Harmony

Mizen Mura, Month of the Dragon, 1141

Soft spring wind, damp with the leavings of a morning storm, danced through the new leaves that had only this week emerged from winter slumber. The trees murmured to themselves, a gentle accompaniment to the courting songs of birds and, more distantly, the high, sweet laughter of a child rising over the deeper bass rhythms of a man’s voice.

To Seppun Bikane, who sat working in the shadow of the largest of their maples, it was a strange, wonderful music, composed of the many sounds of her world that combined in a symphony of contentment.

It had surprised her, at first, to be so happy in the small estate. Indefensible, small, and more wood than anything else, it was not what her Crab-bred sensibilities expected. No fit place for a warrior, and the warrior’s wife, she had thought. Certainly no place for starting a family. Yet somehow, the charge given to herself and to Katsu by their Lord had become so much more than it’s flaws, just as their union had grown into a much more pleasant arrangement than simply that of cordial associates who occasionally shared a bed.

She would never say she loved her husband. Though she honored Benten as all wise samurai did, Bikane was certain that she had never felt Her touch. Not for Katsu...not even for her child. She doubted she ever would and, having seen the agonies of those who loved and lost, or who loved in vain, she was grateful for this. Still, as she listened to her husband and their small daughter as Katsu patiently walked tiny Sakura back and forth, the toddler grasping her father’s fingers for support as she learned to move on her own, she could not deny that Hotei’s gift, which had come instead, was a truly marvelous thing. It had taken her a while to recognize it for what it was, to hear that the noises of clutter and servants and the clatter of Katsu’s practice or his armor being removed and racked had somehow ceased to be jarring. It was harmony, orchestrated by the world itself.

With a smile, she left off her work, drifting out to join her own voice to the chorus.

Kyuden Otomo, Month of the Goat, 1141

They were fighting. Again.

Like all the other courtiers, Bikane was very good at pretending not to notice such things. She was doing so now, staring without real interest into the small story garden full of pink and white flowers she couldn’t name, careful not to see the pair of courtiers half a garden away,. They were arguing so loudly that even the resident peacock, as brazen a bird as had ever hatched, had fallen silent in the face of their fury.

She knew them, of course, and, like everyone else in residence this season, knew all too well their story. Otomo Aikawa, once of the Dragon, was a jealous shrew with absolutely no ear for music, a craft at which her husband, Otomo Ryoichiro, excelled. Ever since the two had married last winter, the two had quarreled over the man’s interest. Aikawa maintained that his insistence on performing despite elevation to junior sensei in the craft was pure vanity, a selfish indulgence that distracted from his more needful work; improving his standing with his contemporaries and the Family. She knew, as everyone did, that Ryoichiro had been spending more and more time with the other musicians in the assorted geisha and tea houses around the Kyuden and less and less with his bride. There was no child between them and, it was likely, there never would be. Shaking her head in dismay, Bikane rested a hand on the slight swell of her own growing child, grateful again for her own match.

The Otomo were completely unsuited for each other, worse even than her own parents had been.

Endless disharmony.

As she set off walking again down the path, Bikane’s mind turned over the sadly common scenario, wondering, as she so often did in the face of broken melodies, how this pattern could be changed.

Kyuden Doji, Month of the Rat, 1141

The courtroom was full, awash in a sea of colors and the fluttering of fans. It was the start of the first session of the second month of the winter season and dozens of samurai drifted about the beautifully appointed hall. Smiles adorned some faces while somber On darkened the eyes of others, each with the same intent; to mask the true purpose, the scheming, underneath.

Bikane watched them all, glad of the position and Family that allowed her the opportunity to observe from the sidelines, a courtesy afforded her due to her gravid condition. It was, she thought, almost more interesting to study the others than to mingle with them. It was a chance to truly appreciate how much the Otomo had taught her, realizing how much she understood now of the flow of Court that she would not have guessed at even three years before. Where once the hum of so many voices, many of them educated to a nearly musical appeal, would have dazed her, now she was able to single out a strand of conversation as easily as she would hear the single poorly tuned string on a biwa.

