The Samurai's Quest

Lyssa is published in A Beacon Amidst Shadows (Three Raven’s Press, 2024), and We See You, We Hear You, (2023). Her fiction has won several writing contests, including The Maggie Award for Excellence, 2024. She’s co-founder of Virgin Authors, and lives in Honolulu with her husband and clever four-legged loves.

Find out more: https://www.lyssareese.com/

* * *

Moriyami backed out of the emperor's presence. Beside him, Hiroki, his most trusted companion, bowed equally low. They’d both taken care to sweep their sheathed swords back, and they shuffled their feet lightly over the polished parquet floor. The smoke of burning incense swirled around their heads and clung to their leather armor.

Emperor Karasu had charged Moriyami with a noble task, entrusting him with a sacred box that he must never open, now tucked inside his jacket. Moriyami in turn chose Hiroki—five years younger, yet his most capable soldier-brother—to accompany him on this mission to the very peak of Mt. Furikani, to deliver the box to the Monastery in the Sky.

Once the warriors cleared the audience chamber, Moriyami straightened and risked a glance at his faithful friend. Hiroki stood half a head taller than his mentor, and his hair, oiled and pulled into a tight topknot, mirrored Moriyami’s own. Hiroki acknowledged Moriyami’s gaze and gave a knowing nod. Neither spoke until they were outside the palace, for the gilded walls had ears.

They mounted their snorting warhorses, and Moriyami led the way to a place where no spy might overhear them. Beside him, Hiroki sat his horse with easy grace; his profile revealed a nose—broken more than once—which lent his otherwise too-handsome face a measure of integrity.

Moriyami’s heart weighed upon him, for he had sworn to his emperor to hide aspects of this quest from Hiroki, although Hiroki’s vigilance would increase their odds of both success and survival. Few knew of the true errand they had embarked upon. Emperor Karasu scattered rumors that they had traveled to a neighboring kingdom and would be gone for many weeks. He had warned the warriors to trust no one, and under no circumstances, were they to open the box. Moriyami dismounted and sighed, knowing his vow was worth more than his life.

When they reached a secluded hilltop, Hiroki took the reins and tied the horses to the tree. “Moriyami, you honor me with this mission.”

“Do not thank me yet, my friend. We have many ri to travel, and winter draws near. It is I who must thank you for lending me your fearsome sword and your loyal heart.” Moriyami considered his next words and spoke to encourage them both. “The precious box will only be safe once we reach the monastery. With you by my side, our success is assured.”

“It is my privilege.” Hiroki bowed. “A covert route to the top of Mt. Furikani may take us twenty days and nights. While you prepare yourself, I shall gather provisions.”

“Ah, already you offer more than your sword and heart.” Moriyami’s deep-set eyes twinkled. He grinned and slapped Hiroki on the back. “I am grateful. Let us meet by the first milestone at dawn.”

A pack-horse was impractical for stealth, so Hiroki outfitted their warhorses with saddlebags, splitting the provisions between them. The men slung their few personal items in bundles over their shoulders, and they set out into the foothills. For three days, the going was easy, the weather held, and when they stopped for the night, the men cooked their supper and brewed their tea over a small fire.

On the fourth night, Hiroki took first watch, and Moriyami lay his head on his bedroll. The dark sky glowed with soft starlight. Avoiding well-traveled roads meant bypassing convenient mountain passes, winding their way around the blind side, and doubling the distance of the route. They could not count on the comfort of companionship, welcoming way-stations, or cozy inns to warm them.

When the moon reached its pinnacle and sank toward the opposite horizon, Hiroki roused Moriyami and nestled into his own bedroll, asleep before his head hit the ground. He awoke the next morning to find Moriyami building up their fire. Their horses whinnied, and the pre-dawn colors leached a warning across the sky; amber and brick, streaking and darkening like spilled blood, a harbinger of worse weather on the way.

Hiroki rose from his bedroll and took note of the sky. “Good morning, Moriyami. I trust your watch was uneventful.”

“Thank the gods and our beloved Emperor Karasu, yes, Hiroki. I will tend to the horses while you prepare our tea.”

The men moved through their tasks with the quiet efficiency of men accustomed to each other’s company. Before long, they had filled their bellies, stowed their bedrolls, and buried all signs of their fire, save for an acrid trace of smoke lingering in the crisp morning air. Birds quarreled in the treetops, white wagtails and sparrows chasing each other through branches sparsely covered in late-autumn colors. Moriyami and Hiroki mounted their horses and continued on their way.

Every night, Moriyami would sit beside their fire and remove the bundle from the inside pocket of his quilted jacket. He unwound layers of rough burlap and laid them in his lap. Unrolling strips of cotton padding, he removed the fine silk of the innermost layer. Finally, Moriyami allowed himself a single glimpse of the magnificent box, enough to assure himself the treasure was safe. Then he would rewrap its layers of protection and tuck it securely back inside his clothes.

Hiroki watched Moriyami perform this ritual each night. He glimpsed the briefest sight of precious stone inlays, rare woods, and exquisite details of metalwork shining in the firelight. Then, he cast his eyes aside so that the twin demons of envy and greed would not gain entry to his soul. He knew the value of the little chest surpassed measure, and his loyalty to his sovereign and his friend was unconditional. No treasure could change that.

Moriyami yearned to tell Hiroki the history of this miniature chest. How it had been concealed for centuries in the keeping of Emperor Karasu’s family. How the esteemed warrior-rulers had been betrayed, and their secret made known to their feared enemy, Saburo—a demon in the body of a man. The emperor had tasked Moriyami and Hiroki to carry the box to the top of the world to prevent Saburo from claiming it for himself.

Troubled and lost in contemplation, Moriyami failed to notice the emperor’s foe watching from beyond the light of the fire. Saburo had kept pace with the men; he hovered out of sight, casting spells of fatigue and inattention over the valiant samurai, biding his time, and plotting their doom.

* * *

On the fifth night, Moriyami stopped at dusk. “Let us restock our provisions. I will set traps for rabbit and forage for greens before we lose the light.”

Hiroki hurried to gather wood for the fire. It grew unexpectedly cold in the low mountains, and he worried he had worn the wrong boots. While Hiroki boiled the greens and the sweet scent of roasting meat filled the air, Moriyami scraped his rabbit skins and set them by the fire to dry. The men enjoyed their food, watching a light frosting of snow filter through the trees and dust the scattered leaves.

