Scenes from the Empire

By Yoon Ha Lee, Robert Denton, and Shawn Carman

Edited by Fred Wan

Fables

            “I’m being sent to the Colonies,” Yoritomo Souta said that evening.  “Probably to farm giant ants.”

            “Oh?” Kakita Takara said, at first taking this for another fable.  In the past weeks of their affair, she had found that Souta was possessed of a good number of them.  To be truthful, it was his unabashed love for over-the-top ridiculous yarns that had first drawn her to him, although his looks didn’t hurt.  He was appealing in that rough-hewn way that she found so refreshing after being surrounded by elegant, beautifully-groomed men all her life.

            They were exchanging good sake and silly stories in her room, no more quietly than was necessary.  There was a lovely half-moon floating outside, and you could see its light captured in the icicles.  Souta was more than adequate to ward off the chill, a quality Takara appreciated in men as a category.  He had an arm draped around her shoulders now, and they sat side by side under a melange of quilts and disheveled kimonos.

            “No, I’m serious, Takara.”  Souta was starting to slur just the slightest bit.  Usually Takara got drunk faster than he did, only to be expected with a Mantis, but it was true that he had shown an unusual liking for that bottle of Five Sands sake.  Takara hadn’t cared for it herself, especially that strange raw resinous taste, but her honorable mother had taught her from an early age that other people’s tastes were their own business, and a good Crane was gracious about other people’s failings.

            “All right,” Takara said agreeably, leaning over so she could help herself to a lukewarm cup half-full of tea.  “Isn’t it a great honor?  I thought you wanted a position with more responsibility.”  Surely the Mantis, of all people, wouldn’t hold a stint in the Colonies against someone.

            “Oh yes,” Souta said softly, “a lot of responsibility.  My dear brother made that very clear in his summons.”

            Takara was alarmed–that was genuine bitterness in Souta’s voice–but it would only shame him to let on that she had noticed.  “Think of all the exciting stories you’ll have to share with me when you visit,” she said, stroking his hand.  Best to distract him–”I especially liked the one about the sea serpent with four heads, and the thing the samurai-ko did with that unusual pair of chopsticks.”  He still didn’t seem very distracted.  “They tell a story about my great-grandmother, you know.  There was always a tradition that she was descended from a kitsune, and certainly she liked to wear russet obi more than was strictly proper according to the fashions of the time.”

            Actually, no such thing was true about her great-grandmother, or if it was, no one had seen fit to inform her about it.  She had read something like it in an anthology of supernatural tales, however, and now that she thought of it, the fox-blooded woman in question had fallen tragically in love with an artisan who loved nothing but his own carvings.  Still, she and Souta had been exchanging amusing lies throughout their affair, partly as a way of diverting each other, partly as a way of acknowledging the fundamentally transient nature of their relationship.

            Now, however–now, Souta was changing the rules of their game.  He showed every sign of wanting to burden their relationship with a bite of the truth.

            There was nothing to do for it but see if her suspicion was correct.  “You know,” Takara said, as if the idea had just occurred to her, “I’ve thought that a sojourn in the Second City might do me good.  It’s so difficult jostling for position with all my cousins.  I’ve told you about the one who used to follow me around and then make snide remarks about my choice of hairpins to all the boys I liked, right?  Not to mention the time she slandered me to my sensei.”

            Just as she had thought he would, Souta ignored the idle chatter about her cousins and focused straight in on the Second City.  “That’s a terrible idea,” he said, looking stricken.  His arm tightened around her shoulders, then relaxed, if not very convincingly.  “The climate is awful, everyone agrees on that.  A flower such as yourself would only be diminished by the experience.”

            If her honorable mother was to be believed, the flowers of the Crane could do with a good deal more hard work and a lot less lounging around discussing favorite pillow-books, but Takara imagined this line of argument would not find much sympathy with her lover.  Still, there was something Souta definitely wanted to prevent her from finding out about the Second City.  She couldn’t imagine what it could be.  It wasn’t as if the Empire didn’t know of its existence.

            “Well,” she said artlessly, “in that case, you could do me a favor by pulling a few strings, no?  I rather like the thought of my cousin Megiri making the journey only to be laid low by some unaesthetic but ultimately harmless fever for a few months.  I could provide you with a list.  Most of my cousins are terrible bores.”  This wasn’t entirely true.  Takara enjoyed most of her cousins’ company, but their definition of “enjoy” involved pranks and convoluted schemes.  Once Megiri had even contrived to get a particularly annoying boy sent to the Crab for a year.  Everyone had been impressed by that one.

            In any case, the blow went true to the target.  “Oh, no,” Souta said, looking if anything more stricken, “I couldn’t, ah, do that to your relatives.  I wouldn’t wish to lose your good regard.”

            “My dear Mantis,” Takara said, kissing him firmly on the nose, “I doubt you’re in any danger of doing that.”

            It was uncomfortably true, and she hadn’t expected it to be.  She was certain now that Souta’s new duties did not bode well for her clan.  He was a fool for trying to protect her–all things considered, in everything but arm wrestling she was much better equipped to protect herself than he was–but it meant something that he had tried, and in the meantime she had something interesting to report to her honorable mother.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Rightful Toji

            When Asahina Konomi stepped into the room, her senses were assailed by a combination of spicy and musty scents. It smelled thick with agarwood, cinnamon bark, and Mao-to tea.  It was the smell of sickness. She’d long associated it with the dying.

            The gloom shimmered with the gaussian texture of incense smoke. In the corner, beyond a lonely beam of amber sunlight, her grandfather lay in his flat bed. She could hear his labored breath, too weak even to stir the fog around him. Konomi knew it would not be long now. On quiet feet she moved to the side of the bed, falling into respectful seiza. He lay on his back, eyes closed, his weathered face motionless under a thin layer of dust. Gingerly, she extended her palm and touched his withered hand. It felt cold.

            “…Konomi?” His voice was a cold breath. He seemed so tired. Eager to sleep.

            She closed her eyes and fought her trembling. “I am here, grandfather.”

            His quiet breathing continued for many moments. She could feel him sinking deeper into the embrace of the next world. The weight of her heart pulled it painfully into her belly, and she felt as though she was sinking with him. Outside, the wind-chime stirred four times, then was silent.

            “Konomi.”

            She opened her eyes. The time was now; she could feel Meido pulling him, sensed the stir of the kami as the worlds faded together. Yet he hesitated, as if his wind-pulled spirit, like an old and tattered cloth, was somehow snagged. She took his still fingers and squeezed them. She wanted to smile, to reassure him, but any movement of her face would loosen the film of tears before her eyes. She would not do that. Cry now and his spirit will not want to leave. He would become trapped in the world of the living.

            His hand squeezed back. She gasped. A moment before, he’d had no strength. He radiated urgency, pulling her forward. “Grandfather?” The wind-chime outside rang demandingly, but she ignored it. Meido would have to wait a moment more. “What is it?”

            She sat patiently as he struggled. The oppressive chiming grew louder, as if by covering up the sound of his breathing, it could smother him. She lent him her strength and leaned in.

            At last, his voice came to her ear. “Konomi-chan. I… I know the truth.”

            The chime went silent. Her heartbeat raced as his began to fade. “I know… the truth…” he said. “I… know why… you accepted… the Asahina’s training. You… gave up… your own dreams…”

            The heat of shame tinted her cheeks, and she lowered her head. It would risk his passage to the afterlife to confess this, but her heart was open now. With his dying strength he had opened it, and she felt her emotions tumble out. “I failed you,” she confessed. Tears fell on his cold hand. “I couldn’t find a cure. I thought… if I was good enough…”

            “No… ” the old man struggled, “No… failure. You are… my brightest… grandchild.” His mouth twitched into a faint smile. “You always… showed promise. That is why… the kami… chose you.”

            “Grandfather…” she whispered.

            His eyes softly opened. Milky white. “I want… to give you… something. So that… your talents… will not… be… wasted.”

            With a shaking hand, he gestured to the far corner. An old desk sat there, its corners coated with melted candle-wax. Konomi spotted a scroll on its surface, bound with blue ribbon. As she retrieved it and returned to her grandfather’s side, she saw that it was sealed with his family’s Mon. Her family, before she was fostered to the Asahina. The Mon of the Doji.

            He trembled. “Break… the seal.”

            She did. The scroll unfurled before her. Her eyes took in the uneven calligraphy of shaking hands and knotted fingers. They widened.

            He sighed. “My gift… to you…”

            It was a deed. His last wishes transferred his entire estate to her. And tucked within was another scrap of paper, this one older and weathered, the writing nearly faded. It was a recipe, and a list of instructions.

            There was no containing her tears now. “Grandfather!” she cried.

            He was smiling where he lay. Silent. Still. Konomi cupped her hand over her mouth. The chime outside twinkled gently. After long moments, she closed her eyes, then extinguished the incense.

* * *

            “This is outrageous!” Doji Hirota exclaimed, throwing down the paper document. Doji Shinkichi, standing behind him, fixed confused eyes upon her. Konomi returned no emotion, refusing to acknowledge her brother’s outburst. Around them, the “Kurabito,” the brewery-workers, stared with slack faces.

            She had come to claim what her grandfather had left her: the lone sake works in the village of Tsuma. The “Maneki Neko Brewery,” named for the ceramic bobtail cat that sat just within the main entrance. She’d spent much time here as a child; the sight of the weathered old statue, its left paw raised above its smiling face, unleashed a rush of familiar memories. She’d walked unimpeded amidst the brewery-people as they went about their work, even as many of them paused to cast her curious glances. She’d finally stopped before the huge Moromi vats that held the fermenting rice mash, recalling the promise she’d made to herself when she was a child. It was the dream of a little girl who’d looked up to her grandfather the brewmaster. That one day she would be just like him. It was a dream she abandoned when she’d finally learned of his slow-acting illness, and her gift from the kami. She’d never told him that. How had he known?

            The Empire was on the cusp of winter, so she knew the brewery would be busy. It was empty in summer. The farmers tended to their rice paddies and wul fields, and the koji mold grew within the ancestral caves beyond her family’s private shrine. But when the farmer’s lands were blanketed by snow, that was when the Toji would come to the village and hire the hardiest men and women to work in the brewery. Villagers competed for the privilege of working for the brewery in winter, where they were given warm lodging and wages in exchange for their work. In the quiet of winter, the brewery was the beating heart of Tsuma.

            But for the moment, the brewery had come to a full stop. Konomi felt the eyes of the Kurabito watching her as her brothers scowled at the document by their feet.

            “You have no right to it,” Hirota shouted. He was always quick to lose his temper. “We have managed it for grandfather for years! You had your chance, Konomi-chan!” he spat the suffix, “You chose to live in the temple!”

            “The kami called me to my duty,” she corrected him, not falling for his bait. “Just as grandfather calls me to this.”

            “This is not what grandfather would have wanted,” Shinkichi said.

            A flicker of anger crossed Konomi’s features. “You know nothing of grandfather’s wishes!” she shouted. With her arms crossed, back straight, and shoulders square, and her long sleeves rolled back to her elbows, she was an oddly intimidating figure. “Look at this swill you are making now! You think that I do not know what you have done to our family’s sake works!?” She sneered, showing her open disgust for the first time. “Pouring rainwater into the finished batch for a greater yield! Making inferior nigori sake, like a Crab brute! Cheap cedar barrels instead of cypress! Have you forgotten grandfather’s recipe?! Our ancestors’ ways!?”

            Her brothers were unaccustomed to an empowered, assertive Konomi. They stared at her numbly.

            “Have you nothing to say!?!” she demanded.

            “This is progress, sister,” Shinkichi protested weakly.

            Konomi shook her head. “Not progress! Just a scheme to make more money! You have allowed desire to dirty your souls!” She turned her back to them, as sure an insult as a slap to the face. “Grandfather saw what you were doing to his brewery, to our family’s reputation, but he was too weak to stop you. The illness saw to that. That is why he left this brewery to me, with instructions that I restore the previous recipe. He knew that I would honor his wishes.”

            Shinkichi shrank back. Her words bit deep, and he felt his grandfather’s eyes upon him. Shame burned his face as he lowered his head.

            But Hirota felt only cold anger. “As if you could run this place!” he hissed. “A priestess as a Toji!”

            “And why not!?” she snapped, facing him square again. “The koji mold comes from our ancestral shrines, coaxed by the kami of our caves! Sake is blessed for festivals, offered to fortunes! Sake is sacred!”

            “You are a fool,” Hirota said. “The Kurabito will not respect you.”

            Konomi paused, her eyes narrowed. Abruptly, she cast a sweeping look around her, matching the eyes of all the workers who watched the scene unfold from their milling stations. They were all men and women of Tsuma, hardworking, salt-of-the-earth heimin. They looked back at her with dirty faces. Faces of necessity. Not pride in one’s work.

            “You are the artisans who make the sake,” she said to them. “What do you say?”

            The heimin exchanged glances. Hirota’s face scrunched. “They don’t get a say!” he barked. “All of you, back to work!”

            “Are you proud of what you produce?” she asked. “When the spring comes and your work is bottled, do you hold your heads up proudly? Do you drink the sake you made? Does your master?”

            “That’s enough!” Hirota shouted. “I’m calling the magistrate!”

            “Go get him,” Konomi replied unperturbed. Her eyes fell on an older man within the crowd. He was standing by his rice-polishing station, a task far too labor-intensive for one of his age. She recognized him. “You worked here when my grandfather was Toji,” she said, “didn’t you?”

            He raised his head. “I remember when you were but a child, my lady.”

            Konomi nodded. “Where is your family, Honored Elder? I noticed the worker’s quarters were almost empty.”

            “The worker’s quarters are for workers only!” Hirota interjected.

            Konomi looked to the rest of the Kurabito. “When my grandfather was Toji, the workers’ families were permitted to stay in the workers quarters. Now that I am in charge, we are re-instating that policy.” Murmured excitement rippled through the workers as Hirota’s expression turned into quiet horror. “Send for your spouses, your children, and your Honored Elders. As long as you are working hard, they may stay here.”

            The effect was instant. The Kurabito had smiling faces. She’d won them over with that single gesture.

            “You’re insane!” Hirota exclaimed.

            She cast him a sideways glance. “I thought you were fetching the magistrate.”

            Finally beaten, but still fuming, Hirota glared at her balefully. “This is not over,” he swore. “Come on, Shinkichi,” he said, gesturing for his brother to follow.

            Instead, Shinkichi fell suddenly on his knees, laying his head on the floor, bowing before his sister. Hirota’s eyes widened. “What are you doing!?” he demanded. “Get up, you fool!”

            “Forgive me, sister!” cried Shinkichi, “It was Hirota’s idea to water down the sake! I had nothing to do with it! And we were only making unfiltered sake until the ash filters arrived!”

            “Shut up!” Hirota barked. But it was too late; the secret had slipped. “Ash filters” were the cinders of animal bones, abhorred by sake purists. Accusing eyes stared at Hirota as the room fell silent.

            “We do not filter with bones in this brewery,” she said softly. “Get out, Hirota. You are not welcome here.”

            “Traitor!” Hirota accused. His eyes flicked to his kowtowing brother. “Both of you!” With stomping feet, he stormed out, striking the thick ceramic cat with his palm as he went.

            “Good riddance,” said Konomi. She gestured for Shinkichi to stand. His face was red with shame, and he would not look her in the eyes. “So you are sorry for what you did?” she asked.

            He nodded. “Sister, I do not want to shame our ancestors! I never meant to bring shame to grandfather’s name! I thought-”

            She laid a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. She spoke gently, as a shugenja. “Grandfather smiles on you now, Shinkichi-kun. He is happy that you have corrected your path. I think he would like for you to continue to oversee the Kurabito here.” Her smile faded slightly and she adopted a firmer tone as she added, “But I am in charge. Understand?”

            “Hai,” he replied, bowing gratefully.

            Konomi smiled again. “Good,” she said. “Come with me, then. I have some ideas I wish to discuss.” Her smile broadened as the Kurabito returned to their work, brimming with a new energy.

* * *

            “Lady Hanegansi expresses her apologies that she could not attend your summer court, Makoto-sama,” Doji Shunya said from his steep bow. “She tends to the priorities that you assigned her.”

            Doji Makoto flashed his famous smile, waving the comment away. “I had hoped to see her legendary beauty one more time,” he said with a wistful undercurrent, “but I suppose I must manage with only my dreams.”

            His closest advisors chuckled politely at their incorrigible leader. Shunya smiled politely. “She does offer a gift in condolence,” he said.

            Makoto raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

            Shunya made a gesture, and his assistant, a lower-ranking courtier of the Doji, stepped forward, extending the gift with both hands. It was a large ceramic bottle with a parchment label. Hand-painted calligraphy announced the contents: “Genshu-Muroka-Shizuka Sake.” Above that, the name of the brew. “Maneki Neko.”

            The Doji champion radiated a genuine smile. After the formal refusals, he stepped from the dais to accept the gift with his own hands. The lesser courtier seemed oddly cold and stiff, but Shunya beamed with pride.

            Makoto laughed and held the bottle fondly. “Convey my sincere thanks to Lady Hanegansi for her generosity and cleverness,” he said. “I’m impressed! She knew my favorite sake!”

            Shunya allowed himself a minor smile. “It is said that the Imperial Consort himself chooses Maneki Neko Sake. Even over Friendly Traveler.”

            Makoto nodded, glancing up from the bottle. “That’s because it is the best.”

            After a further exchange, Makoto excused the court, leading his entourage of guests to the splendor of the palace gardens. He entrusted the bottle to a servant. Already guests whispered speculations as to who would savor the brew with the Crane Champion before the summer court ended. The representative of the Hanegansi family relaxed a bit, glancing at his assistant. “Makoto-sama was very pleased,” he remarked. “I am thankful for that. Imagine, only last season the Maneki Neko Sake Works was unheard of throughout the lands. They must have a truly great Toji to have become so famous so quickly.”

            His assistant, Doji Hirota, did not reply.

* * * * * * * * * *

Bittersweet

            The kobune approached from the mainland, where the great buildings of the Aerie seemed like children’s toys on the horizon. Kitsuki Jakuei watched as the ship grew ever closer, taking a moment to straighten the angles of his clothing after a particularly brisk sea breeze tossed them into mild disarray. The two others waiting with him seemed oblivious to the wind, but then it would be difficult for a breeze to affect the plates of their armor. The woman did whip her hair so that it would not blow into her face, but other than that, they seemed almost like statues.

            In a matter of moments, the ship arrived on the simple pier below them, and the peasant attendants quickly performed the necessary acts to ensure it was safely bound. A trio of Crane disembarked, although Jakuei had only anticipated two. It was a minor matter, but one he carefully filed away for the future, in the event that it became important. “Welcome to Miryoku no Shima, honored guests,” Jakuei said with a bow.

            The man walking at the head of the three Crane bowed respectfully. “We are grateful for your time,” he said, smiling. He was an older man, with piercing eyes that took in everything despite the disarming smile he bore. “I have heard that my old friend Shizuro has returned to the Empire to deal with matters of a family nature. Shall I assume you are his replacement, then?”

            “I am,” Jakuei said, smiling. “I am Kitsuki Jakuei, Imperial magistrate and newly appointed hatamoto of Miryoku no Shima. It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance. Am I given to understand that you are Kakita Kazan?”

            “I am Kazan, yes.”

            “Then it is I who am honored,” Jakeui said, bowing again. “You are one of the architects of this place, this grand estate shared between the Crane and Dragon, and I am in the presence of greatness.”

            Kazan actually burst out laughing, but his expression was one of genuine enjoyment rather than mockery. “I fear you must have been misinformed!” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “I am just an old man, and one of many who worked to ensure that our clans had something to share between us that will ensure we never again come to such difficulty as in our fathers’ time.” He turned to the two women in his entourage. “Please permit me to introduce my attendants. This is Daidoji Kenshi, a veteran of the War of the Twins and my yojimbo, at least until they realize her talents belong with someone vastly more important than I. And this is Doji Iza, a brilliant scholar who has come to inspect the texts your predecessor kept in this estate.” He looked at Jakuei. “I hope that will not prove difficult?”

            “Not at all,” Jakeui replied. “My predecessor ensured that such things were readily available for consultation, as he was aware of Iza’s impending arrival. It is the spirit of cooperation that made this island of enchantment possible, after all.” He smiled and gestured to his own attendants. “If I may, my own attendants. This is Mirumoto Reiyu, my yojimbo and, although she will not admit it even to herself, a poet of some significant skill.”

            “I am unworthy of such praise,” Reiyu said with a bow to the delegation. “Iza-sama, I am familiar with your research into gaijin cultures. I find your work absolutely fascinating.”

            “Thank you,” Iza said demurely.

            “And this is Mirumoto Kyoshiro, a recent arrival to the island and my most recent addition to the honor guard here.”

            The young warrior stepped forward and bowed wordlessly to Kazan, then to Kenshi. “It is an honor to meet a veteran of the War of the Twins,” he said politely. He then stood and turned toward Doji Iza, but he did not bow. He fixed her with a pointed glare, then turned and began up the path toward the estate.

            Kazan raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jakeui. “Is there a problem with your man?”

            Jakuei was aghast, but struggled to conceal it. “I do not know, Kazan-sama, but you have my word that I will find out, and that such an insult will never be offered to the Crane again so long as I have position on this island.” He turned and gestured up the path, forcing a smile. “Will you accompany us to the estate? I have the texts that Iza-san wishes to see prepared for her.”

            Kazan bowed and smiled, and the Crane followed the Dragon up the path. Daidoji Kenshi glanced up to ensure the Dragon were far enough ahead, then over at Iza. “What was all that about?”

            “Old family business, I think,” Iza replied, a thoughtful expression on her face.

            “Well, I certainly am glad that’s over with,” Kenshi said. “We do not need tension like that in the Aerie.”

            “Over?” Iza said, peering up the path. “No, I doubt that very much.”

Small Charms

By Yoon Ha Lee

Edited by Fred Wan

         It was another sweltering day in Journey’s End City.  The monsoon season was winding down, but the air was still humid and heavy with the smells of the local flowers.  The ronin Uesuko had already had two of the cool ginger drinks that were so popular here.  She wished for another, but she had work to do.  Even if the work came in the form of a recalcitrant booth.  She wished she had thought this through better: she had traveled here thinking that she might be able to use her knowledge of small charms and prayers to comfort the lower classes, even if she was a failure as a shugenja.  So far, she had managed to fall victim to gastrointestinal distress from eating fresh fruit, and a pair of heimin children had taken turns bringing her water and lentil soup until she recovered.  It was a humbling start.

         Now that she was better, she had hoped to set up her stall on this quiet street.  She had obtained all the necessary permits; her father had always impressed upon her the importance of doing things through proper channels.  All the minor prayers she had carefully written out and tied up in small cloth pouches were neatly arranged and weighted down with attractive pebbles.  Now if only she could figure out how to get her banner to stay up.  But every time she tried to nail it in, the nail bent, or went in sideways, or the banner fluttered out of the way as a breeze swept by.  If she hadn’t known better, she would have said the kami were playing games with her.  She knew better than to think they had any attention to spare for her, even for this.  She had spent more time talking to people than at her studies as a child, and she was paying the price for it now.

         “Goodness, that banner really doesn’t want to stay there, does it?” said a bright, cultured woman’s voice.

         Uesuko startled in spite of herself.  She was about to address the woman very politely–she had not been a ronin for very long, and she was still getting used to all the day-to-day implications–when the woman’s appearance sank in.  She wore her hair elaborately coiffed, with a red-black lacquered hairpin set with two small ovals of iridescent abalone shell, and her face was flawlessly made up.  There was a dark red beauty mark applied on her cheek; it looked charming rather than ridiculous.  Her outer kimono was very traditional in cut, unusual for Journey’s End City, but made of sheer cotton gauze over a heavier mauve-and-pink inner layer of sheer silk.

         “Forgive me for staring,” Uesuko said, aware of her own rudeness.  She might not owe a geisha any particular courtesy, but the woman had done her no wrong, and there was every chance she was some dignitary’s favorite.  “I haven’t seen such exquisite taste in hairpins since I arrived here.”

         “You probably don’t look very hard, either,” the geisha said teasingly, “but that’s no matter.  Shall I give you a hand?  Nobody ever thinks I can do anything strenuous without breaking all my nails, but honestly, sometimes I long to just do something simple and straightforward.”

         Uesuko looked ruefully at the banner, then at the hammer in her hand.  She had borrowed it from a neighbor.  The carpenter who had originally put the stall together had assured her that she should have no problem with the banner, and that he would come back later if she had any problems.  He had never come back, naturally.

         “Let me try,” the geisha said.  “You’d never guess it to look at my hands now, but my father is a carpenter.  I know the basics of the trade.”

         “Would you give me the courtesy of your name?” Uesuko said as she handed the hammer over.

         The geisha’s eyes were shrewd and not unkind.  “That’s a Phoenix accent, isn’t it?  You haven’t been a ronin long.  No, don’t answer that, you have all sorts of reasons for your secrets, I’m sure.  I’m Kanako.”

         “I’m Uesuko,” Uesuko said.  “Thank you.”

         “Don’t thank me yet, Uesuko-san.”  Still, the geisha got up on the rickety footstool with surprising agility, and when she hammered the banner in place it actually stay put.

         Kanako got down and passed the hammer back.  ”See, didn’t I tell you?”

         “Thank you,” Uesuko said again.

         “Don’t worry about it.”  Kanako tilted her head back to study the banner.  “Lovely calligraphy.  Your hand?”

         “Yes,” Uesuko said.  “It’s one of the few skills I have.”

         “‘Helping the Desperate,’” Kanako read aloud.  “‘Charms and Prayers.’  What sorts of charms and prayers?”

         Uesuko reminded herself that she was no longer living on her father’s largesse and that, in fact, the funds that she had brought with her from Phoenix lands were running uncomfortably low.  “Good luck, warding away ill-wishers or overly importunate suitors, that sort of thing,” she said, trying to sound confident and mostly succeeding in sounding awkward.  “But I don’t suppose you have a need for such things.”

         She felt like a charlatan.  Her father had intended greater things for her, but her affinity with the kami had never been strong enough, and that was that.

