By Shawn Carman
The Phoenix lands, year 1132
The winter had thus far proved severe, with no indication that it would relent any time soon. The blizzards had been numerous and powerful, and the Isawa Mori, the vast forest from which the Isawa took the wood to make their scrolls, was blanketed in a ghostly blanket of silent cold. Nothing moved against the perfect white backdrop, save for the lazy, drifting descent of more snow. No animal dared leave its den in such weather, and no human was so foolish as to travel such treacherous terrain. Not even a samurai would dare this cold.
Well, perhaps one samurai.
A lone figure trudged through the knee-deep snow, every feature obscured by thick wrappings. A horse followed closely in her wake, its back likewise covered with numerous blankets. Its flanks shivered in the freezing air, but it did not falter. It followed its mistress without hesitation.
The samurai stopped and took stock of her surroundings. She reached up and pulled away the heavy wrap that covered her face, squinting against both the piercing wind and the brilliant glare from the snow.
“Sutebu!” she called out, her voice echoing through the forest for several seconds.
Kakita Sutebu was the son of her commanding officer in Nikesake, some hours travel to the south. He was a painter, an artist with a penchant for secluding himself in the wilderness to find inspiration. In her heart, she knew that the foolish young man was dead. He had no training that would save him from this sudden blizzard. Her superior would be crushed at the death of his only son, but there was nothing that could be done. His body would not be found until the spring, and perhaps not even then.
She bowed her head and swiped her gloved hand across her face to clear her vision. She had been searching the area for days, moving from one tiny, snow-locked village to the next, asking everyone she saw about the young man. None claimed to have seen him. There was but one village left in the region, and the heimin she had spoken to assured her that it was inaccessible in these snows. She would have to make the attempt, just to be sure.
The sound of footsteps in the fresh snow reached her ears. For a moment, her heart leapt at the thought that her quarry might yet live. She turned about, looking for the sound. Her heart fell when she saw a monk walking toward her, from the north. He carried a heavy package, but she could not make out what it was. He wore a heavy robe, and his bald head gleamed in the snowy glare.
“Good fortunes, Brother,” she called out.
“Good fortunes to you, Daidoji Rekai.”
She stiffened, her hand straying near her weapon. She had tarried in the area for some time, but had been moving steadily north. There was no way that a monk could have passed her, not in this weather. How then did this one know her name? “Who are you?” she asked, keeping her voice even. “Have we met? If so, forgive me but I do not remember yours.”
“We have not met, but I know you,” the monk replied. “And I require your aid.”
Rekai shook her head, still unsettled. “Forgive me, friend, but I have a duty to fulfill. I cannot aid you today.”
“Your duty is at an end,” the man continued. “Kakita Sutebu is dead.”
Rekai’s eyes narrowed. “These are difficult times, so forgive me if I am wary,” she said quietly. “Tell me what you know of Sutebu, and I will believe you.”
“I know that he was young and foolish, but not so foolish as you believe.” The monk nodded to the east. “He stayed at the last village you visited, using an assumed name. I suppose he found it clever. He ventured out during the day to paint, then returned to warm tea in the evenings. The weather did not claim him.”
Rekai felt the urge to sigh in relief, but did not. “Then how do you know that he is dead?”
“He was murdered by the same villains that killed my previous messenger, a ronin. They murdered both and took the ronin’s burden. They will come for me soon, to take the other half of the treasure I bear. I am not certain they can kill me as they believe, but not certain enough to risk that which is priceless. They must not have it.” He held the cloth-wrapped bundle toward her. “You must carry it away from this place, to safety.”
The Crane warrior drew back slightly. The man was a madman, perhaps, twisted by the same insanity that ran rampant throughout the Empire as late. She would have to treat him with caution. “Are you certain I am worthy to carry your treasure?” she asked, her voice sweet.
The monk made a disgusted face. “Do not condescend to me, Rekai.” He held the parcel out. “You have no choice, for what I bear all samurai are sworn to protect. Look at what I carry, and if you still wish to leave, I will not hinder you, for truly you were unworthy from the start.”
Rekai took the bundle gingerly, her eyes never leaving the monk’s. She unwrapped it roughly and glanced down at the contents. Her eyes widened, and her fingers brushed lightly across the seal that adorned the many scrolls within. One was unrolled, so she opened it and read a short passage. She glanced up at the monk with an incredulous expression. “Is this the copy of the Tao?”
“No,” he said. “It is the Tao.”
“How can this be?”
“That does not matter,” the man retorted. “Take it and leave, as fast as you can. They will come for you.”
“Who will come for me?” she demanded. “Who are you?”
“My name is Ikudaiu,” he replied. “Those who seek you have no names… and that is how you will know them.”
