkness itself. If we win, we are heroes. Our sins will not matter, our treacheries will finally be forgiven. If we lose, there is no death. There will be no rebirth, no final judgment. There will be only oblivion.” She shook her head. “I can’t face that alone.”
She slid her hand into his. “Please,” she said, “My life has been only pain and betrayal and lost hopes. I have nothing left.” She looked into his eyes, “Don’t make me face tonight’s darkness alone.”
They looked into each-other’s eyes for a long moment, then she turned and lifted the silk entrance to his tent. He looked back out over the wastes, at the storms, then turned and looked back through the Wall’s open gate to the Empire. Then, Shiba Katsuda followed Jomyako into the tent’s inviting darkness.
* * *
Year 1167, The War of Fire and Thunder
Outside, the storm raged. Winds whipped through the camp, tearing tents asunder and sending scrolls flying. Waves, ten men in height, shattered against the shoreline. The peals of thunder were constant. One thing was certain: while the Storm Riders of the Yoritomo were not able to shatter the Isawa’s defenses, they were more than capable of making rest nearly impossible.??
For Isawa Oharu, the storm was a blessing. The booming thunder rang out in rhythm with the heaves of her breath, and the leaking rain mingled with her tears. Whenever lightning struck, she could see the comforting silhouette of her yojimbo, Shiba Sakishi, through the soaked walls of her tent. He was not alone: she could hear voices, soft and concerned, under the constant patter of the rain.??
Sakishi cried out, and Oharu reached involuntarily for her scroll satchel. The entry flap was thrown open, and she held her breath until she saw Isawa Mizuhiko’s concerned face. Over his shoulder, Shiba Sakishi glared disapprovingly, but made no further attempt to stop the young water tensai from entering.??
Mizuhiko pulled the flap shut behind him and kneeled next to Oharu. Despite the rain, he was completely dry, and Oharu could feel warmth radiating from him. She looked down at the floor and her loose hair fell in front of her face.??
“I’m so sorry,” Mizuhiko whispered, “I didn’t find out until after my watch ended. I came as soon as I heard.”
??She closed her eyes and pulled her fists together tightly. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Mizuhiko reached over to brush the hair from her eyes, and her entire body went stiff. He ducked his head down in front of her, trying to catch her gaze.??
“Did you know him well?” he asked, his voice still a whisper.
??It took her an eternity to find her voice again. “I… no. The matchmakers and I spent time with him, of course, but the wedding was the first time I truly spent any time alone with him. The war started a week later.”
??Mizuhiko narrowed his eyes and raised an eyebrow, “Did he treat you well… in that time?”??
She smiled sadly. “Well enough,” she said, “he was cold, but the marriage was important. We did our duty.”??
Mizuhiko cocked his head to one side. “He… he didn’t love you?”??
She placed her hand on top of his. “Oh, Mizuhiko,” she said, “love does nothing for a marriage – it only makes things complicated. He may have loved the geisha he saw, but love for me? It wouldn’t be proper.”??
Mizuhiko looked down at their hands, his eyes heavy. Before Oharu realized what was happening, he had placed his free hand on her cheek.??
He kissed her.??
She pushed him away. “Don’t!” she said, a bit more loudly than she had intended. “I… don’t.”??Mizuhiko stared intently at her, his face calm. “I love you, Oharu.”??Oharu quickly got to her feet and stared down at him. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. Why do you have to be so impulsive?”??
Mizuhiko shrugged, proffering a hand, “I love you, Oharu.”
??”My husband just died, Mizuhiko!” she said, stomping her foot on the straw mat, “Whatever we may have done was a mistake! We were a mistake!”
??”I love you, Oharu,” Mizuhiko said again, looking into her eyes, “We should request to be married.”??
Oharu crossed her arms. She was surprised; her heart felt jagged and sharp, and her emotions cut against her thoughts. She could not move. Everything seemed so muddled. “That would never work, Mizuhiko. I know you. You are the second son of a second son, and your mother was once a geisha.” She saw Mizuhiko scowl, but still continued, “I am little more than an elevated peasant, adopted because of my gifts. You offer me no credibility: my position as Itaru’s widow is greater than it would be married to you.”??
Mizuhiko looked down at his hand and clenched and unclenched his fist, saying nothing. He looked up at Oharu, tilted his head to one side, and nodded, anger rippling across his features. Finally, he stood and walked towards the entrance to the tent.??
“Wait,” Oharu said. Mizuhiko stopped and looked to his side, not fully turning around. ??”Wait,” Oharu said again, her voice sad and low. She looked at the floor. A drop of water fell from the ceiling into a small puddle, and ripples passed through the muddy water. “Don’t leave me alone, Mizuhiko. Don’t leave me. Not tonight.”