Moriyami wiped his mouth. “Thank you for cooking our meal, Hiroki, I will keep watch this night. You may rest.”

All through the night, the mighty soldier employed his needle against the dried rabbit skins as skillfully as he wielded his sword in battle, and he let Hiroki sleep.

In the morning, Moriyami said, “I could not bear to waste these skins, yet I have no use of them. I hope you will honor me by accepting this gift.”

Moriyami presented Hiroki with a pair of fur-lined socks. Hiroki accepted the offering and bowed. He held the gift against his chest a moment before he sat, removed his boots, and pulled the socks over his stiff feet.

The men continued their long, cold, covert trail. On the tenth night of their journey, they slid from their horses and struggled to make camp beneath a small overhang in the steep cliffside. It was the best shelter this bleak, rugged terrain provided. A stiff breeze rushed across the wastelands, blowing stinging snow against their exposed faces, chapping their lips and deadening their sense of smell. They spoke only as necessary, and Moriyami rushed through his inspection of the box, sparing no time for his usual reverence.

As the great warrior slid the box back into his pocket, Hiroki said, “Are you never tempted to open it, Moriyami? To check that the contents, too, are safe?”

“No, Hiroki. It will not be safe until we reach the mountaintop.”

“But there is no one to see. What harm could come of it?”

“Temptations fade when unacknowledged. Let anticipation warm you tonight as you sleep. We are half-way there.”

That night, the men slept fitfully. The bitter cold seeped inside their bedrolls, the wind pelted them with grit, and beyond their sight and sound, the thief who pursued them wrapped himself in a cloak of darkness and gloated over his evil intentions.

On the fifteenth day, Saburo’s dark magic caused their horses to stumble on the trail, and the men were forced to set them free. Hiroki stroked their noses. He would miss the heat rising from their sturdy bodies as they rode, the comforting smell of horseflesh and leather saddles.

“I hope they find their way home,” he said. “From here, we truly are on our own.”

He packed their food and took only the supplies they could carry. The following days were perilous. The warriors had never fought so forceful a foe as the wind, which sought to scrape them from their perch; the cold, which crept into their dreams; and the mountain herself, whose sheer drops and cliffs sought to send them careening back down to her foothills.

Two days from the summit, they hiked many hours over broken terrain. A wall rose up on their left, blocking the sunlight and its feeble warmth. The ground beneath their feet was littered with scree, the stones streaked red with iron ore, and their steps stirred up the sharp scent of sulfur.

In the late afternoon, the hillside on their right grew steeper. Soon, only a pale, thin ribbon of blue relieved the monotonous grays and browns. The wind whistled eerily through cracks in the walls, and small rock-falls echoed, magnified, confusing their senses. The men ducked their heads to keep the grit from their eyes and forged onward, stoic and determined.

As dusk drew close, Hiroki halted his march and Moriyami nearly trampled over him. Moriyami raised his eyes to see what had stopped Hiroki’s forward progress. Twenty meters in front of them, the vertical barriers on either side came together in a towering three-sided enclosure. They had walked all day only to trap themselves in a box canyon, where the only way forward was to turn back.

Hiroki sank to the ground. “Let us stop for a moment, Moriyami.”

“Of course, my friend. Rest. Surely, in the morning, the walls of the monastery will be in sight. I will scavenge wood to make a fire, and we will fortify ourselves with a cup of tea.”

Moriyami set his pack on the ground and stretched his limbs. He patted the pocket that held the precious box, shifted his sword belt more comfortably on his hips, and set off to search for fuel. They had had no fire for two nights, and he was determined to provide his loyal companion with something to warm both belly and spirit. Hiroki carried the bulk of their provisions, and Moriyami suspected he took less than his share of the rations. He berated himself for pushing Hiroki too far, too fast. Yet despite the setback, his spirits rose at the promise of reaching the summit and fulfilling their quest.

The surrounding hills were barren, and Moriyami split off up the mountainside in search of brush. He entered another canyon, where a dry stream-bed offered hope of small shrubs. Soon, dead bushes lined the way ahead. He took off his sword belt, knelt on the ground, and dug a few bushes from the dirt. A clattering of stones drew his gaze upward.Moriyami shielded his eyes from the glare of the sky, as a small rockslide tumbled down the slope.

“Well, well, Moriyami,” said a devilish voice from behind. Moriyami felt a burning ache between his ribs, warmth running down his back. “Who is the mighty warrior, now?” Saburo twisted his poisoned blade as he pulled it free.

Moriyami gasped and sank to his knees. His vision faded fast, and he had no time to regret leaving behind his sword.

Saburo kicked the samurai onto his back, pinning him to the ground as the poison ravaged him. When Moriyami could struggle no longer, Saburo slid a deft hand inside Moriyami’s coat, withdrawing the treasured box.

“No—” Moriyami gasped. “It must be opened at the monastery, where it will be safe.”

“It is secure enough with me.” Saburo sneered. “Finally, it is where it should always have been.”

Moriyami lay on the ground, mortally wounded, and the words of his nemesis were a second blade through his heart. His failure withered the breath in his lungs, and he lay unmoving as Saburo escaped with the emperor’s treasure.

The smell of cold dirt filled Moriyami’s nose. He was too tired to crawl to his sword, too defeated to do more than watch the clouds pass across the sky and regret, among many things, his failure to brew a cup of hot tea for his loyal and worthy ally.

For a few moments, the virtuous warrior was warm again, reliving his proudest moments. And as his tainted blood wept from the hole in his back, his spirit seeped from his limbs, and together they soaked into the unforgiving ground.

* * *

Hiroki had spent the night in terror when Moriyami failed to return. He began to search the next morning at the first glimmer of pre-dawn light. When he finally found Moriyami’s poison-ravaged body, the warrior’s pockets were empty. He who had been honor-bound by the code of the samurai had been stabbed in the back by a soulless enemy, denied the chance to draw his sword and fight, robbed of his honor, his emperor’s treasure, and his life.

