L5r - scroll 06 - The Dragon Read online

  Daini stumbled forward as she pulled, following her with wide eyes. "Siksa?"

  "The city of the naga. You will see. Come. You said you wished to parley, did you not?"

  "Yes, but..."

  She smiled again, her strange golden hair moving across her shoulders in a bright wave of sunlight beneath the green trees. "Then come, Mirumoto-daini, and learn."

  xxxxxxxx

  From his place in the treetop, Balash slowly lowered his bow, regretting that he did not fire when he had the chance. The infection had been allowed to remain. Akasha had demanded that this huu-man be brought to their city. For what reason, Balash did not know—but even he could not resist the call of the Great Mind.

  The huu-man would be allowed to live ... for now.

  TOURNAMENT OF THE EMERALD CHAMPION

  The empress was radiant. Even if Hitomi had not known her plan, she would have assumed that Kachiko had something ready for the days' events. She moved silkily across the empty throne room floor, making certain that each flower and cushion was carefully arranged for the emperor's audience with the Great Clans. Samurai gathered just outside the doorway, in the gardens of the Hantei, and Hitomi could hear their low talk through the shoji screens of the chamber.

  "All is ready, my lady?" she asked softly, keeping her hands folded in her lap.

  "Yes, my friend," Kachiko smiled radiantly beneath her lace mask. "And you know your part?"

  "As well as I know my name, Empress."

  "Then let us not delay the Imperial Court. They deserve their spectacle. After all, it is what they have come to see." A regal smile parted her perfect red lips, and Kachiko

  locked her honey-gold eyes with the cold black ones of her kneeling Dragon retainer. Then, assured that all was as she had planned, Kachiko swept toward the gardens without another word.

  "Yes, Empress," Hitomi lowered her head so that Kachiko would not see her smile.

  xxxxxxxx

  Hitomi listened from the rear of the hall, kneeling behind a carefully placed standing screen. The guests slowly filed in from the gardens, murmuring behind their fans as the emperor's sycophant, Seppun Bake, greeted them. "Samurai, nobles all, the 39Hantei, Lord of the Seven Hills, Emperor of the Emerald Empire and favored son of the Goddess Am-aterasu, awaits inside to hear your council. May the light of the Shining Prince never fail, and may the light of the Celestial Heavens illuminate the empire through his wisdom and his guidance." Bake shriveled into his fine robes, slinking back into the throne chamber.

  Through the cracks between the standing screens, Hitomi peered out at the room. Images of tigers and cranes were patterned on the paper of the screen, but through it, Hitomi watched each of the Great Clans bow to the huge Emerald Throne on its mahogany dais. The chamber was splendid, with ornate enamel embellishing the broad beams of the ceiling. A magnificent tapestry depicted the fall of the kami from the Celestial Heavens. On the dais rested the glittering Emerald Throne, symbol of the empire. The throne was similar to To-gashi Yokuni's ivory one, but far larger and grander—despite the tremendous rift that cracked its emerald back. The carvings on the throne depicted the sun goddess and her favored son, Hantei. It was wide enough to support two men, and stood taller than any other chair in Rokugan, carved from a single emerald during the first days of the empire.

  As the guests bowed their heads to the floor, a palanquin was carried in from the rear of the room. Magnificently jeweled sides sparkled in the light of the afternoon sun that streamed through the open garden doors. Samurai servants, bearing the mon of Crane, Seppun, and Otomo, bowed as the doors of the small palanquin were opened to allow the Shining Prince to ascend his throne.

  He moved strangely, not with the strides of a samurai trained to the sword, but with the fragile steps of an old man. His clothing was padded to give an illusion of girth, but his thin limbs seemed barely able to lift the heavy silk robes that pressed upon his frail frame. For anyone in the court to miss the obvious signs of the emperor's failing health would be impossible.

  Was this Kachiko's doing? Hitomi would put nothing past her—and if the emperor died without an heir, the resulting wars could destroy the empire.

  Kachiko stood gracefully at the edge of the dais. As her husband took three careful steps toward the throne, she smiled at him. Hitomi could not see the young emperor's face, but from his demeanor, he was pleased to see his wife. As he settled himself upon the massive chair, she bowed and stepped to her place behind the young emperor.

