Chapter 18
Spring, 1237 – The Unknown Lands
Her first thought, even before she opened her eyes, was disbelief that she was actually still alive. The pieces of her memory were broken, shattered like chunks of ice across the surface of a thawing river. The flow of the river below…she remembered the pain, but it was dimmer now. Not like the days of agony that her mind hastened to shy away from. She felt her utter weakness and helplessness infuse every limb of her body. But she was alive. Weak. In pain. But alive. Then how?
When she did open her eyes, she saw the face of a being completely alien to her. He shook a rattle over her and made strange animal-like sounds. She was far too weak to rise. Her head still felt fuzzy, and there was something seriously wrong with her. Rather than startle or fight, she decided to be patient, to wait and to watch. She was alive; it was more than she had hoped for. She needed to conserve her strength and try to stay that way.
Over the next few weeks, the strange being cared for her with tenderness and skill. He was unlike anything she had ever heard of: shaped somewhat like a man, but with longer arms and shorter legs. He had a gray face with protruding jaw and heavy brow, coarsened with whiskers. He was covered with long fur that may once have been orange, but had faded mostly to gray. The room she was in was primitive indeed. But, on the other hand, it was completely filled with beautiful flowers. She had grown up with stories of Kenku and Kitsune, Kitsu and Nezumi. Although his strange appearance was startling, he did not frighten her. Arahime could not help but think that anyone who valued the beauty of such flowers had to be more than he appeared.
Still, the aching loneliness was a dragging burden on her heart. At first the pain, the boredom, the inability to communicate, and the knowledge that her daisho, which she had fought so hard to save, was lost somewhere in the jungle, drove her deeper into a cycle of despair she found it hard to shake, filled with grief and doubt. How would she return to her clan without her daisho anyway? With the weakness that filled her, could she even serve as a yojimbo any more? When the being showed her that her daisho, at least it brought her the relief that she had not failed so utterly, that there was still more to do. That gave her enough strength to break out of the darkness. That gave her purpose.
But it did little to alleviate the boredom. So weak that she struggled for breath, she knew she had to move, and yet knew she could not. When she saw her caretaker making baskets, it was at least something. She started to work. Then a little more each day. She needed to move to get back her strength. And in her, deep in the very core of her being, the need to do something, to make things a little better. It helped drive away the shadows and gave her some sense of accomplishment, however small.
Her caretaker, sometimes, seemed to understand a few words of what she was saying. But he refused to stay and listen to her, or make any effort to understand her. She tried as hard as she could, but she could not understand his speech, for he chose to rarely, if ever, speak to her. It seemed almost as if he wanted her gone. After her previous days of travel in the jungle, Arahime knew her chances were slim of making it alone, at least as wounded as she was. Better to accommodate his silence, but it was lonely.
It was a joy to finally be able to rise and move and care for herself and finally, finally, be able to leave the tree-hut in which she had been confined for so long. To bathe, to move, to even be able to take up the sword again, it was a freedom sweeter than anything she could have remembered. Just to be able to live, and move, in spite of the pain. And to dance the blade again. But in the dancing...her wounds still bound her. Lungs failed, breath failed She tired so quickly. The skin would break open again. But she was getting stronger.
And then another came. The spider had been terrifying, but she was samurai. Weak as she was, it was her duty to stand against all things of Jigoku to defend the weak, and the giant spider was surely of Jigoku. And even if it wasn’t, the one who was being threatened was of the kind that had protected her. She owed her caretaker her life. She would not allow harm to his helpless kin, if she could help it. She wasn’t entirely sure she could prevent it, given her weakness. But it had fled. She was fortunate.
And well rewarded. For the first time in months, there was another who would speak to her that understood her tongue. Who maybe could return her to Second City. There was finally a chance.
“What you want most now.”
Her heart swelled with hope as she leaned forward. “Please take me back to Second City. Please help me go home.”
“No!”
The rejection stung like a blow. Like a prison door opened for the captive and then slammed in her face. Arahime’s immediate impulse was to lash out, or scream, but she was the one who was guest here. A guest treated well. Guests have obligations, and her personal pain was unimportant compared to that. But it was not their fault if these ones did not know where the city was. She could find ways to make that clear. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
Maybe they are just frightened of going that far. Maybe if I get well enough, I can make it if they show me how. “Will you tell me how to get there by myself?”
