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DRAGONSWORD

CHAPTER 1

Month of the Tiger

Spring 1369 C.R.

Nori­geo sto­ically watched the last embers of his mother’s pyre burn to the ground. The shrouded form of Kanato Miy­obi was no longer to be seen — her bier, the white funeral hang­ings, and the chrysan­the­mum petals that had decked it were all reduced to ashes. For the last hour Nori­geo and his lit­tle brother Eoshigi had stood along­side their father, Kanato Takata, as wail­ers cried in coun­ter­point to the mourn­ful flutes of the musi­cians. Eoshigi cried as well. Nori­geo pre­tended not to notice, and bit the inside of his cheek to stop his own tears from flow­ing. Takata was not so under­stand­ing: he cuffed Eoshigi once, embar­rassed that a samurai’s son should weep in pub­lic for so small a rea­son as death.

The cer­e­mony had taken place when the ris­ing sun painted a halo around Ling’che’s snow-capped peak. The moun­tain was said to be the home of Usembo, Dragon Lord of the Wind, invoked at funer­als to speed the depart­ing soul on its way to the outer spheres. It was chance that Nuri­don Estate, the Kanato moun­tain fief, rested in the foothills of Mount Ling’che. Nori­geo thought Father would be con­tent that Usembo was so near; instead Takata seemed unhappy that they could not con­duct the funeral in Shikoku on the seacoast.

There was no expla­na­tion offered for his dis­con­tent about the funeral. Nor was much expla­na­tion offered for his star­tling announce­ment afterward.

Takata bid his sons be seated in the recep­tion hall. The boys knelt expec­tantly before him; they were sel­dom allowed in this room where adults con­ducted their busi­ness, and were acutely con­scious of the silence there. Takata regarded his chil­dren with pursed lips as he col­lected his thoughts. Lit­tle Eoshigi, red­dened eyes betray­ing his sor­row, fid­geted with fin­gers knot­ted in his sash. Seri­ous Nori­geo, tall for his age, waited with grown-up matu­rity on his father’s words.

“You know I’m often gone from home,” began Takata. “I serve our lord, Coun­cilor Ham­a­tori, in the cap­i­tal, and other times I take our men and go on cam­paign. Boys your age belong in nei­ther place.”

Nori­geo, with the wis­dom of an eleven-year-old, sensed some­thing omi­nous in his father’s words.

“Since you can­not remain here, solely in the com­pany of ser­vants,” Takata con­tin­ued, “I’ve made suit­able arrange­ments for each of you.”

Nori­geo drew a breath and held it. Arrange­ments for he and Eoshigi? He wanted to ask what, but didn’t dare interrupt.

Takata smoothed his mourn­ing robes, and fixed his eye on Nori­geo. The boy sat straighter under the inspec­tion, hardly breath­ing, not dar­ing to swallow.

“Nori­geo, it’s time to begin your samu­rai train­ing. Ushiyama, Lord Hamatori’s cousin, has gra­ciously offered to take you into his house­hold. You will be fos­tered there, train­ing with his own sons. I expect you will serve your fos­ter father as duti­fully as you would me.”

Samu­rai train­ing? Fos­tered to the provin­cial Gov­er­nor, an Isshki lord? Norigeo’s heart bounded, then sank. He had not looked far beyond Mother’s death, except to won­der if they might all go to live in Shaotzu to be near Court. But Lit­tle Brother wouldn’t under­stand being fostered…

It was Eoshigi’s qua­ver­ing voice that brought him back to the moment. “And me, Father?” asked the seven-year-old, his eyes moist.

“Uncle tells me you have spe­cial tal­ents, Lit­tle One,” Takata said gen­tly, refer­ring to Oni­mara Bakaiyo, a house­hold friend. “You are going to become a monk at Agu­mara Monastery. Per­haps, if you have the skills we believe you have, you may become a lama one day.”

“But, Father, I don’t want to be a monk! I want to stay here, or go with Norigeo!”

Nori­geo was unable to believe his father’s words. Eoshigi sent else­where? Unsamurai-like, Lit­tle Brother’s tears began to flow again. This time, Takata ignored them.

“Well, now — you may not become a monk after all: that all depends on you, Lit­tle One. First you’ll be an acolyte, along with oth­ers your age. Then, if you show tal­ent, and rev­er­ence, you may become a monk if you wish.” Lord Kanato looked from the stunned Nori­geo to the sob­bing Eoshigi, flus­tered by this emo­tional dis­play. “Come now,” he snapped, patience wear­ing thin. “You can’t stay here. If my par­ents were still alive it would be dif­fer­ent, but that’s not the case. Agu­mara is close to Shimura Estate, where Nori­geo will be. I’m sure you can visit. And I’ll visit, as well. Now, stop crying.”

