“Now I know how you felt after moving Saiun-nushi,” Sekken said, rubbing his face.
He hadn’t been out for long. Just long enough for Ryōtora to rush to his side, so that the first thing Sekken saw when he woke was the shugenja’s worried face. That had lasted long enough for Ryōtora to make sure Sekken hadn’t suffered horribly during his stint as a temporary vessel for a kami, nor taken any permanent damage from it; then, predictably, Ryōtora was face-down on the ground, in abject apology for something he couldn’t have seen coming.
Nor had Sekken himself anticipated it. He’d been too fixed on the assumption that his connection was to some living person in Seibo Mura. Besides, he wasn’t a shugenja – not that one had to be, in order to encounter the kami, but Sekken wasn’t in the habit of thinking of himself as the sort of person who came into direct contact with spirits.
He wondered if Ryōtora could guess at both meanings behind his comment. The first was that now he felt the bone-deep exhaustion of sustaining the kami’s presence. According to Ryōtora’s account, all Kaimin-nushi had done with Sekken’s body was move it around a little bit, but he felt as if he’d run to the top of the peak and back. The second…
The second was the embarrassment of having caused someone such worry. In the wake of Sekken’s collapse, Ryōtora’s usual composed mask had dissolved, and the anguish in his eyes had burned like fire. If Sekken had been able to move his arms in that moment, he would have reached up to touch Ryōtora’s face, stroking the lines of worry away. But he’d been immobile, and Ryōtora wouldn’t have welcomed such a gesture regardless.
The mask was back now, of course. And Sekken wasn’t about to call attention to the slip; that would only make matters even more awkward. He’d focused on coaxing Ryōtora out of his bow, assuring him that everything was fine, that Sekken was glad to have been of use in communicating with Kaimin-nushi.
Sekken pulled his writing kit from his sash and turned it over in his hands. “This little thing,” he murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. “It was a gift from my uncle, in honor of my gempuku. Not even my maternal uncle – no one with any connection to Dragon lands. But we have many objects with vermilion lacquer in our territory; we’re fond of the color. I’m not surprised some of the pigment comes from here.”
“Were it not for that,” Ryōtora said in a flat, dull voice, “you would never have gotten involved in all of this.”
“Then I should send my uncle a letter of thanks,” Sekken answered, with deliberate lightness. He held up the kit and shook it gently at Ryōtora. “I know my presence has been an imposition on you, but I like to think it’s also been at least a little bit useful.”
“More than a little!”
He smiled at Ryōtora’s hasty response. “If I’ve given you at least one moment of meaningful assistance, then I’m glad to be here. To be honest…”
At the pause, Ryōtora lifted his eyebrows in query. Sekken lowered the writing kit, looking down at it so he wouldn’t burden Ryōtora with his feelings. “It’s a little sobering to think that I’ve done more of significance in the last ten days than in my entire life before this point.”
In his peripheral vision, he saw Ryōtora shake his head. Before the shugenja could voice his disagreement, though, Sekken held up one hand. “While I appreciate your confidence, I know my past better than you do. I used to think that my life was ideal – that I was lucky, having the opportunity to do more or less what I wanted, without any burden of obligation saying that I must do thus-and-such for the good of my clan. But while that may be pleasant, it’s also hollow.” He allowed himself a small laugh. “Ironic that my most important deeds in this lifetime will be in the service of another clan.”
“And the Empire as a whole,” Ryōtora pointed out. “Kaimin-nushi indicated that the Night Parade used to ravage anywhere it pleased. What we do here will protect not only the Dragon and the Phoenix, but every clan from the Crab to the Unicorn.”
It was a daunting prospect. Still, Sekken felt as if Ryōtora had helped him uncover a core of good steel inside himself… and he liked the feeling. Even with the danger looming over their heads, he had no intention of abandoning this battle.
“By now Ogano will have announced the evacuation,” Ryōtora said. “I need to get back there and ask for volunteers to stay – people willing to risk themselves in order to keep the Night Parade’s attention focused on the village, rather than on freeing their master.”
Sekken rose, even though his legs still felt as if they belonged to someone else. “Lead on.”
When the path down from the shrine brought them in sight of the village, Sekken’s first thought was that someone had kicked an anthill.
