The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (34 page)

“The tide is high,” Bran shouted over the wind. “We won’t be able to get to the cave.”

Master Yokoi looked to the moon rising above the island’s hump. “Did you expect us to march into it straight from the boat? We need to find a way around.” He leaned over to the helmsman. “You know these waters — what’s the best place to land on Enoshima undetected?”

“
Tono!
” The fisherman laughed. “In this weather, we could crash into the shrine gates and no one would notice!” He spoke without a trace of a rural accent — like everyone in his village. This close to the capital and to its myriad trade routes, along which poured rivers of merchants and pilgrims from all over the country, even common peasants had grown to use to an almost literary, official version of the Yamato language.

“Forget the weather — assume the people we’re hiding from can see through the mist and waves.”

“
A-ah!
Then we’ll head for the Smuggler’s Cove! Hold tight!”

Bran scanned the sky. It was blue and clear — the storm affected only the surface of the sea around them, darkening and muddying the waters. Somewhere above the circling kites soared a Black Wing, hidden from sight but not from Bran’s senses.

They’re watching us, waiting … Uncertain which side to take.

“Why do you think the Grey Hoods are so curious about whatever the Fanged are cooking in that cave? Aren’t they allies?”

Yokoi scowled. “They fear obsolescence. They worry that the Abominations may not need them anymore and their deal will be lost. They are fools. Hotta plays them like children. He never planned to give them anything.”

“They got their treaties.”

“We both know that’s not what they really want, boy.”

Bran nodded in silence.
How long can the Serpent deceive the Komtur before he loses patience?
“This whole war was just a ruse!” he said, suddenly aware of the truth. “The Fanged don’t care for any side
.
They only wanted to buy time.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Westerner,” Yokoi said in a tired voice.
“We were
all
played for fools.”

The fisherman turned the boat to starboard. He aimed between two reefs, over a ruined remnant of an old breakwater. The bottom scratched over the flat stones. A billow pushed it through, into a pool of calm, dark water. It whirled in place, cast from side to side.

This is madness.

The boat ground to a halt on gravel. The boards cracked. The hull filled quickly with water. The young fisherman leapt overboard, knee-deep into the sea. “Hurry,” he shouted. “The next big wave will crush the boat
and
us.”

They waded after him towards the sheer cliff. “Here!” Hidden behind a spur of limestone was the ruin of a rockslide, a slope of boulders reaching all the way to the top. Bran glanced around, looking for a staircase or ladder.

“This is it,
tono,
” the fisherman said.

“What is?” asked Yokoi, as bewildered as Bran.

“The way up!” The boy started scrambling up the slippery boulders as effortlessly as a mountain goat. “Come on!”

Yokoi and Bran looked at the slope, then at each other, then back at the slope. The samurai tied up his robe between his legs and attacked the rockslide with vigour belying his age. Some ten feet up, he looked down towards Bran.

“What are you waiting for, barbarian?”

Bran took a step back and, using his hands and fingers as measures, calculated the angles of approach and rebound.

“Hurry up!” urged Yokoi. “You do know how to climb, don’t you?”

Bran took a brief run-up and launched himself into a sequence of enhanced leaps, bouncing from one cliff wall to another. The boulders were wet and slippery, breaking his stride, but he recovered and leapt one more time before landing on a flat stone, jutting out of the rumble at a right angle.

The leaps took him halfway up the slope, a few feet over the fisherman, and a long way up from Yokoi. It was as high up as he dared to reach in one go. He was surprised to even have got this far.

It’s a long time since I tripped when jumping over the fence at Kirishima,
he thought. Was it just the vicinity of the nexus at Fuji that gave his spells the boost they required, or had his magic potential grown along with his confidence — as some of his teachers at Llambed had predicted?

Don’t get cocky,
he remembered his father’s voice. Even if it had only been an illusion, it made him shudder.

The rest of the way, he climbed like the other two. The young fisherman still got to the top before him. He reached out for Bran’s hand and dragged him up in one strong pull, almost yanking Bran’s shoulder out of its socket.