“No.”
Ideas flashed into her head of ways she could try to make them tell. Even if she was sick, and weak, she had the sword and ways to use it. But she was guest. And to do any bit of what was coming to mind was absolutely beyond dishonorable. Her body hurt so much an exhaustion claimed every piece of her. The despair of her situation overwhelmed her. As much as she desired to speak to anyone who knew her tongue, right at that moment, she couldn’t focus, could barely think. She returned to her cot and let the exhaustion take her. She might be able to think of something else in the morning.
When she awakened, her caregiver, Yu’genta, came and brought to her roasted plantain, laid out on a large leaf. He bowed, something he had never done before, and stepped away. The other, the one who had named himself Ou’bouji, approached and also bowed. He straightened and leaned on his staff. “We sorry for test. We can help. But want to talk better. You want to talk better?”
She blinked in confusion, their actions and words so different than their treatment the previous day and the despair she had almost consigned herself to. The promise of hope was far too sweet to resist. “Yes. I would like to be able to talk to you better.”
Ou’bouji bowed again. He turned and went to the corner of the hut, retrieving a large bundle wrapped in banana leaves and presenting it to her. “Here. Gift.”
Her response was almost automatic. “I could not. I am unworthy of such a gift.” A flush of heat went to her face as she remembered the differences in gift giving among the Zogeki. And whoever these beings might be were far more different still. What if they take offense?
But Ou’bouji simply offered again, “Yours. Gift.”
Far more cautiously she offered with hesitation, “You have done me so much kindness already. How could I want more?”
“Yours. Gift.” The monkey-like being offered the gift again patiently.
She bowed from her seated position on her pallet. “Then I accept. Thank you.” She opened the bundle that Ou’bouji offered.
Laying in the banana leaves, she found a bundle of pure white cloth, embroidered with golden thread. Real clothes! Joy burst in her heart. Arahime never in her life imagined being so grateful for just the simple pleasure of having real clothing to wear. It could be the finest kimono in the Empire and she could not treasure it more.
Lying on top of the bundle of clothing, there was a deep plain wooden box. She opened it. In it, the upper tray lay a wide necklace or collar, of a type completely unlike any found in the Empire. It was a full hand-length wide, made of clear and smoothly polished diamonds set in gold. There were eight medallions of ivory amidst the jewels, each carved to resemble a different kind of flower. From the bottom hung two strands of beads: shimmering pearls and green jade. At the center of the collar there hung a large tear-cut emerald encircled with tiny diamonds and gold set to resemble the lotus flower. It was a dark jungle green, broken inside with light reflecting off the numerous flaws in the crystal. At the back was an intricate gold clasp that looked like a lock. The piece was beautiful and strange, and she ran her finger across it curiously, a small crease between her eyebrows.
Ou’bouji nodded, while Yu’genta leaned in to look closer. “Put on. I explain. No harm.”
Do I trust? Is understanding worth the risk? Her heart knew the answer before her mind did. She had seen how fear of the unknown had caused needless pain. Harun. She lifted the necklace. There is always risk in choosing to understand. Someone has to take that risk. She set it around her neck, and let the two ends of the necklace click solidly into place at the back of her neck.
The necklace fit as though it had been made for her. The one who had given her the necklace raised his staff and brought it down with a thud on the floor. “Welcome, visitor from the foreign land of the samurai,” he spoke. Arahime’s mind reeled. With her ears, she knew he was not speaking Rokugani, but his own tongue of inhuman vocalizations. But some part of her mind, an inner voice, clearly understood him. It was not a simple translation of the words, for when he spoke the world welcome, her imagination supplied the image of a mother gesturing a guest inside for a meal. When he spoke the word Samurai, the image arose of a Spider samurai, brandishing a bloodied sword and glorying in the defeat of his enemy. She shook her head to clear it.
“What sort of magic is this?” she asked. She knew the words she spoke, felt them as her own, but they were not the words she spoke. Her ears heard similar sounds to that of Ou’bouji. She held her hand up to her throat in surprise, while her caretaker and this other both gave hoots that her own mind now understood as an expression of wonder and pleasure.
