MECHWARRIOR: DARK AGE #24: DRAGON RISING

This high in the Ogano Mountains, alpine scrub gave way to shattered rock and naked scree. The air was thinner, something Theodore felt in the slow burn in his chest and ache in his joints. Sweat greased his face and neck, and his temples throbbed to the drumbeat of a headache. He rested, leaning against an outcropping of gray rock baked hot by a fierce and unforgiving sun. Unhooking his insulated water bottle, Theodore drank. Icy and sweet, the water tracked a cold finger down the center of his chest and into his belly. Yet his left hand jittered as he tried to cap his canteen, and he finally had to use his right.

Eihei-ji Temple was built into the mountainside. A mountain river of glacier melt was tapped for water, and the monastery sported well-tended gardens of white stone and evergreens. The haunting melodies of honkyoku, meditation pieces played on shakuhachi, floated above the musical chants of the monks immersed in their meditations.

Now clean and refreshed, Theodore watched as three monks approached. They each wore simple geta, a black tunic and dark blue, ankle-length robes. Two of the monks were more substantial because they were O5P agents who, with four others, served as round-the-clock bodyguards.

The third monk was as tall as Theodore but without his ice-blue eyes. His head was shaven, and he shuffled. His shoulders slumped.

‘‘Brother.’’ Theodore grasped Ryuhiko’s forearms. His brother was older by fifteen years, and his arms were surprisingly thick with muscle. His skin was bronzed by sun. Yet Theodore saw madness in those too-bright, hazel eyes. ‘‘You’re big around as a BattleMaster.’’

Ryuhiko laughed. ‘‘After prayers, there isn’t much to do. Sometimes I turn wood to make bowls and boxes the monastery sells, but most of the time, I’m out and about. I’m getting as good as the Nykr goats.’’

Ryuhiko gave a negligent shrug that was somewhat abbreviated because of his posture. He gestured for Theodore to walk, but Theodore hesitated. His brother made an exasperated sound. ‘‘Oh, come on, come on. I haven’t had a bad day since . . . Jamon, when was my last bad day?’’

Ryuhiko barked a raucous laugh. ‘‘That will teach you! When I get an idea in my head, it won’t shake loose until I’ve got what I want.’’

They walked, their sandals crunching over scree. Ryuhiko was still smiling and muttering, sometimes chuckling. Soon, they came to a narrow, rugged path cut from the mountain’s face. The right edge gave way to air and rocks below. Instinctively, Theodore moved to bracket Ryuhiko against the mountain. He was tired, but he trusted his step far more.

A dangerous subject: Vincent Kurita never came to visit his eldest son. The cover story—that Ryuhiko preferred the isolation that was a monk’s life—helped.

Just as the official story of her wish to lead a contemplative life covers the truth about my mother: that she’s hidden away in a hospital at the base of these mountains, her mind gone.

Theodore resisted the temptation to look back for the guards, who’d fallen back a respectful distance. But he slowed a tad. ‘‘He’s well. Why, a month ago . . .’’ He chattered about receptions and the nobles’ squabbles.

‘‘I didn’t mean that.’’ Ryuhiko’s voice was flat. ‘‘I meant: What about you? You, your body, you . . . What about you?’’

‘‘You’re a liar.’’ Again, that curious flatness. ‘‘You think I don’t see? Your left hand shakes, Brother, and your face tics every now and again, but so fast you don’t realize. But I see it. You’re dragging your right leg—’’

‘‘Dragging your leg! So don’t tell me you’re well, Brother! If you are also ill, why are you free? Why must I stay here while you—!’’

‘‘We should go back.’’ Theodore was uncomfortably aware that the guards were easily fifty meters behind—and aware of the empty space to his right. ‘‘I need to rest. The altitude . . .’’

‘‘Bullshit,’’ Ryuhiko said, and made the word much uglier than it was. ‘‘It’s because he favors you. Mother favored me, but Father always loved you!’’ Ryuhiko’s face was a contorted mask of crazed hatred and grief, and it had all happened so fast, like a volcano exploding without warning. ‘‘You’re free, and I’m less than dog shit!’’

Out of the corner of his eye, Theodore saw the guards hurrying down the path. Just a few more seconds . . . ‘‘Come, Brother,’’ he said, and then he did absolutely the wrong thing. He clasped Ryuhiko’s arm. ‘‘Come, let’s—’’

‘‘Take your hands off me! I’m not a dog. I’m no one’s puppet!’’ With a wild cry, Ryuhiko launched himself at his brother.

Theodore reacted, a fraction of a second too late. ‘‘Ryuhiko! No!’’ he shouted as he simultaneously tried to both turn and plant his feet. To his horror, his right knee locked, and then Ryuhiko was on him. His brother’s momentum staggered Theodore, sent him reeling. Desperate, Theodore grabbed Ryuhiko’s tunic in both hands and then went against instinct. He willed his body to go limp, using his weight to drag Ryuhiko down. His right leg was still rigid with spasm, and Theodore cried out as Ryuhiko’s left knee drove into the taut hamstring. Then his brother’s hands were around his neck, the big work-roughened hands squeezing . . .

Night slammed down. The air was frosty, and Theodore was numb with cold. He sat staring at stars wheeling through the heavens—his right hand clasping his left to still the tremor that had settled into his very bones.

In that instant when Ryuhiko had him, Theodore had fleetingly thought of death. Death would be a release. A few moments’ horror, and then their bodies would burst upon unforgiving rock, and he would die.

Back on Luthien, the day they’d learned of Katana’s death, Makoto had found him beneath that spreading cherry tree, and he’d said the strangest thing: ‘‘Dynasties are like gardens, Theodore. They must be tended, cared for. Most of all, they depend upon the land.’’

What was Makoto getting at? Though he liked Makoto, considered him a friend, he’d not said anything about the curse in their blood. For the first time, Theodore wondered if perhaps his father . . . ‘‘And?’’

‘‘And your garden is built on shifting sands. Forgive me, Theodore, but I must be blunt. I worry for the future of your house. True, your sister is formidable and should be next in the line of succession. But that is no longer a given. Yori Kurita is rising, Theodore. She is rising fast, like a comet breaking free of gravity.’’

‘‘No?’’ Then, swiftly, Makoto extended his left hand in a handshake. Without thinking, Theodore extended his left, realizing his mistake as their hands touched—and held. ‘‘For the love of God,’’ Makoto said, clasping Theodore’s hand in both of his, ‘‘take care, and quickly, Theodore.’’