Bran looked down. “I’m sorry about your boat,” he said. The furious waves finished reducing the vessel to shards and splinters. “How will you get home now?”

The fisherman waved it off. “I’ll walk. The causeway’s still there, isn’t it?”

“Tokimari-
dono
will pay you back,” said Yokoi, panting after the long climb.

“It was worth it for the tale alone,” said the fisherman, grinning. “Do you think I’ll be mentioned in your legend,
tono
?
A
Gaikokujin
warrior
,
a Hōjō clansman — and me, a lowly fisherman.”

“What is your name, so that I may mention it in the story?”

“My name is not worthy to occupy your esteemed memory,” said the fisherman and bowed. “The people in the village will know it’s me, that’s all that matters.”

He turned to a line of wind-bent pines growing along a ridge to the south. “The causeway and the village is that way,” he said, “but I’m guessing that’s not where you want to go.”

“No. This is where we part,” said Bran. “Be careful. There is evil on this island.”

For the first time, the grin vanished from the fisherman’s face. “I know,
tono
. It’s too quiet. I hear no singing pilgrims, no music from the shrine — not even the birds in the trees.” He shrugged and beamed again. “Ah well. I’m not the one looking for the demons. I just need to get home before it gets dark.”

He bowed and sprinted off towards the pines, his feet making no sound on the wet grass.

“Where now?” he asked Yokoi. The samurai brushed dust and dirt off his clothes — he was wearing now the Hōjō clansman’s robes, apparently borrowed from his kinsman — and turned narrowed eyes at Bran.

“I didn’t know you barbarians could
fly
.”

“It’s just a little enhanced acrobatics.” Bran shrugged. “Every dragon rider must know it.”

“Might come in handy.” Yokoi gestured in the direction opposite to where the fisherman had disappeared, further up the hill. “After me.”

The shrine on top of the island’s “head” — smaller and secondary to that on its “back” — was busy with regular priestly activity. The acolytes brushed the leaves off the dirt paths and trimmed the grass along paths, the shrine maidens wove talismans and counted coins earned from their sale during the day. There was even an occasional late pilgrim, dawdling in front of a statue or a sacred well.

Bran and Yokoi observed it all from a hiding place in a great azalea bush, overgrowing a knoll not far from the shrine’s gate. A large black butterfly sat on Bran’s nose. It flew away just as Bran was about to sneeze.

“There’s nothing out of the ordinary here,” he said. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be looking elsewhere?”

“These are not the Enoshima priests,” replied Yokoi. “They are servants of the Serpent.”

“How can you tell? They look like priests to me.”

The samurai scoffed. “
Pah
. Of course they would, to a barbarian. Look carefully. They only perform the actions of the laymen — cleaning, brushing, washing. No rites. No prayers. No lighting the incense. No carrying
ema
tablets to the sacred fire. I haven’t seen a single priest or acolyte stop by the altar to give thanks.”

“This doesn’t make sense.” Bran scratched his cheek. “No Fanged can enter the sacred ground. What use would they have of an entire shrine?”

“I don’t purport to understand the Abominations. Maybe if Dōraku-
sama
were here, he would explain it better. My guess is they are guarding something of importance, something that can’t be taken away from the shrine.”

“So a place, or a building, rather than an artefact.”

“Or a prisoner.”

“Satō
!”

The lines of magic Bran saw in True Sight converged on several points throughout the shrine, but nothing indicating Satō’s particular pattern. Yokoi was right — the entire compound was a sham. What had happened to the real priests, he could only guess.

For the first time the scale of the Serpent’s operations dawned on him. It wasn’t just the eight Fanged lords and their vassals. To control the
daimyo
s and provinces, to exert influence on the
Taikun
’s Council, to elude the official network of checkpoints and spies, all took a vast, hidden enterprise. Only here, near the centre of their domain, was this influence so visible, so obvious.

And Dōraku … stood against all this by himself, for all those centuries?

They retreated from the azaleas deeper into the forest. The nobleman nodded after Bran explained what he had seen. “We need to figure out what it is they’re doing.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Things may have changed since I last came here … but if I remember right, the main building is over there, next to the dragon’s cave.”