Ou’bouji gestured to the circle of heated stones, inviting her and her caretaker, Yu’genta, to sit. She rose from her bed, leaving the white cloth for the moment and the box, to join him. Once they had settled, he began his explanation.
“Since ancient times, our people, the Vānara,” 'The forest people,' that new voice in Arahime’s head interpreted as Ou’bouji continued, “have lived in these jungles. Until the time of the Great Destruction sixty years ago, the people of the Ivinda have been ruled by the Ikshwaku.” 'The Maharajah.' “By tradition, the first-wife’s sons of the Ikshwaku are raised to be holy warriors fighting the creatures of the hells. A chosen son is granted the sacred tulwar,” the image of a strange, curved sword flashed in Arahime’s mind, “carried by the previous generation, to guide and aid them in battle.”
Arahime nodded her understanding, still getting used to this small bundle of knowledge that helped interpret for her.
Ou’bouji continued. “By tradition, the daughters of the first wife of the Ikshwaku, the Apsaras," 'Princesses,' the voice in Arahime’s head suggested, “are raised to be diplomats, sent among the nations to develop peace and understanding, so that war is not needed save against the creatures of hell. One chosen of each generation was given this necklace, blessed by the sacrifices of the previous generations and by the holiest Brahmin ,” 'Wise Priests' “to help them understand and be understood by all peoples. Now, the Ikshwaku are gone, dead by the violence of the Ruhmalists,” 'The cultists of Kali Ma' “and the Vānara serve as guardians and protectors of their memories. Although the Ivindi are only children on the road of Dharma," 'Right living' "the Ikshwaku descend in part from Kesari and Añjanā, from the bloodline of the ancient Vānara. We have an obligation to keep any harm from coming from their legacy. The necklace is called the navrathran haar.” Your big sister… the voice translated.
His words seemed to make sense, but Arahime still was shaky in her understanding, and some words could not have been correct. Sister? She gestured to the younger with the large face. “You are Ou’bouji. And you,” she gestured to the old Vānara. “are Yu’genta. You are Vānara. You found me in the jungle and have cared for me, even though I am not Vānara. I am very grateful that you have saved my life, but I miss my people very much. My family I know will miss me too, and there is a man I have a duty to protect if I can. I would dearly like to return one day.”
Yu’genta gestured at his chest. “I found you. You were foolish to let the flies taste such a wound. You must seal such injuries with the gum of the breadfruit tree quickly. It will keep the maggots from breathing and catches them as they come out for air.”
I did not need that reminder. Arahime shuddered delicately.
Ou’bouji gestured over the heated stones, and the smoke swirled in strange patterns that filled the hut with symbols Arahime had never seen before. “You understand true,” he said. “But we do not know you. You carry the knives of Samurai. Samurai have marched through these jungles under a Spider banner, destroying all before them, including our own people. Some of us have reached out to yours in peaceand found themselves corrupted and made Shojo,” Those fallen to base desire and exiled, the calm voice in Arahime’s head interpreted. “But you do not act like them. Who are you?”
Once, being compared to the Onyx Spider might have triggered her hot temper, but it was such a relief to be speaking to someone, anyone, again that Arahime felt no heat at his honesty. “My name is Kakita Arahime. I am samurai, but samurai and…” she started to say ‘kuge’ but found herself instead making the words, “ ‘of the royal family’ of the Crane clan.” A desire to explain filled her. “We are nothing like the Spider. Our clan treasures peace, and trade, and beauty, and art.”
The Vānara seemed pleased at her explanation and gestured that she continue.
“I told you how I got here, and that is the truth. I do not know exactly what was behind the attempt that was made to kill me. I do not know if it was just the actions of one of the Arashi family, or if it was a decision made for all, or even for all of the Zogeki. I do not know what would happen if I return. But my parents serve an important role in the Empire. I serve the only diplomat of the Crane to these lands. I need to go back.” She made her plea one last time, the Vānara listening carefully to her every word.
Finally, Ou’bouji looked smugly satisfied, though Yu’genta still looked very concerned. Ou’bouji answered, “We cannot take you to this city. But this, we will do. We will take you to the nearest human. That one has been here a very long time. That one will know how you may go back to your people.”