Hiroki collapsed and wept for the dishonor of Moriyami’s death. He mourned his failure to protect his friend, and he grieved that their Emperor’s quest had been thwarted. When Hiroki’s eyes could weep no more, he pulled himself to his feet. He spent the better part of the day moving Moriyami’s body to a peaceful resting place, gathering stones to bury him, and crafting a fitting grave marker. Hiroki’s heart was heavy, and he considered cutting it from his chest to top the burial mound.

* * *

Saburo hurried down the mountain, the box tucked inside his shirt. It would be weeks before messengers informed the emperor that Moriyami and Hiroki had failed to deliver his prize. Weeks, during which Saburo would travel far and enjoy the long-lost spoils that were hidden within the ancient box. He would buy the respect his kingdom had denied him, and return with an army to defeat the intolerable Emperor Karasu.

Saburo traveled day and night, spurred by success and vengeance. With no need for his prior stealth nor sabotage, he flew to the bottom of the mountain in half the time it took to follow the warriors’ ascent. Every day, the case grew heavier in his pocket. Every night, he unwrapped it by the light of the fire, as Moriyami had done. He, too, refrained from opening the box. Saburo wished to be locked within the safety of his home in Kinpo Valley before allowing himself to indulge in his hard-won riches. Yet night by night, his delight and anticipation leached away, replaced by a creeping fear. Something he ought to remember lingered at the edge of his awareness, wafting the stink of black rot, which all his dark magic couldn’t dislodge. Saburo tried to convince himself that it was only nerves, grinding on the edge of his exhaustion.

Once he reached his valley town, he lingered outside the walls until nightfall. Inside his house, he bolted the doors and windows, stripped out of his overclothes, and lit the lamps in his study. Slowly, Saburo unwrapped the coats of burlap and cotton padding and threw them in the fire then set the box, within its layers of fine silk, on a low table.

He thought about soaking away the stink and grime of his efforts in a tub of hot water. He considered preparing himself a celebratory meal to satisfy his empty stomach. But he could contain himself no longer. Moriyami’s killer reached for the box. The smell of rot grew stronger, though the silk was unsullied. He pushed it aside to admire the little chest’s fine craftsmanship; the precious stones inlaid in rare wood; the exquisite patterns of gold, filled with enamel in the most magnificent cloisonné he had ever seen. He feasted on the beauty of the box until the ache of obsessive curiosity demanded that he open it.

Saburo lifted the lid. Gemstones glittered like stars on a bed of black velvet. No—his eyes deceived him—the gemstones were stars. Millions of them, galaxies, swirling through a limitless darkness that spilled over his hands and across the table. Pricks of light expanded from the pure blackness now blanketing the floor, blinding him, pouring over thresholds, knocking down his doors and spreading across his land, his town, smothering everything in its path with a deadly brilliance of starlight. Too late, Saburo remembered the warnings uttered by legend.

Too late, Saburo realized the stench was the rotting of his soul.

* * *

High upon the mountain, Hiroki began the long journey back. He carried Moriyami’s sword, as well as his own, but the weight of abandoning his greatest friend to an ignominious end was heaviest of all. Hiroki considered how to report his defeat to his revered Emperor Karasu. Hiroki had failed not only to protect Moriyami, but to deliver the emperor’s precious box, and the punishment for failure was death. Hiroki felt such an end to his unbearable burden of grief would be a mercy.

Early one afternoon, Hiroki sat upon a rock to enjoy the sight of his homeland one final time. Bush clover with tiny pink and purple blossoms dotted the landscape and its faint perfume reached him, carried on the breeze. Sunlight bounced off a tapestry of yellow and green fields, and rivers stretched across the valley’s floor. The snowy peaks were far behind, and a warm sun shone upon him, casting the lowlands in a gentle gleam. To the north, a deep shadow disoriented him. He tried to remember which peak cast such a shadow; but there was no peak. It must be a deep lake to appear black from this distance; but he knew of no such lake. The shadow expanded, orbs of light sparkling within.

Hiroki pressed his hands on the rock beneath him, to catch his balance in an upside-down world. The night sky spread below him, and the sun shone above. Hiroki set out to investigate. It was many days before he reached Kinpo Valley, the town of his enemy, blanketed by perpetual night.

Townsfolk, frightened by this blinding darkness without end, silently pointed him to Saburo’s house. Inside, Hiroki stood on the threshold of his enemy’s study. The murderous thief sat unseeing at a low table, his hands clutching the precious chest, now empty.

Hiroki’s thoughts were in chaos; sorrow overflowed his eyes. His heart gaped open, emptied of joy, while grief spread like fire through his shattered soul. He took no pleasure in Saburo’s undoing.

Hiroki plucked the box from the demon’s icy fingers, rewrapped it in its silk, and left Saburo to whatever Fate held in store.

* * *

When finally Hiroki returned home, he presented the empty box to the emperor and fell to the floor, prostrating himself for his dishonor. He did not fear an afterlife that held Moriyami, and Hiroki vowed from there he would follow his friend into the next life and the next—never again to fail him. Emperor Karasu rose from his throne, and bade the warrior stand. The emperor had known of Saburo’s treachery, his court sorcerers had fended off previous attempts for the treasured box. The emperor had foreseen the threat, and still he forbade Moriyami to tell Hiroki the whole truth of their sacred errand. Thus, he offered grace to the shamed soldier.

“Many eras ago, those galaxies shone in the night sky for all to see,” said the emperor. “The sky sparkled; so bright that the legendary dragon Sota lusted for its brilliance and dreamed of adding the jewels in the sky to his horde of gold and gemstones. He captured many galaxies, imprisoning the stars in an enchanted box where he alone could gaze upon them.

“When the last of the dragons left this land, many factions pursued the treasure. After the fighting was done, my ancestors held the fate of the stars, and we should have returned them. The Monastery in the Sky is the only safe place to release them, to ensure the stars find their way home, for Mt. Furikani brushes against the heavens, and on quiet nights, one can hear the songs of the stars. But I grew as covetous as Sato, as greedy as Saburo,” the emperor said.

“My Emperor, how can I mend this ruinous folly?” Hiroki cried.

“The trouble caused by Saburo’s greed cannot be undone, my son. Only dragons have the magic and mastery to gather stars.”

