Lord Aritaka dismissed him, and as the soldiers escorted him out of the chamber, he looked one more time over the gathered loyalists. There were several familiar faces among the generals after all. General Yatamoto averted his eyes, but General Waseba stared straight back at him, unashamed.

Once in the hall, free from the eyes of Lord Aritaka and his honorless traitors, Kazuchiyo felt much of the strength rush out of his knees. Already he was exhausted and heartsick, his mind aflame with too many worries. He couldn’t even begin to wonder what Tomonaga might have done in his position; every thought of him reminded Kazuchiyo of the arrow piercing straight through him. There was nothing to do but allow Aritaka’s men to take him back to his room, but as they headed for the stairs, he heard it: a familiar voice, crying out.

The warrior from the field. Kazuchiyo’s heart pounded into his ears and he worried for a moment that he was hallucinating. Then he looked to the men alongside him, and their wary looks confirmed they heard it as well. It may as well have shaken Gyoe down to its stone foundations, but as far as Kazuchiyo knew, it was meant only for him, like an unearthly beacon. Whatever dread he might have felt at the thought of another battle close at hand dissipated beneath the knowledge that he might not have been alone.

So Kazuchiyo ran. He was swift enough to avoid the grasping hands of Aritaka’s guards and all but flew down the first set of stairs in pursuit of that voice. Already he could hear pain drowning out the rage that had so transfixed him, and it spurred him onward, racing down the narrow castle corridors, past baffled sentries and servants. Paying no heed to the men chasing or hands grasping at him, he traced the dying voice to a small room at the base of the main keep. By then he could no longer hear it, but two more soldiers were already standing at the open doorway, and Kazuchiyo shouldered past them, desperate to see.

He was rewarded with the man from the battlefield, but not quite as he remembered. Though still of an impressive stature he was no hulking demon and younger than he had seemed, no older than a teenager himself. His jaw was stern but his brow was drawn tight with strain, and he groaned and panted atop a thin mattress of dry straw. Dried blood stained the bandages covering his otherwise bare arms and torso, and sweat soaked the rest of him. Even though he had stopped his shouting he was shaking in the grip of a grueling recovery, and he wasn’t alone.

A woman knelt at his side, clad in a flowing indigo kimono. Her hair was rich and dark and fastened at the nape of her neck with a shimmering gold comb, her face soft and round, old -fashioned in its beauty. She hummed a gentle melody as she stroked the young warrior’s hair, and gradually, he calmed. With shuddering breaths he grew lax at her side.

“Boy!” Aritaka’s soldier snarled, grabbing Kazuchiyo by the collar of his robe. He tried to jerk him back into the hall. “How dare you run from us like that!”

The woman lifted her head, fixing Kazuchiyo with eyes wide and round as ink droplets. “Oh!” she said, and she smiled at him. “Is this him? Lord Tatsutomi’s son?”

The soldiers hesitated—this was a woman who lay outside their natural chain of command, and they were unsure of what amount of deference they were meant to show her. She took an unseemly amount of amusement in their confusion. “Let him come in,” she said, waving Kazuchiyo forward. “There’s no danger.”

Kazuchiyo wrenched out of the man’s grasp even before she finished speaking, and he hurried to join her at the young warrior’s side. “I didn’t know if he survived,” he said, gaze leaping to and from each of the many bandaged wounds. The thunk of each striking arrow echoed between his ears. “Will he live?”

“He’s survived this long already,” said the woman with a wistful smile. “As long as someone is here to watch over him, I think he will live.”

Kazuchiyo spared another look at the woman. She was too finely dressed to be servant, but he could not imagine the lady of the castle to be waiting on an unknown foot soldier—and an enemy, at that. “Are you here to watch over him?” he asked.

She hummed enigmatically. “Does it not appear so?”

“Lady Satsumi,” one of the soldiers interrupted cautiously. “We’re to take that boy back to his room.”

“He can stay a while longer. I will watch over him, too.” She turned her smile on Kazuchiyo. “You wouldn’t harm me, would you, Young Tatsutomi?”

Kazuchiyo instinctually lowered his gaze; if this was another test, he could ill afford to fail it. “I only wanted to see that he still lived,” he said honestly.

“Then you ought to stay a little longer, just to be sure.” Satsumi motioned for the soldiers to stand back. “He’s only a boy. Give us a few moments, won’t you? And send someone to fetch water and more clean cloth. He will need fresh dressings soon.”

The men all shifted in frustration, and after some squeamish glare-sharing, one hurried off for the supplies while the rest took up positions just inside and outside the doorway. They were determined not to let the room go unmonitored. It mattered to Kazuchiyo very little; his only care was for the young warrior before him, smothered in fitful unconsciousness.

Satsumi eased her fingers through the young man’s hair, and it seemed to do him some good. She soothed the heavy crease from between his eyebrows. “Do you know him?” she asked of Kazuchiyo. “Was he one of your father’s?”

“I don’t know,” Kazuchiyo admitted. “He was wearing Aritaka armor.” He watched the rise and fall of each breath, each time praying another would follow. “But he was fighting Aritaka soldiers. I don’t know anything about him.”

“The rumor is that he stormed onto the field shortly after the fall of the vanguard. He had no armor or weapon until he stole them from his victims. And then he killed indiscriminately until it was over.” Satsumi’s round eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Like some kind of demon.”

