Ryōtora felt the attention of the unknown kami. It wasn’t the heavy, alien awareness of the mountain, thinking on a time scale in which his entire lifespan was scarcely the blink of an eye; it was more familiar than that. Not Earth, nor Water, nor Air, nor Fire, but all of those things together. And with them, something else: the element that was not an element, the absence that defined the presence of the other four. The Void.
A very powerful connection to the Void.
It’s human, Ryōtora realized. Not a spirit of the natural world, not one of the primordial Fortunes, but the spirit of a human. One that, instead of descending into Meido to be judged and reborn in a new form, or lingering in the mortal world as a restless ghost, had transcended to become a kami.
He felt the moment its presence flowed down into a vessel – but not into the boulder he’d chosen as a possible yorishiro.
Ryōtora shot to his feet, hands outstretched. But it was too late. Sekken’s body convulsed – and he thought of it in those terms, Sekken’s body, because he knew with the unspoken instinct of his communion that the awareness now inhabiting that flesh, the entity that opened Sekken’s eyes and looked at Ryōtora, was not the Phoenix scholar.
He dropped back to his knees and bowed low. Just because this kami had once been human didn’t mean it was benevolent… and if he angered it, Sekken might be the one who paid the price.
“Revered kami,” he said, his voice trembling. “You honor us with your presence. If there is some offering I can make which will be pleasing to you, name it.”
With his face turned downward, he couldn’t see anything but the moss and dirt and stone beneath him. He heard the quiet scuff of Sekken’s foot against the ground, and then a long, drawn-out breath. As if the kami was testing out its host body, making sure it remembered how everything worked.
He should have seen the danger. People could be yorishiro, too – though usually not like this. High-ranking sumō wrestlers could hold that status, and there were rural traditions where a local medium called a kami down into a child. He’d seen it before. Yet he’d been thinking in terms of the natural environment, not a deceased human. Something like Saiun-nushi.
Sekken, forgive me.
“You are that one…” That was Sekken’s voice, but not his manner of speaking. There was an odd cadence to its words as it tried again. “You are that one who called me forth.”
“Yes, revered kami.”
He heard a rustle, as of someone kneeling, and then a soft whine from the inugami. Not of pain; the dog sounded like it was trying to both seek and give comfort. “My poor friend,” the kami murmured.
Ryōtora hesitated, then risked a question. “Are you the one to whom that honored inugami belongs?”
“Yes.”
They’d found their witch at last. Not a villager; someone who had died untold centuries before. “Are you the one who imprisoned the Night Parade?”
“Lured them, ages ago. Only their leader lies trapped.”
As Sayashi had indicated. That must be why no one had seen him yet, and Ryōtora silently thanked the Fortunes and this kami for that. “Please forgive my ignorance. But what is your connection to Asako Sekken, the man who now serves as your vessel?”
A long pause answered him. Then the kami said, “Will you forever stay like that? I cannot see your face. Sit up.”
It sounded puzzled, rather than like it was granting him formal permission to release his bow. How long ago had that unknown person died? The etiquette of Rokugan might have been different then.
The Empire itself might not have existed then.
Now was not the time to ask questions about irrelevant history. Ryōtora straightened up and found Sekken’s body now sitting cross-legged not far away, one hand stroking the dog with absent familiarity. Sekken himself had taken to petting it over the last few days, but always in a cautious fashion.
A brief glance over Ryōtora’s shoulder showed him that Ishi and Tarō were still bowing. “They as well should sit up,” the kami said. “That seems not comfortable.”
The two ashigaru didn’t look much more comfortable once upright. They kept their gazes trained on the ground, rather than staring at the possessed samurai now speaking in such an odd manner. Ryōtora thought of the boundary stone, carved with that archaic character for chain, and Sekken’s previous assignment to assist a scholar who studied ancient forms of the language. Was Sekken still inside there somewhere, helping the kami translate to something more like current speech?
“This,” the kami said, holding one hand up and studying it curiously. “As you asked. There is a connection… yes.”
“Were you, in life, of the Phoenix Clan? Or the Dragon?” Sekken had a Mirumoto ancestor.
“Clans?” The kami seemed puzzled by this word. “Mean you… no, I recollect. Not the old tribes. Those who vowed themselves to the children of Lady Sun and Lord Moon. The ones who took their names held lands not far from here.”
The earliest days of the Empire, then, when “Mirumoto” and “Agasha” meant not families, but the man and the woman who followed Togashi-no-Kami, the founder of the Dragon Clan. Or perhaps a little afterward; Ryōtora knew very little of history after the Day of Thunder, but he had a vague sense that the Empire as it was today hadn’t sprung into existence overnight. How long had it taken before the scattered tribes of humanity all either joined the clans of the Kami, or migrated north to become the Yobanjin? Even Sekken might not know.
If he were sitting with me now, he’d have so many questions.