* * *
Year 1170, ten days prior to the Tournament of the Heavens, the Asako Libraries
“Will you be attending the tournament, Lord Bairei?”
Asako Bairei, the Master of Water, sat in a dark corner of the ancient libraries, his pale face barely illuminated as he pored over a set of ancient scrolls. He did not look up at his questioner; instead, he simply motioned with a free hand for Asako Juro to sit.
“Yes, Juro-san. However, with Nakamuro dead and Emori injured, we have decided not to focus too closely on the tournament itself. Personally, I believe Phoenix have more important matters to attend to than trying to rule the Empire.”
Juro nodded, “You speak of the Dark Oracles?”
Bairei looked up from his scroll. “Yes. You have no doubt received a copy of the message from Isawa Sawao and Isawa Kyoko. There is activity brewing in the northern mountains. I fear Chosai is planning something, perhaps revenge for our strike on his brother Oracle.”
Juro ran his forefingers through his long, white beard. Looking towards the far wall in contemplation, he said, “I plan on sending the bulk of my Inquisitor forces to look for the remaining Oracles. Hopefully, we can thin their ranks by one more before Chosai is able to organize his response.”
“Excellent,” Bairei said, his gaze returning to the scrolls before him. He picked a scroll up and read it. The ink on the message had barely dried. “Ah, yes,” Bairei said, “there is one more matter we must discuss.”
Juro bowed. “My lord?”
“Judgment.”
Juro looked up in astonishment. “So… it really is one of the four?”
Bairei nodded, “Yes. And I fear that, like Ambition, the newly discovered blade is far from silent.”
Juro frowned. “Can we destroy it?”
“Perhaps, but remember, Ambition may have caused more damage shattered than whole. Even broken, the blade may have inspired Kachiko to war, and it certainly was used to assault the first Toturi.”
“Then what are we to do?”
“I have… a theory.” Bairei searched through the pile of scrolls to his side. After several moments, he found the proper document and unfurled it. “Ambition’s thirst was never quenched, and now Judgment is found, active and aware, several centuries after it was seen last. Revenge, however, lies passive, quiescent, in our storehouse, ever since Akodo Ginawa presented it to us for research. While it is possible that the spirit of the blade may simply be biding its time, it seems passive, as if its thirst were somehow quenched. I have theorized, after examining Revenge on several occasions, that these terrible weapons were each crafted out of the very soul of a dishonorable man. Perhaps, after being wielded by Ginawa, Revenge’s kharmic debt was finally paid?”
Juro frowned. “I am not sure I am pleased with the final result of this line of reasoning, my lord. Are you suggesting we wield one of the cruelest artifacts ever created?”
“Your pleasure is not my concern, Juro. The surviving Masters have agreed: the sword is one of the few weapons that we have with the proven ability to kill a Dark Oracle. In doing so, we may break the blade’s curse and spare the Empire untold suffering. We need a wielder for the blade, someone incorruptible, a man whose heart is endlessly fair and just. Do you know of a man with these traits, Juro?”
Juro bowed. “I believe I do, my lord. And, as Daikoku smiles, he is both my subordinate and a hero to the clan.”
A slow smile spread across Bairei’s face as he realized the identity of the Juro’s suggestion. “Fate itself in action. Fascinating.”
* * *
The present, the northern provinces of the Moto
Isawa Kyoko’s eyes were wider than her considerable smile. “This is… incredible.”
The Moto serving as the Phoenix shugenjas’ guide laughed heartily. It took Kyoko a while to adjust to these strange people – their lack of poise, their obsessions with touching and with the body in general, their strange smell (horses and spices and the dead animals they wore) – but she was certainly warming to them.
“Yes, Isawa!” Moto Kang said happily, “Imagine how grand the temple will be when it is finally finished!”
Kyoko looked around, taking care not to pull too hard on the reins of her steed as she did. “No, Kang,” she replied, “I mean the land itself! It’s so flat – I can see for miles and miles and miles!”
Kang guided his steed next to Kyoko’s own horse. “Oh, so this is your first time to the steppes, my dear?” he asked. “We must have a celebration then! I can show you some of the finest treasures of the Unicorn lands.”
Kyoko beamed a smile at Kang, but, over his shoulder, Isawa Sawao stared, wide-eyed, at her. “That,” she said, hesitating as Sawao shook his head, “that might be nice.”
“Fabulous!” Kang replied, clasping his hands together, “on an unrelated note, Isawa-san, are you involved with…”
“Moto-san,” Sawao said abruptly, “You said that the structure will be a shrine to the new Moon?”
Kang turned quickly to face Sawao as Kyoko frowned and mumbled, “It’s… complicated.”
