The Dragon's Flower Read online

  Manami nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry, I’m very careful. Besides, no one besides my servants and Kenta-kun, and sometimes Satoshi ever pay attention to me.”

  Shichiro scowled at this, but accepted it. “Well, we are very grateful for your help, especially Isao.”

  “I’m glad I can help Biggest Brother,” She whispered quietly. “He’s trying so hard to protect his people, and I want to be a good leader like he is.”

  The ronin sat up at that, startled. “Oh? Really?”

  Manami nodded solemnly. “Yes. I want to be a Great Lady who will take care of her people and love them, just like the stories you tell me about Mother Tomoko. If I become a Great Lady, I’ll be able to help them, and… and make them happy. And they’ll hopefully know that they’re… they’re never alone, if they know there’s someone out there who loves them and is going to do their best to take care of them.”

  Shichiro blinked at his little sister, before smiling gently and ruffling her hair. “I think you’ll make an excellent Great Lady. So excellent that they’ll tell stories about you for years and years to come.”

  She blinked, her eyes wide and filled with hope. “You really think so, Big Brother Shichiro?”

  Shichiro tapped her heart with two fingers, and did his best to put every scrap of sincerity in his body into his smile. “I know so, Manami-dono. You have a clever mind and a very great heart, and I know you’ll use them to do great and wonderful things. Just you wait.”

  Then she smiled, and Shichiro felt as if there was a deep truth in his words, and he smiled back. He didn’t know what the Heavenly Emperor had woven for his little sister, but he knew, deep in heart, that it would be very great things indeed.

  Then his smile lightened, and he said, “Speaking of Great and Wonderful Things, Nobuyo-sama said you were working on your poetry. Do you want to show me?”

  Her eyes widened, surprised, and she fidgeted for a second, before resolving herself and nodding in resolve. She stood up and took his hand, saying, “Come on and I’ll show you!”

  She pulled him to the desk where she had been working, and shuffled the piece of paper that had been ruined when she dropped her brush out of sight. Shichiro picked up the topmost piece and examined it.

  The sun says farewell

  The shadows draw to the west

  A bright star shines forth

  “Not bad, not bad at all. I’m impressed,” he said, and smiled at her.

  She blushed happily at the praise and looked down, twisting her fingers together. “Jinichi-san helped me a lot in learning how to do it, but I think some of the ones I come up with are very pretty.”

  Shichiro looked at the poem again and at a few others, humming in thought, before a sly smile spread across his face. “Hey, how about this—would you like to help me write a poem to brother Isao? It’ll be a special type of poem, but I’m sure you can do it.”

  Her eyes widened and sparkled with excitement. “Oh, can I?”

  Shichiro laughed and sat down, patting the cushion next to him. “Of course, Manami. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t going to let you. Here, sit down and we’ll work it out.”

  *****

  The hall was filled with whispers. Shichiro heard them, teasing the edge of his hearing like the sharp point of a dagger tickling his ear. However, it was a little hard to focus on them with his head ringing like the temple bells, and his knees burning as he was dragged across the floor.

  But he did hear one word: cursed.

  That’s all right, he thought, as long as it is I alone who is cursed, and Isao is free.

  Whatever father decides, it is all I deserve. For disobeying, for abandoning duty… and for mother.

  The retainers dragging him suddenly stopped, and with an abrupt lurch he was thrown forward on his face. The whispers stopped, and Shichiro painfully gathered himself together, arranging his legs beneath him, and pressing his forehead into the floor, between his hands.

  There was silence, and then the Shogun spoke.

  “What have I done, that the children of my favorite wife disgrace me so?”

  Shichiro let out a shuddering breath, but did not speak. He did not deserve to.

  “First Isao deserts me for some foreign brat, and you—you, my pride and joy— disgrace me by aiding him. What do you have to say for yourself, my son?”

  “I…” His throat was tight, and his voice was thin and strained. “I… have nothing to say.”

