The Shogun's Daughter

42

A high-pitched ringing, like wind chimes, roused Hirata. Lying on his stomach, he felt cold, jagged rock pressed against his cheek. Breathing sulfurous fumes, he coughed. His body was a constellation of pains, the worst one in his right arm, which was twisted under his chest. Rolling over, Hirata opened his eyes and saw only blackness.

For a terrifying instant he thought he was blind. Then light paled the black after-image of the explosion. Vision returned. The woods surrounded him. His head pounded. He lifted his right hand to it, then yelled and stopped because of the pain in his arm. He felt the arm with his left hand. Jagged bone poked through the skin above the wrist. It must have broken when he fell. He touched his head and found a plum-sized knot. Blood wet his fingers. He looked toward the clearing.

Sunlight filtered through smoke. Scattered green flames burned fallen leaves on the ground. Where the bonfire had been was a black crater ringed with charred sticks and earth clods. Between Hirata and the crater, a human shape lay facedown.

Tahara.

His clothes were burned to smoking tatters. His exposed back, legs, and neck were red, blistered, and studded with black cinders and twigs from the bonfire. His topknot was burned to a frizzle. His hand still clutched his sword. He didn’t move.

Cautious relief trickled through Hirata, but he mustn’t assume Tahara was dead. He sat up, swaying dizzily. The deep exhaustion that always set in after strenuous combat permeated him. Cramps contracted every muscle. Pain vibrated every nerve as his body purged the poisons that had accumulated inside it. Gasps pumped chemical fumes from his lungs. Foul sweat leaked from his skin. He crawled, right knee, then left knee, then left hand, holding his broken arm against him. He inched toward his sword, which lay between him and Tahara. The ringing in his ears faded. As he struggled to lift the sword, he heard rustling noises from the pit.

Kitano and Deguchi.

Hirata walked on his knees toward the pit. He dragged the sword, which felt as heavy as if made of stone. Thrusting one leg after the other took all his strength. Each time his kneecap hit the ground, his arm and the knot on his head throbbed. When he reached the pit, a hand slowly rose from inside it and clamped onto the edge. Another hand followed suit. A face appeared between them. Blood and grime overlaid its mesh of old scars. Kitano gasped out, “I killed Deguchi.”

Hirata looked into the pit. At the bottom Deguchi lay amid blood-soaked leaves and sticks. His eyes, their glow extinguished, stared vacantly. His throat was cut.

“Too bad for you,” said a voice from behind Hirata.

Hirata looked over his shoulder. Tahara struggled to his feet; his legs buckled, but he remained upright. His face was bruised, his nose bleeding.

“That didn’t go quite the way you planned.” His swollen lips managed to smile.

Horror worsened the weakness that crippled Hirata. His ally was dead. His last trick had failed. He was alone with his two enemies.

Kitano groaned, pulling himself out of the pit. He collapsed with his legs inside it and his upper body flat on the surface. Tahara moved toward Hirata, wobbling as if swamped by ocean waves. The effort pulled his smile into a grimace. His arm trembled as he brandished his sword. This was the weakest condition in which Hirata had ever seen Tahara and Kitano, his best chance to kill them. But Hirata was even weaker. Swinging at Kitano, he toppled on his stomach. Kitano crawled from the pit. Tahara fell. They lay gasping on the ground. Hirata hoped they were too exhausted to kill him. Then Tahara lifted his shaking hand and pointed.

Across the clearing, a lumpy cloth sack levitated. It flew jerkily to Tahara. Hirata exerted his mind against it, in vain. Tahara fumbled the sack open, pulled out an oil lamp and incense burner. He lit them with a flame he rubbed up between his finger and thumb. He and Kitano began chanting.

Hirata whispered, “Stop. No.”

Tahara and Kitano chanted louder, faster, gaining strength from the spell. Hirata tried to block the sound from his mind and hold his breath. But their combined will overpowered his. The sweet, rank incense smoke penetrated his lungs. His voice involuntarily uttered the chant. He found himself on the Sekigahara battlefield, kneeling among the corpses. Ravens swooped down from the mountains, lured by the stench of death. General Otani materialized in front of Hirata. He wore his horned helmet and black armor. His face was disfigured by leprosy sores, fierce with rage.

“You disobeyed me,” he said in his booming voice. “You betrayed your comrades. Now you will suffer the consequences.”