It looked as if every resident of Seibo Mura was running around in a panic. As he and Ryōtora drew closer, though, he realized that what looked like panic was in fact surprisingly orderly. Several men were dragging out a series of wheelbarrows and lining them up in the heart of the village, with their front shafts propped up on barrels and crates so that the platforms would be level. While not as capacious as carts, they had the advantage of not needing oxen or horses to pull them, and their single wheels, jutting up from the center of each platform, were much more suited to maneuvering along narrow mountain paths.
Of course, the sight also made him think of certain extremely unpleasant yōkai: wa nyūdō, katawaguruma, severed heads and screaming women mounted on flaming wheels. None of those had been seen in Seibo Mura… yet. But the attacks had gotten worse with each passing night, presumably as Nurarihyon’s ability to call his followers to him got stronger. Who could say what might appear next?
The main things being loaded onto the wheelbarrows’ platforms seemed to be food and other vital supplies, not personal possessions. Good, Sekken thought. Those not capable of walking far – children, elderly, injured villagers – could perch atop those. Anything else people wanted to bring they would have to carry on their own backs. Which would, in turn, limit how much they tried to carry.
When he said as much to Ryōtora, the shugenja nodded. “I discussed it with Ogano. Though I’m surprised they’re so willing to heed him, given the confrontation the other day.”
“The weight of tradition is on his side,” Sekken answered. “He is, after all, their headman.”
But when they got into the village proper, they discovered it wasn’t Ogano’s doing. Haru stood near the wheelbarrows, directing people, answering questions, and chastising anyone who tried to slip their personal belongings in among the vital supplies.
Sekken’s breath huffed out in a quiet laugh. “Perhaps peasants aren’t so different from samurai after all. As usual, it’s the lord’s hatamoto that actually gets things done.”
Ryōtora rubbed the back of his neck, smiling ruefully. “Indeed.”
While Ryōtora went to talk quietly with Haru, Sekken hung back. He could still see more than a few unfriendly glances cast his way; word had circulated that he wasn’t responsible for the problems in Seibo Mura, but people still wanted someone to blame. It was easier to turn on an outsider than their own headman. And Ryōtora thinks I can lead them in defense of the village?
He knew yōkai. That was the only skill he could offer here. But he wasn’t even sure how much use that would be: while certainly he could tell people to turn away if they heard the song of an azuki babā, or not to lift their heads to look a mikoshi nyūdō in the eye, how many of them would remember that in the panic of the moment? Not to mention that most of the instructions for surviving an encounter with a yōkai assumed there was just one, acting in accordance with its own inhuman nature. Matters were quite different when it was the whole Night Parade, bound to Nurarihyon’s service.
With a jolt, Sekken realized the inugami wasn’t there. He’d grown so accustomed to having the spirit dragging in his wake that the absence was unsettling. In hindsight, it made sense; now that Sekken had communicated with Kaimin-nushi – or rather, had been the means by which Ryōtora communicated with her – there was no need for the dog to pester him any longer.
You spent months trying to get rid of that thing, he thought. You should be glad it’s gone. He wasn’t, though. The last few days had transformed the inugami’s presence from a haunting to an odd kind of companionship. However tired the spirit might be, it would have been comforting to still have the dog by his side.
Ryōtora came back, with the particular stony expression Sekken interpreted as hiding nerves. “I’ve asked Haru to gather people so I can speak to them. Do you – ah – have any tips? I’m not used to making speeches.”
“Most of my education in that regard is about speaking in court,” Sekken said. “I don’t think the literary allusions and flattering compliments based on research into some lord’s lineage would be very persuasive to these people. What you really want is a Lion general, to rally the troops. Pity we don’t have one here.”
“Pity indeed,” Ryōtora muttered, and Sekken regretted the attempt at a joke. Their situation would be much improved if they had anyone here with military leadership experience. Or even military training.
His next answer was more serious. “Just be honest and sincere. Two things you’re very good at.”
Now why did that make him flinch? Sekken wondered as Ryōtora nodded and stepped away. It was a genuine compliment.
Haru sent out runners, and soon what Sekken believed to be the entire population of Seibo Mura was gathered in the center of the village. Ogano was there, doing his best to look important, dressed in what Sekken assumed was his finest kimono; so was Fūyō. At first Sekken couldn’t see “Aoi” anywhere; then he found her half-concealed behind the corner of a house. Sayashi was doing her best to look like a meek peasant girl, but she undercut that by shooting first Ryōtora, then Sekken, a look that might as well have been a banner as high as a house. This is all well and good for these people, but what about me?