Hiroki stood tall, a glimmer of vigor in his eyes. “Then I vow to find the dragons. I shall bring them back to our land, to restore these magnificent galaxies; so the sky once again shimmers with its ancient brilliance. I shall uncloak your valley, that it may receive the light of the sun. Only then can I requite the wrongs done to Moriyami. I swear an oath to him and to you. I will not rest in this life or the next, until it is so.”

* * *

In return for Hiroki’s faithful care of Moriyami in death, the emperor provided men and horses, coin and prayers for his success. And so it was that Hiroki set out upon his quest to earn the favor of a dragon.

The captain of Hiroki’s guard was a horse-faced man with overlarge teeth and incorruptible morals, named Nakamura. Emperor Karasu did everything in his power to assure Hiroki’s venture would meet with success. He called for Nakamura’s sacrifice to leave his young family behind, for his oath to watch over Hiroki as he would his own son. The emperor consulted with fortune tellers, and he set his most learned scholars to educate Hiroki on dragon lore.

The day Hiroki set forth came to be known as the Dawn of the Great Dragon Quest, and the emperor threw a spectacular send-off the night before, with drumming and dancing and fireworks displays. The next morning, a column of one-hundred men, led by twenty elite samurai on horseback, marched out of sight. The emperor sent prayers and blessings behind them.

In the days that followed, Nakamura spent much of his time with Hiroki and sought to know the young man’s heart. Nakamura organized his best men to serve as Hiroki’s personal guard, and never left his side. As the first fortnight faded behind them, they came to a vast body of water, and on its shores stood the last city with a familiar name. The company had reached the end of their empire’s lands. They made camp outside the walls and commissioned the building of ships to take them onward.

Hiroki and Nakamura passed many hours playing Shogi. One day, as they sat over the board, Nakamura stroked his short beard. Grown to cover his protruding jaw, the hair only served to emphasize it. He looked across at the tall young man in his care. Hiroki’s oft-broken nose sat above a full-lipped mouth that rarely smiled, tinging his handsome features with sorrow.

“Tell me, Hiroki, why one so young as you would set out on this long and arduous journey. Surely you are of the age to start a family.”

Hiroki took advantage of Nakamura’s lapse in attention and captured one of his pieces. “One could ask the same of you. You left a growing family to join a search with no assurance that we will find what we seek.”

Nakamura quickly regained his edge on the playing board. He put his hands on his knees. “I am sincere in my question, Hiroki. Please tell me what this odyssey means to you.”

The younger man averted his eyes. “Everyone knows the story of my failure and guilt. It is only through the benign grace of our glorious emperor that I was not put to death. This quest is my penance.”

“You do not carry that burden alone.”

Hiroki snapped his eyes to Nakamura’s face.

“It is true, Hiroki. The emperor’s inaction played into Moriyami’s death and the loss of the ancient star box. Why do you think he showers us with every possible advantage?”

The younger man considered Nakamura’s words in silence. “Moriyami was a noble warrior.”

“On this, we agree.”

“I should never have let him go alone. I indulged my weariness before our goal was met.”

“You were bewitched by the sorcerer and ignorant of the danger.”

“There is always danger.” Hiroki shook his head. “Moriyami’s absence from this world is a terrible weight on my heart, but his foul murder haunts my soul.” He looked into Nakamura’s eyes. “Death in this lifetime will not stop me from avenging him.”

Nakamura held the young man’s gaze and gave a sharp nod. He admired Hiroki’s convictions, but the younger man spoke true. They might die in service to this quest. Nakamura might never again hold his wife in his arms nor kiss his lovely girls good-night.

* * *

Nakamura sold the company’s horses, assured by the locals that strong steeds were available across the ocean. Meanwhile, his Lieutenants reprovisioned, hired seasoned sailors, and when, after many weeks, the ships were ready to taste the sea, they organized their platoons to break camp and get aboard.

Five ships set sail, each carrying a well-stocked platoon of twenty men and a crew of five. Their journey across the water began in sunshine and high spirits. Two weeks later, a terrible storm blew in. The winds wailed, the seas seethed, and the sun forsook the sky. For three days and nights, helpless soldiers whose swords were of no use, lashed themselves to the masts and rails. Hiroki refused the safety of his cabin until his soldiers were secured, yet still waves swept across the decks, snatching men and sending them to their deaths.

When the kami of the sea and sky relented, and water and air were restored to cerulean hues, only three ships rode the waves. Hiroki wept to see only two tattered ships where four proud vessels used to sail. Over the next days, he kept watch upon the horizon for hours on end, until sun-blindness conspired with alternating hope and despair, causing him to signal repeated false sightings. Nakamura unfurled Hiroki’s fingers from the rail and led him to his cabin.

A bedraggled, solemn, and much reduced company made landfall the following week. The hired crews convinced Hiroki to wait before setting off overland, saying the winds could have blown the others off-course, and they must not abandon hope. Hiroki paced the shoreline, keeping vigil for four days and nights.

The fifth morning, Hiroki spied a ship on the horizon, but worried his exhaustion had fooled his eyes once more. As the ship came closer, others ran down to meet it, and a tremendous cheer went up, as friends who had feared the other’s loss waved and called across the breakers. That night, the company of men rejoiced.

Hiroki was relieved of the burden of losing these twenty men. But though they waited five days more, the last ship did not appear. Standing upon these distant shores, so far from home, Hiroki addressed the remnants of his company: “We have lost fine men, and our hearts are heavy. Each of you volunteered for this mission. Each of you believes we will find the dragons. And each of you swore an oath not only to your Emperor, but to the spirit of Moriyami, who watches over us, urging us to avenge his death. Let us honor our fallen comrades by carrying on with renewed vigor. Our search through these foreign lands must meet with success!”

The next morning, as Hiroki stepped from his tent, the sunrise greeted him with soft brushstrokes of saffron, lemon, and rose. Sizzling bacon and brewing tea wafted from the cooking tents. When bellies were full and nothing remained but cold ashes and trampled grass, the company began their march.

Every town and village they passed through shared tall tales and dragon lore, and Hiroki consulted with the elders to learn what was of value. Through pleasant times and privations, three years passed. Every night before setting up camp, Nakamura drilled swordsmanship, archery, and jujitsu. He was proud that though they’d passed through hostile territories, they’d lost no men to fighting. Over time, the company gathered a growing number of civilians who came with strengths of their own. They now traveled with a blacksmith, two cooks, and an uma no kusushi trained in the care of horses.

