Yet now he remembered the crags of Amayari, the sea of trees and the hills where he was born. Remembered the starburst flowers that adorned his family crest.
His words – his poet’s words – had been made hollow. Like music, meant to keep them placid and content. Now he must be a warrior again. He had his sword. And what?What a contradiction you are, Prince Nioh had said to him once.A fighting man, and a learned one…
I tried, he thought.I tried to stop them. I tried to say: this will flay us to the bone. But this is not our country. It never was. This is theirs, and to them, we’re servants.One spirit, the abbots said, of beings in the world.
One spirit, two souls.
They’re aboutto rip each other apart.
When he approached the inner palace, the doors were barred. He wanted to smash against them, to shout in the guardsman’s face, say:Seikiyo has gone too far.Instead, he straightened.
“I need to talk to him.”
“You need to wait outside.” Once again Yora found himself face-to-face with scarecrow Onoe Rokuro, as he had that day that he’d arrived, when this all began, but now the young warrior stood with his ropey arms barring the way.
“I am commander of the imperial guard,” Yora said. “You will let me through.”
“You will do what you’re told,poet.” Rokuro stepped back to his place at the top of the stairs. “They’ll call when you’re wanted.”
Yora swore under his breath.What happened to that bashful boy who looked at me with awe? He’s still younger than Kaiand yet he talks like he runs the show.
“What did he promise you? Rewards? A manor outside the capital?”
Rokuro said nothing.
In a moment, Shosei appeared, surrounded by his homeguard from the west. The Spear, they called him. Born by the glittering tide, Seikiyo’s eldest living son had been raised in the web of capital politics and he played the game here well. “Poet.” He tilted his round head. “We thank you for your patience.”
Seikiyo was already in the great hall when they arrived, running his hands over a worn, bound copy of the ancient Book of Leaves. His youngest son sat lazing on a cushion.
“Spider,” Seichi spat, before the doors were closed. “Waiting, waiting, spinning webs.”
“Chancellor,” Yora began.
“Your niece killed two of our men!” Seichi had risen, and now the guard swarmed around Yora in a half-circle, as if he was an enemy. As if he was a threat.
“She was attacked. What’s going on?”
Seikiyo lingered some time in silence. His head wanted shaving, the short stubble had gone gray. His eyes were weary, burdened with dark bags.He’s as upset at this as I am, Yora realized. And with it, felt a flash of hope.
“Do you deny it?”
“She was attacked,” Yora repeated. “And I never claimed they were yourmen. Is that what you’re telling me?” He turned to Shosei again, but the moon-faced man stood silent now, waiting for his father.
Seikiyo sat. “We sent an entourage to bring her back.”
The younger son burst out: “And look what happened!”
“Seichi, shut up,” Yora said.
Shosei struck Yora in the gut, knocked the wind from him before Yora could protect himself. He fell to his knees.
“Stop this! Now!” Seikiyo rose. “I need to know the truth from you, poet. That is all I ask.”
“Truth? What of your truth? You sent men to bring her home in safety? Or imprison her? What’s happening in this court?”
“We’re doing what we have to do,” Seikiyo said, “to keep the peace. That’s what you taught me.”
“This is unconscionable.”
