The Eye of the Kami

Just after sunset, Yukiana was escorted to the banquet hall by the same master who had given her the shamisen to borrow. She discovered that her name was Kamui, and she was renowned for being an expert shamisen player, as well as being adept with the flute and koto. She would not accompany Yuki into the hall itself but told her that she would likely be part of the festivities that were to occur once the meeting was over, and the guests had broken up.

“Don't worry about the instrument,” she said with a smile. “I have plenty more I could choose from tonight. When you go inside, an entertainer will be there to introduce you and direct you to your seat. From there you need only observe.”

It was exactly as she foretold, for when Yuki stepped into the entrance a beautiful entertainer was there to greet her. The entertainer was also elaborately dressed, but not to the extent that she was. Yuki replaced her tall okobo with black indoor geta and proceeded down a long wooden corridor. To her left, there was an enclosed garden, much like the one she had seen in the teahouse with Kondo, but this was larger and surrounded by water. It was fed from the moat, and the trickling of the miniature stream into the meticulously sculpted landscape eased her worries if but for a few moments.

Eventually, she came to the end of the long hall, and there were four foxes standing guard at the doors. After checking her off the list, they opened the doors, and she proceeded inside a small, enclosed antechamber. Another pair of foxes stood at the ready and motioned for her to stop. She waited one minute, then another, and as she did her anxiety began to grow. The entertainer who had walked her down the corridor then stood beside her.

In a loud voice, she suddenly cried out, “The Ceremonial Eye approaches!”

With that, the doors slid open from the center, and Yuki stepped forward, basking in the glow of a hundred torches. Fortunately, she was the first guest to arrive, so after performing a formal bow and taking a seat on the right side of the room, away from the central tables, her job was nearly complete.

She marveled at the sheer size of the hall, for it was, by far, the largest room she had ever been in. The temple complex where she had lived when she was a child also had a great hall, but this one was nearly double its size. In terms of detail, there was nothing she could compare it to except the stories of the Emperor’s palaces. The room had to fit about a thousand tatami mats and was so tall that she could scarcely see the ceiling. The walls were painted with beautiful murals of ancient stories and glittered with the occasional accent of gold and gemstones. Torches were hung along the stately cedar columns that were spaced intermittently around the room. Even the minutiae of the torches were not overlooked. They were individually carved into various things: some were carved into sword hilts, others looked like the stems of flowers, and some were made like royal scepters. The tatami under her had a rich aroma, which meant that they were likely brand new and brought in just for this evening. Even the cushion she had for a seat was filled with goose feathers and the cover was made of silk.

As Ceremonial Eye, she would sit apart, away from the great lacquered table in the center of the room. She had her own private table, and she was instructed by her sisters that she was not to eat from it unless she was feeling unwell, for the food could smudge or ruin her makeup. The center table was massive and looked to be immensely heavy. It was low to the ground which would allow the guests to recline, and the edges were carved with ornate detail. It was also extremely long, beginning near the room’s singular entrance and stopping just before the dais on the far wall. It was already adorned with dark lacquered bowls, boxes, cups, trays, and various utensils. It was surrounded by about two dozen legless chairs, called zaisu, with cushions on them, much like her own. Beside each chair were small wooden racks made to display a weapon. Daimyo were required to carry their swords on them at all times, as proof of their high rank and status. Yuki was sure the Lady had made an exception to her rule of complete disarming for such powerful nobility.

As for the preparations, some of the food had already been set out, and several aged casks of sake rested on wooden holders on the far end of the room, opposite of her. She could not imagine this small gathering of people drinking all that sake, but then again, these were daimyō, and their appetites were just as famous as their names.

One by one, the guests began to arrive.

“The Lord Tora Soren and his son!”

Two men strode briskly into the room and sat down at the large table across from Yuki. She could see that the daimyō, the elder Tora, had a gruesome scar across the right side of his face so that his eye was white with blindness. He looked to be a rough and hard man and well-seasoned in battle. His son, however, despite having some of his father’s looks, was fair and handsome. She was especially drawn to his eyes which seemed to flash with confidence. He vaguely reminded her of Souta in a way. Both father and son wore long, expensive robes in their house colors, orange, with the black emblem of a mauling tiger stitched upon it.

Next were the great rivals of the Tora, the infamous dragons of the Ryū clan. Lord Ryū Mitsuhide wore black robes that billowed out as he strode into the room. The symbol for the word ‘dragon’ was painted crimson upon their backs. The Ryū daimyō was tall and lean and had long, wavy hair that bounced abruptly as he moved. Yet Yuki noticed that there was a limp in his stride as if he had an injury that never completely healed. The Ryū sat down on Yuki’s side but on the furthest end away from their ancient rivals. He came with a senior retainer, who was a famous general in his own right.

