Takeo's Chronicles, page 132
Takeo was silent. A daze fell over him until a sense of wonder and suspicion swept it away.
“How could you possibly know that, with nothing but a glance in the dark?” he asked. “I’m not even sure my own brother knew.”
Takeo’s demand flew over her, and she seemed to gain confidence from his tone. It was as if she were the one asking questions, as if he weren’t armed and close, as if he weren’t a dangerous man to contend with. His temper flared.
“Answer me. How do you know this? Tell me.”
“I was told all about that sword,” she replied, smoothly, “by your father.”
Takeo’s heart stopped. His blood went cold.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
“Oh my dear, boy. Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m your mother.”
Chapter 2
They searched her. They searched her hut, her old chest, her withered bed, even the dirt beneath them. They searched the ground and trees surrounding her hut, and then searched those huts close by. Finding nothing, they didn't stop until every home in that village had been inspected. Once that was done, they divided up the villagers, separated them from each other, and asked question after question about the old woman who had supposedly been here so long that few remembered a time before her.
"She's always been very quiet," one man explained, then added quickly, "lord. Good to the children and excellent with a needle and thread. She doesn't talk much about herself, though. Never has."
"Yeah, I know her," another explained, a young mother with a baby in her arms and her stomach round with another. "Thinks she's above all of us, I think. Lingers around here, never married, just flirts with the men like some old yuki-onna. I wish she'd just die already—my lord."
They didn't get anything useful until they got to one of the village elders, a real withered ancient of a woman with five great-grandchildren running about the place.
"Oh, I remember her coming here," the woman explained, voice weak yet eager. Her children, old themselves, stood close by to catch her if she leaned too far to one side. "Must have been a few decades by now. She was beautiful then—still is, I say—and young, with a baby. I remember because it was so strange. I thought for sure her parents had cast her out, and the child’s father had abandoned her, if she even knew whom he was. I took pity on her and shared our family's food. I forced my husband to build her that hut. Oh, he was mad at me for an age, I tell you, may he rest in peace. He thought like most the others, that she ought to get out, as nobody wanted some vagrant outcast taking up residence in our little village. He didn't understand what it's like to be a mother, to give birth. I knew if we didn't do anything, that poor child of hers would starve, and she'd die, too, most like. I couldn't sleep at night just thinking about it.
“But that wasn’t even the worst of it. Oh, poor Dhyana, she lost the baby, did you know? We never learned of what, but one day, he was just gone! Can you believe that? She cried for years, years, my lord. To think what she’s been through.”
Meanwhile, the woman in question—Dhyana—stood several paces off from the komainu, surrounded by some half dozen samurai who looked just as baffled as Takeo felt. They were probably wondering why it took so many of them to guard a single old woman, but Takeo didn’t know what else to do with her. He didn’t trust a word anyone said. For all he knew, she was a rakshasa in disguise, just waiting to rip his throat out, though he had no idea how Botan got a rakshasa. Perhaps this was Emy, and she’d finally turned on him, but no, that couldn’t be. He'd recognize her in any form.
“Qadir, then?” Qing offered, as he shared his thoughts out loud. “No, can’t be. You mutilated him to prevent this exact thing.”
It was just the three of them now: Takeo, Nicholas, and the ninja. They were at the edge of the village, hopefully out of earshot of anyone or anything, though Takeo dared not go further for fear of letting the old woman out of his sight. He didn’t care how many guards he’d put on her.
“I mean, I suppose there’s a possibility it’s a third rakshasa?” Nicholas said.
“No,” Takeo replied, shaking his head. He did so not to add to his words, but to try and clear the dense fog that seemed to fill his mind. “She can’t be a Botan assassin. Who else would know about my sheath, about the treantwood? And we already confirmed her story with the other villagers. This woman, who claims to be my mother, has been here for decades, alone, and lost her child.”