But the questions that mattered most, Ryōtora could ask for him. “Were you a shugenja? Could you speak to the elemental kami?” A tentative nod answered him, followed by a more confident one. “Were you an ishiken?”
Shugenja with the gift of working with the Void were exceedingly rare outside of the Phoenix, and not common even within their ranks. The term seemed to puzzle the kami again. “The Void,” Ryōtora said. “Were you able to channel it in some fashion? You have a powerful connection to the Void now.”
“I understand not what you mean,” the kami said. “I am…” It gazed around, frowning. “My connection is to this place. And to this dog. And to this man.”
Without warning, it reached into Sekken’s kimono. A moment later it drew out the scholar’s portable writing kit. A delighted smile spread across Sekken’s face. “Ah. This is why.”
Now it was Ryōtora’s turn to be confused. The writing kit was much like his own, albeit more finely made, with–
“Vermilion lacquer,” he breathed. There was more than one source of cinnabar in Dragon lands, of course, let alone in the Empire as a whole. But they’d wondered why, out of all possible descendants from the witch, Sekken would be the one haunted by the inugami.
A simple writing kit, lacquered with pigment mined in Seibo Mura, and owned by a descendant of the shugenja who imprisoned the Night Parade. That slender thread had drawn Sekken all the way from Phoenix lands to this place.
By way of the inugami. Sekken’s body didn’t have the exhausted look of the dog, but the way the kami sat seemed nearly as weary. Ryōtora said, “You have weakened recently, revered kami. Is it because the shrine fell? Or because something was taken from it?”
“Taken. Yes.” The kami passed Sekken’s hand over his face. “So many wounds of late. There was… a shaking. Saiun itself trembled. The fire stopped, and Nurarihyon woke. His breath slipped free. The amulet, gone. I reached out, I sent my friend… the Night Parade came. Their presence feeds him. Then someone took the mountain away.”
Ryōtora’s breath caught. “Saiun-nushi. I… I moved its shintai from here down to the village.”
Sekken’s hand trembled on the inugami’s head. “Its strength no longer sustains me.”
Guilt knifed through him. He’d thought that by re-enshrining the kami of the mountain down in the village, he was making Seibo Mura safer. Instead he’d torn away this kami’s support.
The dwindling of the ward is my fault.
Ryōtora didn’t even realize he’d bowed to the earth again until he heard the kami say, “Why do you do such a thing? I am no daughter of the Sun and Moon. Made from the tears of Amaterasu Ōmikami and the blood of Onnotangu Ōmikami, yes – in life – as all humans are, but no divine child, fallen to earth.”
“I have weakened you,” Ryōtora said, remaining fixed in his bow. “In trying to help, I have made things worse.”
“Are they made better by you staring at the ground?”
No – but that wasn’t the point. How could he show his face, when he’d erred so badly? But the kami’s pragmatic response reminded him that his own sense of shame was an indulgence right now. Better that he find some way to undo his mistake than grovel uselessly in repentance for it.
He forced himself to sit back up, though he kept his gaze low. “If I return Saiun-nushi to this shrine–”
“It will help, but not undo,” she said. The kami had spoken of herself as a daughter; it implied she had been female in life. “Saiun can support only. Even with the mountain, Nurarihyon will break free. Each time the Night Parade returns, he grows stronger.”
“How long do we have?”
“Without the mountain, until the full moon begins. With it… until the end,” the kami said simply. “I will not last beyond that.”
Did she mean her ward? Or was the kami herself at risk of destruction? Ryōtora’s orders were to protect Seibo Mura, not a kami the governor of Heibeisu didn’t even know existed – but his duty as a shugenja was to protect the spiritual fabric of Dragon lands.
And of Rokugan itself. “What happens if he is freed?”
“As it was before. In the full moon of summer, the Night Parade roams free. Once it was everywhere, any place, without warning; no one knew if their village would be next.”
Meaning that it could appear in Heibeisu. Or in Phoenix lands. Or in the imperial capital.
He started to bow again, then saw impatience in Sekken’s face. The impulse to courtesy was deeply ingrained in him – but if the kami found that more irritating than gracious, the courteous thing to do was to refrain. Stiffening his back in an attempt to quell that reflex, Ryōtora said, “How did you imprison him, revered kami? I am also a shugenja, though without your knowledge and power. If I can restore the ward that holds him bound–”
The kami stood in the middle of his sentence, and for a moment Ryōtora feared he’d offended her. Instead she bowed to the west. “Spirits of the wind.” Then north, toward the peak of Saiun. “Spirits of the earth.” Then east – the waterfall? “Spirits of the water.” Then south, toward Seibo Mura. “Spirits of the flame. But not any more.”
Flame. In the village? No one had mentioned anything of the sort to him. There were lanterns, to be sure, and hearth fires… but a ward of this kind, he thought, would require a constant presence. The mountain was always there, and the waterfall, and in terrain like this it wasn’t difficult to find a spot where the wind blew without ceasing. Fire, though, wasn’t usually a permanent feature of the landscape. Not unless there was an active volcanic peak, or–
“The hot spring,” he whispered. It had dried up after the quake, the movement of the ground somehow cutting off the vents that supplied heat and water.