Perhaps it was the monk’s haunted expression, or perhaps it was the sound of a harsh winter wind whistling through the nearby trees, but Rekai suddenly found herself filled with a cold sensation that had nothing to do with the season. She nodded mutely and turned to mount her horse. She rode to the south as fast as the snow would allow, her beloved Otaku steed bearing her as easily as in the spring.
Rekai glanced over her shoulder once. It seemed that the shadows of the forest were reaching out to claim the monk, although he stood impassively and watched as she rode away. She blinked for a moment, clearing a snowflake from her vision, and then he was gone.
The Battle of Oblivion’s Gate, year 1133
“No!” Daidoji Rekai shouted. “No! Kyobu!” The young Crane warrior fired arrow after arrow, bringing down a seemingly countless stream of foes. Goblin, undead, and shadow-clad nameless samurai alike fell before the merciless onslaught of her arrows, but it was too late. A lone, form in blue armor lay in the center of their corpses, a jet black blade jutting obscenely from the man’s back.
Rekai tossed her bow aside and drew her blade, savagely cutting down the last opponent with a savage howl of pain. The beast fell in two pieces, cut from hip to shoulder. She sheathed her blade instinctively, careless of the blood and ichor that covered it, and tore her helmet off. Kneeling at his side, she gingerly withdrew the blade from the dying man’s back. She rolled him over carefully, stroking his face.
“Kyobu-kun,” she whispered.
The man’s eyes had glazed over. Their once endless blue depths now seemed shallow and clouded. “Rekai-chan,” he croaked weakly. “Is it you? I cannot see you.”
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, everything is going to be okay.”
Daidoji Kyobu offered a single, coarse laugh. The effort caused blood to spray from his mouth and run down his chin. “Yes,” he rasped, “all will be well.” He reached up and stroked her face with one trembling hand, wiping the tears away. “Do not weep for me, Rekai-chan. This is a death I would have wanted.”
“No,” she said breathlessly. “I am not ready. We wasted so many years. The wars are almost over.”
“Our time together was never wasted,” Kyobu said. His voice was becoming faint and distant. “We are Daidoji. This is our life. If it were not this battle, it would be another.”
Rekai looked into his eyes and said nothing, storing away every memory of him she could while he still lived.
“I loved you… from the moment of our betrothal. I feigned outrage… so that you would not think less of me.” He laughed again, weaker this time. “I thought you would think I was weak, if you saw how happy I was. I thought if I was strong like Uji-sama that you would love me…”
She placed her face upon the battered armor of his chest and wept without shame. Silently, a circle of Daidoji Iron Warriors had formed ranks around her, wordlessly protecting their commander and her husband in their last moments together.
“Our son will not understand,” Kyobu whispered. “Help him, Rekai. Help him understand.”
“I will,” she nodded.
“The shadows are coming, Rekai… but I will fight them beside you,” And he was gone.
There was a rustling from all around her that Rekai barely noticed. It was a soft, harmless sound, like that heard from the rustling of sheets in one’s bedchamber. She looked up absently, her tear-filled eyes barely registering the things around her. A scream erupted as one of the nearby Crane warriors fell to his knees, blood spraying from his mouth. The others all readied their spears, searching for their invisible foe. Rekai rose and drew her bloodstained sword. Something dark and hollow drew closer.
“Your pain is so terrible, Tao-bearer, and unnecessary. Let us grant you the sweet kiss of ignorance, of oblivion. Let us take your pain.”
Rekai’s eyes became like steel. “Oblivion?” she spat. “I have it here for you.”
The Crane screamed, a terrible mixture of depthless pain and boundless rage. The Iron Cranes echoed her cry as the minions of Nothing rose from the earth around them. Steel split shadow, thunder rolled across the Shadowlands, and the battle continued.
Though stark in comparison to the opulent quarters provided for other Crane daimyo, the private chambers of the Daidoji daimyo were still far more lavish than any that Rekai had encountered during her soldier’s lifetime. For three months, they had been hers. For three months, she had avoided them as much as possible, unwilling to admit that her beloved master, Daidoji Uji, was gone.
Rekai had adjusted well to leadership, by all accounts. She had received correspondence from the other Crane lords, all congratulating her on her appointment and lauding Uji’s choice of an heir. Some among the Crab and Unicorn had likewise wished her well, although that was likely little more than an effort to curry favor with a new and possibly impressionable daimyo.
In her private moments, however, Rekai wondered if she would be able to do all that was demanded of her. There were more demands on her than she had time to give. She had little opportunity to contemplate her decisions before another was being requested. Sooner or later, she would make a mistake, and she did not know what would happen when that day finally came.
