Immortal: Chapter 1

Chapter One

Memory

 

 

The Mountains wore their Autumn Kimono, clothed in their finery of red and gold. The heavens boasted blue skies and pink-cream clouds, with grey storm spirits teasing the revelry of their brethren. Nature posed herself, and fluttered breath swept at her mountain face. All was serene in this world.

Or so was the view of the poet and the idealist. In the Courts of Glass Moon—the court of the change-spirits and animal demons of the mountain—all was unquestionably not well.

Sōjōbō, Lord of The Western Peak of Kurama Mountain, Prince of Tengu and Master of the Court of Glass Moon, looked at his youngest son and gave a loud, aggravated sigh. Kuronue was a particularly… difficult child. As was sometimes the lot of the particularly headstrong youth, he was being thorny with his father—and while this was not an unusual state of affairs, the context was unique.

Kuronue played himself as a ‘Free Spirit,’ and as such, refused to marry. Even parading the most beautiful and influential of the available brides in front of the boy—it had been a circus!

Certainly, his brothers were not nearly so fussy… or rather, Sōjōbō didn’t remember them acting so foolish. Tadashi had put it off for nearly a century, and Akira had promised himself to nearly fifty girls before Sōjōbō had found out. But neither of them had been so…vocal.

“I think I would classify this as an outrage, father. That I don’t know the woman is bad enough—“

“You met her yesterday.” Sōjōbō sighed, resting his head on his fist. “She’s the one who spilled tea on your book.”

“Clumsy, even!” Kuronue gasped. “How do you expect me to have a graceless wife?”

“She wouldn’t have tripped if you hadn’t strewn your ink-set around everywhere.”

“Well then, is she blind? She couldn’t possibly have missed a kit of that size. A blind wife, can you imagine?”

“Kuronue, you know as well as I do that she isn’t blind or graceless. I don’t see why you’re so against this. She’s a perfectly fine woman, good breeding, and she has a sizable dowry,” he mumbled, rubbing his temples. Nothing would convince the boy to give her a second glance, but she was the daughter of a friend, and he at least had to try.

“You marry her, then.” Kuronue snapped, turning to gaze out to the veranda. The sky was darkening, and they could both distantly hear rowdy storm spirits on the wind.

“I believe your mother would disapprove of that.” Sōjōbō answered. “She wants to see you start a family.” There, Kuronue often listened to his mother, at least. Tsukiko was adept ad dealing with her son; after thirty years, Sōjōbō was finally on the cusp of being used to the constant arguments. Ever since he could talk, Kuronue would ask ‘why’, ‘how’, and ‘why not?’

Sōjōbō sometimes cursed the fact that it would be another fifty years before his son grew out of total adolescence.

Another fifty years of this and I will go insane.

Evidently, Kuronue had run out of steam. He was quiet now, staring out the shoji doors to the rapidly darkening sky. Lightning was crackling now; Sōjōbō knew that most—if not all—of Kuronue's friends were storm and sky spirits. The boy’s love of the sky was unrivaled by any other Tengu.

He wouldn’t admit it, but this filled Sōjōbō with a sense of justifiable pride. Kuronue had all the makings of a Storm Lord, if he would just grow out of his childish petulance. The title of Storm Lord was one Sōjōbō had very nearly earned himself. One he would have gained easily if not for certain failed campaigns against an old and greatly treasured enemy.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a soft scratch at the inner doorway, and the composed voice of his servant and Seneschal, Ruko.

“Speak, Ruko.” He murmured, turning a sigh at his son, who was now ignoring him.

“My lord, The Youko has returned from his wandering. He ascends the mountain as we speak.”

Well, indeed speaking of the devil.

“He comes alone?” Sōjōbō asked, turning now towards the door.

“My lord, yes. He is dressed for travel and is taking the priest’s road to the eastern peak.”

Sōjōbō nodded. That road was an easy marker between his territory and that of the insufferable demon fox. He turned this information over in his head a moment. How convenient that Youko should be announced just when Sōjōbō’s thoughts were travelling his way. He smiled to himself, and addressed Ruko.