         “I can see that we’re going to have to work on how you persuade your customers, Uesuko-san,” Kanako said, not sounding in the least deferential.  Uesuko found that she didn’t mind.  “You can start practicing with me.  I have to provide entertainment at a party tonight, and I’m nervous that I’ll cause offense to a particular Lion dignitary, very traditional in outlook.  You know how the Lion are.  Is there anything you can offer me?”

         Uesuko personally doubted that the geisha was feeling any such attack of nerves, but she recognized the gesture for the kindness that it was and bent over the cloth satchels.  “This one,” she said, picking up one that was fortuitously in a shade of subdued lilac that harmonized with Kanako’s outfit.  “It’s a copy of a prayer to Benten that a famous Kakita poet wrote a hundred years ago.  The Kakita needed a favor from the Lion and she needed to charm a particular emissary.  Hold the prayer in your thoughts and you’re certain to succeed in your endeavors, whatever they are.”  That last part came out rushed, but she had made it through her prepared speech.

         Kanako was smiling lazily at her.  “That sounds excellent, yes.”  She dug around for her purse, a brocade silk affair with jade beads that was easily worth more than all of Uesuko’s possessions.  After a moment’s thought, she dropped some coins into Uesuko’s hand.

         Uesuko’s mouth went dry.  That was a considerable sum for a geisha to be carrying around casually, let alone paying for a simple prayer.  She sent the kami an earnest entreaty to send some genuine scrap of good luck Kanako’s way.

         “I know it’s not what such a charm is worth,” Kanako said, a little warningly, “but then to help the desperate we have to start by helping ourselves, don’t we?  And I’m sure you’ll see me for repeat business.  I really must find out the name of whoever you got to make these bags.  They would be utterly charming in this particular bolt of silk I got my hands on recently and one can never be too diligent about fashion accessories.  In any case, I had better get going.”

         “Carry the Fortunes,” Uesuko said.

         “Carry the Fortunes,” the geisha echoed, and smiled warmly before she hurried off.

         Business the rest of the day was slower, but with the coins safely tucked away, Uesuko found that she was able to relax a little.  A woodworker came asking for help for his sick daughter.  From the description of the symptoms, Uesuko suspected that the simple prayer to Jurojin was not going to be adequate, although the man insisted on buying the charm anyway, but she gave him the name of a local healer she had heard good things of.  Not long after that, a young man sought a charm to catch the eye of a carter’s daughter.  She ended up persuading him to save the money–Kanako would have been disappointed in her merchant skills, she couldn’t help thinking–and advising him to spend time listening to what the woman actually enjoyed rather than resorting to magical means.  A minor Crane functionary came by, burst into laughter, and bought five prayers on the spot.  He refused to explain why, but Uesuko assumed that it was for a prank of some sort.  Just a few hours ago she would have been mortified or offended or both.  Now, she supposed that the kami had a sense of humor and that at least someone was getting some use out of the trifles she had to offer.

         More than those who came to buy prayers, however, Uesuko was struck by the people who stopped to chat with her as they ambled down the street.  When people in Phoenix lands had talked to her in her past life, it was usually to discuss incantations or rituals or celestial alignments.  Here, people talked to her about grouchy overseers, bent needles, and cantankerous horses.  At first she was bewildered, barely able to stammer out responses, but then she realized that she was enjoying herself.  She didn’t live as a recluse high in the mountains anymore; she was part of the city, too.  She had to be careful what she revealed about herself–the accent was probably a lost cause, although at least she didn’t have to explain what private shame had brought her here–but she could tell vague stories about living in a lord’s household, and rock gardens, and maple trees.  A lot of people were homesick for Rokugan, and appreciated even a haltingly told story about good landscaping.

         Uesuko didn’t see Kanako again for the next week, but she told herself that a geisha of such poise and grace undoubtedly had many demands on her time.  Still, she couldn’t help wondering how Kanako’s party had gone, and whether the charm had had any effect whatsoever.  So she was preoccupied that evening when the wind picked up in one of the sudden bursts that she had yet to grow used to.

         The problem was that the pebbles she had picked out were entirely inadequate for holding down the satchels–themselves not very heavy, even though she had taken the additional precaution of putting a polished river stone in each one–in the face of any significant wind.  Uesuko was hurriedly snatching them up and putting them in her rucksack when she heard someone cry out.

         A little distance away, an armored woman in drab colors was looming over a harried-looking peasant man with a new bruise.  “You said you’d have the payment today,” the woman said very distinctly.  “I am capable of infinite patience, but my masters feel differently.”

         The other merchants in the street were carefully attending to their own business, and a group of children who had been playing with a rope had scampered behind a fruit-seller’s stall.  Uesuko caught herself looking for a magistrate, but magistrates usually had better places to be, and she was well aware that some of them were corrupt anyway.

         Some of her pouches had tumbled away and onto the street, but it couldn’t be helped.  Uesuko gathered up her courage and walked toward the armored woman.  A Spider, probably: once she got closer she could see the mon worked into the chestplate.

         “It never ceases to amaze me that you can find idealists in every crevice of the world,” the Spider said dryly.  “What’s your interest?”

         “Excuse me, honorable samurai,” Uesuko said, “but I was wondering how much this man owed.  I thought perhaps an accommodation could be reached.”

         She made the mistake of looking into the other woman’s eyes.  The Spider was taller than she was, and built like a Crab, and there was an unmistakable shadow of torment in those eyes.  She couldn’t help wonder what story the Spider had and what had brought her to the colonies.

         “You sell those trinkets over there, don’t you?” the Spider said.  “Charms and prayers.  I can’t imagine you make much from them, even in a place like this.  Save your koku, little shugenja.”  To the peasant, she said, “Two more hours.  You know where to bring the money.  And don’t bring her money, you don’t want to compound the miseries of this world.  Take responsibility for your own fecklessness.”  She shoved the peasant, not as hard as she could have, but hard enough, and strode off.

         “I can–” Uesuko said to the man as soon as the Spider was out of earshot.  She wished she could have cowed the Spider, but it wasn’t as though she could call down the wrath of Osano-Wo.

         But the man was shaking his head vehemently.  “No, no.  It’s bad enough that I’m tangled up in this.  She’s right.”

         They argued back and forth for a little while, but it was clear that he wouldn’t be swayed, and Uesuko had to admire his steadfastness, even though she thought it foolhardy.

         “At least take a charm for your troubles?” Uesuko said, feeling wretched.

         The man grinned crookedly at her.  “If it makes you feel better.”  He set about helping her retrieve most of the fallen charms.  Some of them were missing, but all in all Uesuko was surprised that thieves hadn’t made off with more of them.  At her insistence, the man took a charm in a red satchel, although she didn’t think he needed more courage than he already had.

         “Don’t you fret,” the man said, “you’ll see me here tomorrow.  It was a kind thought, and I should have known better than to take that loan.”

         There was something mortifying about being comforted by someone you had tried, however gauchely, to help.  But Uesuko smiled at him.  “Carry the fortunes,” she said, a little wanly.

         “Carry the fortunes,” he called back over his shoulder.

         Watching him, Uesuko couldn’t help but remember Kanako’s words.  To help the desperate, we have to start by helping ourselves.  She wouldn’t have thought of it, but it was true.  She had to become stronger–even if it wasn’t strength measured in swords or scrolls–so that she could do what she had come here to do.

         Uesuko reflected that she would never have thought to find enlightenment from the mouth of a geisha.  Clearly, she had much to learn about the ways of the world.

         Humming to herself, she continued putting everything away for the night.  Perhaps tomorrow she would see Kanako again, or the man, or even the Spider, who had shown such curious solicitude for a bystander, by Spider standards.  And tomorrow she could try again to bring comfort where she could.

         It was a tranquil evening in Isawa Nori’s house, but all he could think of was how quiet the place had become since his wife died.  They had had two children, neither of whom lived here anymore.  The older had a respectable position at a nearby temple, and despite his rambunctiousness as a child, had grown into a sober, thoughtful young scholar.

         As for the younger–

         Nori made his customary circuit of the rock garden.  He had raked it this morning, and there was poetry to be had in the simple undulating curves, the calm round pebbles, the soft sand.  Leaves had fallen during the day.  He picked two up, beautifully formed red maple leaves, crisp at the edges.  He would remove the rest tomorrow as he did his walking meditation, but for now he contemplated them as part of the arrangement, set there by the wind’s own hands.

         He found no peace here, but he had not expected to.  When he had been younger, he would have spent ever-longer hours of meditation seeking to suppress any thoughts about the hole in his family.  Now, he was wise enough to know that it was better to acknowledge his bitterness so that it didn’t grow to consume him.

         After the sun tipped over the horizon, he headed back inside and to the family shrine.  An old nemuranai resided there, in the shape of a wide bowl.  It was painted with summer flowers and cicadas; it had awakened to virtue in the hands of one of his revered ancestors.  Nori’s great-uncle had originally broken the nemuranai by betraying his lord.  Nori himself, knowing his limits, had regarded the silent nemuranai as a trust: someday someone from his line would be able to soothe the item’s spirit and reawaken its virtue.  It might even have happened in his lifetime if his daughter, desperate for his approval and disappointingly small of talent, had not made the attempt herself and offended the spirit.  The widened crack in the bowl’s center was a constant reminder of her.

         Nori kept portraits of his wife and son in the family shrine, along with those of his parents, but none of his daughter.  Uesuko had failed him, despite the prestigious life he had planned for her, and he would never forgive her for her shame.

         But he left the two maple leaves by the nemuranai’s side, because Uesuko had loved maples, and because he missed her.

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The Righteous

By Brian Yoon

Edited by Fred Wan

The Path of Air: The Peaceful

“The worthy can be found within the most devout,” Air said. “To truly venerate Air within mind and soul, the empathetic mortal must be able to change his beliefs to match the times.”

Asahina Shigemitsu ignored the unsettled whispers he could hear from the entrance of the small building. He approached the statue, a bronze representation of the Fortune of the West Wind. He knelt at its foot and closed his eyes. He whispered a prayer of thanks under his breath. He heard the soft replies in his ear as the air kami around him swirled around him.

            He smiled. The friendly kami always reminded him of the bigger picture. Despite the troubles of man, the world continued as it always did.

            “You are a long way from home, Asahina,” Yogo Adi said as she approached him. Her flat tone conveyed her disapproval and her contempt, yet somehow it was perfectly pitched to avoid any accusation of ill will. It was a wonderful expression of her mastery of the courtly techniques.

            “Adi-san,” Shigemitsu said in greeting. He rose to his feet. “This land was in the path of the Destroyers, was it not? You have done a wonderful job in restoring it to its former glory. I was here when I was just a boy, and I believe it looks better now than it did in my faded memory.”

            Adi’s cold eyes did not change, yet he could see that she no longer considered him a threat. “I suggest you finish your meditations and leave, Asahina Shigemitsu. This is no place for a Crane.”

            “I venerate the air kami, the same as you,” Shigemitsu countered. It did not surprise him in the least that the Scorpion seemed to know his identity.

            “Then I will let you finish your prayers in peace,” Adi said.

            “Adi-san, I have a proposal for your clan,” Shigemitsu added. He noted that she did not look surprised.

            “Then speak,” Adi replied brusquely.

            Shigemitsu made a grand gesture outside. “The Empress has allowed War among your clan and thePhoenix. War always becomes taxing on the land as battle rages. It will destroy hundreds, perhaps even thousands of koku worth of rice. I would divert some of the resources available to me to help you harvest it before it is ruined forever.”

            Adi studied him without a word. “The Crane mean to choose sides in the war?” she whispered.

            “No,” Shigemitsu hastily answered. “I do not speak as a representative of the Crane Clan, only as a minor governor of Asahina lands. I plan on making the same offer to thePhoenixonce my affairs here are finished.”

            “Why?” Adi asked.

            Shigemitsu raised both hands, palm up, toward her. “All of us have suffered greatly in recent years, Adi-san. From what I have heard, the Empress has approved the war. Despite the legality of the war, I cannot help but wonder at the damage it will cause to both your clans. Our Empire is still weak. I want to help return it to its former strength, and helping you satisfy your honor while protecting your future seems to be the best way to ensure it.”

            Adi did not answer and looked away at the statues around her. Several minutes passed in silence. “I will ask my superiors, Shigemitsu-san,” she finally said and bowed.

            Shigemitsu bowed deeply. It was the best answer he could have received. He quickly gave his polite goodbyes and made his exit.

            As he left, his eyes caught sight of a strange white haired man staring at him with a strange expression on his face. He had the strangest desire to stop and speak to the man. He moved onward. He had many miles to cross before he could speak to thePhoenix.

            He had never considered working with the Scorpion before, yet the times called for adaptation to survive. He was buoyed by his success. His feet barely touched the ground as he exited the temple grounds.

The Path of Water: The Innovative Duelist

“The Element of Water values strength, whether it is presented in strength of character or strength of might. That strength must be able to adapt quickly to changes that the mortal must face.”

            Fire lowered its head and stared at Ningen-do. “Rokugan is a land of tradition. The samurai would perform the same duties as his grandfather, in the exact same way.”

            “Yes,” Water agreed. “This dogmatic response is both Rokugan’s strength and weakness. The one who would hold the blessing of Water would need to honor the old ways and forge his own. This man seems fit for the task.”

“It is time, Mirumoto Houken.”

            Houken bounced to his feet and made his way to the front of the dojo with as much dignity as he could muster. It wasn’t much. He had been waiting for this moment his entire life. In a few moments, he would know if his dreams would become reality, or if his skills were truly unfit for the task. He knelt before the grandmasters of theMirumotoSwordmasterSchooland touched his forehead to the tatami mat.

            “I thank you for the opportunity, respected swordmasters,” he said, his head still bowed.

            “Rise, Houken,” Mirumoto Satobe said. Houken raised his head.

            “Your request is an unorthodox one,” Satobe continued. “Generally, the teachers of this school choose those who they personally perceive to be worthy. However, you have been stationed away from our lands for many years.”

            “Yes, Satobe-sama,” Houken said. “I served as yojimbo to our ambassadors in thePhoenixlands. I am glad to have served our clansmen, but I regret the time I spent away from our homeland. I was not able to revisit my dojo for many years. In their stead, I practiced for hundreds of hours in refining my personal style and hammering out any weaknesses in my swordsmanship.”

            Satobe turned to his side and gestured one of his old sensei forward. “Sanji-san tells me that you have not fully mastered every aspect of the Mirumoto style. Do you believe you are ready to switch your focus, when you have so much left to learn?”

            Houken paused for a moment before answering. He met the sensei’s eyes. “Yes, I believe I am ready.”

            “It is a peculiar situation,” Satobe mused out loud. “Kitsuki Jairi-san spoke highly of your skill with the blade. His recommendation has brought you this far. However, the word of outsiders will not grant you our approval.”

            Houken could not hide the surprise from his face. The cantankerous old man had never spoken a word of encouragement through the years they were inPhoenixlands. Houken remembered many nights where he had stolen off to practice his forms. Jairi had only shaken his head.

            “I will do anything to prove myself worthy,” Houken said.

            Satobe raised an eyebrow. “You are quite eager to place your neck on the chopping block, Houken. I appreciate your bravery. I was once a foolhardy young man, myself.”

            The teacher pushed himself up on his walking stick and rose to his feet. “Our Crane rivals have an interesting method of determining the worth of a potential applicant to their duelist school. We shall adopt it today. Defeat me in a duel of kenjutsu, and I will personally write your name among the scroll of students at theMirumotoSwordmasterSchool.”

            Houken bowed deeply once more. He wanted to shout out his thanks, but his voice would not come. His heart was already pounding in his throat, and the sound of his rushing blood drummed a staccato in his ears.      

Houken chose a pair of hard wooden bokken, practice swords that held the shape and weight of his trusted daisho. He placed the hilts in his belt and approached the center of the room. He could see dozens of people in the corners of his eyes. The news of the unique proceedings had spread across the school like wildfire, and it seemed that every duelist in the city had come to watch him try his best against a sensei.

            He waited and tried to calm his mind as Mirumoto Satobe prepared himself for the duel. He tried to remember everything he knew about the older sensei. Satobe had never been a prodigy of the blade. He had earned his position through perseverance and tenacity. He had suffered countless injuries on the battlefield – he walked with a limp, a permanent reminder of the Destroyer War. Satobe had never let the injuries slow him down.

            Satobe made his way to the center of the room and readied himself six feet in front of Houken. The sensei bowed at his waist. Houken repeated the gesture. The staccato of blood in his ears had turned into an incessant roar. He could hear nothing else.

            Houken drew in a deep breath and held it. He drew his blades and adopted the traditional Mirumoto dual wielding stance. He let out his breath and released his anxieties away with the air. His heart slowed and his eyes focused. He was ready.

            His opponent had adopted a similar stance across from him. His wakizashi moved slowly in the air, lazily tracing some design in front of it. Houken knew that Satobe was simply watching for some sort of tell that would give away Houken’s method of attack.

            He decided to make the first move.

            He feinted to the right and struck with his off-hand – it was a weak opening, but its unlikelihood was its greatest strength. Satobe moved his blades slightly and deflected the strike with ease. The sensei stepped forward and struck with both blades in response. It was a heavy handed attack designed to break his defense. Houken stepped back and barely avoided the blow.

            The dance continued. Houken tried every approach he knew to get a solid blow on Satobe, yet the warrior calmly countered each strike and struck back with a simple yet powerful blow. It did not matter that Satobe’s movement was hindered by his old injuries. He approached with infuriating patience each time Houken danced away. He blocked Houken’s escape with the slightest changes in his movement and constantly moved forward.

            Houken could feel the wood of the dojo wall against his back. He had nowhere else to dodge. His next attack needed to end the duel, or his dream of joining the most prestigious duelists in his Clan would be over. He met Satobe’s eyes and leapt forward.

            His last attack mirrored his first. He feinted to the right and his shortened bokken slashed toward Satobe’s katana. His opponent raised his sword to block the desperate attack. As the two blades clashed, Houken released his grip on the bokken and lowered his hand. As the sword spun in midair, Houken grabbed the end of his sheath with his left hand and slid it out of his belt. He struck down with the blade in his right hand, and slashed upward with the wooden saya.

            A loud crack rang through the air.

            The sheath splintered into two and fell to the floor.

            Satobe clutched his stomach and fell to one knee. He grimaced and used his bokken to lift himself back to his feet.

            “You let go of your blade,” Satobe said after he regained his breath.

            “I needed to break your guard,” Houken said. “I taught myself to use my steel saya in battle as well. Mirumoto always taught us to use both hands to give us an advantage over our opponents who only use one sword. I figured my philosophy was in the spirit of his teaching, Satobe-sama.”

            Satobe winced in pain then smiled. “It caught me by surprise. I do not know if it is useful on the battlefield, but I look forward to seeing the results. You are indeed worthy to carry on our legacy, Houken-san. Congratulations.”

            Triumph washed over his mind but a strange sensation quickly overrode it. It seemed to be a wave of strength – and somehow, of approval.

The Path of Earth: The Eternal Struggle

            Fire broke the silence with the obvious. “He is an abomination to nature.”

            “He was born with the touch of Jigoku,” Earth replied. “The evil seed has grown within his soul, yet he has not succumbed to its effects. He is among the last of those who bear the burdens of the Shadowlands against his will.”

            “The touch of Jigoku is absolute,” Fire said firmly. “Mortals cannot overcome its evil. You waste your blessing on one who is doomed to fail.”

The others called it the Riddle, yet the playful title had never made sense to him. The conversation began with a great challenge, as they always did. Asako Rikate sat with his legs folded under him and stretched out to the kami that surrounded all things. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. These rituals helped soothe his mind and helped him connect with the elements. His companions that learned the Henshin ways with him had always described speaking to the kami as a flow of friendly riddling, yet it had never been so easy for him. The elements seemed to treat him with a small degree of wariness.

            The difficulty had never discouraged him. This was his Path in life, and he would follow it despite the difficulties in his way.

            The meditation began to settle in the core of his very being. His breathing slowed to a crawl, and his mind became empty of all stray thoughts. What remained were the thoughts of supplication. The moments of silent peace stretched out without any response from the nearby kami. An hour passed.

            Finally, a single kami of Earth raised its attention and spoke to him. It was deliberate and curt, as Earth kami tended to be. Speak, human-

            Rikate could not suppress a quick grin of triumph. “I am Asako Rikate and I am your humble servant.”

            The Earth did not respond. Finally, its response rumbled through his mind. You are different from the others-

            This, too, was the usual continuation of the conversation. “Each human is distinct from all others, esteemed kami. I have dedicated my life to your service.”

            The Earth kami seemed to mull over the response. You are flawed-

            Rikate blinked. This was a new wrinkle in the initial stages of the conversation. “I am only mortal, but I am eager to change to better venerate you.”

            Impossible, it is beyond your reach-

            A bead of sweat trickled over his eye. He hurriedly wiped it away and focused again on the conversation. “Please, show me my failings,” he begged. “I would know my own faults so that I may address them.”

            There was another pause of heavy deliberation. Very well-

            Power surged all around him as the Earth kami called forth others of its ilk. Rikate could barely see the convergence of power as it formed intricate patterns around him. He was no shugenja; he could not importune the kami, nor could he see the weaves of spellcraft around him. Still, this feeling was unmistakable. The kami of the Earth were forming a spell directly on him. He unclenched his hands and spread them in front of him.

            The power suddenly rushed into him with a flash of green light. It flowed over him and through him. He could feel the purity of the beam as a flame all around him. It grew more intense by each growing moment. It was unrelenting, painfully digging into his soul with merciless determination. He had never felt such intense pain in his life.

            He screamed and blacked out.

            He did not know if minutes or hours passed before he regained consciousness, but the same Earth kami patiently waited for him.

            You are impure-

            And it was gone.

He could not organize his thoughts despite all the years of intense training. They bounced around every corner of his mind with no rhyme or sense. He welcomed the chaos, for once. He had learned too much from the wise Earth kami for him to enter meditation. Viewed from this different light, past events suddenly made sense.

            He was corrupted by the Shadowlands Taint. The power of Jade had scorched him. He had never been subject to the spell before, as no one had even suspected the possibility that he could be affected. He had never ventured out of his homeland and his parents had never spoken of the possibility. It seemed an important distinction to make to a child, that his life could be overthrown by the insidious truth.

            Now that he had become aware of his condition, he could hear the tempting whispers of the Shadowlands in the back of his mind. Endless power, it promised. Eternal knowledge. No one needs to know, and your weakness will become your strength.

            He tried to ignore the voice. Two questions emerged from the self-pity and asserted itself at the forefront of his thoughts. ‘What have I become? What do I do now?’  The kami would always view him with suspicion, no matter how much dedication he placed into the Henshin arts. His entire life had no purpose.

            Rikate shook his head. This was not the time to despair.

            He closed his eyes and began to enter the state of meditation. In the void the answers came to him, as they always did. Perhaps it was his childhood stubbornness rearing its head, or perhaps it was his years of training as a monk. It did not matter.

            Perhaps he was Shadowlands Tainted, and perhaps he had always been corrupted from his birth. It did not matter. He was still Asako Rikate, monk of the Phoenix Clan. He would not give in. He would continue to learn the Henshin arts and meditation techniques that might help defend his soul. He would not give the Shadowlands a foothold into the mortal realm through him.

            And before the Shadowlands conquered his soul, he would surrender himself to the Inquisitors for judgment. It was unavoidable, but he would serve the will of Tengoku for as long as he had strength to resist.

            A wave of strength flooded him as he came to his decision. The never-ending dark whispers in the back of his mind stopped, and the tiny aches across his body faded away.

            His debilitating sense of isolation faded for the first time since his rude awakening.

The Path of Void: The Contrary

            “He is irreverent. Foul. Crude. He cannot follow the rules mortals create for themselves. What makes him worthy for your blessing?” Fire asked.

            “He may never turn away from his dark desires,” Void admitted. “However, with my guidance he may shape his excesses in positive methods.”

The door to the Dancing Carp slid open with an ear-splitting racket and immediately shattered the joyous environment within the sake house. A group of dirty ronin swaggered inside, exuding an aura of danger and discontent. Many customers hurriedly drained their cups and disappeared from the main room. Others quickly lowered their eyes and kept their heads low. The Dancing Carp had a reputation for shady business, and clearly, this was none of theirs.

            The leader of the band was a large man with thick arms and stout belly. His countenance was marred by scars that crisscrossed every which way across his face. His mouth turned downwards in a perpetual scowl. His eyes were the most remarkable shade of blue, so light they seemed devoid of color. He quickly found the target of his ire, a young man dressed in fine blue silk, and stomped his way to the Yasuki’s table. The Yasuki kept his focus on his work, despite the shadow crossing over the scrolls sprawled across every inch of the table.

            “The job is done, Tsujiken. Why do you force me to make this request, like some common beggar?” the ronin snarled. Many of the customers who had stayed began to lose their nerve and they hurried out the door.

            Yasuki Tsujiken did not look up. He continued to shuffle through his scrolls with an affected air of disinterest.

            “We were promised two and a third for each of us,” the ronin continued as he shook with anger. “You gave us for one and a half for every member of our gang! That is unacceptable!”

            “It is both acceptable and fair, Tooth,” Tsujiken responded. “In fact —”

            The ronin leader interrupted with an ear-shattering bellow. “My name is Golden Fang, Yasuki! Do not insult me!”

            Tsujiken spoke over the large man’s interjections. “Your reward is equal to the performance you gave. You nearly gave away the ruse every step of the way. If I were a ruthless man, I would have tossed you out of my building without a second thought. Lucky for you, I am a man of my word. You may keep your winnings and count our account paid.”

            Golden Fang growled unintelligibly and placed his left hand on the tip of his sword’s hilt. The room reacted at once. The customers scattered around the room immediately rose to their feet and whirled to surround the ronin gang. Their hands were already grasping various deadly weapons. The determination in Golden Fang’s eyes faded into uncertainty as he realized the gravity of his situation. He shifted his feet and spoke again, his words much calmer than before.

            “Y-you wanted the shipment stolen from the building,” Fang said. “My men did that. What does it matter that some of the details didn’t go as planned?”

