The Flood Dragon's Sacrifice by Sarah Ash

Author:Sarah Ash
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781783014217
Publisher: eBookPartnership.com
Published: 2014-04-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

A sea fog drifts in across Akatobi Island, filling the glade with swathes of grey mist. Masao, keeping watch over his young master as he practices, shivers in the sudden chill.

A dark figure, face concealed by a broad-brimmed hat, appears out of the fog, directly behind Lord Naoki.

“Naoki!” Masao calls out a warning but his body has gone rigid, as if encased in clay. He tries to shout again, but no sound emerges from his gaping mouth.

***

Masao awoke to a grinding headache.

That dream again.

The brightness of daylight stung his eyes like a wash of salt water, even when filtered through the canvas of the tent in which he lay.

And now I’ve reached the hung-over stage of the Kite Shadow…

“So you overdid it again?” The soft voice was lightly tinged with a teasing irony.

“Yūgiri?” Masao tried to focus as a pale shadow loomed over him. “You’re better?”

“Lie still.” The shaman placed one cool hand on his forehead and then slid the other beneath his robe to let it rest over his heart. Masao felt a shiver run throughout his body at Yūgiri’s gentle touch.

“Are my fingers cold?” Yūgiri sounded amused.

“Mm.” That must be it. But the daylight infused Yūgiri’s ashen hair with silvered glints, creating a faint radiance about his lowered head, and Masao suddenly felt a sudden overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the thistledown strands.

What’s the matter with me? This is just little Yū, my childhood friend, we used to hunt stag beetles together in the woods outside the castle…

“Do you do this to all the other shinobi?” he heard himself asking, forcing himself to concentrate on other matters. I must still be in the drunken stage.

“Only if Lord Toshiro asks me to.” Yūgiri’s face was so close to his that he could feel his breath on his skin, warm and faintly clove-sweet. “But the older shinobi are more experienced at conserving their energy.”

“Ouch.”

Yūgiri lifted his hands. “Did I hurt you?”

“Only with your words.” Masao managed a wry grimace.

Yūgiri sat back on his heels, folding his hands in his lap. “How do you feel now?”

Masao considered the question. The dream fog had cleared from his mind and at last the intolerable pounding in his temples had stopped.

“Better,” he said. But the images from the dream, the stifling feeling of being trapped in his own body, had not disappeared. “Yūgiri – ” he began just as Raiko stuck his head around the tent flap.

“Still lounging around in here, Masao?” He was smirking again; Masao had to repress the urge to cuff him. “Master Yoriaki wants to see you in the armorers’ tent. Better not keep him waiting.”

***

The dull, grating sound of grinding came from the armorers’ tent. Inside, Saburo and two assistants were bending over pots, busily pounding away at the contents, which from the acrid, dusty smell Masao guessed must be the saltpeter they had collected at the hot springs. Master Yoriaki was watching from a distance, an expression of distaste distorting his lean features.

“So here you are at last, Masao.

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