He gestured. “You may take with you the navrathran haar, if you wish. With it, the Ivindi people may be willing to aide you on your journey and tell you if it is safe to return to Second City. The bearer of the navrathran haar is sacred to them. But it is ours to protect. If you leave with it, I will lock the clasp. Once locked, it can only be removed when you choose to break the lock. If you do so, it shall return to our care. Let no one spoil the legacy of the First Princess.”
Arahime held her hand to her throat again, uncertain. Jade, pearls, ivory. Such a thing was no tainted item. To be able to speak and understand…that was a skill of great value, one her father had tried to teach her though she lacked the gift, or the time to succeed given her duties at the Kakita Academy. But....
Yu’genta cut in. “She cannot travel yet. The journey is too difficult. She are still too weak from her long sleep. It would be at least another month of healing to travel, and it will take a month to reach that place. If those who seek to kill you are at the end…” he trailed off.
Arahime took a deep breath, or tried. The yawning emptiness of the left side of her chest and her empty lung forced again the consciousness of her terrible weakness upon her. If she were attacked, she might kill one in a single strike, but she could never take more than one, or a fight that extended past the first blow or two. She had no idea who her enemies truly were. She had to get stronger before she faced Second City.
And the idea of two more months trapped in silence was horrifying. ”I will keep the navrathran haar,” she answered quickly. “I will try to use it …” She wanted to say ‘with honor’, but the gentle voice in her mind whispered the words and shaped her throat to say, “along the path of dharma.” She knew it meant almost the same thing…but there were differences she did not understand. She fell into silence.
The old Vānara nodded. The younger, larger one said, “Very well. This path is chosen. As to your family, duty to family is of great virtue. Among the Vānara we have gifts that can send messages in dreams and prophecy. Show me your heart, and when it is time, I will send your message to those you love the most.”
Mother. Father. Masarugi and Hideyaki, my brothers. A heartbeat. Harun. “How do I show you my heart?”
Ou’bouji smiled amidst the symbols drawn in smoke. “You already have.”
Spring, 1237 – The Unknown Lands
Her first thought, even before she opened her eyes, was disbelief that she was actually still alive. The pieces of her memory were broken, shattered like chunks of ice across the surface of a thawing river. The flow of the river below…she remembered the pain, but it was dimmer now. Not like the days of agony that her mind hastened to shy away from. She felt her utter weakness and helplessness infuse every limb of her body. But she was alive. Weak. In pain. But alive. Then how?
When she did open her eyes, she saw the face of a being completely alien to her. He shook a rattle over her and made strange animal-like sounds. She was far too weak to rise. Her head still felt fuzzy, and there was something seriously wrong with her. Rather than startle or fight, she decided to be patient, to wait and to watch. She was alive; it was more than she had hoped for. She needed to conserve her strength and try to stay that way.
Over the next few weeks, the strange being cared for her with tenderness and skill. He was unlike anything she had ever heard of: shaped somewhat like a man, but with longer arms and shorter legs. He had a gray face with protruding jaw and heavy brow, coarsened with whiskers. He was covered with long fur that may once have been orange, but had faded mostly to gray. The room she was in was primitive indeed. But, on the other hand, it was completely filled with beautiful flowers. She had grown up with stories of Kenku and Kitsune, Kitsu and Nezumi. Although his strange appearance was startling, he did not frighten her. Arahime could not help but think that anyone who valued the beauty of such flowers had to be more than he appeared.
Still, the aching loneliness was a dragging burden on her heart. At first the pain, the boredom, the inability to communicate, and the knowledge that her daisho, which she had fought so hard to save, was lost somewhere in the jungle, drove her deeper into a cycle of despair she found it hard to shake, filled with grief and doubt. How would she return to her clan without her daisho anyway? With the weakness that filled her, could she even serve as a yojimbo any more? When the being showed her that her daisho, at least it brought her the relief that she had not failed so utterly, that there was still more to do. That gave her enough strength to break out of the darkness. That gave her purpose.
