Page 4

Chapter 4

Yoshi

S potting a ship bearing the Emperor’s ensign had been a surprise.

Watching the ornately gilded ship pull into our harbor had filled me with awe.

Seeing Prince Haru, a son of the Emperor, stride down the gangway had turned my blood to ice.

“What does it mean?” Mother hissed loud enough for us to hear above the storm and rattle of the palanquin.

Father’s brow furrowed. “Which part?”

“The Prince as the messenger. The Dai Shogun . The Grand Minister.” She sighed, glancing at me sideways before continuing. “The Prince ignoring . . . everything . The man blew past with barely a second look. And, Hiroki . . . he took a horse to the castle!”

Father stared at the shuttered window as though he could see the mountains and sea outside. His words were halting when they finally arrived. “I . . . do not know.”

At seventeen, I still had much to learn.

By the gods, I had yet to undertake the Trial of Five Virtues to become a man.

Despite this, I had spent my entire life at the foot of Father’s throne, watching him listen, parlay, negotiate, and cajole. In Father’s audience chamber, we lived a perpetual ceremony governed by millennia of rituals and rites ingrained in every noble from the moment of birth. Deliberate motions, a calm demeanor, a quiet voice, all things in balance and harmony lest the world spin like a child’s toy, crashing against stone. There was no room for spontaneity or capricious action—or humor.

Only respect and devotion.

Haru, as a Prince of the Empire, knew this better than most.

His life, I assumed, had been governed by an army of monks, priests, and attendants, courtiers and generals, advisors and, well, a million other people making demands of the poor man’s time. I doubted he could take a shit without twenty people instructing him on the proper form to wipe and the forty-two celestial gestures required before disposing of said wiping.

So, when our carefully choreographed welcome at the docks was tossed aside like a fish too small for the catch, the minds of every member of our household began to throb with terrifying questions.

Why was an Imperial emissary here?

What news brought the Emperor’s own words to our shores?

Why did His Divine Majesty send his Dai Shogun , his Grand Minister, and his son?

Was the Emperor honoring our han by sending his own blood?

Was he so angry he wanted to show strength?

Would the Dai Shogun bear threats?

Had Father somehow invoked the wrath of the Jade Throne?

These ministers—and Prince—were no mere servants to the Crown. These were the living god’s inner circle—and his blood.

Diplomacy had always been a subtle art. How one held his tea sent a signal. The depth of each sip told a story. The way the cup struck the table when finished sent a message.

What was the Emperor saying by sending the Prince as a messenger?

I felt like I might vomit as we stepped into Father’s audience chamber to find Prince Haru settled comfortably on the Anzu throne, twirling a quill between his fingers like an acrobat readying to juggle. His face was a mask, his brown eyes nearly black in the dim light of the hall. Every ripple of his robes shimmered as though imbued with magic that churned and spun.

Father stepped into the chamber first, as was his place, immediately dropping to his knees, palms flat against the floor, forehead pressed to the cold stone. I needed no encouragement to follow his lead.

In moments, the entire Anzu court prostrated themselves in a neat line behind Father, while the Prince’s retinue filed in to stand in rows on either side of the throne—as though this was his castle, which, I supposed, it was.

Everything belonged to his father, the Emperor.

Still, his breach of protocol and failure to follow the highly structured traditions of the Daimyo ’s house when receiving a guest was dumbfounding.

“Rise and approach,” the Grand Minister said from his spot at Haru’s side.

Father pushed himself upright, a signal for the rest of us to follow. With steady, measured strides, he then stepped forward, stopping before the bottom step of the dais and bowing deeply again.

“His Imperial Highness graces Tooi—and Anzu Han —with his divine presence. This humble province is his to command.” Father straightened and stared somewhere between Haru’s chin and chest, avoiding the insult of direct eye contact.

Grand Minister Satoshi replied, “His Imperial Majesty, the Divine Son of Heaven, watches over all his subjects with wisdom beyond any mortal’s grasp. It is through his benevolence that this province thrives, and through duty that it must remain steadfast.”

As he gathered breath for his next statement, my mind reeled at the invocation of “duty” in his greeting. Every aspect of this visit carried weight and meaning. The Grand Minister never used words carelessly.

“His Imperial Highness,” Satoshi continued. “Akira Haru- sama , bears the Emperor’s will. We are but vessels for his divine decree. The hospitality of Tooi and Anzu Han is noted, and your efforts are acknowledged. May honor and order prevail.”