The last stern com­mand silenced Eoshigi’s sobs, but tears rolled unchecked down the young boy’s cheeks. Exas­per­ated, Takata stood up. “The ser­vants are pack­ing your things,” he told them as he slid the wall screen open. “We leave in the morning.”

 * * *

Nori­geo had hoped at least to ride a horse like his father, but that adult priv­i­lege was denied him with a sin­gle curt “No.” Instead, the entire trip was made by bone-jarring ox cart. Small mat­ter that the carts were pret­tily painted in Kanato red and black, with the white leap­ing gazelle, the clan crest and totem, worked into the silken canopies. The boys rode the fore­most cart, ser­vants and bag­gage fol­low­ing behind; the entire pro­ces­sion was led by Kanato Takata and escorted by guards.

At their sedate pace, it would be an entire day before they reached Agu­mara Monastery, twelve miles dis­tant along the God­uan River. Shimura Estate, north of the Nesui River, was a half-day’s travel beyond that. Nori­geo thought he would be bored, since Lit­tle Brother wasn’t in the mood for games or songs, but sur­pris­ingly, Oni­mara Bakaiyo accom­pa­nied them, sit­ting in the same cush­ioned wagon as the boys. He suc­ceeded in cheer­ing Eoshigi with tales of priestly magic; when the sto­ry­telling was done, Nori­geo asked Uncle if he had come along only to cheer Eoshigi.

Bakaiyo shook his head. “I am to be your teacher now, Young Mas­ter,” he explained. He smiled, and his long mus­taches drew up into his plump cheeks.

“Like you were for Mother?”

Bakaiyo nod­ded. “You might say that. Teacher, adviser — even friend, I hope.”

“Of course you’re my friend, Uncle.” Nori­geo used the term of respect with affec­tion. As long as he could remem­ber, Bakaiyo had been part of the house­hold. Though not a rel­a­tive, he was far more than a ser­vant; Nori­geo took for granted that Uncle lived with them and par­tic­i­pated fully in fam­ily mat­ters. It was what Uncle did. Nori­geo was glad that he trav­eled with them.

At sun­set they arrived at Agu­mara. Not anx­ious to think about Eoshigi’s depar­ture, the broth­ers had not said their good­byes yet when the ox cart stopped out­side the monastery gate. There, Eoshigi’s resolve failed and Nori­geo was at a loss how to com­fort Lit­tle Brother. The tear­ful farewell was cut short by Takata, who gruffly reminded his youngest to blow his nose before approach­ing the monastery. Eoshigi walked through the gate, a small fig­ure in white mourn­ing robes, accom­pa­nied by his father and fol­lowed by a ser­vant with his few belong­ings. A short time later, the two men reap­peared alone.

Takata thought it best to spend the night at an inn, though Lama Banukori had offered them the hos­pi­tal­ity of the monastery. Nori­geo laid awake think­ing of Lit­tle Brother, unable to sleep but hardly notic­ing the new sur­round­ings or the noise of bois­ter­ous sake drinkers. He was glad his father was absent from the room they shared when tears unac­count­ably damp­ened Norigeo’s futon. Takata’s bed was still vacant when Nori­geo fell asleep near dawn.

 * * *

 Isshki Ushiyama’s res­i­dence was the heart of Shimura Estate. It was located atop Shimura Hill, reached by a road that wound past vil­lage rice pad­dies and through the small hold­ings of Isshki samu­rai. A stone bridge across a nar­row ravine gave access to the mead­ow­land where Isshki House strad­dled two streams and loomed like a minia­ture castle.

“No”, Bakaiyo replied to Norigeo’s ques­tion, “it’s not a cas­tle, it’s a for­ti­fied manor. Like Nuri­don, really — just bigger.”

Nori­geo saw no sim­i­lar­ity to his famil­iar home. Sev­eral roof peaks jut­ted above twenty-foot high walls, hint­ing at unusu­ally tall build­ings within. Cor­ner tow­ers held manned look-out posts; plum-and-blue Isshki ban­ners bear­ing the fly­ing egret waved from each of the gate tow­ers. The gate itself was larger even than that of Agu­mara Monastery. The cross­piece was made from the sin­gle trunk of a mas­sive tree, black with age or old lac­quer, heav­ily carved and set with jade topu, charms nam­ing the clan’s house­hold spir­its and patron gods. The heavy gates, bound with iron, were open now, reveal­ing a spa­cious gar­den that served as the entrance courtyard.