The history of the War of the Tigers and the Dragons originated from the very beginning of the War of Ashes almost one hundred years prior. Indeed, some historians that she had read surmised that these two houses were the catalysts to the greater war that engulfed the Islands. When the Tigers and the Dragons picked up arms against each other, the former Yoshimitsu Shōgun was powerless to intervene. This gave confidence to the other daimyō who were looking to expand their territory and soon the Islands fell into chaos.

This blood feud spanned multiple generations and lasted the entirety of the War of Ashes, and only ceased because Mashige Hideyo finally claimed the Shōgunate and threatened to obliterate both clans if they continued. A truce was arranged, but the enmity had not faded. Yuki could tell by the way they glared at each other. There was still a deep mistrust in their eyes.

Buta Futoro was next, called the ‘Lord of Tusks’ but more infamously known as the ‘Lord of Pigs,’ and he seemed to aptly embody this moniker. He was tremendously tall and built like an oak tree. He had a great round head and a wide grinning face. Yuki hesitated to call him a true pig, however, because, unlike someone like Ueda, this man looked to be able to use his weight to his advantage. Indeed, he was easily the largest of the daimyō, and his confidence was nearly palpable. He sauntered into the room already bordering on drunkenness. He was loud, rude, and unruly, but he was one of the most feared warriors on the Islands. He wielded a massive sword, which was called a nodachi, for it was almost twice as long and thick as a normal katana. He let himself almost fall onto his cushion, laughing with his two retainers who were just as drunk as him. All wore brown patterned kimonos with the white emblem of the twin boar tusks upon them.

Several minutes passed before the next daimyō entered. He was a stocky man of average height, had a shaved head like a monk, and was the only one so far who did not wear robes but instead wore a set of shining battle armor. He was quiet and solemn, soldierly in all aspects. He had the image of a curled salamander emblazoned on the front of his breastplate, and he held a fearsome helm in his left arm. He bowed formally and knelt on his knees. He was accompanied by one retainer, who was also wearing armor. This was the Ōgi daimyō, and his clan was known for their military prowess and skill in siege engine crafting.

After this, the rest of the daimyō entered one after the other. There was Lord Usagi, The Rabbit, who was a small, withered figure, but was accompanied by his twin, white-haired sons, who appeared lithe and deadly. The rumor was that the Rabbit was the most prolific of the daimyō, siring dozens of children throughout his lifetime. However, many of them perished during the war. Their color was a light red with the white emblem of the leaping rabbit.

Then followed Lord Tsuru, the Crane, a man tall and willowy but immaculate from head to foot. His face was sharp and lined with a thin mustache. He wore the most expensive-looking robes and glittered with gold, silver, and other shimmering gemstones on his fingers and about his neck. He had a graceful air about him and seemed to reek of nobility and formality. He was accompanied by two servants who trailed him, fixing his train, and making sure his robes and hair were positioned perfectly. He wore the sigil of the white crane on dark blue.

Then came Lord Kagi, the Koi. If Yukiana was still living in Kokoro, this would have been her liege lord, but now she did not know how to consider him. He was an older man, his black hair was streaked grey from the years, but there was also a wellspring of strength in him. His gait was sure and steady and he carried himself like the captain of a ship. He appeared sturdy and dangerous, despite his age, and his face was callous and bitter. As he moved into the room, he drew scornful attention from the other daimyō. He came by himself but wore the familiar white koi on his sea blue garments.

At last came Lord Henji Tetsuya, the ‘The Fair.’ His emblem was a black, crescent fan on a purple field. When he strode into the room few seemed to heed him, but Yuki did, for he appeared much younger than the other daimyō and was remarkably handsome. He was tall, slender, and had poker-straight black hair and soft, gentle features. He appeared to deftly float along, for he did not walk with the heavy, thundering footsteps of the other lords. His beautiful purple cloak clung gracefully to him, and he wore a subtle smile perfectly set upon a pristine face. A few of the guests whispered scornful words such as, “upstart” and “lesser lord,” and though he might have overheard them, Henji did not lose his composure. Instead, his confidence seemed to grow. This made him even more wonderful in Yuki’s estimation, for he appeared noble and restrained. He bowed elegantly and then took his place at the table, across from Yukiana. He was accompanied by only one servant.

A few seats were left open, and Yuki counted eight daimyō instead of the ten she had expected. However, she could tell that someone of foremost importance was coming next, as the lights were dimmed by servants along the outer walls. A hush spread throughout the room which was followed by unbroken silence.