Satoshi bowed toward Father, and Father returned a deeper gesture.

Haru surveyed his Anzu subjects, some still prostrated before him. The way his head swiveled slowly, his chin perfectly high, his eyes steady, he looked every bit a ruler of a great empire, despite his place as the Emperor’s third son.

After an interminable moment of silence, the Prince leaned toward the Grand Minister and whispered. The Empire’s chief advisor inclined his head, then turned toward us.

“His Imperial Highness brings the warmest greetings from Heaven’s Divine Son.”

I could feel the tension drain out of the room at the Grand Minister’s words. There was no subtle dig or knife set at Father’s neck. His words were a simple greeting from the Emperor. Perhaps the Prince’s arrival was less of an ominous omen than we feared.

And then the Grand Minister added, “His Imperial Majesty arrives with his court in one day. Anzu Han will bow before Heaven’s Own and hear his divine words.”

The Emperor himself was sailing to Tooi.

In one day.

Father threw himself forward, pressing his forehead against the floor and causing all the rest of us to follow suit.

“His Divine Majesty honors Anzu Han . We will not fail him,” Father declared, his words rapid and clipped in the style of a Samurai issuing orders.

“His Imperial Majesty—” the Grand Minister began but was cut off by Haru’s baritone.

“Enough of this pomp. My father comes. You must prepare,” the Prince said. His chief priest covered his mouth as wide eyes peered up at the Prince who’d just discarded sacred rituals. “ Daimyo , the journey from the capital on a swift ship takes three days, sometimes four. I am exhausted and famished.”

Father blinked.

The Prince had a well-earned reputation as the Emperor’s unruly son, often found in his cups, occasionally passed out from said efforts—though, I had never heard of him discarding the ceremony of his station. Father’s face was stone, but I could tell by how his eyes darted between the Prince and Grand Minister that he was thrown by the Prince’s disregard for propriety.

“Of course, my Prince.” He bowed again. “Rooms are prepared, and our kitchens—”

Haru stood, stilling Father’s tongue. The Prince cocked his head, staring down. “Go on. Your kitchens?”

As Haru descended, I could see him more clearly in the light of nearby braziers. Father was tall, but Prince Haru stood nearly a head taller, and he wasn’t simply handsome; he was striking . His jaw looked carved from stone, and brilliant brown eyes flecked with hazel took in everything around him. Haru also carried himself with the athletic grace of a man used to fighting—or sparring, at least.

He looked like a man descended from the heavens.

Father gathered himself as Haru reached the bottom step and . . .

Those in the room gasped as the Prince placed a hand on Father’s shoulder.

Father froze.

For the first time in my life, I watched Anzu Hiroki’s face pale and his body grow rigid.

Prince Haru, his face less than an arm’s length from Father’s, leaned forward and whispered, “I may be a prince, but I am only a man, Hiroki- sama . Send the others away so we might speak freely and share a drink.”

Father fought to lower his eyes as was proper, but the magnetic pull that was Haru’s gaze refused to set him free.

“Kura-san Jodai ,” Father called, using the formal title for our castellan, who sat behind me. “Please show His Imperial Highness’s retinue to their rooms. Takeo- san , Yoshi- san , remain. Everyone else, out.”

Haru squeezed Father’s shoulder, then glanced back at the Dai Shogun and Grand Minister. “You two, go.” Then he looked at a man I hadn’t noticed standing near where Samurai lined the wall. “Esumi, stay.”

Ryuji bristled, his hands gripping the hilts of twin katana sheathed at his sides.

Satoshi protested, “Your Highness, we should—”

Haru cocked a brow. “You should do as your Prince commands.”

A shadow crossed Satoshi’s face. Confusion? Frustration? Anger? There was tension there, though I couldn’t fathom its source. Having no other option, the Grand Minister relented, giving the Prince a final deep bow before bustling out of the chamber.

Ryuji didn’t budge.

“ Dai Shogun ,” Haru said. “Is there a problem?”

“His Imperial Highness should not be without guards. I beg leave to remain.”

Haru considered a moment, then held up two fingers. “Two guards. Not you.”

Ryuji opened his mouth, but a stern glare from Haru silenced him. He bowed, barked an order to the nearby black-clad Samurai, then led the bulk of his men out of the chamber, leaving two standing to either side of the far door.

Haru climbed the steps and slumped back into the throne in the least prince-like posture I could imagine, gripping the armrests with his fingers and squeezing the cushions. The man he asked to remain, Esumi, bounded up the steps, dropped to the stair beside Haru—and leaned against our throne!

