PART I: THE SIXTH SCROLL

 

Deftly the new moon

Brushes a silver haiku

On the tips of the waves

—Kyoshi

Ken’ishi’s first view of the castle of Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo brought his weary feet to a halt on the road. The roofs of its two keeps, one taller than the other, rose majestically over the skirts of the surrounding town. Something swelled behind his ribs, driving out an incoherent sound overcome with profound joy.

His previous visit here, with the itinerant merchant Shirohige, felt like another life, or the account of another’s life, so much had changed. A bolt of his life’s cloth had been woven with people and experiences and then ripped asunder, leaving only disparate shreds.

Now, the castle was his destination, a place for him to belong, to fulfill his destiny as a warrior. Service with a great lord had been his fondest wish since the day Kaa had set him free to walk the earth with Silver Crane at his hip. For the first time in his life, he would belong somewhere, and that belonging would not be clouded by deceit.

He adjusted his pack, hitched up his trousers, torn and stained as they were from his trek through the forest, and ran down the hill toward the town like an exuberant child. His heaving breath tugged at the stitches of the still healing wound over his heart. As he ran, Ken’ishi marveled again at the majesty of the castle on its hilltop, its stone walls that swept up for five stories, its white-plastered sides, its sweeping roofs, its dark, heavy shutters.

The surrounding lands were a well-tended patchwork of stubbled rice fields, terracing down toward orchards and gardens, all gray and brown and dormant with the onset of winter. In his excitement, even these dismal colors that covered the hibernating world felt as vibrant as the first blooms of sakura. He crossed the wooden bridge over the river and trotted into Hita town.

Here in midafternoon, Hita town was alive with far more activity than during his previous visit. Men and oxen pulled carts of grain, timber, and tools. Women and boys toiled with sticks, feathers, and slivers of steel to fill barrels of arrows. The hot, sharp odor of forges and grindstones belched from the dark recesses of smithies. The Mongol invaders had been destroyed, but from the preparations for war going on here, it looked as if the enemy might return at any moment. None of the townsfolk paid Ken’ishi the slightest attention, not even the roving packs of children running bare-legged through patches of cold mud.

His stomach roared at not having eaten yet today—he had wanted to push straight through the last distance to the castle—but he passed several food vendors without stopping. He would not tarry until he had presented himself for duty to Otomo no Tsunemori, brother of the great lord and captain of his forces, and returned to him the little kozuka blade he had given Ken’ishi in the aftermath of the Mongol attack. The blade represented an invitation to serve, one of the greatest gifts Ken’ishi had ever received.

Up the cobblestone path terraced with steps toward the castle gates, his legs took on a surer step, each footfall purposeful, determined. His heart skipped a few occasional beats. The gates were open to admit lines of laborers hauling stores on their backs into the castle.

Two guards stood at the gate with naginata, clad in armor and helm. They challenged him, but neither appeared surprised to see a ronin.

“I am Ken’ishi. I fought with the defense forces against the barbarian invaders. I was told by Captain Otomo no Tsunemori to present myself for service to Lord Otomo. He gave me this.” Ken’ishi showed them the kozuka.

They raised their eyebrows in surprise at the small blade, engraved with Tsunemori’s name.

“Please take me to him,” Ken’ishi said.

Both of them eyed him for a long moment, and Ken’ishi began to grow angry that they seemed to doubt his word. Finally, one said, “Follow me.”

He led Ken’ishi through the gates, up through the ways between the castle’s concentric fortifications, to a practice yard. Battered striking posts, bales of straw serving as archery targets, and weapons racks surrounded the perimeter of the yard. Ten scruffy-looking warriors with wooden swords sparred in pairs, under the watchful eye of Captain Tsunemori, who sat on a chair upon a raised platform.

Tsunemori was middle-aged, handsome, with eyes revealing a sharp intelligence. Astride his horse in the aftermath of the battle, when he had given Ken’ishi the kozuka, Tsunemori had been an imposing figure. Excitement coursed through Ken’ishi at meeting the man again.

Flanking Tsunemori on either side were two other samurai in fine but serviceable attire, upright caps upon their heads like black coxcombs, their faces grim and discriminating. They watched the sparring matches with intense scrutiny. The contestants struck and feinted, yelled fierce kiai and grunts of pain as blows struck home.

The sparring warriors, ronin all, it seemed, wore various bits of battered armor and carried a wide variety of weapons, some types Ken’ishi had never seen. Chains and sickles, massive axes and hammers, strange, wickedly-spiked spears. Most looked ragged and unkempt. Some of them had crafty, predatory glints in their eyes. How many of them had been bandits? With that question, Ken’ishi felt the guilty weight of his own questionable deeds.

A ronin was a unique sort of outsider: a samurai without a master; a man tossed by the waves of life, fitting nowhere—like a wild animal, not to be trusted. Warriors without direction and purpose often turned to banditry to support themselves. Sometimes a warrior became ronin because he lost his lord in battle or because he made some grievous error, resulting in banishment from the lord’s service. Sometimes a child was born to a ronin father, as Ken’ishi had been. Many of the men around him looked like long-time ronin, with unshaven pates and beards, threadbare clothing, and unpolished swords.

The guard said, “Wait here until you’re called.”

Ken’ishi bowed, and the samurai departed. Shrugging off his pack, Ken’ishi noticed three other warriors sitting on the ground nearby, all of varying means, judging by their raiment, all of them sizing him up as well. He sat near them and waited, trying to contain the excitement coursing through him. For the first time in his life, he felt as if he had entered hallowed halls and joined the company of his martial fellows. Joining the defense forces in Dazaifu to stem the invasion, by contrast, had felt like transient good fortune, tinged with the desperation of impending annihilation.

As the sparring matches continued, he surmised that all of these men were new recruits to Lord Otomo’s forces. They fought with a wide unevenness of skill and temperament. Some were little more than wild thugs with tenuous control of weapon or self. Others showed edges of sharp training.

Captain Tsunemori scrutinized the matches with a stern, astute eye. Would Tsunemori remember Ken’ishi? Would Ken’ishi have to spar with these men? There was no man he feared in single combat, whether his sword was steel or wood, and he itched to show his powers.

The officer to Tsunemori’s right raised a war fan and called a halt to the sparring. The men gathered themselves up, dusted themselves off, and knelt before the dais, pressing their foreheads to the earth.

“Next group!” called the officer with the fan.

Ken’ishi’s presence made the next group into four, two even matches.

He stood, and a page boy brought each of them a fresh, white oak bokken. Ken’ishi tested its heft and balance.

The officer with the fan gestured them into pairs. Ken’ishi took a deep breath and squared himself against his opponent. His opponent was a man in his thirties, with a vertical scar that twisted his bottom lip and hard-knuckled hands missing the two smallest fingers on his right.

The officer said, “No blows to the head.” He raised the fan to commence the sparring, but Tsunemori interrupted him.

“Is that you, Sir Ken’ishi?”

Ken’ishi faced the dais and bowed deeply. Even though Ken’ishi was far below him in rank, Tsunemori had addressed him with respect. “It is, Lord Tsunemori.” His face flushed with pride.

“Have you brought my kozuka?”

Ken’ishi touched the pouch tied to his obi.

“I have, my lord.”

Tsunemori nodded. “You may commence.”

The eyes of Ken’ishi’s opponent flashed with envy and fresh determination. Here was his chance to make his own favorable impression on these Otomo vassals. “You are too pretty to be a warrior,” he growled, the words twisting his scarred lip into a sneer.

Ken’ishi faced him, bowed, and raised his bokken into the middle guard position. He felt Tsunemori’s cool gaze fixed upon him.

Taking a deep breath, Ken’ishi settled into the Void, where there was no victory and no defeat, only the endless slices of moments where all possibilities of the universe remained quiescent, awaiting impetus to be given life.

His opponent’s stance was unbalanced, his footwork unrooted in the power of the earth. He was at least ten years older than Ken’ishi, with a chest shrunken and cheeks hollowed by hunger. There was a deviousness in his eyes, calculations within schemes.

They edged closer to one another, gauging distance, the points of their bokken inching closer.

Ken’ishi switched to the stance his old sensei Kaa had taught him, that reminiscent of a crane’s beak, edge up, point extended toward his opponent over his left elbow, body turned sideways. In all his travels, he had never encountered a swordsman familiar with this technique. This bokken was not shaped precisely like Silver Crane, but the unfamiliar technique still confused his opponent. The man edged back, and Ken’ishi attacked.

His thrusting point slipped past his opponent’s guard and struck his breastbone, as sharp as the blow of a mallet.

The pain from such a blow would be blinding. The man dropped his sword and screamed, clutching his chest. He sank to his knees, gasping, and curled like a withering leaf.

The noise distracted one of the warriors in the other match, giving his adversary the opportunity to drive the bokken out of his grip. Weaponless, the man submitted.

The officer raised the war fan. “Stop.”

The three standing faced the dais and bowed, and the man on the ground gathered himself up, cheeks wet with the sting of pain and shame. He bowed unsteadily, his eyes avoiding Ken’ishi.

Tsunemori said, “A fine blow, Ken’ishi. You would be a fearsome opponent in a duel. But what about a melee? Say, three against one?”

The face of Ken’ishi’s first opponent brightened with hope of redemption. He snatched up his bokken and sniffed, rolling up his sleeves.

The three men surrounded him, but fear did not touch him. On the road, he had faced five iron-hard Mongols and killed them. In Hakozaki, he had slain scores of barbarian horsemen. Three years ago, he had faced the terrifying oni Hakamadare. In Hita town below, last year, with his bokken he had almost killed three of Green Tiger’s thugs, all of whom had steel weapons—he would have to be careful here not to cause such injuries to these men.

Finding the Void here was easy, reflexive, so that when these three lunged at him in an uncoordinated attack, he thwarted them easily, counter-striking and gliding between the interstices of opportunity, parrying strikes, slashing them as they stumbled past, leaving stinging bruises and pain in his wake. In a few more heartbeats, it was over, and three men lay upon the ground: one senseless, one weaponless, and the last, Ken’ishi’s first opponent, doubled over again and whimpering in agony.

Only in retrospect did Ken’ishi realize he had broken the rules of the match by striking one of them across the pate. Quickly he prostrated himself before the dais. “Please accept my apologies, Lords!”

