Page 31

Chapter 31

Yoshi

B y midmorning, nearly a hundred survivors had passed beneath the torii gates of Ashina Shrine. Only a few weary souls carried more than clothing or personal possessions that could fit into saddlebags or knapsacks. Each was drenched and miserable, yet also grateful for the safety and hospitality of the priests and their magic.

In addition to the exhausted refugees, three messengers arrived between sunrise and noon. The first two carried grim reports of the wakō rampage. The pirates had burned, pillaged, and slaughtered until around midnight. Then, from somewhere offshore, a signal drum had sounded, and the wakō had simply melted into the darkness. As swiftly as they’d come, they vanished, leaving the survivors in Tooi bewildered, grief-stricken, and terrified.

Many homes had been reduced to ash. Hundreds of lives had been snuffed out. At last count, fifty-two women and children had been stolen away.

I shuddered to imagine their fates.

The third courier bore a scroll sealed with my father’s crest. I saw Takeo’s hands tremble as he took it from the runner. He broke the wax, unrolled the parchment, and read aloud:

Brother,

Noble Crane sent word of your arrival at the shrine. Had the wakō discovered Yoshi and learned his identity, I dare not think what might have happened to our boy.

Kita and I survived the night. Only the gods know how. We sent Tashiro and Jun south with two Samurai toward Karu. I believe they made it away but still await word.

Kibo was taken. She refused to leave her mother’s side and was torn from her grasp as we fought wakō in our home. Kita is the strongest woman I know, but the loss of a child would break the spirit of any mother. My own heart shatters at the thought of what those men are doing to our little girl.

We have already begun to assess and rebuild.

I believe the wakō are gone and will not return, but keep Yoshi at the shrine for at least three days, just in case. And please tell him of his sister. That secret will not keep, and I would rather he hear it from you than through a rumor.

Forgive me for placing this burden upon you.

Brother, I need your counsel now more than ever.

There was more to this attack than a simple raid. I feel it in my soul. Never before have wakō struck with such brutality. The worst they have done in the past was to steal goods and slaves. What has changed? Was this what the Asami meant by the wakō offering them support? The pirate bands have always hated one another. Could they now be uniting in some larger scheme?

The Emperor’s envoy tried to warn me of something before he was shot. I believe he knew of the raid but died before he could alert us.

Something stirs in the shadows, yet I cannot pierce the fog.

Think on this. We must prepare for what may come.

Keep Yoshi safe.

Hiroki

Takeo rolled the paper and tucked it into his waistband, then turned to face me.

“They took Kibo?” My voice cracked. “She’s only twelve.”

Takeo looked down, struggling to voice the unspeakable.

“Yoshi,” he said softly. “I fear she is lost—”

“No!” My hands balled into fists. “You said that about Kaneko, too.”

“I want nothing more than to chase after those men and bring your sister and Kaneko home, but we are two, and they are hundreds. They sailed away, and we have no idea where.”

“Father grew up with the Emperor. He can ask him for help.”

Takeo lifted a brow. “Perhaps, but even the Son of Heaven is bound by what is possible. The wakō are no man’s ally. They are certainly no friend of our Divine Lord.”

I slumped onto the cushion, my mind racing. My sister was gone. Kaneko, too. The gods, if they even existed, were hateful and cruel. What good were prayers when all they did was leave people waiting for miracles that never came?

“I’ll find a way,” I muttered.

“What?” Takeo asked.

“I . . . I’ll find a way. I’ll train. I’ll become a Buddhist monk and learn to throw fire.”

Takeo rubbed his face. “Yoshi, you can’t learn magic. You have to be born with the spark.”

“Fine. I’ll become Samurai. You can teach me. Then I won’t need anyone else to rescue Kibo and Kaneko.”

Takeo shook his head. “Even the best warrior can’t fight an army alone. Besides, it takes years to master Bushido. And you are . . . well . . . not the strongest among us.”

“Thanks, Uncle. Way to boost my confidence.”

“I speak truth. You once dropped a bokken on your own foot.”

“I was eight!”

“Exactly.” He winked.

My lips twitched despite the sorrow crushing my chest.

“Still,” Takeo went on. “If your father agrees, I will take you to Temple Suwa on the mainland. Their monks train the finest warriors in the Empire.”

“Really?” I straightened, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. “You’re not toying with me?”

“Would I do that?”

I leveled a flat stare.

Takeo sighed. “All right, fine. Yes, I might, but not now, not about this.”

I leaped up and threw my arms around his neck. My uncle stiffened, glanced around the crowded hall at the gawking priests, then gave up and laughed for the first time in days.

That night, I lay on my pallet, staring at the ceiling. I’d counted the tiles a thousand times, and still their number remained the same. Sleep refused to offer me peace.

Lavender.

I smelled lavender.

Somewhere beyond my room, a priest burned incense. They were always waving the stuff around either as sticks or filling a censer. Most of the time, it did little more than irritate my eyes or make my nose run. For some reason, that night, the scent filled my mind with images.

Kaneko’s face formed. I saw his smile and heard his laugh.

The memory brought both comfort and agony.

We appeared as children, no older than seven or eight. His broad shoulders were beginning to form. My reed-like arms looked even more frail. As the sun shone above and waves lapped at the shore, we ran. Kaneko slowed, glancing back, pretending to stumble so I could catch up.

I never realized he did that. I never knew how he cared for me, protected me, even in our earliest days. Tears burned my eyes as the image faded.

Years passed in a blink, and Kaneko stood on the dock, strong and proud. His golden skin shimmered with sweat beneath a summer sun. Hair unbound, it blew as sails of the most beautiful ship I’d ever seen, and his eyes—gods, his eyes captured me even then, before I knew what he truly meant to my heart.

Kaneko held his bokken in one hand and urged me forward with his other. I appeared, swinging wildly, my form a mess of steps and staggering dodges. Kaneko held back, blocking my blows and only attacking when my impatient uncle’s voice urged him to do so.

Off balance, I tumbled backward. As always, Kaneko was there.

He pretended to trip, falling atop me as I landed on my rump. Our bodies pressed together, our bokken suddenly forgotten, his eyes consuming my vision and sending waves of desire through me.

Was that the first time I really saw him? The first time I wanted him?

Perhaps, the first time I realized how much he meant? Or could mean?

Memories were such fickle things.

I would not let him become a memory.

In that moment, I vowed to become a man my father would admire—and a warrior who would one day bring Kaneko and Kibo home.

Four days later, we mounted our horses to leave the shrine. Noble Crane stood beside us.

“Thank you for your help,” the old priest said.

Takeo inclined his head. “We did little.”

“Nonsense. The boy made a fine rice porridge.”

I grinned. “He made me stir it for three hours.”

“To build character,” Takeo said.

“More like to build muscles.” I flexed. “See these? Solid as boulder.”

Takeo groaned, muttered something about “incorrigible nephews” to a chuckling Noble Crane, then nudged his horse forward, leaving the shrine behind and leading us toward the ruins of home.