  Hantei the 39th, lord of all Rokugan, was only a year older than Hitomi. Searching his face, the Dragon samurai recognized the weary lines, the crease in his brow that matched her own. A wave of pity rushed through her. Hitomi was shocked by her emotions, and fought to keep them under control. This was the emperor—the Shining Prince, Lord of Rokugan, Master of Otosan Uchi and the Seven Hills. He was not a man to be pitied.

  Stealing another look at his face through the crack in the shoji screen, Hitomi stared at the weariness in the Hantei's pale blue eyes. She clenched her jaw. He was small and dreadfully young. The hollows under his eyes had been powdered and covered with white, but his face still appeared sunken with weariness. Gloves covered his bone-thin hands, and golden slippers covered his feet, barely peeping out from beneath thick green and gold robes.

  Courtiers spoke of plague, of the emperor's nightmares about his father's death....

  Hitomi shook her head to clear her thoughts. Hantei was the emperor. Sacrosanct. If he dreamed of his father's death, she understood the weariness, the wan appearance, the pale flesh. The dreams of Satsu tore at her nightly, his face echoing before her vision, swimming away with the dawn. Even in the rigid meditations of the Dragon, she could not glimpse the answer to his puzzle. The reasons for Satsu's death were lost to her, yet every night she awakened screaming, feeling him within her grasp ... only to slip away.

  Perhaps this emperor knew the same terrors.

  After the court had setded itself, the emperor raised his eyes from his lap, placing one hand on each of the throne's arms. His gaze slid over the court slowly, as if assessing their identities. Occasionally, he nodded as he recognized a favored member of his court, but his gaze never paused, never changed. With a gloved hand, he reached into a golden box held by a kneeling Seppun Bake, pulling forth a carefully written scroll. Though his voice was faint, it still held the unmistakable aura of an eternal lord. Despite his trembling hands, the Hantei was still emperor.

  "Noble lords," the emperor began. "For too long, our throne has stood without a protector. It has come to my attention," a pause, a shuddering breath, and a glance at Kachiko, who sat simply and quiedy on her cushion at his side, "that with the plague that destroys our land, and the violent incursions of numerous Yabanjin bandit tribes, the position of Emerald Champion has stood too long empty."

  The emperor breathed deeply and raised his head to increase the strength of his fading voice. "My lady wife has nobly agreed to carry out the duties of the arbiter of the tournament, and Seppun Bake will be on hand to ensure the faithfulness of those who choose to attend."

  Both bowed on either side, respectful of the responsibilities given to them by the Hantei.

  "I beg your pardon, samurai-sama," whispered a soft voice, disturbing Hitomi's meditation. "May I sit here?" The girl was a Crane, her white hair swinging in a maiden's foxtail as she knelt with Hitomi behind the dividing screen.

  Hitomi recognized the storyteller of the emperor's court, Doji Shizue. No doubt she had come to divine Hitomi's purpose, an intrusion that could not be allowed.

  Hitomi snarled faintly, but she could not refuse the Crane's request. If she did, it would draw attention to her location. Enough. The Crane already knew that she was here. It was time to close Kachiko's trap on the rest of the court. "Of course, Doji-sama," Hitomi said coldly. "I was just about to leave."

  As the court applauded the emperor's words, Hitomi stepped from behind the screen and bowed to the man on the Emerald Throne.

&nbs
p; "Imperial Lord," she said politely, "I stand for the Dragon, in acceptance of your tournament. I need no formal announcement to ask for the chance to serve you, nor any astrologer to tell me that this is my time to step forth." The words were Kachiko's, chosen carefully for their effect on the courtiers, and Hitomi saw that the ruse had worked.

  Hitomi knelt in the aisle at the rear of the chamber, her green robe spread around her knees. The Dragon mon shone from her back, and the symbol of the Mirumoto flashed on her sleeve. She raised her head. Black eyes shone in narrow sockets, and her thin nose sliced through her sharp-featured face. Her arms and hands were covered entirely by thick green sleeves.

  "My time is now."

  The courtiers stared at her, taking in every detail of her clothing, her face, and her attitude. She refused to be cowed by their attention and remained on her knees. As Kachiko had taught her, Hitomi stared directly at the emperor, motionless.

