Mitsunari woke late the next morning, so by the time he received word, Yoshitsugu had already moved into his new quarters in the palace and was once again unpacking his belongings. Eager to see if the crippled strategist was faring better, Mitsunari scuttled through the halls to the other wing, locating the door.
"Ootani?" he called.
The door slid open. Yoshitsugu hovered there in silence, his expression entirely unreadable.
"Well?" Mitsunari asked. "Is it better?"
"So it was you?"
"Yes. I suggested to Hanbei-sama that—"
"I didn't ask for this, nor do I appreciate what you've done. I may be sick but I am certainly not weak, and only the weak should have to receive preferential treatment. I would have been fine in the barracks and there was no need to bring my illness to the forefront like this."
Mitsunari stared at him stupidly, too shocked to come up with a response.
"Now if you'll excuse me," Yoshitsugu said, "I'm preoccupied."
The young Ishida's hands clenched into fists and his entire body trembled. Though he struggled to keep his face straight, he must have failed, as the strategist recoiled slightly. Mitsunari spun on his heel and stormed off.
Back in his family's wing of the palace, he stopped in the hallway to cool his head, but Yoshitsugu's bitter words stung him again and again. I should have said something, he scolded himself, struggling with the desire to punch the wall. How could he be so ungrateful? I should have told him, snapped at him—
"Oi." A shoulder bumped into his own. It was Masazumi. "What are you doing here staring at the wall?"
All Mitsunari had to do was turn around and his brother's expression changed. Without another word, Masazumi opened the door to his room and gestured inside. Plunking down on the floor, the younger Ishida was uncomfortably aware of his downturned mouth.
"Who had the gall to make you angry this early in the morning?" Masazumi asked gently.
"Ootani!" he blurted. "I went to see him but he was angry at me! He thinks I did him a disservice by having him moved to the palace!"
"Start from the beginning and tell me what happened."
When Mitsunari was done, the older Ishida sat back in thought.
"It's not my fault if he's oversensitive about his illness!" Tears of frustration stung Mitsunari's eyes and he looked away, blinking them back. "No one could live in that room! Instead of appreciating what I did he would prefer to cling to some precious pride!"
Masazumi sighed. "Ootani has likely faced ridicule and isolation from everyone he's met. Naturally, he'd want to prove to others that he's worth something, that the illness is nothing and they should look at his talents instead. Maybe that's why he was displeased. He thought you saw past the illness but when you had him relocated, he felt betrayed because to him you were acting just like everyone else, giving him better accommodation because he was ill, not because he deserved it."
"So you're telling me it is a matter of pride?"
"Why shouldn't it be? Don't you remember how you were treated when you tried to be friends with the younger soldiers in the army? You wanted acceptance just like Ootani did. You wanted them to see past your deeds and position, to who you really were underneath."
"Don't remind me!" he snapped. "If they're not already dead, then I hope they die soon!"
Masazumi glared. "Mitsunari!"
Baring his teeth, he looked away but quieted.
"Give Ootani some time to cool his head," the older Ishida remarked. "Likewise with you. Then, tomorrow, we shall see what happens."
"It's always like this!" He struck the floor with a hand. "Whenever I...try to be kind to someone, this happens! I don't need friends! I have you and Otou-sama, and that's enough!"
"No," Masazumi said patiently. "We're not going to be around forever. I could die, or Otou-sama could die, or both of us could die. You would be left all alone and we don't want that."
If you and Otou-sama were to die and leave me all alone, Mitsunari wanted to say, then I'd rather follow you both.
A hand thumped his shoulder. "The heavens only know where you got your temper from. Don't be so quick to lash out at people, Mitsunari. No one will suffer but you."
Sighing, the younger Ishida lowered his head and nodded.
"Forget about Ootani for today and see if he will reconsider his words tomorrow."
"I wonder," Mitsunari murmured.
#
Fidgeting, Mitsunari waited as Masatsugu pitched the practice dummy in the middle of the training courtyard. This dummy was unlike the others—clothed in a ragtag assembly of thick scrap metal plates to mimic armour.
"Good." Masatsugu clapped his hands together to shake off the dust. "We're ready to begin."
"What are you teaching me?" Mitsunari asked.
Masazumi grinned. "A special technique. One that can help you cut through the thickest armour."
"Am I the lecturer here, or you?" their father said dryly. "Would you like the honour of teaching your little brother, then, Masazumi?"
"No, no, the honour is all yours, dearest father," the older Ishida responded, bowing.
"Then be quiet."
A ring of curious soldiers gathered around them, wondering why the Ishida had marked off such a huge section of the training courtyard. As usual, the warriors ignored them.
"Mitsunari, surely you remember that occasion two years ago when you claimed the head of your first high-ranking target?"
"Yes, Otou-sama. And I proceeded to behead many more after that."
"Do you recall the method you used to kill them?"
Uncertain of how to answer, he paused. "I...held my katana in my teeth."