“Ruko, inform the household that we will be entertaining a guest soon. Have a room prepared. The nice one.” He then turned his face upwards, and sighed.

Ruko left at once, Sōjōbō could hear the soft scrabbling of the demon’s hoofs on the wooden floor. He then turned to Kuronue, who had turned his head very slightly to hear the exchange.

“Go to your room, Kuronue.” He said, an edge of finality coating his voice.

“What? I…” Sōjōbō nearly laughed at his son’s surprise. “Why?”

“There is no reason for me to tell you why, boy. You’d make excuses anyway. Now, do not leave your rooms until I call for you.” He turned his back on his son, who sputtered protest for a brief moment before he gave up, and left his father to the silence.

Sōjōbō listened for the door to slide shut, and eased into one of the more comfortable chairs in his room. What a bright, irritating child he had been given. He wondered quietly if the Emerald Mother had sent her laughing blessings the day Kuronue was born. And such a day that was…

He shook himself away from his thoughts and gathered himself together. He would be entertaining an ‘old friend’ soon; he would want to look his best. As he paced to the door to his private rooms, He glanced at the small bookshelf behind his state desk. A spark of red reflected in his eyes for the briefest of moments before he turned to his room and called lovingly to his wife.

Mount Kurama was silent this evening, almost peaceful. The man who took his name from the mountain observed this and discarded the thought quickly. The Tengu of Mt. Kurama were surely watching for him, keeping silent and out of sight to lull him into false security, and preserve the shaky peace between him and their master. He had noticed their eyes days earlier, when he had come to the base of the mountain, traveling paths left mostly to the insane and the priests that made their homes here.

He hefted the pack on his shoulders—it was twice as heavy as when he had departed so long ago. He smiled ruefully to himself.

My dear sisters spoil me too much.

His sabbatical to Korea had been a fruitful one: he had visited family, giving blessings to his many sisters and accepting the graces of his mother.

She wasn’t… really his mother. She was a Kumiho, not a Kitsune, and far too young to be his actual mother. But the woman’s maternal drive had been far too strong for him to call her a mere sister, so ‘mother’ she had become.

He had met Sondok four centuries ago, after a horrible miscalculation had caused him to find himself on the wrong end of a Same-Bito’sblade. Shark demon, that one was, and an especially mean one to boot. Youko had never been a swimmer, in fact he hated being in water deeper than your average bathing spring, and had made a general and careless slip of the tongue in the wrong company. He’d killed the shark but the nasty bites he had received for his troubles were far more than he could have handled on his own, and the fox-siren Sondok had found him near the northern coast, curled around his wounds and cursing every living thing in the sea.

When he came to his senses—not more than a day or two later—he had found himself surrounded by Kumiho. Sondok was more than just a fox-woman living among humans—she ran a brothel with her many, many younger ‘sisters.’ For Kumiho, human men were a source of nourishment, their energy sustained them the way that human food or flesh could not. She was a genius and a shrewd businesswoman, and treated her little girls, Kumiho and human alike, very well. He had recovered surrounded by them, trading stories and Gifts—fox magic and sorcery—and, in what seemed like no time at all, they became his family.

He pushed the thoughts of his family aside; he was beginning to miss them already. Instead, he focused on his surroundings. The Forest was shifting, on the brink of transition from summer to autumn. Maple and gingko splashed color against the deep greens of the bamboo, cold meltwater streams laughed down the mountain face. He heard the whispers of watchers in the trees, and knew that the other denizens of the mountain had heard of his arrival.

The Youko Kurama returns—he has arrived—the monster has returned, they would sometimes whisper, thinking wrongly that he could not hear. The plants they used as cover betrayed them to his senses. They may have thought differently, but to the flora of the mountain, it was clear who ran this mountain.

And it was certainly not a foolish, aging bird.