Terror bit deep into Hirata. General Otani must have no further use for him, no reason to spare him. If he was killed while in a trance, he would die for real. He groped for his sword. His hand touched mud. The sword hadn’t accompanied him into the trance, but his physical infirmities had. The pain in his arm doubled him over. He was too feeble to stand.

General Otani raised his armor-gloved hand. Distant hoofbeats thundered. Two mounted soldiers galloped across the battlefield, one from either side of General Otani, heading straight for Hirata. As they drew near, Hirata recognized Tahara and Kitano. They wore armor that matched General Otani’s. Poles on their backs flew banners that bore his crest. They raised chain-mailed arms and waved swords. They howled as their horses trampled corpses.

Hirata uttered an incoherent plea for mercy, a cry of despair.

Tahara and Kitano converged upon him. General Otani dropped his hand. Their blades came slashing down.

Hirata’s cry was lost in the cawing of ravens that fluttered up from the battlefield, into the sky that turned as black as their wings.

* * *

Taeko wriggled her way through the funeral procession. Frantic to reach Masahiro, she dropped to the ground and burrowed through a forest of women’s white kimono skirts, men’s flowing white trousers, and priests’ saffron robes. She crawled out between the armored legs of a soldier. She scrambled to her feet on a dirt ridge alongside the passage, where the foundation for a new wall had been. Looking down the hill, she saw the landslide. Surprise opened her mouth. Her gaze moved up the ridge. Two people stood on the base of a tower inside wooden beams and posts. One was a lady. The other was Masahiro.

“Little girl, come away from there before you fall!” someone called.

Heedless, Taeko began walking up the ridge. Her love for him pushed her toward Masahiro. She didn’t dare glance down the steep, frightening hillside. The ridge crumbled under her feet. Dirt slid. People in the passage raised their hands to her and begged her to let them lift her down. Taeko walked faster. The ridge narrowed as it rose. She crawled the rest of the way to the tower, grasped the wooden framework, and pulled herself inside, onto the stone-paved floor.

Masahiro stood, turned away from her, at the edge of the tower. He leaned toward the plump woman with the puffy hairdo, who stood beside him on his right. His hands were clasped. Taeko heard him say, “Please don’t jump.” He sounded as if he were going to cry. Taeko had never seen Masahiro cry.

The woman sobbed and gulped. “I have to.”

Something told Taeko to keep quiet. She crept toward Masahiro until she was close enough to touch him. He and the woman didn’t notice her. She looked over the edge and saw the long drop to the ground. Her stomach plunged. She felt as if she were falling. Wind whistled in her ears. Her heart banged. She clutched a low crossbeam on the framework and turned away from the terrifying view.

There was a clatter behind her. A wooden ladder leaned against the side of the tower that was above the passage. It shook as someone climbed up. Anxious voices racketed from below. Masahiro and the woman turned toward the ladder. Masahiro’s back was to Taeko, but she could see the woman’s face. It was a gray, red, and white mess of makeup and tears. It bunched like a crying child’s. The woman wailed, turned back to the edge, and stepped off.

Taeko gasped. Masahiro yelled. He snatched at the falling woman.

* * *

Panting with exhaustion, Reiko arrived at the base of the tower just as Korika jumped. She saw Masahiro reach for Korika. His hand caught her skirts. Her weight pulled him with her. Reiko stared in disbelief as he toppled. Horror consumed her with its awful, breathtaking, heart-stopping sickness. A fall from that height would be fatal.

The baby inside her writhed, as if with her agony, as Reiko screamed, “Masahiro! No!”

* * *

Taeko acted without thinking. Her left hand locked onto the beam while her right hand flashed out and grabbed Masahiro’s ankle. He fell. She heard him shout. A huge tug stiffened her arm as it took his weight and the woman’s. The joint in her shoulder popped. Pain shot down her arm. Taeko screamed.

* * *

It happened so fast, Masahiro didn’t have time to be afraid. He saw the ground rush up to meet him. For the first time he realized that he could die.

Then something clamped tight around his ankle. A wrenching jerk on his leg arrested his fall. He slammed flat against the side of the tower. The impact jarred his chin, knocked the breath out of him. Masahiro gasped. He was suspended by his leg, pulled downward by Korika, whose skirts he clutched in his hands. Dangling upside down against the tower, high above the ground, she shrieked.