“The Shōgun, Mashige Hideyo, High Commander of the Emperor’s Armies and Defender of the Eastern Islands approaches! All rise!” a deep-throated servant cried.

In a flash all the men in the room had shot up to stand to show respect, leaving Yuki feeling as though she had missed something. She rose as the door opened, and the Shōgun, the supreme ruler of all the Islands, entered the hall.

He wore the impressive black robes of his station. They were thick and had a long train. Although they were sable black on the outside, the underside was lined with golden thread. This was not surprising, for yellow was the color of the Mashige clan and gold was fitting for a Shōgun. On his belt, he wore the title, ‘High Commander of the Emperor’s Armies and Defender of the Eastern Islands’ painted an ancient script. On his head, he wore the black cap of the imperial court, in the fashion that had often been used in the days of the Emperors. The rank of Shōgun was an imperial title, after all, one of the few that had endured beyond the time of the Emperors. It lifted and fell like a long dragon’s tail, and trailed down behind him, as did his massive train, which was so long several attendants had to assist as he walked down the center of the room. He walked slowly, but deliberately towards the raised dais at the head of the table, where a private table, much like Yuki’s, was prepared for him. He held a thick tome in his right hand and the lacquered sheath of his sword in his left. The hilt glinted of pure gold.

Yuki breathed slowly, taking it all in. Very few people were allowed to even see the Shōgun in person, and now she was numbered among them. Mashige gracefully ascended to the dais, turned, and then gazed out at his vassals with a sardonic grin. He was not a particularly large man, nor did he have the vigor of youth or the white hair of wisdom, but he still appeared immensely kinglike in his demeanor and had a dangerous look in his eyes. He did not move thoughtlessly but with intense control and inner focus. He had a hard face, and small, tight eyes, and his jaw was set in a position of general dissatisfaction. He did not seem like someone easily won over with words, but favored action, for great heroic deeds and honor were the legacies of his rise to power. He was unequaled in rank or status, for the only position higher would be the title of Emperor, and nobody within one thousand years had sat upon the Sakura Throne.

Suddenly, behind him, a room that Yukiana had thought to be just a wall, was illuminated by several torches simultaneously. All the men, except the Shōgun himself, directed their attention there. The room was covered by an opaque screen, which was why Yuki had not noticed it before. In the newly illuminated room was a pedestal, and upon that pedestal was the silhouette of a small frame, heavily garbed in a kimono so magnificent, that it seemed to fill up the entire bottom of the room. Awed by the display, Yuki longed to see the inner details of that chamber, but the screen prevented her from seeing anything but a silhouette.

“Who could that be?” she thought, but then she suddenly knew. “The Lady!” A sudden feeling of unease began to creep over her. “How long had she been there, watching her?”

The attention quickly returned to the Shōgun, who opened his mouth to speak.

“I thank you, all of you, for heeding my summons and gathering here at such short notice,” his voice was clear, powerful, and seemed to fill the entire great hall. “The last time we all met like this was under vastly different circumstances. If I recall, it was at the end of the War of Ashes, of which I was the sole victor. It was my goodwill and mercy that spared your lives and permitted you to return to your ancestral homelands as my loyal vassals. Much has changed since we last gathered together, but my rule and authority have not. Acknowledge me as Shōgun, the rank and title established by the Emperor himself in days long ago.”

The daimyō and their retainers bowed and said, “All praise to the Emperor, and all glory to his Shōgun!”

The Shōgun nodded, and the congregation stood tall once again. “I did not summon you here on a whim. There are grave matters to attend to that are worthy of such an esteemed council. I understand very well the pains and hardships of travel. While some of you were already here, others have come from far off, but to each, I am grateful for your physical presence.

As you can see, one of us is absent from the gathering. We will discuss that soon enough. It is unfortunate, for I wish to begin the evening with very auspicious tidings.”

Yuki could see the daimyō look at one another with concern. Apparently, the Shōgun’s version of ‘auspicious tidings’ did not always bode well for them.

“You may have been wondering why we are meeting here of all places. One of the reasons is that my consort, the Lady of Ishihara, is with child. My child.” There was an unintentional stirring from the men, who were clearly not expecting this bit of news. The Shōgun continued. “I am sure all of you have whispered amongst your councilors concerning the future of my house. Now you can rest assured that it will continue, as will your positions as my loyal subordinates.” After a few moments of awkward silence, the daimyō collectively started clapping, though it lacked real enthusiasm. “Since the child will become my heir, I will elevate the Lady to be my prime consort, and she will be given an estate within the castle walls and quarters in my very palace.”