            Tsujiken finally looked up from his papers. He shook his head in disgust. “You managed to bungle the exact detail I needed most. I ordered you to break into the Mantis compound at the very specific time so you could avoid causing casualties. These Mantis warriors were in Crab lands. It is no fault of our own if their items get stolen from their own building. A bandit attack assaulting the village? That is another matter altogether. They were guests in our lands, and their deaths reflect poorly on us.”

            “Ordered?” Fang repeated. His fury began to bubble through his calm facade. “You do not order me, Tsujiken. No one orders my group.”

            Tsujiken stood up and began to walk away toward the exit. “My apologies for the mistake, Golden Fang. I will never do it again.”

            “Do not walk away from me, Tsuji—” Fang started to say. He stepped forward and immediately stopped. A large Crab warrior, in full battle armor, stepped into the room from the exit and barred their path to the Yasuki.

            “What shall we do with them, Tsujiken-sama?” the giant Hida asked him.

            Tsujiken paused at the doorway. “They are criminals who confessed to a crime against our business partners,” he responded. “Execute them, then give their heads to the Mantis as proof we have dealt justice.”

            Swords left sheaths. The battle began. The door slid closed, and the sounds of mayhem and death were soon replaced by the sounds of the thriving night life in the busy city.

He was walking along the river bank toward the gambling den when everything in the world stopped.

            His foot was still descending toward the ground, yet it would only move an inch at a time. Sounds faded away. Color drained from the world around him, leaving only a distressing collage of greys and blacks. He could feel the air echo in his ears as his breath drew in. He slowly exhaled, and he was suddenly elsewhere.

            Golden Fang rode into the village through the main road at the head of dozens of well-armed ronin warriors. The murdered bandit leader laughed maniacally as his katana slashed across the throat of a hapless villager who dared to stand in his way. He gestured lazily toward the Mantis complex and his followers rushed the building. The sounds of slaughter soon ensued.

            Fang’s gang rode out of the village, their saddlebags filled to the brim. The last ronin turned and threw a lit torch on the nearest building. The fire raged and flared immediately. Golden Fang bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile, and then they were gone.

            The entire attack had taken less than half an hour, yet the village had turned into a broken shell in the wake of Golden Fang.

            When he had ordered the attack, Tsujiken had known that bandits would be difficult to control. At best, he had hoped for less than a dozen unmerited casualties and less than one hundred koku in collateral damage. He had seen the carnage only as a necessary evil of working with unscrupulous men. They were only peasants, after all. It was hard to hold that position when he could watch the chaos left behind in the gang’s wake.

            The world melted in front of him once more. When the world became real once more, he found himself standing in a crowd. Dozens of ronin around him stood enthralled as a brutishly large woman orated in front of them. Her feverish words had the pitch of fanaticism to them. They spoke of revolution and mayhem across the land. It was madness. No one could dream of causing so much mayhem without catching the attention of Rokugan’s great armies. However, such a maddened crusade would slaughter thousands of innocents before it ground to a bloody halt.

            It was madness, yet the ronin gathering did not seem to see the folly in the plan. They would die to keep her happy.

            As she spoke, the bandit leader met the eye of every man in the crowd. Tsujiken’s breath caught in his throat when her hauntingly familiar eyes met his. He knew with a strange conviction that this woman was the daughter of Golden Fang.

            He threw up in the alley. He had fallen to his knees without even noticing it.

            “Damn it,” Tsujiken growled. “I do everything for the good of the Crab Clan. What I do is crucial.”

            The mantra had always stiffened his resolve in earlier times of distress. Now the words seemed meaningless.

            He rose to his feet and immediately turned around. It was too late to undo the damage he had unintentionally caused, but perhaps he still had time to avert the tragedies in his deadly vision.

“Do you understand?” Void asked. Fire refused to answer.

            “He is the perfect embodiment of Void,” Void continued. “He is a contradiction that cannot be explained. His logic is perfect yet remains illogical. He is uniquely human, and more importantly, uniquely mortal.”

            “I do not know if he will enjoy your blessing, Void,” Air said.

            Void looked out at the mortal again as he talked animatedly with his guards. He began to radiate a sense of amusement, and it was all the answer needed.

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Judgment, Part 2

By Lucas Twyman

Edited by Fred Wan

Northwestern Lion Provinces, one day from Swift Sword Dojo, year 1176

The autumn sun hovered expectantly over the heads of the three travelers, but progress across the war-torn side roads was slow. Neither Isawa Mizuhiko nor Shiba Morihiko exchanged words after the trip north began. Matsu Sasake rode ahead, but turned and spoke often – usually to regale his charges with tales of a roadside shrine or the site of a fierce battle – but the Phoenix paid him little mind.

            “Why?” Mizuhiko whispered, finally. “Why did he step forward?”

            The magistrate’s horse bucked, and the Lion stiffened, but did not turn around. “He was a samurai, and a Lion,” Matsu Sasake said, his voice even and distant, “He did not die in bed. He died on the field of honor, fighting for something he believed in. It was a good death, not a mistake.”

            He is a liar! He insults you with his deceit!

It was like a scream. Mizuhiko shook his head, and the world spun. He almost fell from his horse.

“Stop!” he heard Morihiko shout, “Sasake! Stop!”

He heard the two men dismount and approach. He felt Morihiko help him down, steady him as his legs shook.

“I am… fine, Morihiko,” Mizuhiko said.

You will be judged! First Oharu, then Sakishi, and now Ginawa. You fail all those around you, and they die.

 “I am just thirsty. The sun is high in the sky today.”

Sasake offered Mizuhiko his waterskin, but Mizuhiko shook his head. “The kami will provide for me. Give me a moment to rest.”

He sat unsteadily on the ground, and prayed hastily to the kami that forever followed him, his most loyal companions. The air shimmered, and in his hands water appeared, and he drank greedily. He looked up, first at Shiba Morihiko, then at theMatsu.

“How do you know these things about Ginawa, Sasake? How can you be certain?”

Sasake smiled. “In this matter, I am certain. I would argue that I understand the heart of a Lion better than anyone in the Empire.”

            Morihiko snorted. “I’m certain. You are a Lion.”

            Sasake nodded, “More than that, Shiba. This… event that took place, it was over a sword, yes? A blade that is thirsty for blood? Like the one Lord Ginawa once wielded?”

Mizuhiko nodded.

            Loosening his obi, Sasake carefully removed his daisho and presented it to the twoPhoenix. Both the katana and the wakizashi were exquisitely made, with a strange beaded artifact hanging from the katana’s pommel – a stone beetle surrounded by inlays of gold and precious stones.

            “These are the swords of a thirsty man, rather than a sword that thirsts. This is the daisho of Matsu Gohei, hero of the Lion Clan, who escorted the Scorpion during their banishment. He was cut down by foreign barbarians for presuming to ask for water. Gohei’s heart was so mighty and honorable that he returned from the dead and killed a barbarian who dared presume to be part of the Empire’s armies. In doing so, he saved face for the Empire during a dark time. His daisho was lost for many years, until a deathseeker named Senichi found them lying beside him shortly after he awoke from a strange dream. When Senichi ultimately died, I took the blades. I have carried them since.”

            Mizuhiko nodded his head slowly, his brow furrowed. “And this proves you understand the Lion… because only a great Lion could wield such great blades?”

             “Precisely,” Sasake replied. “It takes great will and understanding to wield nemuranai of power. You must certainly agree with that idea.”

            “I…” Mizuhiko regarded the Lion, but before he could finish his thought, Morihiko gruffly interrupted them.

            “We have around four more hours of light, but we will reach the edge of Lion lands in one, and half a day’s trek through the Unicorn lands to the mountains. Since we are still recovering from the events of the past few days, I suggest that we rest while we are still under the beneficent protection of the Lion, and we can leave before the dawn.”

            Sasake nodded. “Splendid. That means you will spend another evening in my company.”

Mizuhiko and Morihiko exchanged glances, but the Lion had already begun unpacking his supplies. He lifted a wooden training sword in the air and turned to the yojimbo, smiling.

“Since we have the time, Morihiko, will you finally take up my request to spar? I would hate for my horse to be carrying these bokken for nothing.”

* * * * *

Interlude: The southern Phoenix provinces, year 1176

Shinjo Chu-Yeung paced before the door and braced himself for the screams that never seemed to come.

            By all rational measurements, she was a good wife. She was dutiful, loyal, competent, and elegant. With her higher status, their family would be set, their child certain to obtain either the one of finest spiritual tutors among the Isawa (and, thus, one of the best in the known world), or to attend the Eternal Phoenix dojo in the heart of Shiro Shiba. While she was unpopular among the highest echelons of her clan – for reasons completely unknown to Chu-Yeung, for he had never found the need to ask – she remained a hero of the Battle of Shiro Shiba, and they had already received invitations to several Winter Courts. They declined the previous year, of course, because of the need to establish their new household, and this year due to the impending birth of their child making travel difficult, but Chu-Yeung was very optimistic that he would be able to finally experience the benefits of peacetime in centralized Rokugan, far from the freezing cold of the steppes.

            Despite his optimism, and Kyoko’s suitability, Chu-Yeung found himself plagued by strange doubts. When Kyoko had first taken him aside and told him “You are an excellent husband, and I will be an adequate wife, but I will never love you,” he thought her reaction was perhaps lingering anger at being forced to marry below her station. As time slowly went by, he came to realize that she did not resent him – quite the contrary, she was somewhat fond of him. She often told him that he reminded her of a lovely visit she had to the Unicorn lands several years prior. She arranged that traditional steppe food be provided at least twice a month – often at great expense – and she had taken to adding elaborate Shinjo flourishes in her decorating.

He came to realize that while she may decorate a wall of their bedchamber with an illustrated animal pelt, and she may pull close to him for warmth in the night, there would never be any passion in her embrace. She would never be more than dutiful and perhaps a little sad.

            Chu-Yeung’s heart grew heavier as the months went by. He was quite fond of his wife; she was beautiful and elegant, and she did never once condescended towards him. Her gifts were quite impressive, as well. Once a week, as a form of blessing their household, she would wander the garden outside and commune with the spirits. As she walked, the spirits around her would gather, invisibly but certainly there, and carry her a few feet into the air, where she would dance amongst them. On the front, he had often seen the Iuchi do magic, but their dangling trinkets and course prayers to the gods of death were nothing like Kyoko’s elaborate tributes. During the first few months, Chu-Yeung tried to hire performers and acrobats, men and women with skills that could almost rival the beauty of his wife’s weekly communion, but while they often brought a smile to his wife’s lips, she never expressed more than a dutiful thanks to him.

            That spring, when they found that she was already carrying a heir, Chu-Yeung rejoiced. There was no need to hide his anticipation – a father should always be enthusiastic about the arrival of his firstborn. But Chu-Yeung’s outward enthusiasm masked an ever greater hope: certainly, once his child was born, his wife’s heart would begin to soften, and she would learn to put aside her past hurts and learn to love. It was impossible for a mother not to love her child, and then, perhaps, she would learn to love her husband as well.

            Finally, a sound cut through the terrible silence: a loud gasp, and then a sharp cry, the unmistakable cry of a child. Then a splash, as the child was blessed and bathed, and its bubbling cries continued, starting and stopping like stones tumbling into a pool. The door slid open and the midwife presented Chu-Yeung with a small bundle; red and gold silk blankets wrapped around a tiny pink creature, its eyes pressed shut. Chu-Yeung lifted the bundle above his head and the blankets fell open.

            “A daughter,” he said softly, then again, louder, “a daughter!”

He pulled the girl to his chest and bowed to the midwife, who smiled and returned his bow. There was a strange hesitation in her movement, a strained look on her face.

“My wife…” Chu-Yeung said suddenly, “is she alright? Why did I not hear her?”

“She is fine, my lord,” the midwife said, her tone still slightly off to Chu-Yeung’s ears, “it was the easiest birth I have ever witnessed. The spirits are fond of your wife, I think, very fond.”

Chu-Yeung looked sharply at the midwife. “Then what is wrong?”

“Nothing, my lord,” she replied quickly. “Nothing. See for yourself.”

She slid open the door, and Chu-Yeung hurried quickly through the threshold, pulling his daughter close to his chest. When he saw his wife lying happily at the far end of the room, her attendants gently cleaning her, he realized he had not been breathing and exhaled sharply.

“My wife!” Chu-Yeung said happily. “You have done a wonderful thing! It is our daughter, and she is beautiful!”

            “Husband,” she replied dutifully, inclining her head towards him.

            He hurried to her side and knelt down to present the bundle. The little one began to whimper, but quickly quieted when her mother cradled her in her arms. Chu-Yeung smiled widely, but his eyebrows narrowed as he watched his wife examine their child. She looked at her not with fondness or relief, but as if she were appraising the little girl, like a jewel or a piece of art. Chu-Yeung studied her face, and his heart felt cold.

            As he stood up swiftly from Isawa Kyoko’s side, Shinjo Chu-Yeung could swear that, for the first and only time in his life, the kami spoke to him. Whether it was the spirits or his thoughts finally admitting the truth, he would never know, but the realization would forever haunt their household: “It is not that she will not love, it is that she cannot.”

* * * * *

The northwestern Lion provinces, autumn, year 1176

“You dare?” the Lion roared, swinging the wooden bokken.

            There was a loud crack, and Mizuhiko looked up from his meditations. He knew he must bring himself into balance if he was to succeed at his quest, but the noise and activity made it difficult. The two bushi had sparred for nearly an hour, and the water kami seemed agitated – perhaps about the conflict. Mizuhiko found it strange, as the kami rarely understood the implications of combat, let alone mock combat, but he felt them moving and shifting so rapidly that he could not help but notice them. Perhaps they were upset about something else?

“I am a magistrate of the Lion!” Sasake cried, “I outrank you, and you think you can humiliate me?”

            Mizuhiko whirled around and gasped. The Matsu bushi stood over the prone form of Morihiko, swinging his bokken down on the crumpledPhoenixrepeatedly. Morihiko had curled up into a ball, covering his head, but he was already knocked unconscious and was beginning to slump further to the ground.

            With less than a thought, the water kami wrapped themselves around Mizuhiko, offering their strength and speed to his limbs. In the space of two breaths he was at theMatsu’s side. When the bushi swung the wooden katana again, Mizuhiko raised his arm and caught the blade mid-swing, the wooden edge colliding with his hand in an audible snap. He closed his hand around the sword and twisted it away. The Lion grabbed his own wrist in pain.

            “I have authority here!” Sasake said, spittle flying from his lips. “I am a magistrate of the Lion clan and I am enforcing a matter of my and my clan’s honor! You have no authority–”

            The pretender spits in the face of proper authority.

            “I am a Jade Magistrate,” Mizuhiko replied, “and as such have authority in all the Empress’s lands.”

            Mizuhiko saw theMatsuthrough a crimson veil. He swung the wooden sword back around, slamming its end into the Sasake’s head. There was an audible crack. Blood arced through the air and theMatsufell to the ground.

            Taking two steps back, Mizuhiko dropped the wooden blade. His sword hand itched, longing for the feel of his own katana. He clutched his hands tightly into fists and closed his eyes. Beneath him, he heard the Sasake breathing, but the bushi did not stand or react. Slowly, he turned away from the Lion towards Morihiko. He kneeled next to his yojimbo and began praying to the kami, begging the now-frightened spirits to heed his call and heal his friend.

            Painfully, Morihiko looked up at his charge. “Away…” he said groggily, “stay away!”

Instinctively, Mizuhiko stood up, still chanting to the kami. Morihiko’s eyes grew wide. “No…” the yojimbo whispered, trying to lift himself up. “You struck him…”

            There was a sharp scraping sound, and the yojimbo screamed. Red flashed before Mizuhiko’s eyes…

            … he felt a familiar weight in his hand…

            And he looked down. Judgment remained in at his side. Instead, blood pooled in his hands. He looked down, and choked as he noticed the point of Matsu Gohei’s katana emerging from his chest, right beneath his lungs.

            An inhuman laughter rose behind Mizuhiko. Shiba Morihiko scrambled backwards, scrabbling for his fallen sword, unable to turn away. Behind Mizuhiko, theMatsustood, his features sloughing away, his body shifting and growing. His face grew more heavy-set, his eyes dark pools. His dyed hair slumped and dangled limply around his head, strands shifting, becoming as green and thick as leaves of seaweed. His shoulders grew half-again as wide, and thick, calloused barnacles grew across his exposed skin. His body stretched upwards and outwards, taller than the largest mortal men to walk the roads of the Empire. His armor changed as well — from gold-flecked lacquered wood to tortoiseshell and obsidian, with an inlay of mother-of-pearl shaped into an inverted kanji of water across his chest.

            “Hello, Mizuhiko,” the Dark Oracle of Water said. He whispered the words into Mizuhiko’s ear, but they rippled outward, echoing across the Akodo plains. “My name is Turi. It’s a shame we had to meet like this.”

            “Huh… how…” Mizuhiko gasped, his eyes wide, watching his blood pour into the dry earth.

            “Forgive me…” Turi boomed. He yanked the blade upwards and twisted it Mizuhiko’s chest. “…if I make sure you are dead before I explain my plan.”

            He leaned back and kicked Mizuhiko forward. The priest went stiff, then slid limply off the blade to the ground. From somewhere within his armor, the Oracle produced a damp silk cloth, and he proceeded to wipe Mizuhiko’s blood from Gohei’s katana.

            “No!” screamed Morihiko. Despite his grogginess, he managed to stumble to his feet and charge the Dark Oracle.

            Turi grunted as he observed the yojimbo with mild bemusement. With a single, exaggerated, flowing step, he dodged the charge and smirked.

            “Oh, you. I suppose I will have an audience after all,’ the Dark Oracle intoned. He raised his hand, closed it into a fist. “Drown.”

            Morihiko tripped and slid on his knees, grasping his throat. The air in his lungs had begun to liquefy, choking him from within. His eyes were wide with terror as Turi smiled and strode towards him. He reached for his wakizashi, but the Dark Oracle crushed his arm under a massive foot. Turi lifted Gohei’s katana to catch the sunlight and smiled at it with admiration.

            “This is really the Butcher’s sword, you know. I sought it out specifically for your friend. I knew that Mizuhiko had an unfortunate reputation of being difficult to kill, so I decided to seek out the proper tool for the job. After my old friend used it for so much slaughter, his sword began to enjoy its reputation as a butcher’s implement. But unlike your charge’s sword, it is more hungry than thirsty.” He lowered it to Morihiko’s face. “That means that any wound it inflicts won’t be healed by normal means, including those delightfully naive little water kami constantly fluttering around our late Tensai friend. It’s a pity that he was able to cull our ranks so efficiently, but, to be honest, I am happy to be free of the driftwood. And once I determine how to unlock the essences stolen by the blade, even our new Dark God will be suitably impressed, say nothing of Fire and -”

            Turi paused. Was the yojimbo laughing at him? No, that couldn’t be – his lungs were still too full of water, his free hand clawing at his throat. But the thick, scraping laughter –

            “No.” Turi said, spinning around. “That’s impossible.”

            Slumped over, but still slowly rising to his feet, Mizuhiko shook with coughing, convulsive laughter. Fresh blood still poured from his wounds, dripping from his lowered head, running through the hair that dangled towards the ground over his face. The fingers of his sword hand were clenched around the bloodsword’s handle.

            Turi took a step backward. “No. I shattered your heart. There is no way you could stand. No amount of will would allow you to stand.”

            “My will was so strong,” the shugenja replied, a sharp cough that somehow formed itself into words. “I must thank you, Oracle. His was stronger.”

            Mizuhiko’s head reared back, his mouth twisted into an open, broken smile. His eyes were completely bloodshot, as if every vessel had burst. Blood poured from his lips, his eyes, his nose. It dripped down his arms, poured from his chest. With each step forward, it pooled where his foot once stood. “Now his will is broken with his heart.”

            “Mizuhiko, boil.” The Oracle cried, pointing a closed fist at his attacker. “Mizuhiko, evaporate. Mizuhiko, die!”

            “Mizuhiko is dead,” the broken voice said, and a hundred different voices whispered alongside it. “And now there will be Handan. And you will be the first judged.”

            The Oracle screamed and began to gather his energies, but the blade was suddenly at his side, as swift as thought.

            A hundred voices whispered: “Unworthy.”

            A hundred more replied: “Give me to drink.”

            The evening sky exploded into a tsunami of watery energy as the bloodsword was driven into the Oracle’s chest. It began with a ripple, as the air shook and burst outward in a massive wave of elemental energy. It was as if the ocean itself had been funneled through a tear in the air, washing everything hundreds of feet to every side. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the tide retreated back into nothingness, and the two combatants were gone.

* * * * *

Epilogue I: From the official Inquisitor’s Report of the Incident near Swift Sword Castle, 1176

… it is believed that the conflict between the Tensai and the Oracle was concluded swiftly following the ambush. Testimony from the Tensai’s yojimbo, Morihiko, while suspect due to his injuries, indicates that the Tensai recovered enough from his wounds to intercept or redirect the magical energies generated by the Oracle. While this seems implausible, Tensai Mizuhiko had proven himself quite exceptional at applying his skills at importuning in improvisational ways. Once again our initial assessment of Tensai Mizuhiko as having mediocre skill and capabilities beyond mastery of transport and movement-enhancing magics to be a quite limited assessment of his overall talents.

            An alternate explanation has been put forth by Magistrate Sawao that bears merit investigating. It is obvious from interviewing the residual kami that the Oracle was attempting to cast a powerful transportation magic. It is possible that Tensai Mizuhiko managed to interrupt this casting with a physical attack. He has proven in the past (see Incident Reports on The Destruction of the Temple of the Eight Guardians, The Battle of Sleeping Thunder Mountain, and The Repulsion of Chosai) to be quite formidable once within striking distance of a Dark Oracle, with his weapon (cross-reference: Judgment, Iuchiban Blades) more than capable of eliminating their current elevated mortal guise and extinguishing their threat for an unknown period of time. It is then likely that if the Dark Oracle’s ambush was not entirely successful, he then attempted to escape, instead finding his spell interrupted by Mizuhiko’s assault. The elemental energies then engulfed both combatants, tearing them apart.

            Part of the remains of the Dark Oracle of Water, the former Matsu Turi, were found at the site. His skull has been preserved and is under the highest level of security, awaiting investigation. A daisho belonging to theMatsufamily was also recovered, and has since been returned to the Lion Clan for safekeeping. No remains of Tensai Mizuhiko or the Iuchiban Blade were found at the site. It is likely that the Tensai did not survive the assault, given his wounds and the decimation wrought on the body of the Dark Oracle of Water (despite the enhanced physical formidability of the Dark Oracles). Of the Iuchiban Blade, no signs have been found – it has either been destroyed or is beyond the influence of the Empire.

            While the loss of Tensai Mizuhiko is immensely regrettable, given the great works he has performed for the Clan and Empire, the ultimate result of his campaign was surprisingly positive. There has been no sign of the four primary elemental Dark Oracles, and the only one with a chance of surviving his encounter was Fire. With the recent upheavals in the structure of Jigoku and its place in the Celestial Order, if the Dark Oracles’ influence in Ningen-Do has been lessened or severed completely, we may have prevented countless catastrophes from happening in our mortal realm, while also maintaining the slightly more positive status quo with the elements of Jigoku – reportedly, the Dark Oracles have been independent entities in regards to their activities and associations with the various historical Dark Lords of the Shadowlands, so we may have prevented future hierarchal struggles from spilling into our realm, far more important now that Jigoku has a much more localized access point to our realm and, specifically, the lands of the Phoenix.

Asako Bairei

Master of Water

Head Researcher, Asako Libraries

Imperial Year 1176

* * * * *

Epilogue II: Far from the Empire, the island-state of Anisrana

“Water!  Fresh water, free of salt!” Monja cried at the crowds hurrying past him. “Fresh water! Sweet tamarind dough, persimmons, lemongrass tea!”

            The day was terrifically hot, and Monja had made good money working his uncle’s food pots earlier in the afternoon, but the crowd in the early evening was mostly dockworkers, fishermen, and sailors, rather than traders or merchants. TheCinnamonPortwas the largest on the island, and the Jeweled Path was the swiftest route from the port to the central markets of Raksiraka. While the port typically had a swift turnaround – the Gateway to the West, the sister port on the mainland, was much more of a trade hub, due to the Yodatai’s inability to travel by water – there were enough mainland merchants, thirsty from the day-long journey, to give Monja brisk sales during the day. During the evening, however, the majority of the road’s travelers were residents of the bustling city, hoping to get home to drink their own water and honey-wine and eat their wives’ spiced fish stew and riceflour bread.

            A small crowd passed by. “Water! Fresh Water!” Monja cried again.

            One man, a large fisherman with a shaved head and several missing teeth, peered out from the crowd and guffawed. “Hey Monja, tell yer uncle that I’ll pay fer his wife’s leftovers if I get an evening with her too!”

            “Then we’ll see you this Thursday for your shave ‘n grooming, Rantil? We know you love how auntie makes you look so pretty!” Monja replied quickly, and several of the fishermen laughed and slapped the big man on his shoulders.

            Monja turned back and stirred the embers under the stewpot – he likely wouldn’t sell anything else tonight, unless a sailor had been too drunk to come in with his shipmates earlier in the day, and that kind of customer was just as likely to try and take what he wanted. Still, business had been good, and would likely continue to be good until the rainy season began. Trade flourished during the hot months. Despite the heat, the coastal winds were manageable, and the likelihood of the great storms in the rainy months made the trade routes meant that the spice trade had a specific window of a few months of heavy traffic.

            Then thunder pealed, and the previously-clear sky opened up. Monja was momentarily stunned. He spat a curse. It never rained during the dry months. If fresh water fell from the sky, how was he supposed to sell a drink? He peered upwards into the suddenly-roiling storm as the last few stragglers of the day’s trade hurried by. There was something unnatural about the stormclouds, more unnatural than even its sudden and untimely appearance implied. Thunder crackled around a single tight point in the sky, as if the heavens had been torn open and the stormcloud had poured out from the tear.

