Musuko (Book Two of the Kakureta Hana series)

VII: Shichi

The dining hall contains as much of the clan as can possibly fit into the space.  The noise of all of those people in such a space carries to my ears as much as the mixed odors of sweat, food, and flowers do to my nose.  Amaya has not left my side since our lives were bound together.  She barely allows an inch of space between the two of us, her discomfort at being the center of so much attention manifesting itself.

Whenever I can, I reach for her hand and firmly entwine my fingers with hers, reassuring her that I am not going to leave her alone.  Sakura and Ryuu made their exit hours ago after offering congratulations to both of us.  Their appearance in the hall, a place that they had not been since my parents died, garnered mixed reactions from the assembled clan.  Sakura seemed especially uneasy when it came to Taro, and I had noted that neither Ryuu nor Yori allowed her to be left by herself at any time.

Sake flows even more freely at this celebration than those hosted after battle victories.  I look over the faces of the people that my father and my grandfather left in my care, the joy that eases the lines that have come from years of nonstop war and the losses that have accumulated.  I see how the wedding has brought forth remembrances of love and the happy moments that these people, my people, have managed to steal even from the looming shadow of death that hangs over them every time the men march off to battle.  I find the expressions of elation and hope that cross the faces of those who wander over to heap blessings upon Amaya and me.

And it hits me even more strongly than ever since Junichi breathed his last, I have been the flickering light in the storm that the clan has been seeking to guide them through.  With each passing year, as I have grown up and completed more and more of my training, that light has grown stronger and stronger, reassuring them that one day the storm will pass on from our land.  This marriage, the tangible hope that soon there will be another Amachi heir to one day take my place, has fanned the faint light so much that it is no longer flickering.  Rather, it is a strong beacon, throwing out enough light to dissolve the shadows. 

The thing with strong beacons though is that they often attract the attention of more than just the people they are put up to guide.  My father made many enemies during his years leading the clan, and I know that I have more than likely made some as well.  The problem is that I do not know if the wolves seeking my blood linger outside my door or if they have already found their way inside the walls I have deemed safe.

Amaya shifts next to me, the reminder of her presence drawing me out of my thoughts.  We have been sharing a plate this night, for we found that neither of us has much of an appetite.  It would not matter even if we did as the clan does not allow us more than a moment to snatch a bite.  Even now, one of the older women of the clan is standing in front of where my wife is seated, extending her blessing that our marriage will be filled with the birthing of many strong sons.  When she has finished, Amaya bows slightly, thanking her both for the blessing and for the wisdom that she has imparted upon our clan.

"How much longer do we linger here, Kazuhiko?" She asks me, leaning close to my ear so I can hear her words over the din of celebration.  "The hour grows long, and the guests grow bold."

I wrap an arm around her shoulder, still marveling at the fact that the woman looking up at me is my wife.  I glance towards the open doors of the hall, finding the only light seeping in from the outside is that from the stars and the lanterns.  The hour has grown late, later than I anticipated lingering in the hall.

"We will say our goodbyes and retire for the night," I mutter against the curve of her ear.  When she tilts her face closer to mine, I capture her lips in a light kiss. "Take your mother with you, and I will handle the clan.  Most have consumed enough sake tonight that they will likely not even remember when we left them."