Yuki did not know much about the history of Mashige Hideyo, but she did know that he, up until this point, did not have an heir, which worried a great many people. They cynically but perhaps rightly thought yet another war would break out if there was not a successor in place when he died. The Shōgun had taken many consorts after the early death of his wife, but they were never able to produce him an heir, male or female. Taking a woman of murky lineage would undoubtedly be considered reprehensible to the other daimyō, so Lady Ishihara, despite her power and wealth, would not be a popular choice. Yet the daimyō were not in a position to object, and time was running short.

The daimyō continued to mutter their congratulations and lamented not bringing presents suited for such an occasion. Yuki could nearly smell the reek of flattery and pretense. The Lady did not come forth but bowed low as they heaped their praise upon her.

“As a celebratory offering and a token of goodwill, the Lady has decided to host this meal and offer the services of her house for free this evening. Please enjoy yourselves. Now, shall we begin with a toast to my successor?”

The Shōgun lifted his hand towards the far doors, and they opened revealing a shriveled man in rags. He was small, bald, and was savagely beaten and bruised. But in his hands, he held a lacquered sake flagon overlaid with gold leaf inscriptions. With a single motion, the Shōgun bade him forward, and the man scuttled into the room, pouring sake into each cup of the daimyō and their guests. His movements were erratic, and he seemed to jerk as he changed direction. He nearly spilled on a few of the daimyō, who greeted him with incredulous glares. Indeed, their faces soured when they laid eyes on him. Lord Kagi appeared especially incensed.

“Who is this pitiful man?” Yuki wondered, as he came over to her and filled her cup. He was trying his utmost to stay controlled, but the tremor within his arms would not cease. She could see fear in his red, bloodshot eyes.

At last, he finished and approached the Shōgun to fill his cup. But before he could ascend the dais, Mashige lifted his hand and spoke.

“Do you all know this man?” he asked his vassals still standing around the table.

The daimyō were frozen. None wanted to guess wrong.

“This is Sagi Hiroto, the administrator I sent to the Kagi realm as a steward, to provide leadership there while Lord Kagi is here with me. By now, I am sure you have all heard the unfortunate news coming out of Kagiminato, one of my most precious harbors and cities.”

There was a low rumbling amongst the daimyō. Lord Kagi’s face reddened with rage, and he uttered curses under his breath.

“He failed me,” the Shōgun continued staring down at the man. “Indeed, he has failed us all. However, due to the joyous news that I have just reported, I have decided to show him mercy. I will give him a second chance.” The Shōgun surveyed the daimyō once again. “I have given him the position of cupbearer. Yet, as always, I expect thoroughness from all my subordinates great and small. Now, cupbearer, fill my cup.”

Sagi hesitated at first, then with a convulsive twitch, he moved forward. He bowed as he drew near and then held his breath as he poured the sake into the Shōgun’s cup. The cupbearer’s hands were steady though they seemed like they wanted to violently spasm. The intensity in Sagi’s eyes revealed that he was doing his utmost to control them. He poured and then, at last, he stopped, letting the last drop of the flagon tumble down into the tall porcelain cup in the Shōgun’s outstretched hand. He took a step back and bowed once again, gripping the flagon tightly.

The Shōgun took the cup and lifted it to his eyes, studying it intently. His face revealed no signs of approval or disapproval.

“Cupbearer...” the Shōgun finally spoke, lowering the cup. “I asked you to fill my cup. Why then is it only half filled?” his voice was low, but it was riddled with tension.

“I did not know you wanted it completely filled, my lord,” Sagi uttered, his face turning pale. “Usually, a cup is not filled to the top, for then it might spill over.”

“Did I not say, ‘Fill my cup?’” the Shōgun repeated.

“You did my lord, but I thought…”

“What do you think I meant by, ‘Fill my cup’? Was it the same as when I said, ‘Protect Kagiminato? Enrich Kagiminato! Control Kagiminato!’ You did not heed me then either!”

The man knew he was not going to win this battle, so he switched tactics. “My apologies!” he cried, holding out the flagon and shaking it. “The flagon was empty, my lord! There was not enough!”

“I see. So, you failed me a second time because of a lack of thoroughness, no? You knew what I would ask of you, but you did not have enough. You could have asked to refill the flagon. You could have done a number of things. But you failed me again.”

“I...I... I…” the man stammered, quaking violently where he stood.

“Answer me!” the Shōgun roared; his wrath now clearly visible upon his hard face. “Have you failed me again?”

“Yes, my lord!” the man cried, falling to the floor, and bowing on his hands and knees. “Have mercy!”