One of the magic beacons burned in the direction the samurai was pointing. It was as good a lead as any, but—

“Wait — the
dragon’s cave?
”

“It’s nothing, just a hole dug in the rock, with a statue of a dragon. Sometimes it spits fire. Tacky and vulgar, popular with kids.” A faint smiled danced on his lips.

“Not many kids at the shrine today,” said Bran. “Shall we check it out?”

“Ssh …” Yokoi pulled him away. A group of “priests” walked past along the forest path. He watched them disappear among the trees. “There’s nowhere to hide further up,” he whispered. “Beyond this wood the shrine grounds spread from cliff to cliff, clear and empty.” Yokoi put his fingers to his lips in thought. “How often can you use this squirrel spell of yours? Can you leap from roof to roof, from tree to tree, or do you need to recharge it, like a thunder gun?”

“As long as I’m not distracted I can go on for a while … but it’s too bright. They will notice me.”

“I’ll distract them.” He stared Bran in the eyes. “Of the two of us, you have more chance against the Abominations, boy. You have your magic, your dragon, your ... strange weapon made of light. All I have is my sword.”

“So … does that mean you trust me?”

Yokoi shook his head. “A few days ago I would never have thought of joining forces with a bar … a
foreigner
.” He sighed. “But in a war against an enemy like this … who can be fussy about their allies?”

Bran nodded. Master Yokoi nodded back, and tested the smooth drawing and sheathing of his sword. “Give me a few minutes,” he said, and stepped onto the forest path.

Bran stood alone in the middle of the forest. The silence rang in his ears. The fisherman was right — there were no birds here, no insects chirping, not even the cicadas — he realized it was the first evening in weeks he hadn’t heard the incessant rhythmic forest hum. If he strained, he heard the distant shattering of waves against a cliff, and the cawing of kites in the sky. A tingling at the back of his head told him the Black Wing was still somewhere up there, watching, observing.

Have I done the right thing?

By now, it was obvious Nagomi was not coming to Enoshima. Takasugi and the
kiheitai
nursed their wounds on the way to Chōfu. His father and the rebels fought their way through the
Taikun’s
forces on the other side of Yamato. Dōraku … was nowhere to be found. All Bran was left with now was his dragon, waiting in the hills on the mainland — and one cowardly scholar with questionable sword skills.

And if he falls, I am on my own.

He heard a commotion at the shrine’s courtyard. He took several deep breaths to calm his nerves, then chose a tall pine tree as his initial target and calculated the precise trajectory of his first leap.

Whatever Yokoi had done worked better than either of them expected. When Bran reached the shrine’s perimeter, several talisman stores stood in flames, having caught fire from an overturned incense cauldron. The nobleman stood with his back to a half-rotten gingko tree stump, protesting his innocence. A crowd of angry priests and acolytes approached from all sides.

Nobody paid attention to Bran, who leapt from his maple tree to the top of an ornate gatehouse and from it onto the roof of the main hall. He missed his landing by a few inches, and hit the tiles harder than he had planned. A clinking shower of ceramic shards slid to the ground. He scrambled to the top ridge, making even more noise.

Damn it.

The dragon “cave” was just one jump away. Yokoi had been right — the bronze sculpture on its top was just an enlarged version of the cheap festival figurines, just like Bran’s birthday gift.

A row of purple flags fluttered at the entrance, marked with Hōjō crests and the names of some wealthy benefactors. The entrance was closed shut with an iron grate, and several “priests” armed with spears and naginata halberds guarded the path. And they were looking straight at him.

An arrow whizzed past his ear. He searched for the enemy. To his left, hidden in the treetops, rose a two-man watchtower. The cedar timber of its supports was fresh, gleaming golden in the light of braziers at its foot. The archer nocked another arrow, while his fellow guard rang out the alarm on a brass bell. The men surrounding Yokoi turned in Bran’s direction. They produced weapons from under their robes and hurried back towards the main hall. The guardians of the dragon cave raised their spears and formed a half-circle around the entrance. Bran recognized soldier training in their spare, efficient movements.