The Shattering Waves (The Year of the Dragon, Book 7) (37 page)

CHAPTER XXIII

The world outside the narrow windows of the palanquin was a flurry of vermillion reds. This was the grand market street in front of the Asakusa Shrine - rows upon rows of stands selling all sorts of cheap, tacky wares — paper fans and woodcuts, pinwheels and wooden toys, rice crackers and bean buns, anything that could be bought at a whim for a couple of pieces of copper. But the crowds of commoners that gathered along the main alleyway were not buying anything today. They all came to see the grand procession: the
Taikun’s
court
and his exotic guests arriving on an official visit to the shrine.

The townsfolk had little chance of actually seeing any of the visitors enclosed in the dark stuffy palanquins. It didn’t matter — they were excited just to be in the presence of the aristocrats, who rarely showed in these parts of the city, far from the palace gates.

It was Atsuko’s idea to bring the Varyagan legation here, rather than to one of the smaller shrines on the castle grounds. She’d explained it as wanting to amaze them with the vermillion glory of the Asakusa’s mighty gates and tumescent towers. The foreigners followed the head of the procession in four vehicles — even though they were the largest palanquins that could be found in the palace, the robust sailors barely fitted inside, one in each of the lacquered boxes.

The
Taikun
rode in front, on a tall white horse. He’d decided to ignore the warnings of his bodyguards and the threat of assassins.

“My people need to see I’m not afraid,” he’d told his warriors. “How can I lead them against the rebels if I don’t show my face?”

This meant there was a free cushion in Atsuko’s palanquin — and she’d invited Councillor Hotta to join her on the journey from the castle. This was an unprecedented move, as only members of the
Taikun’s
family had access to the princess’s vehicle.

“What is the reason for this rare privilege,
hime
?” Hotta had asked when they left the palace gates.

“My
Taikun
spends more time with you than with any of his concubines. This intrigues me,” she said with a mysterious smile. “I thought we should get to know each other better.”

She pretended to look out the narrow window, revealing her neck and a few inches of her shoulder to the Councillor. He didn’t react to it in the slightest.

Did the blood magic turn him into a eunuch? This will be harder than I expected.

“I remember when we first met, you noticed my
obi
buckle,” she said. She was wearing the same piece of jewellery today, wondering if it would still have the same effect as the first time.

Hotta nodded. “I used to collect such antiquities. This one is a very rare, old type. At a guess, I’d say it’s from Fukuchiyama, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know. As I said, it was a gift.”

“It’s an odd gift — it seems to be missing an inset.”

“Does it?” She looked at the buckle. “I haven’t noticed. What do you think it was?”

“A crystal of some kind. Not jade — the edges would be smoother. Amethyst, maybe? Or …
sapphire
.” His voiced changed subtly when he said it, filled with an odd yearning.

“You are very knowledgeable, Councillor.”

He cleared his throat. “As I said, it used to be my hobby.”

“But not anymore?”

“Oh, I don’t have time for such pastimes anymore, princess. Governing Yamato is enough to keep me occupied.”

“I thought you and my husband had the Council to assist you?”

Hotta hissed. “They can’t be trusted,
hime
. These days, you never know who can turn to the rebel side.”

Not very subtle, are we?

He looked out. The entourage neared the great lantern hanging at the entrance to Asakusa. Hotta stirred uneasily. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to accompany you all the way to the shrine,
hime.
Matters of state await me.”

“How disappointing. Will you not join us in prayer?”

“Maybe later.”

They were right — he can’t enter the sacred ground, after all.

The lectern bearers halted abruptly. Atsuko allowed the momentum to throw her at the Councillor. His body was cold like stone. “What’s happening out there?” she asked, imbuing her voice with coy fear.

Hotta glanced outside. “The
Taikun’s
horse stopped … A little girl ran up to him and is begging for something. How did she get through the guards? Get her away and whip her and her family!” he shouted.

Atsuko joined Hotta at the narrow visor. The guards rushed to pick up the girl. She whirled around, revealing a dagger hidden under the straw coat. She stabbed blindly at the legs of the
Taikun’s
horse. The animal neighed and reared, almost throwing Iesada out of the saddle. More guards hurried to save their lord.