“Could be someone else's mother, though?” Qing whispered. “Perhaps he swapped this woman with another—a fake mother, in the attempt to get close to you. That seems the most plausible thing, in comparison to the other options.”
She stopped, as if the other options were obvious. Takeo blinked at her, though she went on staring like he knew what she was talking about. Takeo couldn’t think of anything, though. His mind kept blaring, over and over again, that he had a mother, that she knew his father, and maybe even his brother. He didn’t know what to think about any of this. It was overwhelming enough to have such thoughts at all.
“What other options?” Takeo demanded.
Qing frowned.
“That she’s actually your mother,” she said, shaking her head. “Then none of this makes sense. Why would Botan go through the monumental ordeal of uncovering one of your relatives, just to lead you to her, and then leave? This would have been the perfect ambush, yet he’s gone. He didn’t even leave anything with her. No weapons, no poison, nothing of note. What benefit could this possibly bring Botan?”
“True,” Nicholas added. “I mean, if his intention was to get you to care about her so he could use her, then why leave? He can’t threaten her while she’s in your care. You think she’s a spy?”
Takeo huffed. “Piss poor spy at that. I’ll have her under guard night and day.”
“So, it’s personal, then, it has to be,” Qing said. “She’s on Katsu land. Is it possible this is a last-ditch effort to get you to switch sides? He has Gavin and the ogre, one of which he’s just maimed. Perhaps that was a threat to stop, and now he’s giving you another reason to leave it all behind? Reminding you that you’re a Katsu native?”
Takeo shook his head, arms wrapped tightly about his chest.
“To get you to grow a conscience, maybe?” Nicholas said. “Or to distract you? We are on the eve of battle out here. Our armies are mere days from clashing.”
“I say we leave her,” Qing put in.
“No,” Takeo snapped. “No, not a chance. What if she is my mother? What if? We can’t leave her here. People will know now. Word will get out. What will happen then? Perhaps that’s what he wants? Botan wants people to know my mother was a lowborn villager, and that I carry the Karaoshi name only in bastard fashion. I’m not sure, but I can’t control something beyond my reach. She comes with us.”
Takeo’s eyes kept flicking to the old woman surrounded by samurai. He thought of her that way, as just an old woman, in his head. He couldn’t call her by name, not even to think it. Not yet, and he knew why. Doing so would humanize her, which would make her difficult to kill.
“We’ve spent too much time here,” Takeo said. “Just because this wasn’t an ambush doesn’t mean it couldn’t become one. Let’s go. I have a shogun to conquer.”
He ripped away from the other two, and they paused before following. Takeo was certain they doubted his judgment, but he didn’t care. He was doing everything possible to think about nothing at all because, every time he tried to conjure a thought, his mind fell down an endless pit of questions.
How did Botan find her? What has she been doing here all this time? Who was his father? Was Okamoto even his brother? Were they step-brothers, perhaps, if even that? No, that couldn’t be. Okamoto was his brother. He knew it, everyone knew it, even that old withering hag, Lady Xuan Nguyen, had known it before he’d murdered her. Yes, that was true. His faith couldn’t be shaken there. Okamoto had been his brother, and he had not stolen Takeo away in the night. It just couldn’t be true. Takeo wouldn’t accept it. The fact that he’d once been a child, with a parent, who perhaps cared about him, he just couldn’t fathom, or accept, or even dream. The thought terrified him, even. What did that say about him? How could he accept whom he was anymore, knowing these things? He’d always believed his path had been predetermined, destined, yet now there seemed—
Stop! Stop it, damn it! Focus, you idiot. You have a war to end. Nothing has changed. Nothing . . . has . . . changed.
He reached his small band of warriors, and those surrounding his would-be-mother. His eyes darted from samurai to samurai, doing everything possible to avoid the woman, but he still noticed her in the peripheral, and she held no such reservations about him. Her dark eyes, so dark that the light of the day would not touch them, honed in on him with rapt attention. She should have been unremarkable, what with her short stature and simple dress, but the features she bore drew eyes from all. Her thin lips, paired with dark hair, and those pupils, were features few had seen, and that Takeo had only seen in his reflection.