Today, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the scroll clenched tightly in her hand. It was from her son, Kikaze. She had read it a dozen times since receiving it this morning, and each time it struck her like a physical blow. She unfolded the scroll and read it again.
Mother,
I have of course heard of your appointment following Lord Uji’s demise. I am filled with pride to be your son. I have no doubt that you will excel at your new duties, for duty has always been your one and only concern.
I was flattered to receive your summons to join you at Shiro Daidoji. Regretfully, I must decline. Please do not mistake my refusal for disrespect. As you know, I have sworn an oath to defend the monks and temple where Shiro Giji once stood. This site is sacred to the clan, and I cannot forsake it. It would be unseemly for a woman of your station to have a man of my low standing in your attendance in any event. You know, as I do, that the honorable name of you and your position must be preserved above all else.
I hope all is well with you, mother. Perhaps the Fortunes will bring us together again in the near future.
Your devoted son,
Kikaze
Shiro Giji. The secret dojo of the Harriers. Four months ago, she had suspected that such a group existed within her family, but had no true inkling as to the scope of their duties, much less that her son was numbered among them. When she had consented for his training with a special unit of Daidoji warriors many years ago, she did not realize what she had done. Kikaze was a Harrier, and it was too risky to have the daimyo of her family associate with men such as they. Should their secret ever be exposed, such an association would shame their entire family. She had hoped that perhaps he might abandon his post and join her. Of course her son would not abandon his duty – she had taught him too well for that.
Rekai sat in her chambers, enveloped by a rare moment of silence. At any moment, someone would request her presence to deal with yet another in an endless series of crucial matters, both truly important and utterly trivial. Until they came, however, she sat in her darkened chambers and read her son’s letter again.
The cold stone that comprised Crab hospitality seemed somehow less inviting than it had years ago when Rekai had first visited the castle. That struck her as ironic, considering that the only other time she had been here, it had been under siege from a vast array of Shadowlands beasts. She had ridden at the fore of a Daidoji army, and helped the Crab push back their ancient enemies. It was, according to several accounts she had read in the meantime, a turning point in nearly a thousand years of rivalry between the Crab and Crane.
Rekai smiled wryly at the thought. At the time, it had simply been a matter of honor. A samurai beset by the Shadowlands could not be abandoned, no matter the cost or the situation. To the Daidoji, the enemy of one’s enemy was a friend. That their assault on the Shadowlands had achieved a diplomatic end that even the Doji envied would never cease to amuse her.
The smile faded quickly. Rekai was beginning to feel her age more acutely in the past months. She dwelled more heavily on the past. Of late, it seemed that she had difficulty escaping her memories and focusing on matters at hand. Perhaps it was the burden of experience. Or perhaps she was simply haunted by too much pain, too many losses. For nearly six months, she had dreamed of her husband’s death every night. She awoke each morning with the same feeling of horror and helplessness that she had felt then. She longed to visit the place of her dreams, the field where he had died and she had been forced to burn his body, but Shiro Hiruma was as close as she could ever come to that dark place.
Rekai sighed and brushed her white hair back with her hand, tucking an absent lock behind her ear. Once her hair had been lustrous black, bleached white in honor of her family’s founder. She wondered how much of the white was natural now.
There had been no point in coming here. This would change nothing. She did not know why she had thought it would.
“You came because I called to you.” The whisper seemed to come from all around the room, echoing faintly against the stone walls. “You came because I wished it.”
Rekai did not move. The voice was no surprise to her. She recognized it from her dreams, although she had forgotten until this very moment. “You,” she whispered. “You are the voice that threatened me at Oblivion’s Gate.”
“No not quite,” it replied with an enigmatic chuckle, “but close enough.”
“ Should I find your theatrics frightening?” she asked. “Or perhaps I should draw my blade and flail about at the shadows, hoping to destroy you as I once destroyed those that served you.”
The room fell away, and Rekai found herself standing in a vast expanse of shadow, so dark she could net separate earth from sky. Two gargantuan, serpentine eyes appeared in the darkness before her, distinguishable only for the star’s that sparkled in their depths. “You are mistaken,” the voice continued, louder now. “Those creatures that took your beloved were never mine. That unfortunate tragedy preceded my transcendence. Your bravery on that day helped in part to bring about my current existence, as the true guardian of the Celestial Order. I do not forget those who serve me, Daidoji Rekai.”
“Your lies will not cloud my mind,” Rekai said bitterly. “Yours is the same power we fought at Oblivion’s Gate.”
“I am,” the voice returned with an amused tone. “But I am not. Consider this. If I truly wished to manipulate you, and all the power of Nothing were at my command what purpose would it serve in revealing myself so obviously? Sincerity and honesty, Daidoji Rekai. Truly you recognize these things.”