At this moment, the ranks of the commoners broke. Half a dozen masked swordsmen charged at the entourage, hacking at the guards. The
Taikun’s
samurai turned to haphazard defence, forming tight rings around the horse and the palanquins.

“It’s the assassins!” cried Atsuko. “Get us out of here!” she ordered the lectern bearers.

“No,
hime —
we’re safest with the others,” protested Hotta, but the bearers listened only to the princess. They barged through the guards and commoners alike, squeezed between the stalls and emerged on the other side, onto a small, empty street lined with stores selling make-up utensils and theatrical masks.

Hotta made for the door, but Atsuko clung to him. “Don’t leave me, Councillor!” she pleaded. “I’m so afraid.”

“I’m sorry,
hime,
I have to get back to the
Taikun
!” He struggled with her, but did not use his full force — perhaps for the first time in his career, uncertain of what to do next.

Atsuko heard the loud whistle of the signal arrow. This was her cue. She feigned a spasm of hysteria, wobbled the palanquin, and tumbled out onto the street, still grasping the Councillor by the silk robe.

A shadow of a tall man holding a great two-handed sword appeared above her. She rolled away. The blade fell on Hotta, hacking through an arm raised in defence, and slicing his head clean off the neck. For good measure, Gensai thrust the blade once more into the spot where the Councillor’s heart used to be. No blood spurted from the pierced arteries.

Gensai kicked the head away into the gutter before the
Taikun’s
men stormed onto the narrow street. Crossbow bolts splattered the mud at his feet. Atsuko held her breath when two of the bolts dug deep into his thigh. Gensai cursed and raced, limping, towards the nearest shop where two men in unmarked uniforms descended from the roof and helped him up among the new shower of crossbow bolts. One of them cried and fell to the ground, but Gensai disappeared beyond the roof’s edge.

Hooves clicked on the cobbles. The
Taikun
galloped past Atsuko and halted by the Councillor’s body. He jumped down and cradled the headless corpse to his chest. The flurry of emotions on his face was like nothing Atsuko had ever seen. There was shock, of course — but more than that, there was confusion, helplessness and … relief.

Hotta’s dead hand moved and clutched onto Iesada’s neck.

A splash of freezing cold water woke Bran up. He spat and spluttered, and then moaned as the pain of his injuries came flooding back. For a moment, it blinded him. He flailed his arms around and struck a metal bar.

It took him seconds to get adjusted to the bright light. The first thing to emerge from the blur was the outer edges of a vast domed cavern. Looking through his fingers he scanned his surroundings. He was trapped in a cage of bronze bars, in the centre of the cavern’s floor. Halfway up, all around the cave’s circumference, a narrow gallery jutted out of the wall by some six feet. This was where the light was coming from: myriad lanterns, their blaze reflected towards him by polished brass lenses. Hooded silhouettes moved beyond the circle of light.

The domed ceiling rose more than a hundred feet above the floor. Near the centre the rock turned a shade of deep dark blue, speckled with several bright dots. He blinked a few times before realizing he was looking at the night sky.

He now turned his gaze down. Giant oval boulders were scattered around the cavern floor among a mess of old, yellow bones. There was a hundred of them, at least, each as big as a bullock, each speckled with lichen, covered in bumps and scars. A row of curled spikes surrounded each boulder in the middle.

Dragon eggs. The legend was right. This
is
a hatchery.

“Where—”

Another bucketful of water landed in his face. A hooded acolyte cast away the wooden bucket and shuffled away from the cage.

“He’s awake,” a cold, deep voice boomed, echoing around the cave all the way to the hole in the ceiling.

All the lanterns dimmed except one, aimed straight at Bran. The men in hooded cloaks lined the edge of the gallery. Bran counted at least thirty. Most wore cloaks of plain cloth, drab brown or grey. Five of them, each standing at one point of a pentangle, were dressed in the flowing silk robes of a single colour: white, bronze, azure blue, and two silver ones.

Only five Heads … where are the others?

A sombre Latin hymn rose from the gallery, rebounded from the walls, and filled the cavern with dissonant harmonies. Bran shuddered. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them.

