They buried the body beneath a slab of gold-flecked stone.

It felt far too little, yet it was the best that they could do. Though Shurei should not have been standing, she lingered long by the makeshift grave. Leaning against the scratchy bark of a pine, she seemed to Sumire to be etching the glade into memory. Or to be standing sentinel for the soul that was lost. At any rate she could not be moved. Not until blood began to thread down her legs to pit the grey dirt beneath her, and she grew too faint to resist Kouta leading her away.

For a day and night she slept, shallow and fitful. When she woke, she seemed a ghost of herself, as though her spirit had departed with that of her son. Her fair face was drawn and pale. Her expressive eyes were devoid of feeling. She did not speak, not even to Kouta or her mother. 

Not even to her children, whom Sumire shielded as best she could from this tragedy, tending to them in her daughter’s stead. But though they loved her, it was not the same. They suffered in their mother’s absence. They felt her unspeakable grief, and it became their own.

Sumire wanted to stay by the river until Shurei’s body had mended. But this could not be. They were too exposed here, to the elements and all else. They must move on, and seek shelter elsewhere.

Lashing together a litter of branches, they hefted Shurei up with it and proceeded to scale their way back to the top of the ridge. They crossed the long bridge over the canyon. On the other side, the countryside improved. In dense woods thick with game, they paused to rest for a few days’ time, until Shurei was well enough to walk again. As the slope gradually lessened, they came at last into a valley dusted with glittering snow. 

But there was no concern for their tracks now, as they took to the road—

They had reached the blessed east, at last.

The road was well-traveled and well-kept. Posted guardsmen watched from on high. Mounted soldiers patrolled, two or three abreast, their oiled armor fragrant and gleaming. Some among them were passing samurai, with their ornate crests and pairs of swords. The children gawked, the whores tittered. Inclining their heads, the warriors smiled to them as they went. 

Quaint villages lay scattered all about, their lights glowing with golden warmth through the snowy woods and frosted dales. Savory smoke rose from these cozy hamlets, and even more so from the prosperous towns which the road threaded through. There, in addition to the necessities, they bought sweets for the children, little luxuries for themselves. Dripping hot meat on bamboo skewers. Steamed dumplings and strong tea and pipe weed, besides.

They found themselves talking again, laughing again. Sumire wished that a bit of this cheer could reach her daughter. But the chill of Shurei’s loss could not be breached. Frozen, she wandered numbly through the wastes of an icy wilderness all her own, weeping milk for one who would never drink it. Tracks like tears crystallized darkly at her breast. But her eyes remained hollow and dry.

The sprawl of Edo reached for miles, but as they finally drew close to the city proper, an armed guard rode out to meet them at the gate. Warily, Sumire and her party drew back from the whickering dark horses that ringed them in, the stern-faced men who stared them down. 

Most daunting of all was their hulking commander, for whom the men parted as he cantered past. Sumire had never seen so huge a man. Though bald as an egg and older than her by some years, he seemed as hard and craggy as a mountain cliff. Dark and unornamented, his heavy plate was yet very fine. No doubt this was a man of some import. The captain of the guard, perhaps. 

As Sanada bristled, Kouta stepped forward, glaring. “What’s the meaning of this hounding? We have committed no offense.”

The captain’s drawn great-sword shone with an edge that could cleave a horsehair in two. One-handed he wielded it, as he gestured to Kouta and the rest.

“I follow my orders, and so should you. You lot are to come with me.”

With no recourse, they followed after, as the captain led them through the wide city streets. The rest of the guard flanked them at both sides and behind, an escort which drew the attention of more than a few passersby. As they went, Sumire noticed a curious bit of adornment on the captain’s burly left arm: a trailing length of white hair-ribbon, not unlike the sort a shrine maiden would wear. The favor of a loved one, perhaps?

Past the bustling harbor, they wove their way through markets and trade districts and uphill into avenues of increasingly impressive, high-walled estates. Above all these the palace loomed. Waved through at the main gates, they were yet again waved through to the innermost courts of Edo castle. At a broad court with sweeping gilt eaves, they drew to a stop.

“In there,” the captain said gruffly, dismounting.

Together, they climbed the steps to the veranda, and entered the hall beyond. The crisp scent of sandalwood filled the air. Braziers crackled at intervals with their bowls full of ruby coals. Silver light streamed through the polished shutters. The space was elegantly decorated, with rich wall hangings, fine vases of winter flowers, silk screens, gleaming arms, and furnishings of delicate, exquisite craftsmanship. The children’s eyes were wide as saucers at the grandeur. Sumire supposed her own expression was much the same. 

From the lofty ceiling, twin rows of silk pennants listed, bearing the triple hollyhock crest of the Tokugawa clan. The rows led to a single large banner at the back of the hall. Beneath this the liege lord sat with a few other richly-clad persons arrayed about him. Sumire’s heart leapt to her throat to see him once again in the flesh—

Kohaku.

Ten years had not aged him much that she could tell. To his right knelt two brown-eyed young men who must be his sons. To his left knelt a brown-eyed young woman who must be his daughter, with the vassal who must be her husband sitting slightly back from her and the rest.

But where was the lady of the castle, Sumire wondered, glancing about. And then she sensed it, in the somber expressions they wore one and all. The pall of grief was here, too. Even in this serene and lovely place.