Masatsugu nodded. "And used your body as a missile. You know that setsuna enables us to strike fast, and with the speed we gain, strike harder. Fingers become claws, the spikes on our armour become blades. And our weapons, death."
"So is this a way to enhance my technique?"
"Yes. Every Ishida is different but the core principle remains the same. Spinning."
Cocking his head, he imagined a few scenarios. "Spinning?"
"Masazumi, since you were so eager to teach, demonstrate."
The older Ishida yawned and yanked his sword from its sheath on his back. "Fine."
Mitsunari and Masatsugu stood aside, while Masazumi eyed the distance between himself and the dummy and backed away. The soldiers around them watched, none making a sound.
With a decisive kick of his legs, Masazumi leaned gracefully into a sprint, and as he closed the distance he leaped into the air. His smooth, calculated movements took Mitsunari's breath away. Then his body angled towards the dummy, and he spun, pulling his arms and sword closer to himself, spinning faster in the process until he blurred out of the sky. The next instant he skidded across the ground several yards past the dummy, which exploded into pieces. Shards of scrap metal and straw pelted the area where it once stood.
Dumbstruck, Mitsunari stared, as did all the spectators. Masatsugu nodded and crossed back to the sidelines to drag another dummy to the middle.
Masazumi, meanwhile, remained kneeling on the ground for several moments before he rose to his feet and padded back towards them. He was breathing hard and trying, unsuccessfully, to slow it down in an attempt to appear unfazed.
"Imagine that," he said, "on an enemy soldier. Same result."
"Be careful how you use it," Masatsugu said, pitching the second dummy. "You gain tremendous speed so it becomes very difficult to stop afterwards, and as you can see, it takes quite a toll on your body and leaves you vulnerable. But the speed and strength is unmatched."
"Do what I did," Masazumi said. "Get a running start and jump. As you're descending, spin. Then use setsuna to propel yourself. But you require a different technique since your sword only cuts on one side and you hold it oddly—you need to stop spinning before you hit your target. Do you understand?"
Nodding, the young Ishida turned to face the dummy. At that moment, the sunlight pooled and reflected within moving orbs somewhere in the crowd of soldiers. A flick of his eyes confirmed his suspicions and his heart thudded. Yoshitsugu was there, floating near the rear, watching him with that expressionless face.
Mitsunari jerked his gaze away, although his heartbeat increased. Did Yoshitsugu feel badly for what had happened this morning? If he didn't, he wouldn't be here, would he?
There was no time for such uncertainties. His father and brother were watching him intently and he could not possibly fail in front of so many soldiers. And Yoshitsugu.
Eyeing the distance between himself and the dummy, he backed up, further and further until he was almost at the edge of the marked-off perimeter. Then, drawing his katana, he dug his teeth into the grip. Hunkering down, he charged towards the dummy, and as he neared he jumped as his brother had done. Now airborne, he twisted his body and accelerated his movement, pulling his arms inwards for more speed. Though the world now spun ferociously, his eyes remained fixed on the dummy. As soon as he reached the height of his jump, he straightened out like an arrow, drawing upon the power of setsuna. His surroundings blinked past and the katana twitched in his mouth. Then he skidded across the ground behind the dummy, struggling to halt his momentum, with a dust cloud drifting in his wake.
He winced as his muscles all cried out suddenly, and knelt there panting for breath. When he regained the strength to stand up, he limped back to the dummy, or what remained of it, and was astonished to see that it was cut cleanly in half, diagonally. His blade sliced through the haphazard metal plates as cleanly as a sharpened knife cut meat.
"Well done," Masatsugu said. "A splendid first attempt."
A murmur rose from the soldiers as they dispersed. Casting a glance towards the crowd, Mitsunari found Yoshitsugu still hovering there, but he was unsure of the crippled strategist's intentions. So he ignored the man, instead assisting his father with picking up the pieces of dummy and tossing them in a heap for the workers to take care of. Masazumi's eyes flicked back and forth between Mitsunari and Yoshitsugu, but he chose to remain silent.
The young Ishida followed his family out of the courtyard, walking past the strategist without turning his head.
"Ishida," Yoshitsugu said. "It was a most magnificent strike."
"He'll catch up," Masazumi said to his father, seizing his sleeve and dragging him onwards. "Let's go."
Mitsunari watched somewhat helplessly as his brother and father left him behind, then turned to face the strategist. Still unsure of what to say, he kept his jaw locked.
"My quarters," Yoshitsugu said, in a quieter voice, "are much better than the hardship I faced in the barracks. No staring and murmuring men, for one. No draft, for another. You only wanted to make me more comfortable, and I spoke rashly this morning. I owe you an apology."
"It's funny," Mitsunari said at last. "This is the first time anyone who has done me wrong returned and asked for forgiveness. It's...a luxury I'm not accustomed to."
"We have much in common, you and I."
"I suppose."
