Nothing Ryōtora said would talk Sekken out of his declaration. Too much of the village had acclaimed him for it… and Ryōtora knew he was right.
More than anything, he wanted to tell Sekken to leave while he could. But that was the Three Sins ruling him: Desire in his attraction to Sekken, Fear in his worry that Ryōtora might never see him again, and Regret in his guilt that he hadn’t solved the puzzle before now. That he couldn’t find any solution that didn’t require them both to risk death.
Confessing any of this to Sekken would only compound the problem. They had their duties; those should have the whole of their attention now. Ryōtora tore his gaze away from the Phoenix, busy writing a message for the refugees to carry to Heibeisu, and devoted himself to the task of preparing Seibo Mura.
He had a surprising number of volunteers to join the ranks of the defenders. Daizan, one of the loggers who’d gone to cut down the cypress tree for the temporary shrine. Gonbei, who’d told Ryōtora the story about the village having a guardian dog. Ashio, who according to Sekken’s notes had been driven half-mad by the laughter of a kerakera onna, due to his affair with another woman in the village; Ryōtora had to turn him down, because Ashio’s twitchy manner and disjointed speech cast doubt on the man’s stability in a crisis.
Others he did his best to turn down, with no more success than he’d had with Sekken. Ona insisted on staying to avenge her husband Hideo, killed by the okuri inu. When Ryōtora attempted to point out that she had three children, the eldest at fifteen declared that he could take care of his younger siblings, and then all three children bowed to the ground to beg Ryōtora that their family be permitted justice. Ryōtora suspected that if the eldest son hadn’t lost one arm in the collapse of a mining shaft, it would have been him staying instead.
He also didn’t manage to turn away Rin. She demonstrated her skills by using her sling to knock a bird from a tree branch, then told him with the sort of impudence that could get her into trouble elsewhere in the Empire that even if he ordered her to leave the village, he couldn’t stop her from sneaking back.
It was true, and better to bow to the inevitable than to encourage insurrection from the start. Even if he hated the thought of someone so young risking herself.
The last person in his line was the carpenter, Masa.
“I would have thought…” Ryōtora began, then hesitated.
“That I would ask to go with the Phoenix?” Masa’s jaw tightened. “When Chie was taken, if I’d known how to get to her, I would have gone on the spot. But now…”
Ryōtora waited. For all that time was precious, he couldn’t push this man, who was on the verge of losing everything he had left.
“Now,” Masa said, steadying his voice, “I think my place is here. I don’t know the Spirit Realms. I know Seibo Mura, though, and you… you’ll need help.”
It was all too true. “Thank you,” Ryōtora said gently, and stood. “You can start by helping with defenses.”
One other person stayed, because she had no choice.
“Aoi” told her mother and brother that she was going to help defend the village. “The only way I might get my memories back is if I find the yōkai that took them and confront it,” Sayashi said, lying with a persuasive fluency that disturbed Ryōtora.
Especially when Fūyō tried to say that she didn’t care whether Aoi never remembered her; all she cared about was her daughter’s survival. We’re going to have to tell her afterward that Aoi died during this battle, Ryōtora thought, feeling sick to his stomach. Then, on the heels of that: No. When this is over with, she will have the truth. She’ll hate me for it – but I must live with that. It was all too tempting to slip into the trap of doing what was easy, rather than what was right.
Of course, that assumed he was alive to give her the truth. But if he wasn’t, someone else could. He’d written up a report; it would go south with the evacuees, with strict orders that whatever else happened, it must reach Heibeisu. The Empire must be warned.
They couldn’t depart yet, though. Before they did, there was one thing they had to assist Ryōtora with, because he couldn’t do it on his own.
If the first “festival” had been a little subdued, the second was funereal. Moving Saiun-nushi out of the center of the village and back up to the mountainside shrine was necessary to prop up the failing ward – but it also reminded everyone that they might never return home, to their familiar rituals and local kami. The one saving grace was that Saiun-nushi itself seemed easier to bear, returning to its old home; this time Ryōtora didn’t collapse afterward.
Which was a relief, because he had something else he wanted to try.
The question of whether to do it scraped his nerves raw. Ordinary invocations to the kami were fairly safe; they were handed down through generations of Agasha-trained shugenja, recorded and learned and taught to students because they’d proven to be a reliable way of getting a predictable result. What he was considering doing was a different matter entirely: an improvised request, following no set form, and directed toward some of the most volatile kami in existence.