            Monja hurried to cover up the various perishable foodstuffs in his small roadside stand, cursing himself for his poor luck. So engrossed was he in his tasks that he nearly didn’t see the figure stumbling painfully onto the Jeweled Path. The man was small by Anisrana standards – Monja was nearly as tall as the stranger, and he was only on the cusp of manhood. The man walked slowly, holding his stomach with his left hand and carrying something long and thin in his right. He was shrouded by the heavy rain, but a burst of lightning revealed his features.

Monja had lived through only fifteen rainy seasons, but he had worked his uncle’s stand since he was seven, and he was sure he had seen more than most. In fact, he believed that he had seen visitors from every nation of the world, from the pale northern Yodotai and the lean Eastern Yodotai during his trips on the mainland to the men from hundreds of cities come to visit the Palace of Spice and Silver — the tattooed and dyed Senpet; the lithe, tanned merchants of the Ivory Kingdoms; the bearded Hanif and the blocky Merenae; the fur-clad northern barbarians of the Niask and the savage tribesmen of the Ayst; the angry Sons of Lost Thrane and ostentatious Children of the Jewel. This man resembled none of them – his features were thin but short, his skin light but not pale, and his hair was long and dark and straight, darker than even the deep brown of the Yodatai, as dark as Monja’s own hair, but thicker and straighter.

            “Can I give you something to drink?” the boy asked cautiously. “We have lemongrass tea and I can maybe spare some honeywine…”

            As the man approached, he raised his head in the air and oriented himself towards Monja. Monja suddenly gasped. Blood, not water, ran down the man’s face and arms. It poured from a hole In his chest and stained his thick silk robes deeply. His sleeves were tattered, and blood flowed both up and down his right arm.

            Monja took several steps backwards and fumbled for something to hold onto, his eyes never leaving the figure. “What are you?” he whispered.

            “Handan,” the storm itself seemed to rumble in reply.

            Finally, Monja’s grasping fingers found the hilt of the iron knife he used to chop apart meat for the stew. He raised it in trembling fingers.

            “Come no closer!” The bleeding man did not pause in its advance, so Monja waved the knife in the air, shouting “Stay there!”

            A rough choking sound echoed from within the bleeding man. Monja could not tell if the figure was coughing or laughing. It raised its head high and gazed at him with bloodshot eyes. “Muchi wa iiwake ni wa naranai,” it said in a language both sharp and lyrical. It continued moving forward, stopping within ten feet of the young street hawker.

            “You are to come no closer, spirit!” the boy said, clutching the icon of the Teacher he wore above his heart. “The Students of the Living and the descendents of the Great Hunters protect this land! You are not welcome here!”

            The bleeding man inclined his head from side-to-side like a bird watching its prey.  “Omae wa ten no ishi ni shitagatte inai,” it drawled, its voice shifting from calm bemusement to cold anger. It raised its right arm and shifted its hand, revealing the object it carried almost parallel to its arm. What Monja believed to be a stick or staff was actually a long, barely-curved blade, a razor longer than a man’s arm., Its edge was much keener than even the iron knives and spearpoints carried by the palace guards.  Where the blade met its hilt, blood poured out and in, like a heart pumping blood through a man’s chest.

            Monja screamed and suddenly the man was gone. Everything was silent except for the fall of the rain. The boy trembled for a moment, weeping, before finding his composure enough to put down his knife and fall to his knees.

            “OMAE NO KUNI WA HANKETSU NI CHOKUMEN SURUDAROU!” the voice boomed from behind him.

            Monja screamed again and twisted around. The falling blade cut through the air, slicing apart even the individual droplets of rain. Monja’s scream abruptly ended.

* * * * *

Epilogue III: The Mist

A horse and three figures emerged from the mist: its rider, a ronin, and a third man following silently behind.

            “Almost everybody has at least visited, but you’d be surprised as to how many of us end up having to do other stuff,” the rider continued, and the ronin sighed. Whether or not the rider noticed, he gave no reaction; he simply continued talking. “Most of them have moved on to the next stage, of course, like Hasame and Yayu. Tokei left almost immediately, though he’s one of the few that visits regularly. Toku and Goemon have other duties. Mikio and Asuma patrol the realm, but Dairya is usually pretty upset that he’s still here. Musha is always fond of seeing him, anyway. And you can guess what the boss is up to. Now that you’ve arrived, the only one I haven’t seen is Hiroru.”

            The ronin inclined his head and breathed the mist in deeply. “He’s here. He’s probably been here for a long, long time. I’m not surprised you haven’t seen him.”

            “He always did like hiding, I guess.”

            The ronin rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Yeah, that’s what I meant.”

            The mists swirled around them, and the four figures continued their journey silently. Here and there, the fog would open up into a clearing, pulling away from piles of ash and charcoal strewn along the shapeless, colorless earth. At times, the mist would shape itself into the outline of figures going about their daily routines, oblivious that the travelers could see them. One, a small, older woman, sat alone, her head in her hands, occasionally wiping the edges of her eyes as she tried to sort and contemplate something indistinct set before here. The ronin stopped and watched her silently, and she swiftly faded into the mist.

            “I loved her, you know,” the ronin said sadly, “Setsuko.”

            “I’m sure she knew,” the rider replied.

            “That’s not the problem,” the ronin said, his voice dry. “I didn’t tell her that enough. It would have been improper. I spent ten years of my life recklessly, ignoring propriety, devoting myself to revenge. I drank and swore and killed without abandon. But after that time, I couldn’t even tell the woman who devoted herself to me how much I loved her. I was worried about appearances.” He spat. “Did I waste my life? Did I live as a fool?”

            The rider shook his head.  “No more than any of us. When my wife and son died, I told myself that it was my shame over losing my father’s sword that hurt me, but only after I had reclaimed it did I realize that my regret was the same as yours. Duty was my obsession, I thought. I married her for duty, but she was a good wife. She gave me a son, built a family. When the ogres came and killed my wife and child, I feigned my own death. I spent the rest of my life hoping to cleanse the shame I brought on my family, but my cowardice wasn’t what I was really ashamed of. In reality, I should have been fighting for her, her and my son. Then I wouldn’t have needed to re-forge that damned sword. I think that’s why spirits linger to watch over their clans, rather than re-entering the great wheel and being reborn: the families we’ve made are what really give us strength, in life and in death.”

            “Family?” the ronin said incredulously. “Family I learned to understand, but that wasn’t until over twenty years after you died. When did you have time to think about family?”

            The rider shrugged. “I spent my entire life trying to reunite with my family, and when I finally found them, I ended up returning here,” the rider said. “Even in death, we cannot be sure we made the right choices.”

            “’Trying to reunite with your family’ is a lovely way to say that you were always trying your damnedest to get your damn fool self killed,” Ginawa replied, his voice rough and wry. “You were never that eloquent in the Twelve Ronin.”

            “You’re wrong.” The two turned swiftly, surprised to see the shinobi at their side. His voice was his accustomed whisper, and muffled by the white mask covering his face, but it still cut through the whistling fog with unearthly clarity.  “That speech about chasing death he always gave would have been eloquent, if he didn’t insist on telling it to everyone he met.”

            Ginawa slid his right arm into his kimono, reached through the center, and scratched his chin. “I told you he was here. I knew all along, since I first arrived.”

            Matsu Hiroru narrowed his eyes. “Of course you did.”

            Sanzo scratched the back of his neck and smiled lazily. “What do you think, Hiroru? Does mortal man’s strength derive from our love for our family, or from our duty to it?”

            Hiroru simply turned away. “How long do we plan on remaining here?” he asked, his voice cold.

            Sanzo shrugged and walked over to his horse. He scratched Musha on the ears and leaned in close to her, touching his forehead to hers. He stood there silently for several moments, then turned back towards the two wanderers, looking past them.

            “Not much further,” he said, and the four travelers continued their journey through the mist, this time with the horse in the lead. Eventually the horse slowed, stopped, and turned its head from side to side to look at its rider inquisitively. Sanzo nodded and signaled to the others to stop.

            “You wanted to know what happened to him,” Sanzo said to Ginawa. He raised his hand and pointed ahead, into the swirling mists. “The barriers are weak here. See for yourself.”

            The three travelers peered into the gloom; if they still could breathe, then they would have been holding their breath. The mists parted and they saw it: a city of the dead, an entire nation executed for the crime of not knowing the laws that doomed them; bloodless bodies piled in the street like pyrewood, and an insatiable weapon in the form of a man, forever waiting for new subjects to pass Judgment upon. An inhuman king holding an endless, empty court from atop a throne of skulls.

            “Stupid kid,” Ginawa whispered sadly. “Poor, stupid kid.”

            “It’s not his fault,” Sanzo replied. “Heaven and hell have plans for us all. Our stories wouldn’t be interesting if they were always merciful.”

            “I know,” Ginawa replied, patting Musha on her neck. “That’s why I feel for him.”

The travelers were silent for a moment, and the vision began to fade, dissolving into the formless smoke that made up Maigo no Musha. Finally, the shinobi turned to his two companions and bowed.

            “It’s time to go now, Ginawa. We have another long journey ahead of us. The boss is waiting.”

            Ginawa slid his arm into his sleeve and scratched his chin. “Another trip with you through realms unknown, Hiroru, where we find Toturi at the end? Why does this keep happening to us?”

            Matsu Hiroru shrugged. “At least the end result should be more pleasant. Yomi is quite a bit nicer this time of year than Morikage.”

            The three men exchanged bows. Ginawa and Hiroru turned and began walking away. The mists swirled up again, obscuring vision and engulfing the travelers, making them appear to be little more than silhouettes in the gloom. The rider climbed back atop his loyal steed, and the two of them vanished further into the Realm of Forgotten Heroes.

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Judgment, Part 1

By Lucas Twyman

Edited by Fred Wan

Thanks to John Wick, Ree Soesbee, Rich Wulf, & Shawn Carman

Special thanks to Erykah Fasset for translation assistance

Prologue: The Mists

The Phoenix sat alone in front of the fire, shivering. His knees were pulled tightly against his chest, his arms around his legs, trying to fight off the damp. No, not damp – the fog was everywhere, but it wasn’t damp. Damp would be something, and the fog was not that. Normal fog enveloped and subdued, this fog simply dulled. It was cold and empty, soporific and forgetful, but sharp and biting. It dulled all the senses, preventing any perception. No sounds echoed in the grey night; no light glimmered down from stars or the moon above. Only here, in front of the fire, was an island of something; the fog seemed to avoid it, dancing around the island of hard, cold dirt and the oddly yellow-grey flame.

            “Oh, good.”

            The Phoenix whirled around, startled. It felt like he had sat there alone forever, and the voice was the first noise he had heard since… since when? Certainly since he arrived, but how long had he been here?

            The man’s face was deeply lined with wear and worry, and dirty, making it impossible to determine his age. His hair was unkempt, but he had no beard and only light stubble on his chin. He walked with the careful, wide gait of a man who spends most of his day on the saddle. At his side he wore a daisho with elaborate dragon-headed pommels. He saw the Phoenix glance at them and smiled. “They were not mine, originally. They were a gift from a great man. I am glad to see you; starting a fire myself is always a bother.”

            “Who are you?” the Phoenix asked, brusquely. “Why are you here?”

            The rider smiled. “No one important. A sentry, of a sorts. A sentry and a guide, I suppose. I belong here, that’s all.” He kneeled down next to the fire, picked up an unburnt branch, and began stoking the flames.

            The Phoenix climbed to his knees and moved closer to the flames. He rubbed his hands together and watched the rider intently. “So this is your home?”

            “Yeah, I live here,” the rider replied, not looking up.

            “Alone?”

            “Nope.” He inclined his head towards the sturdy mare standing at the edge of the mist. “She’s here too. Really, it’s more her place than mine. I’ve always just been along for the ride.”

            The rider scratched his head, and the mists swirled heavily around them. “We get other visitors too, from time to time. Some just for a night. Some longer, ’till they move on to another realm. Yomi most often, but sometimes Meido.  A handful made it back to Ningen-do, though I suspect they arrived just in time to have to move on somewhere else.”

            “Am I dead?”

“Could be,” the rider said, shrugging. “Most likely you’re just sleeping. The walls between the realms are thin in places, ‘specially near old battlefields. Ningen-do is greedy, but Maigo no Musha was pretty good at letting people fall in even before I got here.”

            “Fall in?”

            “Yeah. Happened to me, I guess, but I think I was dead first. One minute you’re wandering around the Empire, of no importance, the next minute the mist closes around you and you’re here. Of course, when I showed up, my horse was here waiting. That’s how I knew something was up quicker than most. That’s how I figured my destiny back home was finished.”

            “Then is mine done as well?” The Phoenix asked. There was a strange weight at his hip, pulling him down.

            The ronin walked over to his horse and scratched it behind its ear with the other end of the stick.  “Nah. If your story was over, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in Yomi with the honored dead, or Toshigoku as a hungry ghost, or your soul would be stuck in a sword or something.” Wandering back to the fire, sat down again, rubbed his stubble, and nodded his head. “No, thing is, if you’re here instead of somewhere else, it’s because the heavens aren’t done with you yet.”

            The Phoenix tried to recall what he knew about Maigo no Musha – a once-unknown spirit realm, it said to be the site of a great war against the Iuchiban’s Bloodspeakers, though it was not spoken of often. Only the tales of Kisada, the Fortune of Persistence, mentioned it, though several Kitsu had written treatises on it. The Phoenix had studied both the histories and the scrolls. Many  Kitsu scrolls were required reading for water acolytes, but he had studied Kisada’s histories for his personal edification when it became apparent that he needed to learn more about the Bloodspeakers and their weapons. Unfortunately, the information about Maigo no Musha was sketchy at best – it resembled a strange variation on Meido, the Realm of Waiting, where souls remained after death until they sloughed away their old identity  and karma.

            The rider leaned forward, and the firelight reflected off his face, shining through the mist. Flame danced in his eyes. “You carry one, don’t you?”

            The Phoenix reached for his obi and found himself tense, almost panicked. His sword wasn’t there, but it still somehow lingered in him. He could feel its weight.

            “It won’t follow you here, but it won’t let you go either.”

            The Phoenix remained silent. The rider watched him for a moment, then shrugged and turned to the fire.

            “Give me to drink,” he whispered into the fire, then he slowly looked up at the samurai, his eyebrows raised. “It can be confusing, can’t it? It always sounded just like me. And it was smart, too. Not always talking, just when it would make the most sense. Do you hear it often?”

            “Even in my dreams… especially in my dreams. I suppose I should count myself lucky I am sharing your fire here tonight.”

            “Unless I’m just a trick of the blade. If I am, I’m a pretty terrible one, but if I remember right, my blade was pretty deceptive. It shaped the Empire, y’know. Tasted the blood of three Emperors. One was even a god at the time.”

            The Phoenix’s eyes widened. “Then you’re Sanzo.”

            The rider laughed. “Been a long time since somebody new called me that.”

            “And you once wielded Ambition.”

            The ronin frowned. “I’m more inclined to say it wielded me. Like I said, it twisted an entire Empire. Shoju you probably know about, being a scholar of the swords and all. He killed the second-last Hantei. And Toturi, well, my story is a little less known, but the Phoenix definitely know all about it. I thought I was re-forging the blade to help me win back my father’s sword, but after I got my wish, I almost murdered the Emperor. “

            “You said three Emperors. Shoju’s story I know, and yours as well. Who was the third?”

“Well, yeah. This one the historians usually miss: when little Hantei the 39^th broke the Scorpion Clan, he broke the Scorpion sword with it. But, despite his best efforts, he didn’t really break the clan, and he didn’t really break the sword either. The sword Shoju used was Ambition, not Istuwari, so it was the one shattered to pieces. Kachiko didn’t know that either, so she made hairpins out of those pieces. Imagine what the blade was whispering to her all those years! And when the Thunders fought Fu Leng, she drove those shards right into his eyes.” The rider shrugged. “Small wonder Ambition was able to get someone to pull itself back together, despite being shattered completely. I had no idea what I was getting involved with.”

            He looked solemnly at the Phoenix. “Shoju, Kachiko, and me – you know our stories, and you know how they ended. Only one of us got out alive. How do you think your story will end?”

                  The Phoenix stared at the fire. For the first time, as long as he could remember, there was no sound beyond the crackle of the flame. There were no kami singing their strange, voiceless requests, no water flowing beneath the earth, no voice whispering in his mind. For the first time, despite his companion, he felt alone.

            “For almost fifteen years I’ve served the Empire,” he said, staring into the flames, “over half my life. I have given everything, lost so much. So many friends are gone. I suppose I will give more before all of this is done.”

            Sanzo nodded sympathetically. “But will you be remembered?”

            “I…” the Phoenix shook his head. “… perhaps. Maybe not correctly. They will say that I was a great hero, who slew three Oracles, who fought creatures beyond imagining, monsters who approach the reach of gods. Maybe they will curse me for my hubris, for the destruction I have caused – I even destroyed one of our greatest temples. Perhaps I will be a cautionary tale, alongside Tsuke and Akuma; yet another Isawa who sought the power to protect the Empire and was driven mad by it.”

            “You will be remembered.” The rider smiled, but his eyes were tired. “Many can’t even expect that.”

            “You were, you know,” the Phoenix said.

            “Was I?” the rider said. “I spent the last years of my life wandering the Empire, hoping against hope that someone would believe the stories I told. I died alone and hungry. I think your family might have held onto my skull for some unknown reason. To be honest, I wasn’t very happy about that.”

            “But they know your name, Sanzo. I have visited your temple. The monks say that you are a lesson to be learned, to be remembered. They say you have a son who visits twice a year, to pay his respects.”

            “I’ve heard him,” the rider said softly, “But does he know my story? He couldn’t. I have heard other whispers with him, familiar ones. I fear that he may even carry my old blade.” He poked at the fire angrily. “I should have tried to linger. There is so much I should have told him. I should have lived to fight at his side.”

            “I do not know if he carries both of his father’s swords,” the Phoenix said. “Perhaps not the one that cursed you, but he does carry the one you redeemed. I have corresponded with him, due to our similar… interests. Perhaps he may one day visit you, like I have tonight. But he knows this – he knows you fought for him, fought at his side, long before he was even born.”

            Sanzo contemplated Mizuhiko’s words for a moment. A smile crossed his face. “I suppose so. Listen, you be careful. When you look at things with a wide enough perspective, the Heavens win out in the end. There’s a happy ending, but it’s not for everyone. Remember what I said about my sword – it helped shape the Empire’s history, and it was broken for half of that time.”

Early autumn, year 1176

The Northeastern Lion provinces, two days ride from the Castle of the Swift Sword

The war had been over for four years, but the Lion lands were still recovering. Of all the clans, the Lion took one of the greatest tolls – only the Crab and Scorpion had means to argue, and the Empress had made their reconstruction her first priority. While the Crab suffered from the shattering of the Wall, and the Scorpion struggled to contain the new Festering Pit, most of the Lion’s losses were found amongst the people themselves. This made the reconstruction deceptive – while the Lion palaces took less damage than, say, the Dragon orPhoenix, the massive peasant class and centralized location of the Lion lands made them an obvious target for both the plague victims and the Destroyers themselves.  Well after death of Kali-Ma, the Lion found their lands still ravaged by bandits, violent bands of starving veterans, and lingering terrors.

Through the balmy false summer rode twoPhoenix. During the war, Isawa Mizuhiko had crossed the length of the Empire hunting his quarry, the indomitable Dark Oracles. He had surprising success in killing them – any mortal who faced an Oracle in combat and surprised could be considered to have surprising success, and Mizuhiko had slain two of them, the Dark Oracles of Earth and Air. His quest to find the remaining Oracles had been more difficult. After a confrontation with the Dark Oracle of Fire, no further evidence of their involvement could be found. Whether the Oracles were in hiding or simply regrouping for an assault on thePhoenixand the Empire, Mizuhiko was not certain.

His yojimbo, Shiba Morihiko, had less success in his own duties. While he was charged with defending Mizuhiko from harm, the shugenja had an infuriating habit of disappearing for several days, then arriving at an inn or roadhouse, where he, more often than not, found Morihiko contemplating his own seppuku for his dereliction of duty. When pressed, Mizuhiko would claim that he had visited some far-off hamlet or landmark – a village in Scorpion lands, a cliffside along the Crab border, a clearing in the depths of the Shinomen – often across the enemy lines of a major battlefield. Since the war’s end, Mizuhiko’s travels had been far more predictable and leisurely, but no less infrequent, and the yojimbo was forced to become very used to spending days in a saddle. Whether it was a trip to a distant shrine in the mountainous Dragon provinces, a small garden at the edge of the infected no man’s land in the Scorpion lands, or their current quest, he always was left with one question.

As Morihiko watched the Lion bushi spur his horse back towards the two travelers, that question came readily to mind: “Why, again, are we here?”

Morihiko shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and looked back at his yojimbo with pursed lips. “To answer the summons we received in the letter.”

Morihiko eyed the approaching Lion. “You know what I mean, Mizuhiko. Why are we still wandering the Empire instead of enjoying the peace we fought for, or at least helping the Clan rebuild? We’re not going to find any further knowledge here.”

“He is a magistrate, most likely,” Mizuhiko said, turning away from his yojimbo. “Probably simply patrolling the road.”

Morihiko frowned, but his charge paid him no notice. He pulled his horse to stop and dismounted. “I’ll fetch our papers.”

As Morihiko rummaged through his travelling packs, the Lion pulled alongside them. He was lean, tall, and well-muscled, with long features and dark goatee that contrasted with his messy, dyed topknot. “I am Matsu Sasake,” he boomed, “and you travel across the lands of the Lion Clan. I ask that you present your papers and explain the purpose of your presence.”

Mizuhiko and Morihiko both offered their chops, each bearing the insignia of the Jade Champion. As further proof, Morihiko offered the Lion the letter requesting their presence. TheMatsuinspected the chops thoughtfully and then took the letter, holding it gingerly and staring at it with a perplexed look on his face. Morihiko wondered if, perhaps, the bushi was illiterate.

“If it is not to much to ask,” Morihiko said, cautiously, “why have you approached us?”

The Lion narrowed his eyes and peered off into the distance. “I am the harbinger of the next stage of your destiny,” he said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. His demeanor suddenly changed and he looked at the twoPhoenixwith a large smile. “I am here to welcome you to the lands of the Lion, and to guide you to the estate this spoken of in this letter. I am familiar with its location.”

“I am sure we can find our way there ourselves.” Mizuhiko said quietly.

“Nonsense!” Sasake replied. “These roads are not safe. Three travel better than two, and any who attack you while accompanied by me will  have doomed themselves. I do not boast idly when I claim that I am among the finest magistrates in this region. Since the waning days of the war, I have helped disperse three bandit gangs, including the feared Throat-Slitters. I cut down Parangu himself, and his men scattered before me like chaff cut from the wheat.”

“I—“ Mizuhiko began to reply before thinking better of himself. “We are glad to have your company, Lord Sasake.”

Sasake nodded, looking very pleased with himself. As he rode, he regaled the priest and his yojimbo with tales of his valiant deeds, giving them little chance to speak. Eventually, the Lion slowly rode ahead of the twoPhoenix, still talking at length, and Mizuhiko pulled his horse back, slowing her pace until the trotted aside Morihiko.

“I hunt them because I must, Morihiko. ThePhoenixwill forever sacrifice itself for the Empire, but I also cannot forget what we have lost – what they took from me. They have taken so much from me.” He looked Morihiko in the eyes. “You may not understand this, but I must not allow them to take from others what I have lost.”

Morihiko nodded sadly. “I understand, my friend. I am here with you because I understand your loss all too well.”

Far to the north…

Cinders fell through the sky like snow, singeing the traveler’s elaborate robes, but he looked no worse for the wear. Tiny, scalded holes opened where each burning flake fell, but after a few steps, the multicolored fabric re-knit itself, each of the many-colored threads combining into a unified shape. From a distance, his form was shrouded in shimmering darkness; if an observer could somehow survive the deadly ground surrounding him, they would think that his robe was a deep black patterned with pinpricks of dim light like stars above a city’s glare, rather than a thousand colors intertwined in such a way that they seemed to reflect the light itself, the illusion only shattered by the falling ash.

The traveler strode purposefully across the sea of jagged obsidian, seemingly unaware of the difficult ground, each step finding perfect hold on the shifting black glass as if he knew where his next step would be. When he approached a flowing river of molten lava, he paused only for a moment before stepping into the rolling flame. The lava itself curled away beneath his feet, and he continued unimpeded to the side of the mountain. Molten rock flowed down its side in an awe-inspiring simulation of a massive, slow-moving waterfall.

The traveler did not slow his pace as he walked into the falling lava. It tumbled on him, burning away his robes, but leaving his wild hair and blemished skin untouched. As he stepped into the massive chamber hidden within the mountain, his clothes had already begun to reform from the shadows and air around him and reknit themselves.

Magma bubbled up in pools throughout the cave, causing most of the chamber to glow a dim red and casting strange, long shadows across the room. At the far end of the chamber stood a tremendous throne of harden molten rock. On the throne, a slumped figure sat. As the traveler crossed the scalding cave floor, a crackling voice echoed through the chamber.

“Brother.”

The seated figure raised its head, balancing a red-gold crown precariously on its shattered brow. Its eyes glowed faintly; its skin hung ragged across the left side of its face, and charcoal bone could be seen underneath. The right half of its jawbone had crumbled away into ash. Its regal robes hung loosely on its cracked and broken shoulders, and the flesh of its left hand sat exposed, as if it had been flayed away. Its right arm fared worse – fingers of blackened bone still moved, but all that remained of the arm was bone and ash. Its left leg was gone completely, the only evidence remaining was a sooty shadow clinging to the throne where it once sat.

“Toryu,” the burnt man said, his voice amplified by crackling flame but obscured by his shattered jaw, “How kind of you to finally visit me. Forgive me if I do not stand.”

The traveler advanced before the throne, but offered no deference. “There is no Toryu, Fire. You know this,” he replied. “There is only Void. There has always only been Void. Void is all that will remain.”

“Of course,” the Dark Oracle of Fire said with mock contrition, “How foolish of me.”

“You have called for me more than once,” the Dark Oracle of Void replied. “I felt it time to finally respond.”

“Well, yes,” Fire said, exasperated, “I do have a few minor issues I am coping with. But I will persevere. I called you because we are missing our chance to consolidate our power.”