Yet as Kohaku’s eyes touched hers from across the room, his face seemed to lighten a shade. He rose from his seat. As the captain and his men bowed ahead of them, Sumire and her party followed suit.

“Thank you, Uetsugi,” Kohaku said.

“My lord,” the captain returned, as he rose and took up his post by the rear wall, from which he peered back at the visitors in open suspicion.

As the rest of the guards drew away at their lord’s approach, Kohaku bent to help Sumire to her feet. At his firm touch to her arms, a flush fanned across her cheeks—from the impropriety least of all.

“Sumire,” he said, rough and warm, and only to her, “how good it is to see you again.”

“And you, my lord.” Her lashes dipped. “But, how did you know that we’d come?”

“A party such as yours does not go unremarked upon,” Kohaku replied. His gaze strayed to the bevy of murmuring whores behind them. “When word reached me that a matron of surpassing beauty was among them, I had cause to hope, and sent my men to escort you here.”

Sumire’s blush deepened. “A gross exaggeration, I fear.”

“No,” Kohaku said, “not at all.” For a beat he held her gaze, before he moved to greet the young woman at her side. “Shurei.”

In her dark eyes was an unmistakable sheen. When he spoke her name, her stony expression seemed to crack.

“…Kohaku-sama,” she said tremulously, perhaps finding in the gaze that mirrored her own the touchpoint to her sorrow.

Standing so close together now as they were, between father and daughter there was a striking resemblance. A depth of shared sympathy between them which was to Sumire more striking still. Kouta’s eyes widened at this likeness. But across the room, Uetsugi’s eyes were narrowed as he clasped at the ribbon on his arm. The princess, too, was glaring heatedly at Shurei.

“You must be Inoki Kouta,” Kohaku greeted his son-in-law, who bowed his head. “Welcome.” He looked then to the rest of the travelers. “You are all welcome here as my honored guests. I invite you to stay as long as you like, here in the inner court, or any other place of your choosing.”

At once, the excited murmuring of the group intensified. A high, prim voice sliced through the clamor.

“Chichi-ue,” the princess said, sitting pin-straight upon her silk cushion, “the inner court is reserved for family. Haha-ue would wish it to remain as such.”

“Then it seems I must disappoint her yet again,” Kohaku said coolly, glancing back.

The princess’s eyes flashed. Her husband placed a quelling hand to her shoulder, which she knocked aside as she shot to her feet.

“This is an outrage!”

“Reiko!” the elder of her brothers snapped.

But she ignored this as well. “Haha-ue has not been dead a month, and you open our home to—to this?” Her finger slashed out toward Shurei and her husband. “A troop of whores and peddlers, of all things! Chichi-ue, have you no sense of shame?”

In a voice so chill with threat it raised gooseflesh on Sumire’s arms, Kohaku replied, “Guard your tongue, daughter, or it is you I will evict from these sacred inner courts.”

Wilting, Reiko collapsed to her seat, stewing there. Calling his two sons and son-in-law to his side, Kohaku introduced them. His dark eyes flicked then to the three children peeping at him from around Kouta’s legs.

“And who might you be?” Kohaku asked, crouching down.

As his grandchildren told him their names, and the rest of the party sidled up to offer theirs, Sumire noticed then that her daughter had slipped away, in that uncannily silent, stealthy way that she had ever possessed, even when she was a little girl. A flash of her pink sleeve slipping out through the door was all Sumire glimpsed, as she hastened after, calling out her name. 

This drew Kohaku’s attention. On her heels, he and all the rest pursued as she burst out onto the veranda, her breath misting before her in the wintry air. Just one court away, she saw a door ajar and headed toward it.

Just within stood Shurei, staring upon the crib in the center of the room as though she’d seen a ghost. Beside the crib were a pair of nursemaids, attempting to calm a fiercely squalling babe. At Sumire’s side in the threshold Kohaku frowned heavily. One of the nurses blanched in dread.

“Forgive me, milord! We’ve been tryin’ to quiet him, but he just won’t settle.”

When Sumire looked to Kohaku in question, he said to her, just as heavily, “Ieyasu. My son.”

Sumire’s heart clenched. Kohaku had told her himself, years ago, that neither he nor his wife wished to have any more children. From his tone, from his look, she perceived then just how it was his lady wife had passed in so untimely a manner. Yet Sumire could only wonder at what had precipitated such a union.

Brushing past them, Reiko strode forward, hands outstretched. “Give him to me.” 

The querulous babe was lifted from his crib. Yet in his sister’s arms he only thrashed and squalled all the fiercer. As though in a daze, Shurei approached. Caught off guard by her strange and sudden closeness, Reiko let Shurei take the boy from her slackened hold.

“He is hungry,” Shurei said simply, opening her collar and offering Ieyasu her breast. At once, the babe calmed, latched and began to nurse. “Good boy,” she cooed, stroking his feathery dark hair. “I have you now. What a good, strong boy you are.”

Tears coursed along her cheeks as she smiled down at this motherless boy, who if not born with the spirit of her son was yet born from the same blood. Whose same dark eyes seemed to smile sleepily back at her in turn. Reiko’s face went white with anguished fury at the sight. In a flurry of silks, she swept from the room, as Sumire and the rest gazed on in speechless wonder.

---

Inuyasha © Rumiko Takahashi

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