The Withering Flame (sample)

The Withering Flame, Chapter II (Sample)

The priest from the Shimogamo Shrine, tending to the sick Mikado, hesitated before unveiling the silk curtain.

"Prepare yourself, denka," he told Mutsuhito.

"I'll be fine." The Prince waved his hand impatiently. How bad can it be? "Hurry up."

The curtain spread open; Mutsuhito looked at his father and gagged. If the priest hadn't supported him, he would have staggered to the floor.

"I warned you," said the priest. In his voice, there was the tired sadness of a man who had to convey bad news too many times to too many people.

The Divine Mikado Kōmei lay unmoving, deathly, among the white silken pillows. Every inch of his exposed skin — face, neck, hands — was covered with scarlet pustules seeping black ooze. The pustules were so numerous that they joined each other in places, making it seem as if the Mikado wore a horrible demonic mask. Thick, dark blood seeped from his nostrils and the corner of his mouth.

The Mikado opened his eyes with effort, the rest of his face remained unmoving under the layer of pus, and the effect was unreal, as if what lay on the silk pillows was a mere automaton, not a real human being.

"Draw the curtain, priest," Kōmei ordered. At least his voice was still as strong as ever. "There's no need for my son to suffer too."

The priest reached for the silk, but Mutsuhito stopped him. "I'm fine. Just... bring us some water."

The priest bowed and shuffled out of the Bamboo Room. The Crown Prince gazed at his father, his despair growing with every second.

"I don't understand," he said, "it's been a few days since I last saw you, you were fine then. I thought it was just some weakness."

"I was poisoned, Mutsuhito," said Kōmei.

"Poisoned? Who would dare?"

The Mikado's lips curled in a strained smile. "There are many who always wanted my death... but they could never think of a scheme that would destroy the entire bloodline at once... until now."

"The bloodline... you mean this attack was aimed at both of us?"

"A disease — " Kōmei explained, " — a perfect crime. It was those damn handkerchiefs... or maybe that bottle of spirit... soaked in the concentrated pus of a black pox victim they got from Gods know where..."

Black pox!

"Father, I — I have something to tell you..."

The Mikado raised a feeble hand. "I know, son. Iwakuni had you vaccinated in secret. He told me as soon as we discovered what had happened to me."

Mutsuhito bowed his head.

"I'm sorry. I know this was against your wishes."

"How can you say this?" Kōmei coughed. Droplets of bloody spittle fell on his white robe. "You will live, that's all that matters. I was a stubborn fool. I'm glad my advisors proved wiser."

"You will live too, Father." Mutsuhito wiped tears from his eyes. He reached to grab his father's hand, but Mikado moved it away with surprising swiftness.

"We don't have time for this foolishness," he said, and sniffled. "This is the final stage, I will not see tomorrow's dawn. I have something very important to tell you." He coughed again, a longer and more violent fit this time. "Where did that damn priest go? How long does it take to bring water?"

The priest rushed to him with the pitcher and put it to his parched, cracked lips. The Mikado drank eagerly. Mutsuhito reached for his cup; the water had a sweet, almost flowery taste. He recognised it — it had come from the well that was used to wash babies newly born within the confines of the palace.