But it did little to alleviate the boredom. So weak that she struggled for breath, she knew she had to move, and yet knew she could not. When she saw her caretaker making baskets, it was at least something. She started to work. Then a little more each day. She needed to move to get back her strength. And in her, deep in the very core of her being, the need to do something, to make things a little better. It helped drive away the shadows and gave her some sense of accomplishment, however small.
Her caretaker, sometimes, seemed to understand a few words of what she was saying. But he refused to stay and listen to her, or make any effort to understand her. She tried as hard as she could, but she could not understand his speech, for he chose to rarely, if ever, speak to her. It seemed almost as if he wanted her gone. After her previous days of travel in the jungle, Arahime knew her chances were slim of making it alone, at least as wounded as she was. Better to accommodate his silence, but it was lonely.
It was a joy to finally be able to rise and move and care for herself and finally, finally, be able to leave the tree-hut in which she had been confined for so long. To bathe, to move, to even be able to take up the sword again, it was a freedom sweeter than anything she could have remembered. Just to be able to live, and move, in spite of the pain. And to dance the blade again. But in the dancing...her wounds still bound her. Lungs failed, breath failed She tired so quickly. The skin would break open again. But she was getting stronger.
And then another came. The spider had been terrifying, but she was samurai. Weak as she was, it was her duty to stand against all things of Jigoku to defend the weak, and the giant spider was surely of Jigoku. And even if it wasn’t, the one who was being threatened was of the kind that had protected her. She owed her caretaker her life. She would not allow harm to his helpless kin, if she could help it. She wasn’t entirely sure she could prevent it, given her weakness. But it had fled. She was fortunate.
And well rewarded. For the first time in months, there was another who would speak to her that understood her tongue. Who maybe could return her to Second City. There was finally a chance.
“What you want most now.”
Her heart swelled with hope as she leaned forward. “Please take me back to Second City. Please help me go home.”
“No!”
The rejection stung like a blow. Like a prison door opened for the captive and then slammed in her face. Arahime’s immediate impulse was to lash out, or scream, but she was the one who was guest here. A guest treated well. Guests have obligations, and her personal pain was unimportant compared to that. But it was not their fault if these ones did not know where the city was. She could find ways to make that clear. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
Maybe they are just frightened of going that far. Maybe if I get well enough, I can make it if they show me how. “Will you tell me how to get there by myself?”
“No.”
Ideas flashed into her head of ways she could try to make them tell. Even if she was sick, and weak, she had the sword and ways to use it. But she was guest. And to do any bit of what was coming to mind was absolutely beyond dishonorable. Her body hurt so much an exhaustion claimed every piece of her. The despair of her situation overwhelmed her. As much as she desired to speak to anyone who knew her tongue, right at that moment, she couldn’t focus, could barely think. She returned to her cot and let the exhaustion take her. She might be able to think of something else in the morning.
When she awakened, her caregiver, Yu’genta, came and brought to her roasted plantain, laid out on a large leaf. He bowed, something he had never done before, and stepped away. The other, the one who had named himself Ou’bouji, approached and also bowed. He straightened and leaned on his staff. “We sorry for test. We can help. But want to talk better. You want to talk better?”
She blinked in confusion, their actions and words so different than their treatment the previous day and the despair she had almost consigned herself to. The promise of hope was far too sweet to resist. “Yes. I would like to be able to talk to you better.”
Ou’bouji bowed again. He turned and went to the corner of the hut, retrieving a large bundle wrapped in banana leaves and presenting it to her. “Here. Gift.”
Her response was almost automatic. “I could not. I am unworthy of such a gift.” A flush of heat went to her face as she remembered the differences in gift giving among the Zogeki. And whoever these beings might be were far more different still. What if they take offense?
But Ou’bouji simply offered again, “Yours. Gift.”
Far more cautiously she offered with hesitation, “You have done me so much kindness already. How could I want more?”
“Yours. Gift.” The monkey-like being offered the gift again patiently.
She bowed from her seated position on her pallet. “Then I accept. Thank you.” She opened the bundle that Ou’bouji offered.
Laying in the banana leaves, she found a bundle of pure white cloth, embroidered with golden thread. Real clothes! Joy burst in her heart. Arahime never in her life imagined being so grateful for just the simple pleasure of having real clothing to wear. It could be the finest kimono in the Empire and she could not treasure it more.
