Emperor of the Eight Islands: Book 1 in the Tale of Shikanoko (The Tale of Shikanoko series) (6 page)
Authors: Lian Hearn
The woman walked toward him, then turned and called, “Shikanoko!”
Oh that she would call me like that! She will! She will!
“It was he who shot your decoy,” she said to Kiyoyori.
“He would have killed me! I should put a bow in his hands now?”
“He spared your horse,” she said gravely. “He is a good marksman.”
“I suppose I cannot argue with that,” Kiyoyori said, elation sweeping through him at her proximity.
The boy came forward, a young man on the cusp of adulthood. Fairly tall, thin, brown-skinned, he moved, despite his cramped limbs, with spare grace, like an animal. Kiyoyori studied him with narrowed eyes. He did not look like a bandit. He was surely a warrior’s son; perhaps he had been kidnapped. If he could kill the bird he would be spared and Kiyoyori would find out who he was and restore him to his family or take him into his service. If he failed he would die along with the rest of them, which would serve him right for keeping such bad company.
“Give him his bow and arrows,” he ordered.
He could tell his men did not like this command, nor did they relish the likelihood of being shown up by a stripling. There was a short delay while the bow and quiver were located among the piles of weapons that had been taken from the bandits and then they waited for Shikanoko to restring the bow. The bird called gratingly all the while, swinging its head from side to side and peering down with golden eyes, seeming to laugh in greater derision as Shikanoko drew the bow back, squinting against the sun. He lowered it as if the mocking intimidated him.
He will die tonight
, Kiyoyori vowed.
Shikanoko whispered in the woman’s ear.
“Something else was taken from him,” she said to Kiyoyori. “It must be returned to him before he can shoot. A seven-layered brocade bag containing a mask.”
“Find it,” Kiyoyori commanded, barely able to control his impatience.
One of his men produced the bag a little shamefacedly.
The boy received it without speaking, his demeanor relaxing noticeably as he felt the contents of the bag.
“Tell him to show me what’s inside,” Kiyoyori said to the woman. He liked the idea of speaking through her as though the boy were a barbarian who needed an interpreter, as though he bound both of them closer to him by this means.
She said, “Show the lord.”
Shikanoko drew out the mask and held it in both hands toward Kiyoyori, who gasped without meaning to at the almost living power of the face, the dark lashes over the eye sockets, the reddish lips and tongue. He saw the brainpan from which it had been formed and was conscious suddenly of his own skull, so hard yet so fragile. The mask seemed to float between woman and boy like an infant. He realized they had both taken part in its creation and jealousy flooded through him. The woman’s eyes met his and he knew it was for this that Akuzenji had wanted his head, to turn it into a magic object of power.
He gestured upward with his head and Shika put the mask away, giving the bag to the woman to hold. The bird had fallen silent, peering down at them. Now it launched itself into flight, but it was too late. The arrow sped true from the bow, humming as it went. Its sound merged into the bird’s cry of despair as it pierced the heart. Blood burst from the wound, falling in sizzling drops. Then the creature plunged headfirst to the ground.
“Bring it to Master Sesshin,” Kiyoyori said. “He will know what it is.”
* * *
Even the most hardened warriors were reluctant to touch it, so Shikanoko, after drawing out the arrow and returning it to his quiver, wrapped it in the woman’s shawl and carried it in both hands into the residence. Kiyoyori led the way to Sesshin’s room. It was the first time he had been in it since the move to Matsutani, and the differing scents of old books, ink, lamp oil, and some sort of incense made his senses reel even more.
“It is a werehawk,” Sesshin said, after inspecting it carefully. “How strange that it should come here now.”
“What does it mean?” Kiyoyori demanded.
“I shall have to practice some divination to find out.” The old scholar looked slightly perturbed. “What a mysterious coincidence of events. I knew something was awry, but I thought it affected only you. Now I fear there are wider forces converging, with far-reaching consequences.”
He fell silent, gazing on the dead bird.
Kiyoyori felt suddenly weary. It seemed like days ago that he had returned for his whip. He wanted above all to lie down with this woman and wipe out the reproaches of the dead.
