We? The Retired Emperor sighed. It was all fixed, of course. Now that Norihito had been named crown prince, the little Emperor would abdicate, and Kiyomori’s nephew would ascend the throne. And Kiyomori would be made regent. The Retired Emperor opened the fan and looked at the image again.
Kiyomori, the Dragon King.
And the “Dragon King’s” daughter would be the next empress. It had all worked out perfectly for Kiyomori, and he saw no reason to object.
“Another abdication?” he asked, fanning himself.
Kiyomori bowed. “An excellent idea, sire. The prince is in every respect worthy.”
The Retired Emperor sighed again. “I am getting old,” he said peevishly. “Norihito is only five. I have lost one son and seen my grandson become emperor. And now another son will take over. Where will it end? I am weary of ruling for children.”
Kiyomori made a strange noise. It almost sounded like suppressed laughter. The Retired Emperor frowned at him.
“Forgive me, sire,” said Kiyomori, looking abashed. “Something caught in my throat. As for Your Majesty’s age, why, you are in the prime of your life.” He paused, then added, “I hear there is a new lady in your household.”
The Retired Emperor’s brows contracted. “What?”
“Again, your pardon, sire. Oba Hiramoto, one of my vassals, approached me on behalf of his daughter. It seems the young woman is very unhappy. She pines for your favor.” Kiyomori smiled a little and made a dismissive gesture. They were both men of the world.
The Emperor flushed. “Since when is it your custom to enquire about my household arrangements?” he demanded.
Kiyomori bowed very deeply, keeping his head down. “I have offended again. It was only my intention to prove that Your Majesty is very far from being old.”
The Emperor cleared his throat. He knew he was being flattered. With his nephew in line for the throne, Kiyomori engaged in a little pandering. No doubt, he thought that a new affair would preoccupy him and leave Kiyomori a free hand to arrange the government as he wished.
But winter was coming, and he felt old. His mind drifted to the Oba girl. She was fourteen, at the beginning of life.
“I am tired,” he said and dismissed Kiyomori.
The Letter
At first, Toshiko’s shame and grief knew no bounds. She wept all night, silently so that the others would not hear, and at daybreak, she did not emerge from under her covers until they had gone about their own business.
By then, she had had time to come to terms with her ruined life and stiffened her resolution. All might be lost, but no Oba surrendered meekly. She knew now that she was surrounded and outnumbered by her enemies. Children of warriors, both male and female, were raised to fight to the death, and if the battle was lost and death did not come to them, they knew how to end their lives rather than live in shame.
Toshiko had thought of using the sharp dagger that rested, wrapped in a fine piece of figured silk, among her possessions in her trunk. It had been her father’s gift to her when she was born and had marked his acceptance of her as his daughter. Her brothers had received swords, but she and her sister got daggers. She knew its purpose. Both her father and her mother had explained it and shown her the place on her neck where the sharp point of the dagger must enter with a quick push. They had explained the need for force and speed and warned against hesitation or half-hearted attempts, for these only prolonged the pain and revealed her cowardice. Toshiko was not afraid, but toward morning she decided that the battle had barely begun and she had lost only the first skirmish. To be sure, her defeat had been shameful because she had exposed her nakedness to a man, and that man the emperor, but with courage she might still regain some honor, and that would be better than to die now. She had this small hope because the nun had been kind to her and had praised her song.
So she rose, determined not to let her enemies see her beaten. A sort of sacred fervor seized her. Gone was the Toshiko who played with kittens and even the one who yearned hotly for the touch of the man she loved. All that was over. Indeed, her love had been doomed before it had begun. Her father’s words and her mother’s letter had made that very clear.
She also accepted that she was no longer the carefree girl who rode with her brothers along the river, though she would always owe obedience to her family. She was an Oba, and no Oba was afraid to face what life demanded of her.
As she dressed, she swore to herself that she would never be caught off guard again. A woman’s preparations were not unlike those of a warrior going into battle, though her “armor” was altogether more insubstantiaclass="underline" gauzy silks in many layers, paints for the face, scented oils for her hair, and a cloud of incense to surround her. In her silver mirror, she saw that her face was blotchy and swollen from crying and applied the white paste thickly. Her eyes, she outlined in kohl and she brushed in the moth eyebrows above her real ones. Then she painted small crimson lips over her own. When she was done, the false face hid the real one as well as any visor. She brushed her tangled hair, working in the oils to straighten the kinks left behind from lying on it while it was still moist, making it shine with a bluish, metallic gloss. Finally, she dressed in one of her most flattering costumes, layering the colored gauzes carefully, tying a sash firmly around her small waist, and covering all with a finely embroidered jacket. The colors were bright and cheerful, as if she were celebrating a special day.
The others glanced her way and whispered but they did not speak to her. She was glad. She was no longer of them. She was Oba no Toshiko who fought her own battles.
Only Shojo-ben approached her a little later when they were served their morning rice.
“May I join you?” she asked a little shyly, bringing her tray with her.
This was not Shojo-ben’s usual manner. They had become good friends and normally chatted easily. But all was different now, and the new Toshiko welcomed the distance.
“Of course,” she said, moving aside politely to make room for Shojo-ben’s full skirts.
Shojo-ben knelt daintily and took a little sip from her bowl. She did not seem to know how to start. Finally she said, “Lady Sanjo told us that His Majesty sent for you to ask about songs.”
“Yes. I know some imayo.”
Shojo-ben leaned forward to peer at Toshiko’s face. “Is that what you have been humming?”
“Yes.” Toshiko volunteered nothing.
Shojo-ben sighed and ate a little more. Then she said sadly, “I envy you. I wish I had a talent that might please Him.”
These artless words undid Toshiko’s resistance. She put down her food. “Oh, Shojo-ben,” she said, “you are very charming and much more elegant than I am. Surely He takes notice of you.”
But Shojo-ben shook her head. “You are the only one He has sent for in years. Except, of course, Lady Sanjo, and her only because she makes her reports.” She giggled behind her hand. “She tries harder than any of us. I have never been near him. Sometimes at night I wonder what it would be like.” She covered her face, and cried, “Oh, please forget I said that.”
Toshiko had also lain awake dreaming at night, but not of the emperor. She said firmly, “It wasn’t like that, Shojo-ben. There was an old nun there. They talked about imayo and shirabyoshi.”
Shojo-ben brightened a little. “He is so handsome,” she murmured, adding wistfully, “and you are so pretty. He will soon send for you again and then you will be alone together.”
Toshiko felt the blush under her stiff make-up. She said quickly, “His Majesty is nearly as old as my father.”