He often became intentionally lost on afternoons such as this.
The season was beginning its slow shift from spring to summer. Everything around him was in bloom, the air stirred by a soft breeze. An ocher sunset gilded the waters of the pond to his left. Its gently lapping shore rippled like molten amber. Fallen cherry blossoms littered its surface, pale pink petals strewn across slate-grey waters.
The flowers were beginning to die. To fall under the weight of the sun.
It was his favorite time of year. Warm enough to wander the royal gardens of Heian Castle without feeling the threat of a chill, yet cool enough to forgo the nuisance of an oiled-paper umbrella.
Perhaps he would venture to the moon-viewing pavilion tonight. The sky had been unusually clear today. The stars, too, should be unusually bright.
He took his time across the squared stepping-stones encircling a miniature pagoda. Its tiered eaves were sprinkled with birdseed. A heron strutted near the shore, blasting a warning to the black swan gliding by: Keep clear of my domain.
The emperor smiled to himself.
Was he the heron, or was he the swan?
His smile fell as quickly as it rose.
A familiar warble cut through the silence at his right shoulder. A swallow soared toward him, landing on a corner of the miniature pagoda, its wings an unearthly shade of iridescent blue. The diminutive bird puffed out its stomach and shook out its feathers, tilting its head to one side.
Waiting for the emperor.
The emperor took two steps toward the swallow. Leaned in close, his left ear angled near the swallow’s bright orange beak. The small bird tilted closer, unafraid. Unnatural. Its familiar warble faded to a hushed whisper. A melodic sigh.
The emperor nodded. The swallow preened. Once more the bird took flight on a wisp of wind.
Vanishing into the clouds above.
Without even a moment’s pause, Minamoto Masaru turned from the shore, back in the direction of his castle. After wending down a few misguided paths, he finally saw the topmost gable of the imperial palace rising above the trees.
In honeyed moments like these, the emperor understood why Heian Castle was often called the Golden Castle. A sea of gilded roof tiles spilled from tier to tier, catching the light in slowly descending waves. Along each hipped eave were carved figurines of cranes, fish, and tigers. Cherry trees lined the eastern foot trails; orange trees bordered the west. The covered walkways leading from building to building were constructed of citrus-scented cypress wood, their paths formed of neatly raked white gravel.
He stopped to watch his castle become awash in the colors of a setting sun.
If he didn’t take time to enjoy such sights, they would soon be lost to him.
Like tears in rain.
The emperor proceeded to walk by a granite monument resting on a hillock to his right. His eye caught on the flapping pennants adorning its four corners.
A trio of gentian flowers above a spray of bamboo leaves.
The Minamoto clan’s royal crest.
His frown deepened as he continued onward.
In a few months it would be time for the festival of Obon. The time each year when all the empire’s citizens returned to their ancestral homes to honor their deceased. Soon the emperor would be making the journey to Yedo for this very reason. To clear his ancestors’ graves of weeds and pay homage to them with food and drink.
But would his forefathers feel pride at his return?
Or would they feel disdain?
The emperor could not answer these questions. Not yet. For he had not yet accomplished all he meant to accomplish. All his greatest aspirations had yet to be realized. Yes, it was true he’d maintained power over the Empire of Wa for the entirety of his reign. But it was a muddled sort of power—much like a loosely tied ribbon, its ends trailing the ground. He had not achieved half of what his father had achieved before passing on the crown; he had not made the Empire of Wa bigger or stronger.
He had not managed to build a greater legacy for his sons.
Indeed, it could even be suggested that he’d left his empire in worse condition. One far weaker than before. One that would rely on the strengths of both his sons.
Roku’s intellect.
And Raiden’s fist.
Strange that all this had come to pass. Come to pass despite the emperor having sacrificed so much to give his sons more. He’d gone as far as to execute many of his childhood friends to keep them from challenging his reign.
The emperor halted again in his stroll, as though the wind had been cracked from his chest. He took a slow breath. A pinching one, heated tongs clenched tight around his heart. He still felt it, even after all this time; the weight of his friends’ deaths would always be a heavy burden. A constant reminder. But he could not afford to feel remorse for his past decisions.
They had not been made lightly.
The Emperor of Wa could not be openly challenged by any man, not if he ever meant to achieve his greatest desires. And his friends would undoubtedly have challenged him. Naganori would never have remained quiet in the face of the emperor’s most recent edicts. His most recent attempts to consolidate his holdings. To raise taxes on his lands. To collect his due. All before striking out on his grandest of conquests: Waging war for dominion over the sea and all its spoils.
Yes. Naganori would always have been a problem. An Asano man, through and through. Married to the law and its pervasive sense of justice.
But perhaps Asano Naganori could have been controlled in time.
Were it not for others . . . less willing to bend.
Takeda Shingen.
A cloud of yellow butterflies wafted across the white gravel before him. They took flight on a twist of air, curling and unfurling into themselves like a beating heart.
No. The emperor’s childhood friends would have been far too problematic.
Better he keep his council small.
Better he keep it amongst his family. And no one else.
He pushed through the cloud of butterflies, leaving them to scatter in disarray.
Alas, the deaths of his friends had not succeeded in putting an end to the whispers at his feet. The murmurs of those who would prefer to see a man with military skill at the helm of the empire. Especially of late, the emperor had witnessed the pomp and grandeur of the royal court being cast in a weak light. The weak light of undue opulence. Of unnecessary excess.
Awareness flared in his throat. Pulsed in his ears. The grandeur of the court was the grandeur he knew well. It was the grandeur of his son, the crown prince of Wa, Minamoto Roku. Second born, but first in line to rule.
It was not the grandeur of his other son, Raiden. Firstborn.
Yet destined to rule nothing.
Indeed, Destiny was a fickle beast.
“There you are, my sovereign.”
Warmth riffled through the emperor at the sound of this voice. A stirring that began in his bones and thrummed to his fingertips. The comfort of a loved one. Of an embrace he need never question.
But he did not turn at its sound.