“The shogun’s wife’s lady-in-waiting confessed to setting the fire!” “Sano is innocent!”
Yanagisawa listened, his expression filling with horror and rage. The soldiers paused, looking to him for new orders. The shogun raised his green, befuddled face. The mourners stared at Sano.
As his mind reeled with astonishment, Sano ignored the crowd, the shogun, and Yanagisawa. His eyes sought one man. He met Ienobu’s deliberately bland gaze.
42
A high-pitched ringing, like wind chimes, roused Hirata. Lying on his stomach, he felt cold, jagged rock pressed against his cheek. Breathing sulfurous fumes, he coughed. His body was a constellation of pains, the worst one in his right arm, which was twisted under his chest. Rolling over, Hirata opened his eyes and saw only blackness.
For a terrifying instant he thought he was blind. Then light paled the black after-image of the explosion. Vision returned. The woods surrounded him. His head pounded. He lifted his right hand to it, then yelled and stopped because of the pain in his arm. He felt the arm with his left hand. Jagged bone poked through the skin above the wrist. It must have broken when he fell. He touched his head and found a plum-sized knot. Blood wet his fingers. He looked toward the clearing.
Sunlight filtered through smoke. Scattered green flames burned fallen leaves on the ground. Where the bonfire had been was a black crater ringed with charred sticks and earth clods. Between Hirata and the crater, a human shape lay facedown.
Tahara.
His clothes were burned to smoking tatters. His exposed back, legs, and neck were red, blistered, and studded with black cinders and twigs from the bonfire. His topknot was burned to a frizzle. His hand still clutched his sword. He didn’t move.
Cautious relief trickled through Hirata, but he mustn’t assume Tahara was dead. He sat up, swaying dizzily. The deep exhaustion that always set in after strenuous combat permeated him. Cramps contracted every muscle. Pain vibrated every nerve as his body purged the poisons that had accumulated inside it. Gasps pumped chemical fumes from his lungs. Foul sweat leaked from his skin. He crawled, right knee, then left knee, then left hand, holding his broken arm against him. He inched toward his sword, which lay between him and Tahara. The ringing in his ears faded. As he struggled to lift the sword, he heard rustling noises from the pit.
Kitano and Deguchi.
Hirata walked on his knees toward the pit. He dragged the sword, which felt as heavy as if made of stone. Thrusting one leg after the other took all his strength. Each time his kneecap hit the ground, his arm and the knot on his head throbbed. When he reached the pit, a hand slowly rose from inside it and clamped onto the edge. Another hand followed suit. A face appeared between them. Blood and grime overlaid its mesh of old scars. Kitano gasped out, “I killed Deguchi.”
Hirata looked into the pit. At the bottom Deguchi lay amid blood-soaked leaves and sticks. His eyes, their glow extinguished, stared vacantly. His throat was cut.
“Too bad for you,” said a voice from behind Hirata.
Hirata looked over his shoulder. Tahara struggled to his feet; his legs buckled, but he remained upright. His face was bruised, his nose bleeding.
“That didn’t go quite the way you planned.” His swollen lips managed to smile.
Horror worsened the weakness that crippled Hirata. His ally was dead. His last trick had failed. He was alone with his two enemies.
Kitano groaned, pulling himself out of the pit. He collapsed with his legs inside it and his upper body flat on the surface. Tahara moved toward Hirata, wobbling as if swamped by ocean waves. The effort pulled his smile into a grimace. His arm trembled as he brandished his sword. This was the weakest condition in which Hirata had ever seen Tahara and Kitano, his best chance to kill them. But Hirata was even weaker. Swinging at Kitano, he toppled on his stomach. Kitano crawled from the pit. Tahara fell. They lay gasping on the ground. Hirata hoped they were too exhausted to kill him. Then Tahara lifted his shaking hand and pointed.
Across the clearing, a lumpy cloth sack levitated. It flew jerkily to Tahara. Hirata exerted his mind against it, in vain. Tahara fumbled the sack open, pulled out an oil lamp and incense burner. He lit them with a flame he rubbed up between his finger and thumb. He and Kitano began chanting.
Hirata whispered, “Stop. No.”
Tahara and Kitano chanted louder, faster, gaining strength from the spell. Hirata tried to block the sound from his mind and hold his breath. But their combined will overpowered his. The sweet, rank incense smoke penetrated his lungs. His voice involuntarily uttered the chant. He found himself on the Sekigahara battlefield, kneeling among the corpses. Ravens swooped down from the mountains, lured by the stench of death. General Otani materialized in front of Hirata. He wore his horned helmet and black armor. His face was disfigured by leprosy sores, fierce with rage.
“You disobeyed me,” he said in his booming voice. “You betrayed your comrades. Now you will suffer the consequences.”
Terror bit deep into Hirata. General Otani must have no further use for him, no reason to spare him. If he was killed while in a trance, he would die for real. He groped for his sword. His hand touched mud. The sword hadn’t accompanied him into the trance, but his physical infirmities had. The pain in his arm doubled him over. He was too feeble to stand.
General Otani raised his armor-gloved hand. Distant hoofbeats thundered. Two mounted soldiers galloped across the battlefield, one from either side of General Otani, heading straight for Hirata. As they drew near, Hirata recognized Tahara and Kitano. They wore armor that matched General Otani’s. Poles on their backs flew banners that bore his crest. They raised chain-mailed arms and waved swords. They howled as their horses trampled corpses.
Hirata uttered an incoherent plea for mercy, a cry of despair.
Tahara and Kitano converged upon him. General Otani dropped his hand. Their blades came slashing down.
Hirata’s cry was lost in the cawing of ravens that fluttered up from the battlefield, into the sky that turned as black as their wings.
* * *
Taeko wriggled her way through the funeral procession. Frantic to reach Masahiro, she dropped to the ground and burrowed through a forest of women’s white kimono skirts, men’s flowing white trousers, and priests’ saffron robes. She crawled out between the armored legs of a soldier. She scrambled to her feet on a dirt ridge alongside the passage, where the foundation for a new wall had been. Looking down the hill, she saw the landslide. Surprise opened her mouth. Her gaze moved up the ridge. Two people stood on the base of a tower inside wooden beams and posts. One was a lady. The other was Masahiro.
“Little girl, come away from there before you fall!” someone called.
Heedless, Taeko began walking up the ridge. Her love for him pushed her toward Masahiro. She didn’t dare glance down the steep, frightening hillside. The ridge crumbled under her feet. Dirt slid. People in the passage raised their hands to her and begged her to let them lift her down. Taeko walked faster. The ridge narrowed as it rose. She crawled the rest of the way to the tower, grasped the wooden framework, and pulled herself inside, onto the stone-paved floor.
Masahiro stood, turned away from her, at the edge of the tower. He leaned toward the plump woman with the puffy hairdo, who stood beside him on his right. His hands were clasped. Taeko heard him say, “Please don’t jump.” He sounded as if he were going to cry. Taeko had never seen Masahiro cry.
The woman sobbed and gulped. “I have to.”
Something told Taeko to keep quiet. She crept toward Masahiro until she was close enough to touch him. He and the woman didn’t notice her. She looked over the edge and saw the long drop to the ground. Her stomach plunged. She felt as if she were falling. Wind whistled in her ears. Her heart banged. She clutched a low crossbeam on the framework and turned away from the terrifying view.