Tsunemori eased an elbow onto the arm of his chair, a faint smirk on his lips. “In combat, when an enemy offers a target, one strikes. And look, Yukiiye is already coming around. It is difficult to restrain oneself in the fog of battle. When good technique is so ingrained, it becomes as one’s very flesh. An admirable display of skill, Sir Ken’ishi. Was it not, Lieutenant Nagata?”

The man with the fan nodded. “Admirable indeed. Have you just arrived, Sir Ken’ishi?”

“Yes, Lords,” Ken’ishi said. “Lord Tsunemori, it is my honor to return to you your kozuka.” He withdrew it from a pouch attached to his obi and offered it up with both hands.

Tsunemori gestured, and a steward standing beside the dais rushed forward to retrieve it.

“I regret that there were no sword polishers along my journey,” Ken’ishi said.

Tsunemori accepted it from the steward. “I thank you for keeping it safe.” Then he raised his voice. “All of you will be given the opportunity to serve as retainers to the powerful, glorious, and honorable Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo. Many of you were ronin before the barbarians came, a few of you cast adrift by your masters’ deaths. But my brother needs men, and you fought the barbarians as befits true samurai. The life you led before you came to this is unimportant. What happens from this moment forward is important. After tonight, you will be the sworn servants of Otomo no Tsunetomo, and you are expected to behave as such. Our lord is fair and generous to those who serve with honor and distinction. Those men whose conduct shames his house will receive swift justice. If you dishonor yourself, you dishonor your lord.” His voice deepened, guttural. “If you disappoint him, you dishonor me, who chose you.”

Ken’ishi knelt again. In spite of his controlled jubilation, however, the invisible, ethereal spirits of the wind and earth, the kami, buzzed at him like a mosquito behind his ear. There were eyes upon him that wished him harm. His awareness sharpened in that moment, and he stood, surveying each of the men around him. His first opponent fixed him with an expression of puzzled consternation and hostility. The other two dusted themselves off and regarded Ken’ishi with stunned respect.

“Everyone, follow Captain Yoshimura to your quarters,” Tsunemori said. “Tonight, at the Hour of the Cock, you will report to the castle keep for your fealty ceremony.”

The officer on Tsunemori’s left stepped down from the dais and gestured to them to follow.

“[I]t can be said that bows and arrows, swords, and halberds are...instruments of bad fortune and ill-omen. The reason for this is that the Way of Heaven is a Way that brings life, while instruments that kill are, on the contrary, truly ill-omened. Thus they are considered repugnant because they are contrary to the Way of Heaven.... [However, there] are times when ten thousand people suffer because of the evil of one man. Therefore, in killing one man’s evil, you give ten thousand people life. In such ways, truly, the sword that kills one man will be the blade that gives others life.”

—Yagyu Munenori, The Life Giving Sword

Shoulders hunched, Hatsumi shuffled into the chamber of Lady Otomo no Kazuko, clutching her belly. Here in the high room of Lord Tsunetomo’s central keep, the winter wind slunk among the heavy ceiling beams like a thief, stealing all warmth and wringing a shiver from her, even in her quilted winter robes. She wondered if it were this cold in the other, smaller keep, where dwelt Tsunemori and his wife, Lady Yukino. Even the tatami was cold through her slippers. She was only twenty-seven, but she too often felt like a doddering old woman these days.

When Hatsumi saw that Kazuko was brushing her own hair, she gasped in annoyance. “My lady! You must allow me!” She hurried forward, reaching for the brush.

Kazuko flashed her a brilliant, beautiful smile and kept brushing. Hatsumi was struck by how the young woman had matured in the three years since her marriage. When they had first come to Lord Tsunetomo’s castle, Kazuko was but seventeen, her features still soft and girlish. Now, however, her face had taken on a regal elegance, the kind of beauty found once in ten thousand women. Why she did not blacken her teeth as proper, married ladies of means should, Hatsumi would never understand—baring one’s teeth, especially when Kazuko’s were so perfect and Hatsumi’s were not, was so rude. Besides, beautifully lacquered teeth allowed a lady to keep them longer. “It is no trouble, Hatsumi. You are not feeling well today. And I can hardly ask you to do something I can do for myself.”

In truth, Hatsumi was not well today. Her innards clenched and writhed and had sent her to the privy far too often. But even there she found no relief. Her belly was full of rats trying to gnaw their way out. And there was a strange lump on her scalp, just above her hairline, painful like an incipient boil. It itched, but she resisted the urge to scratch. “It is not proper for a lady to do such things. That has always been my place. Now, please give me the brush.”

Kazuko smiled indulgently and handed it over.

Hatsumi took the brush in one hand, a handful of Kazuko’s long, lustrous, raven hair in the other, and began to brush. She had always enjoyed this when Kazuko was a girl. Nowadays, in the aftermath of the Mongol attack, with Lord Tsunetomo still recovering from his wound, Kazuko had taken more of these tasks upon herself. Hatsumi did her best to conceal the hurt she felt at being swept aside, her purpose diminished, for it was not her place to complain. Kazuko was the lady, Hatsumi the servant. It had always been so.

Hatsumi said, “And how fares your husband today? His wound is healing well, yes?”

Kazuko nodded. “At breakfast this morning he said he will try to draw a bow today.”

“Ah, good! That’s good!” Hatsumi continued brushing. “A comfort that he mends so well. Such a strong husband your father found for you.”

A wistful look crossed Kazuko’s face. “A comfort, yes. Such a strong man.” The look hazed into some memory for several moments until her face flushed. “Open the shutter please, Hatsumi. It grows warm in here.”

“But, my lady, it is winter!” The nearby brazier of coals barely warmed the room.

Kazuko’s eyes hardened as she peered back over her shoulder, and Hatsumi drew back. Fine, let us open the window and grow chilled again. She bit back this angry retort, crossed to the nearest shutter, swung it up, and propped it open to admit a blast of cold air.

Below, in the practice yard, Tsunemori and his officers watched a group of four men sparring. Since Lord Tsunetomo and Captain Tsunemori had returned a few weeks prior, ronin and other vagabonds had been trickling daily into the castle, new recruits to replenish the ranks of troops slaughtered in the barbarian attack. A ragged-looking bunch to be sure, but perhaps they could be polished into proper samurai.

Her gaze drifted over the faces from on high. Then she thought she saw something. A familiar face. A familiar, shaggy topknot. She fixed her attention upon the man. Standing one among many, oblivious to her presence as Tsunemori addressed them.

No…

It could not be him.

Not here.

Not now.

Not ever!

“What is it, Hatsumi? Do you see something?”

There was no mistake. The man below was Ken’ishi.

Hatsumi backed away, gripping her hands to keep them from shaking. “No, I was just trying to get a better look.”

“Another batch of recruits today? Are they all hale and strong?” Kazuko’s voice was playful, and she rose to come to the window.

Hatsumi cleared her throat and intercepted her. By all the gods and buddhas, no, not him, not here. He’ll ruin everything. “They look like a bunch of unwashed scoundrels.”

Hatsumi’s mind, all of her will, focused on one thought. Kazuko must not see him. She must not know he was here. Hatsumi’s mind raced. She must get rid of him! The ronin Ken’ishi must be driven from the castle like a dog. Or killed. He must never trouble Kazuko again. He must remain forever only a memory. Three years had passed since they had last seen each other, and only recently had Kazuko seemed to stop pining for him.

If Kazuko saw him, she would throw away everything.

“Come, my lady, sit back down,” Hatsumi said. “The wind is freezing. Please let me close the window.”

Kazuko sighed. “Very well.”

Hatsumi hurriedly closed and latched the shutter. As she did, another stabbing pain doubled her over, like a bite into her lower belly, into her womb. She gasped and clutched her middle, biting back a scream.

Kazuko voice rose. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Hatsumi tried to speak. “I...am not well today.”

“Oh, Hatsumi, again?”

Hatsumi went to her knees.

“I must call for my husband’s physician!”

Hatsumi groaned, “Yes! Please!” Fear cinched a rope around her heart.

The pain coalesced again in her womb, as it always did, like the oni Hakamadare’s enormous member tearing into her, its savage claws puncturing her flesh.

Kazuko gathered her robes and hurried out.

Hatsumi knelt on the floor, praying for the wave of pain to subside. It always did, but the agony of its presence was a thing of terror.

Her brain reeled with what to do. If Kazuko saw Ken’ishi, she would fall in love with him all over again, and Tsunetomo would see it.

She staggered to her feet, straightened herself as best she could, and went to find the only man who could fix this situation.

* * *

Yasutoki sipped his afternoon tea and hated the world.

Since his return to Lord Tsunetomo’s estate, after the destruction of everything he had built in the guise of Green Tiger over almost twenty years, after the loss of his house near Hakata Bay, after the loss of the sword Silver Crane, for which he had spent years searching, after the utter failure of the invasion in which he colluded with the illustrious Khan of Khans, after so many schemes within schemes had been wiped out in one great swipe by the hand of the gods, he wanted to kill something. He wanted to snuff the life from some hapless creature put in his path to settle his nerves.

The afternoon light was gray and cold here at the beginning of winter, seeping through the slats in the shutter to steal the warmth from his office and his bones. His aging bones. So much lost. His body was no longer as strong as it had once been, nor as resilient, the curse of age that eats away the efforts of conqueror and commoner alike.

In the weeks since the typhoon had wiped out the barbarian fleet, Yasutoki had taken stock of what he had lost, and it pained him even more now. Immense wealth, washed away. Underworld contacts, slain or lost. His henchmen, Masoku and Fang Shi, slain. In the onslaught of burning and destruction, his gambling parlors and whorehouses in Hakata and Hakozaki, all destroyed. Silver Crane, fallen into the hands of some strange, masked figure with a trained bear at his side, according to Tiger Lily’s account of that night.

The only good news was that, in such an emptiness left by the immense destruction of the invasion and the storm, new opportunities could be prised from the wreckage. One of these days, he would finish licking his wounds and stand ready to rebuild Green Tiger’s underworld empire. He would fight for the re-ascendance of the Taira clan.

Amid endless whorls of black thoughts, he sipped his tea and contemplated death. Death to the Shogun and the Minamoto clan. Death to the Hojo clan that propped up a corrupt and useless government. Death to anyone who opposed him from this day forward. One bit of good news was that sweet, tender, obedient Tiger Lily awaited him every night in a small hovel he had arranged for her in town. Their secret meetings had become the poultice for his wounds.