Though three years stretched to five, Hiroki’s grief never faded, and beneath the light of each full moon, he renewed his vow to avenge his dear friend’s death. Summer rolled around again, with its pitiless humidity, and it was a drained and downhearted company that finally stopped beside a stream. They’d skirted a small village—the final sign of civilization marked upon any map—to set up camp on the outskirts. Hiroki and Nakamura wiped the dust from their faces with damp rags, refreshing themselves as best they could, before walking to the village.

“Well, my brother,” Hiroki said. “Tomorrow, we step off the edge of the known world.”

Nakamura grunted, but he had no reply. The entire company was restless, and though he would never voice it, Nakamura had begun to doubt that the dragons still lived in the mortal world.

Two young girls dressed in old, worn, yet neatly pressed and belted kimono approached with baskets of fruit and smoked fish to welcome them.

Nakamura said, “Take these gifts along the path to our camp. Ask for the cooks, who will greet you with gratitude.”

The girls curtseyed to the samurai. “Ojiisan awaits you,” the elder girl said.

Hiroki and Nakamura soon reached the village and were led to the girls’ grandfather.

The old man’s white beard reached to his waist; the wrinkles on his forehead had grown closer with the years, pressing tightly to each other, like siblings whispering secrets of their youth. He struggled to his feet as the warriors entered his home.

“Welcome, honored guests. It has been many years since samurai have ventured out this far. What brings you, and how may we help?”

Several men joined them at a round table. Women offered fragrant tea and bowls of brown rice generously laden with fried tofu. Hiroki allowed Nakamura to tell tales of their five-year journey, while he enjoyed the delicious food, inhaling the unfamiliar spices. As always, Nakamura left out the purpose of their quest.

Hiroki set down his empty bowl. “Ojiisan, we thank you for this gracious welcome. To answer your question,” he paused. “We come seeking dragons.”

In their years of travel, of meeting new people and seeking knowledge, Hiroki had observed many reactions to this declaration. But these men grinned and clapped each other on the shoulder, as if congratulating themselves. The watching villagers murmured, too.

Ojiisan quieted the townsfolk and looked into Hiroki’s eyes. “It is foretold.”

“Foretold?” Nakamura exclaimed.

Ojiisan nodded at Nakamura and continued. “As you surely know, dragons live longer than any man. They nest far from here in the cliffs of Kegara, beside the Kiyomizu Sea, though none have ever seen these cliffs. My grandfather’s grandfather was the last man ever to set eyes on a dragon. They’d long since disappeared from your part of the world, but they lingered longer among us. They left us with a prophecy.”

Hiroki could barely contain his excitement; he had waited years to hear such a tale. Much as he loved and respected his companions, Hiroki thought often of the life he’d left behind—his mother’s soft touch, his sister’s booming laugh, his father’s harsh tone.

“And a warning,” Ojiisan continued. “It is forbidden to seek them.”

“Forbidden?” Hiroki jerked forward, spilling his tea.

Ojiisan held up his hand. “Forbidden for any but the chosen. The prophecy has been passed in my family from father to son. The words came directly from the dragons.”

Ojiisan stood and leaned upon his cane as he padded to the center hearthstone of a large fireplace that dominated the gathering space. He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.

“Dragons now leave the world of men behind. Our clans scatter, each to our corner of the earth. Mankind will forget our ways, until one day, a samurai will come. His mission is to requite grievous human wrongs. Our hope is to join him. Harken, samurai:

“We are the dragons you seek.

“We do not guard rivers and oceans.

“We do not hoard precious gems.

“Our purpose was never to protect your gods.

“The dragons you seek are gods who rule the wind and rain and stars.”

Ojiisan chanted in a deep and resonant voice not his own, belying his frail body. As Hiroki listened, a swelling filled his chest, overflowing his lungs until he seemed lighter than air. He gripped the table, not knowing what these ancient wind gods might intend. He held on and pulled his attention back to Ojiisan’s recitation.

“We are spiritual beings and must atone for our ancestral cousin, the dark dragon Sota, who stole stars from the sky for playthings and failed to return them. His carelessness will wreak havoc in the world of men. Together, one dragon and one samurai will travel to the lands our ancestors renounced eons past. We welcome the true samurai. For him, we will gather the stars. Together, we will restore the grandeur of the sky.”

When Ojiisan finished, his body slumped. Had the wind gods supported the old man as he passed along his ancient message? The room had filled during his performance, and several people went to their elder’s aid. In the commotion, Hiroki and Nakamura took their leave.

The men walked back to camp in silence. This was more than Hiroki had hoped for. The prophecy did not tell where the cliffs of Kegara were located, but it could not be difficult to find this Kiyomizu sea. Then they had only to follow the shore to the dragons.

When they reached camp, the sun was falling over the edge of the world from a sky filled with fantastical cloud formations. Hiroki ate his supper alone from a stool beside his tent, watching the gods of the wind choreograph the sunset.

“You may soon know rest, Moriyami, my friend.” Hiroki whispered, so only the wind heard him.

* * *

In the dark of early morning, Nakamura slipped into Hiroki’s tent. “Hiroki. Wake up.”

Compelled by his training, Hiroki woke instantly, reaching for his sword. “What’s happened?”

Nakamura stayed his hand. “Nothing. I am anxious to discuss our tremendous fortune.” He handed Hiroki a shirt. “Tea?”

Hiroki nodded, but Nakamura was at the tent flap, issuing orders to one of the guards. Hiroki dressed and joined Nakamura to drink tea on a ridge overlooking the stream.

Hiroki ran through everything Ojiisan had told them, stopping to ensure Nakamura remembered details the same way. “This can be no coincidence. We are the samurai of whom the prophecy speaks.”

“You; Hiroki.”

Hiroki looked long into his friend’s gaze, and finding the confirmation he sought, nodded. “Yes. And I am eager to find these cliffs. Have the men break their fast, break camp, and muster.”

The company made quick work of their chores and soon assembled. Nakamura repeated Ojiisan’s words. “And now, Hiroki, the prophesied samurai himself, will address you.”