“What power?” Void replied. “We have no need for temporal power. Despite its upheavals, Jigoku has not recalled our presence or removed my mandate. I assume that all is going to plan.”

Crumbling bone scraped against stone as the Dark Oracle of Fire clawed at the arms of his throne. ”Plan? Need I remind you that two of our siblings have been eliminated, and Turi remains missing, likely dead. If Jigoku does not replenish our ranks soon, or restore me to power, all I – all we have worked for will be little more than ash.”

Void loomed over Fire, appearing to grow in the shadows. His voice remained the same consistent monotone. “All that you worked for is nothing. Our position here is to shape the mortals slowly, not to hammer them into tools or force them to bend knee. Our power is great enough that forcing them to do so merely works against us.” His eyes flashed gold. “As for Water, I too have noticed his absence, but I would also notice if he were lost to us, unless he had somehow travelled beyond the reach of our realm. I believe he is either in hiding, or he, like you, like Earth and Air once did, is insisting on playing one of his foolish games and is hiding his presence from all viewers.”

“Then why are we not finding him?” Chosai roared, and he attempted to stand, summoning flame to lift his frail form. Void motioned with an opened hand to stop him.

“We must be patient, Fire. Conserve your strength.”

“If you have not forgotten, Void, we are being hunted.”

Void inclined his head, affirmatively. “And if our hunters ever take direct action against me, I will deal with them appropriately. I understand that it is our nature to struggle against the rules that constrict us, but I also wonder if perhaps our hunters’ success is simply karmic retribution against us pushing too far. I will not act rashly.”

The air around Chosai began to waver with his anger. “Then what do you suggest? That we simply abandon our brother and sister to their fates? That we leave their souls forever trapped in that bloodspeaker toy?”

Void crossed his arms and stared into the ruins of Fire’s eyes. “Their souls?” he said, his voice cold and bemused. “Is that truly what you believe the blade stole?”

Fire shifted in his throne, and the sound of his bone scraping against the rock echoed again through the chamber. “Is it not? They have not reincarnated or been replaced.”

Void chuckled. “Fire, my brother, our souls were claimed by Jigoku long ago. What the sword stole from us is much more important. When we became our present, perfect selves, our earthly physicality was replaced by elemental energies replicating our mortal shells. Where a mortal’s spirit sits, there is instead a direct conduit to the elemental essence of Jigoku itself. When Judgment tastes us, that is what it steals.”

Void waved his hands over his chest, and his flesh peeled apart, revealing a rift where his heart should sit; beyond it, a thousand souls screamed in terror. Clenching his fist, he willed his form again shut.

Fire’s ruined face pulled down into an approximation of a frown. “And that is why Air and Earth have not incarnated in new forms – their conduits remain in Ningen-Do, trapped within the blade.”

“Precisely,” Void replied. “It is also the cause of your present lessened state – you remain Oracular, but without a means of replenishing the elemental essence that fuels our… capabilities. With each use of your powers, you burn away what essence you have remaining, essence that makes up your physical form. You literally have begun burning yourself out.”

Fire’s nostrils flared. “Then what is our next step, Void? What are we to do?”

“We? You will do nothing,” Void said, insistently. “No answers, no magic, no armies, no plots. Nothing, at least until we have destroyed the blade. Hopefully, whatever minions you have already empowered will be enough to defend you until then. I will watch, and wait, and hope an answer presents itself before Yomi decides that we are not in balance and takes advantage of our failures to permanently destroy the armistice between the two realms. Or worse, decides that one set of Oracles is all that is needed, as it once was for Void.”

“Watch?” Chosai roared. “Wait? Are you a fool, Toryu? A coward like Turi?”

Void did not deign to give Fire a reply. He simply regarded his crippled counterpart coolly, then turned and began to walk away.

“Wait! Void! We must plan!” Fire cried as Void crossed the chamber. “We do not need to do this blindly! We must strike! If we can claim the blade ourselves, then perhaps we can claim the power within as our own! Between the two of us, the most powerful and the most wise, we can hold the power of Jigoku undivided!”

Void gave no indication that he heard.

“You can’t just leave me here, Void!” the Oracle screamed, his voice growing higher and higher with desperation. “I am Tamori Chosai, the Scouring Flame of the North! You can’t just leave –“

But Void simply took another step and was gone.

The lands of the Lion Clan

The estate was modest and comfortable. The home at its center was small, but of sturdy construction. It resembled a quiet vacation home for a great lord – secluded, well-made, and practical, rather than large and ostentatious. Several tents were assembled around the central structure. Mizuhiko assumed they were remainders from the war, repurposed to hold the monk’s visitors and well-wishers. As thePhoenixapproached, their magistrate escort remained at the edge of the estate, leaving them to introduce themselves to the suspicious Lion security. It took a bit of arguing, but eventually an older woman emerged from the home, examined their papers, and hurried them inside. The décor within was entirely functional – the only decoration was a single large tessen hung on the doorway leading to the bedroom. It bore the mons of the Lion, the Akodo, and the Castle of the Swift Sword dojo in a vertical column.

As they approached the bedroom, the door slid open, and a short man blocked their path. His hair was dyed blond and stuck out in wild and huge ways, as if he were trying to make himself appear bigger to frighten away larger threats. Surpised, he glanced up and down Mizuhiko nervously.

“We are not taking visitors. The master of the house is ill,” he said, his voice abrupt and tremulous.

Mizuhiko regarded the man coolly, examining the insignia he wore on his shoulder. “You are a Kitsu, yes? A shugenja?”

The small man nodded, his body bowing slightly with the reply. “Yes, on both accounts. I am Kitsu Yutaro. I am serving as the monk’s physician.”

Mizuhiko held up the scroll. “I have a letter from the monk Heigai. He requested that I visit him with all urgency. I wish to speak with him now.”

“I am afraid that is impossible.”

Morihiko nodded to his charge. “We can rest outside tonight, refresh ourselves, and return tomorrow morning.”

“I am afraid that is impossible as well. Heigai is deathly ill. He should not see anyone, beyond his family. In fact, he should do nothing but be as comfortable as possible for his last days. You should not see him.”

The twoPhoenixexchanged glances. Morihiko simply shrugged, and Mizuhiko looked down, startled. His fists were clenched so tightly that his hands were becoming white and pale. He slowly unclenched his fists, stretched his fingers, and scratched the back of his neck thoughtfully.

“I am a warrior-priest, but my domain is water,” Mizuhiko said, “and life flows from water. I could help him.”

The Kitsu quieted Mizuhiko with a look, and leaned closer to him. “I assure you, my skill as a healer is well-regarded,” he said softly, “and I would remind you that a Kitsu once served as the Master of Water on the Elemental Council. My knowledge is worthy enough.” He paused when the corner of Mizuhiko’s eye twitched – seemingly involuntarily – but Mizuhiko made no further response. There was no sign if he had a conscious reason for the reaction.  “The earth within him has grown too powerful. Simple healing will only dull the pain and hasten growth, which is the problem. His body has become greedy and takes too much, and he has begun to waste away.”

Mizuhiko found himself compelled to speak in a somber whisper. “Then it is not the lingering effects of a plague?” he asked.

The Kitsu shook his head. “Not a plague, or a lesser disease. No man could catch from him what he has. It is unfortunate, but common among the few blessed to live to his advanced age.”

Mizuhiko’s fingers drummed softly along the blades tucked in his obi. “Then his own blood has become too greedy and begun to eat away at him? A terrible irony.”

The Kitsu sniffed and nodded slightly. “I suppose so, though given his history, he is quite fortunate to have survived this long.”

“We all should be so lucky,” Mizuhiko replied, gruffly, and turned away. He had noticed the Kitsu glancing at his daisho. “Perhaps I will ask him if he agrees.”

“See here,” the Kitsu said, but Mizuhiko glanced at a Morihiko, who stepped forward as if to brush the small man aside.

“Please listen to him,” Morihiko said, with characteristic softness. “The letter was most urgent.”

Behind Yutaro, a coughing voice said something, and Yutaro cocked his head to listen. The Kitsu begrudgingly stepped aside, and the old woman entered, followed by the twoPhoenix.

The old man was wrapped in blankets of silk and cotton, his frail, bald head barely emerging from the end of the bed. The bedchamber was sparse and undecorated, appropriate for a monk’s cell. When the old woman entered, she knelt at his side and whispered to him, and he began to stir.

The Kitsu produced a fan and and waterskin. He began waving the fan throughout the room, periodically pausing to sprinkle water. As the monk began to rouse himself, he scowled at the shugenja. The Kitsu, not noticing the reaction, sprinkled more water. Several droplets hit the monk across his face and his brow wrinkled angrily.

“My ashes have not fertilized the ground yet,” he grumbled angrily. “No need to water where I lie.”

The Kitsu paid him no notice, so the monk, with the help of the old woman, slowly pushed himself up to his knees. His body was wrinkled and worn, crossed with scars and calluses. “And you?” he said, staring at the twoPhoenix. “Have you also arrived to torment me before I die unhappily in bed?”

“I came because you requested my presence, Monk Hegai,” Mizuhiko replied.

The monk set his jaw and nodded, staring at Mizuhiko’s daisho. “Finally. I had a matter I wished to discuss with you.”

Mizuhiko followed the monk’s gaze and placed his own hand on his blades. “You wish me to do something for you?”

The monk snorted. “Yes. I want you to listen. I offer you the gift of experience.”

Mizuhiko nodded. “I thought as much. A monk such as yourself must have learned much from the experience of others.”

“Others?” the monk said, his eyes dull with confusion. “Oh, yes. I see what you mean. How clever.”

He scratched the back of his neck and looked up at Mizuhiko. “Let us not mince words. We both know who I once was. I was supposed to leave that all behind when I retired, but I have never been good at moving on and forgetting the past.” He turned to the old woman. “Sachiko, attend to me. I will not have him speaking down to me. Help me stand.”

Slowly, the old monk rose from his bed. The skin along his back and arms was paper-thin and mottled with dark bruises. His arms trembled slightly as he lifted them and pointed them to his sides, and he slumped as his attendant placed his robes on his body. He ran his fingers along his bald scalp as he might have once done to brush wild hair from his eyes, and his hands stopped shaking. As his sash was fastened around his waist, his back straightened and his brow furrowed slightly, giving shape to his face. With eyes open and cloudy, staring thoughtlessly at the ceiling, he could have been any old man.  With his eyes narrowed, he was a raptor of a man, again the warrior he once was. He turned to the woman dressing him and bowed.

“Sachiko,” he whispered, “It is time.” She nodded and left the room, and the monk turned back to Mizuhiko. Only a significant limp betrayed his economy of motion as he drew close to the shugenja. His breath was warm and sweet as he whispered in thePhoenix’s ear.

“We share something, boy. We share my pity. And that’s a powerful thing. For most of my life, I pitied no one but myself.”

The monk waved away the attendants. A few, like the attending Kitsu, left reluctantly, but ultimately none refused his steely glare. When the room was empty, he relaxed somewhat, his back again became slightly bent and his skin drooped, but his face – his eyes – remained strong and alert.

“Let me make something clear, boy,” he said, his voice rolling like rainwater down recently-sanded oak. “I am among the greatest failures in the history of the Empire.”

Mizuhiko shook his head. “You are one of the Empire’s greatest heroes.”

“Is that what they say about me now?” he smiled wolfishly. “Make no mistake, this is not pity. I killed my own lord. It took me decades to hunt down the creature that manipulated me, and the one I killed may not have even been the same thing it once was. Worse, I failed my Emperor and the Empire many times. The Son of Heaven was stolen away while I lost in my cups, and when we recovered him, I failed to see the corruption seeded within him and the Empire almost crumbled for my lack of insight. He had to die for our failures. I was not there when he died again. I even failed his son, and the Empire lost him, his brother, and an entire dynasty. The only thing I have always succeeded at was wielding a blade, and now there is a new batch of students out there lacking my instruction… ah.”

The old monk smiled, and Mizuhiko followed his gaze. His sword hand was clenching and unclenching at his hip. Mizuhiko felt his face go white and he grabbed his wrist with his free hand.

“I thought as much. You are strong, boy, but despite that it has already started cutting its way into your heart. It’s not your fault – every man breaks eventually. I speak from experience.”

“Is that what this is? A test?”

The monk shook his head sadly. “No. It is only the truth. I am a failure, but that has never mattered. I learned a phrase from my time studying the Tao these last few years: ‘Fall seven times, stand up eight.’ I think the Fox stole that from Shinsei, but I have always lived that belief. What defines a man, what makes a man, and makes our Empire is not our failures: it is how we respond to our failures.  My lord was killed, and I sacrificed everything in desperation, sacrificed everything for revenge. Make no mistake: I was almost consumed utterly by it. And the Empire almost paid the price.”

“You saved the Empire,” Mizuhiko said. “You saved the Emperor himself. When Toturi arrived at Oblivion’s Gate, you were the one who pulled him through it.”

“That’s it exactly.” The old man chuckled. “I see you have watched Hyun’s ‘The Tale of Revenge Found’, where I left my old sword sticking out of the lifeless body of that Goju? Or perhaps simply read Rezan’s ‘The Gate of All Hearts?’ I was quite fond of that one – ‘his bloodless bloody blade tossed aside/ he lifted up the Empire’s Spirits as he lifted the Son of Heaven’s hand’. None of the poets or playwrights managed to mention the truth of the matter. In fact, the only men who know the truth, other than me, are both dead. And I always suspected Toturi didn’t want to know – and Kaneka, the blessed child, always thought it more interesting than important.”

“What was the truth, then? You did pull him through, and that did save the Empire.”

“I pulled him through, yes. But what the histories don’t say is that when Toturi offered me his hand, the first thought that appeared in my head was to cut him down where he stood, as revenge for the Empire he failed and abandoned.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because your soul is in conflict. Only with help can you master the spirit of the blade, and even then, it is likely impossible.”

Mizuhiko took a step back. “The blade is my burden. I will not share it with you, or anyone.”

“No,” Heigai said sadly, and he slid his arms out of his sleeves, into his robes, and crossed them over his chest. “I do not wish for you to share it. I want you to throw it away. It will bring nothing good to you, or the Empire.”

Mizuhiko stood, silently, his eyes darting back and forth subtly, his hand shaking. “You are a hero, monk, but you are not alone. I have saved the Empire three times over. The Empire has nothing to fear from me.”

“There is only one thing in this world I fear, shugenja,” the Lion said sadly, “and it has nothing to do with you.”

He looked past Mizuhiko, and the shugenja heard the chamber door slide open again.  The old monk’s female attendant entered, her face drawn. Her cheeks were slightly stained, and Mizuhiko noticed small waterdrops scattered around the neckline of her simple kimono. Hegai stared at her, but she did not return his gaze, simply offering him a long parcel.

“You have heard its voice,” the old monk said, beginning to unwrap the package. “It sounds like your own.”

“Give me to drink,” Mizuhiko replied, softly.

“Then you know what must be done. Throw the blade away. Destroy it if you can, seal it away, or place it in the care of your clan.”

“And what would the cost be?” Mizuhiko replied, his anger soft and cold. “I have confronted three Dark Oracles, slain two of them. It took only one to ravage the lands of three clans. Would you have me leave the job unfinished, perhaps damning the Empire in the process?”

Hegai turned away from his task for a moment and stared into the shugenja’s eyes, measuring his words. “And if you damn yourself in the process? Shoju shattered an Empire with the blade he refused to put away. You have done great work for the Empire, and you could continue to do so without the sword.”

“Could you?” Mizuhiko snapped. “You say that Revenge almost drove you to strike against Toturi, but in the end you did not. Do you really think that you would have even been capable of making it to the gate without Revenge at your side?”

“Fine.” Heigai’s jaw clasped shut, his thin lips pressed together tightly. He finished unwrapping the parcel and removed two blades, sliding their scabbards into his obi. “For nearly thirty years, I no longer needed to wield a sword of steel. Now it is obvious that I have no choice.”

The old Lion raised his hand towards Mizuhiko, pulled tightly in a fist. “Mizuhiko of family Isawa, I challenge you to a duel. If I win, you will discard the sword, for the good of the Empire. If you win, it will be proven that I have slighted your honor and taken steps beyond my present station. I will accept all consequences for my impertinence that our daimyo judge as just and proper.”

Shiba Morihiko stepped between the priest and the monk. “That’s ridiculous. I cannot –“

Mizuhiko silenced his friend by placing a hand on his shoulder. “No. Heigai of the Order, I accept your duel. It will be a duel of kenjutsu, to the first drawing of blood, and will take place two days from now, at dawn. I will see that justice is done.”

Interlude: Isawa provinces, autumn of 1174

“While your testimony is complete, valid, and sincere, your complicity cannot be completely dismissed.”

            “The colors suit you, my lady.”

The two serving girls bowed deeply. Their faces were round and their cheeks full, as if they were still children. A third girl approached swiftly, pushing a large, silver-backed mirror. Some families believed it to be poor luck for a bride to see her own reflection prior to the wedding, but Kyoko put no weight in such foolish superstition.  After all, Isawa himself had said that the world was a solvable problem, that faith should be put in the sciences of the kami, the Fortunes, the spirit realms, and the Heavens and Earth.

Isawa Kyoko had to agree: the colors did suit her. But that was no surprise. Red she had always worn well, and white… there had been too many occasions to wear white in recent years. At least the wedding would be a happy one. And the robes were exquisite, folded stiffly with the precision of origami, the white outer kimono piled high on her shoulders like wings, enough of her neck showing to allow her pale skin to shine through while still being demure.

“We will do your best to remain out of the public eye. We will find you a husband, a minor lord who will solidify our alliances, but a man without ambition or public stature.”

“Your husband is extraordinarily fortunate to be marrying such a lovely young woman,” her ancient handmaiden said, smiling. The old woman had often confided to Kyoko that she hoped this marriage would be fruitful. She had looked after Kyoko’s household since before Kyoko’s birth, but the youngPhoenixmaiden was the only family member to survive the wars that ravaged the clan seemingly every other year.  “Especially,” the handmaiden said, adjusting Kyoko’s collar, “One who has proven herself to be so loyal to her duties.”

-Takesi’s face melted away, skin and flesh and bone and ash. Kyoko felt like screaming.-

“Thank you,” Kyoko said, bowing her head to each of her servants, “You have all prepared me well. It does not need to be said, but all of you will always have a place in my household.”

In turn, each of the servants each stepped aside and bowed deeply. Kyoko nodded to each as she passed them, and they hurried before her to clear the passages and open the many doors ahead of her. She was thankful for their help, as her high wooden sandals and unsteadily perched hairpiece meant walking required her full concentration.

“You will remain a dutiful wife and honorable member of our clan. There will be no further adventures on your part, no further research. Your training ends today.” 

As she entered the courtyard from the exit of the Great Hall, her betrothed entered through the gates leading into her family estate. Shinjo Chu-Yeung, her betrothed, cut a handsome figure in a set of fashionable red and gold robes altered with a fur fringe to reflect his heritage. Accompanied by his parents and a train of servants, his entourage dwarfed Kyoko’s own, despite the ceremony taking place in Kyoko’s ancestral home. He came from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the Shinjo, but the lesser status of the Shinjo family in the Moto-led Unicorn meant that he would be marrying into Kyoko’s family, rather than her taking his name. Access to Chu-Yeung’s resources without costing the Isawa a member – or allowing Kyoko to leave thePhoenixlands – made the marriage very profitable for thePhoenix. Kyoko was already pleased to know that her husband was quite heroic and compassionate; that he was also handsome was an unexpected boon. The Unicorn presented an endless series of bride-gifts; horses and clothes and baubles from the edges of the Empire and beyond. The sky was clear, the day beautiful.

-Takesi smiled and turned to her, stopping to brush a lock of hair from her face. “Our ceremony could be as lovely, you know,” he said quietly. - 

At the center of the courtyard, standing before the small orchard, was Isawa Sawao. While Kyoko knew that Sawao had volunteered to preside over the ceremony, she was still surprised that his request had been approved.  After all, she had not spoken with him since the hearing with the Elemental Masters, almost a year prior. Sawao smiled warmly at her as he blessed the celebratory sake. The old priest’s gentle nature had been the source of so much comfort; she could never resent him, despite his role in setting her on her path.

“Your gifts will not be used in the temples or on the battlefield. Violation of our edicts will lead to further inquiriy and possible subjection to The Forgetting.”

The bride and groom presented themselves under the cherry-blossom tree, each bowing their head in mutual deference. Sawao began the lengthy prayer to purify the proceedings and bind the lives of the two samurai together. The handmaidens and servants joined their voices in song with the priest, who then turned to Kyoko and asked, “Lady of Isawa, will you take this man into your family, be his wife, provide for him and your family? Will you honor him and accept him into your home?”

Kyoko looked into Chu-Yeung’s eyes.

There was a hole inside her, a terrible itch, like a phantom limb. When she looked at Chu-Yeung — when she thought of Takesi – she knew that there should be a feeling there, there should be something beyond familiarity.

The bride and groom drank from the purified cups of sake. As Kyoko had no living family, Sawao accompanied Chu-Yeung into the estate, while Kyoko approached his parents. The handmaidens removed the white robe representing death, revealing the red gown of rebirth. Her new husband’s mother took her arm and led her through the gate, to be embraced by her new family.

For the life of her, she could not recall how that lost emotion felt.

The Akodo plains, late autumn, year 1176

The sun rose over the Akodo Plains, burning the wheat fields red. Before the dawn began, the two entourages had already arrived. One, Isawa Mizuhiko’s modest group, consisted only of Mizuhiko himself, his yojimbo, and theMatsumagistrate who had accompanied them since entering Lion lands.  Hegai’s larger group arrived second, the frail monk’s physicians and attendants accompanied by the head instructor and several students from the Swift Sword Dojo. The dojo members had ridden hard through the night, bringing with them a selection of fine blades for the duelists to choose from. Hegai inspected each, appraising their balance and craftsmanship without even lifting them.

The dojo’s head instructor served as primary witness and head official for the duel. He approached Mizuhiko and bowed deeply. “Do you plan on wielding your own blade?”

Mizuhiko exchanged glances with Shiba Morihiko. “I do not require the services of my yojimbo in this matter,” he said softly.

“If I thought you were planning to,” the old monk said from across the dueling grounds, “I wouldn’t be fighting you myself. That’s not what the man is asking.”

Mizuhiko turned and regarded the monk.

“We will duel,” the old man said, pointing at Mizuhiko’s side, “but you will not use that sword.”

He fears me, Mizuhiko’s thoughts said, he fears my skill and wishes for me to be handicapped against him. He seeks to trick me, to cut me down!

            Mizuhiko pushed away his thoughts. The old man was a great warrior once – one of the greatest – but despite a few surprising displays of iai in his youth, he was not a renowned duelist. Nor was he a well man – the Lion stood with the uncompromising rigidity of a man held aloft by will rather than strength. His movements were neither fluid nor swift, and there was a slight tremor in his left hand, but no motion was consciously wasted — his technique would be without par. His body, however, could fail him. Mizuhiko was not an exceptional duelist, but his natural speed and reflexes warranted some training in the art. Mizuhiko would not win easily, but he would win.

Mizuhiko unsheathed Judgement, raised it, stared at the slowly rising sun reflected blood-red in its blade.

He would win without the blade. Gripping the pommel tightly, he flipped the blade downward and drove it deeply into the earth.

“A fitting resting place,” the old monk said, his voice surprisingly loud and full. “After our duel, the Kitsu will raise a shrine around it there, burying it beneath tons of stone, as Akodo buried himself to seal away evil , and enclosing it in the most powerful wards found outside theImperialCity. Defending the shrine will be a position of honor. The finest warriors will guard it, and the watch will rotate swiftly and often, so that none may remain long enough for the blade to begin to whisper to them.”

“That is only if you win,” Mizuhiko said. He turned to the small entourage of attendants. Six, seven, eight men all kneeled before the two warriors, their heads bowed, and offered up sheathed katanas to choose from in each of their fists.

“Even if I do not, priest, I beg you to reconsider,” the monk said as he examined the sword offered to him. He hefted it and swung it in the air.

“If you do not win, Lord Ginawa, then I am sure you can then try to convince me again,” Mizuhiko replied, looking at the old monk. The monk turned swiftly and met his gaze.

“My name is Hegai, Lord Mizuhiko.”

“Obviously, I must have been mistaken. Hegai is a monk’s name, and you are a monk.” Mizuhiko said, “I must be a confused fool, since, for a moment thought I saw a samurai, a mighty bushi standing before me.”

The old wolf’s eyes glimmered, the last dullness of age finally vanished. “Indeed. I can see how that mistake was made.” He took several steps forward and pointed to one of the swords. “I recommend that one, Mizuhiko. Its balance seems impeccable.”

Mizuhiko raised an eyebrow. “Have you touched steel in the last two decades?”

“Not in almost three, young one,” the wolf replied, “but these old eyes know a good sword when they see one.”

Mizuhiko hefted the blade, then slid it open from its sheath and inspected the edge. He took a few swings in the air before resheathing it. Its balance was indeed perfect. He turned to his opponent and nodded. “If I recall, your judgment in selecting a sword was often as poor as mine.”

The wolf scratched his chin. “Is that a joke? Did the priest make a joke?” He slid his chosen swords into his obi, and Mizuhiko did the same.

The two duelists bowed to the officiant, then in the direction of theImperialCity, then to each-other.

“The terms of the duel are clear. It is a matter of honor to be settled, and the fight will be to first blood,” the officiant read. “Here, on the Plains of Bloodied Honor, within sight of both the participant’s ancestral home and the Castle of the Swift Sword, whereMatsuand Akodo first met. Let this duel not tear our clans asunder, but strengthen the bonds of the Empire, as Akodo’s did withMatsu.”