The morning after the evacuees departed, Ryōtora went out of the village to at least assess his chances… and found Sekken lounging on a rock above the dry bowl that had once been Seibo Mura’s hot spring.
“I figured you’d think of this,” Sekken said when Ryōtora came into view. “I saw you working yourself up to it. You’re going to try to restore this part of the ward, aren’t you?”
He hopped down before Ryōtora could answer. “The rocks aren’t warm – no more so than any other stone that’s been in the sun for a few hours. Whatever connection this area had to the fire kami, it’s gone.”
“Cut off, perhaps,” Ryōtora said. “Fire is oddly like water in that fashion. Where it lives in the earth, it flows along channels. The crater of an active volcano is the most obvious of those channels, but there are smaller gaps all throughout the mountains. And just as the flow of water in a spring can be severed by the shifting of the earth, so too can the flow of heat. If I can open it again–”
“Then eastern Dragon lands might have an exciting new volcano?”
More likely that they will have one charred shugenja. Ryōtora huffed a self-deprecating laugh and brushed his hair out of his face. “You have a very high opinion of my skill if you think I’m capable of creating that.”
“I take the risk very seriously indeed.” Sekken’s smile undercut the claim of seriousness; he meant it only as praise.
Warmth and embarrassment churned together in Ryōtora’s stomach. To hide it, he cast a glance at the dry bowl that had once been the spring. “You aren’t going to try to talk me out of this?”
“‘The mountains never learned to step aside’ – isn’t that how the Dragon saying goes? I’m nowhere near silver-tongued enough to persuade you. As it happens, though, I have no intention of trying. What you’re doing here may be dangerous… but it’s also necessary.” Sekken bowed Ryōtora toward the stones, like a host inviting a guest in. “Is there anything I can do?”
Kneeling at the side of the empty spring, Ryōtora said, “Just stand back.”
He lost track of both Sekken and time after that. He couldn’t simply put himself in communion with the lost fire; it was too deeply buried, and the earth above it was sluggish with the newfound cold. Ryōtora was able to restore the flow of the water – that was relatively easy, with the same prayer he’d used to shake the earth under the feet of the villagers when they were attacking Ogano – but heat was another matter. He could coax warmth into the pool; he couldn’t make it self-sustaining. Fire and Water stood in opposition, each annihilating the other. Getting them to coexist required a delicate balance, and he simply wasn’t capable of drawing the fire back up to the surface in the necessary strength.
What finally broke him from his trance was the feeling of hands on his shoulders. He opened his eyes to find the hands belonged to Sekken, and were keeping him from slumping over. The Phoenix let go of him once he was upright, then bowed in apology. “I didn’t want you going head-first into the pool.”
“Thank you,” Ryōtora said, reflex alone propelling the words out of his mouth. The light had shifted direction; it was mid-afternoon already. He hadn’t meant to try for so long.
Sekken dipped a hand into the water, then wiped it dry. He didn’t bother pointing out that it wasn’t hot; Ryōtora already knew. Instead he said, “You still have time.”
Time alone wouldn’t be enough. But Ryōtora didn’t say that.
“Come back to the village,” Sekken said. “Ishi and Tarō should have some defensive plans for you by now, and Ona will have food.”
With Fubatsu gone from the village, tied into the saddle of one of the ponies, Sayashi didn’t have to keep out of sight. They’d told the other defenders that “Aoi” wouldn’t be staying to fight the yōkai, but would go with Sekken into the Spirit Realms; this had the unfortunate side effect of freeing her from any responsibility to help out with the defenses, aside from making the occasional sardonic comment. Those made the others resent her, muttering amongst themselves that Aoi certainly had changed, and not for the better. But in their own way, her comments were helpful, because she knew more about yōkai than anyone other than Sekken – and her knowledge, unlike his, came from direct experience.
After one of those instances, Ryōtora and Sekken followed her out of Ogano’s house. When they were safely out of earshot from the others, she turned around and snapped, “Now that everyone’s gone, why not let me through? I see no reason to go on waiting. What difference does it make whether the Night Parade attacks now?”