As the entire group stood there in silence, waiting for their commander to speak, Takeo’s will failed him and his gaze fell on Dhyana. She did not flinch.
All doubt fell from him. This woman was his mother.
“Ping,” Takeo said.
A young man stepped forward, tall with broad shoulders and a clean-shaven face. He was of the Sun family and was a prodigy with the blade. Combined with Takeo’s training, he’d surpassed the abilities of all his peers. His loyalty was also above reproach. There was a reason Kuniko had made him her right hand.
“My lord?” he asked, bowing.
“She rides with you,” Takeo said.
Ping rose up, eyes wide. If there was any question lingering in the back of his throat, it died as Takeo climbed onto his mount. The rest of the samurai were quick to follow. Ping looked to Dhyana, and she to him, for once peeling her gaze from her son, and Ping stammered all over again. It was as if her gaze unsettled him more than Takeo’s. The boy recovered by retrieving his mount and bringing it over to her. He paused, seemingly unsure whether to help her up first or climb up and then offer a hand. The awkwardness of it all intensified under the scrutiny of the warband, and Ping in the end decided to climb up first. He reached down, took her by the arm, and went to pull her into the seat behind him.
“No,” Takeo said. “Put her in front, where you can watch her hands.”
Ping blinked but obeyed. Dhyana smirked.
I’m making a mistake, but I can’t help it. I don’t know what else to do. I . . . I wish Gavin was here.
Takeo looked back to the village, to that old withered hut with a nail slammed into the crooked door. The blood that ran down had trouble seeping into the old wood, and it shined brilliantly in the afternoon sun. The fire where Gavin’s hand had been cremated still flickered from the meager fuel.
Yes, focus on that. I’ll save you, my old friend, even if you want nothing to do with me. I finally understand what love is, I think. It’s when you care for someone no matter what, even if they don’t love you back.
When he turned his gaze back to his samurai, he instead found the old woman again, sitting comfortably in the shadow of Ping’s large figure. The look on her face showed no fear that she was soon to leave her home, but instead bore a touch of understanding.
Takeo shook his head to free his mind and then spurred his mount. The rest followed.
* * *
They rode hard, partly because they were in enemy territory, partly because Takeo always rode hard. If he had stopped to admit it, he also would have said it was to prove to himself that nothing had changed. He wasn’t about to slow his pace or change course just because a relative had been uncovered. He was still Takeo Karaoshi, the infamous ronin, and he had a destiny to fulfill. Not his destiny, no, but Hers, the most—the only important woman in his life. It was that line of thought that restored his sanity.
He remembered that time in the forest clearing, where she'd cut his hair. He'd never allowed it to grow long again. He remembered the cold nights in The North, and the battle of Lucifan. He remembered everything he could about her, from the freckles, to the smile, to the smell of her hair, everything that the jinni hadn’t taken from him. It was enough. He remembered the woman who had chosen him above all others, through no obligation of blood or expectation of reward. The thought alone strengthened him, restored his confidence and his steadiness. Nothing could pull him away, he realized, not even something like this, so long as he remembered what mattered.
In fact, by the time they returned to the Hanu encampment, Takeo felt very much restored to his old self. If anyone had asked him about his mother in that exact moment, he would have given them a puzzled glance. It helped that he refused to look back the entire trip home, and this mentality went uninterrupted right up until the whispers started.