Both samurai drew their swords. Mizuhiko held his katana in one hand, with the other resting lightly at the end of the hilt, as the Fire Tensai had done since Tsuke revised their dueling technique, but stood in the rigid stance of the Shiba. Ginawa swung his blade three times in the air and let loose an impressive kiai, ending his motion in the stiff, ritualized stance of the Swift Sword. Mizuhiko recalled his brief training with Shiba Sakishi – from the central stance, an Akodo could continue into over a dozen ritualized kata steps, each targeted at a specific circumstance, and from there they trained in hundreds of further reactions and modifications. Only the Mirumoto could rival the Akodo in kenjutsu, but they placed more emphasis on defense and flexibility over offense and perfect technique. Ginawa was a master of the Swift Sword’s technique, and his years as a ronin only made his improvisation skills more impressive. Mizuhiko’s only chance was to be swift and hope that Ginawa’s body failed him in executing his techniques, for his knowledge of technique would not.

Fortunately, Mizuhiko was very good at being swift. Even without the kami aiding him, his raw reflexes and ability to make split-second tactical assessments and adjustments were among the finest in the Empire. Years of training the kami to move him at intense speeds meant that moving at a man’s normal pace gave Mizuhiko a phenomenal amount of time to react. He charged at his opponent, feinting to the left, and as Ginawa moved to intercept him, he pushed off his left foot, hopping into the air; he dived and rolled to the right. Tumbling back to his feet, he saw Ginawa already turn to face him and was impressed by the old man’s speed. He whirled around, knowing his opponent’s response – Junjin’s Third Step, the second movement in a prominent kata designed to press an off-balance opponent.

Mizuhiko was too quick, however, and he spun a half step around the opposite direction, swinging his sword tightly with his left hand, steadying it with his right. Ginawa began the Third Step, as expected, but shifted his stance and moved left as well, and Mizuhiko knew – too late – that they had both made a grave mistake. Ginawa stepped directly into the path of Mizuhiko’s blade; worse, the old man stumbled as his foot touched down, and he pressed forward into the weight of Mizuhiko’s strike. Mizuhiko’s cut was perfectly planned and executed, but he could not pull away in time.

The sword scraped beneath Ginawa’s collarbone. The older man turned his head and fell, and Mizuhiko could do nothing as his weight came down on Mizuhiko’s blade. It slid with the falling man and sliced his his chest, his collarbone, his neck. Mizuhiko first pulled back, then simply dropped the sword. Ginawa fell to his knees, holding his neck. Mizuhiko knelt next to the old man, immediately praying to the kami, but Ginawa reached his free hand over and took Mizuhiko’s hand.

“I abdicate the duel, my opponent has won,” the old samurai forced out, his voice barely more than a whisper. He looked at the officiate with steely eyes. “Let the Isawa take no blame, the fault is mine.”

Ginawa’s shoulders slumped and Mizuhiko slid him to the ground. Ginawa pressed Mizuhiko’s hand to his neck, then took his bloody hand away and used it to pull the shugenja close.

“Your technique… unexpected,” he whispered. His eyes again grew cloudy, and he raised his bloody hand in the air and examined it. “A small mistake… with an ordinary blade…”

The kami wrapped around Ginawa’s body, but, in his heart, Mizuhiko knew he could do no more than ease the old man’s pain. Staunching the blood would not undo the shock to his system or heal the disease festering within him. He could only ask why.

Painfully, the old man smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered. His eyes clouded over, his body stiffened, and he was gone.

Four days later…

Hegai the Monk may have been an unknown advisor to a dead Shogun, but Akodo Ginawa’s name loomed large in the Ikoma Histories. News of his death travelled quickly, and dignitaries from throughout the lands of the Lion, ambassadors to the clan, and neighboring nobles all made a point of travelling to the hero’s funeral. Despite the risk, the body was not immediately burnt; instead, Kitsu priests said purifying rituals over it and protected it until the spirit within was fully ready to travel to the next realm. That, combined with the cursory investigation into the circumstances of the former Akodo daimyo’s death led to a delay in both the funeral and Isawa Morihiko’s departure.

Shiba Morihiko was not happy that he or his charge had stayed for the final ritual. Mizuhiko did not speak for two days, and spent the next two in almost perfect seclusion. He was forced to spend his time listening to Matsu Sasake tell him stories of each of his hundred ancestors, and while many of them were quite exciting examples of the strength of bushido, none of them seemed particularly relevant to Morihiko. More importantly, despite Ginawa’s insistence of Mizuhiko’s innocence, Morihiko suspected that some of the Lion might be unhappy about the circumstances of Ginawa’s death. The Lion did have a reputation for compounding slights. Oddly enough, if that were the case, none of the many bushi made any show of their anger – in fact, they were much more interested in celebrating Ginawa’s death in a honorable duel than avenging the death.

“Will you do as he wished, Mizuhiko?” whispered Morihiko, “Will you abandon the blade?”

“No,” Mizuhiko said, his eyes not wavering from Ginawa’s unlit pyre. “Not exactly. I am more convinced than ever that abandoning the blade would doom the Empire, but now I realize that is because it must be destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” Morihiko said aloud, before continuing in a self-conscious whisper, “Ambition has proven the blades difficult to destroy. If the sword is really at the height of its power, how could we hope to destroy it completely?”

Shiba Morihiko had no reply. The fallen Lion’s body, wrapped in white linen, was carried to the pyre by hinin servants, and the Kitsu priests took positions around it.

Finally, Mizuhiko spoke again. “I have an idea, one given to me by a Dark Oracle, of all things. We will break it down, destroy it with molten earth. However, unlike Nokatsu, we must be sure that the burning mountain will not erupt and destroy the northern reaches of the Empire. Tomorrow we will journey far to the north, outside the bounds of the Empire, where any reaction would not endanger the clans.”

Morihiko nodded firmly and turned his full attention to the funeral. The two Kitsu flanking the hero’s body began their prayers, and a torch was raised beneath the pyre.

“At the end of our days, we all burn in the fires of this world,” Morihiko whispered.

Mizuhiko joined his voice with his yojimbo’s. “But in those fires, the Empire is reborn.”

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State of the Clans, Part 5

By Nancy Sauer

Edited by Fred Wan

Kyuden Isawa, Month of the Boar, 1196 IC

The gardens at Kyuden Isawa were nowhere as near as glorious as the famed gardens of Kyuden Doji, and yet even in winter they had a serene beauty that could not be denied. Isawa Shijiko strolled about, wondering how much of her preference for the Isawa gardens was based on their real virtues and how much of it was simple bias for home. Either reason was acceptable, but as a courtier she thought it important to know the difference.

         “Ah, Shijiko-san, how pleasant to see you again.” Shijiko fixed a pleasant look on her face and turned to face the speaker. Isawa Kojiro was a cousin, an inconvenient fact that made him immune to most of the things Shijiko generally inflicted on fools who offended her. 

         “Thank you, Kojiro-san,” she said. “It is a pleasure to be here at Kyuden Isawa again. I have missed the gardens: they are so beautiful.”

         Kojiro nodded.  “It has been a few years since you have seen them, is it not? A long time to be away from home, but no one could you begrudge you it. It must be terribly painful to be in a place that reminded you so much of your lack.”

         “I am sorry,” Shijiko said coolly, “but I am not aware of anything I lack.”

         “I would suppose not,” Kojiro said. He had a slightly pitying look on his face. “Having never been able to hear the kami, you are ignorant of what power is.”

         “I have served the Phoenix in courts all over the Empire,” Shijiko said. “I think I understand power quite well.”

         “Temporal power, of course,” Kojiro said. “But power over mortals pales in comparison to being able to influence the spiritual realms.”

         “Please excuse me, Kojiro-san,” Shijiko said. “I would love to hear more of your views on this, but I am afraid it is time for my daily devotions. I hope you will forgive me.”

         “Of course,” Kojiro said, bowing. “Carry the Fortunes.”

         Shijiko escaped after bowing and murmuring something polite in return. She hurried deeper into the garden, throwing herself down in front of the first shrine she found. Kojiro wasn’t the only one in her family to hold such opinions, he was just he most blatant in expressing them. It infuriated her. She understood quite well the power a talented shugenja could wield, but she had been in court long enough to understand also there were other powers in the world. To start wars or end them, to ruin a district’s prosperity through taxes or improve it by building a road, all these things and more could be done by influencing the men and women who ran the Empire. The only way to show them would be to inflict on them some harm, and that would be an unthinkable lapse of duty. 

         Taking a moment to settle her thoughts, Shijiko looked up at the shrine, feeling she had to give some reverence to whatever Fortune was giving her refuge. Toku, Fortune of Virtue stared down at her, a cheerful smile carved on his face and a large book clutched under one arm. Shijiko stared at him for a long moment and then she slowly smiled back.

* * * * *

         Doji Shunya put down the tea cup and smiled at his hostess and his fellow guest. “Pearl Dew is said to be one of the finest of teas,” he said. “But in the presence of two women of such grace and beauty, who could remember what it tasted like?”

         Shijiko laughed slightly, waving her fan at him. Doji Dainagon, seated at the third point of their triangle, made an elaborate show of hiding her face behind one of her sleeves. Shunya noted their reactions, pleased that he had judged the temperament of the two women correctly.  Isawa Shijiko wasn’t on his current list of targets, and Dainagon was too low-status to be useful to him, so he had chosen to play the jester and poke fun at the courtly conventions of romance. 

         “I could spend no small time praising your grace and beauty, Doji-san,” Shijiko said, pouring Shunya more tea. “But alas, I feel the press of time and must move on to my business.”

         Shunya glanced over to Dainagon and saw she seemed quite curious as to why Shijiko had invited the two of them to a private tea. Either she was truly as in the dark as Shunya himself was, or she was one of the better actresses he had met. If the latter, he thought, he would have to revise his opinion on her utility. “I am eager to know how I could be of aid to a lady of great quality,” he said.

         “A lady of great quality indeed,” Shijiko said, “but not me. I speak of the Empress.”

         “I had not heard you had been granted an Imperial appointment, Isawa-sama,” Dainagon said. “Allow me to offer my congratulations.”

         “I do not speak in such a capacity,” Shijiko said. “I speak of the aid that all loyal samurai owe their Empress, to understand her will and to work always to see that it be done.”

         “You words reflect honor on you, as much as if you had been honored by the Throne,” Shunya said.  “What did you have in mind?”

         “You know that when the Empress permitted Daigotsu to petition her mercy she did not flinch from the danger that his clan could bring to the Empire. She knew that it was honor that had maintained the Empire for all the centuries of its existence, and that honor would continue to protect it, Spider Clan or no Spider Clan.” Shunya and Dainagon both nodded at this, and Shijiko continued. “Of course, there will always be weak or confused samurai in the Empire, and left unguided they create a flaw that evil hearts could exploit. I propose, then, that a samurai of unquestioned honor be elevated to the status of a Fortune, to serve as a reminder to all of what honorable behavior is.”

         “Your plan has great merit,” Shunya said, picking up his tea cup. “The history of the Empire is rich in souls worthy of this honor, though. How to choose whom to nominate?”

         “I believe someone more recent would be most effective,” Shijiko said. “And the Imperial Histories are clear on this point: no one who knew him would doubt that Doji Kurohito was a wholly honorable man.”

         Shunya couldn’t help himself: he froze with the cup raised halfway to his mouth. Glancing over at Dainagon he saw she was equally stunned. “A remarkable suggestion,” he said finally, turning his attention back to his hostess. “One that the Crane Clan will support, though I fear that other clans may not agree. The Crab, in particular, may dissent.”

         “The Crab,” Shijiko said, and made a dismissive motion. “They are rightly admired for their determination in guarding the Walls, but no one consults them on bushido. There will be no shortage of Lion samurai to testify that Kurohito’s deeds were those of an honorable man.”

         “That is true,” Dainagon said thoughtfully. “Mere border squabbles would not stop them; a Lion will always tell the truth about an honorable samurai, even if they are a bitter enemy. Better still, Matsu Kasei has told stories of Doji Kurohito at several of the Empress’s Winter Courts. The support of the Turquoise Champion will be most helpful in this.”

         “I have already secured the support of my clan’s courtiers,” Shijiko said. “The Scorpion will not oppose us: that would be too obvious. With the Lion, the Crane and the Phoenix together we will have a significant bloc of influence. But having the support of one of the Imperial Families would be of great worth.” She looked at Shunya.

         “Indeed, and I think I know of someone,” Shunya said. He noted to himself that Shijiko had taken his and Dainagon’s cooperation for granted, but given the nature of her project that was understandable. “Dealing with the Otomo is always a delicate business, though. We must plan our approach carefully.”

         Shijiko smiled. “The exercise of power always calls for delicacy,” she said.

* * * * *

Kyuden Otomo, Month of the Horse 1197

“Your gardens are lovely, Kinmochi-sama.” Shunya swept out a fan to indicate a bank where wild roses bloomed in carefully manicured disorder. “I have rarely seen their equal.”

         “Thank you, Shunya-san,” Otomo Kinmochi said. “They were designed by my wife, you know.”

         Kinmochi’s wife was Shunya’s father’s cousin; he took the mention of her to mean that Kinmochi was inclined to be helpful to a member of her former family. “Please pass on to her my regard of her handiwork. She is surely a jewel of your household.”

         “I certainly will.  I–” Kinmochi’s next words were cut off by the sight of a young woman in a horrifically mismatched set of kimono and obi parading at the far end of the garden. A look of pain flashed across his face and he directed the two of them down a path in a different direction.

         “That was your daughter, was it not?” Shunya said. “Your eldest?” Normally the polite thing to do would be to ignore her, but inspiration had seized him. 

         “Yes,” Kinmochi said. “She is headstrong and willful, and considers herself a visionary. My poor wife is at her wit’s end.”

         “A pity that my friend Dainagon isn’t here,” Shunya said. 

         “The fashion plate? Yes, I am sure she would find my daughter a source of endless amusement.”

         “A kindred soul, rather,” Shunya said. “I have heard Dainagon say that inside every unfortunate ensemble is a brilliant one needing a little guidance.”

         “Really,” Kinmochi said. He looked thoughtful. The two men had strolled some distance before Kinmochi spoke again. “Since we speak of guidance, perhaps you would be willing to offer me some. You were at the past Winter Court at Kyuden Isawa, were you not?”

         “I was,” Shunya said. “How may I aid you?”

         “Did you make the acquaintance of a courtier named Isawa Shijiko?”

         “Indeed, we had tea several times. A charming woman with an amazing collection of landscape paintings involving fishing.”

         “Remarkable, I am sure,” Kinmochi said. “She has sent me a letter, appealing for my help in her effort to raise a hero of the Empire to the status of Fortune. She says that with the Spider allowed to roam about the Empire there is a danger of incorrect philosophies being loosed upon us.”

         “Your influence in the Imperial Court is well known to those who are truly paying attention. This confirms my impression that she is a courtier of great skill,” Shunya said.

         “My impressions are more mixed,” Kinmochi said. “The samurai she wishes to elevate is Doji Kurohito.”

         “She holds my Champion’s grandfather in such esteem!” Shunya said. “I am greatly moved. Surely the Crane have never had a better ally than the Phoenix Clan.”

         “I am greatly confused. Doji Kurohito showed his perfect devotion to bushido by chopping up Isawa’s daughter in the middle of the imperial throne room,” Kinmochi said. “Do you not find it odd that an Isawa would want to call attention to him?”

         Shunya paused a moment, as if in thought. “Perhaps it should be taken as a measure of Shijiko’s sincerity. The Phoenix have always prided themselves on being the Empire’s experts in spiritual matters. If she thought that the threat were real, she would not hesitate to pursue the most effective means of protecting the Empire from it. No Isawa would.”

         “Hmm,” was Kinmochi’s reply. “You could be right. The Empire has been unsettled since that unfortunate incident in the Scorpion lands. The Spider openly flaunt their worship of Daigotsu–reasonable enough for them; a grave dishonor for anyone else. Even the Brotherhood seems up in an uproar over this Fudo business. Perhaps an example of pure devotion to our ancestors’ ways is called for.” He fell silent for a moment, then continued. “But that still leaves the practical issues concerning such an elevation. For the Empress to write out the declaration is simple, but there are many ceremonies to go with it. Offerings, incense, priests, attendants, festivals–to do such a thing properly takes a great deal of koku. The Empire has made much progress since the Destroyer War, but there will be those who question the drain on the Imperial Treasury.”

         “It need not touch the Imperial Treasury,” Shunya said. “The Crane Clan would be happy to bear all expenses, as part of our duty to honor Kurohito.”

         “A most gracious offer,” Kinmochi said. “I am sure it will impress the Seppun.”

* * * * *

         “Success on two fronts,” Shunya said. “I have secured a connection to Otomo Kinmochi for you.”

         “Oh?” Dainagon looked up from the paper she was reading. Dressed in one of her finest kimono sets and surrounded by multiple stacks of written documents, Shunya thought she looked like a shrine to the Fortune of Logistics. “How so?”

         “His eldest daughter suffers from poor taste. I passed along the thought that you might be of some help.”

         “Ah, a challenge,” Dainagon said. “I owe you greatly–Kinmochi has been invited to the Empress’s Winter Court for the last five years. But you said two fronts?”

         “As hoped, he brought up Shijiko’s plan. Reading him is always difficult–his bluster is almost always a front–but I have reasonable hope that I have convinced him that Shijiko’s effort is genuine, and motivated by pure love for the Empire.”

         “As for that…” Dainagon’s voice trailed off as she tilted her head in thought. “Be that as it may. If you have won over Kinmochi then we will have the Imperials backing Shijiko’s petition. We have won.”

         “Not yet,” Shunya said. “We have not yet received a response from Doji Makato.”

         Dainagon stared openly at Shunya. “How could this ever be a problem? What samurai would not want to have a grandparent honored in such a way?”

         “I am sure Makato would love to see Kurohito elevated to a Fortune. But Kinmochi wants the Crane Clan to bear the expenses, and he made it clear that the Seppun will not support it otherwise–Seppun Washi’s word carries too much weight.”

         “You think Makato will refuse support because of the cost?” Dainagon’s tone was one of disbelief.

         “Of course not,” Shunya said. “But he has only recently become Champion, and he is said to be brilliant in the courts. Trouble with the Mantis grows steadily nearer. Makato may decide it is in the clan’s best interest to negotiate for a better offer.”

         “It doesn’t matter,” Dainagon said.

         “It matters greatly,” Shunya said. “Seppun Washi has little patience with such things.”

         “It doesn’t matter,” Dainagon repeated. She lifted a document off of a stack. “I have already calculated how much koku the necessary ceremonies will take. If we both liquidate all of our holdings, including our personal estates, the two of us together can cover it.”

         “That will beggar us!” Shunya said.

         Dainagon shrugged. “To aid in the elevation of a Fortune creates karma that will follow us though several lifetimes.  nd if we are as clever as we think we are, our poverty will be short-lived.”

         Shunya carefully placed both hands on the floor and favored Dainagon with a full, formal obeisance.  “You are right,” he said.  “We have won.”

* * * * *

Kyuden Isawa, Month of the Dog, 1197

“The decree has been published and now all the Empire is learning of the new Fortune of Perfection,” Dainagon said. “You have your success.”

         “Allow me to congratulate you on your own success,” Shijiko said. “I understand that you will be accompanying Otomo Kinmochi’s family to Winter Court this year.”

         “Indeed,” Dainagon said.  “I…” her voice trailed off as she looked ahead on the garden path the two were walking. Following her gaze Shijiko saw Isawa Kojiro walking towards them. “Excuse me,” Shijiko said, and walked forward to meet him.

         “Hello, Kojiro-san,” she said pleasantly.

         “You,” Kojiro hissed. “That man! What did you think you were doing?”

         “I was using my power to influence the spiritual realm,” Shijiko said. She took a moment to enjoy Kojiro’s reaction and then she spoke again in a low tone that only he could hear. “Clean your face, Kojiro-kun, we have company present.” Her fan flicked over to indicate Dainagon. Kojiro bit back his next words and instead whirled around and stalked back up the path. 

         “We were discussing Winter Court, were we not?” Shijiko said as she rejoined Dainagon.

         “We were,” Dainagon said.  “I am looking forward to the ceremonies of elevation–Makoto-sama has ordered no expense to be spared, though of course all things will be done with the restraint of good taste.”

         “As one always expects of the Crane,” Shijiko said approvingly.

         “There is one detail still be to be settled, however.”  Dainagon drew a letter out of her obi. “I have written Makato-sama with the suggestion that he ask for a shugenja from your close kin be assigned to the temple for Doji Kurohito, as a sign of the Crane Clan’s gratitude to you and the Phoenix.” She passed the letter to Shijiko. “You have but to send him the name and he will personally ask the Isawa Masters for this.”

         Shijiko smiled. “I know just the shugenja,” she said.   

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The State of the Clans, Part 4

By Robert Denton

Edited by Fred Wan

            Outside, the daylight died beneath the thunder of taiko drums. Shinjo Min-Hee allowed the shrine to fall into darkness for several long moments. She didn’t stir from her quiet seiza, not even to light the closest of the temple candles. Let darkness shroud this place, she thought. To her mind, it was so fitting.

            At last, before the darkness could descend into pitch, she lit one candle, her motions deliberate and ceremonial. She felt the warmth of the light on her face in an instant; it was a face that was youthful for a woman of her age, and even more for one of her station and duty. But her expression was far older than she, eyes too cold for the candle-light to dance within them, and a mouth plain and straight, as if she hadn’t even the will to frown.

            She placed the candle before her. The aura of light revealed an untouched daisho. Min-Hee looked up. The mempo of her father’s armor stared down at her, ghost white and seemingly floating in the dark. The rest of his armor, painted in rich purple hues, was not visible. His armor was empty. It had been so for twenty-eight years.

            She stared at her father’s porcelain mempo. It stared back with empty spaces for eyes. Emotionless. Empty yawning spaces. As she stared, she could almost see the glint of the firelight within, the rich green of jade. But the pale grimace was an empty shell, as empty and cold as his armor, as the hollow cave of her own heart. This is his face now, she thought. She’d stared at it so long these twenty-eight years, that she couldn’t even remember how he’d used to look.

            Min-Hee laid her forehead against the cold temple floor. She completed the prostrations beneath the gaze of her father’s armor. Beyond the shade, the ever-quiet masks of the Lords of Death watched on.

            As did Ide Takeru from just beyond the entrance of the room. In the gloom of just-after-dusk, it could have been an endless plane of black beyond her. Only his Lady’s form, sheathed in the candle-light, was visible. That, and the pale face of the mempo staring down. Takeru waited patiently. He knew better than to interrupt his Khan while she was within her father’s shrine.

            At last, she rose. The midnight purple cloth of her layered kimono drew back as she stood, dragging along the floor like pulled shadows. The white of her hem and obi were as lanterns in the gloom as she bowed once more to the empty armor, and again to the Fortunes of Death. She did not pause at the doorway for her Ide hatamoto; her walk was a warrior’s stride, fit for the Khan. As all others were required, Takeru met her pace, not the other way around.

            “Naleesh sent you,” she remarked as they walked. She did not turn her head to address him, casting the words over her shoulder. Takeru lowered his head in proper reverence. He had not far to go, for she was taller. The uninitiated would have taken her use of the Champion’s familiar name to be a slight, but Takeru knew better. It was his job, after all, to know the natures of his two Ladies, the women he served who ruled his clan. Naleesh and the Khan were childhood friends; they referred to one-another in the most casual sense.

            “Hai,” he affirmed. “My Lady departs for Shiro Mirumoto in two days. Before I left, she expressed some hope that you would join her this time.”

            Min-Hee paused at the entrance to the Temple. Outside, the night sky brimmed with stars.

            “Offer her my apologies,” she replied softly. “There have been further complications afforded to the caravans. My attention is required.”

            Takeru knew of what she spoke. The Unicorn had the honor of regulating the caravans that traveled the route through the wastes to the colonies. Caravans that, as of late, had come under scattered attacks by mysterious raiders. But although the attacks were increasing in frequency, they were rarely successful. It hardly called for the attention of the Khan. Takeru knew that it was just another excuse to avoid the lands of the Dragon. The Khan had no desire to go there, no desire to again meet with the Laughing Dragon, the betrothed of her best friend.

            To put it simply, Min-Hee did not trust him. Where others looked upon the open romance between Naleesh and Shikei and shared their joy and happiness, Min-Hee felt only disapproval. He was was careless with power, one who reveled in scandal, one who dared to stand in the presence of the Reincarnation of Shinjo with an upheld head. He had dared, many times, to suggest that she leave her people for his, and while the Khan wanted his head for the audacity, Naleesh had only laughed. Min-Hee hated him from the moment she laid eyes upon him, knew immediately that he was not genuine. He sought to take the Soul of Shinjo away from her people. He had seduced her best friend, and she was powerless to make her see it.

            Takeru knew this as well. It was his job after all. He was advisor to them both, had watched them grow together as a youth, and had served them both into adulthood. He knew them better than they knew themselves. This was his duty. Even as a child he had known it would be.

            He watched as they grew to be two different people. Naleesh was so open and bright, a beacon for her people, a leader to their recovery, and a symbol of their ancestor’s blessings. Min-Hee was quiet, dark, methodical, logical, and unemotional. To the Khan, all things were as war, even matters of peace. Because Takeru knew Naleesh so well, she always confided much in him. Because he knew Min-Hee so well, the Khan always told him nothing.

            That was why Takeru knew that Min-Hee disapproved of the betrothal. Nothing needed to be said; he knew well the meaning of her silence, of her avoidance and excuses. It was mokusatsu. Her quiet was condemnation. It was not her place to speak it, and so her silence would serve as her protest.

            As champion, it was within Naleesh’s power to call off the wedding. The Khan had urged for this at least twice before. To her, it was obvious that nothing good could come of the arrangement, but Naleesh was equally willful, refusing to acknowledge this, even as a decade passed without resolution. It was a source of contention between them. It strained their friendship. Naleesh did not understand why her best friend condemned her happiness, and Min-Hee did not understand why her Champion clung to the hope that came with love. Indeed, she wasn’t capable of understanding. It wasn’t logical.

            But then, Min-Hee did not trust the Dragon Clan either. They were the stewards of the Spider, after all, and she knew from her mother’s tales that such connections to the darkness were always damning. How long before the Dragon would be influenced by the darkness they claimed to supervise? Perhaps they already were…

            Min-Hee turned at last, regarding the Ide without expression. “There is something else?” she asked. Takeru maintained his quiet stare for a moment longer.

            “My Lady was also hoping for your testimony,” he finally said, “regarding the death of the Lion Champion.”