A timid knock at his door almost roused a snarl from him, but he restrained it. Best not to reveal his black mood.

“Enter.”

The door slid open, and there stood one of the people he least wanted to see in all the world.

Hatsumi knelt at the door jamb and bowed. “I’m very sorry to disturb you...”

His voice was cold. “Hatsumi. You may come in.”

She swallowed hard and entered. Her face was pale, taut, sheened with sweat despite the chill, fringes of her hair falling loose around her ears. When had she started to gray? She kept her eyes downcast, her lips pursed over her horse-like teeth. She knelt before him like an upright sack of grain settling into place, then winced as if in pain.

How he had ever stomached bedding her, he could not fathom. “What is it?”

She cleared her throat. “This is a delicate matter, dearest—”

“Do not call me that,” he snapped.

“But—”

“Listen to me, Hatsumi. I do not love you. Our liaisons are at an end. No more letters. No more poems. Do you understand?”

She flinched as if struck, her face crumpling, eyes tearing. She spun away from him and collapsed onto her hands and knees, shoulders convulsing.

He waited for her to compose herself.

She inched away from him as if every sob was driven out of her by a lash in his hand.

Finally, after the interminable, shameful spectacle, she pressed herself upright on her knees and turned halfway to face him. Her face was even paler now, eyes rimmed with blood. “I am very sorry, Lord Yasutoki, but I did not come here to talk to you about...us.”

“Then do continue, and be quick about it,” he said. “I am certain your mistress requires your services.”

“It is my mistress I wish to discuss with you. Well, not her directly, but a...difficulty involving her. There is a man, a ronin. Before she was betrothed to Lord Tsunetomo, she loved this man. I believe she still loves him.”

Hatsumi’s presence suddenly became less tiresome.

On the night Lord Nishimuta no Jiro had announced his daughter Kazuko’s betrothal, at a banquet with Yasutoki in attendance, the flames of love had risen clearly between Kazuko and the ronin Ken’ishi. By a chance encounter, Ken’ishi had delivered her from the hands of the oni bandit, Hakamadare. Kazuko had stolen from the castle in the dead of night, presumably to meet her lover, and in the morning, the ronin had fled the province on pain of death for the killing of a village constable in a duel. For three years, Yasutoki had nursed this knowledge, saved it for the time when he might have to exert some leverage against Lady Kazuko. Did Hatsumi not know Kazuko had stolen out for a tryst that night? Ken’ishi had been a more-than-capable warrior, with a spirit the likes of which Yasutoki had rarely encountered. Unfortunate that he had escaped Green Tiger’s clutches. Being devoured by sharks or drowned in Hakata Bay was too ignominious a death for such a man.

Hatsumi continued, “This ronin is among the new recruits. I saw him in the courtyard—”

Yasutoki jumped to his feet, his teeth clamped down upon an exclamation. The ronin lived!

“What is it?” Hatsumi asked, cringing. “Have I offended?”

He took a long, deep breath and let it out, slowly. And then another. Then he spoke. “No, Hatsumi. It is not that. I know of this man. I was there at Lord Nishimuta’s announcement, do you remember?”

Hatsumi nodded. “I remember.”

“The stories of his fight with the oni have become the stuff of songs. What a strange happenstance.”

Hatsumi cleared her throat again, and tears trickled down her cheeks. “Lord Yasutoki. You must drive him out.”

The knowledge that Ken’ishi lived was still too fresh, too shocking for him to have considered his next move, but, given their frequent contact in the bowels of the torturer’s den, Ken’ishi was one of the few men in the world who might recognize Yasutoki as Green Tiger. Such an exposure would be disastrous. In all of their meetings, whenever Green Tiger had visited Ken’ishi in his underground torture chamber, he had kept his face concealed by mask and basket hat, but there were other ways to recognize a man.

All he said to Hatsumi was, “Why?”

Hatsumi’s voice quavered, and in her face Yasutoki recognized her awareness of the betrayal her next words represented. “She still loves him. For the good of our lord’s house, for the good of his honor, the ronin must be destroyed. For the love of this ronin, Kazuko will bring dishonor to the Otomo clan.”

“And why do you think I can accomplish this? I am but Lord Tsunetomo’s advisor.”

Her gaze flicked to him and held there for a hard, bitter moment. “You forget, ‘dearest,’ that I know you.”

A smile curled the corner of his lip. Perhaps she was not so stupid after all.

She said, “My lady must not know of the ronin’s presence here. Whatever you do, it must be done quickly.”

“Tonight is the fealty ceremony for these recruits. Our ladyship enjoys attending these. After being left in charge of the castle, she fancies herself a warrior-lady.”

Hatsumi’s voice lost its quaver. “I will keep her away from the ceremony tonight. What are you going to do?”

“That is not your concern. You may go.”

Hatsumi stiffened at the dismissal, but gathered herself and departed, walking with a pained, uncertain gait.

Yasutoki sipped at his tea again, the buzz within of nascent machinations helping to ease the former blackness of his mood.

So the ronin had escaped after all, which made a bald-faced lie of Fang Shi’s account of his disappearance from the cell in the tidal cave. Unfortunate that the Chinaman had been slain in the White Lotus Gang’s attack. The death of a betrayer like Fang Shi would have gone far to scratch Yasutoki’s murderous itch today.

Was it possible that the ronin had been the one to steal Silver Crane from Yasutoki’s house near Hakata? Unlikely—his body had been too ravaged by torture and confinement—but Ken’ishi had a greater motive than anyone. His attachment to the sword was plain; he had searched northern Kyushu for it. At the time Ken’ishi had escaped, he could not have defeated a skilled ruffian like Masoku. How could he have recovered in so little time? How could he have known where to find Silver Crane, hidden as it was under Yasutoki’s house shrine? Had someone told him of its location? Who among Yasutoki’s retainers would betray him so? Only Masoku and Tiger Lily knew of the sword’s location. So many questions without answers. Which was precisely why he would not kill the ronin…not just yet.

“A certain general said, ‘For soldiers other than officers, if they would test their armor, they should test only the front. Furthermore, while ornamentation on armor is unnecessary, one should be very careful about the appearance of his helmet. It is something that accompanies his head to the enemy’s camp.”

—Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

Captain Yoshimura was a man of about thirty years, with a round face, a barrel body, and tufts of mustache at the corners of his mouth. In the surety of his gait, Ken’ishi recognized a warrior’s strength. Once set into motion, Yoshimura would not be diverted from any chosen path.

He led the newcomers to a long, whitewashed structure built into the wall of the castle. Beside the door hung a wooden placard that read “Barrack Six.” Inside was a row of fifteen two-tiered bunks. In each bunk was a narrow futon and a blanket, both carefully folded. About half of the bunks appeared to be occupied, with boxes and gear stowed nearby.

One side of the barrack was interspersed with small, shuttered windows. Through one open window, Ken’ishi peered below to the terraced incline of one of the castle approaches. These windows were built to serve as a firing position for archers against any attack from that direction.

Captain Yoshimura called the men around him. “I am the commander of the castle garrison. Through your chain of command, all of you report to me, and I to Captain Tsunemori, and he to Lord Otomo. Claim your bunks. Each bunk has a trunk for your possessions. By the look of some of you, I should tell you that in Lord Tsunetomo’s service, thievery warrants execution. The privy is down at the end over there.” He pointed. “The bath house is just beyond. The induction ceremony is, as Captain Tsunemori said, at the Hour of the Cock. If you’re late, you may as well pack your things and leave. Training begins tomorrow.”

Ken’ishi and the other recruits bowed deferentially, and Captain Yoshimura departed with the same abruptness as when leading them here.

The recruits filtered among the bunks, placing their packs on the floor, and began to introduce themselves. More than one grumbled, “When do we eat?”

The man with the scarred lip, Ken’ishi’s former sparring partner, thumbed his chest. “I’m Ushihara, from Shimazu country.”

“You’re far from home,” another man said, one of the better appointed of the new recruits, about Ken’ishi’s age, with the shaven pate and topknot of a samurai.

“I came to join the defense,” Ushihara said. “By the time I got here, the fighting was over.”

“You’re not samurai,” the man said, gesturing toward Ushihara’s bedraggled mane.

Ushihara bristled. “And what of it? I’m here to prove myself. What have you proven with your topknot there?”

“I fought in Hakozaki,” the man said, standing straighter. “I am Michizane, of the Ishii family, vassals to the Otomo clan.”

“You fought,” Ushihara scoffed. “From the tales I hear, it was more likely you ran like a rabbit.”

Michizane lunged for him, fist cocking back and then forward. It landed hard across Ushihara’s nose with a meaty crack. In a flurry of arms and sleeves, grasping and scuffling, more blows fell.

Ken’ishi stood back and watched. Two other men jumped in and prised the fighters apart. Ushihara landed a parting kick to Michizane’s belly, doubling him over.

“My brother died in Hakozaki, you peasant scum!” Michizane gasped.

“At least he didn’t run!” Ushihara snarled back, his nose gushing blood.

“Enough!” A deep voice boomed over them.

The recruits turned toward the speaker. Standing with fists on hips, clad in a light breastplate and iron skullcap, a burly man filled the doorway, even though he stood shorter than all of them. His arms were like knotted boughs and his chin like an anvil. Deep-set eyes glared at them all in turn. His voice was like the rasp of a blade on a whetstone. “You should know that the penalty for brawling is flogging. Care to continue?” His gaze speared each of them for a long moment. “No? I am Sergeant Hiromasa, and this is my barrack. I don’t care what it was about, but if it happens again, it’ll be my hand on the cane.”

Twice already Ken’ishi had been witness to talk of penalties for various infractions or crimes. Such things should not be necessary for men of honor, for samurai. But many of these men were not even ronin. That such rules existed bespoke stories of unruliness and other poor behavior that necessitated such things.

Hiromasa’s eyes turned upon Ken’ishi. “What’s that there, ronin? You think this penalty harsh?”

“No, Sergeant. I am...surprised it’s necessary. Are we not all blessed by fortune for the opportunity to serve under such a master as Lord Otomo? Who in his right mind would put that at risk?”

Hand pressed against his nose, Ushihara snorted, spraying a fine mist of crimson across his arm.