Hiroki waited for the cheers to subside. “Men. You are soldiers and seekers. Most of you began with me in the empire of our esteemed Emperor Karasu, five long years and many adventures ago.” He smiled, reveling in the familiar faces that had become like family. “Some have joined us along the way for reasons of your own. Hence, we must bring ample supplies, for there may be little game or forage or trade. We know not what we may encounter. Today, we leave the known world for lands ruled by dragons.”

A buzz of hushed conversation filled the air around him, and Hiroki turned away to gaze into his future. And yet, those thoughts pulled Hiroki into his past. To the excitement and ambition of his original quest. To the day he and Moriyami set off. A stab of pain ran through his heart, so fierce, Hiroki gasped.

* * *

The shadows of early morning retreated into themselves, as if hoarding energy to survive the heat of noon. Hiroki faced toward the river, his mind shrouded with images of Mt. Furikani, of the stones he’d gathered to mark Moriyami’s grave.

“Hiroki.” Nakamura said behind him.

Hiroki looked up, unseeing.

“The men ask for a moment with you before continuing on.”

Hiroki dusted the cobwebs from his mind and focused on the face of the man before him. It was time to put his grief aside and attend to the living. He nodded. “Yes.”

As Hiroki walked among the troops, they surrounded him, reaching out to touch him, murmuring his name in hushed tones. They leaned in to catch his every word, unconsciously mirroring his posture, seeking a moment of recognition in a passing glance.

Then, Nakamura marshaled the men, and Hiroki led them into the deep unknown. After three days, grassland gave way to arid countryside, and streams vanished undergrown at the bottom of ravines.

Their high spirits faded. By the sixth day, they were on half-rations of water. On the seventh day, they awoke to a red sky. Wind delivered the distinctive earthy scent of rain, and laden clouds brought a welcome deluge. Nakamura reined in his horse and stopped the march. Men struggled against blustery gusts to pitch camp. Open containers were spread to catch the rainfall, though crosswinds blew it sideways.

The wind roared like a caged tiger. Nakamura turned up the collar of his coat and made the rounds of his lieutenants. He captured a flailing rope and helped one of the cooks secure their provisions in the kitchen tent. He had a word with the uma no kusushi, busy calming the packhorses. And before taking shelter in Hiroki’s tent, Nakamura made a final circuit of the camp to assure himself it was as well anchored as possible against this onslaught.

Nakamura stamped his feet and shook the rain from his hair and beard. He scowled at Hiroki. “What are you smiling about? This storm is a nasty Mononoke.”

Hiroki’s grin widened. “On the contrary, my brother. This is not the work of vengeful spirits. It is the dragon gods testing us. We must be close.”

The storm raged all that night and through the next day. On the second morning, sensing no letup, Hiroki ordered the company onward. “We must show these gods we have no fear of this realm, nor of their magic.”

The bedraggled company packed their rain-soaked gear and stumbled onward, faces turned downward, gazes glued to the tops of their boots as firmly as the thick, red mud stuck to the bottoms. In a momentary lull, Hiroki looked up, hoping to sight the cliffs. Rainwater ran inside his collar, cruelly stealing the last of his warmth.

They trudged onward, their spirits near collapse. The dark sky gave no hint as to the hour, but as the uniform grey grew incrementally darker, Hiroki called a halt. There was no hope of a fire for a hot cup of tea. Everyone huddled into themselves, chewing a bit of smoked fish, then slumping down into what dreams might come.

Hiroki woke in the sudden silence and stepped outside. Any doubts that the storm was the work of dragon gods evaporated into the sparkling sky—the wind and rain having ceased without tapering off. A tinkling of far-off music hovered in the air, enchanting him until a light breeze carried it away.

An hour later, the sun floated above the endless Kiyomizu Sea. Hiroki was certain he saw the cliffs of Kegara in the distance, black and imposing. Overnight breezes had dried their belongings, and rain had filled their pots. The company set off, bolstered by the break in the weather. Though they walked for days, the cliffs kept their distance.

In sunlight hours, a cooling breeze accompanied them, and at night, distant music sang them to sleep. In this way, another fortnight passed, until the cliffs grew clearer. Hiroki drank his morning tea, gazing at the brightening horizon. A disturbance ruffled the gentle water—a dragon swimming parallel to the shore. Hiroki dared not call out to Nakamura, for fear the creature would vanish.

The next morning, he invited Nakamura to watch the sunrise, saying nothing, doubting the memory of his eyes.

When the dragon again appeared, Nakamura gasped. “What—"

“Hush,” Hiroki whispered.

The men gazed in amazement as a second and a third dragon surfaced out beyond the waves, never revealing more than a glimpse. Dragon eyes peeked up to watch the company as carefully as they, themselves, were studied.

That afternoon, the base of the cliffs was in reach.

“Set up camp,” Hiroki said. “I go alone from here.”

“Hiroki,” Nakamura protested, “allow me to guard you—”

“We have seen the dragon gods’ mighty power. If I am not the one they seek, perhaps they may restrict their reprisals to me.” Hiroki turned and left without another word.

He left his men and his horses, his sword and his shield. Alone and unarmed, Hiroki walked to the base of Kegara’s cliffs.

The samurai studied the cliff face for signs of a dragon’s lair, but the southern wall was an unbroken sheet of black stone, rising into clouds that obscured the summit. Beside him, waves rolled in, licking at the cliffs, and when they rolled out, they exposed a two-meter strip of sand. As the next big wave receded, Hiroki hurried around the corner. Huge caverns were carved into the stone at varying heights across the sea-facing surface. Hiroki gazed in awe then looked back for the next wave and ran into the largest of the caves.

After three paces, the sand floor was dry. Another three steps, and sand gave way to stone. Hiroki stopped, temporarily blinded by the surrounding darkness. Behind him, the sun shone on clear blue water that deepened to indigo, but inside, the cliffs absorbed the light. He waited for his eyes to adjust and noticed a faint iridescence in the stone reflecting the indirect sunlight.

A massive section of darkness disengaged from the wall behind Hiroki and slithered in a circle, forming a wide band around him, as tall as a mighty warhorse rearing up. The dragon lifted its head into the upper recesses of the cave, and it seemed to reach as high as the Great Budda of Kamakara. The dragon’s hair and beard dripped pond-sized puddles of seawater onto the floor. The scales of its belly were green, while the rest, even the razor-edged crest running the length of its back, shone like gold. It stood upon two three-clawed feet, and the other two hovered in deadly readiness, above. Forked horns grew back from its head, and as it lowered to meet Hiroki’s face, its emerald eyes drilled into him like the god it was.

