Samurai Son (21 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Akira’s gaze never left the Tengu as he started eating the mochi laid out before him.
 
Windstorm did nothing that would normally alarm him, but he didn’t trust her.
 
Nothing the Tengu had done instilled any sort of trust.

He suspected that they somehow had tricked him into revealing his true nature of being Tengu—assuming he really was half Tengu.
 
He still had reservations that he was anything like these strange bird-men who could fight better than the best samurai.
 
They had taken him from the only home he had ever known; they had killed or seriously wounded his sensei.
 
He was sure the Tengu had killed or injured most of his father’s samurai and ashigaru.
 
They had driven his mother wild with grief and fear and had forever changed her into a hawk.
 
How could he feel anything but anger and rage at these strange creatures?

Windstorm cocked her head at him as if assessing him, or maybe even reading his thoughts.
 
“Takeshi Akira,” she said softly.
 
“Don’t be so hard to judge us by what you’ve seen.
 
You don’t know what we’re really like.”

“Don’t I?” Akira muttered.
 
“You’ve taken my mother away from me.”

“Your mother violated our laws, Akira,” Windstorm said.
 
“Your birth would cause the gods to destroy you and us.
 
Stormdancer gave us no choice.”

“Ikumi,” Akira said.
 
“Her name is Ikumi.”

“Ikumi,” said Windstorm.
 
“She was a creature who thought she knew what love is.”

“She loves my father.”

“She
thought
she loved your father,” Windstorm said evenly.
 
“But she didn’t love him.
 
You see, Tengu can’t love.”

Akira thought back to Ikumi’s care, the times she bandaged his cuts and kissed him on the forehead, the times she told him stories about the gods and the kami.
 
Then he thought of her stopping him from trying to fly and clapping her hands in delight when he showed her something new or surprised her with a gift.
 
“That’s not true,” he said.
 
“Ikumi did.”

Windstorm shook her head; a stray lock of hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it aside.
 
“My young Tengu, Ikumi could no more love than a tree or a rock.
 
She is a nature spirit, just as I am.
 
Just as you are.

“I don’t believe you.”

The Tengu shrugged.
 
“Believe what you like.
 
It doesn’t matter.
 
What matters is that you are ready for your Tengu training.”

“I don’t want to be Tengu,” he said.

“No?”
 
Windstorm shook her head.
 
She stood up and poured a cup of tea for both of them.
 
She handed him a cup.
 
“Do you know what it means to be Tengu?”

“I’ll look like a bird with a man’s body.”

She laughed.
 
“Is that all?

“What else is there?”

“You have magic, Akira, magic that you can only now just begin to dream about or comprehend.
 
You can keep the dragons far from this island.
 
You can chase the storms away or bring them thundering down on the coast.
 
You can ride the winds as your own personal horse, and you can even command other spirits and kami.
 
And the fighting…” Windstorm paused.
 
“Have you ever seen such warriors as the Tengu?”

Akira frowned.
 
“No, I haven’t.”

“There’s a reason for that, my Akira,” Windstorm said.
 
“We invented the martial arts.
 
There are none better than the Tengu.”

“Why?”

Windstorm blinked.
 
“What do you mean?”

“Why did the Tengu invent the martial arts?”

“Our people are clever and resourceful, Akira.
 
Without a way to fight, we would be unable to protect ourselves against foes.
 
Some of our people have taken pity on humans and taught them the skills they needed to fight and protect themselves.
 
Without us, humans would still be using rocks to fight.”

Akira huffed.

“You’re samurai.
 
What did your sensei teach you about the martial arts?”

Akira said nothing.
 
The Karasu-Tengu had taught him how to fight better than Rokuro had.

“Don’t you want to be the best warrior?’ Windstorm continued, a glow settling in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Akira, don’t you want to live forever?”

Akira stared at Windstorm.
 
“Live forever?”

“Yes,” she said softly.
 
“Akira, you are immortal.
 
You will not die if you embrace your Tengu heritage.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Akira stared at her.
 
He had never given much thought to living much beyond the next year, let alone an eternity.
 
The concept of immortality made his mind spin.
 
What if he could live forever?
 
What if he didn’t have to grow old and die like humans?
 
He looked at Windstorm in puzzlement.
 
“How old are you?”

As soon as he said it, he realized the gaff, and his face flushed, but Windstorm only laughed.
 
“Worrying about age is something only humans do,” she said.
 
“You’re not as impolite as you think.
 
I am over five thousand years old.”

Akira looked at the unearthly beautiful face and shook his head.
 
“Five thousand?”

“Yes,” she said.
 
“I am fairly young for our people.
 
Some of the older Tengu are over ten thousand or more.”
 
She paused and stood up slowly.
 
Despite himself, he appreciated her fluid movements and curved body.
 
“Akira, you are from a line of ancient people who want you to return to us.
 
