Beneath an Opal Moon (37 page)

For her part, Aufeya understood the chemistry, relaxed into it, grateful that Chiisai was so intuitive and understanding and not at all jealous, and delighted to be alone with him each day. So that it was, ironically, only Moichi himself who did not clearly understand the vectors of human emotion within which he found himself.

In dappled sunlight sweeping over them like honey, they held hands and spoke of their pasts. Aufeya recalled her father with great fondness, remembering most clearly the times when he had taken her aboard one of his ships. There was one day, she told him, when he took her up the Daluzan coast to the town of Puerto Chicama, from whence, she later discovered, he ran illegal ruuma into the interior. “Why, there's nothing wrong with the drink,” he had told her later. “Only the sanction of the Palliate causes it to be outlawed. Do you think, though, that this makes it unavailable? No. Only more expensive, for more hands must be greased”—he had winked at her—“including a number of curas I could name.” Later on, she told him, she had taken a trip into the interior and there saw that what her father said was true. Ruuma was drunk almost universally, with no appreciably harmful effects save for a short doze in the heat of the afternoon.

“And your mother?” he asked her one day.

She let off a stream of idiomatic invective that left no room for debate.

He knew better than to argue with her and quickly changed the subject. And, indeed, this was the only sour note in all the time they spent together. The days and nights ribboned together, as their flesh and Chiisai's, too, mended and healed until only red scars remained and pain came in infrequent remonstrating twitches now and again, perhaps at the end of a day more strenuous than most or when they came upon heavy rain clouds rolling darkly on the horizon and the air turned humid and the pressure dropped.

At night they all slept separately, peacefully near one another, around the cheerful, crackling fire. But during the afternoons when Chiisai was away on her archaeological sojourns, they would make love passionately and then languorously, reveling in the hot sunlight on their naked flesh; and then, if there was one nearby, they would splash and paddle about in the rushing streams that became more numerous as they traveled further south, making love once more. It seemed to Moichi that he could never get enough of Aufeya, but perhaps this was because he understood that their time together was finite. Certainly he found that all his senses were heightened because there would be an ending.

Chiisai invariably returned just before they were preparing to move out, giving them as much time together as possible. But one day, when they were already packed, she still had not returned. The sun slipped from the sky and in the rather awkward silence of the waiting, he realized how unfair they were being to her.

Dusk was already giving grudging way to night when she appeared over a low hillock embroidered with a copse of plane trees. Over her left shoulder was slung the carcass of a small hairy boar. They had not eaten fresh meat of this kind for some time, having grown used to foraging for nuts and fruit and, when the opportunity presented itself, spearing freshwater fish.

Thus, it was cause for no little celebration and they set about searing the skin of hair, slicing open its belly and gutting it. They let Chiisai build up the fire as they went about their bloody and stinking, but joyous, work. They braised the outside, crisping the skin, then began the roasting. The rich scent was so fragrant and delicious that they all wondered if they could wait until it was fully cooked. While Aufeya washed the intestines in the nearby stream and went to find nuts and berries to stuff them with, Moichi contented himself with watching the stars, cold and glittery and remote. They were far out of the land of the bloody moon and the one that reigned in the sky these nights, he was happy to see, was his old friend, silver and flat as a coin. It was three-quarters full.

Across from him, Chiisai sat near the fire, sharpening her dai-katana. He came and stood next to her, watching the quiet expertise of her hands as they went about their work. He cleared his throat and she looked up, her hands poised over the blade of the sword. The firelight flicked off it, illuminating its long precision-honed edges. It was indeed a most magnificent instrument.

“I'm afraid that Aufeya and I have both been rather selfish.”

“Whatever makes you say that?” She wiped the long blade, took it off her thighs and sheathed it. “I've been quite content to explore this land as we go.” She laughed. “You would have known if I was unhappy with the arrangement.”

“Still—”

“Besides, Moichi, to tell you the truth I needed this time by myself. There are a number of important decisions I've got to make when we return to Sha'angh'sei. I want to make certain I'm prepared.”