“Ssssamurai,” its soothing voice echoed, not within the cavern, but in Hiroki’s skull. “I am Chiyo the Compassionate.”

Hiroki bowed low, using the interval to collect his wits, hopeful of the dragon’s promising name. A flick of her tail could send him flying into the ocean. “Esteemed Chiyo, I am Hiroki.”

“Human, your voice through the air is too tiny for my ears. Speak to me from your mind so that we may better understand each other.”

Hiroki blinked. He opened his mouth and closed it again, as it was of no use. How would the dragon know when he was speaking to her and when he was thinking to himself? He directed one thought as clearly as he could. “I am Hiroki.”

“There is no need to shout,” Chiyo said. “And I am too polite to listen to your thoughts.”

Hiroki laughed aloud.

“Centuries would pass slowly, indeed, without a sense of humor.” The dragon showed her teeth. “Now, tell me of your quest.”

Hiroki paused. He hoped that stunning and terrifying display of teeth as long as his forearm was a smile. He spent far less time telling the tale with images than it would have taken with words, and he appreciated the efficiency.

“The dark dragon Sota was a distant cousin,” Chiyo said. “And he should not have left the box in the keeping of men. It is a marvel your emperor’s family held it safe. As for Saburo, the stars have enforced their punishment upon him. Now, we must gather those stars from where they smother your fields, scattered by greed, and imprisoned by elemental forces.”

“Then dragons will indeed come back to our lands?” Hiroki spoke aloud in his excitement.

Chiyo looked into Hiroki’s eyes, and he felt her compassion as an arrow, piercing his last defenses. Understanding flooded his mind. His adventure with Chiyo would heal the tragic break between dragons and mankind, but it was too late to win their lasting return. Hiroki didn’t realize he was crying until the tears dripped off his chin.

“Ah, Hiroki. Humans lost the privilege of living among us long ago. You alone are permitted this encounter.”

“But, what of Nakamura?” Hiroki was devastated that his new mentor would be denied this wonder. He called up every selfless act his friend had performed these past five years and sent them flowing through his mind.

“Enough,” Chiyo said. “I will grant you this wish.”

Hiroki bowed low and let his appreciation seep through his mind.

Chiyo nodded. “You and Nakamura must send the others on their way. Give them your horses and your gear. Keep only your most precious belongings. I will come to you when they are gone.”

Hiroki returned and relayed the dragon’s instructions. The cooks prepared a feast of fresh-caught fish, and neither Hiroki nor Nakamura could swallow a bite without another of their company saying a tearful farewell and pressing a small token into their hands. At first light, the company set off on their long journey home.

The following morning, Chiyo settled the two men together in a hollow between her shoulders, away from the edges of her vicious crest. “Sit still. And cover your ears.”

Chiyo spoke aloud in an ancient tongue, in a booming voice that called forth the wind. Hiroki squeezed his eyes shut as she lifted into the sky. He released his ears and clung to Nakamura as the rising sensation continued. When all was calm, music surrounded them.

“It is the song of the stars,” Chiyo told them. “Open your eyes, children.”

Around them, starlight winked off and on in a velvety dark sky. They flew far above the world as if in a bubble.

“Why is there no sensation of movement, no wind in our faces, no cold on our skin?” Nakamura asked.

Chiyo laughed. “You humans have an expression, ‘fly like the wind.’ Today, we fly with the wind. She carries us to your homeland.”

Their journey went on for days, and months, and no time at all. And too soon, Hiroki saw the familiar outline of the emperor’s palace, framed by the foothills of Mt. Furikani. It was like waking from a beautiful dream.

“Listen well,” Chiyo said. “For soon we will be among men, and I must disappear.”

Chiyo explained that she would hide within the wind and rain of a thunderous storm, the likes of which had not been seen since the making of the world. Under cover of its ferocity, she would gather the stars and see them safely home. When the storm was over, the emperor’s town would be free, and Chiyo would be gone.

* * *

The monks of the Monastery in the Sky were long since abed, when Chiyo landed on the peak of Mt. Furikani. The star song that had accompanied their journey faded when they touched the earth, yet remained in the periphery of Hiroki’s hearing, ethereal and gossamer as butterfly wings.

“Take shelter, my children,” Chiyo said.

She lifted one massive paw to her shoulder and the two samurai scrambled up, on legs grown rubbery and numb, to be transferred to the ground.

“You will be safe here from my storm, and may return to your emperor when the sky is calm.”

“Is this goodbye, then?” Hiroki asked.

Nakamura fell to his knees. “Is there nothing that would convince you to stay?”

Chiyo blinked her inner eyelids and gazed at the two samurai. Her eyes filled with tears of such purity they magnified her compassion until it seemed to encompass all mankind.

Hiroki placed his hand upon his companion’s shoulder. “Come, Nakamura. We must take refuge within the walls.”

Hiroki bowed low to the god of wind and rain. Beside him, he felt Nakamura bow as well. Hiroki closed his eyes and allowed gratitude to flood his thoughts. An answering note of respect rang within him, and when Hiroki opened his eyes, the dragon was gone.

The men made their way to the monastery’s entrance and slipped inside as the rain began. They forced the door shut against the furious winds and hurried to a window. Every star was blotted out by a deeper darkness than they’d ever seen. Every drop of rain was the size of a large puddle, and in no time, swirling flood waters lapped at the stone walls. The wailing of the wind was as if every woman in every village in all the empire were lamenting a lost child.

The men pressed their hands over their ears to soften the shrieks. They peered through the glass, hoping in vain for a last sight of the mighty dragon who orchestrated this chaos. Hiroki thought of his family lying in the dark, afraid, not knowing of the blessings to come. He thought, as he often did, of Moriyami and sent his prayers to the spirit of his departed friend. He hoped Moriyami’s grave would not be disturbed in the downpour.

The very air seemed to boil and seethe until there was nothing to be seen. The howling continued without cease until it numbed their ears. Eventually, the men wrapped themselves in their cloaks and lay upon the cold stone floor to sleep.