Kurama allowed himself a tiny smile, and climbed onward. It never ceased to amuse him that the deliberately bad stories he had spread around about himself had such a, permanent effect on people. Two thirds of the soldiers he knew were watching him had probably never seen him before; he distinctly heard someone whisper to a companion: “I thought he’d be… taller.” And that was just one. Stories that he was ten feet tall, had a thousand tails and claws that could split the very mountain in twain; and that one particularly hilarious bit of tomfoolery that his name was a word forbidden by the gods. And the delicious wicked fact that no one could track where the stories came from really gave him a good chuckle. Even the oldest Tengu or Tanuki didn’t know how to track him when he didn’t want to be; and the endless amount of illusions at his expense just added to their collective confusion.

He would have been caught at it, too, if it wasn’t for that wonderful idiot Sōjōbō. And speaking of…

As the long trail crested, he noticed a small group of attendants standing at the crossroads between Sōjōbō’s territory and his own. At the fore stood a boar demon that was dressed like a seneschal, and a small, terrified looking Tanuki woman, who approached him.

‘L-Lord Youko Kurama…” She stuttered, trembling as he looked down on her. “My Lord Sōjōbō of The Western Peak of Kurama Mountain, Dai-Tengu and Master of the Court of Glass Moon, wishes that you stop to rest and refresh yourself at his Household. We are to escort you, if you please.” The woman got the entire speech out in one breath, and hastily retreated behind the piggish creature who gave Kurama a contemptuous look. Kurama wondered at the long list of names the old bird had procured for himself in his absence.

Impressive, but useless. A thousand names mean nothing when you’re still a blithering idiot.

Kurama nodded to her and considered Sōjōbō’ offer. It had been four decades since his departure from Japan, and longer still since he had even spoken to one of his servants, much less Sōjōbō himself . But even so… this sudden show of hospitality set Kurama’s nose to the wind, and damned if he didn’t smell a rat.

The seneschal pig he had all but completely forgotten suddenly cleared his throat, calling Kurama's attention.

“My Lord also requests that you dine with Him tonight, to discuss certain… incidents of times past.” The pig arched the ridge on his face where eyebrows might have been, and gave Kurama an appraising look. “My Lord wishes to call you attention to a, shall we say, deal that you and He made long ago. Something about a trade?” The pig said, looking incredibly full of himself. Kurama blinked at him, momentarily confused.

A trade, what does he… oh. That. Well then, if he’s so eager, might as well take him up on the offer.

Kurama tilted his head slightly, and gave them all his most entrancing smile. “Please inform Lord Sōjōbō that I am honored to be received, and that he flatters me with his offer. Please inform him also that I would be more than happy to discuss our agreement... at his leisure, of course.” Kurama turned his grin full force at the pig, giving his escorts the disturbing impression that he was going to skewer the seneschal over a spit and eat him for dinner.

Well, the idea had merit, if nothing else.

And it has been a rather long while since my last meal…

The pig snorted arrogantly and turned to give his companions their instructions. With the Tanuki woman, Kurama noted two low-ranked Tengu, a boar, and an aging wolf grandmother who looked like she would rather be sitting next to a warm hearth rather than standing in the middle of the forest.

Either he’s trying to let me know he doesn’t mean any harm, or he REALLY doesn’t like these people for some reason.Poor old woman…

Kurama watched them silently and let his mind wander back over the years, to the last day he had seen old Sōjōbō in person. He let his thoughts skip over time as he followed the servants up the western trail, and to the gate of Sōjōbō’s home.

“Send me to my room, will he?”

Kuronue paced around his room, raging at his abrupt imprisonment. He moped, he whined, he even considered throwing a tantrum, but that might have been taking it a bit too far…

He kicked his futon, and plopped down atop a convenient pile of cushions and stuff that had been tossed about by his paroxysm, and pouted. Again. This pattern had been repeated for at least two hours by his recollecting (well, in reality, fifteen minutes—but cruel and unusual room-sending had a way of defying all concepts of time.)

“I’m not a child.” he kicked out his feet and sprawled over the cushions, throwing his arms over his eyes. Outside, thunder spirits were playing in earnest. He envied them; they were probably wondering why he wasn’t out there, flying and teasing along with them. But no, not tonight. Not when the Autumn storms were just getting their big wind, the nice, ravaging storms that would be certain death to any lesser beast.