Sergeant Hiromasa burst into laughter, which continued until he finally composed himself and wiped his eyes. “In times like these, every peasant and eta gravedigger from here to Kamakura shows up at our gates thinking they can rise above their birth or seek a glorious death.” His gaze fixed upon Ushihara, who averted his eyes. “Perhaps some even can. Hold a spear, swing a sword, draw a bow, do it all bravely and there might be rewards for you. For those things, the barbarians won’t care whether your father is a leatherer or your mother a whore. You don’t have to be born a samurai, but under Lord Otomo, you will learn to die like one.” His gaze raked back and forth over them. “Now, get yourselves cleaned up. The lot of you smell like the trench of a shithouse.”

Sergeant Hiromasa strode away.

Ushihara grumbled, “Bastard.” Seeing Ken’ishi’s eyes upon him, he snapped, “What are you looking at?”

“A fool,” Ken’ishi said.

Ushihara stabbed a blunt finger at Ken’ishi’s face. “Now listen here, I’ve had about enough of you!”

“I think you have not had enough, else you would be more respectful.” He gripped Silver Crane at his hip with his left hand.

Ushihara took a deep breath to shout again, but Michizane said to Ken’ishi, “That was indeed quite a blow you struck in the trial bouts, Sir Ken’ishi. I have never seen such a technique before.”

Ken’ishi bowed, glancing at Ushihara rubbing his chest with a scowl.

“Tell me,” Michizane said, “how did you come to acquire Lord Tsunemori’s kozuka?”

“He gave it to me in Hakozaki, after the typhoon.”

“What were your exploits? The granting of such a gift goes beyond the mere foot-soldier.”

“I killed some of the barbarians.” If he told them the truth of how many, would they believe him? “I saved the life of Otomo no Ishitaka.”

“Tsunemori’s son!” Michizane said.

“He was in my scout unit. We met a group of enemy horsemen. Ishitaka was wounded. We saved his life and killed the barbarians.”

Ushihara listened, his eyes hooded and wary.

“Where do you come from?” Michizane said. “Your accent is strange to me.”

“I grew up on a mountain in the far north of Honshu, a land of forests and loneliness.”

Michizane smiled. “A poetic soul.”

“You have a country accent yourself.”

“It is true. My village is small, but the Ishii family is proud,” Michizane said. “Ken’ishi, you may share my bunk.” He laid his hand on one of the racks.

Ushihara snorted, wiped blood from his face with the back of his hand, and stalked away.

Small bird, forgive me,

I’ll hear the end of your song

In some other world

—Anonymous

The serving girl knelt with the tea tray next to Kazuko, beside where Hatsumi lay on a futon. The earthenware pot steamed as the girl poured two cups of emerald green tea.

Hatsumi lay with her head on a pillow of buckwheat husks, her face pale and drawn, both hands still clutched over her belly. A strange odor emanated from her robes, one Kazuko could not identify; similar to the sickly-sweet smell of rotten fruit, but there was something else as well, something deep and pervasive. She kept a scented kerchief at hand for the moments when it became too much.

“It is wrong of you to care for me, my lady,” Hatsumi said, squeezing Kazuko’s arm.

“How many times have you cared for me, Hatsumi, over the course of my life? How could I not? You have been with me for as long as I can remember,” Kazuko said. She had never seen anyone so ill before, and it frightened her. Even when her husband returned wounded from the battlefront, the worst of his fever had passed. Hatsumi’s bouts of strange illness had grown more frequent and more painful. But in all the other instances, they had ebbed.

Her husband’s physician had not yet arrived. Where was he?

Furthermore, she had not seen her husband since breakfast. Likely he was preparing for the induction ceremony tonight, the third in as many weeks as potential recruits filtered into the castle. With an imminent threat just across the sea, the bakufu had ordered the samurai lords of Kyushu to redouble their defense preparations and build their fighting forces. Word had come that representatives from the Hojo clan, the regents of the ten-year-old shogun, Minamoto no Koreyasu, would be arriving soon from Kamakura. He would bestow gifts upon the samurai lords and their vassals who had repelled the invaders.

No one believed that the Mongol emperor of China, Khubilai Khan, would attack again any time soon after the loss of so many ships and men, but the consensus among the Imperial Court and bakufu was that he was too ambitious and tenacious to give up easily. The Mongol Empire would not have spread all the way to the lands of the setting sun without such ambition.

Kazuko sighed and squeezed Hatsumi’s hand. Tsunetomo had invited Kazuko to observe the previous fealty ceremonies and afterward asked her impressions of the men, taking her insights into consideration before assigning them specific duties. In the weeks of his recovery, she had taken to reading a book on the art of war by a Chinese general, a book he had left for her when he departed for the battlefront. She could only admit to herself that she found this realm of men a fascinating one. She found no reason for it to be only the men’s pursuit. She hated the violence of war, but she loved the strategy of it. The insights into human nature of this ancient Chinese general were as astute today as they had been more than fifteen hundred years before. That she was one of the few women in the world not just permitted but encouraged to delve into the realm of men filled her with pride and trust in Tsunetomo. She could tell from her husband’s actions that he had diligently studied this book and others like it.

She regretted missing the ceremony, but she could hardly leave Hatsumi alone at a time like this. No one else would care for her. The other servants all hated her, and Kazuko could hardly fault them. To them, Hatsumi was haughty and often cruel, with inexplicable bursts of anger that had been growing more frequent in recent months. She had no friends beside Kazuko, and her affair with Yasutoki—how detestable the mere thought!—had been foundering for months. Even so, Kazuko could not bear the thought of someone suffering alone.

Hatsumi groaned and convulsed.

Kazuko stroked her hand. It was hot and coarse. “Poor, poor thing.” It was then Kazuko noticed the strange, bruised color of Hatsumi’s fingernails, shading to a disconcerting reddish purple at the base. They looked thicker than she remembered them, coarser, hardly a lady’s fingernails at all.

“Kazuko, my dear, will you...” Hatsumi rasped. “Will you promise me something?”

“Oh, Hatsumi, you are not dying!” Kazuko said. “You must brace up!”

“As I lie here, something tells me I will not die, that this will pass as it always has. But something in me...I won’t be the same after this. Like an old woman whose fingers turn into gnarled twigs. My spirit is knotting up....” Hatsumi sounded almost delirious.

“You will be fine. The physician will come. He will find a way to ease your suffering. Here, drink some tea. The warmth will ease your belly.”

“Yes, tea.... But no physician! Please, no physician! This is no one else’s business.... This is between you and me....”

Kazuko lifted the cup and held it to Hatsumi’s lips while she supported Hatsumi’s head with the other hand. Hatsumi’s last utterance had sounded almost delirious.

A gusting breath burst from Hatsumi. “Ah, it’s such good tea! That is what I most enjoy about living here, you know. The tea fields. The best on Kyushu, they say.”

Kazuko smiled. A point of pride for the people of this province was that this area boasted the highest quality tea, rivaled only by the fields in the mountains near the old capital, Kyoto.

“Kazuko, you know I love you like a little sister, yes?”

Kazuko blushed at such a direct and heartfelt sentiment. “I know, Hatsumi. And you are the sister I never had. Ease your mind! Rest now! I command it.” She smiled at the last.

Hatsumi sighed again, straining and groaning to find a comfortable position. “Yes, rest.” Her voice grew fainter. “You must promise me, don’t leave me tonight. I...could not bear it. Please, promise. I will be better in the morning, I think.”

Oh, where was that physician? Kazuko would call him to task the moment his bald head appeared.

“Please, promise…. Don’t leave me tonight,” Hatsumi said.

“I promise. I will not leave your side.”

A labored sigh escaped Hatsumi, and she sagged against the floor as if all the tension had just drained from her.

“Perhaps I’ll be able to sleep now, yes,” Hatsumi breathed. “You are too good to me, Kazuko....” Her voice trailed off.

In the ensuing silence, Kazuko listened to Hatsumi’s breath grow shallower, steadier, descending into sleep. She stroked her servant’s hand with gentle fingers, stoked the coals in the brazier for more warmth, sipped at the tea. Whenever she took her hand away, Hatsumi’s eyes fluttered, turning toward her as if to ascertain that she was still present.

Hatsumi’s fists relaxed, little by little, until they hung slack.

Kazuko’s gaze kept sliding toward Hatsumi’s fingernails. What malady caused such an effect? She had no notion, but if that cursed physician ever appeared, she would ask him.

“[F]rom the time one has been taken into a daimyo’s service, of the clothes on his back, the sword he wears at his side, his footgear, his palanquin, his horse and all of his materiel, there is no single item that is not due to the favor of his lord. Family, wife, child and his own retainers—all of them and their relations—not one can be said not to receive the lord’s favor. Having these favors well impressed on his mind, a man will face his lord’s opponents on the battlefield and cast away his one life. This is dying for right-mindedness.”

—Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”

Ken’ishi spent the remainder of the afternoon meticulously preparing himself for tonight’s ceremony. After a stint in the ofuro, where he scrubbed off weeks of sweat and road dust and shaved his face, he shared the bath with several other men, luxuriating in its heat as respite from the winter. Meanwhile, several servants laundered their clothes. When he received his own again, they were warm and dry, smelling of smoke. The bloodstains were gone, but he lamented the holes and frayed hems. He had no other clothes. Everything he owned had been burned along with his house in Aoka during the barbarian attack, including the fine set of clothes Kazuko had given him three years before when he had fled her father’s domain. Those clothes would be helpful now, on this, one of the biggest nights of his life. Instead, tonight he would look like a vagabond ronin again, and the thought filled him with shame.

He caught snatches of conversation throughout the afternoon, learning that recruits had been coming steadily in the past weeks. Tsunemori and his officers had been liberally refilling the ranks depleted by Mongol arrows. Previous newcomers eyed Ken’ishi’s group with skepticism and disdain, which seemed foolish to him, considering that not so long ago they had been in the very same position.

At the Hour of the Cock, about sunset, the recruits were summoned to a banquet in the lord’s audience hall. They sat in precise rows along either side of the room, with Lord Tsunetomo’s place awaiting his arrival on a raised dais at the head of the room. Tsunemori, Yoshimura, and several of the other high-ranked commanders sat at the ends of the rows nearest the lord’s dais.

Ken’ishi’s belly quivered with nervousness. The last such formal gathering he had attended had nearly destroyed him. He slammed a cage down around the wildly fluttering hope in his heart that his dreams could be achieved, lest they be crushed again by unforeseen circumstances.