  The Shogun snorted. “Let it be known that I declare Isao, son of Tomoko, an enemy of the state, and if I any of you ever find him in this land again, do not hesitate to slay him.”

  “We hear and obey.” The people gathered answered, but Shichiro was silent.

  The shogun stood, and stepped down from his platform, until he stood before the prostrate form of his youngest son.

  “You know your duty, my son.” He said.

  “…Yes, my lord.” Shichiro said.

  “Your duty was to stop your brother.” The Shogun growled.

  “Yes, my lord.” Shichiro said, and closed his eyes.

  “You abandon your duty, disobeyed your lord and father, disgraced me, shamed your mother, and stripped yourself of honor.” The Shogun’s voice snapped like a whip, and Shichiro shuddered.

  “Yes, my lord.” He whispered.

  Nishimura Tsuneo, Shogun of Masaki, looked down at his youngest son. He looked thin and small and young, and one would not suspect the dark stains on his clothes came from twelve men that he had slain. His body was prostrate before the Shogun, at his mercy, but the Shogun could see no regret in the lines of the boy’s back. The Shogun’s anger rose like a bonfire, and inwardly he cursed Tomoko, that she had borne him such worthless sons.

  “I will give you one chance to redeem yourself, not for your own worthless sake, but that you might not totally disgrace the memory of your mother. If you go forth and bring me back your brother’s head, I will forget this ever happened.”

  Shichiro stiffened, his breath caught in a silent gasp of horror. Now it comes—the final stroke of the battle, he thought.

  The entire room was frozen, staring at the two figures at the head of the room.

  “Well, Prince Shichiro?” The Shogun demanded harshly, like the snarl of a dog.

  “…No, my lord. I cannot do that.”

  The words rung in the silence, as everyone stared. None—not even Isao—had dared defy the Shogun to his face.

  “I see.” The Shogun said, and his voice was like a raging fire in the midst of the dry season—full of unforgiving wrath. “It is only the memory of your mother that keeps me from striking your head off here and now—only because she sacrificed herself for your worthless life. But from this moment, you are no longer my son.”

  “Hear this now!” He shouted, his rage striking everyone in the face, and beating down upon Shichiro’s back like a scourge. “The worthless dog before me shares no blood with me. I strike my name from his and his name from all that is mine. Now I take from him his kinship, his title, his home, and his honor—all I shall leave to him are the name she who was his mother gave him--and his katana, for I would not keep steel so dishonored in my house.”

  Shichiro felt the sudden weight of a foot on the back of his head, pressing his face further into the floor, grinding back and forth. He bit his lip to keep from crying out, and strained every muscle he had to keep from flinching.

  “Listen, dog. I will spare your worthless life, but from now on you are ronin—lordless, friendless, homeless, doomed to wander until you die in the dust, stripped of all honor, forgotten save by those who curse your name. May your curse die with you, and may you trouble folk no more with your pathetic presence.”

  The pressure released, and Shichiro finally managed to breathe. The Shogun must have made a gesture, for he was suddenly hauled up, but he kept his head down. He did not deserve to look at he who had been his father. He would not change what he had done, but he deserved far less than what mercies that had
been granted him.

  “Take the dog away from my sight, and if he ever appears before my face again without my summoning his worthless self, I will take his head myself. Maybe then the stain he has dealt upon his mother’s memory may be washed away.”

  Then Shichiro was dragged back across the floor, and he closed his eyes, biting his lip until he tasted blood, trying to ignore the renewed pounding in his skull.

  But even through the pounding he heard the whispers resume. Cursed.

  He was dragged through the halls of the castle and out into the courtyard. It was night, and with a sudden boom of thunder the clouds split, rain pounding down and stinging Shichiro’s face. He heard the gate swing open and then suddenly he was flying through the air. In a panic he stretched his hands out, but it did no good. With a thud he smacked into the cobblestones, his cheek and hip and back connected painfully with the ground.