            The silence, then, was long. He maintained his polite bow, knowing that his words had so politely conveyed his Champion’s disapproval. There had been almost three decades of peace between the Lion and Unicorn, but the duel between the Khan and the son of her father’s killer placed that peace at risk. He knew that Naleesh wanted to know why Min-Hee had felt it worthwhile to risk the fragile peace for such a personal thing. The irony of the question, from the lips of a Champion who used her influence to prolong a decades-long engagement with another Champion whom she loved, would not have occurred to her.

            Finally, Min-Hee replied, “I will prepare a document containing my testimony by morning.” No emotion. Never any emotion.

            Takeru nodded, rising. “Shall I accompany you tomorrow, Shinjo-sama? I have the leave of our Lady should you require me. The heralds can deliver your message.”

            “No,” the Khan declined. “Return to Naleesh in the morning. Explain that I will return once I have seen for myself the mettle of the desert raiders.” She paused for a moment, considering something. “And send my husband my regards. If you have time.”

            Takeru frowned. “It has been nearly a month, Shinjo-sama. Your estate is not far, you could reach it tonight and tell him yourself. He would be glad to see you.”

            The Khan’s brow furrowed, as if she didn’t understand why he would. “Are my words not enough?” she asked.

            Takeru sighed as she turned away to prepare her entourage. “I suppose they will have to be,” he muttered.

* * * * *

            The sounds of the student’s duel shattered the serenity of the Nightingale Dojo. The secluded vale resounded with the noise of sparring; the clatter of wooden bokken, conflicting kiai-shouts, the shuffle of footwork. One could know when the students were sparring from the noise it generated. The duels of masters were always silent.

            Fusami watched her students in the courtyard from her elevated seat. Cross-armed in the lotus position, her head cocked slightly in quiet observation, she had accomplished the look of a seasoned Sensei well. Seated below her, a row of her students watched in disciplined seiza.

            Her sparring students, the only two males in her class, fought in the distinctive black gi of the Nightingale Dojo. They were a thunderous tangle of black shapes before the pale white of the zen gardens, a ripple in an ocean of serenity.

            The duel ended suddenly. Shocked gasps arose from the on-looking students; the younger combatant had tumbled back from the renewed ferocity of his opponent, and in desperation, threw the shorter of his two bokken. The wooden weapon struck the older assailant in the gut, his shock plain in the midst of his combat-mind. Anger shone in his eyes even as his breath left him.

            “That is enough,” Fusami said. The younger student, baring a slight smile, stood and bowed to his Sensei, not bothering to recover his flung bokken. He ignored the bent form of his opponent, who gasped for breath. He straightened his back and walked to rejoin the line of students, his posture claiming victory as surely as verbal boasting.

            A strength of the Nightingale Technique was its explosive unpredictability. A master of the technique leapt and ducked in and out of their opponent’s reach, seeming serene and orderly in one moment and a chaotic frenzy in the next. At its heart was the timed release of the swordsman’s energy, ducking into the guard after the opponent had committed and unleashing the ki. Such was also the nature of the Nightingale lessons; the recovered serenity of the courtyard shattered once more as the defeated student threw his bokken to the ground.

            The students froze like startled cats. Mirumoto Gobashi, the elder by only one year and one of Fusami’s best students, pointed an accusing finger at his former opponent. “You cheated!” he challenged, and as one all eyes turned to the other, who simply glanced behind his shoulder with crossed arms.

            “Did I?” he answered, his smirk bestowing the words with a mocking tone.

            Gobashi sneered and spun to face Fusami. “Sensei!” he said, as if asking for some small justice.

            Fusami’s face was as it was when the sparring began: impassive and analytical, the face of a seasoned Sensei. Her voice matched her expression as she spoke. “You were struck first, Gobashi-san.” It was as simple as that.

            Murmurs exchanged between the others. The victorious young man smiled brightly. His trickery would go unpunished. Gobashi was aghast. He took a challenging step forward, glaring at his Sensei, forgetting, in the heat of the moment, how much he admired her. “So if I had thrown my bokken at the very start of the duel and struck my opponent, you would have allowed it!?” he demanded.

            “No,” Fusami answered sharply. “For you, it would have been cheating.”

            Disarmed, Gobashi’s jaw went slack, and he stared dumbly at his Sensei.

            Fusami rose, displeasure in her gait. “We are done sparring for today,” she said to her students. “Clean the dojo, then practice your kata.”

            She left her students outside without acknowledging their obedient replies.

            In the gardens of the Nightingale Dojo, five monks sat. Four were meditating, their eyes closed, breathing low, hands cupped in the laps of their lotus-seats. The fifth tended to a miniature bonsai tree, clipping with great leisure and softness, his face a genuine display of peace and contentment. Fusami watched them. She was always watching them.

            “You missed lunch,” a familiar voice spoke from behind her. Fusami didn’t turn; the elderly monk, adorned in simple green and yellow kesa robes, approached and stood by her side. His arms rippled with muscle despite his age, but the ink of his swirling tattoos were faded and greying.

            The two stood in silence for some time. At last, the monk spoke. “It seems I am to remain for another month.”

            Fusami nodded softly. “Is that so?” she said. The why did not concern her. This man was no longer her charge… her duty was of a different nature now… but when they were younger she had come to know Togashi Ieshige well enough not to question his actions.

            Ieshige drew in a crisp breath and released it as a contented sigh. His face was weathered and old, the cracks of his flesh whispering hints of past torment. But his smile was firmly in the present; in the lands of the Dragon he had come to find some measure of peace.

            He settled his gaze on those meditating in the gardens. “I am looking forward to staying,” he admitted. “It is quite beautiful here. Even more, I am looking forward to four weeks of students flinging their swords at one another.”

            Fusami did not so much as glance in his direction. As always, she did not bother to humor him with so much as a ripple upon her features. “You disapprove of how I teach my students,” she said calmly.

            “You should learn to tolerate a joke,” he replied. He turned his head to gauge her reaction, and when she offered none, shrugged slightly at regarded the meditating monks once more. “Then again,” he added, “you are made to tolerate much, aren’t you?”

            The monks in the gardens smiled as they meditated. Fusami watched a white butterfly land on the knee of the tallest. He did not move, remaining perfectly still, not seeming to notice. The monk cutting the bonsai glanced at the fluttering insect and his smile broadened. They were so content, here. So peaceful. One would never suspect that they all once served the Spider Clan.

            “I do not begrudge them,” she replied softly. “Do you?”

            “Who would I be to do that?” Ieshige replied. He regarded her once more as she watched them, noting that the gray of age had tinted her hair to the hue of rust, that her youthful features now bore the marks of crow’s feet, and that her skin had darkened to the hue of oak. The gray of age had even touched her eyes. She was more beautiful to him now than she’d ever been before.

            “How many years are there left, Ieshige-san?” Her question was sudden, yet it was permeated with accompanying softness. “Perhaps two? One? If even that many.”

            “That is a strange question coming from you,” the monk replied. “How long have you dwelled upon your own mortality?”

            The grey sky. Crowed streets. Uncertain whispers. The drone of the ancient bronze gong. Fluttering banners of the Great Clans dipped low, as if bowing to the banner of the Shogun. Her white obi tight against her belly. The smell of smoke. Black plumes rising from the Imperial Shrine. They mar the sky.

            “That is not the source of my questioning,” Fusami whispered, her voice heavy with the memory. “I simply ask how many years of service I have left to offer the Dragon.”

            Ieshige nodded sagely. “I see. You expected that Narumi-sama would have returned by now.”

            Fusami said nothing.

            After the long silence, the monk nodded again. “So you are considering Shikei’s offer, then?”

            A breeze tussled the plants of the garden. The butterfly took to the air as its perch stirred. The monks opened their eyes and glanced at one another. They smiled. One snipped a branch from the bonsai tree. They seemed so impossibly content here, so accepting. With their minds they made this world, their world: a world of balance, of serenity. They were happy. Nothing could trouble the peace in their souls…

            “Perhaps,” she replied.

            “Good,” Ieshige said. “Our lord would be insulted if you did not at least consider his offer. There would be ample time for you to make arrangements if you accepted.” After a pause, the man grinned. “And if I were you, I’d perhaps ask for a little more. Now is the time to ask, after all. What with true love in his heart and his mind in the clouds.”

            Fusami cast him a weary glare. Ieshige met it with that grin. After long moments, she turned away, beginning a slow walk to the interior of the dojo. Ieshige sighed inwardly. The years had not changed her lack of humor, it seemed…

            “Perhaps I will,” she said suddenly, halting in her steps. She turned, regarding Ieshige with a peculiar glint he had not seen in her before. “I could ask to join our champion’s personal retinue. It is just what he needs… a doting and watchful old woman to ensure that he behaves himself.”

            Ieshige’s confused expression slowly melted into a soft, hopeful smile. “That was a joke,” he said.

            Fusami smiled.

            “That was a joke!” he repeated, grinning. “At last! You told a joke! It only took you twenty-eight years, and it was clumsy, but at least it is something!”

            The woman’s smile broadened. “Perhaps if I am fortunate, he will bring me as his chaperone to a Winter Court.” Ieshige laughed, and the monks in the gardens looked up towards what had broken their serenity. They saw that the Nightingale Sensei was smiling, and they exchanged surprised glances.

            “If I am especially lucky,” she remarked, “perhaps they will hold the Winter Court at Shiro Moto again this year.”

            Ieshige’s laughter abruptly stopped. Fusami’s smile sweetened, in that instant a flash of her youth, before turning satisfactorily back towards the dojo and vanishing within the ribbons of shadow beyond the doorway.

            “That’s not funny,” said Ieshige.

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State of the Clans, Part 3

By Shawn Carman

Edited by Fred Wan

It was late in the evening, and theImperialPalacewas uncharacteristically quiet. Those who frequented its vast hallways and corridors during the day typically found its darkness and silence very unsettling. The legions of servants who maintained the palace and its environment moved around like shadows in the night, cleaning every surface and ensuring that everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. It was like an art form into itself, for the rare few who ever witnessed it. Takuan was one of those, and he enjoyed the serenity of the palace at night. There had been few times during his life when he could have truly enjoyed relative peace and quiet. When he had been a child, there was so much clamor over whether he would be married away to some important delegate in the Crane. As the second son of the Otomo daimyo, he was considered quite a valuable candidate, if not particularly glamorous. When he had chosen his name at his gempukku, to honor one of the lesser-known brothers-in-arms of his grandfather, there had likewise been a clamor. Takuan had always been a student of history and drama, and there had been much speculation regarding his selection of a name. The choice to honor a ronin, even a ronin as glorious as the first Takuan, had been something of a scandal, and the young man had discovered he had a taste for scandal. It alleviated the tedium. This trait would come to define his life in general, and for that he had no regrets.

As he walked through the hall, Takuan saw an elderly servant, a face that had been familiar to him since his days as a child. “Good evening to you, Aikime,” he said to the old woman busily scrubbing away at the floor.”

“Good evening, Otomo-sama,” the old woman said, but the very last syllable caught in her throat like a blade. “Oh!” she said, clapping both hands to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. She threw herself onto the floor. “I did not mean disrespect, my lord!” she sobbed. “Forgive a confused old woman!”

Takuan chuckled. “Be at ease, little grandmother,” he said reassuringly. “You knew me by that name for a great many years. I take no offense.” He withdrew a silver coin from his belt. “For your grandchildren. For the festival.”

The old woman’s eyes swam. “Thank you, my lord,” she rasped, as she resumed vigorously scrubbing while avoiding all eye contact. Takuan chuckled again as he continued down the hallway. The lower castes were so flighty, always on the edge of panic. How they could ever hope to advance in the kharmic cycle was beyond him.

The chamber that was Takuan’s destination had a lone sentry posted. It was customary for a sentry to remain in position in the late evening hours if a personage of importance remained at work, although he sometimes wondered if that policy had been instituted simply to oversee this sort of situation. He smiled and bowed his head in greeting, and if he was perhaps a bit too dramatic with the flourishing of his robes, if he was more inclined to display the colors of his heraldry a bit more than necessary, well then that was certainly a small pleasure he could afford himself. The sentry, a Seppun, visibly bristled but bowed sharply as custom required. This time Takuan kept his amusement to himself.

As he entered the chamber and the door closed behind him, he was struck for a moment with the beauty of the woman within. She was physically attractive, of that there could be no question, and her choice of attire was always conservative yet flattering. However, to Takuan, the real beauty was in her eyes. There was there a fierce brilliance, a burning that bespoke an unparalleled intellect and cunning, and it never failed to inspire in him feelings of intense affection and admiration. “Hello, my blasphemous wife.”

She looked up, and once again he was struck by the intensity of her gaze. She smiled, enjoying their private joke. “Hello, my traitorous husband.” When they were alone together, they playfully spoke of one another in the terms that others wished to use but were to afraid to do so. “Is it so late already?”

“Indeed,” he said, admiring her raven tresses and the carefully maintained streak of white that cascaded along her right temple. It was her lone acknowledgement of her mother’s clan, something she rarely spoke of unless it was to seek advantage in the courts. “I thought perhaps I might escort you to a late dinner at Hwan’s this evening. I understand tonight they are serving duck and dumplings.”

“Oh my, that sounds delightful,” she answered, rolling up the scroll on which she was working. She stood, allowing her richly textured black and grey robe to unfold from where she had been sitting. “I really am quite hungry,” Susumu Kuroko said with a smile.

Susumu Takuan returned his wife’s smile. “How has the business of administration gone today?”

“Quite well, actually,” Kuroko replied. “The administration of an entire family is, I am certain, an enormous task. However, when your family numbers a mere twenty-eight members, it is quite a bit simpler.”

“Twenty-eight?” Takuan asked. “Bariko had her baby, then, and… what? Was there an oath of fealty?”

“No,” Kuroko replied with a coy smile. “Bariko had twins.”

“Wonderful!” Takuan laughed. “With such strong, talented parents, I am certain they will be tremendous assets to the family when they come of age.”

“Not to mention that every child born is an opportunity to grow the family’s ranks through an eventual marriage,” Kuroko answered. “Although admittedly few among the higher echelons wish their children to marry a Spider.”

“There will always be those who allow ambition and a desire for advancement to overcome such meager concerns,” Takuan said comfortingly “What news from our friends the monks?”

“Seventeen monasteries are presently at full strength, and plans for two more are being drawn as we speak,” she said. “One in the Unicorn lands.”

“Outstanding. Any holdings inside clan borders are a tremendous boon for us.”

“Very much so,” Kuroko agreed. “We have made great progress in certain quarters with diplomatic overtures. It seems that Naleesh has inherited her previous incarnation’s compassion for all things associated with her brother, but the counsel of the Khan prevents her from acting upon it. At least so far.”

“Naleesh-sama is a gentle soul,” Takuan said, the respect he felt for the Unicorn Champion bleeding over into his tone. “A pity Min-Hee is such a dreadful bore.”

“All things in time, my lovely little treachery,” Kuroko said playfully. “For now, the more important matter is that in a matter of a month or thereabouts, lord Kanpeki will be paying his annual visit to theImperialCity.”

Takuan nodded, his expression growing more somber. “We will need to ensure all is in readiness.”

“And we shall, but of course the accursed Otomo, and no offense to you or yours, beloved, will do all they can to insulate him from us. They will fail, but they will make matters unnecessarily difficult.”

“No offense taken,” Takuan said. “Even I find most of my family insufferable. Why else would I have caused such scandal to marry into the Spider Clan?”

“I thought it was because marrying the daughter of the Imperial Advisor was such an improvement over being second son of the Otomo,” she teased. “But in all seriousness, whatever influence you have over your former family should be put to use ensuring we have as much adjudication over the visit as possible.”

“Of course,” Takuan said. “I will start making arrangements first thing in the morning.”

“Did you receive any correspondence from your contacts in the Colonies today?”

Takuan frowned. “I did. It is a rather mixed report, I am sorry to say. The clan continues to make inroads beyond theIvoryMountains, but the Mantis are becoming more of a problem as they cross paths with our excursion forces. Meanwhile, the situation in theSecondCityhas not yet improved with regard to the clans and their dispensation toward us, but the new Imperial Governor is proving to be most interesting. Based on what our kinsmen have said, I suspect she may prove to be a tremendous benefit to our endeavors in the settled portion of the Colonies.”

“How odd,” Kuroko said. “Are you sure your contacts in the Otomo have no further information on this woman?”

“I fear the governess is something of an enigma, even among the Otomo,” Takuan said. “Still, her association with Otomo M’rika is certainly a point in our favor.””

“Now, now, husband,” Kuroko said, glancing around the corridor. “One never knows what ears might be listening.”

“Yes, of course. My apologies, dearest. Being around you makes me foolish. Among other things.”

“Yes, well, let us explore those things over dinner, shall we?”

* * * * *

A young warrior bearing the colors of the Unicorn Clan stood upon the northern wall of theSecondCityand watched as the caravan disappeared over the horizon. Once it was out of sight, as was his command, he turned and disembarked from the wall, crossing through the military district and heading into the Imperial district without speaking. Others parted to allow him to pass, many bowing as they did so. It was an unfamiliar sensation for him, and one he was not yet altogether comfortable with. He had not sought the position he now held for recognition or political gain; he was a warrior, and it was his only desire to serve with honor as had his father and grandfather before him.

“Tselu-sama!” a voice called.

Shinjo Tselu turned to see a much older man approaching. He managed to keep from grimacing at the man’s stern expression, but it was a difficult task. He was not yet accustomed to outranking such venerable men as the head of the Second City Guardsmen. “What troubles you, Tsudoken-sama?”

Akodo Tsudoken stopped and bowed stiffly. “I have the report, my lord.”

The young warrior looked at the older man blankly. “Report?”

Tsudoken’s expression darkened even further, his cheeks reddening visibly “I was instructed to prepare a comprehensive report on the strength and disposition of all the Second City Guardsmen’s assets and present them to the Ivory Champion,” he said, a strange emphasis on the last two words. “I have done so.”

“Of course,” Tselu responded. “I was not aware that such a report was being prepared, but I am delighted to have it. I will enjoy reviewing your organization, Tsudoken-san.” He paused for a moment, then added. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and those who serve you.”

Tsudoken’s expression softened somewhat in surprise. “I… thank you, my lord.”

“I would be honored if you would call me Tselu.”

The Lion warrior’s expression grew stern once more. “That would be inappropriate, my lord,” he insisted. “I understand that this question may be unimportant given the fact that you were unaware of the report, but what is your inclination toward the Guardsmen, my lord? Is it your intent to dissolve them or reorganize them under your command? I do not wish to overstep my bounds but I do wish to prepare recommendations for my officers if that turns out to the case.”

Tselu hoped that his alarm did not show through. “I have no intention of doing that, commander,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “I will review your report but I have no preconceived notions of how your guardsmen should be organized.”

“I see,” Tsudoken said. “Very well, then, my lord. I will await any recommendations you have to offer.”

Tselu watched the other man walk away with a troubled expression. He held Tsudoken in the utmost respect, that had been an absolute truth, but he had as yet very little understanding of his duties as the newly selected Ivory Champion. He glanced down at the strange variant of the Imperial Chrysanthemum that the Imperial Governor had selected upon her arrival and ascension to the position. He continued on to the Governor’s Estate, where he was to report to the governess. Hopefully she would not have any more surprises for him.

When Tselu found the governess, she was surveying a large painting in the palace’s primary audience chamber. “Governess,” he said, bowing deeply.

“Tselu, I am quite glad you are here,” Otomo Suikihime replied. “Tell me, what do you think of this piece?”

The young warrior looked at her blankly for a heartbeat, then up at the painting. “It is… uh… quite nice? I have never been a student of the arts all that much.” He paused and peered at it for a moment. “Wait, is that an Akitare? Even I know that style. There is an original hanging in the Unicorn embassy. The master of the estate regards it as one of the clan’s greatest treasures in the Colonies.”

“Which I completely understand,” Suikihime said. “Still, his works may be celebrated throughout the Empire, but with my new perspective here in the Colonies, I find them terribly traditional. Terribly… what is the word I want to use? Pedestrian.” She gestured and two servants began removing the painting from the wall.

“My lady?” Tselu asked.

“I think I want something new, something bold and daring.” She gestured again, and this time a scribe stepped forward. “Please compile a list of the best known artists and artisans operating in the Colonies. I want something new and sensational for court.” She nodded, dismissing the man, then turned back to Tselu. “Did you need something?”

He bowed again. “I merely wanted to report that I watched as Daigotsu Kanpeki’s caravan departed the city, my lady. I would anticipate they will arrive at Journey’s End Keep by nightfall.”

“Very good then,” she replied. “Normally it takes about a month to reach Toshi Ranbo, in my experience. Would you agree?”

“Normally yes, my lady. Given that it is winter in the Empire, however, the journey will doubtless take longer. Perhaps as much as twice that long.”

Suikihime smiled. “Would that not be a delight? To be free of the Spider Champion for four months. I shall savor the very thought.”

Tselu shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Say what you will of the Spider Champion, my lady, but we are fortunate that the Spider obey his commands as if they were issued by the Heavens themselves, and he is loyal to the will of the Empress.”

“Is he?” Suikihime mused. “I wonder.”

Tselu held out a scroll. “The captain of the guard presented this report to me, governess. I did not request it, however; did you? I have it for you if you wish it.”

“I requested it, yes, but it is for you.” She smiled and fanned herself lightly. “Administration of the Second City Guardsman will fall to the Ivory Champion, so I felt you should familiarize yourself with their operations.”

“Of course,” Tselu replied. “If I may, my lady… my duties have been rather ill-defined thus far. I do not wish to fail you, but I fear that I might simply because I do not know what my duties are in their entirety.”

“Well I have not decided all the things I shall have you do just yet,” the governess replied. “Other than protecting me, of course. Beyond that, I will assign you duties as I see fit. Do you find that is a problem?”

“No, my lady,” Tselu answered. “There are some who wonder if additional positions will be created. Some look upon me as some Colonial version of the Emerald Champion, and wonder if there will be additional counterparts for the other Jeweled Champions or Emperor’s Chosen.”

Suikihime made a most disdainful face. “How boring!” she exclaimed. “I do not wish to recreate theImperialCityhere. What fun would that be? This is an opportunity to embrace new ideas and new customs, to create something altogether different and exciting. Why would I pass something like that up?”

“I… uh…” Tselu faltered. “I suppose most assume that because you are a scion of the Imperial families, that you are traditional.”

The governess of the Colonies laughed. “They will find, as you have, that I am far from a typical member of the Imperial families.”

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State of the Clans, Part 2

By Yoon Ha Lee

Edited by Fred Wan

Not long after the end of the Destroyer War…

It was another bitter morning camped in the shadow of the Wall’s ruins, but it would not be Hida Reiha’s last.  She could hear the squelching footsteps of the guards in the mud, the plaintive cries of birds, the patter of rain.  Rain in her eyes.  Rain in her hair.

Standing at the encampment’s perimeter, she thought of water.  She thought of the story of Kuni Osaku and the Maw, which she had known longer than any other story, even the ones about Hida.  Someone must have told it to her the first time, mother or father or cousins long-dead, but she might as well have been born with the story knotted around her bones.

The Maw had had a shadow filled with soldiers and teeth sharp as terror.  Unchecked, he would have marched through the Crab and plunged into the rest of Rokugan, darkness compounding darkness.  But one shugenja, Kuni Osaku, raised a wall of water to stay his horde.  For seventy-three days she burned the years of her life while Crab engineers built a more lasting Wall.  And then, scoured empty by prayer, seventy-three years older, she died.

Osaku’s sacrifice didn’t trouble Reiha.  She knew what a Crab’s life was for.  No: what she couldn’t get past was the heart-stab fact of her failure.  The Crab here and now had failed Osaku and all the builders of walls, had failed their ancestors, had failed Rokugan itself.

“Reiha-sama.”  It was a Hiruma guard.  “A delegation of Scorpion are approaching us.  Ten of them.  They have asked to speak to you personally.”

Reiha looked around: gray sky, gray tents, gray light shattering in rain-struck puddles.  She had the largest tent, sufficient for meetings.  There would be no finely-calligraphed manuals of strategy, no go sets, no sweet bean pastries.  She was Crab.  She didn’t expect such things.  Her guest might feel differently, but that couldn’t be helped.  After all that had happened in the past year, she was not in a mood for luxuries.

“I’ll allow it,” Reiha said.  “Have someone make tea, I don’t care what kind.”  That was a joke, and the Hiruma chuckled obligingly before jogging off.  The only tea they had right now was low-grade stuff that some merchant had salvaged.  It was an open question whether mud water had better flavor.

The delegation arrived soon.  Ten Scorpion, somber and poisonously beautiful in their black and red, but that was normal.  It wouldn’t have surprised Reiha if other Scorpion lurked out there somewhere; the guards would already know to be doubly alert.  A tall, thin-faced bushi was holding an umbrella over the woman in the center.  Reiha noticed the umbrella not because of its riotously colorful ribbon-and-feather motif but because she suspected it of being a weapon.

The woman wore a mask that Reiha had never seen before, black cords cunningly braided with faceted beads of white-and-lilac jade.  The eyes and bearing, however, were unmistakable.  Bayushi Miyako had come to see her in person.

“I could give you some elaborate speech of greeting,” Reiha said, dripping, “but why don’t we just get out of the rain.”

Miyako inclined her head.  “I have no objection,” she said.

Reiha led the way to the command tent.  The tent’s guards looked at her, stone-faced, then looked at the Scorpion.  She glared back.  “A guest,” she said shortly.  “Her guards can share their duty with you.”  Everyone understood that this meant that the guards would spend their time staring at each other, wary of every chance movement.

Her guards eyed the Scorpion again, but didn’t contest the order.

Inside the tent was a small table, beautiful if beauty was measured purely in functional terms, and two plain cups of steaming tea.  That was all.

Miyako sat after Reiha did.  “You know my purpose here,” she said in her quiet voice.  She didn’t have to elaborate on the doorway to Jigoku that now existed in Scorpion lands, or why she might want Crab assistance with it.  She sipped her tea and didn’t even give Reiha the satisfaction of looking appalled at its taste.  “But before we begin, I wish to offer you a token of our appreciation.”  She slipped a scroll from the sleeve of her kimono.