* * *

Diffuse light poured through the window above their heads and fell upon Hiroki. The absence of sound assaulted his ears, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d been struck deaf. Beside him, Nakamura stirred, reassuring him on that count, and soon the footfalls of monks echoed through the halls.

Hiroki asked one young monk to take them to the abbot’s office, where they recounted their five-year journey. Although they were eager to hike down the hill and see the outcome of Chiyo’s storm, they gratefully accepted the abbot’s offer of breakfast and a hot bath. The abbot wouldn’t hear of sending off the samurai on foot.

“I have no warhorses as befit your status,” he said. “But I hope you will accept the gift of two sturdy packhorses, provisioned to see you down the mountain. Who knows what havoc this storm has brought?”

Hiroki debated traveling the established route this time—arriving at the palace to report to his emperor weeks sooner—but his obligation to Moriyami weighed upon him. His quest was incomplete. Hiroki would take the long way. After his five-year absence, the great samurai’s gravesite merited a detour.

“Nakamura, my brother. You know my heart so well, but I cannot ask you to delay your return. Follow the mile markers and you should arrive within a fortnight.”

Nakamura shook his head before Hiroki finished speaking. “What we began together, we shall finish together.”

With the abbot’s blessings upon them, they turned their horses from the road and picked their way down the back of the mountain. Although the wild wind and rain had abated, heavy cloud cover kept the sun from the sky, and gloom hung in the air. Signs of the storm were everywhere, from denuded patches of bush clover to fallen roof tiles. Hiroki fretted. Had Chiyo accomplished what she’d promised, or was this damage for nothing?

Within two days, Hiroki knew his way. “I could not bury Moriyami where he fell, and chose a fitting site in the shelter of a south-facing cliff, where the sun would shine upon him. We are nearly to it, and from there, we will have a clear view of the ill-fated Kinpo Valley.”

The horses rounded a corner, and the view opened out across their homeland. Moriyami’s grave was undamaged, and relief flooded Hiroki’s heart. Only the marker had fallen, and this he quickly righted.

Nakamura waited for Hiroki to turn away.

“Now, my friend,” Nakamura said. “We must see if the dragon has indeed gathered up the fallen stars, and if our mission is fulfilled.”

Hiroki nodded. The men walked their horses to the same rock from whose vista Hiroki first saw the darkness that Saburo had spilled across the valley. But the curse of that day seemed to be gone. There was no deep shadow in the distance. No darkness masquerading as a lake.

“Where should I look?” Nakamura asked.

Hiroki lifted his arm to point, but his finger drifted back and forth, indicating only a vague direction. He let his arm fall to his side. The thick clouds had begun to break apart, allowing rays of light, like arrows, to stab through. The changing patterns confused Hiroki’s eyes.

He frowned. “I apologize Nakamura, but I cannot recall exactly where Kinpo Valley lies. Nothing looks the same.”

Nakamura laughed and clapped Hiroki on the back. “Is this not the best possible news? If there is no blanket of darkness, then Chiyo has done as she promised.”

Hiroki tipped his head to the sky, trying to see past the clouds, beyond the blue, into the velvet darkness. He would have to wait for night and hope that the clouds would fly off. For now, Hiroki focused on getting to the palace and seeing his emperor. Every day, the sun broke through the clouds, yet every night, the stars continued to hide.

Perhaps, Hiroki thought, Chiyo the Compassionate is holding back her reveal until we arrive at the palace.

And indeed, during their descent, neither the samurai nor anyone in the empire were afforded a view of the sky. Yet the abbot had sent messengers down the mountain, and so the arrival of Hiroki and Nakamura was expected. And word spread far and wide when Kinpo Valley was released from the deadly brilliance of starlight upon the earth.

The two samurai returned to a joyous homecoming. Hiroki raced to greet his family. His sister, now married, handed off his two-year-old nephew to him and stood, with a babe in arms, grinning up at her big brother. Nakamura swept up his wife in the joy of reunion and kissed his daughters, grown tall while he was away. Emperor Karasu pronounced the Great Dragon Quest a holiday to be celebrated each year with dancing and drumming and fireworks, as on the day they’d set forth.

That night, the sun set quickly. There were no clouds in the sky to hold the colors of dusk. As twilight faded, the sky turned midnight blue and the first stars appeared. Soon, the sky was inky black and familiar constellations revealed themselves. Then unfamiliar stars shone out. Ancient galaxies blazed anew in the night sky.

The emperor declared Hiroki and Nakamura the unrivaled heroes of their time. He commissioned songs of their fearlessness—though none knew exactly how they’d fulfilled their mission of avenging Moriyami and restoring order to Emperor Karasu’s lands.

Privately, the men spoke together of a strange forgetting that worsened the farther they came from the mountain. Hiroki struggled to recall the uncanny features of the green and gold dragon who had carried them home. Nakamura confessed to having dreams of the dragon, but each morning, the details faded faster than his thoughts could chase them.

As time moved on, Hiroki and Nakamura stitched together their journey to the edge of the world. They recalled Ojiisan’s prophecy and bidding farewell to their men. They insisted they’d marveled over dragons swimming in the Kiyomizu Sea, that they’d spoken with one, and called it by name, but as time passed, they thought perhaps they’d been mistaken. The images were fleeting, and decayed with the passing of days. But they knew only the power of a god could have returned them home so quickly.

Emperor Karasu had gifted the samurai with lands and titles, with private chambers for their visits to the palace. He’d showered them with coin and thanks and promises of rewards for any of their company who made the five-year trek back home. Both men were grateful for their lives of privilege and plenty. But over a quiet game of Shogi, each confessed they’d return all their riches for a single clear memory of the dragon’s voice in their head.

What Hiroki would allow neither himself nor anyone to forget was the samurai Moriyami, who had taught him everything he knew. Every year on the anniversary of Moriyami’s death, Hiroki led an honor guard up Mt. Furikani to maintain the gravesite and pay their respects.

Hiroki had found the dragons. Against all odds, he’d brought one back to gather the stars, which once again shone in the sky, and Kinpo Valley basked under the light of the sun. Hiroki’s first morning thoughts were of gratitude for the dragon god who had helped him to avenge Moriyami’s murder and complete his quest. Hiroki had fulfilled his vow. And yet, his last thoughts—before falling into dreams of dragons that vanished in the morning mist—were that Moriyami’s absence from this world would forever haunt his days.