Chapter Twenty-Eight Sen #2
“Well. They are the literati court. Frail, weak. Soon enough, we broke away. My ancestors went east, to govern the Iteki countries with the Kitanohara. Elsewise, cadet branches of the Ten’in family were appointed as regional governors…”
“We had power.” A lump rose in Sen’s throat. “We had everything…”
“Back then we did, aye. In just a few generations, no Gensei would call themselves a noble ever again.” Kiie laughed. “Though, to be sure, on paper we still served them, the scholar-kings and the pale-skins. Hired us to fill their contracts. So we did. In some ways, it’s that simple.”
“Until the Keishi took control,” Sen said.
“Which was anything but simple. Not simple at all.”
“Were we really allies?”
“Your father and I fought alongside Seikiyo, against the demon-emperor,” Kiie said. “I’ll never forgive him that.”
“For fighting with us?”
“For what came after.” Kiie rose. “Ah, but this talk has got me weak. Memories need drinking, eh? And something to fill this great empty belly. Shall we?”
“I’ll stay a little longer.” Sen gestured to the books. “If that’s all right. A few minutes.”
Kiie nodded. “Good to know your history. Good to know your past. Where you come from. Then you can understand why we have to fight for what we had. Don’t stay too long, Hoshiakari, the clouds will grow tonight.”
He stopped before the door: “Nephew.” Sen turned to find Tokuon watching them, wearing a deep indigo shirt and pleated pants bound with wrapping below the knee. He had a wooden sword in his hand.
“Hoshiakari.” He spoke with no preamble. “Can you fight?”
Sen blinked. “Yes.”
Tokuon dropped the sword at his feet. “Show me.”
They went to the long deck overlooking the cliffs, where mist layered like a sea and a great drop fell away from the cordoned edge.
Half the temple slumbered underneath thick snow, its arches hanging perilously in the wide wind-music of empty air.
A flutter of snowflakes kicked about, swirling with the same liquid elegance as Tokuon himself, and they squared off.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ye—”
Tokuon moved before he finished the word.
His strikes fell like lightning, too fast and without pause for Sen to catch his breath.
He could do nothing but defend. It was as if Tokuon could see into his mind, knew what he was planning before he did.
Tokuon’s insight was incredible; his eyes, scanning, seemingly at nothing, saw it all.
“You have good technique,” Tokuon said, “but no real-life experience. You must be a killing-god, not some mud-walker. A real warrior would cut through you in seconds.”
“You’d be surprised.” Sen gripped his wooden sword.
“Prove it.”
Sen took a breath – in an instant, the blow came from nowhere, snapping around his wooden sword and through the other side, cutting in too fast for him to regain the distance.
Tokuon struck him in the wrist, jarring his arm.
When he stepped back with a shout of pain, Tokuon came up and met him, knocking his sword aside with a backhanded motion that sent it clattering to the deck, and at the same moment, performed a foot-sweep that toppled him.
Sen hit the railing at the side of the platform, tottering at the edge for a moment before Tokuon struck his shin and he fell to the wood with a cry.
“What the hell are you doing!” he shouted.
“Testing.” Tokuon loomed over him. “Get up.”
Sen did, warily, and before he could bring his sword to bear, Tokuon had knocked it aside once again.
“Not good enough,” said Tokuon. “I thought the Ogami’in taught you how to fight. I thought you knew what you were doing.”
“Fuck off!” Sen turned, grabbing for his practice sword, but before he could get a good grip, Tokuon lashed out and cracked his own against Sen’s wrist again, nearly breaking it.
“What is wrong with you?” Sen shouted.
“Nothing,” Tokuon said. “Fight.”
Sen glared. His wrist throbbed. He reached for the practice sword again – again Tokuon hit him, and this time the pain in his already-injured wrist was so great that he saw white and fell back with a sob.
“You’re going to break my wrist!”
“Then stop me.”
He reached for it again. Tokuon kicked him this time.
“Stop me!”
With a growl of anger, Sen rammed him – like Rui had done that day on the cold evening in the woods – and they landed together on the deck.
“Better,” Tokuon said.
“Coward,” Sen swore. “Fucking shit-drip, you hit me when I was down.”