Reiha knew perfectly well that she was supposed to scratch out a polite refusal.  What came out instead was a growl.

When Reiha could trust herself to speak more or less civilly, she demanded, “Scorpion, do you seriously think you need to give a Crab a gift to get her to do her duty?“

“No,” Miyako said levelly.  Her eyes held Reiha’s, steadfast.  “I know that the Crab don’t guard the Empire because they expect anything as ephemeral and tawdry as gratitude.  You guard the Empire because it is yours to do and it must be done.”

“Well,” Reiha said, only slightly mollified, “at least you understand something.”

“I’ll take that as your first refusal, then,” Miyako said, not without a certain dry humor.  Reiha was impressed by her ability to find humor in the whole situation.  “Reiha-san, perhaps you have no need for blandishments, but it would ease my mind if you would accept my offering.”

“No,” Reiha said, determined to get the ritual over with as soon as she could.

Miyako might have smiled behind her mask.  “One more time, then.  I am told that the Crab are a practical people.  I don’t bring you a pretty nemuranai that summons cascades of living butterflies, or an ancient obi stitched by Doji’s hands.  I bring you something–practical.  Please, Reiha-san, read the scroll.  You will not regret it.”

“Very well,” Reiha said.  She halfway expected the paper to grow teeth and bite her throat out, but surely if the Scorpion Clan Champion wanted to have her assassinated, there were safer places to do it than in the middle of a Crab encampment.  Nevertheless, she opened the scroll.

The scroll was made of beautiful paper, threaded through with dried petals and filaments of silk.  Reiha wondered why Miyako had gone to the trouble.  Then she began reading.  She came to the end, then read the words again.  She was no expert in calligraphy, but it seemed wrong that such straightforward words should be written in such a graceful hand, with every downstroke of the brush just so.

The Scorpion were offering the Crab the full cooperation of the Kuroiban and the uninhibited sharing of information in matters relating to the Taint or maho.  The word “uninhibited” stood out as though it had been written in large red characters.

Reiha understood that a gift of information from a Scorpion was either an act of desperation or of manipulation.  In this case, probably both.  She thought about it for a moment.  The Scorpion wouldn’t have much to offer in terms of material aid right now, especially when they were the ones in need of it, and while they probably had blackmail material and intelligence on every clan in the Empire, the Crab had other matters to deal with than petty politics.  Perhaps they offered this because it was all they could think of to entice the Crab.

Or perhaps it was simply that they wanted to help the Crab help them.

“I had to argue long and hard for this,” Miyako said.  Her back was very straight and her hands rested on the table between then, thin and callused and strong.  “But my will is the will of the Scorpion, and I prevailed.”

“I don’t much care what you had to do,” Reiha said bluntly.  “But very well.  Your offer is acceptable.”  She paused, looking at the other woman through narrowed eyes.  “As it turns out, I have already given a considerable amount of thought to your problem.  I assume that your pit is at least watched, if not as heavily guarded as it needs to be.”

“We have done what we could,” Miyako said.

“In any case,” Reiha said, “we both know that what you need is a wall.  At least you know who to come to for one.”

“Not one wall,” Miyako said.  “Two.”

Reiha leaned back, considering.  Considering, rather than laughing.  “Explain.”

“Two walls, and two reasons.  First,” Miyako said, “to permit rapid response to outbreaks, I need a staging point close to the hellpit itself.  A fortified village, say.  Second, we have in our custody a small number of Tainted samurai.  I am”–she spoke very precisely–”reluctant to remand them to the care of the Dragon, when the Scorpion could derive some immediate benefit from front-line sacrificial troops.  Such a village would be an appropriate residence for them.”

Reiha worked through the words.  “You want an outer wall and an inner wall, and a village in between.  The outer wall to protect the Scorpion from the eyes of the Empire, and the inner wall to protect the Scorpion from the pit itself.  Make that two inner walls.  Everyone will expect there to be an inner wall anyway, so you might as well build an additional one and hide the village between the two innermost walls.”

“You have understood my intentions exactly.”  Miyako glanced down at her tea, then finished it with three rapid sips.

It was hardly impossible.  From a strictly strategic point of view, she agreed with the necessity of the proposed staging point.  But then, she would have expected good strategic sense from a former Imperial Legionnaire.

“You realize,” Reiha said, “that such an endeavor would not be met with approval by the rest of the Empire.”  She understood the constraints of construction work; she knew that observers would be able to draw certain inferences from the amounts of stone and lime transported, the amount of dirt excavated, the timetables involved.  “At the scale you speak of, you would need the aid of shugenja to preserve secrecy.”

“I could provide shugenja,” Miyako said.  She was pale around the eyes, but composed.

Hida Reiha thought it was a terrible day when the Crab’s duty involved building walls inside the Empire, to contain the corruption in its heart, instead of at the Empire’s border, to keep the corruption out.  Still, there was no help for it but to deal with the hellpit where it was, instead of where she would have preferred it to be.

Reiha thought, too, of her brother telling her that there was nothing to do but to accept the Empress’s edict embracing the Spider, and welcome the partial respite in the fight against the Taint.  Her own brother, after the years they had stood together against the darkness.  She couldn’t do anything about the edict; she had at least come around to his point of view on that matter.  But that didn’t mean that there weren’t other things she could do in defense of the Empire that the Empress had been so willing to erode.

“Yes,” Reiha said, and again, “Yes.  I will help you.”  She was smiling coldly.

Bayushi Miyako did not smile, but she bowed deeply from the waist.

*

Thirteen years later…

Kurumi, no longer Bayushi, woke up two hours before dawn, as she had done every day for the last several years.  There was very little light to be had.  She lived in a small hut all to herself, which the peasants and eta would have called luxury.  In her case it was a punishment.

Carefully, she crawled over to a basin and washed her face with tepid water.  Next to the basin was a pearl-inlaid box that had once contained scented cosmetics and the occasional poison.  The cosmetics had run out years ago.  Now she stored her mask in it.

Every morning, she unrolled the mask and held it in her hands, thinking about false faces and fallen gods and Traitors’ Grove.  Then she rolled it up and put it back under the tray, and drew out a plain wooden comb to brush her hair.  She had once owned one made out of tortoiseshell and carved with thorny vines, but she had bartered it away nine years ago for rice and firewood.  Someday she would have to barter the box, too, but she imagined she would keep the mask, like a shackle, until the day of her death.

Beauty was an art, and although Kurumi no longer wore fine kimono of silk brocade or jeweled pins in her hair, she was still beautiful. She would not cut her hair or let her face disappear beneath a week’s worth of soot and grime.  Kurumi made it a point of going through the rituals of beauty even now, not because she expected to profit by them, but because Bayushi Miyako had sent her here as a sacrifice-offering.  Kurumi wanted to make sure that the Crab never forgot who she was or how she had betrayed the Empire.  She knew what her shame was; she refused to hide it.

It was not bravery–she saw the wounds that Crab bushi came back from the Wall with–but it was what she had left.

She dressed slowly and carefully in undyed ramie.  It was hard to tie the obi properly sometimes.  The Kuni interrogators had not left scars after she first came to the Crab, by Hida Reiha’s orders, but even now she had terrible aches.  Still, she woke up earlier and took the extra time to do it right.

For breakfast she ate two small rice balls wrapped in pickled leaves, which she had prepared the night before.  She didn’t especially like the piquant taste of the leaves, but food was food and she was in no position to be picky.  For the day’s lunch, she wrapped up more rice balls in a satchel.  She still had a sticky candy from last week’s village festival and hadn’t made up her mind when she would eat it.  Treats were scarce, now.

Kurumi wrapped herself up in a coat–autumn was starting to be serious, and she felt the cold keenly–and stepped outside, satchel in tow.  She prostrated herself before the Crab sentry.  Today it was a woman.  They always were.  This one’s name was Kaiu Raku, and she came here for this duty about twice a year.  She was small for a Crab, but leanly muscular and easily taller than Kurumi herself.

Raku’s expression was the familiar one of patient contempt.  After a moment, she made a noncommittal noise, and Kurumi knew it was safe to get up.

“I am not doing this for your benefit,” Hida Reiha had told her all those years ago, when she explained the arrangements she had made for Kurumi’s life.

Kurumi had knelt before her, wrists bound by rough rope.  She was still in a great deal of pain from the Jade Champion’s interrogation, and the Crab Clan Champion could have been talking about the worst sake she had ever had or the games her son used to play.  It was only later that her words made sense to Kurumi.  Mostly, she was aware of the pain and the fact that she wore no mask.  She would find it tucked into her obi later on and wonder at that strange considerateness.

“If it were just you,” Reiha went on, “your continued existence would be of no value.  It would be tempting to feed you to a passing oni, but of course we are the last people who should do that.  The truth is that we are going to be raising a generation of Crab who won’t know–”  She stopped.  Through the haze of pain, Kurumi might have been aware of the roughness of Reiha’s voice.

“The candle is burning down,” Reiha said after a while, which didn’t make any sense either.  “Soon there will be Crab who grow up knowing that the Spider were always, in their lifetimes, a Great Clan.  Soon there will be Crab who think that having a Scorpion Wall as well as a Crab Wall is normal.  Other clans can win and lose their shabby little wars one generation at a time because it doesn’t matter.  We must win our war every generation, over and over again, or Rokugan will be full of pits and there won’t be an Empire anymore.”

“Whatever you desire of me, I will give it, Hida-sama,” Kurumi had rasped, aware only that some kind of response was required of her.

“Live,” Reiha said in a voice like ice and iron.  “Live so that a few more Crab know the face of failure, a few more before the candle burns down and my son has to inherit this shambles.  Live.”

Kurumi thought about Reiha’s words a lot when she was falling asleep.  She would have liked to say that the dilemma of the Crab kept her up at night, but the truth was she was generally so tired that she fell asleep almost as soon as she lay down.

In any case, the Crab came to guard her, not because any of them cared whether she lived or died, but so they could look at one of the people who had freed Fu Leng.  Sometimes they came in groups.  Sometimes they called her terrible things and she had to bear it in silence.  At first, Kurumi had wished that one of them would let their temper slip and end her miserable life quickly, crush her skull with tetsubo or ono or a simple rock, but as much as they taunted her, no one ever did.

Kaiu Raku was not kind–nobody was, and she had no right to expect kindness in any case–but under her care Kurumi felt a sort of pallid relief.  Raku was scrupulously fair, and never showed her any particular cruelty.  As she escorted Kurumi to the renovation site, she kept a merciful silence.

At the work site, Kurumi took up her shovel and her wheelbarrow.  She knew where to go: even now, as improvements were made to the Wall, there was a great deal of simple dirt to be cleared away.  Her hands were coarse with callus, and her skin was roughened by the wind and the sun.  Once she would have scorned both these things.  She had grown past that quickly enough.

She worked alone.  The villagers rarely spoke to her, but on festival days they let her sit in the shade of her hut, like a ghost written in words of exhaustion.  Here, they called to each other and occasionally chanted work-songs in their rough dialect, or offered each other sips of sake during the breaks.  She had grown accustomed to the cadences of their schedule.

They never gave Kurumi work so difficult that she would break under it.  The Crab hated her, but they were good judges of labor and they abhorred waste.

Her back hurt her, and so did the arches of her feet, but she made no complaint.  She had grown intimately familiar with different kinds of dirt: the pebbles that were caught in it, or the tangled roots, or occasionally fragments of old bone.  Sometimes she thought that she would like to grow a garden, to plant something beautiful and fragrant, but the thought of working the earth any more than she already did always defeated her.

“He’s watching you,” Kaiu Raku said unexpectedly.  She had been standing watch as alertly as if she expected goblins to swarm out of the scaffolding at any moment; not an unjustified concern, based on Kurumi’s experience.  “He won’t come any closer, but he would want you to know that he’s watching you.”

In spite of herself, Kurumi unbent a little and followed Raku’s gaze to one of the completed towers.  At its base stood a man she had only seen once before, shorter than most Crab: Hida Kisada, the Little Bear himself.

            I am the face of failure, she thought.  Look upon me, and learn.

The work she did here was small to begin with, and when she thought of the duty of the Crab it was smaller still.  It was one thing to build walls of stone and mortar and stern angles.  Anyone could do that.  But it was more important to build walls around the weaknesses in your heart.  Kurumi knew that better than most.

The Crab had known that for a long time, of course; the Wall was built of their will.  But now the Scorpion would have to learn that lesson, too.

She resumed her work, and by the time the sun was low and it came time for dinner, the Little Bear was long gone.

State of the Clans, Part 1

By Shawn Carman

Edited by Fred Wan

The golden plains of the Lion Clan were at last beginning to resemble their name once again. For almost an entire generation, vast portions of the provinces had been depleted and nigh-barren. Now, finally, Ikoma Yamahatsu began to understand the name and reverence that his parents and their generation had for the land he called home. When he had been but a child, the fields to the west of his family estate had been gray and dead for years, and he had always wondered why it made his mother so sad to look upon them. It was a bittersweet realization.

On the horizon, another lone rider approached. Yamahatsu glanced up irritably, checking the position of the sun to determine exactly how late his contact was. It was only a small amount, but he considered punctuality a matter of great significance. In the fulfillment of his duties during times of war, should he be so fortunate to wage war for his clan during his lifetime, failure to keep a simple schedule could tip the scales from victory to defeat. Even if it did not matter this time, it might matter tremendously next time. Words would need to be said, the senior scout decided.

The other figure approached for at least a handful of minutes, allowing Yamahatsu to frame his words in an appropriately chastising tone without being overly stern. A younger soldier would learn nothing if he took it as punishment rather than the correction he intended. “I presume you have a reasonable explanation for your tardiness,” Yamahatsu called out.

The other figure pulled up as his steed finally reached Yamahatsu. “Indeed!” he called out, his tone gravelly. The man lifted his helm to reveal aged features and a wicked grin. “Do I have to tell you?”

“Hakige-sama!” Yamahatsu sputtered, feeling his face grow flush with shame. “My lord, I beg your most humble pardon. I would never presume to question a daimyo of the Lion Clan. Please, allow me…”

“Oh, Fortunes, spare me,” the Ikoma daimyo said, waving his hand absently. “I am a bit late, and you would be right to question anyone else.” He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “You are probably right to question me. I stopped to pay respects to an old friend along the route and he offered a gift.” He patted a clay bottle at his belt, then pointed to the chrysanthemum mon on Yamahatsu’s armor. “Besides, you are an Imperial. Remember?”

Yamahatsu frowned and looked down. “I prefer to think of myself as a Lion, my lord.”

“And the Lion are better for it!” Hakige said boisterously. “You are uniquely suited to reach across the divide between the Lion and the Imperials. How else would the Shadow of the Pride ever become such an essential component of our military?”

Yamahatsu looked away to the horizon. “There are many great men among the Shadow of the Pride,” he said. “I am but one. I am greatly blessed to serve men of great skill, and to have men of great skill serving me. Nothing more, my lord.”

Hakige shrugged and took a drink of whatever it was that was in the bottle. “Well, always better to have vassals who do not realize their importance than those who believe they are too important, I suppose.”  He glanced around the fields. “It does my old heart good to see them golden again.”

Yamahatsu nodded. “I had never seen it before, but I share your feeling just the same.”

“When I was a boy, these routes were patrolled by entire squadrons, not lone riders.” Hakige’s tone was wistful. “May those days come again as well.”

The younger man glanced at his lord. “I have heard rumors that Dairuko-sama is considering eliminating the restrictions on childbirth.”

Hakige laughed bitterly. “If my mother had lived to hear such things implemented in the first place, I believe the shock might have killed her.” He glanced at his kinsman. “You might be surprised to know that my mother was really quite traditional.”

“Of course,” Yamahatsu said diplomatically. “Were the restrictions put into place because of the war?”

“Partially,” Hakige said. “I am surprised you do not know this already.”

“Most do not wish to talk about it,” Yamahatsu said. “I have seen several Matsu grow… irritable… when the topic arises.”

The older man chuckled. “After the Destroyer War, our ranks were weakened as they never had been before,” he explained. “The only thing more devastated than our ranks… were our lands. Undead swarms were common, and the blight upon the land was horrendous. Even today, our plains have only just started to indicate they are recovered. Before now, it would have been foolish to lift the restrictions. Now, however, there may be a chance.”

“Concerning your mention of undead, I have heard a tale,” Yamahatsu said cautiously. “They say that a lone farmer in one of the southern provinces died alone, and no one discovered his body. They say… they say that when he rose again he wandered into a nearby village and killed two people.”

“Regrettably true,” Hakige said. “Even now, so much later, there are still those who rise again when they are not cremated in a timely manner. The Kitsu are baffled. I understand that the Phoenix were even consulted, but to no avail.”

For a long time, neither man said anything. “Perhaps one day my children will not suffer the aftereffects of the war,” Yamahatsu said.

“Oh no, I am quite sure there will be another war for them to endure by then,” Hakige said.

Hours later, the two men rode through the gates of Kyuden Ikoma together, the frigid twilight breeze serving as their heralds. Attendants were there at once to take their steeds, and the men dismounted, too weary for words. Hakige glanced over to see a number of very fine horses that were being walked and dressed as if for travel. Frowning, he gestured to one of the attendants. “Whose horses are those?”

“Those are mine, lord Ikoma.”

Hakige turned to the voice and blinked. “Oh. Forgive me, my lord. I did not realize you were taking your leave.”

Iweko Seiken smiled. “I have enjoyed my time among the Lion, as I ever do. But there is business that requires my attention in the capital city, and I cannot tarry any longer.”

“Of course, my lord,” Hakige said with deep bow. “The Ikoma are always delighted to receive the Imperial heir. You are welcome here always.”

“My thanks, Hakige-san,” Seiken said. “Unfortunately it might be some time before I can return. I have training with the Scorpion Clan to the south next month, and some time among the Crane following that.” He smiled. “I prefer the company of my father’s kinsmen, but you can understand my obligations are considerable.”

Yamahatsu bowed deeply. “It was my pleasure to serve you during your stay, my lord,” he said. “I do not envy you your duties, spending so much time among the different Great Clans.”

“It can be difficult, but rewarding,” Seiken said. “Each clan has its strengths. Each of the true Great Clans, that is.”

“Yes, well,” Hakige said, clearing his throat anxiously. “I understand your younger brother will be returning home in the spring, will he not?”

“He will,” Seiken said, completely devoid of any emotion. “My parents are of course delighted.”

“A heavy burden, his duty,” Yamahatsu said morosely.

“I have no doubt my brother will have endured his time among the Spider well,” Seiken said. “He was ever a sturdy child, when we were younger.”

“The Colonies,” Hakige said with a frown. “No place for a child, and certainly not with the Spider.” He glanced at the Imperial heir. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Seiken said.

“I am sure that there are many who find great purpose and value in the Colonies,” Yamahatsu offered.

“I am certain,” Seiken said. “However, I have no idea who such people might be.”

* * * * *

Yoritomo Kanahashi stood on the pier and looked out over the horizon at the vast, unknowable ocean. The sea was perfect and undisturbed, a straight line that extended east-to-west all along the south. Kalani’s Landing was constructed on the southern coast of the Colonies, and while it was not that large of a city compared to some, it was large enough that there were times when Kanahashi felt stifled. Staring at the sea always gave her a feeling of home, and so she took opportunities when they presented themselves. It was a minor indulgence, but then someone of her position could afford to allow herself such things.

But of course such things never lasted.

“Kanahashi-sama.”

With a brief sigh, Kanahashi turned away from the vista to where her personal yojimbo, a brute of a man who rarely spoke, gestured toward a rider approaching at full speed. It was dangerous and foolish to drive a horse to such speed so close to the shore, so it must be something important. Her yojimbo stepped forward, hand over his weapon, but she called out to him. “Be at ease, Kanaye.”

Silently, perhaps grudgingly, the massive warrior stepped back, and Kanahashi moved toward the end of the dock. “I presume you are looking for me, then,” she called out as the man disembarked from his horse.

“I am looking for the Mantis Champion,” the man said, his own mon revealing that he was not only a Mantis but a Tsuruchi and a magistrate. “Where is he?”

Kanahashi gestured to the sea behind her. “He departed almost an hour ago,” she replied. “Hiromi-sama had pressing business in the Empire and could stay no longer.” She peered at the man for a moment. “Tsuruchi Samuru, is it not?”

“It is, my lady. Are you the governess?”

She heard Kanaye quietly scoff behind her, but ignored it. “There is no governor in Kalani’s Landing. Authority here is held by the senior magistrate, and that is my position.”

“Of course,” Samuru said with a bow. “Forgive me, my lady. I have not been in the Landing in many years. I had forgotten. A foolish oversight.”

“Understandable,” Kanahashi said. “As I recall your skills are more suited to the wilderness, and even if they were not, time spent in the Second City can dull the instincts of even the finest magistrates.” She watched carefully for his reaction.

Samuru frowned very slightly, but otherwise did not react to her barb. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

“How thoughtless of me. I am Yoritomo Kanahashi, senior magistrate of Kalani’s Landing. I remember you from the dojo back in the Islands of Silk and Spice. Your class was a year or two ahead of mine, as I recall.”

Samuru stared at her silently for a moment, as if studying her. “Your hair was longer then,” he finally said. “You frequently wore an unusual color. Was it red?”

“It was,” she said, smiling despite herself. “Stories of your prowess are not exaggerated, it seems. I am pleased to hear that. We are a clan in need of heroes, particularly in the Colonies.”

“Thank you, magistrate-sama.”

Kanahashi smiled and gestured toward the city. “Kanaye, will you summon an attendant for Samuru’s horse? Thank you. Samuru-san, follow me if you please.” The two magistrates began walking back through the city toward the magistrate’s office. “What brought you to see the Champion, if I may ask?”

Samuru’s smile seemed strained. “Lady Moshi in the Second City had some further considerations she wished to present to Hiromi-sama.”

Kanahashi raised an eyebrow. “Did the Champion not spend nearly a week within the Second City, making arrangements for everything that he wishes to see done within the Colonies?”

“He did,” Samuru confirmed.

Kanahashi’s laugh was bright, but tinged with a hint of bitterness. “I see little has changed in the Second City since my time there. The Sun Priestess still drastically overestimates her importance in all things.” She glanced at the man walking beside her. “Do they still call her that?”

Samuru would not meet her gaze. “I… I would not know,” he said. “I spend very little time within the city. I only arrived after the Champion left. The Lady Moshi selected me to convey her message because of my reputation for rapid travel.”

“A reputation well-deserved, I would say,” Kanahashi replied. “What did she wish to discuss with the Champion, if I may ask?”

“I have not read the papers she entrusted to me,” he replied, his tone slightly defensive. “However, I am given to understand that it has something to do with his plans concerning the group of students expected to undertake their gempukku in the spring.”

“Ah,” Kanahashi grimaced somewhat. “The Champion’s plan is certainly bold.”

Samaru looked at her quizzically. “I am not familiar with the plan. May I ask what it is?”

“As you are doubtless aware, we have a significant problem with lack of manpower,” Kanahashi said. “We lost many lives in the war, after all. Not as many as most, but then we did not have the numbers they did in the first place, so the problem remains one of scale.”

“I have heard that at least a quarter of the Fourth Storm remains unused,” Samuru observed.

“Correct,” she confirmed. “We simply do not have the crew necessary for such things. Fortunately, of all the clans we are probably the one with the most significant history of… shall we say aggressive procreation? So the upcoming crop of students is I think a quarter again larger than any in recent memory. It will alleviate the strain upon our ship crews significantly.”

“How does Lord Hiromi’s plan change this?”

“It is primarily a matter of priority,” Kanahashi explained. “He feels that the Colonies, while essential to the clan’s economy as a whole, are a more learning-friendly environment. Meanwhile, with the situation in the Empire such as it is, there are more dangers both politically and with the current Naga problem. He feels more experienced hands are necessary there. So, rather than sending our newly graduated samurai to the Empire, he wants them to take over operations here and we dispatch our more experienced crews back home to easy the burden upon the other Storms.”

Samuru considered it. “It seems sound, although there are obvious concerns.”

“It takes what would be a very delicate situation in the Empire and spreads the risks among both Empire and Colonies,” Kanahashi agreed. “I feel it is in the clan’s best interests. However, there are those among the clan’s leadership, those whose power and influence are more fully established within the Colonies, who are less interested in seeing their holdings placed in harm’s way, even if only slightly.” She glanced at him again. “Your patron in the Second City among them, I might add.”

“I am a magistrate,” he corrected. “I serve the clan. In this instance, I acquiesced to her request because it served my interest to exit the city with all due haste. Beyond my duty as a man of honor, I have no particular affiliation with her or any other.”

“There is no such thing as an apolitical Mantis,” Kanahashi laughed. “I would think you would know that by now.”

“Enjoy my foolishness as you like,” he replied irritably. “We are in a land as yet untamed by law, and there are many who find themselves unhinged by such a place. Those who are weak, and who succumb to the temptation of lawlessness are my concern. I spend my days hunting them across the wilderness.” He looked at her pointedly. “If in doing so I find it easier to imagine that all within the cities and courts of both the Colonies and the Empire remain upon the righteous and selfless path, then that is my mistake to make.”

“My, my!” the senior magistrate laughed. “It seems the stories of your skill have left out a few things! Idealism in a man of your experience is a rare but delightful thing.” She smiled. “I will see to it you have an office prepared for your use within Kalani’s Landing. Any time you require resources for the completion of your duties, they will be made available to you, no questions asked. Within broad limits, of course.”

Samuru nodded. “If you do so out of a sense of largesse, then you have my thanks. If you think to recruit me to some political game, then I will respectfully decline.”

She lifted a hand. “My interest in facilitating your work stems from the fact that, as you say, perhaps only a quarter of this land has been truly tamed. Though many think otherwise, we are very much on the frontier here, and as one of only two clans permitted to make inroads into the unexplored territories, I think it behooves us all to have men such as yourself policing those who call the Colonies home.”

Samuru bowed his head. “You shame me with your consideration, my lady. Thank you, and I graciously accept.”

“Very good,” Kanahashi said. “These are Mantis lands, after all. We cannot permit lawlessness to prevail.”