The fire stopped, the kami had said. Then: His breath slipped free. The spirit lights Chie had seen. And then–
“You spoke of an amulet,” he said, twitching as he instinctively tried to bow again. “Was that the element of Void in his imprisonment?”
She nodded Sekken’s head. Ryōtora’s heart twisted every time she moved like that, reminding him that the body he saw was being manipulated like a puppet. He prayed Sekken was unharmed in there, and that the Phoenix would understand the need to speak with the kami while they could – that Sekken would forgive him afterward.
He forced his thoughts back to where they belonged. “So what Chie took was part of the ward.”
“More than that,” the kami said. “Without it, you cannot face him. With it, you are safe.”
Ryōtora’s blood chilled. “So Sekken was right.” In the stories, one couldn’t even look at Nurarihyon without dying.
Was that why the yōkai had taken Chie? Perhaps they couldn’t harm her… but they had to get her out of the village, because their master was coming.
He said, “The girl who took the amulet. Were you able to sense where she went?”
“Sideways,” the kami said, making an elegant, obscure gesture with one hand.
“Into Senkyō?” When she nodded, he said, “There is a bakeneko here in the village who claims not to be part of the Night Parade. She wishes to leave so she will not be forced to join them, but I was neither able to banish her, nor to send her away from Seibo Mura. If it is your power that holds her here, would you permit her passage into the Spirit Realms? Her and… another person?”
The kami hesitated. This time Ryōtora bowed anyway, though he rose a moment later, rather than staying down as he delivered his plea. “If we are to stop the Night Parade, we must get that amulet back. And it is my duty to rescue the girl if I can. But I have never traveled in the Spirit Realms; I will need someone to guide me.” Sayashi would be less than eager to help, he suspected. But if it meant breaking her mother free of Nurarihyon’s control, and making it so that Sayashi herself need not fear being made to join their ranks…
“Goodwill is not in question,” the kami said. “For now, they are kept out. But if I open the way now–”
“Then they might come through early.” Ryōtora felt sick. He had no choice but to wait.
No matter which way he turned, he felt trapped. To defend against the Night Parade, they needed Chie, but to get Chie, they would need to risk the Night Parade. The presence of the other yōkai fed strength to Nurarihyon, and the kami wasn’t strong enough to hold him for much longer. Because the hot spring had dried up, and the amulet was gone, and Ryōtora had, in his ignorance, moved Saiun-nushi out of place. That left only the waterfall and the wind to keep Nurarihyon trapped. And only a few days more before the chaos began again.
He was going to fail Seibo Mura, and his clan, and the Empire.
The kami knelt in front of Ryōtora. In her time, etiquette had been different; she showed no hesitation in laying her hand against his cheek. The touch was simultaneously comforting – the kindness of the mother he’d never known – and a taunting offer of what he couldn’t have, as Sekken’s fingers cupped his jaw, Sekken’s long-lashed eyes gazed at him from only a breath away.
“You are not alone,” she said. In Sekken’s voice, quiet but strong. “I have not failed yet. We have my friend, your followers, and the man who has given me this chance to speak. We have Saiun and the people of the village.”
“I should send them away,” Ryōtora whispered. “If the village is empty–”
“Then the creatures of the Night Parade will have nothing to occupy their attention save seeking out their imprisoned leader. They need a target. But perhaps not all the targets.”
Evacuate part of the village – the young, the old, those who couldn’t defend themselves well. Keep a small number in Seibo Mura. But Ryōtora had to go after Chie, and he had to take Sayashi with him; who would that leave to lead the defense here? Sekken was no bushi, much less a military commander. He would do it anyway, Ryōtora thought. But it might very well mean that Ryōtora would return to find Sekken dead.
Those were not concerns to trouble a spirit with. She was doing what she could; the rest was up to him.
“Thank you, revered kami,” he said. The words came out barely audible.
Her gaze grew distant, and Sekken’s hand slid from his jaw. Then she said, in a thoughtful, half-unsure tone, “Kaimin.”
“Is that your name?”
“That is what they called me. Those who venerated Saiun, and kept the knowledge of my presence here. Kaimin… yes.”
Sekken would have been able to reflexively identify what the name could mean. It might or might not have been her name in life; it might or might not even match with the language as it was spoken now. But it was good to have something to call her, other than “revered kami.”
Ryōtora backed away on the rough ground and bowed low. “You have my gratitude, Kaimin-nushi. And I vow to you that I will give everything I have to keep the Night Parade and its leader imprisoned.”
His ears heard only silence. The part of him that sensed the spiritual fabric of the world, though, felt the rush as Kaimin-nushi’s spirit dissipated.
And then he heard the thump as Sekken collapsed.