The reason for her hiding became apparent when he noticed Fubatsu was also present, still unsteady from his illness and leaning on his mother for support. Sayashi had chosen a spot out of his line of sight. With the blood of the hihi in him, Fubatsu would be able to see her for what she really was; she must have heard about him spotting the inugami.
Then Sekken put such thoughts from his mind, because the villagers had all gathered, and Ryōtora began to speak. Not in the elevated, roundabout phrasings of a courtier addressing fellow samurai, but in simple speech that cut right to the heart of the matter.
Sekken didn’t bother listening closely to what he said. All of it was known to him already. Instead he watched the crowd, trying to evaluate their reactions.
They were afraid, of course. When Ryōtora had first arrived in Seibo Mura, the assumption had been that, with the governor having sent a shugenja, all would be well. Yet days had gone by – in which Ryōtora did a number of useful things, true, but nothing which definitively banished the threat and made the village safe. He hadn’t even been able to tell them why they were cursed with such troubles.
Well, now they had their answer. And it was far from reassuring.
The phrase “Night Parade of a Hundred Demons” elicited no flickers of recognition that Sekken could see. He suspected that after so long, even the shrinekeeper hadn’t known about the village’s ancient history. The peasants were, however, perfectly capable of comprehending the concept of “demons.” And even though it was really just a frightening name for a phenomenon they’d already experienced, codifying it like that deepened their fear.
But for all his lack of experience in making speeches, Ryōtora did an admirable job of responding to that fear.
He spun them the tale of Kaimin-nushi: the ancient and heroic shugenja who’d lured the Night Parade to this remote spot, then bound its leader – he didn’t use Nurarihyon’s name, just in case – and set herself as his eternal guardian. He glossed over how that knowledge might have been lost in the intervening centuries, and instead characterized the people of Seibo Mura as Kaimin-nushi’s helpers in that task. Sekken privately suspected that no one in the village had any blood connection to Kaimin-nushi’s descendants – if they had, surely her inugami would have haunted them first – but that didn’t stop Ryōtora from invoking them as the inheritors of her tradition. It was true enough not to violate the ethics of Bushidō, and it gave them pride, as an antidote to fear.
Then Sekken heard his own name.
Ryōtora was standing atop a wheelbarrow that hadn’t yet been loaded with supplies, at the center of the crowd, so that everyone could see him clearly. Now he turned and bowed to Sekken. “Many of you have feared Lord Asako because of the inugami seen in his presence. Gonbei, you told me you had once heard a tale that Seibo Mura had a guardian dog. I tell you today that you’re correct. The practice of tsukimono-suji is not always turned to personal gain and evil; in ancient times, it could be a noble art. Just as the Fortune Inari is attended by foxes, Kaimin-nushi has her attendant dog – the same spirit that Fubatsu has seen around our visitor.
“This is because Lord Asako is himself a descendant of the kami! Though he is an outsider to you, he’s come to Seibo Mura because he was called here by Kaimin-nushi’s inugami. He is not a great threat to you; far from it, in fact. He is instead your great ally.”
Now all eyes were on Sekken. He was accustomed to maintaining his composure in court, but it was hard to draw on those habits when he stood on a patch of trampled grass with frightened peasants looking at him like some minor Fortune. I’m just a scholar, he wanted to say – but humility was neither useful nor advisable when trying to rally people to defend against the Night Parade. He finally inclined a small bow toward Ryōtora, which had the merit of giving him something to do other than fight the urge to squirm.
It seemed to be enough. Ryōtora went on to explain that Masa’s daughter Chie had indeed been taken by the yōkai, and that an amulet in her possession had the power to protect its holder against the leader of the Night Parade. “In order to save Seibo Mura,” he said, “it’s of the greatest importance that we rescue Chie. To that end, this is what we’ll do.
“The majority of you will evacuate, as you’ve been told. Once past the line of Kaimin-nushi’s ward, you’ll be safe from the Night Parade. The mountains are still dangerous – but you are the people of the mountains. These dangers are ones you know well, and I trust you to work together to reach Heibeisu safely. I’ll send a letter with you, addressed to the governor of that city, requesting that he give you shelter until the threat here has been dealt with.”