Lying on top of the bundle of clothing, there was a deep plain wooden box. She opened it. In it, the upper tray lay a wide necklace or collar, of a type completely unlike any found in the Empire. It was a full hand-length wide, made of clear and smoothly polished diamonds set in gold. There were eight medallions of ivory amidst the jewels, each carved to resemble a different kind of flower. From the bottom hung two strands of beads: shimmering pearls and green jade. At the center of the collar there hung a large tear-cut emerald encircled with tiny diamonds and gold set to resemble the lotus flower. It was a dark jungle green, broken inside with light reflecting off the numerous flaws in the crystal. At the back was an intricate gold clasp that looked like a lock. The piece was beautiful and strange, and she ran her finger across it curiously, a small crease between her eyebrows.
Ou’bouji nodded, while Yu’genta leaned in to look closer. “Put on. I explain. No harm.”
Do I trust? Is understanding worth the risk? Her heart knew the answer before her mind did. She had seen how fear of the unknown had caused needless pain. Harun. She lifted the necklace. There is always risk in choosing to understand. Someone has to take that risk. She set it around her neck, and let the two ends of the necklace click solidly into place at the back of her neck.
The necklace fit as though it had been made for her. The one who had given her the necklace raised his staff and brought it down with a thud on the floor. “Welcome, visitor from the foreign land of the samurai,” he spoke. Arahime’s mind reeled. With her ears, she knew he was not speaking Rokugani, but his own tongue of inhuman vocalizations. But some part of her mind, an inner voice, clearly understood him. It was not a simple translation of the words, for when he spoke the world welcome, her imagination supplied the image of a mother gesturing a guest inside for a meal. When he spoke the word Samurai, the image arose of a Spider samurai, brandishing a bloodied sword and glorying in the defeat of his enemy. She shook her head to clear it.
“What sort of magic is this?” she asked. She knew the words she spoke, felt them as her own, but they were not the words she spoke. Her ears heard similar sounds to that of Ou’bouji. She held her hand up to her throat in surprise, while her caretaker and this other both gave hoots that her own mind now understood as an expression of wonder and pleasure.
Ou’bouji gestured to the circle of heated stones, inviting her and her caretaker, Yu’genta, to sit. She rose from her bed, leaving the white cloth for the moment and the box, to join him. Once they had settled, he began his explanation.
“Since ancient times, our people, the Vānara,” 'The forest people,' that new voice in Arahime’s head interpreted as Ou’bouji continued, “have lived in these jungles. Until the time of the Great Destruction sixty years ago, the people of the Ivinda have been ruled by the Ikshwaku.” 'The Maharajah.' “By tradition, the first-wife’s sons of the Ikshwaku are raised to be holy warriors fighting the creatures of the hells. A chosen son is granted the sacred tulwar,” the image of a strange, curved sword flashed in Arahime’s mind, “carried by the previous generation, to guide and aid them in battle.”
Arahime nodded her understanding, still getting used to this small bundle of knowledge that helped interpret for her.
Ou’bouji continued. “By tradition, the daughters of the first wife of the Ikshwaku, the Apsaras," 'Princesses,' the voice in Arahime’s head suggested, “are raised to be diplomats, sent among the nations to develop peace and understanding, so that war is not needed save against the creatures of hell. One chosen of each generation was given this necklace, blessed by the sacrifices of the previous generations and by the holiest Brahmin ,” 'Wise Priests' “to help them understand and be understood by all peoples. Now, the Ikshwaku are gone, dead by the violence of the Ruhmalists,” 'The cultists of Kali Ma' “and the Vānara serve as guardians and protectors of their memories. Although the Ivindi are only children on the road of Dharma," 'Right living' "the Ikshwaku descend in part from Kesari and Añjanā, from the bloodline of the ancient Vānara. We have an obligation to keep any harm from coming from their legacy. The necklace is called the navrathran haar.” Your big sister… the voice translated.
