Emperor of the Eight Islands: Book 1 in the Tale of Shikanoko (The Tale of Shikanoko series) (24 page)

Read Emperor of the Eight Islands: Book 1 in the Tale of Shikanoko (The Tale of Shikanoko series) Online

Authors: Lian Hearn

After a little while Aki’s voice surprised him. “I am dedicated to be a shrine maiden. I promised my father that I would not let any man be intimate with me, that I would kill him. I still have my knife. I am just warning you.”

“Go to sleep,” he said, but he wished she had not brought up the subject. Now he was even more aware of the female body next to his. Memories of the day’s events seemed to race through his muscles and his veins. First he had killed two men, dropping them like hares. Then Kon had attacked Zen and torn the other werehawk to pieces, and Shika had understood his speech and had wrested him from the Prince Abbot’s control. He had walked between the worlds at the crossroads, had spoken to the spirit of the Kuromori lord, and had summoned it from the entrance of Hell into the foal’s developing body.

Truly I am a sorcerer of power! Of what else am I capable?

Pride began to well up in him, sweet and seductive, telling him he deserved all things, that he was allowed all things, that he could take what he wanted, in this world and the next. This was the one meant for him, the one the sorceress had told him he would wed. She was here, alongside him. He had killed for her, he had rescued her.

The night was warm, filled with the sounds of spring, frogs croaking from the stream, insects calling. The lute continued to play quietly, its plangent notes adding to his desire.

He turned restlessly and then sat up, deciding to meditate for a while to try to still his rebellious body. He fumbled in the dark for the seven-layered bag, took out the mask, and slipped it over his face.

Immediately he felt himself transported from the hut, bounding on stag’s hoofs toward Ryusonji. He struggled to take control, reached inside himself for Sesshin’s power. He stood on the veranda of the temple and saw the Prince Abbot, sitting in meditation by the open door.

The priest said without opening his eyes, “So, my little stag has returned? Did you think you would escape me so easily?”

Shika tried to regain his will, to turn and run, but his limbs were frozen as if he were dreaming.

“Where is Prince Yoshimori? If you have found him why have you not brought me his head? What have you been doing and how did you evade me before, at the crossroads?”

The Prince Abbot opened his eyes and stood, and Shika felt the full force of his rage.

“I will punish you,” the priest said. “You dare to try to oppose me? You have no idea how strong I am. Now go and do what you want with the Autumn Princess. I see your lust for her. Take her now, why wait for marriage? Then kill Yoshimori and bring me his head.”

The Prince Abbot raised his hand and spoke words Shika had never heard before. He found himself back in the hut. The power of the forest was all around him and the pure animal instinct of the stag swept over him. The girl turned in her sleep toward him. Her robe was open. Then she was in his arms and his mouth was on hers. She tried to push him away, he remembered briefly the knife, but then nothing would stop him, neither pity nor fear. He possessed her as the stag does the hind, with mindless domination. But even as he cried out at the moment of ecstasy, he realized what the Prince Abbot had done, and he had the first inkling of how complete his punishment would be.

He wrenched off the mask and threw it from him. She lay without moving or speaking. He wanted to hold her and caress her with tenderness, but shame prevented him. He pulled his clothes around him and went to the door of the hut. Beyond him lay the Darkwood and all the sounds and shadows of the nighttime forest. Far away, wolves were howling. He recalled his earlier pride and exultation with despair and disgust. He went a little way down the side of the hut and leaned against the rough-sawn planks of the wall. He had no idea what to do now. He just knew he had failed.

From the hut he thought he heard sounds of weeping, but the lute was still playing softly, so he could not be sure. His own eyes grew hot, but he would not grant himself the relief of tears. He walked away into the darkness, stumbling over fallen branches, until he came up against the trunk of a huge cedar. He clasped it in his arms and leaned his forehead against it, then slid to its base, feeling the moss cool against his skin.

When he came to his senses it was dawn. He made himself get up and return to the hut. He was not sure what he would do: throw himself down before her, ask for forgiveness, seek her help. But she was not there. Had his actions forced her to run away, to abandon Yoshimori? He turned and called her name, “Akihime! Akihime!”

Birds were singing and Kon answered them from the rooftop. Rain was falling softly, a drizzling mist that hid the mountains. He knew he had lost her, a loss that felt immeasurable, as if it encompassed the whole world. Every tree dripped with moisture as though they wept with him. He had not rescued her. How arrogant to think that! She had been entrusted to him and he had broken that trust. He called again, “Akihime!”

The horses whinnied in response to his voice, and at the same moment he heard something stir in the hut. Was she there, had he somehow overlooked her? He went inside.

The boy was awake, staring at him with puzzled eyes.

“Where is Aki … older sister?” he said.

“I don’t know. She’s gone. She ran away.”

Yoshi’s gaze remained steady. “Where to? Why did she leave me? What have you done to her?”