If the kami would just quiet down, he might be able to enjoy these moments, but the spirits of the air and earth, of the castle itself, were howling in multitudes of little voices as if he were sitting in a den of hungry, invisible wolves.

Finally, Otomo no Tsunetomo entered the room, without fanfare, and the assemblage pressed their foreheads to the floor in obeisance until he settled himself on the dais. He moved with a sure, unhurried grace, and his presence filled the room with power, as if he were larger than the dimensions of his flesh. The lord settled himself on the dais and took a moment to survey the recruits. His eyes settled on Ken’ishi and held for a moment. Under the great man’s gaze, his ears felt like burning coals astride his head. The yearning to be found worthy formed an impassable gobbet in his throat, and breathing became difficult.

Looking at the warlord directly would be rude, so Ken’ishi tried to size him up with surreptitious glances. He was tall, perhaps forty years old, a few lines of gray streaking his hair, but his eyes were sharp and deep. Compared to Tsunemori, the brotherly resemblance was plain, but Tsunetomo was the larger man, thicker in the chest and shoulders.

“Welcome to my domain, warriors all,” Tsunetomo said. “I am pleased that my brother continues to find such strong, capable recruits.” Tsunemori bowed at this. “Let us commence.” His voice was as strong and sure as everything else about him, and it carried the weight of complete command. He was a man to be obeyed, without question or hesitation. Tsunetomo showed no evidence that he had been wounded during the invasion. He clapped his hands and several servants sprang out as if from nowhere, bearing trays of food for the assemblage.

The servants brought course after course of rice, soup, fish, fruit, cakes, and some rich, mellow saké. Tsunetomo and his officers spoke about news from Hakata, Dazaifu, Hakozaki, and from the bakufu. Their conversation was good-natured and pleasant. Sometimes Tsunetomo smiled at someone’s anecdote, revealing for a moment a pleasant gleam in his eye, an easy good-humor. However, the gravity of the occasion held Ken’ishi and most of the recruits in silence. Besides, warriors did not typically indulge in frivolous chatter.

Throughout the evening, Ken’ishi found the hope inside him threatening to burst from its cage, and he became more inclined to let it. After tonight, he would have a place. He would belong.

The peculiar whisper of the kami sent gooseflesh up his arms, stood the hairs on end. Someone was watching him. The kami were screaming so loudly now he could not ignore them. Wariness tightened his muscles, prompted his gaze to scrutinize everyone around him, over and over. What danger could there be here?

One of the doors in the back of the audience hall was ajar. He thought someone might be there behind the rice paper, but he could not see for certain. Why should anyone be watching him? He had done nothing wrong here. He chided himself for a fool. What did he have to fear? Nevertheless, he stared at the crack, trying to discern a presence there. After one moment where he took a bite from his bowl of rice, the crack was closed.

* * *

From behind Tsunetomo’s dais, Yasutoki observed the audience hall through the crack between rice-paper doors, scratching his chin, feeling the delicious beginnings of new schemes spawning in his imagination.

How strange that the ronin had turned up at his very doorstep!

Concealing himself from the man, at least for now, felt like the proper path. As Yasutoki was not among Tsunetomo’s military advisors, it had been easy for him to beg off from the evening’s ceremony, citing an excess of work. New requirements for the amount of food to be stored in castle towns, as preparation against the eventuality of another barbarian invasion, had just come down from the bakufu.

What tangled web of fate had brought Ken’ishi here now, to join the service of the lord who had married Kazuko? Had the ronin forgotten the affair? Did he hate Kazuko now at her father’s betrayal? He did not look like the sort of man who bedded a different peasant’s daughter in every domain. He had been beside himself with anguish when Lord Nishimuta no Jiro had announced his daughter’s betrothal to Tsunetomo. Was he here seeking some secret revenge? Was it possible that he did not know or remember who she married? No, that could not be. The ronin must know. The motive had to be simple revenge. If that were the case, having him implicated in some illicit scheme would be too easy.

Yasutoki felt a grim, perverse fascination. My, wasn’t this interesting. Oh, the ways this could be twisted. What a wonderful pawn this man would be, more than he ever would have been as a servant sworn to Green Tiger. All he had had to do was wait for the threads of their destinies to cross once again. Lord Tsunetomo would soon have a would-be assassin in his very house. An assassin who might have been intimate with the lord’s wife before their marriage.

Yasutoki practically clapped his hands with glee. This was exactly what he needed to deliver him from the depths of his blackest mood. Oh, the sport!

* * *

Throughout the evening, the buzz of the kami was a persistent annoyance, but Ken’ishi could not identify the spur for their warnings. His thoughts lingered on who had been at the crack and what harm they might mean for him.

After the banquet was finished, the servants cleared away its remnants. Ken’ishi wondered at how many servants populated the quiet depths of the castle. A lord of this stature would keep a large household.

Anticipation rose within his belly, a nervous fluttering.

Finally Tsunetomo addressed them.

“Gentlemen, you will now come forward to sign your name to documents swearing your fealty to me. Yoshimura...”

He gestured and Captain Yoshimura came forward with a sheaf of documents and a small writing desk. He set them down before Tsunetomo.

Yoshimura addressed the men. “This document contains your oath of fealty. There is one for each of you. Once you sign this document, you are dead.” He paused for a moment, letting his statement sink in to the ominous silence that fell between words. “From this day, your spirit is merely counting the days until your body must be given for your lord. Your death and the deaths of your family are bound to the house of Otomo no Tsunetomo. You swear to serve him with the deepest loyalty and the greatest courage. Your death is his to command. Those who cannot or will not take this vow, leave now.” He waited for a moment to see if anyone would leave, but no man did. No man would. “Very well. Come forward.”

Ken’ishi watched the first man approach Tsunetomo’s dais, kneel, and press his forehead to the floor. Then the man turned to Yoshimura, who slid a document forward. The man took the brush and signed his name. Tsunetomo handed Yoshimura a kozuka much like the one that Ken’ishi had received from Tsunemori. Yoshimura bowed and took it with both hands. He handed the kozuka to the man and said, “Your blood upon the oath, Masamoto.” The man took the knife, made a quick slice across his thumb, and dripped his blood onto his signature.

They bowed to each other, then Masamoto slid to the side, allowing the next man to approach. One by one, each of them approached the dais to sign his oath of fealty.

When Ken’ishi’s turn came, he felt the sharp buzz of warning again, so strongly he felt the urge to duck. But how could there be danger here? He took the small blade and sliced his finger. As his blood dripped onto the paper, another surge of joy and pride washed through him.

He was ronin no more.

After all the new retainers had signed their oaths, Captain Tsunemori addressed them. “I am pleased. Welcome to the house of Otomo. To show my gratitude, I have gifts for all of you from our generous lord.” He clapped his hands once, and the doors at the rear of the audience hall slid open. Another procession of servants marched into the room, carrying armloads of lacquered cases of various shapes and sizes, which he recognized as containing suits of armor, helmets, and proper stands upon which to rest them.

Ken’ishi could hardly contain his elation and awe when a servant placed a wooden box before him and opened it to display the armor within. Gleaming, interlocked scales of black-lacquered steel. The thick, silken cords of brilliant scarlet, highlighted in beautiful yellow accents. Showing the pride he felt would not be seemly, so he kept his excitement in check. He could hardly resist the urge to run his fingers over the armor’s contours and laces.

Tears stung his eyes and the lump in his throat thickened. Only one moment in his life had been happier—the night he had lain beside Kazuko. This was a night of too much emotion, so much that he felt like an overfull cup brimming with tears.

Then the servants returned carrying long, black-lacquered boxes that Ken’ishi recognized as sword cases. A servant placed one in Ken’ishi’s hands and bowed deeply. Ken’ishi took it and placed it reverently before him, then untied the clasps. Inside, wrapped in fine, black silk, lay a pair of swords, the long and the short, the katana and the wakizashi. His head felt light, and the swords swam in his vision as if in a dream.

No.

Silver Crane’s voice echoed through his mind with that single, resounding sentiment.

He shook away the intrusion.

Judging by the hilt-wrappings, he surmised that the swords were newly made. The modern katana-style blade possessed less curvature than the antique tachi-style of Silver Crane, with a meatier spine. Unlike the naked ray skin of Silver Crane’s grip, this katana sported black silken cords crisscrossed over the ray skin. The circular guard, the tsuba, bore a motif of the Otomo clan mon, two apricot leaves, rendered in the steel with silver inlay. The scabbards were ornamented and fitted in a modern style, meant to be thrust through the obi rather than hanging from it.

Again, a sharp intrusion into his thoughts. No.

Ken’ishi considered his position.

To leave behind Silver Crane, his father’s weapon, the sword that had saved his life many times, the sword that had twisted the threads of fate to return to him, would dishonor his father, his ancestors, and the sword itself. But to refuse Lord Tsunetomo’s gift would be an insult.

For many long moments he thought about what to do, but he could not come to a satisfactory conclusion. Finally, he said, “Honorable Lord, may I entreat to ask you a humble question?”

The mutter of quiet conversation in the room ceased.

Lord Tsunetomo leaned forward. “Eh? Of course, Ken’ishi. What is your question?”

“Great and honorable Lord, words cannot express the joy I feel at the generosity of your gifts. I am but a humble warrior, from humble beginnings. The honor you have bestowed upon me I can only repay with my life, so my life is yours to do with as you will. But...you have given me swords to wear in your service. Since I reached manhood, I have worn only my father’s sword. How can I wear your sword without dishonoring my father’s memory? How can I wear his sword without dishonoring you? I beg of you, please tell me what to do. I do not have the knowledge of such things.” He pressed his forehead to the floor.

Yoshimura bristled. “How insulting! That you would even consider spurning such a gift—!”

Tsunetomo raised his hand, cutting Yoshimura off. “Filial piety is one of the greatest of all virtues. This young man worships his father’s memory, as well he should. Ken’ishi, you would serve me just as well with the weapon you have made your own. I know as well as anyone the comfort of a familiar hilt. This is my answer. You will wear your father’s sword, and the wakizashi of the house of Otomo.”

An acceptable compromise. Silver Crane’s voice was a bell in the caverns of Ken’ishi’s thoughts.