“Mercy?” the Shōgun said quietly, in a ponderous tone. “You allowed one of my capital cities to burn to ashes, and now you cannot even properly fill a cup. I told you in both cases specifically what you were to do, yet you were still unable to do it. Was it my fault to regard you so highly? To promote you to nearly the status of these fine men here?”

“No, my lord!” Sagi moaned, now beginning to weep. “It was not your fault! I failed! I failed!”

The Shōgun nodded. “You did indeed! Guards!”

With that, two armored soldiers appeared in the room and strode towards the cupbearer. In an instant, they had him back below the dais, on his knees. The daimyō in the room seemed to stir, having an idea of what was coming.

“You once prided yourself on being a leader, a hard man of discipline, and a strict ruler. Yet you let one man destroy your estate and lead a revolt that burned half of a capital city to the ground! Mercy? There is no mercy for such ineptitude! But I will spare you the fate you truly deserve and allow you to at least be thorough in your own death.”

One of the guards bent down and placed a small, rectangular box before Sagi. The other tore his ragged shirt off, leaving his tiny frame exposed. They then stepped away, leaving the poor man alone before the dais.

Sagi stared at the box for several moments, quivering in between sobs. He reached out for the lid, his arm trembling, and managed to pull off the cover. In the box was laid a ceremonial knife, one explicitly used for seppuku, or death by self-disembowelment. His arm jerked back, and he let out a shriek.

“Who will act as his second?” the Shōgun asked the crowd, ignoring the pitiful cries of the cupbearer.

“I shall,” the Kagi daimyō offered, stepping forward. “He has made a mockery of my clan and has cost me more than I can bear to calculate.”

“Very well,” the Shōgun approved with a nod, as Lord Kagi moved behind the cupbearer, unsheathing his longsword, and holding it aloft.

It was the role of the ‘second’ to decapitate the man who had just carried out the act of cutting through his own abdomen. The act of disembowelment was excruciating, and not immediately fatal. The swift decapitation by the ‘second’ was a gesture of mercy and was usually performed by a close friend or relative. Despite the gruesome nature of the job, there was a significant degree of skill involved in being a proper second. One did not want his second to be too weak or too inaccurate to end the affair with more than one strike. It could end up being a bloody affair if not done once.

Yuki had read about seppuku before, but it was often depicted as being righteous and honorable. She was not inclined to agree. It was far more troubling, displayed right in front of her eyes than in the lines of text. She did not know if she would be able to stomach it and tried desperately to breathe.

Slowly, Sagi picked up the knife and held it in his hands. He clearly did not want to go through with it.

“Come now!” the Shōgun barked. “We do not have all night! End it with honor!” Other daimyō lifted their voices, urging him on. It was seen as a supreme act of cowardice to back out, despite it being forced on him.

“I...I... can’t!” the man mouthed, tears streaming down his face.

“One!” the Shōgun called, unwilling to wait any longer.

The cupbearer closed his eyes and pointed the tip of the blade towards his stomach.

“Two!”

Sagi’s arms were shaking, spasming, he could barely control the knife. He gripped it hard, his muscles tensing. He thrust it towards his stomach, but he pulled it back at the last moment.

“Three!”

With a sudden swoosh, the longsword of the Kagi daimyō fell, removing Sagi’s head from his neck with one seamless cut. Both body and head appeared to fall at the same time, with a meaty thud on the tatami. Blood sprayed out from the wound, nearly splashing the Shōgun upon the dais. A moment of cold silence followed while Lord Kagi cleaned and sheathed his sword.

The Shōgun stepped forward once again and lifted his sake cup. His deep black eyes hovered over the group of transfixed daimyō and their attendants.

“Let this be a lesson in how I expect my orders to be carried out. I expect thoroughness in all things. Failure is never tolerated, not now, not ever. No doubt I shall diligently strive to teach my heir this very thing. Now, at last, let us toast to this long-awaited blessing!” he cried, lifting his cup to the sky. “Kampai!” he shouted.

“Kampai!” rang throughout the room, as the guests, following protocol, clanked cups, and drank down the sake in one gulp.

Yuki also drank down her cup, for after what she had just witnessed, she figured she could use it. She felt sick, and lightheaded, and fought against her instinct to turn aside. She did not want to fail in her job knowing the severe penalties meted out for such things, so she struggled to maintain the veneer of composure.

At last, as the toast was completed, everyone could finally sit down. The food was brought out as the body and head were removed from the hall. Fresh blood still lingered on the tatami mats for the rest of the night, and that particular detail did not go unnoticed by any of the guests gathered there.