The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (32 page)

Gwen let go of the priestess and gestured at her to go away somewhere that she could read the letter in peace. She pointed to her eyes with two fingers and then at Nagomi:
I see you.

Nagomi wandered off to sit on an overturned tree trunk. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the paper. The characters were not as stylish and graceful as on the envelope, instead they were hasty, running all over the page, not keeping to vertical lines. The first line read:
I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Before anything else, Gwen has nothing to do with this — I asked her to help me. She is not aware of our situation, so don’t blame her for anything.

I thought about your visions all night, and I think you’re right. To rescue Satō, you must reach and pass through the Gates of the Otherworld. Somehow, her salvation and the answer to all the riddles lies there, in the cold North. But in our world, Satō is in Enoshima. I know that’s where the Serpent took her, and that is where I must go with Yokoi-
dono
and Emrys. I don’t claim to understand what any of it means. All I know is that we don’t have any more time. To hope to reach both our targets on time, we have to go our separate ways. At least, for now.

I know you’ve always worried that you weren’t more helpful in a physical fight. And you’re right. But you have powers beyond either mine or Satō’s comprehension. You’ve shown them on Ganryū’s island. To fight the Darkness, to fight the Shadows, will take more than just strength of arms or elemental magic. This is where your Light will shine. If I’m right, Enoshima will be a battle of spells and weapons. There, you will be of no use. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh.

The first part of the letter ended there. Then the writing started from a new line, in pencil this time, the characters even more rapid and smudged.

I’m sorry,
Bran repeated.
I just realized I’m imposing your destiny on you. I have no right to do this. I gave you my reasons, but the decision must be yours. I’m putting two stones in this envelope. Give one of these to Gwen. The black one means following me to Enoshima. She will know how to find me. The grey one is the North.

Should you choose going to the North, it will take you several days to reach the Gate, even on Nodwydd. The journey itself may be dangerous — you will fly right over Aizu lands, although Gwen knows how to keep stealthy. She has the map, so try not to get separa-
The rest of the sentence was crossed out.
Keep close to Gwen,
it continued.

I will try to contact you as soon as I can, the way we did in Naniwa. Although … it may not be safe anymore. Either way, we’ll see each other soon, I promise. In a week or two, all this will be over, and we’ll all be together again, the three of us, you, me and Satō.

Bran

Nagomi folded the piece of paper and put it carefully back into the envelope, closed it, stood up and then kicked the tree trunk several times with all her strength. She then took a deep breath, wiped the angry tears from her eyes and sat back. She took the two stones in her hand and gazed at them.

She could have just consulted her visions, but that would have been cheating. Ever since she had decided no longer to be like the leaf blown in the wind, she’d insisted on making decisions informed by reason. She already knew well what the Spirits expected her to do, anyway: the vision of the Gates in her mind was loud and clear enough.

The choice of the stones had been deliberate. Bran picked an ugly, nasty, sharp stone to represent the decision he did not want her to take. It was so obvious, but at least it showed he cared. Where did he manage to get the grey pebble from? How long had he planned it …?

She was letting her mind wander, unwilling to face the decision Bran had forced upon her. She looked to the Western woman: she was sitting on her silver dragon, side-saddle, as if in a chair, biting into a ball of dough. She was staring straight at the priestess. If there was an expression on her face, again, Nagomi was not able to read it.

She picked up the grey pebble.
Several days with her?
She imagined it: flying in complete silence, just like today, then setting up the camp, going to sleep and waking up without saying a word to each other, other than miming and grunting. She sighed.

She didn’t know how well Bran knew this Western woman, but he knew Nagomi, and he trusted they would manage this journey together despite the difficulties. Perhaps he was right after all.

Why do I even worry about the journey?

She rolled the stones between her fingers. Again, she let herself stray from making the choice.

It’s the destination that matters.

The Gate … She wasn’t even sure if it really was there, on the northern edge of Yamato, as the legends would have it. The visions had not been clear on the details of its location. Would Gwen be able to find it? She doubted the map Bran mentioned in the letter had that much detail.

No.
She clenched the stones. The sharp edges pricked her skin.
That’s still not what I should worry about. It’s what’s at the Gates that I need to fear.

Whatever it was, this time she had to face it alone. The
grey pebble meant they would all be alone and separated from each other: Bran at Enoshima, she at the Gate, and Satō ...

I would become the only character in my story. The hero.

She scoffed.
A hero
? A sidekick to Sacchan’s antics, at best.

It doesn’t matter which stone I choose
.

On Enoshima, she would only be getting in Bran’s way. At the Gate, she would be powerless against the coming Darkness.

I’m not ready for any of this. I never was.

She glanced again at the Western woman. Gwen had finished eating whatever it was she was eating, brushed crumbs off her hands and reached for a metal container hanging from the saddle. She unscrewed a cap at the top and drank a few gulps. Noticing Nagomi’s attention, she offered a sip from the flask. Nagomi licked her parched lips and nodded.

She stood up, clutching the two stones in her left hand, and returned to the woman and her dragon. She took a long sip. She was surprised when what she expected to be saké or some other liquor proved to be just soft, cold, delicious water. She drank a third of the flask eagerly before returning the container.

Gwen screwed the cap back on with slow movements of her fingers, looking at Nagomi with expectation. At this moment, the priestess knew. She reached out a closed hand. “This is
my
choice,” she said out loud, more to Fate and the Spirits around her than to the woman who didn’t understand her.