Another flush of joy and fresh tears burst from Ken’ishi’s eyes as he pressed his forehead to the floor once again. “Lord, you have my never-ending thanks, and my undying loyalty.”

“You honor us both, Ken’ishi,” Tsunetomo said. “I am grateful to have such an earnest and forthright retainer. My younger brother has chosen well!” He nodded to Tsunemori. “And now, let us conclude. The time grows late, sunrise comes early, and training begins at the Hour of the Rabbit.”

* * *

Lying in his bunk in the barrack, staring into the rafters, Ken’ishi hardly needed the blanket to warm him, such was the fervor of his excitement. Here he was, having accomplished the most fervent desire of his life.

Only one other desire rivaled even remotely the yearning for this one, and he would likely never see Kazuko again. But what would he do if he did? She was married to some samurai lord now—the pain of that night had stolen the memory of his name—probably having borne the lord an heir or two by now. But nothing would ever steal the memories of their night together. The fervor, the softness, the beauty, the ecstasy, the tears of parting, and the threat that if they were caught it would have meant certain death for him, perhaps even for her.

What if, during his service to his new master, he encountered her? The samurai lords of northern Kyushu numbered perhaps a score. Would she recognize him? He did not doubt that he could spot her instantly in a crowd of a thousand women. Her beauty would outshine the sun.

No matter what happened, he could show no recognition, or both of their lives would be in danger. If her new husband knew that Kazuko had not been a virgin when she was wed, he might well spurn her, send her back to her father, and set fire to a new feud among often fractious men. Not since the night she came to him had he doubted that she loved him. But theirs was a dangerous love, one that must never be. That ferry had already crossed the River of Tears and would not return.

And why was Kazuko still the first woman in his thoughts? He had spent three years with Kiosé. She had earned more of his loyalty than Kazuko had. Kiosé had loved him, with a depth and breadth he could never return. She had known this, yet she had done it anyway. She had warmed his bed, cleaned his house, and filled his belly. And she had died trying to protect their son from barbarian swords.

In the midst of the invasion, when Ken’ishi had returned to Aoka village and found the terrible corpses of Kiosé and Little Frog, the stallion Thunder had taken a single sniff of Little Frog and known him to be of Ken’ishi’s blood.

Ken’ishi had failed poor Little Frog in innumerable ways. Every day that Ken’ishi had not claimed the boy as a son condemned Little Frog to another day as one of the Unclean, the bastard child of a common whore. It did not matter that Ken’ishi could not have known the boy was his. He should have known.

For a time, Ken’ishi’s thoughts spun in such circles until he finally reached a moment where he chided himself. Too long on these paths led only to black despair, and tonight was a night of celebration. Kiosé was gone. Little Frog was gone. The chances that Ken’ishi would encounter Kazuko again were so small that it hardly warranted further thought.

As he tightened his thick blanket around him, drifting toward sleep, he thought he heard the distant ring of Silver Crane’s voice, but he could not be certain if it was only a dream.

Destiny.

Into a cold night

I spoke aloud...but the voice was

No voice I knew

—Otsuji

Kazuko awoke with a start, aroused by a peculiar noise: a rumbling, part thunder, part growl. The quiescent coals in the brazier glowed red-orange, casting shadows deep into the rafters.

She had wrapped herself in a blanket and sat at Hatsumi’s side as night descended, listening to the older woman fret and whimper and cry out in fitful sleep. Sweat glistened on Hatsumi’s face. Kazuko’s legs, back, and neck ached from sitting. Beyond the ring of brazier glow, the darkness coupled with the winter chill, driving Kazuko to clutch her quilted blanket tighter around her.

What had she heard? It was too late in the year for thunder. The sound had come from inside the room, but its timbre could not have come from Hatsumi. Could it? Its absence nevertheless left a reverberation on her soul.

“Is someone there?” she whispered.

A cricket’s chirp broke the deafening silence.

Kazuko had declined her husband’s bed tonight, and he had been somewhat displeased. It was the first time she had ever refused him. That she was staying with Hatsumi rankled him even more. He had long desired to send Hatsumi away. Her erratic behavior had become too troublesome, bordering on dangerous. Nevertheless, Kazuko had begged him to allow Hatsumi to stay and he had acceded, on the condition that if there were any more outbursts or mistreatment of the servants, Kazuko would be the one to send Hatsumi away.

She had finally received word that her husband’s physician had been injured by a runaway cart and could not come. He sent his regrets, saying that he would try to come tomorrow. But if he were injured, how could he come tomorrow?

There was no one tonight who could ease Hatsumi’s suffering.

Hatsumi groaned and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

And then a great, wet, resounding belch erupted from her mouth, lasting for several heartbeats, followed by a groan of relief.

Kazuko flinched away in surprise, almost with a sense of amusement at its absurd vulgarity. Until the miasma of putrid decay washed over her.

One summer, when she was a child, she had been passing through a village on the way to visit her father’s younger brother, lord of another portion of the Nishimuta clan’s domain. Two peasant men were attempting to load the rotten carcass of a pig into a cart. The men’s faces were wrapped in cloth, their eyes watery and desperate. The errant pig had ventured into a bog, gotten stuck, and drowned in the summer heat. The bloated purple carcass was such an unwieldy blob it was as if most of its bones had liquefied. Just as the palanquin bearing her and her father was passing, the men lost control of the carcass, and it spilled from the back of the cart and burst open on the ground. The expulsion of rancid putrescence sent the men flailing away, retching and wailing. The palanquin bearers lurched into a quicker pace. The bodyguards stopped and admonished the men for doing such work when a lord was passing by. Kazuko simply cried. She cried for the enormity of the stench her mind had difficulty encompassing. She cried for the misfortune of the peasant men. She cried for the pig that had died in such a terrible fashion.

And she cried now for Hatsumi, whose body had just emitted the closest thing to that stench Kazuko had encountered since that day.

The stench hung in the air like a living thing. She jumped up and hurried to the window, clutching her blanket to her face. Her watering eyes fractured her vision, catching the coals’ light and darkness together. She reached the shutter and flung it open, leaning out as the chill air rushed inside, washing over her like a fresh, sweet waterfall.

How could a human being emit such foulness? Was Hatsumi dead?

But Hatsumi stirred again, and something in her breathing and movement suggested the return of comfort as if some threshold of suffering had been crossed and survived.

Kazuko steeled herself and returned to Hatsumi’s side, covering her nose and mouth with one hand and waving frantically with her other sleeve to disperse the foul air.

Then, Kazuko saw the expression on Hatsumi’s face.

Hatsumi’s eyes were closed in sleep, but she was smiling. It was not a smile of pleasure, or happiness, or contentment.

It was a smile of savage glee, blackened teeth clenched, lips parted and spread wide into her cheeks.

And still she did not awaken.

Something worked inside her face, behind her face, as if sleep allowed the opportunity for this force to reveal itself, to revel in newfound freedom.

The fear that washed through Kazuko was akin to the first time she had looked into the face of the oni bandit, Hakamadare. He and his gang had attacked her entourage, slaughtered all her servants and bodyguards, and snatched Hatsumi from the overturned palanquin and raped her. The same would have happened to Kazuko, had not a ronin named Ken’ishi wandered into her life, saved her, and changed her forever.

She thought about awakening Hatsumi, but what person would look out from her eyes? The Hatsumi she had known her whole life? The Hatsumi she loved like an older sister? Or this...creature?

Kazuko edged away, wary, her heart pounding. Then she hurried to the cabinet where she kept a dagger, a gift from her father. She removed the dagger and hid it in her voluminous sleeve.

The image of that awful smile, seared into her memory, kept her from sleep until dawn.

“In the words of the ancients, one should make his decisions within the space of seven breaths. Lord Takanobu said, ‘If discrimination is long, it will spoil.’ Lord Naoshige said, ‘When matters are done leisurely, seven out of ten will turn out badly. A warrior is a person who does things quickly.’”

—Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

Yasutoki settled himself before Lord Tsunetomo, distastefully close to Tsunemori, draping his voluminous sleeves over his thighs. He already knew the nature of this meeting.

Lord Tsunetomo sat straight and strong as a bridge pillar unmoved by the passing of the river. It was a trait that made him a powerful leader of men. Tsunemori possessed a similar mien, but with a more mercurial nature, a bit more prone to fly into action on waves of emotion rather than stepping back to consider all possible facets of a situation. This made him easier to manipulate, but also unpredictable.

Tsunemori said, “What is the news of our cousin and his prisoners?”

Otomo no Yoriyasu kept rich holdings and rice farms to the west. Younger cousin to Tsunetomo and Tsunemori, he was still feeling his way into political and martial power. His forces had captured fifty barbarians and Koryo sailors in a ship dashed against the shore by the storm.

Lord Tsunetomo said, “Yoriyasu and his fifty prisoners are traveling to Kyoto. No doubt, the barbarians will be interrogated and executed by the bakufu.”

Yasutoki said, “And no doubt he will be richly rewarded for so great a prize.”

Lord Tsunetomo said, “No doubt.” He produced a scroll and offered it to Yasutoki to read. “We are to be rewarded as well. The Shogun and the Emperor send their thanks and their congratulations once again on holding back the barbarians long enough for the gods to destroy them. A hundred prize stallions and a hundred mares. Ten thousand bags of rice. Ten thousand pieces of gold. These rewards are to be distributed to those warriors who fought the most bravely, and to the families of those who died in battle.”

Yasutoki raised an eyebrow. “His Excellency the Shogun is most generous.”

“And so is His Highness the Emperor. Two Shinto shrines are also to be rewarded for their part in winning the gods’ favor. They claim their prayers brought about the storm.”

Yasutoki snorted. One of the traits he shared with Tsunetomo was a disdain for religion as anything but a tool of control.

“Read on,” Tsunetomo said, with a hint of tension in his voice.

Yasutoki’s gaze slid over the letter until he reached a portion describing the number of troops from northern provinces being relocated to Kyushu, with expectations of hospitality from the Western Defense Commissioner and the lords of Kyushu. This was information for which the Great Khan would pay handsomely.

Yasutoki languidly offered the letter back to Lord Tsunetomo. “So we must prepare quarters for their arrival.”

Tsunemori scowled. “It chafes, Brother. So many northerners on our soil.”

“I expect this news will not sit well with any of the other lords,” Tsunetomo said. “There is also the expectation that new fortifications will be built, but as yet there is no further word about that. Who will pay for them? Where are the engineers going to come from? They are in scant supply in these parts.”