“What do you think they’ll do in battle? Maybe you’re not meant for this, Hoshiakari. You should’ve stayed home and played with your mountain brothers, who hide in their fortress and only fight the wild people in the east.”
“Shut up!”
They went again. Sen felt only pieces – Tokuon’s knee hitting him in the gut, a fist like a rock on his head, a strike to his chest that sent him flying into the rail so hard it knocked the wind from him and slammed his jaw shut, cutting the inside of his lip.
He spat blood onto the deck.
“Enough,” Kiie called. “He’ll be useless if you kill him.”
“It’s a start.” Tokuon stood still as a mountain. “That was a good fight.”
“Eat shit,” Sen gasped, hand pressed to his side. It hurt to breathe. His wrist was on fire. “Damn it.”
Tokuon considered him. “Your master was wrong, you know. You don’t need balance. You don’t need compromise. You need to accept who and what you really are. You want to be kijin?”
“Yes,” Sen growled.
“You want to be one of us?”
“Yes!”
“Then stop expecting to be saved. You can’t be a killing-god if you think you’ll still be clean.
Peace? It’s for ordinary people. We are those who kill.
Our souls will never be in balance. Our spirits will never be clean.
We are not on the path of enlightenment, Hoshiakari.
To be a warrior is to have the shame of bloodshed, the curse of being reborn in these same, painful lives, again and again. ”
Sen found himself shaking. “We have to be more than just killers. We have to be more.”
Tokuon laughed. “You want more?” He jabbed Sen in the throat so hard Sen gagged and fell backwards onto the wood. “Earn it.”
“Get off,” Sen croaked.
“If you hit, reflect,” said Tokuon. “If you are hit, be thankful for the lesson. Never let them see you cry.”
Sen lay on the hardwood deck, aching and bruised, as Tokuon walked off.
Everything he’d learned with the crow monks had come to nothing.
All his skills, the strength, the agility and speed – Tokuon could read him without effort.
Sen flushed. He’d thought he was making progress, but Tokuon hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Sen’s throat ached. He spat on the wood. “I thought you wanted to help me!”
Tokuon paused, wooden sword still in his hand. He picked up a rag and began wiping it clean.
“I want someone who can win a war.”
Tokuon dropped the soiled rag at Sen’s feet, and left him there, heaving for breath, as a chill drifted through the mountainside and a scattering of snow fell lightly, white and icy blue.
“He’s a wildfire,” Kiie said with sympathy, coming close.
“He’s a fucking cowshit.”
Kiie chuckled. “Well, you’re talking like a soldier now, at least. I thought you liked him.”
Sen massaged his wrist. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“He’s worried that you’re weak,” Kiie said, helping him up.
“He’s worried he is, too. What is a warrior but someone who must fight?
But if they don’t fight, who are they? People forget so quickly.
We were exiled from the capital, but we were spat upon for long before that.
They’d never touch us. They sent us to the wild, deal with sinful killers and hunters and trappers, and told us to manage their frontiers and kill their enemies for them.
We talk about saving face, we talk about respect and dignity – but in the end, swordsmanship is really just a way to kill. ”
“Has Tokuon killed?”
“Of course,” Kiie said. “Haven’t you?”
Sen sat near the cliff for several moments, trying to catch his breath. His wrist throbbed, a red-hot pain. It wasn’t broken, but he could barely close his fingers. The words lingered in his mind: Haven’t you?
“I’ll do better next time.”
His uncle stood. “You’d better.”
Sen had the sudden memory of his master Jobo killing the serow, its blood gushing over his hands; its squeals; its abrupt silence. His words. This is what your family is.
“I’ll make you proud,” Sen said. “I’ll make our ancestors proud. I’ll fix our name, I swear to you, I’ll wipe this shit away, and replace it with something people will talk about for a thousand years. They will know my name. I’ll make sure of it.”
His uncle considered him, seeming to see the fire and the rage of shame he felt boiling away with every beat of his heart.
“Good,” he said.
As Sen rose, he saw that Tokuon had remained at the edge of the platform, watching him. Sen met the cold eyes, saying nothing, and spat again upon the deck.
Tokuon smiled.