“You're sure?”

She stood up and, standing on the tips of her toes, gave him a long kiss.

That night, with the moon riding high in the sky, they commenced an orgy of eating. Yet, rationed after that, the rest of the meat lasted them all the way back to Corruña.

During the last days of the journey, they spent more and more time on the move, as if the closer they came to the city, the stronger the magnetism of its heart became. They spoke little during the days, but at night, under the moon and the stars, Chiisai told them stories of Ama-no-mori and the Bujun.

Neither Moichi nor Aufeya seemed much inclined to talk and this she put down to the simple fact that, quite soon, they would be parting, perhaps forever. And she found herself, unknowingly, feeling sorry for Moichi.

She knew she loved him, but it was in the manner of the Bujun and thus was not an easy thing to express to outsiders. It was the love of one warrior for another, growing together through adventure and peril, in which true heroism could later be appreciated and savored; in which the two became closer than family or lovers. She knew, for instance, without his telling her, that Moichi hardly considered himself a hero. Yet, she knew that he was. For it was some singular inner vision that powered him, moved him onward. He was his own morality, his own strength, his own glory, his own world—was as much a hero as the Dai-San. She had supposed that she would envy him this heroism but she found that she did not, only loved him all the more for it.

In that sense, she was content now, for she believed that at last she knew why the Dai-San had suggested she journey to Sha'angh'sei, and to Moichi. Perhaps he had not actually known of this—of the Firemask or Sardonyx or even the Eye of Time—but, surely, he knew the
karma
of his friend. She was grateful to have been part of this adventure. Yet again and again she found herself wondering—during these long drowsy afternoons amidst the crumbling, fabulous ruins on the way to Dalucia, as she strolled with the darting butterflies, felt the weight of the hot slanting sunlight like bars of dusty honey, illuminating these markers of an enigmatic past civilization—whether for her this was the end of it.

And then, like every Bujun before her who had thought much the same thoughts about an uncertain future, she shrugged to herself. She would accept whatever would befall her.

Karma
, she thought.

The Orphans

They passed through the western gate of Corruña just past midday, riding swiftly through the vast warehouse district, scattering the cambujo workers as merchants with dark shining faces and thick curling beards shook their fists at them for the interruption, their shouts echoing off the flat and featureless warehouse walls.

The Plaza de la Pesquisa was placid when they arrived, their luma's hooves loud upon the tiles of the square. The two old men, dressed in their immaculate white Daluzan suits, were in their accustomed place on the bench in the shade of the olive trees. The fountain was hidden from view by the verdant foliage, but as they dismounted they could hear the almost musical tones of the water splashing.

Now that they were actually here, Moichi was troubled by what Aufeya's reaction would be to coming home. He knew that he had an obligation to return her here and for many days he had fought to keep the consequences of this moment from his mind. Tsuki, he knew, wanted her daughter back home. But what of Aufeya herself?

He took her by the hand and led her up the winding stairs to the front door. This was thrown open before he had a chance to knock and Chimmoku loomed at the threshold. His face was split by a grin and he said, “Welcome home, Aufeya!” with such obvious love that Moichi's, mind was put at ease. Perhaps it would be far less difficult than he had imagined. The mind had an uncanny ability, at times, to throw things out of proportion.

“Come in! Come in, all of you!” Chimmoku was saying, stepping back. “We have prayed for your safe return.”

Moichi took Aufeya down the hall until they stood at the foot of the ship's-figurehead staircase. He gazed upward.

Tsuki stood immobile at the top, one hand clutched at her throat. She looked tall and regal as ever but her eyes darted from one to the other.

“Aufeya,” she breathed.

Aufeya said nothing.

Tsuki's gaze alighted on Moichi. “And Sardonyx?”

“Gone,” he said. “Defeated.”

“Thank you for returning my daughter to me. Both of you.”

“It was nothing, madam.” He made a mock-formal bow.

She lifted her arms, fingers outstretched. “I'm sorry, Aufeya, for everything. Welcome home, darling.”