“A wall around the perimeter of Hakata Bay would have been most welcome during the attack,” Tsunemori said.

Tsunetomo inclined his head in concession, “Of course, but the effort will be enormous. It will take peasants away from farming and from our ashigaru ranks, and turn warriors into laborers. And who knows when the barbarians will attack again? The barbarian emperor is tenacious. He has been trying to conquer the Sung of southern China for twenty years. They will come again. So what are we to do?”

“The fact that the Sung have been able to resist for so long proves the Mongols are not invincible. And we have the gods on our side,” Tsunemori said. “If they come again, we will fight them again. And now that we know how they fight, we will not be caught off-guard.”

Tsunetomo said, “I have been in touch with the Shogun’s wisest strategist. The bakufu is developing battle tactics to counter theirs. Next time they come, it will be different.”

Placidly listening to these two talk about the utter destruction of every one of Yasutoki’s machinations of the last decade required more self-control than most men possessed. Nevertheless, he knew he played his part well, listening attentively, nodding appreciatively at the appropriate moments.

Tsunetomo turned to him. “You will, of course, oversee the distribution of the rice and see to the preparations of the arrival of the northern troops.”

“They will not travel in winter,” Yasutoki said, “which is just as well. We will have time to prepare quarters and find laborers.”

“In the meantime, little brother,” Lord Tsunetomo said, “Write a list of names of warriors who distinguished themselves, living and dead.”

Tsunemori bowed. “I have already prepared a partial list.” He offered a folded paper. “The other officers will submit their recommendations to me by tomorrow.”

Lord Tsunetomo took the paper and perused it. “This one, Ken’ishi. You give him the highest distinction. This is the man who saved Ishitaka’s life, yes? Does he have other exploits?”

Tsunemori leaned forward. “He saved not only Ishitaka’s life, but also the lives of all the men in his unit, if the stories are to be believed. Some say he single-handedly charged into the teeth of an entire unit of barbarian horsemen, with only a breastplate and an antique tachi, and slaughtered them all, men and horses. Some say there were a dozen. Some say a hundred.”

A tingle passed through Yasutoki so profound that he thought it must be visible to the other men. There could be little doubt that Silver Crane was back in Ken’ishi’s possession. But he had to be sure. If it were so, what a stroke of fortune. Furthermore, it meant that he had vastly underestimated Ken’ishi, because it meant the former ronin had been the masked man who broke into his house near Hakata, somehow found the sword’s hiding place, and stole the sword back. And using the threat of war with the White Lotus Gang as a diversion had been a stroke of genius. And Ken’ishi also knew that Green Tiger was somehow connected to the Otomo clan. Yasutoki’s house in Hakata bore the markings of the Otomo clan, and if Ken’ishi asked questions of the right people, he would know precisely who owned the house in which Silver Crane had been stashed.

Oh, but the game had just grown considerably more dangerous.

Lord Tsunetomo raised his eyebrows. “That is the first I have heard of this tale. I presume this is the ancestral blade he mentioned during the fealty ceremony.”

“Without question, Brother. Having seen the way he defeated three opponents during the sparring trials, I believe the stories are no exaggeration.”

“What do you know of his background?”

“Only that he was a ronin, said to be from the mountains of northern Honshu. He has never mentioned a family name. Ishitaka speaks well of his skill with a bow. However, he needs training on horseback. His knowledge of military strategy and tactics is unknown.”

“Watch him closely, little brother. I want to see how he develops. If he is as formidable as they say, we are fortunate to have him. If he proves himself not just a capable warrior, but a leader as well, we shall see that he receives military instruction under Yamazaki-sensei.”

Oh, yes, Yasutoki thought, watch him closely indeed.

I am sad this morning.

The fog was so dense,

I could not see your shadow

As you passed my shoji.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

“If you will forgive me for saying so, my lady,” said Lady Yukino, “you look frightfully weary.”

Kazuko smiled faintly at her elder sister-in-law. “I can hardly take offense. I must look such a mess. I feared to look into the mirror this morning.”

Here in the second tower, which housed Tsunemori and his family, the rooms bore the same cold walls of white plaster as the other tower, but were smaller and less grand than in the main keep, and a hominess here bespoke a long-settled family. The family shrine held funeral plaques for Lady Yukino’s ancestors and offerings for the house kami of a rice ball and a cup of saké. Servants came with a tray of tea and rice cakes.

“It would be rude of me to ask why....” Nevertheless, Lady Yukino seemed to hope for an explanation as she slid the Go board between them, the precision of its two perpendicular sets of nineteen lines mirroring the precision with which she arranged it, and then smoothed her beautifully embroidered robes. As always, Tsunemori’s wife’s hair was immaculately brushed and styled, her face powdered to conceal the lines of age encroaching on her mouth and eyes. Her oval-shaped eyebrows were drawn high on her forehead, as was the fashion for noble ladies. Kazuko hoped that if she lived another twenty years to be Yukino’s age, she would be as graceful.

Gnawed by grief and fear, Kazuko tried not to think about the horrors of sitting at Hatsumi’s side the night before. “My handmaiden, Hatsumi, fell ill, and I took care of her.”

Yukino’s brow crinkled. “You must love her very much.”

“She has been like my sister since I was a child....”

Silence hung between them, filled with grasping for meaning in words best left unspoken. Directness was vulgar and rude. Together, they opened the gilded drawers on the lacquered Go board and revealed the stones, black and white.

Kazuko and Yukino had been meeting regularly over tea and a game or two of Go since Kazuko had taken up residence here. In those early days, when pining for Ken’ishi had been an icy spike through Kazuko’s heart, she had taken great comfort in Yukino’s quiet, womanly wisdom. Nevertheless, she had kept Ken’ishi a secret. Other noblewomen—especially those so much older—might have been jealous of Kazuko’s superior position as the wife of the lord, but Kazuko had never seen evidence of it, despite Hatsumi’s whispers to beware of the “scorpion in the other tower.”

Lady Yukino must have been stunningly lovely in her youth. Now she had assumed a handsome, well-groomed beauty that her husband and son doted upon. “She falls ill quite often these days.” Her face and voice were neutral as she spoke.

“It is true. I fear for her. Last night was the worst I have seen. This morning she seems quite recovered, but...”

“You fear the sickness, whatever plagues her, will return again?”

Kazuko nodded.

“And perhaps that disease will spread to others?” Yukino placed her first stone, black, near the center of the board of vertical and horizontal intersecting lines, nineteen in each direction, the battlefield upon which each of them would try to claim the most territory while preventing the other from doing the same.

Kazuko shook her head. “I did fear that, in the early bouts, but...it has not spread to me or the other servants. I called for my husband’s physician yesterday, but he is injured and could not come.”

“A stroke of ill fortune. He is the best healer in the province. Perhaps she has been infected by evil kami. A rite of purification, perhaps?”

Kazuko considered this, remembering the purification a priest had performed on Hatsumi, Kazuko, and Ken’ishi after the attack of the oni. “It could not hurt,” she mused, placing her first stone.

Lady Yukino gestured a nearby handmaiden to pour the tea. Kazuko took the cup when it was offered, but the memory of what she had experienced last night at Hatsumi’s side turned her belly into a cold swamp.

Before she realized what was happening, she blurted, “Tsunetomo thinks I should send her away.”

Lady Yukino’s hand hovered above the board with its stone. “A difficult decision.” She slowly placed the stone with her index and middle fingers.

“It is difficult to—” Kazuko choked off a sob and the rest of what almost came out. It was difficult to watch a loved one go mad.

Lady Yukino straightened herself. “Have you ever heard the story of the Princess of the Full Moon?”

Kazuko shook her head. She had read pillow books and the tales of the famous nobleman Genji, with his adventures and liaisons, but she had not heard the story of the Princess of the Full Moon.

“In centuries past, in Kyoto, there was a captain of the Imperial Guard. The Imperial Court then, as now, was a glowing brazier of schemes, intrigue, and romantic liaisons. Lovers drifted between ministers, nobles, and courtesans on waves of poetry, the most popular means of wooing the object of one’s affection.

“The captain was handsome and honorable, and a number of the court ladies were quite enamored of him. But he was in love with a mysterious noble lady. This noble lady was known to leave the Imperial Palace on the nights of the full moon, concealed in her palanquin, and visit the Heian Jingu shrine. On such nights, the captain would accompany her as her chief yojimbo. He never saw her face, as she never left her palanquin. But through the slats in her blinds she would view the majesty of the full moon and grow despondent, which the captain knew from hearing her quiet weeping. His heart went out to her. Every night he pleaded with her to tell him why she was so sad. Every night, she refused.

“One night, he heard her speaking a poem about the full moon, but it was clearly a poem from a lover. With his heart full in his chest, he wrote his own poem to her on a fan, decrying the cruelty of the lover who had deserted her, and passed it within the palanquin. She took the poem, and before long he heard her say, ‘Captain, you are the kindest man I have ever encountered.’

“He responded, ‘And you are my Princess of the Full Moon.’”

Kazuko’s heart stirred, and wondered if Ken’ishi, rough, uncultured, uneducated as he was, could woo with such eloquence as the nobles of old.

“And then she called her bearers to return her to the Imperial Palace.

“Meanwhile, over several months, a series of strange apparitions had turned the Imperial Palace almost upside down with fright, even in the midst of what should have been a joyous time. You see, one of the Emperor’s concubines, the daughter of the Minister of the Right, was with child, and everyone hoped that she would bear his first heir. But little by little, over several months, strange moanings and cries began to fill the palace halls in the dead of night, voices so unearthly and terrifying that no one had the courage to seek the source. They spent their nights huddled in their chambers, praying that the evil would not fall upon them. Servants and court ladies told stories of seeing a shadowy, slumped figure with long, black hair. Whispers spread that the palace had been cursed to be haunted by a yurei. Onmyouji were summoned, but even the most skilled augurers, exorcists, and masters of yin-yang sorcery could not assuage the fear that permeated the palace. Some even feared for the welfare of the baby soon to be born.”

The strange sounds in the tower at night, coupled with Hatsumi’s increasingly erratic and incomprehensible behavior, echoed with Lady Yukino’s words.