As the ox carts rolled inside, Nori­geo regarded the land­scap­ing with inter­est. A minia­ture island planted with dwarf trees nes­tled at one end of the largest fish­pond he had ever seen. The run-off flowed through a screen­ing bam­boo grove and under­neath one of the build­ings. Oni­mara Bakaiyo’s sharp eye also noted that the skill­ful gar­den­ing obscured the lay­out of the inte­rior and con­cealed divid­ing walls where defend­ers could fight from court­yard to court­yard. His chance for obser­va­tion was cut short, how­ever, as the ox carts came to a halt in the court­yard. Kanato Takata dis­mounted while the oxen were unhitched. Then Nori­geo, as befit­ted his sta­tion, climbed down from the front of the cart. He was fol­lowed by Bakaiyo, and the trio walked to the palm-shaded veranda by the fish­pond where Lord Ushiyama awaited them.

“Thank you for receiv­ing us, Lord.” Takata stopped at the foot of the stairs and deeply bowed his respects.

“My friend.” Ushiyama bowed just as deeply, an honor to Takata. The man was frail and looked far older than Takata, but was said to have a bril­liant mind for tac­tics. At the moment all Nori­geo could see was that his under­gown was badly wrin­kled and his gray beard didn’t seem too well kept. It was hard to believe this was the Gov­er­nor and Field Gen­eral who ruled the whole province when he was at the cap­i­tal city of Tonshu.

Ushiyama returned Norigeo’s apprais­ing stare and the boy looked quickly away, blush­ing at his own rudeness.

“This is your son?” Ushiyama asked.

“It is. And this is the wu jen, Oni­mara Bakaiyo, of whom we spoke.”

Both boy and man bowed at their intro­duc­tion, but a scan­dal­ized Nori­geo cast his eyes furtively towards Bakaiyo as they bent for­ward. A wu jen? Uncle, a wiz­ard? Was this pos­si­ble? Why had he never been told? A hun­dred ques­tions rushed through his mind, and it took him a moment to real­ize he was being spo­ken to.

“–know my son Temuro, don’t you?” Ushiyama was asking.

Nori­geo looked blank, then stam­mered a hasty answer. “Yes, Sir. We met at the River Dragon fes­ti­val in spring.”

“Excel­lent. Then you will not be com­pletely among strangers to start with.” A dry smile cracked his weather-lined face, and he motioned a ser­vant for­ward. “Osho will take you to your room, and bring you to din­ner. I’ll speak with you again later.”

Sum­mar­ily dis­missed, Nori­geo watched with dis­may as Bakaiyo joined the men in Ushiyama’s recep­tion hall. He couldn’t ques­tion Uncle about being a wu jen under those cir­cum­stances — and Osho left him no time to con­tem­plate it. With a grunt the ser­vant hoisted one of Norigeo’s chests from the cart, and dis­ap­peared beyond the bam­boo. Nori­geo ran to catch up.

 * * *

It was gen­er­ally the cus­tom for women and chil­dren to dine sep­a­rately from the men in the fam­ily. In this, as in other ways, Ushiyama’s house­hold was unusual. His fam­ily had suf­fered much from ill­ness and war, and Ushi pre­ferred to sur­round him­self with life and grow­ing things. Chil­dren were wel­come at table, as were all the imme­di­ate fam­ily, and they took their meals together, with one excep­tion — Ushiyama’s wife Sarumeko. “Mother”, con­fided Temuro in a whis­per, “prefers to eat in the north wing. She’s never here.”

Ushiyama sat serenely at the head of his table. Tonight, com­pany sat to his right: Takata, Bakaiyo, and Nori­geo next to Temuro. To Ushiyama’s left sat his mother Uekeda, his younger son Adukaro, and lit­tle daugh­ter Kiyani.

Ushiyama’s con­ver­sa­tion with Nori­geo was a brief, for­mula inter­view about the boy’s knowl­edge and inter­ests. Nori­geo answered politely; then, when the lord’s curios­ity was sat­is­fied, sake appeared. A quick toast was made to young Kanato’s fos­ter­age, and the con­ver­sa­tion shifted to pol­i­tics. As close as he sat to him, Nori­geo didn’t have a sin­gle oppor­tu­nity to speak with the wu jen while the men talked and drank. Grand­mother Uekeda ate lit­tle and said less, and dis­missed the chil­dren just as the inter­est­ing war tales began.

As they left, Nori­geo heard men­tion of Isshki Oroshin, and won­dered out loud if that famous sea cap­tain was also a rel­a­tive of Temuro’s.

“Of course,” said young Isshki. “He’s my Younger Cousin, son of my Elder Cousin, Coun­cilor Ham­a­tori. What have you heard of him?”

“I’ve heard Father tell of the Captain’s sea bat­tles,” replied Nori­geo. “They’ve fought together, you know — Oroshin and my father.”

They stopped in the hall out­side Temuro’s room. “Cer­tainly,” said young Isshki matter-of-factly. “Your father serves Lord Coun­cilor Ham­a­tori, just as Younger Cousin Oroshin does.”