His words seemed to make sense, but Arahime still was shaky in her understanding, and some words could not have been correct. Sister? She gestured to the younger with the large face. “You are Ou’bouji. And you,” she gestured to the old Vānara. “are Yu’genta. You are Vānara. You found me in the jungle and have cared for me, even though I am not Vānara. I am very grateful that you have saved my life, but I miss my people very much. My family I know will miss me too, and there is a man I have a duty to protect if I can. I would dearly like to return one day.”
Yu’genta gestured at his chest. “I found you. You were foolish to let the flies taste such a wound. You must seal such injuries with the gum of the breadfruit tree quickly. It will keep the maggots from breathing and catches them as they come out for air.”
I did not need that reminder. Arahime shuddered delicately.
Ou’bouji gestured over the heated stones, and the smoke swirled in strange patterns that filled the hut with symbols Arahime had never seen before. “You understand true,” he said. “But we do not know you. You carry the knives of Samurai. Samurai have marched through these jungles under a Spider banner, destroying all before them, including our own people. Some of us have reached out to yours in peaceand found themselves corrupted and made Shojo,” Those fallen to base desire and exiled, the calm voice in Arahime’s head interpreted. “But you do not act like them. Who are you?”
Once, being compared to the Onyx Spider might have triggered her hot temper, but it was such a relief to be speaking to someone, anyone, again that Arahime felt no heat at his honesty. “My name is Kakita Arahime. I am samurai, but samurai and…” she started to say ‘kuge’ but found herself instead making the words, “ ‘of the royal family’ of the Crane clan.” A desire to explain filled her. “We are nothing like the Spider. Our clan treasures peace, and trade, and beauty, and art.”
The Vānara seemed pleased at her explanation and gestured that she continue.
“I told you how I got here, and that is the truth. I do not know exactly what was behind the attempt that was made to kill me. I do not know if it was just the actions of one of the Arashi family, or if it was a decision made for all, or even for all of the Zogeki. I do not know what would happen if I return. But my parents serve an important role in the Empire. I serve the only diplomat of the Crane to these lands. I need to go back.” She made her plea one last time, the Vānara listening carefully to her every word.
Finally, Ou’bouji looked smugly satisfied, though Yu’genta still looked very concerned. Ou’bouji answered, “We cannot take you to this city. But this, we will do. We will take you to the nearest human. That one has been here a very long time. That one will know how you may go back to your people.”
He gestured. “You may take with you the navrathran haar, if you wish. With it, the Ivindi people may be willing to aide you on your journey and tell you if it is safe to return to Second City. The bearer of the navrathran haar is sacred to them. But it is ours to protect. If you leave with it, I will lock the clasp. Once locked, it can only be removed when you choose to break the lock. If you do so, it shall return to our care. Let no one spoil the legacy of the First Princess.”
Arahime held her hand to her throat again, uncertain. Jade, pearls, ivory. Such a thing was no tainted item. To be able to speak and understand…that was a skill of great value, one her father had tried to teach her though she lacked the gift, or the time to succeed given her duties at the Kakita Academy. But....
Yu’genta cut in. “She cannot travel yet. The journey is too difficult. She are still too weak from her long sleep. It would be at least another month of healing to travel, and it will take a month to reach that place. If those who seek to kill you are at the end…” he trailed off.
Arahime took a deep breath, or tried. The yawning emptiness of the left side of her chest and her empty lung forced again the consciousness of her terrible weakness upon her. If she were attacked, she might kill one in a single strike, but she could never take more than one, or a fight that extended past the first blow or two. She had no idea who her enemies truly were. She had to get stronger before she faced Second City.
And the idea of two more months trapped in silence was horrifying. ”I will keep the navrathran haar,” she answered quickly. “I will try to use it …” She wanted to say ‘with honor’, but the gentle voice in her mind whispered the words and shaped her throat to say, “along the path of dharma.” She knew it meant almost the same thing…but there were differences she did not understand. She fell into silence.
The old Vānara nodded. The younger, larger one said, “Very well. This path is chosen. As to your family, duty to family is of great virtue. Among the Vānara we have gifts that can send messages in dreams and prophecy. Show me your heart, and when it is time, I will send your message to those you love the most.”
Mother. Father. Masarugi and Hideyaki, my brothers. A heartbeat. Harun. “How do I show you my heart?”
Ou’bouji smiled amidst the symbols drawn in smoke. “You already have.”