Page 3

Chapter 3

Yoshi

I stood a step behind my father with Mother next to me. Several servants struggled with umbrellas in a failed attempt to keep the blinding rain from dousing us. To our right, Deputy Seiichi and three other advisors appeared more like miserable, sodden rag dolls than leaders of one of the Empire’s seven han in their finest robes. Behind, Takeo and a dozen of his best Samurai stood like wooden soldiers staring at nothing in the gloom.

It was a wonder none of the old men had lost their balance and taken a fateful swim. In the sideways rain, I could barely see a hundred yards ahead.

The ship I’d seen from afar now docked securely at the end of the pier that served as my training ground only hours before. It was not a merchant vessel or Imperial junk. It was a black-hulled warship whose railings were carved like vines of some distant jungle, then dipped in gold. Atop its mast, a pure gold banner snapped in the angry wind, its brilliant thread impressive, even in the deluge. Lanterns with the kanji of the Emperor’s name hung from the stern, and rain-soaked silk streamed in red and gold along the prow.

“Amaterasu, bless us,” Mother whispered. Her eyes roamed, settling on a replica of the Imperial flower carved deeply into the side of the ship.

From somewhere aboard, a drum began to beat a steady, stately rhythm.

Then the first of the retinue appeared at the top of the walkway.

Two Samurai in gleaming black armor with glittering pauldrons, their kabuto emblazoned with the Imperial crest, again in gold, smacked polearms against the ship’s planking, then strode toward the dock. I could barely see their eyes through holes in fearsome masks that covered their entire faces.

Another pair followed. Then another. Then a dozen more.

When the small army of inky guards had disembarked and formed a double line, a herald wearing the black and gold livery of the Imperial han descended. The man was younger than I expected, perhaps only a year my senior. He was reed thin and appeared as miserable as the older men and women attending this soppy ceremony.

“His Imperial Majesty’s Great General, Akira Ryuji- sama Dai Shogun ,” the herald announced.

A mountainous man with a vicious scar above his right eye stepped forward, bowed deeply, then descended the walkway. He wore the same black and gold armor as the other Samurai, but held his masked kabuto under his arm. The only difference between his armor and the others’ was the golden chrysanthemum gleaming on his breastplate. Only the Emperor himself could award someone the honor of that symbol. The moment Ryuji’s foot touched the dock, every person, Imperial or otherwise, bent deeply at the waist.

As Ryuji took his place in front of the Samurai, the herald called again, “His Imperial Majesty’s Grand Minister of State, Akira Satoshi- sama Daijo-daijin .”

A bald man with a thin mustache and wispy hair flowing from his chin struggled to keep his purple and gold robes from flying off his scrawny body. Pasty white legs revealed themselves each time a gust swelled. As before, the moment his foot left the ship’s walkway, all bowed, including the Dai Shogun .

For the briefest moment, all stood silent—silent save the howling wind and biting rain.

Then the herald called, “His Imperial Highness, Akira Haru- sama Daiji Ouko , third son of His Divine Imperial Majesty, bearer of the Celestial blood, envoy of the Jade Throne of the Grand Empire of Mugen.”

The top of the walkway remained empty.

No one stirred.

A moment later, the herald called, “His Imperial Highness—”

The man’s voice stilled the moment a figure appeared.

The Prince was tall, taller than most, his rich black hair pulled back in a tight topknot that was bound in a golden cuff. The blue of his robes shifted and swirled as he walked, giving a sense of flowing water across the fabric. There was a majesty to the man, a presence.

I was struck dumb.

This was a prince.

The moment Haru stepped forward, two things happened at once.

First, every person assembled, save the Prince’s midnight guard, dropped to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the planking of the dock. Rain be damned, this was the son of a living god. He would receive our homage.

The second may have been more startling than the first.

Haru began to laugh.

I violated all sense and snuck a peek, careful to keep my head lowered and not get caught.

The Prince strode down the walkway, the rain somehow avoiding his presence. It looked as though someone had constructed a shell around him that no rain or wind could penetrate, though I saw no armor or glass or gold. And the man was so young, perhaps twenty, barely my senior, yet he was the Heavens where I was mere land.

“ Daimyo ,” Haru said from halfway down the walkway. “Why are we here in this squall? Let us set aside ceremony and find a dry place to exchange our greetings.”

Slowly, everyone rose.

All color had drained from Mother’s face.

Seiichi looked like he wanted to crawl under the dock and never surface.

Uncle Takeo had a smirk on his lips, while Father stood rigidly with his gaze toward Haru’s approach, eyes never landing directly on the Prince.

Without so much as a bow, Haru blew past us all and led his retinue toward the waiting palanquins.

“Go, Yoshi,” Mother said, motioning me after Father.

We reached the sheltered litters, and Haru once again surprised everyone, grabbing the reins of a nearby horse from a stable hand and mounting the beast. “Come, Hiroki- sama . It is a fine day to ride, is it not?”

Father glanced at Mother, shaking his head so quickly I doubted anyone else caught the motion, then grabbed a horse and hurried after the Prince, leaving the rest of us to board waiting norimono so servants could carry us to the castle in comfort.