And also telling him what you’ve learned, Sekken thought. Because it’s still all too possible that we will fail to deal with this, and someone else will have to pick up that task.
“But we can’t all evacuate,” Ryōtora said. “In order to delay the moment at which the Night Parade breaks free, we must keep the attention of the yōkai focused on this place. I therefore ask for volunteers: strong and brave people, who are willing to stand their ground against this chaos. Lord Asako will lead you in the defense of the village.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and it sounded uneasy. Ogano, being the headman, felt free to speak bluntly. “What about you?”
Ryōtora said, “I will go into the Spirit Realms to rescue Chie.”
The murmur grew instantaneously into a small roar. Nobody liked that idea, it seemed. Their one shugenja, the man the governor had sent to save them – and he proposed to leave just as the Night Parade arrived? The cries Sekken picked out of the noise didn’t accuse Ryōtora of cowardice; nobody considered a journey into Senkyō to be the act of a coward. But they wanted, they needed him in Seibo Mura. Men and women who had been stiffening their spines to volunteer abruptly changed stance at the prospect of fighting the yōkai without Ryōtora at their side.
Sekken couldn’t blame them. Quite apart from his lack of confidence in his own military skills, he didn’t much relish the thought of facing the Night Parade without a shugenja’s help. Descendant of Kaimin-nushi or not, he was definitely not leader enough to quell those fears, not when he shared them himself.
What could Ryōtora do about it, though? He kept his face impassive, raising his hands to try to quiet the shouts so he could explain… but in the end, he faced an impossible choice. Chie had to be rescued, the amulet retrieved. The village had to be defended. And there was only one of–
Sekken was moving through the crowd before he could think, murmuring reflexive apologies as he shouldered villagers out of the way. Even after he’d drawn close, he had to raise his voice before Ryōtora could hear him over everyone else. “Send me instead!”
Those nearest to him heard the offer, and took up the cry. “Yes! Send the Phoenix to save Chie!”
Ryōtora’s eyes went wide. Kneeling atop the barrow, he lowered his voice, so that at least the entire crowd wouldn’t hear him. “Lord Asako–”
“Are you going to say it’s too dangerous? Staying here is hardly safe either.”
“Yes, but from here you can retreat if you have to.”
Retreat: a polite, respectable synonym for flee. “With all that’s at stake, I’m not likely to do that.”
“You know yōkai better than I do–”
“And I also know the Spirit Realms. How much good does it do, being a shugenja there? Some, to be certain – but not nearly as much as it will do here. If we can’t have you in both places, then the next best thing is to assign me the task that has less need of your particular skills.”
“Yes, but…” Ryōtora hesitated, then scrambled off the barrow and caught Sekken’s sleeve. Together they pushed out of the crowd to a spot where Ryōtora could speak without being overheard. “You know as well as I do that going into Senkyō after Chie is a gamble. Even if whoever goes is successful… it might not help Seibo Mura.”
Sekken hadn’t given it any particular thought. He’d had too many other things to consider, after he woke from his stint as a divine vessel. But it wasn’t hard to see what Ryōtora aimed at. “You’re worried about time.”
The Spirit Realms didn’t always move at the same speed as the mortal world. A human could spend a lifetime there and come back to find only a day had passed at home. Or sometimes it went the other way: even a brief trip across that border translated into days, months, years in the realm they’d left behind.
Whoever went after Chie might not come back before the end of the full moon. In which case the Night Parade might break free, and the amulet would be used not to protect Seibo Mura, but to contain the threat that once more ranged across Rokugan. And with how fickle the Spirit Realms could be…
He might leave behind everyone and everything he’d known.
But if Sekken had spoken up sooner about the inugami, Ryōtora might have had more time to prepare. Sekken had broken his trust, and put everyone in greater danger as a result. The consequences should be on his own head.
“You aren’t a Dragon,” Ryōtora said. “Your duty is to your own clan. I can’t ask you to do this.”
The intensity of his voice held more power than any courtier’s crafted phrases. But in his eyes, Sekken saw something other than protest: hope, gratitude… and trust.
He answered simplicity with simplicity. “You don’t have to.”
Then Sekken turned, jogged back through the parted crowd, and leapt atop the barrow. Spreading his arms so that his sleeves fluttered in the wind, he declared, “I will go to the Spirit Realms in Sir Ryōtora’s place!”