“It gives them time to get farther away, and us more time to prepare,” Ryōtora said, even as he wondered why he was bothering. Sayashi knew that, and didn’t care.
The other reason, he didn’t voice. They hadn’t yet had a chance to ask her to be Sekken’s guide through Senkyō. That was why they’d followed her now, and it might take all their remaining time to convince her.
But he hadn’t reckoned on her quick wit. Examining her fingernails as if disappointed at how short and dull they were, Sayashi said, “Go ahead. I already know what you’re going to say.”
Sekken feigned surprise. “Are we so transparent?”
“Everything you know came out of a scroll,” Sayashi said to him, with a sharp smile that didn’t reassure at all. “And you expect to find that girl on your own, in the wilds of Senkyō? How laughable.”
Ryōtora said, “You understand why we need her. Even if you don’t care for the fate of this village, or for Rokugan, surely your own self-interest argues in favor of helping us.”
“My self-interest?” In this form she had no tail to lash, but he could imagine it anyway. “Going anywhere near his people runs very much counter to that. Would you feel safer, sneaking up to an enemy’s castle rather than running away?”
“If I knew the enemy would soon be pouring out of that castle to overrun the land, yes. Without that amulet, we can’t face… him.” Kaimin-nushi had shown no fear of naming Nurarihyon out loud, but she was a kami. Ryōtora judged it best to follow Sayashi’s lead in this matter. “And if we can’t face him, then soon he’ll be free. Which means you’ll have to fear him and his creatures everywhere you go. A smaller risk now gains you safety later.”
Sayashi’s lip curled. “If you succeed. You’ll forgive me if I have my doubts.”
While the two of them talked, Sekken had been watching quietly. Now he spoke up. “For all your objections, you haven’t refused outright. In fact, you invited us to present our request. Which means that you might be willing – if we were to offer you the right incentive.”
She merely smiled at him, and waited.
What could a bakeneko want? Some sort of gift? Or a bribe; the line between the two could be thin indeed, and given Sayashi’s personality, Ryōtora felt the latter was the more apt term. It wasn’t integrity that held him back, though. It was a complete lack of inspiration as to what might persuade her to help.
Sayashi laughed silently at them both. To Ryōtora she said, “Even your pet Phoenix can’t figure it out. I guess he doesn’t know as much about us as he thought.”
“Phoenix,” Sekken whispered, echoing the word she’d stressed. Then his eyes went wide.
Before Ryōtora could ask what he was doing, Sekken retreated two steps, to a more respectful distance. Then, with all the grace and dignity of a man in formal court, he knelt, brought his arms up, and bowed his face to the ground.
“Noble bakeneko,” he said, his voice humble, “I beg you to grant me the favor of your assistance.”
Ryōtora stared, struggling not to let his jaw drop. Showing such deference to a yōkai was –
It was an echo straight out of history. The divine founder of the Phoenix Clan, Shiba-no-Kami, had bowed to the mortal shugenja Isawa to beg his assistance before the Day of Thunder. Because of that, to this day, the Phoenix Clan Champion answered to the Elemental Council of the Isawa, rather than standing supreme.
Sayashi’s voice was bright with delight. “Why, little Asako. Are you placing yourself under my authority?”
Her question and her mode of address made Ryōtora tense. Sekken said, “I will not betray my clan. But while we are in Senkyō, I promise to defer to you as I would to any other learned teacher – because I cannot deny that your wisdom there far surpasses my own.”
“That’s true enough.” Sayashi paced around him with a leisurely stride, first glancing down at Sekken, then up at Ryōtora with a wicked grin. He held himself rigid, swallowing all the objections he wanted to make. As much as he hated to admit it, Sekken’s guess seemed to be right: what Sayashi wanted was not some material incentive, but the pleasure of seeing a human defer to her whims. Sekken stood above her in the Celestial Order… but so had Shiba-no-Kami stood above Isawa. And yet he had knelt, for the good of all.
Sekken remained where he was, not moving. Finally Sayashi said, “Oh, very well. You plead so prettily; how could I refuse? I’ll go with you into Senkyō.”
“And help me rescue Chie once I am there, and help us both return to the mortal realm?”
“What do you think I am – some creature of Sakkaku, out to bend words? Will you demand a written contract next? I won’t promise to help you with the rescue, if it looks too much like suicide. But I promise to help you find her. And if you’re still alive after that, I’ll even help you get home.”