Sawao shot her another knowing look, then smiled at Kang. “The architecture is fascinating. However, we are here for a reason. While my clansmen aid your wounded, Kyoko and I are to search the northern border for any signs of activity by the Dark Oracle of Fire or the army we believe him to be gathering.”
“Of course, Lord Sawao,” the Moto said, bowing his head, “the border will only be another day’s travel from here.”
“Then lead on,” Sawao replied curtly as he pulled the reins of his horse to turn to the north. “Every moment we waste could bring us closer to an attack by the Oracles.”
As Sawao began to ride away, Kang turned to Kyoko and shrugged, smiling widely at her. Kyoko had to force herself to cough to keep from laughing out loud. She was, indeed, beginning to like the company of these strange, smelly people.
* * *
The Eastern End was quite lively, for a sake house located in a small village like Rushing Stream, but the night was winding on, and many of the customers seemed tired. Shiba Sakishi, former yojimbo to the late Isawa Oharu, smiled as his friend, Shiba Morihiko, raised the sake bottle to him and poured him a new cup.
“I have to leave tomorrow, Morihiko. Don’t tell me your good mood is because of that.”
Morihiko laughed. “No, of course not. It’s for the three weeks we’ve spent together, Sakishi! I had thought that I may never see you again. It’s good that you finally managed to come home.”
Sakishi nodded and sipped at his sake. “You may never see me again after this.”
Morihiko slid his arm into his kimono and scratched at his chest. “Don’t start with that again, Sakishi. Lord Mizuhiko himself told you that you were too good to lose. Losing your charge when she sacrificed herself to kill a Dark Oracle – that’s not a yojimbo failing, that’s watching a hero do her duty!”
Sakishi fingered the inlay of the table before him and nodded again. “So you keep saying. Lord Mizuhiko’s message said that his research was delayed. Part of the Shinomen was burnt down and he went to investigate. Apparently the last kitsu was killed.”
“You’re joking!” Morihiko set his cup down noisily on the table and leaned forward, “A Kitsu just passed through on his way to Kyuden Isawa last week!”
Sakishi shook his head. “Not a Kitsu family member, a kitsu. Those Lion ghosts, like the ones that guard the shrines. They’re all dead now.”
Morihiko shook his head sadly. “That’s terrible. Speaking of ghosts – any news of the ghost you’re hunting?”
“I assume that’s why Mizuhiko sent for me, finally. The letter says that I’m to be his yojimbo, now. I’ll try to be the last one that fake Oracle sees before she’s killed too.” Sakishi nodded firmly, “Oharu deserves that, at least.”
“Well, that should be more interesting than guarding the old man here,” Morihiko replied, lifting his sake glass into the air, “Though getting a day off here and there has its benefits.”
Sakishi lifted his glass as well, and the two men sat in silence, sipping their sake in quiet contemplation. When Sakishi finished his drink, Morihiko leaned over to pick up the bottle, but Sakishi motioned for him to stop, and dropped a few coins on the table.
“I should go now,” he said, standing. “See that Sho is paid, and give him my usual compliments.” He turned and walked towards the sake house’s entrance.
“Sakishi, wait!” Morihiko called after him, and the yojimbo turned to look at his friend. Morihiko looked uncertain, almost grim. Morihiko looked his friend in the eye and nodded gruffly, “Remember to come back. Alive, okay?”
Sakishi’s features softened, and he nodded a final time before turning and walking out into the cold night.
* * *
The Estate of Duty’s Heart, home of the familial line of Shiba Katsuda
?Mizuhiko sat alone. A single candle flickered, casting too little light for shadows to fall around him. He sat in the center of a storm; around him, wrinkled pages lay scattered and chaotic, like the hastily discarded garments of impatient lovers. At his side sat the blade, its ever-present warmth as much a comfort as it was a warning.??He let the last letter fall limply from his hand.??
“I know you,” he whispered to the night, “I know who you were, monster. I know your heart, and I know your crimes.”??
The night did not answer.??
“It was not enough that you loved him,” he whispered, “You had to hurt him in the end. When grandmother died, screaming at the night, crying out against the whispers she heard on the wind, she had not gone mad. It was you.”??
Mizuhiko glanced around the room, his eyes darting from letter to letter. “I know your heart, monster. I know you, and I judge you.”??
Mizhiko stood, walked to the far wall, and slid open a small window. Three stories below, the stone garden was silent: no crickets chirped, no birds called. “I know you now, monster!” Mizuhiko cried into the night, “I know you, and I know your guilt!”??
The night gave no reply. The only sounds Mizuhiko heard were the air rushing in his ears, like the rushing of waves against the shore, and a voice in his heart that responded to the ocean’s call, a voice with an endless thirst.
*
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