“Because of that Demon that Ruko spoke of…” He flailed around to lie on his stomach, and called out to Kimidori—another Tengu, and his personal servant.

“Kimidori, attend a moment?”

“My lord?”

“Who’s this Youko fellow who is visiting tonight?” He asked. No one truly important, I’m sure. Father’s just an opportunist. Like myself, unfortunately..

Kimidori was quiet for a moment.

“My lord, surely you are jesting with me? Is this a new game?”

Kuronue fidgeted uncomfortably. It would be nice if Kimidori would take him seriously once in a while.

Why do people always think I’m being funny when I’m serious?

“No, I want to know. Is he well-known or powerful?”

“Well…” Kimidori moved into the main room before answering. “They used to call him the ‘Poisoner,’ but I think everyone has settled with calling him the Demon Fox—Youko—since ‘Poisoner’ is just so common a name for the demonically inclined these days.”

Kimidori paused and looked at Kuronue, one feathery eyebrow raised. “You are sure you’ve heard nothing of him? He is rather famous.”

“No, I’ve never heard of him. Not a high ranking lord, is he?” Kuronue asked—He couldn’t help it now, he was curious.

“I do not jest. He is also called the Bandit King, The Bane of Kurama Mountain, or Youko Kurama. He’s not truly any kind of Lord, per se, just very old and powerful.”

Kuronue turned that over in his mind.

“Why does he have so many names? What’s his real name? Why Bandit King?” He picked at the pillows he rested on, playing with the tassels—much like he had when Kimidori would tell him stories when he was very young.

But this is no story…

“Nobody knows his name…. Some say he was never given a name, some say his name is the secret to his power, so he doesn’t tell anyone, others say he was cursed by the Great Mother, and speaking his name is a sin against the Gods, so nobody says it. ”

“I can’t imagine someone unfortunate enough to have that over his head.”

“To be sure. As for the title of ‘Bandit King,’ about two hundred years ago he led a rather large guild of thieves… but it seemed he became bored of them, or they all died. However, he retained the name here. He and your father are, well, the Gods cannot make two mountains without a valley in between.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Youko and your father, they are both powerful, are they not?”

Kuronue blinked at him. “Ye-es, but I…”

“Well, because they are both powerful, they are constantly at odds. Youko is powerful and very old, he holds much in the way of experience, knowledge and wealth. Your father, by comparison, is powerful and young—hot-blooded and arrogant.

“Nearly a century before you were born, My Lord led a small army against Youko’s territory to try and claim the lands as his own, and to loot the treasures that are rumored to be buried within. He lost, badly. Since that time, Youko has been helping himself to our coffers and the treasures of our guests, as a kind of revenge.” Kimidori sighed. It had been so long ago, that day that a battered and traumatized Sōjōbō had returned from his horribly failed campaign.

“It is believed that Youko had made a deal with My Lord in exchange for his life.” He ruffled his feathers, moving to a more comfortable position. “Youko was very kind to My Lord, but I don’t think he took it that way.”

Kuronue sat up now, hugging one of the pillows to his chest, a look of rapt attention glued to his face. “Why not? I mean, if Youko let him live…”

“I believe your father saw it as an insult, or that Youko thought him too beneath his notice to kill.

“Huh.”

“Indeed.”

They were both silent then, Kuronue musing over the story of this Youko, Kimidori listening contentedly to the rain and thunder outside. Kuronue twisted the story over in his mind, suppressing a wild and gleeful grin.

He is a thief, and a good one at that. Father doesn’t know what I get up to with Yagane and Hokushimaru when the storms come. I wonder if he even bothers to check where the entire “overflow” in his coffers is coming from.

Kuronue had been stealing from priests and lords since he got his wings, thanks to his two less-than-moral friends. Hokushimaru was a lover of fine things, as was his sister Yagane, but trouble in their own courts had led to them being forbidden spending money for the next century unless they could find it themselves. They were of a mind that any respectable kind of work was far too plebian and beneath them, but they didn’t want to do the thieving on their own. Enter an inquisitive and resourceful Tengu and they had exactly what they needed. Kuronue didn’t need any of the profit; he rarely kept anything he stole, which usually consisted of untraceable and re-sellable jewelry and the occasional coin and unset gems. Yagane tinkered with accessories, so the gems and precious metals went to her. Hokushimaru just liked to spend money on women.