“
I,
Itō Nagomi, make it, because I know it’s the right choice, not because the Spirits told me or visions guided me.”

She opened her hand to pick one of the two stones and present it to Gwen, but there was only one left: the smooth grey pebble. She must have dropped the black shard somewhere along the way, in the undergrowth. She bit her lip.

Though the choice was hers, Fate still had the last laugh.

CHAPTER XX

As soon as the island appeared in sight — a speck of raised ground, joined to the mainland with an umbilical cord of a narrow causeway — the Black Wing materialized in the sky before Bran.

If that’s that damn Frigga again, we’re done for.

Emrys had no strength left in him to fight, and Bran, too, felt tired and spent. The black mount flew slowly past his left flank, its rider not dropping the hood. Bran raised his hand in greeting. The Gorllewin turned to make another pass, this time to his right.

“You’re far from the frontline,” the rider shouted. “Why are you here?”

Bran didn’t recognize the voice — but it was a male one, and older sounding. He breathed a sigh of relief.

“A diplomatic mission,” he shouted back and gestured at Yokoi.

“You’re going to Edo, then?”

“Enoshima!” Bran pointed in direction of the island. The rider tugged on the reins and did a barrel roll over their heads, taking a closer look at Bran and the samurai sitting behind him.

“I know him,” Grey Hood said. “He was a prisoner at Shimoda. For that matter, so were you.”

“Indeed. Will you try to stop us?”

The rider chuckled. “If I did, it would only be out of concern for your own safety, boy. Go, fly to Enoshima. I couldn’t care less.”

“Safety? Why is that?”

“You’ll see.” He pulled away. “I
will
stop you if you try to fly anywhere further, though. Truce or no truce. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Maybe I
should
arrest you. For your own good.”

“Don’t worry, we know what we’re doing.”

“No.” The Grey Hood gave Bran a grim stare. “You really don’t.”

He leaned forward in the saddle and both he and the black dragon vanished into the glamour’s illusion.

“Well, that was cheerful,” said Bran.

He drew the spyglass from the saddlebag. The island grew from a speck into a dark, stony hill, hirsute with pines gnarled in the sea breeze and ancient, broad-canopied maples. It resembled a sea turtle, washed out on the beach and tilted to one side.

The western shore, facing the mainland, was soft and gentle, shielded from the elements. A small fishing hamlet settled around the causeway entrance. A furious ocean lashed against the limestone cliffs on the opposite edge. The narrow “head” end was almost cut off from the rest of the land by a deep vertical canyon that the waves had dug over long, patient millennia. A sprawling shrine of many halls squatted over the island’s main hump, overlooking the raging sea.

Bran scratched the scar on his cheek.

“I’m thinking we should land in these hills and try to sneak our way onto the island from there,” Bran said. “What do you say to that, Yokoi-
dono
?”

The samurai stared at the island stony-eyed. “You can’t
sneak
onto Enoshima. There’s only one way to reach it on foot, and it’s enclosed by iron gates on both sides. And there will be watchtowers all along the shore.”

That sounds like Dejima.
“Why all the security?”

“Haven’t you listened to my tale? It was a coastal fortress in the old days.”

“And you think the gates and towers are still manned? I thought it was just a shrine these days.”

“I don’t know,” replied Yokoi. “The smugglers and pirates are no longer a problem in these waters. The island should be open to all pilgrims. But I doubt the Serpent wants strangers wandering around the island while they perform their foul rituals.”

“Then shall we just land on the top, make a flashy entrance?” Bran swerved over the bay. He guided the dragon along the air currents, imitating a prowling bird of prey. A curious black kite climbed the winds almost to their altitude, glanced at Emrys, let out an impressed caw and flew back to its comrades circling the beach in confusion. Bran hoped that whoever watched them from the surface would not be able to tell them apart from the birds.

“There is … another way,” said Yokoi. “My kinsmen own a fishing village near Kamakura Bay to the east. We could ask one of them to sail us to the island from the cliff-side.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Don’t you see the size of those waves, boy? The strength of those riptides? One bad move and we’re crushed against the rocks like so many seashells. It would either be a very foolish or very brave sailor who’d agree to take us on.”

Bran rubbed his chin. It was less than five miles from Kamakura to the island, but the waters of the bay were indeed treacherous, filled with reefs and rock spires, and the currents swirled around Enoshima in an imitation of the greater maze guarding the whole of Yamato. Looking at the raging waves of an otherwise calm ocean, Bran even suspected that a miniature version of the same magic was at work here. He gazed out into the sea. Far on the eastern horizon, a thick black line marked the edge of the Maze. He frowned.

Was it always this close to land?

“So … how well do you know these kinsmen?” he asked.

“Not at all. I only know an offshoot of my clan had survived here since the Genpei Wars, against all odds.”

“They might not even want to help us, then.”

“Leave that to me, boy. There are ancient favours and blood ties that I may call upon. If they
can
help us, they will.” Yokoi glanced at an enormous wave smashing into the canyon. The spray reached almost to the top of the island’s tallest peak. He winced. “B-but let’s think of an alternative plan, just in case.”

Gwen was a more resilient and patient flyer than Bran.

As the dragon flew due north for endless hours, Nagomi, wrapped in the woman’s oversized jacket, would doze off in the saddle, made drowsy by the monotonous beating of the wings, wake up, fall asleep again. All the while, the Western woman remained awake and watchful, studying the landscape passing below for directions, adjusting the dragon’s course with the wind currents, observing the approaching cloud formations.