“Do not claim the virtues of bushido, creature,” she said, eyes narrowing as she glared into the creature’s starry depths.
“If you are insulted, I apologize,” it replied, “but you misjudge me. I do not lie. A true creature of Shadow need not resort to such crude measures. Do you know why you have come?”
“If you would face me,” she replied, “then you came to die.”
“Quaint,” it replied. “No, nothing so unlikely. On the day your husband fell, your soul was emptied, and has never been filled. Neither love nor duty have taken the place of Daidoji Kyobu, and the emptiness within you is powerful. You reach out to others… Uji… Kikaze… but always circumstances turn them away. I was born the day Kyobu died, and the taste your emptiness was among my first memories. I know your pain, your loneliness. In the time of my predecessor you would have made a most excellent servant of the Nameless, but these ways are not my ways. You have always been a most intriguing curiosity, Rekai.”
“Come closer,” she said flatly. “I have something to satisfy your curiosity.”
The dragon laughed. “Can you understand nothing but conflict? No, I will not face you, Rekai. Such a confrontation could only end in your demise. Do you not understand how your son would suffer if you died? His soul will be forfeit, and through no fault of mine.”
Rekai’s face grew grim. “Do not speak of my son,” she rasped.
“Then let us speak of you,” it said. “You are dying, Rekai. You know it to be true. Already your strength wanes. The illness devours it from inside, and even the Asahina can do nothing. Does Kikaze know?”
She gripped the handle of her tanto so tightly that the grooved handle bit deeply into the flesh of her palm. She waited, but the dragon said nothing. After several moments, she could bear it no longer. Through gritted teeth, she asked “How would Kikaze suffer from my death?”
“Mortal curiosity is such a delightful quality,” the beast rumbled happily. “There is a dark time coming for your precious Empire,” he continued, “one that will challenge the beliefs of all who dwell within it. Countless innocents will fall to darkness and be lost, consume by the sin and weakness in their own souls. It will be a most interesting time.”
“My son will not fall,” Rekai insisted. “He is strong, like his father.”
“Strength means nothing,” the dragon said. “Your son lives by your example, but a lifetime of neglect has sown weakness deep within him. Should you weaken and die, he will be crushed by lost opportunity, crushed that he was never given the chance to prove himself.”
Rekai did not wish to believe the creature’s words, but they echoed with the weight of truth. Though she tried to deny them, she knew that she could not.
“What alternative is there?” she asked.
“Give him a reason to fight,” it replied. “I will lead you into the Shadowlands. I will show you a new path. I can heal you Rekai, suffuse you with dark majesty. You will be eternal.”
“I will never do such a thing,” Rekai snarled. “Not after the False Hoturi. Not after Fu Leng.”
“Bah, Fu Leng,” the dragon said ruefully. “Some days I fear the Clan War bred a generation of fools. There is opportunity in the Shadowlands. Do not turn away my aid so blindly. Soon there will be a war among the Lost the likes of which none has ever seen. Two dark lords will rise, and only one will survive. The survivor will be weakened. He will require assistance to rebuild his Empire.” There was a rumbling sound that was eerily like a purr. “The new Dark Lord will leave the Empire in peace for a time, as he seeks to rebuild his empire.”
Rekai snorted in disgust. “You want to jockey for power. I care nothing for you and your schemes. You think I would sacrifice my soul and honor only to help you build an alliance with this new Dark Lord?”
“Your honor you will keep,” the dragon said. “Indeed, without it, I believe he would not want you.”
“And what does any of this have to do with my son?”
“Your sacrifice will save him,” the dragon said. “Your son will not fall… his oath to destroy you will give him the strength to resist the blood rain.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Is it?” the dragon said. “How did you find the strength to survive Oblivion’s Gate? Was it not the heroic sacrifice of your husband that gave you the power to defeat the Nameless?”
The Crane warrior said nothing. Her jaw was clenched so tightly that pain shot through her neck, but she could find nothing to say. She desperately wanted to believe that the dragon was lying, fabricating some grand fiction to gain her cooperation, but she knew that it was not.
Rekai shook her head. “You ask me to turn against the Empire,” she whispered, “to save my son. How can I do such a thing?”
“It is the duty of the Daidoji daimyo to protect the Crane. You have already informed your son of your intent to retire. Do you believe he will be unequal to the task? Do you believe him too weak to protect the Empire from you?”
Rekai said nothing.
“Refuse me, and you are both lost. You will be dead and he will enter the Shadowlands in your place. We both know he will be the far greater threat.”
There was another long pause. After some time, Rekai bowed her head to the dragon.
“Show me the way into shadow,” she said.