It was all they could hope for, and more than Ryōtora had feared they would get. Sekken rose, as smoothly as he’d knelt, and gave Sayashi a smaller bow. “Thank you, sensei.”
Peasants weren’t expected to follow the tenets of Bushidō. Ordinarily samurai spoke of that as a deficiency in battle: without a code of honor to strengthen their spirits, peasants were cowardly and prone to fleeing rather than upholding their duty.
It had its uses, though. As Ryōtora rapidly discovered, peasants had no compunctions about using dirty tricks of a sort no virtuous samurai would employ on the field of battle… but then again, their enemy was not another army of samurai.
Ishi and Tarō had some experience of combat, though mostly against bandits. They were able to advise Ryōtora on the best ways to control the terrain and maximize their own ability to act, while restricting the yōkai – as much as was possible, given the otherworldly abilities some yōkai had. The villagers, meanwhile, brought the expertise of hunters to the task. Sekken tied back his sleeves and helped out with preparations, even to the point of his hands blistering from the unfamiliar tools.
Ryōtora’s preparations were of a different sort. The Agasha trained not only shugenja, but also alchemists; he wasn’t an expert in the latter field, but he’d learned some basic techniques. Flash powder, used for theatrical effects, was nothing more than the dried spores of clubmoss, which grew in abundance around the village. And since the evacuees hadn’t been able to take with them any of the cinnabar or realgar they’d mined during the summer, he was free to extract certain components from the ores. Not only could the arsenic from realgar produce acid and toxic vapors, but the quicksilver from cinnabar made an excellent offering to the kami – so long as he was careful in how he used it. Those materials could also poison the land and the water.
He couldn’t set up everything he wanted in advance. Some things had to wait, in order to preserve the element of surprise. To some extent, though, he could commune with the small kami in and around the village and make offerings to them now, so that when the time came, they would respond more quickly. That could make all the difference in the heat of battle, when he wouldn’t have time to propitiate them the usual way.
Sekken spent most of that time scribbling like mad, not on paper – they were almost completely out of that now – but with paint on some boards, writing out notes on creatures as yet unseen that might appear during the next set of attacks. Most of those notes were oriented toward telling Ryōtora what dangers to expect from them, not how to counter them; very few had specific weaknesses a person could exploit. Ryōtora finally stopped him when the notes threatened to become so extensive that they would be no use at all. “It doesn’t help me to have the information,” Ryōtora said, “if I’m busy looking for it while they’re attacking.”
“True.” Sekken grimaced. “I just…”
He didn’t have to finish that sentence. They both wished they could be in both places at once. They simply had to trust each other to take care of their half of the responsibilities.
Ryōtora trusted Sekken. He only hoped he would not let the other man down.
As the sun dipped toward the western horizon and the first silver edge of the moon began to creep over the peaks, Ryōtora waited with Sekken and Sayashi on the ground in front of the ruined shrine.
Masa had already bid them farewell, bowing to the ground in thanks – not the deference of a peasant to a samurai, but that of a father to the man who was risking himself to save his daughter. Then he’d hurried back down to the village, where Ryōtora would soon join him.
Twilight was a time of transition, between worlds as well as between day and night. The soft, uncertain light blurred everything, making Ryōtora believe that something more hovered just a breath away. He’d communed with Kaimin-nushi and knew she would aid in the travelers’ passage; so would the kami of the mountain. Sayashi herself was a creature of Senkyō, and her presence helped to thin the veil. Sekken wouldn’t have to wander through the mountains, hoping to stumble upon one of the places where the Spirit Realms bled over into the mortal world. He had Ryōtora’s prayers, a mountain’s support, the blessings of his ancestor, and a bakeneko to assist.
It was what he would do when he reached the other side that was in question.
Ryōtora could see Sekken searching for some kind of lighthearted comment to ease the tension, then discarding it. For his own part, Ryōtora feared that if he tried to say anything, all the words he was holding back would come spilling out. Words that had no place here, because they were the undiluted cry of his heart.
In the end, all Sekken said was, “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I will hold the village as long as I can,” Ryōtora said.
Sekken bowed, and Ryōtora bowed back. Then he turned and began to walk, with Sayashi at his side; and between one step and the next, they faded from view.
The full moon was rising.