Norigeo’s proud smile faded, uncer­tain what Temuro was saying.

“Yes. So?”

“So — nat­u­rally they would fight together.”

Nori­geo was per­plexed. This felt some­how like a mis­un­der­stand­ing, and he did not want to start off with his fos­ter brother in this way. He tried to clar­ify himself.

“I meant only, isn’t it grand? My father has served with famous samu­rai that have done great deeds. And now we begin our train­ing to become war­riors our­selves!” He stud­ied Temuro’s face in the glow of the lamp, and slow real­iza­tion dawned.

“Don’t you care?” he asked incredulously.

Temuro shrugged. “Father says I’ve waited too long already. Now that you’re here, I have no choice.” He sniffed as he stepped through the ricepa­per par­ti­tion into his room, and looked down at Nori­geo. “You can train all you want. For myself, I’d rather be riding.”

The door panel slid shut in Norigeo’s face.

* * *

Kanato Takata called for his son the next morn­ing and met with him in the pri­vacy of a gar­den obser­va­tion plat­form. They sat in the orchid-scented shade beside a pool over­grown with lily pads, and for a long time Takata said noth­ing. His fin­gers played ner­vously with a plain wooden case he had set beside his knee. Nori­geo respected his father’s silence, too awk­ward to inter­rupt with ques­tions about wu jen and reluc­tant samurai-in-training. He watched the carp glide slowly among the lilies, and waited for his father to speak.

The elder Kanato cleared his throat and picked up the wooden case. “Before I go, there is some­thing I wish to leave with you. It belonged to your mother.”

He held the box out to Nori­geo, who took it and was unpre­pared for its weight.

“What is it?”

His father smiled at the pre­dictable ques­tion. “Open it. It’s unlocked.”

The clasp on the box was a sim­ple one. Nori­geo swung it to one side and raised the lid.

His breath caught. The box was lined with plain light blue silk, and upon that silk rested a sheathed wak­iza­shi. The hilt was cov­ered with inter­wo­ven strips of shark­skin; the peb­bly white hide beneath the wrap­ping of blue silk cord looked like it had never been touched. The sheath was sil­ver and dark blue enamel, worked in a motif of dol­phins, anemones and scal­loped shells. A fan­ci­ful dragon curved in relief around the bur­nished tsuba, the hilt­guard of the sword.

“Oh, Father.” He could only stare. The wak­iza­shi, two feet long, was of a size to be a sword for an eleven-year-old boy. He put the case down and care­fully took the short sword out.

“Draw it,” his father prompted, watch­ing him intently. Nori­geo needed no other urg­ing, but snatched his hand from the hilt as soon as he touched it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Noth­ing, Father. It just felt…strange.”

“How, strange?”

Norigeo’s fin­gers touched the hilt gin­gerly, as if it were a flame. “There it is again. A tin­gle, like when your hand falls asleep.” Nori­geo turned the hilt to his father, offer­ing Takata the blade, but the elder Kanato sighed and shook his head.

“I can’t feel it. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. Go ahead — take it.”

Intrigued, Nori­geo ignored the sen­sa­tion and grasped the hilt firmly. The weapon slid smoothly from its sheath, glis­ten­ing with a fine coat of oil; his eyes fol­lowed the engraved dragon which ran the length of the blade. Takata showed him how to hold the sword to the light in order to see the tem­per lines. The grain of the forged metal and tem­per pat­tern com­bined in a unique series of forward-curving swirls. “It’s called the Rush­ing Tide pat­tern,” Takata explained as Nori­geo stud­ied it.

“It’s beau­ti­ful. Where did this sword come from, Father?”

“It was Miyobi’s.”

“Where did she get it?” Nori­geo had dif­fi­culty imag­in­ing his mother with any weapon, let alone a pecu­liar mas­ter­piece like this one.

“It was made by the mas­ter sword­smith Fujin­matsu two hun­dred and twelve years ago. His name and mark are on the tang.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“I don’t sup­pose you would have. Nev­er­the­less, he was a great swordsmith.”

Takata stood, and Nori­geo replaced the wak­iza­shi in its sheath. “Take good care of this sword,” his father said sternly. “I don’t need to tell you, do I, what you have heard before? ‘The sword is the soul of the samurai.’ ”

“Yes, Father!” Nori­geo drew him­self to atten­tion, proud and seri­ous. “I mean, no, Father!”

Takata smiled. “Very good. Now I must go. Come and see me off, Norigeo.”

His father left the gar­den. Nori­geo hur­riedly laid the wak­iza­shi in its wooden case, and followed.

Only after Takata was gone did Nori­geo real­ize his father had explained noth­ing about the sword, nor where his mother had got­ten it.

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