Iyo had refused them. She had no plans to become embroiled in the infighting of the western clans. “My place is here,” she’d said, “and myloyalty has never been questioned. But we will not be drawn into your wars. We have our own laws, and we owe you no debt of service.”
“And what does Yora say?” Jobo asked them now. “You have seen him, in the capital?”
Tokuon scowled. “Thecapital.It’s overrun, with filthy rabble from all over, shouting, cursing in dialects you can’t understand.” He rose. “Lady Ogami’in, let us continue this in private. I would appreciate your words as well, crow monk.”
His eyes passed over Sen’s again, and after a moment, Jobo inclined his head. Sen’s stewardmother stood; they were dismissed.
“I wonder what they’re talking about,” Sen muttered, leaning against a pillar with his brothers. They had come to watch his cousin and his stewardmother walk the outer deck that ringed the house.
“War. War and chaos.” He turned to find the short, sharp-eyed woman, Ohori, striding easily through the evening. She was followed by the bear-like guard, Masakari Saito, who lingered in the shadows a dozen steps behind.
“Sen, this is the Crane Princess, Lady Ohori,” Nihira began. “Lord Tokuon is her husband…”
“He knows who I am.” Ohori came close. She had a tense, unnerving presence, and before he knew it, Sen had bowed, and stepped away. “I have wanted to meet you for a very long time, Hoshiakari. This is a momentous occasion.”
Sen paused at this, unsure. Ohori moved with the stern demeanor of one long-accustomed to the field, but spoke with a gentle voice. He found he was intimidated, hesitant to speak.
“We’re raising the Gensei allies,” she said. “Has he told you? That’s why we’re here.”
“He said he wants to bring me home.”
“He doesn’t lie. These warriors will take back your lands, and they will fight for you, though many believe the leadership should fall to Gisan, not you.”
“My house was their liege.”
“But you’re not from the Kanden,” Ohori said. “They are loyal people there, and fierce. They don’t trust strangers. You’re heir to one of the four great lines, but they don’t know you. You should know your history. You should know who you may face across the field. And these men and women are your allies, they will not simply offer you their service just because their fathers and their mothers served your own.”
“What of you,” he asked, “Oshigen-no-Ohori? Do they serve you?”
“The Oshi-Gensei, my family, we’re from Kiseda manor in the upper Kanden. Yes, they know me. It’s our destination.”
“What will they want from me?” Sen asked.
Ohori laughed. “That’s the question, isn’t it.They expect to be rewarded, Hoshiakari. That means you have to have things to give them. That means you have to win.”
Sen looked to Lord Tokuon again, on the veranda where he walked with Iyo. He couldn’t hear their words. Tokuon, however, felt his gaze, turned to catch Sen’s eye with the same sharp look he’d had before; hard as stone, unreadable.
Sen’s other cousins, sisters Tsuna and Myorin, were practicing their bow-work on the grass. Myorin had an ease to her that suggested great experience. Long hair tied back, black and lustrous, she moved as someone at home anywhere in the world. Her older sister, Tsuna, had a stark, rigid look, with her hair shorn short with a razor.
“Let us greet your cousins,” Ohori said, “Myorin and Tsuna… Tsuna, you know, takes her name from the founder of our clan. Tsuna Shoko’in. You should meet them.”
She eyed him. Sensing his hesitation. “You do know the history of our clan?”
“I… could learn more,” he said. “Only the common stories.”
“We’ll have to change that.” She gave a grin. Despite her stern demeanor, he felt Ohori wanted to help him. Something in her seemed to say,Don’t worry.It said,Welcome, Sen.
It said,You belong with us.
When Sen had grown accustomed to his teacher’s unexpected ways, the stench of blood smelled different to him. He had hunted; all the great houses of the east knew how to hunt. But killing a defenseless animal for slaughter, eyes wide, rank with fear, was something else. He’d never get used to it. Jobo would go into the ge’in town at the edge of the city, bring the old prayers of his order with him, and offer up the dead. He emerged as always, wiping the blood from his hands.
“My fate is not in question,” he would say, afterwards. “There is a path, and along that path we may grow; I ask nothing of enlightenment. I know what I have done.”
Sen never asked him. He wanted to know; Jobo’s old days, his unspoken past, somewhere in the capital, when he had a different name – a noble’s name, he’d hinted. “I met the demon-emperor,” he’d told Sen once. “I met his daughter. I saw what happened when the River Palace burned.”
Sen saw this past in him now, like a storm of the heart, as he stood scowling as Tokuon’s retainers took up their posts at the edge of the yard. The great meadow on the northern hills lay covered with horses, carts, and sweating men grown damp in chill air among the dragonflies.
If Sen could never manage to pull the knife across his victim’s throat, he at least understood, now, what Jobo tried to teach him. There was no truth but what was left: the corpse, the bright red on the gutters, and the knife in your hands.