  The Hantei nodded, surprised by the woman's forward speech.

  Seppun Bake reached for his scroll and brush, swiftly writing down Hitomi's words and her challenge. "The Mirumoto daimyo of the Dragon stands for her clan." Marking elegantly on a roll of blank white paper, the Seppun noted her name and rank.

  As Kachiko had predicted, the court fell into silent chaos. If they did not speak now, they would appear weak or unworthy of the position of Emerald Champion—and yet, if their greatest swordsmen were not assembled, those who spoke for the tournament would be poor competitors to the Dragon's blade.

  Hitomi glanced swiftly to either side, gauging the opposition. Only one man seemed worthy of her steel—Doji Hoturi, sitting at the front of the court, a strange look of ice and snow about his pale eyes. Hoturi glanced first at the dais, and then at Hitomi as if making a decision.

  Come, lord of the Crane, Hitomi thought with malice. Rise. Challenge me, and I will best you, as well.

  A Lion stood on the far side of the court. "My name is Kitsu Motso, daimyo of the Kitsu family, son of Kitsu Ariganu, son of the Lion Clan. . . ." He spoke rapidly, and Hitomi ignored his words.

  He would be no challenge.

  Others rose then: three Lion, two Crab, and a Unicorn. One Phoenix, shivering and confused, was pushed forward by his shugenja master. He seemed barely a boy, and stammered his name.

  He would be nothing.

  "I, Kakita Toshimoko, master of the Kakita Academy and lord of the twelve provinces of Kunankei, will stand for the Crane."

  Hitomi looked up, stunned. The man was a legend, a master of the Kakita style—the one form of iaijutsu in the land that matched the Dragon niten style in precision and speed. She narrowed her eyes, jutting her sharp jaw forward unconsciously as she judged the old man through his movements. He would be a worthy competitor.

  But he did not have the Obsidian Hand.

  Hitomi's black eyes flashed toward Kachiko, and they smiled as one.

  xxxxxxxx

  The battle at Beiden Pass raged to the south, far away from Otosan Uchi and the emperor's court. The Dragon continued their fight against the Crab, and the Shadowlands continued to raise Dragon bodies and force them into undead servitude. With each hour that passed, Hitomi felt more distant from the battle, farther from her traitorous family and her once-proud duty. Who knew what horrors erupted in the Pass? Mitsu ... was he still alive?

  When she returned to them, would she still recognize the Mirumoto at all? Hitomi looked at her hand, flashing in the sun light of the tournament field. Would they know her?

  The hand had become second nature to I litomi, and in jusi a few days, she had learned to recognize its hunger, its urges, as separate from her own. The long fingers curled, and she could feel the day's warm breeze on the stone as if it passed against her own flesh.

  Hitomi knelt by the tournament field, her swords in their holder before her, and readied herself for the contest to become Emerald Champion. Around her, the courtiers and other contestants swirled in a blend of bright color. Hitomi, dressed in black silks with only a touch of Dragon gold on her shoulders, ignored them. The wide grassy field echoed with shouts and greetings, but she stared only at her own reflection, encased in black glass.

  Six days had passed for Hitomi. Six days since she lost her family, her house, and her name.

  An eternity, and the world had changed.

  It had been four days since her challenge before the emperor's court, and the field outside the grand palace was filled with the bright silks of banners and courtiers. News of the tournament of the Emerald Champion had spread throughout the city, and entrants from the minor clans had begun to come forward. Each clan was allowed only three entrants, and most sent fewer. To have a great number of samurai entered would imply to the court that the clan's faith was not fully behind their entrants. Fond of appearances, the Imperial Court spent its days discussing the samurai who dared to challenge for the position.

  The Emerald Champion was foremost of all the Imperial Magistrates, keeper of Imperial law and title, and the general of the armies of the Hantei. It was a prestigious position, and it was a place of power. Both within the court of the Hantei, and with several standing guard of Seppun, the Emerald Champion's duty to the emperor and to the empire was without question.

