The Heart of Iuchiban: A Legend of the Five Rings Novel by Evan Dicken

Author:Evan Dicken [Dicken, Evan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fantasy, Epic, Historical, Media Tie-In, Fiction
Publisher: Aconyte
Published: 2022-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

The screams had stopped some time ago, which was a mixed blessing. When they had sighted the rebel scouts, Tetsuo had asked whether Irie had any means of enjoining the local spirits to draw information from unwilling captives. She’d explained such rituals trod dangerously close to corruption, but now Irie wished she did possess the power.

Whatever harm the spirits inflicted upon their unfortunate captives, it could not equal Tetsuo.

The Crab approached interrogation with the same callous precision he brought to all endeavors. As if the half-dozen rebels they had apprehended were bits of unworked stone from which Tetsuo intended to carve a bench. Irie had excused herself long before the Crab began, which was somehow worse than staying to watch.

She was a coward. That much, at least, Irie understood.

When she had vowed to clear her master’s name, she had imagined following a trail of clues to some witness or document that would expunge all doubt concerning Masatsuge’s questionable interests. She had very much not expected to be kneeling, head bowed, trying to maintain some semblance of calm while her comrade murdered a handful of peasants.

The worst thing of all was that, even now, Irie did not regret leaving Naoki and Qadan.

She ran her fingers over the mask, lingering on each contour like a string of prayer beads. There was comfort in the Crab samurai’s single-minded focus. Although Irie might disapprove of his methods, she knew Tetsuo would take her exactly where she needed to go.

Irie knew the peasants to be traitors, killers, perhaps even servants of a dark sorcerer. If there was truth to be found, Tetsuo would discover it, would do what Irie could not bring herself to do… not yet, at least.

As always, she sought the Empty Flame, attempting to conjure a spark from nothing, a conflagration of perfect calm, raging tranquility, power without price.

And, as always, it eluded her.

“The Shrike follows Iuchiban.” Tetsuo’s voice cut through the roiling tempest of self-recrimination.

Irie opened her eyes, grasping for composure. She knew little of Iuchiban, but she knew of other dark sorcerers. All Phoenix were told of fallen priests and elementalists, spoken of in hushed tones behind high walls and warding trigrams, as if corruption might spread through the very mention of their name.

Questions surfaced in Irie’s thoughts, flickering like leaves caught in a fast stream. What kansen did the Shrike control? What were his plans? Had he killed Masatsuge? How could her master have fallen to some rustic warlock?

But like before, like always, Irie said nothing, fearing that to benefit from such brutal means would somehow make her complicit – even though she already was.

For all its benefits, a life of study and ascetic contemplation had ill prepared Irie for the endless vulgarities of the real world. She had thought herself above such things, an observer, a critic, the harms and cruelties of the unenlightened reduced to little more than words on a page, topics of discussion. She and her colleagues had spent days debating the nature of war, of vengeance, of desire, but they had not understood, not really.

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