  He had barely lain there for a second when something came flying out of the darkness and smacked him in the face. His head snapped back and collided with the cobblestones, and fireworks burst before his eyes. His fingers closed around the projectile, and he realized it was his katana and wakizashi, bound carelessly together.

  Slowly, he dug the tip of his katan’s sheath into the ground, and painfully levered himself up.

  The doors to his father’s castle were shut, and he heard the final boom of the bar sliding into place. He shuddered once more, and bowed his head, and wished he could cry. But he had so little honor left, he could not afford to lose more of it.

  “Mother…” he whispered. “You always taught me to do what was right. I tried so hard, Mother, I did. But in doing so I betrayed my lord…”

  But then he remembered he had no mother. Nishimura Shichiro was dead.

  The ronin was all that remained.

  With a sigh, he slowly untied the two swords and stuck them in the belt of his soiled hakama. He wiped the rainwater from his eyes, stared down at his bare feet in consternation, and decided there was nothing for it. He knew it would not be pretty if he found here at dawn.

  He straightened his shoulders and lifted his head against the wind and rain. He might be stripped of honor, but honor could be regained. I might remain a ronin all my life—and it would be all I deserve—but at least I will act with honor and maybe reclaim some. And then maybe… maybe Moth—Princess Tomoko will look down on me and be pleased.

  And with that, he marched off into the darkness of the storm as the lightning flashed behind him.

  So it was that Shichiro became Ronin and left his home, in the first month of his fourteenth year, and it was long before he was seen before those gates again.

  *****

  Shichiro was walking on the edge of the dusty forest road when he heard the impatient thud of hoofbeats coming up from the south west. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a horse rushing up to him, and there was the insignia of Masaki stitched onto her saddle.

  As was the custom of the lower class travelers, Shichiro stepped off the side of the road and waited for the royal messenger to pass.

  It was to his utmost shock, however, when he discovered the horse was slowing down and stopping in front of him. Shichiro stood there and blinked owlishly at the royal messenger, who looked him up and down and wrinkled his nose, clearly unimpressed. “Show your swords!” The messenger barked loudly, and Shichiro blinked at him, rather disinclined to cooperate.

  “…Why?”

  The messenger fumed for a moment before saying through gritted teeth. “Because the Shogun ordered me to request to see your swords, and as his subject you are bound to obey him.”

  Shichiro’s confused mien slid easily into a polite smile, except for the fact that it seemed a good bit more angry and deadly than would be normally required of a polite smile. “I am a ronin and a wanderer, messenger-san, and as such I am bound to no lord or shogun or realm. Shogun Nishimura-dono cannot order me to do anything as his subject.”

  The messenger actually turned red, before snapping, “Show me the swords, ronin-me, and quickly, or else I will be forced to take them from you.”

  Shichiro lifted one eyebrow at him, thinking, I’d like to see you try. Still, he was merely doing his job, even if he was a thoroughly unpleasant individual, and Shichiro didn’t see any sense in fighting him. He drew his wakizashi and held it up so the messenger could see the design on the hilt.

  The man examined it carefully, nodded, and then handed over a sealed scroll. “Take this and read it, and give me your answer, ronin-me.”

  Shichiro blinked, confused, but did as he was instructed. He cracked open the seal and quickly read over the contents.

  Ronin Shichiro-me

  Shichiro winced at that, even Tsuneo!—but then what did he expect? Tsuneo-dono was the one who stripped away his honor, after all. He shook his head quickly, to focus, and read the missive.

  Ronin Shichiro-me

  Your behavior has been a credit to your disgrace, and I find I have urgent need of your services. If you come and accept the mission I am to give you, your status as a member of the Nishimura clan would be reinstated, and you would once more be acknowledged a member of the Main Branch and a prince of the realm, and all dishonor will be wiped from your name.

  If you are amenable to this, go with the messenger. He will take you to Konohamiya, and you will give me your answer before my seat.

  Shogun Nishimura Tsuneo, Lord of Masaki

  Shichiro stared at the words. They were what he had dearly hoped for for so long… but it seemed to good to be true. He had known ever since his banishment that there would be no going back, but now the Shogun was once again extending a hand towards him.