I know that your mother was very important to you, but she took you away from the only people who really understand what you are.”

“Can you free her?”

Windstorm chewed her lip.
 
“Akira, I can’t promise anything.”

“Then let me go home.”

“I can’t do that, and you know that too.
 
You promised your life for hers, and we granted clemency.”

“But turning her into a bird?”

“Akira, she is alive.
 
That is more than the council would’ve given her if you had not bargained.
 
And there may be a time when she will return to you in her human form.
 
But for the moment, this is her punishment.”

Akira stared at the Tengu woman angrily, but even as he did so, a thought formed in his mind.
 
“You said we were immortal.”

“We are,” she agreed.
 
“But we aren’t impervious to weapons.
 
We can be killed, albeit with difficulty.
 
Enchanted weapons are the only things that can touch us.
 
Magic can hurt us.
 
And dragons can most certainly kill us.”
 
She smiled and held out her hands.
 
“Come with us, Akira, your rightful people.
 
We can offer you many things that humans cannot.”

“I don’t know.”
 
Akira fell silent for a while.
 
He thought of Ikumi, who had taught him everything there was to being samurai.
 
He thought of Rokuro, now most likely dead, who fought to defend him.
 
He thought of his father’s samurai and ashigaru, who had fought to protect him from the greatest warriors of all.
 
He thought of his father, Takeshi Isao, and wondered what his father would do when he found his estate destroyed, his warriors slaughtered, and his wife and son gone.

“I don’t know,” he repeated.
 
He looked down at his feet.
 
“My father will miss me and come looking for me.”

Windstorm smiled.
 
“Do you really think that your father will miss you?”

Akira hesitated.
 
He knew little of Takeshi, even though he was his father.
 
The daimyo had often been at court rather than home, and Akira wondered how much his father would actually miss him.
 
Yes, Akira was his only son and Ikumi was his only wife, but what love, other than honor, did the daimyo have?
 
Akira didn’t know.
 
The last time he had seen Takeshi was a bit past a year ago, when he set sail yet again for the emperor’s court.
 
Akira remembered the time when he saw his father before he left.
 
It was all very ceremonial and formal, not at all the way Akira saw the other children interact with their fathers.
 
He had bowed low to his father, and his father had accepted his filial devotion.
 
But was there any love or attachment?
 
Akira had no idea.
 
Akira had looked more on Rokuro as a father.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.
 
“Rokuro and Ikumi raised me.”
 
He clenched his fists.
 
“Rokuro is dead, isn’t he?”

The Tengu’s face was impassive.
 
“The last time we saw him, he was still alive.”

“And my mother?”

Windstorm sighed.
 
“I promise I will do everything I can to have the council grant clemency.
 
But it won’t happen if you choose death over joining us.”

Akira frowned.
 
The choices were simple: choose Tengu and life or choose human and die by the hands of the Tengu.
 
As a Tengu, he might be able to save his mother.
 
At the same time, a niggling bit of doubt crept into his mind.

Yet he couldn’t help but notice how beautiful Windstorm was.
 
He found himself wondering, despite his anger, if all Tengu women could look this beautiful.
 
He smiled slightly.
 
“All right, you win.
 
What do you want me to do?”

Chapter Forty-Three

Kasumi gazed at the creature standing before her.
 
It was a russet-feathered Tengu male with a naginata in his hands, glaring at her with the golden eyes of a hawk.
 
His well-muscled body was taut, ready to fight.
 
The gleam on the blade looked otherworldly and deadly.

Kasumi could tell he knew she wasn’t quite human and found her intimidating or, at least, dangerous.
 
His feathers puffed slightly, and he looked unsure of himself, even behind those enigmatic eyes.
 
Kasumi knew animals, since she was one herself, and recognized the posture.

The Tengu’s presence caused her hackles to rise as well.
 
Although she was not in her Neko form, Kasumi could smell the anger and fear coming from the Tengu’s body.
 
She had to do everything she could to control the Neko response to prey.
 
Here was a creature she would normally prey upon in the cold northern forests.
 
Before she knew it, she had shifted her hand to her katana, gripping the cloth and rough sharkskin hilt as though her life depended on it.

“Well, it looks as though they’ve found us first,” said Tenko cheerfully, breaking the uneasy silence.
 
The old man’s eyes glinted mischievously as though he enjoyed the sport that was unfolding.

“Neko,” the Tengu whispered.
 
“You are not wanted here.”

“I am looking for Takeshi.
 
You have taken a son and mother from their home.”

“Takeshi is ours.
 
The woman is one of our own people, and the son has freely given himself to us.
 
Return to your clan, Neko.
 
We will not fight you unless we have to.”

A growl burbled up from her throat involuntarily, and the Tengu stepped back.
 
“How dare you take them while I stayed under their roof,” she said.
 