Under one lantern, a pair of Mantis spoke to a Phoenix, discussing the way storms blew the waves in winter.

At a table, a small cluster of bushi from the Lion and the Unicorn and the Crab exchanged quiet tales of battles past, too grateful for the ease of their boredom to care much about any inter-Clan tensions.

At the Dais, the Champion’s Regent listened patiently to a rather overblown explanation about the value of the scroll he was being gifted by a young, painfully earnest scholar of the Asako, only a slight flatness to his eyes betraying his growing disinterest.

There. Standing before a carefully wrought arrangement of winter greenery. Four young samurai were talking of their travels, the sort of idle cheerful banter common to those who had no real business in Court, at least for today. A Dragon, two Crane, and one of the Miya. It was not the first time this particular group had gathered, nor was it the first time Bikane had watched them. She had been sure to become known to all her fellow Imperials here very early in the season and young Miya Kaifu, a Herald with a talent for craftsmanship that reminded Bikane of her former kin, had become a favorite of hers. They had shared tea several times now, a pleasant indulgence for both of them when the most taxing agenda before them was the choice of which of the many fine teas their hosts had provided to try next. Kaifu was always very solicitous of her condition without making it seem that Bikane was made of glass, a fact which she appreciated a great deal. He was very near her brother’s age, a few years her senior, and clearly enjoying his first real courtly posting.

Beside him on his sword side was one of the Crane, slight and delicate in her pale winter finery. Doji Orihime was an artisan, a painter of some slight renown. Her use of color and detail and her love of history had made her one of the more sought after illustrators of historical scenes in the Empire, a fact which her Lords had been eager to exploit. She was, herself, of no particular beauty, yet she had all the charm and manners one expected of the Crane. She, too, had been a companion from time to time, interested in Bikane’s own particular craft as well as her condition, though she had never been so bold as to inquire after the later, settling instead for ensuring that the Imperial guest was always comfortable and supplied with whatever she might need.

Over the last few weeks, Bikane had observed an interesting phenomenon in her two new companions. Whenever the two came together in conversation, even with other people, a subtle change occurred. Without any apparent effort or intent, they fell into rhythm with each other. It was in their voices and, if they were strolling through gardens, in the way they moved. There was no flirtation, not even a whisper of romance...and yet, there was unquestionably a bond. Today was the seventh time, the seventh day, that she had observed it in this pair, one of several such pairs she was observing.

It was a most Fortunate number, and what Bikane had been watching for. After one last hidden smile at the small group, the Imperial rose and, with quiet purpose, returned to her quarters to set her seal to the pair of scrolls she had so carefully composed just before court began that morning.

Mizen Mura, Month of the Hare, 1142

Tucked into a warm wrap, Bikane bent over her writing desk. Her new son, a month old today, slumbered peacefully in his basket beside her, his soft breathing and occasional shifts and coos a welcome accompaniment to the sound her brush made as she moved it in precise strokes across the page. It was her last for the day, one she had purposefully put off. Correspondence was the duty of the courtier, just as patrol was the Duty of every bushi. Often, it was just as dull.

Not this time. The thought of this letter had burned in her mind since morning, a warm light guiding her through even the most tedious of her other tasks. It was a response to a missive she had received just after breakfast, housed in a simple pine case carved with cranes. It was a wedding invitation, and even before it had been opened, Bikane knew who it was for. She had, after all, arranged the match herself, just as she had arranged a half dozen other unions over the last several months. What had begun as a simple service to her Family that she could perform even well gone with child had blossomed, a rare spark of passion that rivaled even her love of music. It was a new method of composition for her, a new way to weave harmonies into the world, a new aspect of Hotei’s grace.

Smiling, she finished her acceptance, thinking that Orihime would make a beautiful Imperial’s bride.