  His honor would be restored, and he would once again be able to serve his lord, he would have a lord again, and Mother! Mother’s name would no longer be besmirched, stained by the dishonorable actions of her accursed son.

  It might be a trap… but if he did this, it would be a chance… a chance that his once-lord would grant him the redemption to wipe away his sins and disobedience and rebellion. And that was a thing well worth the risk of a trap.

  Besides, even if it was a trap, he was Ronin Shichiro. He was by no means invincible, but it would be very, very hard for they to have even a hope of taking him down.

  He let the scroll roll shut with a snap, and handed it back to the messenger. “Very well. I’ll come with you, as requested.”

  The messenger sneered slightly, but nodded in acknowledgement. “Good. I hope you can keep up with my horse.” With that, he wheeled around and headed off in a sharp trot. Shichiro sighed and began running after the horse.

  He was going back again. Maybe, just maybe, his dishonor would be removed, and Mother would finally be at peace.

  The gates of Konohamiya loomed over the pathway, and Shichiro felt a chill run through him at the once-familiar sight that now rose before his eyes. It had been seven and more years since he had last stood on this path and looked up at those walls. If he blinked, he thought he would open his eyes to the dimness of night and the first rains of summer falling harshly down upon his bruised and aching back.

  “What are you standing there for, ronin-me?” The messenger snapped impatiently, and Shichiro blinked, jerking out of his stunned daze.

  “Ah, I’m sorry, Fukashi-san, it’s just been a long time since I’ve been here.” He apologized, hurrying after the messenger, who was already striding irritably up the road.

  The messenger muttered something that sounded like “of course you haven’t”, “not worthy” and “worthless dog”, and Shichiro rubbed his hand along the binding of his katana and counted the clouds up ahead. It would be bad for the strength of his blade if he blunted it on the bones of every idiot he ran across. It was better to just control his temper… but some people made it rather hard, at times.

  He sighed, and focused on counting the clouds harder.

  Finally they stood in front of the gate, and Fukashi spoke something to the guard in charge, and the two
of them were let in (Fukashi with a slight bow and Shichiro with a nasty glare and a ‘worthless dog’. Shichiro wouldn’t mind half so much as long as they were somewhat creative in their insults. He was getting rather tired of being a worthless dog all the time). He followed Fukashi through the palace compound, and to his relief most people seemed to not recognize him. The few that did though generally sent him nasty glares or spit at his feet. Despite all that, Shichiro held his head high. He was not stripped of all honor, and he would not descend to their level, so he pressed on.

  The messenger led him deep within the palace, to a private room where the Shogun often held his most secret councils, and promptly handed off the responsibility of Shichiro to one of the guards standing there. Fukashi then proceeded to leave Shichiro all alone (not that he was a particularly desirable companion), and the ronin was ushered into the room.

  He, to his utter surprise, found that the room was not only occupied by the Shogun and his guards, but the Princess Yasu and many of Shogun’s adviser, along with the ambassador from Akiyama. Most notably of all (and the sight of which nearly made Shichiro trip over his own feet in shock) the Princess Fujioka Katsumi was in attendance.

  Shichiro took all this in in one long, stunned second, and immediately came to the inevitable conclusion: whatever it was that the Shogun wanted to involve the ronin in, it was big. What, he wasn’t sure, but something about it made his stomach twist.

  He would have to step very carefully indeed.

  The ronin advanced to the center of the room and knelt, bowing his forehead to the floor. “Shogun-sama.” He murmured.

  “Ronin-me.” The Shogun uttered, his voice deep and without feeling or expression. “It has been a long time.”

  His throat was dry and seemed to slowly, slowly squeeze ever tighter, until it felt as if he might choke on the very air he breathed. Despite all that, he managed to utter in only a slightly strained voice, “Indeed it has, Shogun-sama.”

  “Do you know why you have been called here, Ronin-me?”