The mask lay on the floor, staring at him with its hollow eyes. Hardly knowing what he was doing, but seeking some relief from his remorse and regret, he picked it up and put it on. Immediately he felt the pull of the Prince Abbot’s power, and knew what he must do. Perhaps it would assuage his immense pain. Yoshimori would never have become emperor anyway. His family were all dead and those who would have fought for him scattered. Now Shikanoko had to put an end to his life and take his handsome head back to Ryusonji.

He picked up his sword and held his hand out to the boy.

Yoshimori shrank from the sight of the mask.

“Come, Your Majesty must be brave,” Shika said.

“Shall I bring the lute?” Yoshi asked.

“There is no need for it,” Shika replied, and led him out of the hut.

The rain continued to fall softly, the birds were silent, and there was no wind. The only sound was the rushing water and the pounding of Shika’s heart. It was not the riverbank at Miyako, where so many were taken to be executed, but the side of a mountain stream, which would serve equally well.

“Look away from me toward the mountains,” he commanded.

After one brief glance Yoshi obeyed him.

As Shika raised his sword, Yoshi said, “The sun is rising.”

How could he see it?
Clouds covered the sky, but the sun’s rays must have penetrated them in some way, for the raindrops were reflecting the colors of the rainbow all around them. For a moment Shika was dazzled, seeing clearly the fragile beauty of the child before him. He hesitated, suddenly reluctant to do what he was supposed to do.

From the cave came the twang of a bow. Time stopped. The world held its breath, the sword outlined against the fractured light. Shika gripped it harder and inhaled deeply.

Kon swooped toward him, talons extended, beak slashing, and the horses burst from the cave, Risu leading, her teeth bared, her ears flat.

Shika dropped the sword, raising his arms to protect the mask. Kon seized it in his talons, tore it from Shika’s face, and let it fall as Risu charged him, knocking him to the ground. He had seen her bad tempered before and she had bitten and kicked him many times, but he had never seen her so enraged she wanted to kill him. Nyorin was also lunging at him as he struggled to his feet, the stallion’s lips drawn back from his huge white teeth, his eyes flashing as if in the midst of battle. Nyorin’s head, solid bone, collided with Shika’s and as he fell again the stallion whirled around, kicking him with both back legs.

Neither sorcery nor all his skill with weapons could help him. Risu seized his right arm in her teeth and snapped it. Nyorin kicked him again, then brought his forefeet down on him, striking him on neck and shoulder. The mask lay on the ground, shattered in two. His vision went red with pain and then black.

When he regained consciousness the rain was falling more heavily. He crawled to the water and lay in it, feeling its icy coldness on every cut and bruise. One eye was closing and he could hardly see out of the other, yet he knew Yoshimori and the horses were gone. He could not raise his head to look upward to see if Kon had gone, too, but there was no sound from the werehawk. His arm throbbed unbearably and he could not move it, but the bone had not broken through the skin.

He began to tremble, not only from the cold water and the pain but also from profound shock that the horses he had loved and trusted should turn on him. He could understand why Kon had attacked him as viciously as he had gone for Zen—the werehawk’s instinct to protect the Emperor overrode any commands from either Shika or the Prince Abbot. But the horses? After many more minutes of confusion and pain the realization came to him that it was Kiyoyori’s spirit, within the unborn foal, that had driven Risu to turn on him, and Nyorin had followed.

Even the animal world recognizes that Yoshimori is emperor, and fights for him
, he thought.

Eventually he managed to stand. He picked up the sword with his left hand and went to the hut. He could hardly bear to enter it—it seemed to reverberate still with his uncontrolled lust and he heard again his own cries with revulsion.

He gathered up the bow and the quiver of arrows, and the twisted metal that had been Kiyoyori’s sword. The lute had gone—of course it would have gone with Yoshi: not only animals but also objects recognized him.

Outside, he picked up the pieces of the broken mask and put them in the brocade seven-layered bag. He would go into the Darkwood. It would either kill him or heal him. If it healed him he would see the Prince Abbot destroyed and Yoshimori on the Lotus Throne.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The Tale of Shikanoko
was partly inspired by the great medieval warrior tales of Japan:
The Tale of the Heike
,
The
Taiheiki
, the tales of Hōgen and Heiji, the
Jōkyūki
, and
The Tale of the Soga Brothers
. I have borrowed descriptions of weapons and clothes from these and am indebted to their English translators Royall Tyler, Helen Craig McCullough, and Thomas J. Cogan.

I would like to thank in particular Randy Schadel, who read early versions of the novels and made many invaluable suggestions.

ALSO BY
LIAN HEARN

TALES OF THE OTORI

Across the Nightingale Floor

Grass for His Pillow

Brilliance of the Moon

The Harsh Cry of the Heron

Heaven’s Net Is Wide

Blossoms and Shadows

The Storyteller and His Three Daughters

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lian Hearn
is the pseudonym of a writer—born in England, educated at Oxford, currently living in Australia—who has had a lifelong interest in Japan, has lived there, and studies Japanese. She is the author of the bestselling series
Tales of the Otori
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