From outside came the sound of heads falling one by one as the bandits were executed. Most of them were resigned to their fate, not unexpected given their calling, and died quietly, some speaking the name of the Enlightened One, but a few struggled and cursed, wept and pleaded. It was a pitiful sound.
Shikanoko quivered at each sword blow, tears in his eyes. The woman remained calm, watching Sesshin carefully.
A great yell of defiance that could only be Akuzenji echoed like a thunderbolt. Shikanoko gasped as if he were about to sob.
“Lord Kiyoyori may leave now,” the old man said. “And the woman had better take this boy away before he faints.” His tone was dismissive and he hardly looked at Shika, continuing to stare at the dead werehawk, a frown creasing his brow.
“We will stay with you,” said the woman.
Kiyoyori and Sesshin spoke together. “That will not be necessary.”
“I think you will find it is,” she replied. “Please leave, lord.” She looked from one to the other, though only Kiyoyori returned her gaze. She said no more, just waited calmly for him to obey her.
He said, “But you will come to me later? We will be together?”
“I promise we will,” she said.
After the lord left, Sesshin looked from the dead bird to Lady Tora and then to Shikanoko.
“I don’t understand why you are here. I usually conduct my divinations in private. They involve secrets that only the initiated are permitted to see.”
“We have something that will save you some time,” Lady Tora said. “Shikanoko is an initiate. And I have taken part in rituals far more esoteric and dangerous than anything you can imagine, even though you are a great scholar and magician. Shikanoko, give the master the mask.”
He handed it over, suddenly reluctant to expose Shisoku’s creation to the scrutiny of another sorcerer, but Sesshin took it from the bag with reverent hands and studied it intently. “What a wonderful thing! Who made it?”
Lady Tora said, “The mountain sorcerer Shisoku. It was made for Shikanoko because he is the son of the stag.”
Sesshin looked swiftly at Shikanoko as if seeing him for the first time. There was a flash of something—surprise, recognition. The old man shook his head.
“Well, well,” he said quietly. “Let him put it on.”
Shika recalled Shisoku’s instructions and allowed the movements of the deer dance to flow through him. The others watched intently. He could still see them in the room. He was aware of his own figure, wearing the mask, looking through its eyes. The room took on the dappled light and the rich leafy smell of the forest. And then he was the stag stepping lightly between the trees, ears pricked, nostrils flared. Hawks flew overhead, shrieking loudly. The stag bounded after them. Each bound covered miles.
Shika saw the hawks fly over a great city and under the eaves of a temple set in a deep grove, beside a lake, not far from the riverbank. He read its name board:
RYUSONJI
. He stood on the veranda and saw, through the open doors, the hawks alight on the shoulders of a man dressed in brocade and silk robes, embroidered with dragons. They opened their beaks and sang to him in human voices.
The man peered into the brightness and said, “I am the Prince Abbot of Ryusonji, the Dragon Temple. But who are you?”
Then Sesshin was shaking him and he was once again in the old man’s dusty room.
“Don’t speak! Don’t say who you are!”
“I wasn’t going to.” Shika removed the mask, held it to his brow, and thanked it before returning it to the seven-layered bag.
“I saw your lips move. You were about to speak. Never mind; who was there?”
“The Prince Abbot of Ryusonji,” Shika said. “The hawk was a messenger from him. The hawks speak to him in human voices.”
Sesshin breathed out slowly. “Why would the Prince Abbot be turning his attention to Kuromori?”
“Perhaps he is looking for you,” Lady Tora suggested.
“I sincerely hope he doesn’t know who or where I am.”
“Don’t be so modest, Master. Surely at one time you knew each other quite well?”
“Years ago we studied together. He will have forgotten me by now.”
“Something must have reminded him. Unless it is the Kuromori lord who has attracted his attention.”
Sesshin scratched his head with both hands. “I just want a quiet life,” he complained. “I don’t want to come to the attention of the Prince Abbot. He’s going to be very angry at the loss of his werehawk. It is dead, isn’t it?” He poked at the bird, but it gave no sign of life. “You shouldn’t have killed it.”