Kazuchiyo had witnessed enough of the young man’s strength to believe in such a theory. He reached out, drawing his fingertips across the curve of his bicep, feeling out the muscles; skin undeniably rough, but still fleshy, still human. “Has he said his name?” he asked.

“I don’t know that he’s said anything to anyone,” replied Satsumi. “Except maybe, AAURRGHH, like you heard just now.”

She cast him a look, expectant, but Kazuchiyo was far removed from even the concept of humor, and she sighed apologetically. “Well,” she continued. “That will be the first thing I ask of him, once he’s awake enough to speak sense.”

Servants came into the room then bearing fresh water and clean rags, but Satsumi welcomed them only long enough to accept their offerings. “Come help me, Little Dragon,” she said instead, urging Kazuchiyo to take one of the rags. “Have you tended wounded before? Not too wet, now. What’s your name?”

“It’s Kazuchiyo.” He squeezed water from the rag and, following Satsumi’s guidance, began to wipe the sweat from the young warrior’s forehead and brow. “Excuse me, but are you...Lady Aritaka?”

Satsumi laughed, but there was venom behind her amusement, a twitch in her eye. “Goodness, no. Not yet.” She unwound the bandages around the warrior’s shoulder, revealing a deep bruise and a healing arrow wound. “Not unless I can give my lord an heir. For now he has to content himself with the Lady O-ran and her brood.”

“My lady,” said one of the watchful soldiers. “Please don’t fill his ears with that kind of talk.”

Satsumi smiled politely at him and then leaned in again to Kazuchiyo. “You see, Kazuchiyo,” she said conspiratorially. “Best you not listen to the prattling of a courtesan, even if she is our lord’s favorite.” The man glowered back at her, but she then ignored him, returning her focus to the wounded boy. “You must have spoken to Lord Aritaka by now, yes?”

Kazuchiyo watched closely as she applied a rosewood ointment to the shoulder wound. “Yes,” he said distractedly, not wishing to dwell on that meeting.

“And did he tell you why he chose to keep you alive?”

Kazuchiyo’s attention immediately snapped back to her. There was no reason for him to trust anyone residing at Gyoe, much less a loose-tongued courtesan with aims at improving her status, but he was helplessly eager for any more information as to Aritaka’s unfathomable motives. “He did,” he whispered back. “But he lied.”

“Of course he lied,” Satsumi replied, smiling secretively as she continued to apply the ointment to her charge’s many wounds. “The truth is much too obvious to share aloud.”

“Lady Satsumi,” the guard warned again, distraught.

But Satsumi paid him no heed, leaning suddenly closer to speak directly to Kazuchiyo’s ear. “Lord Aritaka is in need of a proper heir,” she said. “His last living son is famously impotent, and his two daughters? Too ferocious for husbands. He has always been jealous of your father for breeding so many sons of great prowess. All he needs from you is a grandson, and then he’ll kill you.”

Kazuchiyo listened with eyes downcast, his ribs drawn tight. “Why would he not adopt a son from among his generals?”

Satsumi scoffed. “And split his retainers in two as they take sides? His bannerman are little more loyal than your father’s were, I am sorry to say. Not to mention the harm to Lady O-ran’s pride. Strange as it may seem, a son of his enemy will do more to unite than divide these petty war-brains.”

The soldier marched forward impatiently. “What are you telling him?” he demanded. “I will report this to Lord Aritaka.”

Satsumi leaned back, all flashing smiles. “Have some pity on the poor boy,” she said, sing-song, as she made fussing adjustments to her kimono. “He’s all alone in the world, now. He ought to have some idea of who his enemies are.”

“He has no enemies here,” the soldier retorted, though his tone was less than convincing. “He is our lord’s guest, and soon, his son.”

“Indeed.” Satsumi pushed gracefully to her feet and smiled down at Kazuchiyo. “Remember, Little Dragon, you also have friends here.”

Kazuchiyo returned her gaze, and though he counseled himself on restraint, he could not hold his tongue. “Only until you can provide Lord Aritaka an heir.”

The twist of Satsumi’s rouged lips grew sharp. “Keep applying that ointment to his wounds, like I showed you,” she said. “And he’ll recover soon enough. He’s lucky to have a clever boy like you watching over him.”

Satsumi departed, to the relief of the guards. The leader of them gestured to Kazuchiyo. “Come on, now. Back to your room.”

“Please let me finish tending to him,” he quickly replied, going so far as to bow his head to the floor. “Please, sir. I’ll return straight to my room after.”

The guard shifted and sighed, and finally relented. “Well be quick then. And don’t pay any mind to whatever it was that woman told you. She talks more than a monk doesn’t.”

“Yes, sir,” Kazuchiyo replied automatically, and he quickly returned to the warrior, peeling back his remaining bandages. Dedication to his task kept his mind centered, driving out whatever emotion would have tried to build in the aftermath of Satsumi’s warnings. He wiped away the sweat and applied the ointment just as she had done. In better days he had done similar for his brothers after long afternoons training in the yard, bruised from wooden bokken. But there was no time for those reminiscences, and he thrust them aside as well. There was only the single man in Sakka Province who may have as much a reason to hate Aritaka as he did.