From a distance, the Hanu army was a sea of red on the edge of Juatwa’s southeastern plains. However, all armies, whether a thousand, ten thousand, or one-hundred thousand, seemed the same once one entered the ranks—rows of tents packed with bored bodies, waiting around for their next set of orders. Takeo and his warband took one of the main thoroughfares towards his tent. As expected, his arrival did not go unnoticed. Although Takeo dressed like a common samurai, he was infamous enough to be recognized on sight, and men and women on all sides scurried to bow before him as he passed through the camp. Not on his order, of course. Takeo wasn’t a lord by Juatwa standards, as he didn’t own land with which to cultivate taxes and samurai sworn to his name, but that didn’t seem to bother the common ranks. Yet all this attention did have a downside. Takeo had become a subject of gossip.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the curious glances the Hanu ranks gave Dhyana. They were as subtle as could be, whispering faintly only after Takeo had passed, and using sparing looks rather than dead-eyed stares. Unfortunately, when an entire camp is whispering, the purpose is defeated. Although they didn’t know whom she was yet, Takeo’s heart sunk as realized it was only a matter of time.
Given solitude and an iron will, Takeo could forget this woman existed. After all, she hadn’t been a part of his life for over three decades. But forget her among an army's gossip? He wasn’t so sure.
He picked up the pace.
Unlike his previous campaign, Takeo now had a sizable tent to his name. Lady Zhenzhen insisted on it once she’d heard that Takeo had been sleeping in what amounted to a single sheet draped over a wire. Despite explaining that he preferred it that way, she would not let it stand. Now that Takeo had proved his worth, again, he was to be treated like any general in her army, and thus he was furnished with a lavishly sized tent and placed among the daimyo’s quarters. Takeo was now both easy to distinguish and easy to find, and placed side-by-side with all those who hated him—royalty.
As they reached the outskirts of the royal encampment, nested within the beating heart of the army, servants met them to take their komainu away. Takeo was offered food and wine on silver platters—and Nicholas, too, because the servants didn’t know whom to offer and whom not, lest they offend someone and find themselves on the chopping block. Takeo waved them away, as always, while Nicholas indulged himself with as much as he could carry, as always. Kuniko did as she did best and took care of all the logistics. She ordered most of the troops away, assigning a courier in case she needed to get a hold of them again, and ordered a half dozen of the finest warriors to follow Takeo back to his tent for guard duty. There was a time when he would have preferred to be alone, but Takeo didn’t trust the daimyo he was stationed alongside. He saw the guards as protection from spies.
As for Ping, he looked to Takeo and back to Dhyana, hoping for some direction, but Takeo gave none. The ronin walked off as if none of this was happening to him because he truly wished it wasn’t. In the end, Ping carried out his last given order and escorted Dhyana off the komainu and towards the tent.
Qing fell into step with Takeo.
“You are going to send her away, right?” she whispered.
“I don’t know yet,” he replied, flatly. “I need to focus on the coming battle.”
“My point exactly. It’s bad enough you brought the other woman, but now this? You can’t pawn these two off as servants. They are distractions.”
“I can handle a few distractions. War is where my heart lies. This is my purpose.”
They reached Takeo’s tent, a massive thing that was tall enough for an oni, wide enough for an oni gathering, and worth more coin than Takeo had seen in his lifetime. Along with it, Lady Zhenzhen had shipped a small treasure hoard worth of trinkets that were to be strewn about inside, all of which Takeo denied. Perhaps his shogun saw such measures as a sign of wealth, but all Takeo saw were places for people to hide. He wanted his tent barren as could be. That was comfortable, familiar, and safe. He could only bend to his shogun’s will so much. She wanted him to have servants, however, so he’d relented there, in his own way.
Mako Tamura pulled back the flaps and peeked out. One could have sworn she was hiding something the way she did so, with embarrassing hesitation, but Takeo knew it just the way she was. Mako, though tall and beautiful, would struggle to be noticed in an empty room, and would be entirely missed at a royal party. To Takeo, this was endearing.
“You’re back,” she said with a modest smile, deflecting her gaze. “I . . . I,”
“Was worried again?” he asked.
She blushed. “I know I shouldn’t be. This is war. You’re going to be gone a lot. But I can’t help it. I worry about you every time you leave.”
Mako pulled back the flaps for Takeo, but he stopped in the entry way. He gave her a warm smile, not just for her, but for himself.