Kuronue, however, just loved the thrill; the secrecy of it; the challenge. It was much more stimulating than boring nights watching the moonlight on water and reading poetry to kinfolk nobles. Even killing impious priests had lost its taste. (Not to mention the priests themselves. He’d partaken of human flesh several times, and every time it tasted just a bit more disgusting.)

He was alone in it, though. The siblings were his friends, yes, but when it came to this extracurricular they were more like clients than partners. Neither of them was interested in the effort or the craft that went in to reallocating their baubles. But this Youko, someone who was obviously so skilled in this line of work…

This is perfect, someone on my level.

How invaluable the information he could gather from such a master.

I want to meet this man. Kuronue thought, clawing at his pillows. I have to meet him. The urge, the curiosity, he was letting it get the better of him, he knew, but still…

I need to meet him.

Kurama followed his escort, quietly marveling at the interior of Sōjōbō’s home.

More like a palace. So this is what he’s been doing with all the funds I have supplied him, eh? Not bad.

He walked behind the Pig and the old Wolf Grandmother—the Tanuki woman and Tengu guards following a respectful

Fearful

distance behind.

Kurama ignored them. At best, they were completely beneath his notice.

Sōjōbō’s home, however, was more than interesting enough for his tastes. Whoever was charged with decorating the place had done a lovely job—the walls, shoji screens, even the beams and wood supports around the estate were lacquered, carved, painted, or hung with tapestries depicting various legends and historical events.

There were Tatami rooms now, as opposed to using Tatami as basic throw-rugs for futon and seats. Most of the rooms sported little furniture, but what each lacked in furnishings there was better effort put into decorations. Graceful Ikebana, elegant carved dolls and handsome calligraphy scrolls gave even more artful touches to alcoves and corners—while windows and painted screens gave the soft illusion of one being surrounded by nature.

The estate itself was a labyrinthine affair of twisting corridors and hallways; Kurama caught glimpses of hidden corridors and stairways. Latticework and alcove windows were almost obvious teases, letting one see just enough of the inner rooms to stir his curiosity before cutting off his line of sight altogether.

As he was guided deeper into the estate, he began to wonder just how many people actually lived in this place.

Let me see… I know he has three sons, two of them married. Obviously there are these lively escorts, and possibly a small personal guard. Servants, handmaidens for the ladies, and maybe a harem, if I know anything about Old Bird.

So, at the very least twenty people.

Gods, Old bird, is your house big enough?

Kurama was slightly disgusted with his ‘old friend.’ Living comfortably was one thing, and being artistic certainly didn’t detract from the place, but the obvious extravagance—it was somewhat sickening.

I wonder how much land he destroyed to build out from the original Manse.

Bastard.

The journey came to an end somewhere on the other side of the planet… estate… in another of the extravagant staterooms littered about the place. A rather lovely woman

Human? Kinfolk, maybe?

Awaited him, all grace and propriety.

“My lord.” She said, and bowed to him. “I have been instructed to entertain you until Lord Sōjōbō arrives.”

Kurama nodded to her, and then blanked out everything she said completely. As she poured tea, he let his mind wander.

Making me wait, huh. I suppose he thinks he’s “cleverly and subtly” insulting me. Poor stupid thing, he has no concept of patience.

His thoughts were cut off as the Shoji opposite him slid open, revealing old Sōjōbō himself. He was dressed in formal Haori and Hakama, official dress of state and all the trimmings, wearing his ‘human’ form; his huge feathery wings folded behind him. He was almost the exact opposite of Kurama, who was dressed simply and comfortably for travel.

“Hello, old friend.” Kurama said, trying to keep the smirk in his mind from reaching his face. “You look well.”

Kurama smiled, Sōjōbō frowned.

Let the games begin.