“You have violated the oldest of kami law.”
 
She glared at the Tengu.

“They were not under your protection.”

“Weren’t they?
 
How can you be so sure, buzzard?”
 
The Tengu flinched noticeably at her epithet.
 
“Kami law states that those who invite a kami under their roof are under that kami’s protection.”

“But you are not true kami.”

A roar issued from her throat, and Kasumi leaped at him in tiger form, baring her claws and teeth.
 
The Tengu retreated hastily with a loud squawk, seeking refuge on one of the limbs of the conifers behind him.

How dare you insult me thus!
Kasumi snarled.
 
She looked up into the branches, her golden eyes considering how to best go after the Tengu.
 
Even in tiger form, she was a good climber, and she clawed the tree, shredding bark in long strips.
 
She gripped the rough tree trunk and, with her powerful hindquarters, propelled herself upward.
 
Her heavy body caused the tree to shake.

The Tengu clacked its beak together and disappeared.
 
At the same time, Kasumi found herself falling from the tree, now in human form.
 
She twisted in midair and landed on her hands and feet.
 
When she looked up, the Tengu was gone.

#

“Hiroshi-san, I need you,” came Takeshi’s voice from inside the apartment.

Hiroshi frowned as he put away the pen and ink and secreted the message he had been writing to his shinobi-no-mono sensei in the hidden drawer of the table.
 
Hiroshi hadn’t expected the daimyo to need him so soon after court.
 
He was getting sloppy.
 
If Takeshi saw the ninja script, he would kill Hiroshi as a spy, even though Hiroshi was only seventeen.

“I am coming, Takeshi-sama,” Hiroshi said, his voice upbeat and cheerful.
 
He smoothed his hair, tightened in a topknot that designated him samurai.
 
Hiroshi hated wearing his hair that way.
 
It was tight to the point of being painful.
 
As a ninja, he would simply tie back his hair or even crop it short.
 
The topknot was part of the disguise, as were the fine kamishimo and samurai swords.
 
The swords would do in a pinch, if he had to, but he much preferred the ninjato to the katana and wakizashi.
 
The
ninjato’s
hilts doubled as climbing platforms for stealthy feet.

Hiroshi pulled back the door to the apartment.
 
Takeshi sat at a low table, his own writing instruments out.
 
Takeshi was a powerfully built man with raven hair that was graying around the temples.
 
The kamishimo and tunic hid the daimyo’s muscular arms and legs, which Hiroshi had seen while Takeshi practiced kata.
 
Hiroshi knew that this was not a man to be crossed.

The samurai lord looked preoccupied.
 
The steaming cup of tea and kettle had long ago cooled off, but the ninja could still smell the
flowery
jasmine.
 
Hiroshi bowed once.
 
“Would you like some tea or maybe some food?”

Takeshi glanced up and held the young ninja’s gaze with his dark eyes.
 
Hiroshi found himself unable to speak as his eyes locked in the older man’s stare.
 
He caught his breath.
 
For a moment, he thought that Takeshi could see into his very soul, see what he was, an enemy of the samurai.
 
Yet as quickly as Takeshi grasped the younger man’s gaze, he released it.
 
The daimyo smiled.
 
“That would be fine, Hiroshi-san.
 
Please have a servant bring some in.
 
Then come and help me with this letter.”

Hiroshi slowly released a breath he hadn’t realized he had held.
 
Even so, he took a mental calculation of everything he had.
 
His swords were his first line of defense, but they weren’t the only weapons he bore.
 
He carried several shuriken, some in star form but most in spike form.
 
He even carried a couple of metsubushi, small flash bombs that he could use to blind an enemy, giving him the ability to attack or, in many cases, escape while he still had the chance.

He had other weapons too, intangible weapons within him that gave him an edge over other mortals.

Hiroshi bowed once more and stepped out of the apartment.
 
He shut the door silently and moved toward the kitchen, where the servants were.
 
He always had an uneasy feeling dealing with Takeshi, which was why he was sure Nanashi daimyo had bought the aid of his clan—not that Hiroshi was fond of Nanashi either.

He was heading toward the kitchen when a guard from the front door stepped inside with another samurai.
 
The dim light and air smoky from the oil lamps didn’t bother the ninja.
 
Hiroshi recognized the burley ashigaru on sight but had never seen this samurai before in the Imperial City.
 
Hiroshi quickly studied the man’s crest and colors.
 
The colors were Nanashi’s, but the crest was of a samurai clan he wasn’t familiar with, one of the northern clans, perhaps.
 
This man was from the very daimyo who was paying Hiroshi’s sensei.

“Ryota, who is this man?” Hiroshi asked.

The ashigaru soldier turned to Hiroshi.
 
“Hiroshi-sama, this man is Naotaka Jiro.
 
He wishes an audience with Lord Takeshi.”