“Your seat is a hell of a lot more comfortable than that fancy piece of rock my father sits on. What do you think, Es? Country life has been good to the Anzu, no?”

Esumi looked up at his Prince, something akin to awe entering his eyes and a bright smile on his lips. The pair stared a moment longer than was necessary, leaving me to wonder who this Esumi really was.

Then Haru’s words sank in, and I nearly lost my balance.

Did he just call the Imperial High Seat a fancy piece of rock?

The Mugen Empire’s seat of power had been gifted by the goddess Amaterasu herself, imbued with the spirits of every past Emperor by Shinigami, the god of spirits and death.

The Prince’s words weren’t blasphemy, not exactly, but they were close, even for one of the Divine Blood.

We were alone, just Father, my uncle, the Prince, Esumi, and me; and yet, for Haru to address us directly—and so casually— was beyond a breach of etiquette. I barely knew where to look, much less what to say. I thanked the gods my role required absolute silence unless the Prince addressed me directly.

Which he did next.

“You are Yoshi- san ?”

I swallowed hard.

Then remembered to bow, dropping to my knees and pressing my forehead to the stone. A heartbeat later, my brain ordered my palms to flatten to the floor, smearing sweat everywhere and trying not to shake.

“Get up,” Haru said. When I peeked, a hint of a smirk twisted his lips. “Stand, Yoshi- san . Better yet, come and sit on the steps so we might talk at ease. All this ritual makes me crave drink.”

Uncle Takeo was the first to step forward, yet another breach in our highly practiced ritual. “Should I get us some sake, Highness?”

Amaterasu’s holy light! We’re all going to die. The Emperor will have us flayed alive. The Prince will lose his patience and—

Uncle Takeo had just shortened the Prince’s title. He could be executed for such casual treatment, and the rest of us could lose our heads for allowing such disrespect. In an instant, our years of training, his companionship, his very presence, flashed before my eyes, and I knew I would lose him forever. My heart raced, and sweat welled against already saturated underclothes.

But instead of punishing Takeo, Haru laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the hall. “I would like that very much, Takeo- san , you old dog. I swear, you are even uglier than I remembered when you last visited Bara. What was I? Six or seven years old? Bring in the cups!”

Takeo smiled broadly, made a ridiculous bow with a flourish of one arm, then trotted out of the room to have a waiting servant bring us wine.

The Prince’s joviality made me want to vomit.

The familiarity and casual lack of respect Takeo showed left me speechless and wishing to crawl under Father’s throne to never be seen again.

Father shook his head and chuckled, as though seeing a well-rehearsed play performed on a stage of his making.

“My Prince, before the sake steals our wits—”

“A very good plan!” Haru interjected.

“Yes, my Prince.” Father’s smile was tight as he nodded. “But before that, is there anything His Imperial Highness wishes to convey in private? Perhaps a message from his Divine Imperial Father?”

Unlike Father’s restrained expression, Haru’s smile widened as he swatted the air as if chasing away pesky flies. “Hiroki- sama , you grew up with my father, did you not?”

“We were children together, yes.”

“Was he free with his words back then? Did they flow as a river? Rage like the storm? Blow as the wind?”

Father’s brown knitted as he shook his head. “No, my Prince. He has ever held his tongue.”

Haru splayed his hands wide as if to say, “There it is,” without offering another word in explanation. It appeared our Prince’s skill with courtly obfuscation was greater than I’d thought.

Father’s head bowed as though the entire world had settled onto his shoulders and he was breaking beneath its weight.

I couldn’t imagine what troubled him so when the Emperor himself was coming to our shores. Wasn’t this cause for celebration?

The door flew open before either man could speak further, and Takeo, trailed by a meek, very uncomfortable-looking, bowing servant, entered the chamber. Takeo cradled four bottles, one under each arm and one in each hand. The servant carried a tray filled with cups and several other bottles.

“Tomorrow, Heaven descends on our little island. Tonight, we get Imperially smashed!” Takeo proclaimed.

Haru leaped from the throne, clapping his hands and howling with laughter. Esumi followed close behind, snatching a bottle from the tray and tipping it back for a long, entirely inelegant pull.

Diplomacy vanished. Ceremony fled. Rituals were lost.

Because sake flowed.

The last memory I have of that night was of the third son of Heaven’s Son refilling my cup for the sixth time.

Or was it the seventh?

I couldn’t remember.