* * *

Below the tower, Reiko sobbed. She flung out her arms to catch Masahiro when he fell. She braced herself for the terrible moment when he and Korika crashed upon her, killing her as they died. Blinded by tears, at first she didn’t see what had happened.

The crash didn’t come. Reiko heard shrieking above her. Masahiro and Korika dangled from the tower. She exclaimed in astonishment. A small person clutched Masahiro’s ankle with one hand and the framework with the other. It was Taeko.

* * *

Taeko was stretched between the framework and Masahiro like a rope about to snap. Groans came from the procession. Taeko looked over the edge at her hand holding Masahiro’s ankle, and Masahiro and the woman dangling. The long drop made her dizzy. She sobbed with terror. The pain in her shoulder was so bad, she thought she would vomit. Reflexes almost sprang her fingers open. She wasn’t strong enough for this. Her arm would tear off. But she held on to the beam. She held on to Masahiro.

* * *

Hanging by his leg, Masahiro felt Korika’s robes slide through his fingers. The silk was slippery, her weight pulling hard. Her hem slithered from his grip. He saw the soles of her sandals, saw her arms spread in a vain effort to fly while she plummeted. She screamed, then landed with an awful thud. Masahiro saw her body crumpled on the street. Another woman dressed in white stood by her, gazing up at him and crying. It was his mother. He twisted around to see what had kept him from falling.

A small hand clung to his ankle. It belonged to Taeko. Her face was wild with fear, her teeth clenched. Masahiro felt her trembling with the strain of bearing his weight.

Three soldiers bounded up the ladder behind Taeko. They seized Masahiro by his leg and pulled him up onto the tower. Masahiro sat speechless while they pried Taeko’s hand off his ankle. His foot was numb from the pressure, his ankle ringed with fingernail gouges. Taeko cradled her right arm, looking as shocked as he was.

“Taeko!” Midori came bounding up the ladder. She knelt beside the girl. “Thank the gods you’re safe! I’m going to kill you!” She reached for Taeko.

Masahiro heard Akiko and Tatsuo screaming his name. He figured out what had happened: Taeko had run away from her mother to follow him. Midori, and the other children, had stayed in the castle to look for Taeko instead of escaping.

As her mother hugged her, Taeko began to cry.

* * *

Reiko watched the troops carry Masahiro and Taeko off the tower. She fell to her knees and sobbed with gratitude. Taeko had acquired the superhuman strength that people sometimes do during a crisis. Masahiro was safe. Reiko didn’t know for how long, or what would happen next, but she didn’t care. This relief, this joy, was enough.

Hearing a groan, she looked down at Korika. Korika lay in a tangle of white robes and broken limbs, her neck twisted, her cheek against the paving stones. A red pool of blood, mixed with gray brain tissue, circled her head. Despite her mortal injuries, she was still alive.

Reiko felt an unexpected sympathy for this woman who’d burned a young man to death, whose crime had led to the downfall of Reiko’s family, whose suicide attempt had almost killed Masahiro. Taeko wasn’t the only one who’d acted out of selfless loyalty. Korika had murdered Yoshisato for Lady Nobuko, and she’d delivered herself to justice.

Reiko held Korika’s limp, moist hand and murmured soothingly, “You gave Lady Nobuko her revenge. She appreciates your sacrifice. You can die in peace.”

Korika’s neck muscles tensed. Her body was paralyzed. She groaned; her eyes blinked. She whispered, “I lied. To the boy. It wasn’t. My idea.”

Puzzled, Reiko said, “What wasn’t your idea?”

“The fire.”

Reiko realized that someone else had been involved in Yoshisato’s murder. The crime wasn’t yet solved, all culprits not brought to justice. Reiko demanded, “Whose idea was it?”

“Lord Ienobu.” Korika’s voice was as soft as dry grass rustling in the wind. “He came to see me. He knew I would. Do anything for. Her.” A smile twitched her lips. “And I did.”

Reiko’s heart gave a thump of astonishment. “Ienobu put you up to it? He was involved in Yoshisato’s death?”

The shine in Korika’s eyes dulled. A last breath sighed from her. Reiko was holding the hand of a dead woman.

A tremendous contraction squeezed Reiko like a cruel fist inside her. She doubled over, hugging her belly, gritting her teeth in pain. Warm liquid oozed between her legs. The baby was coming.