The dark energies spiralled up from the floor, black, blue, purple lines, twisted and jagged like razor wire, whirling, jumping. Bran’s skin covered with a thin layer of hoar frost. His teeth chattered. Whatever magic energy he had left was being sapped by the bronze bars of the cage.
Roman orichalcum,
he noted.
Like the Fanged, leftovers from the Wizardry Wars… and like the Fanged, still so effective.

The song ended, and the man in white stepped forward. It was his voice that had sounded before. “Brother Jupiter, Brother Mercury,” he rumbled. “Are your shards ready?”

“They are, Father Saturn,” the bronze and azure robes replied in unison. Each raised something in his hands.

Planets …
White for Saturn, blue for Mercury, bronze for Jupiter … Where have I seen this before?

“Sister Moon!” the man in white bellowed.

“I am ready,” replied the woman in the silver robe. Bran recognized the shade on the silk from the scrap Takasugi had found in Heian. She too raised her hands over the gallery edge.

Silver for Moon …
The memory was completed.
The Mithraeum in Caer Wyddno.
The entrance to the Old Faithers’ cave in Gwynedd was marked with a pattern made of seven animals and seven astrological glyphs painted in seven colours. Bran tried to remember what the other three were.

Golden for the Sun
.
There should be Mars and Venus, too.
This
is
a mithraean rite. Or a mockery of one, at least.

“And your Initiate?” asked Saturn.

“I am ready too,” spoke the other silver robe.

No.

She stepped forward and dropped the hood, revealing a tussle of short black hair.

No …

“Is the pattern to your liking, Initiate Moon?” asked Saturn.

“It is, Father Saturn.”

“And the potentials?”

“All is optimal, Father Saturn.”

“Then let us tarry no more. We have waited for this day for centuries. At long last, all the pieces of the
manju
stone are in place, and the hatching spell is complete.”

The hatching spell? But these eggs have been dead for ages. They’re just shells full of dried out bone and tissue.

Satō started chanting and weaving a spell. There were elements in the pattern that were more than familiar to Bran.

These are Llambed weaves. She got them from the Dracology Handbook.

The three Fangeds opened their hands. Three rays of blue light beamed from their palms, and on each rode a single small shard of the blue stone.

My ring.

The shards met in the centre, right above Bran’s cage. A dazzling radiance filled the cave and when it subdued, the shards were joined, seamlessly, into a blue orb. The wizardess continued her song. Bran grasped the cage bars and struggled to his feet.

“Satō!” he shouted, overcoming the hoarseness in his throat. “Stop, it’s me, Bran! Please! Don’t do it!”

Satō’s voice wobbled, and the chant broke off. She looked down. Her eyes met Bran’s.

“Silence, scum,” bellowed the Silver Robe. “Or we’ll cut your tongue out.”

“No, let him, Sister Moon,” said Father Saturn. “Remember why we brought him here. Why we keep him alive. Continue, Initiate.”

The wizardess stared back into the blue stone and resumed the spell-weaving. Bran called on her again, and again her voice broke, but she recovered in an instant this time. At the third shout, she didn’t react at all. Bran yelled her name until the inside of his throat turned to sandpaper and he could utter no more words. Satō remained unmoved, though Bran was certain he saw a trembling in her hands.

Blue lightning shot from the
manju
stone and struck a dragon egg. It forked in two, the rays jumped to two nearby eggs. Each time, the lightning split in two again, and in a few seconds the flash reached every egg in the hatchery.

The chant was over. None of the acolytes moved or spoke. Bran slid to the floor and watched the egg nearest to his cage. For a long, excruciating, silent minute, nothing happened. A faint hope woke in his heart.

It didn’t work. I was right, the embryos are dead.

And then, the egg shuddered. It trembled and wobbled. A narrow crack appeared on the top, and ran down like a seam. It was joined by four more fissures, spreading in a star pattern. The cracks widened. A blue glow blazed from inside. Shards of eggshell, two inches thick, fell to the ground. The egg opened in five segments, like a peeled orange. A high-pitched roar came from inside.