“Go on,” Moichi whispered in Aufeya's ear. He gave her a small pat on her backside. She turned to him, gave him a tight smile.

“Wait for me,” she whispered. “I'll be right down.” Then she slowly ascended the stairs, one hand sliding along the polished banister.

Tsuki put her arm about her daughter's shoulders and, together, they disappeared down the hall. A moment later, he could hear the door to Tsuki's bedroom closing softly.

“There are no adequate means to thank you,” Chimmoku said to them when they were alone in the hall. “The Senhora has been beside herself ever since you left. She was guilty for not having gone. She abhors the interior, you see, and she felt she would be more of a hindrance.” He pulled abstractedly at his long drooping mustache. “In many ways Aufeya takes after the Senhor but in this she is exactly like the Senhora.”

Moichi laughed. “You've forgotten about the time the Senhor took her up the coast to Puerto Chicama.”

Chimmoku looked at him blankly. “I beg your pardon.”

“When he went to sell the ruuma.”

Chimmoku pulled himself erect and his voice took on a steely edge. “Senhor, Milhos Seguillas y Oriwara would have no more to do with that illegal and highly toxic drug than would I. He would not lower himself to do such a thing and certainly not with his beloved daughter.”

Moichi felt a sudden tightening of his stomach, as if all the air had suddenly gone out of his lungs. Still, he persisted. “Surely you must be mistaken. I—”

“Senhor, I assure you that Aufeya has never been to Puerto Chicama with her father. Perhaps during the time she was away—”

But Moichi had already brushed past him, leaping for the stairs. He felt chilled, thinking: When had it happened?

“Senhor, I do not think that you should disturb—!”

“Chiisai!” Moichi called over his shoulder, ignoring the other. “Outside! The Senhora's bedroom window.”

Chiisai turned and ran down the hall, opening the front door and disappearing down the steps.

Meanwhile Moichi had gained the second floor and was pounding down the upper hallway. The door at the head was closed. There seemed to be no sound from inside.

He tried the doorknob but it was locked. He stepped back and, using one booted foot, smashed at the lock. It gave somewhat but still held. He kicked again, putting all his strength into it, and the lock shattered, the door flying inward. He rushed into the room.

The room was dark, the curtains drawn. At first it appeared empty. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw a form upon the bed. He ran to it.

Tsuki lay sprawled on her huge bed. Blood drooled from one corner of her mouth. Her dress was ripped and she clutched a pillow to her breast as if she were a child who had just awakened from a nightmare.

But he knew now that she had awakened
to
a nightmare.

The hilt of a saw-bladed dagger protruded from a spot on the pillow below which her heart would be.

But it was her eyes which haunted him and would continue to do so for a long long time. They held an immeasurable portion of disbelief.

He went up onto the bed, scooping her up and cradling her body. The room, he knew, was empty and the window was the only other exit. He did not even bother to cross to it to make certain. Let Chiisai take care of the murderess for now.

The first thing he did was carefully close her eyes, even before he withdrew the dagger from her chest. He was crying now. She had not deserved this. Not this. Such a terrible way to die: thinking you had been murdered by your own daughter. And the very worst of it was that it was a lie. Tsuki had not been killed by Aufeya. Yes, it was her body, but, he was quite certain now, Sardonyx had been animating it. How long, he wondered, was I making love to her?

He had failed, in the end. Tsuki was his friend's first love. He had had an obligation to protect her. As he had allowed Kossori to be killed, so had he allowed Tsuki to go to her death. He knew, in his innermost self, that he was being far too harsh with himself.
I did not care
.

He heard, as if from far away, raised voices, recognized among those Chiisai's calling him.

He ignored it, staring down at Tsuki's now placid face, the fallen moon, set at last.

They stood far apart at graveside, Moichi and Aufeya. Observing this, Chiisai sighed inwardly, composing herself as the coffin, smooth as glass, was lowered into the newly dug grave beside the headstone of Milhos Seguillas y Oriwara. She paid scarce attention to the words of Don Hispete as he intoned the liturgy of the dead.