“Only Shikanoko could have killed it, and he was there,” Lady Tora said. “Doesn’t that suggest some deeper working of fate than your desire for a quiet life?”
Sesshin buried his head in his hands. “I would like you to go away now while I consider what this means and how I should advise Lord Kiyoyori. I have a horrible feeling it is not going to turn out well, least of all for me.”
“Shikanoko can leave now, but I will stay. There is something else that needs to be done before I go to Lord Kiyoyori.”
Shika wanted to stay with them, wanted to talk about what had happened to him, what it all meant, who was the priest who had seemed so alarming and so attractive at the same time. He sensed they knew so much they could teach him and he was seized by a ferocious hunger to swallow up all this knowledge before it was too late.
“Go,” Lady Tora said, but he lingered outside, aware of the fragrance emanating from her, mingling with the lamp oil and incense. He heard the old man say, as if with foreboding, “What do you want from me?”
“That which you have not given to earth, water, air, or fire, to neither man nor woman, for forty years,” she replied. “I am going to make you a father.”
“You’ll have no luck with me,” he said, trying to joke. “It’s all withered away.”
“You will be able to give me what I need. Don’t look so apprehensive, my dear Master. I promise you will find it enjoyable.”
Shika walked away. He did not know if he was feeling jealousy or some other deep emotion. He felt a sob rise in his chest—was it grief? But why would he weep for Akuzenji or for any of the others who had teased and bullied him? Yet he was close to tears for them, and felt he should make some effort to honor their deaths and placate their restless spirits. He could hear chanting in the distance. Following the sound, he made his way to the small shrine at the end of the lake, and knelt there beneath the cedars.
The last of the bodies were stacked in a pile, covered with brushwood, and set on fire. It had been a long time since the smell of burning flesh floated over the peaceful dwellings and fields of Matsutani. Kiyoyori was impatient, racked by desire, but he would not let this distract him from what had to be done. He dispatched groups of retainers with the heads to display them on sharpened posts at the Shimaura barrier and at crossroads and bridges along the North Mountain Road. Then he turned his attention to the problems that the deaths of Akuzenji and his band presented. The most urgent matter was to launch an attack on their mountain fortress and secure for himself their means of controlling the road and the merchants who traveled along it. This seemed like a straightforward exercise that could be carried out by his retainers. Then arrangements had to be made to purify the riding ground from the pollution of death and to make offerings to placate the spirits of the departed. When he had issued his instructions and spoken to the priests, he sent for his wife. By then it was approaching dusk.
“Your eyes are red,” he addressed her. “Were you weeping because I was not killed?”
“Forgive me, lord. I was overcome by shock and grief that such an attempt should be made on my husband’s life.”
“And you are no doubt affected by the death of one of your waiting-women?”
“If she was in any way part of the intrigue I rejoice at her death. My tears are for no one but you.”
“I would like to believe that.”
“It is true.” An expression of fear flickered into her eyes as though she had suddenly realized the danger of her position.
“You did not for a moment allow yourself to hope that you might be returned to your first husband?”
“How can you say such a thing? He is as dead to me. Have I not been a faithful wife to you? Everything that was mine is now yours. I have given you a son; I have been a mother to your daughter, as far as she would let me. I would have gladly given you more children, but you seem to have grown cold toward me.”
He made no reply, studying her carefully. She met his gaze with frank eyes.
“My lord must be tired and hungry. Let me prepare a bath and some food. What is your pleasure?”
“Did you know that my brother had been sending letters to Enryo?”
“I swear I did not. I would have told you at once. Please, take a bath and relax. Shall I bring the children to see you?”
The cedar-scented smoke from the bathhouse masked the smell from the pyre, and in the hot water Kiyoyori felt himself cleansed in body and spirit. He ate with his children, who were thrilled and grateful to be included in the special feast his wife prepared: rice with chestnuts and quail, hen’s eggs simmered in broth, freshwater fish grilled with taro. They were well behaved and confident. Both seemed intelligent, especially Hina, who he could see was growing more like her mother every day. She showed a great interest in the events of the day and questioned him closely about what they all meant, what would happen to the boy who shot the bird, and what her father would do with all the extra horses.