  On the balcony, the mon of the imperial family waved in a faint breeze. The golden chrysanthemum decorated intricately carved wooden railings that were more for show than for safety. Behind the low rail, two golden cushions had been placed to full effect, commanding a view of the entire battlefield, as well as of each dais below. This was the emperor's own viewing pavilion, high above the rest of the Imperial Court. But one of the pillows was empty—the emperor, too ill to attend the gathering, had sent his blessing... and his wife.

  One by one, the competitors fell before Hitomi's blade. The hand grew in power with each victory, drawing its strength from their defeat. Each time Hitomi bested her opponent, the voices of the hand sang in her mind, overpowering her own thoughts. It was a constant battle to prevent herself from dealing her opponents a deathblow. At the end of each contest, she grew more and more weary of the fight.

  What use was it? They were weak, mortal, useless. What did it matter if they died?

  Hitomi growled. It matters, she reminded herself. It matters, because it is my mind and my flesh. If I choose not to kill them, then they will live.

  The spirit of the hand fought her, and then retreated deep within her soul. Soon, eight bushi stood on the emperor's tournament field. The last duelists included two Lion, one Unicorn, one Crab, two Dragon, a member of the smaller Fox Clan, and the Crane. Toshimoko still stood.

  Hitomi smiled. She would have a chance to test her style against his—and prove niten was superior. Excellent.

  The other Dragon, a Kitsuki, walked toward her and bowed with a courtier's grace. "Mistress Hitomi-sama, we are pleased to hear that the rumors of your death are exaggerated."

  Lifting him by his throat in the Obsidian Hand's crushing fist, Hitomi glared blackly. "I am dead, Kitsuki. Do not doubt it, or you will join me." Hurling him to the side, she ignored his stunned cry and turned her back on his blade.

  The Kitsuki stumbled away, gripping his throat in one hand and muttering apologies. He did not approach her again.

  The hand was bitter, hungry for blood and for victory. Hitomi relished its pulse within her own until the call of the tournament master interrupted her reverie.

  "Matsu Mori, son of Matsu Agetoki, come forward and hail the Imperial Throne. Mirumoto Hitomi, daimyo of the Mirumoto, come forward and hail the Imperial Throne." The man's voice was as spindly as his raised arms, flapping about in the breeze like winter branches. He snorted in the cold winter air and breathed out a cone of warm mist.

  The two samurai stepped onto the tournament field, pausing long enough to bow toward a grand balcony that spread some ten feet above the ground. They turned and bowed once more—far more shallowly—toward each other.

  The two samurai took their stances. The Dragon woman crouched low,
her hands covered by the long sleeves of her haori vest. Her opponent leaned forward in a typical, aggressive Matsu stance.

  The hand growled, and Hitomi heard the noise echoing in her own breath. She felt her opponent's blood pounding in his ears, heard the faint shiver of grass as he adjusted his stance to meet her own. The obsidian around her wrist flexed and tightened on her sword hilt. Hitomi found herself calculating the exact angle her blade should reach as it swung through his neck.

  No. This was a contest—-not a death match.

  The tournament master backed away, raising the white and red flags above his head. When they fell, she would strike—and the Lion would die.

  No, Hitomi thought again, struggling for control of the artifact. This fight is not to the death. I will not kill this man. That is not my way.

  A shout pierced the still air, and the two opponents drew in a single arching strike.

  Seconds froze around the Dragon samurai, and Hitomi felt the world slow to a crawl.

  On the far side of her opponent, a tall man in white armor extended his hand to her. Her sword would reach it, if she passed the blade through the Matsu opposing her.

  "No," Hitomi snarled. "I know you now, Onnotangu. You will not drive me mad."

  Time released, and seconds flew past once more. Her katana sang in the soft breeze. The two duelists' blades chimed against one another. Sliding her blade down his, Hitomi twisted to the right and found herself behind Matsu Mori. Time slowed again.

  He is not ready. He is not worthy. He should die, just for challenging us. Hitomi's thoughts shifted violently from control to chaos and back again. The words were her own, the voice hers as well, but the drive came from the ancient artifact on her wrist. She pushed through once more, ignoring the white-stained figure beyond her opponent, and struck clean.

  Blades flashed brightly in the winter sunlight, stunningly white on the gray steel of their katana. In another breath, it was finished, and the Lion fell to the ground. Blood began to stain the man's kimono, spreading crimson against the bright orange of the Lion Clan.