“The new mother’s time came nigh on the night of a full moon. She secluded herself in the specially appointed house away from the palace grounds so that the birth blood would not pollute the palace any further than the curse had already done.

“The captain, as chief of the palace guard, accompanied her entourage to the place of birth, and stood guard outside the house with several of his best men. They patrolled the fence and the surrounding streets.

“The lady’s labor commenced at sunset and continued for several hours, her cries of pain and exertion emanating from within the birthing house until finally, after midnight, the cries of the baby joined those of the mother. Immediately one of the ladies-in-waiting announced that the child was a boy. The Emperor had an heir!

“But then, in the darkest hours of the night, frightful moans and distant shrieks of agony, echoing from several directions, put the captain and his men on high alert. The sounds grew nearer.

“With the full moon high above, bathing the garden in milky moonglow, a figure with long black hair that seemed to move like living shadow appeared in the garden, moving toward the house where the newborn baby lay. One of the guards attempted to apprehend the figure, but it slew him in the most unspeakable way. The noise of the guard’s demise drew the captain thither, and then he heard a voice call out from the figure, quiet and sad and yearning, ‘Your Majesty, are you there, my love? I hear our child crying.’

“It was a voice the captain knew well, the voice of his Princess of the Full Moon.

“But when he saw her now, her countenance was frightfully changed. She had become an oni, and even in her corrupted beauty, he recognized her as the daughter of the Minister of the Left, whom the emperor had also taken as a lover at the urging of her father. The Minister of the Left had been hungry to secure his place in the Imperial Line by providing the Emperor an heir and was furious when his daughter would not become the Empress Dowager. Palace gossip said that His Majesty had lost interest in her, in favor of the daughter of the Minister of the Right. But she had loved His Majesty deeply and yearned to give him an heir. The chance to bear his child had been denied her by the vicissitudes of love. For months she had prowled the halls of the palace, little by little losing herself to jealousy and grief, until her emotions consumed her, and nothing was left but a demon.”

Kazuko’s eyes teared. Had she not encountered a living, breathing oni herself, she might have dismissed this as just a story. How far had she herself gone down this road with so much time spent yearning for Ken’ishi? Was it too late for her? Was it too late for Hatsumi?

Lady Yukino’s gaze penetrated Kazuko. “The captain tried to stop her, but she flung him aside and charged toward the house. She ripped open the doors, ran inside, and seized the newborn heir from his mother’s arms. She had her hand around its tender throat when the captain caught up with her. He took her head in one swift stroke.

“In her hand he found a fan, upon which was written a poem:

The full moon of spring rises high,

The portal to my heart,

To the land where dew glistens

Upon the exquisite lily

“This poem to which she had clung for so long was not the poem the captain had written to her. Alas, his poem, doubtless filled with his own eloquent words of love, has been lost to the dust of time.

“The captain was lauded as a great hero by the entire Imperial Court and His Majesty himself, and he was showered with rewards. But soon afterward, he took his monastic vows and retired from public life.”

The familiarity in this tale pulled tight around Kazuko’s thoughts, threatening to choke her, making her squirm. She took several deep breaths, realizing her heart was beating fast. Her hands were clenched in her lap.

Lady Yukino placidly placed another stone on the board. “It is your move.”

“When Lord Katsushige was young, he was instructed by his father, Lord Naoshige, ‘For practice in cutting, execute some men who have been condemned to death.’ Thus, in the place that is now within the western gate, ten men were lined up, and Katsushige continued to decapitate one after another until he had executed nine of them. When he came to the tenth, he saw that the man was young and healthy and said, ‘I’m tired of cutting now. I’ll spare this man’s life.’ And the man’s life was saved.”

—Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

The morning dawned like every morning of the last several days, chill and gray, frost thick on the well heads, on the tufts of grass ambitious enough to grow here, on the pebbles and the hard-packed earth of the yards, on the ceramic tiles of the roofs, becoming an extra sheen of glittering diamonds on the whitewashed walls.

Ken’ishi had found that life in the barrack was simple. A futon and a blanket were preferable to the cold ground. Braziers of coals heated the barrack, but here on the castle hill, the cold wind whipped with a fervor like the highest mountain slopes. His old master, Kaa, would have admonished him for growing soft, over-accustomed to the comforts of human civilization.

Other similar barracks were situated around the perimeter of the walls, housing more than two hundred men in total. Some were veterans, skilled warriors; others were new recruits, varying from long-time ronin to former peasants.

Being thrown in with so many peasants would have once bothered Ken’ishi, so proud had he been of his samurai heritage, but it was a heritage about which he knew nothing. Having no real knowledge of his pedigree, it seemed unfair to look down on anyone. No doubt his father had been a true warrior—Kaa had told him as much—but he had given up the life of a warrior to work a plot of land. What life would Ken’ishi’s father have wanted for him? What name would he have been given? He did not even know what his baby name had been. Throughout his time with Kaa, he had just been called Boy. When Kaa had sent him out into the world, Ken’ishi had chosen his own name, Sword meets Stone.

Each morning, under the supervision of Sergeant Hiromasa, they formed ranks in the practice yard and drilled with spears, practiced how to march, how to move in formation, learned the meaning of orders given by drum and conch and war fan. They were being trained for the castle garrison, which demanded proficiency with spear and bow, sword and naginata. Captain Yoshimura had declared that if they showed promise, they might be dispersed into units suited to their individual strengths.

Ken’ishi’s hands grew ever more familiar with the feel of the wooden spear haft, of its weight, reach, and balance. Of course, it was infinitely inferior to Silver Crane, but there were some purposes and circumstances for which a spear might be a superior weapon. Insight into its utility gave him a strong appreciation for it.

Sergeant Hiromasa told him, “You gain skill quickly.”

Ken’ishi bowed. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Have you ever used a spear before?”

“No, Sergeant.”

Hiromasa gave him a look of thoughtful appraisal. “I think tomorrow I will make you unit leader.”

Elation washed through him. “Thank you, Sergeant!” He bowed again. “My duty is to serve with all my ability.”

Hiromasa cracked a faint smile, then moved on.

But Ken’ishi was not made a unit leader the following day, and he wondered if he had failed somehow to make Hiromasa change his mind. He redoubled his efforts and trained harder.

And then Hiromasa would approach Ken’ishi and say again, “I think tomorrow I will make you unit leader.” But still no promotion came.

Day after day, the constant movement helped keep the cold at bay, so that when breakfast came in the form of a fresh egg cracked upon hot rice, the meal became among the most appreciated he had experienced since his days as a starving ronin.

For Ken’ishi, the drills were easy, if taxing. Working with a spear required a different style of movement and poise, but still required balance and control of one’s body. Perhaps he should not have been astonished at how many of the new retainers lacked the kind of control Kaa had drilled into him since he was five years old. Footwork, balance, and timing were the foundations of martial practice of any discipline, and many of the men lacked these skills in such profundity he wondered how they had managed to survive this long without suffering a tragic accident walking out of their houses. On the other hand, many of them were warriors trained and bred, hard-muscled, flint-eyed, and steady. They knew what it was to kill and to face one’s own death.

Bred in a samurai family, Michizane exhibited this sort of martial training. He moved with a steadfast stoicism Ken’ishi admired. They sometimes sat together at meals. Michizane once complimented Ken’ishi’s footwork and balance. It was clear, he said, that Ken’ishi had been taught well, and that his skills formed the basis of real strength, no matter what weapon or fighting style he chose. Ken’ishi thanked him, upon which Michizane began to ask about his upbringing and training. Ken’ishi demurred. He knew almost nothing of his heritage, and tales of his upbringing were not something most men would believe.

During one such conversation, he detected a wistful longing when Michizane asked about Ken’ishi’s family, prompting him to return the question.

“Ah, my family,” he answered with dreamy delight in his eyes. “My wife Satsuki is as beautiful as wisteria in spring, and kindness drips from her like the petals of those blossoms.”

Ken’ishi smiled. “Now who is the poetic soul?”

Michizane said, “And my daughter, Omitsu, is as fragile as a hatchling, but so adventurous, so inquisitive. Everything she sees brings a question.” His face glowed with pride. “Of course, I wish I had a son as well, but perhaps I’ll get to see Satsuki again and we can work on that.”

Ken’ishi felt a bit of surprise that Michizane’s family could not be with him. “Where are they?”

“Yame village. About four days’ walk from here. My stipend is modest, for now. Until I can rise in rank, they must live with my parents in Yame, which is fortunate. I cannot put them in the kind of house they deserve.”

“So you are the eldest son.”

“Of five brothers. And my father does not have wealth to divide among us. But our home is a happy one. Little Omitsu’s smile is like the sun.” A tear formed at the corner of his eye. “And Satsuki...Satsuki...”

Kiosé and Little Frog leaped into Ken’ishi’s mind. “You miss them very much.”

Michizane nodded. “I have not been home since before the invasion. My father told me to seek greater fortunes than can be found in Yame village. I’ve been sending all of my pay home....”

In contrast to Michizane, Ushihara was a clumsy bull. Stubborn and dim-witted, he had little but vague intuition where grace and poise should have been, but he was also strong and earnest, with a powerful desire to walk the path of a true warrior.

Michizane snorted that would it be a long journey, and Ushihara would likely die in the attempt. Ushihara spat and called him an over-groomed fop.

One day, Captain Yoshimura came at the noon meal and pulled Ushihara, along with Takuya, another man of peasant origin, out of the barracks. Lord Tsunetomo’s chamberlain had requested them for a specific duty within the castle keep. Ushihara grumbled at first, but shut his mouth after a stern look from Captain Yoshimura.

After the midday meal, the recruits were given a short time to rest. Ken’ishi returned to the yard to practice sword drills. Silver Crane moved like fluid metal in his hands, cutting the air with hungry slashes of sound.

Drills and practice resumed in the afternoon. A couple of hours later, Takuya returned, and some time after that, Ushihara as well.

Ushihara had never been particularly gregarious or light-hearted, but for the rest of the afternoon his frequent glances toward Ken’ishi were fraught with a kind of dark intent and calculation. As the day went on, whispers of the kami grew louder in Ken’ishi’s awareness.

That night, after the soldiers’ muscles were wrung out, their hands and feet sporting fresh rounds of blisters, and their bellies full of rice, smoked fish, and pickled plums, the men huddled around the braziers in the barracks. Faces were painted yellow-orange in the pools of glow. Some groups boasted and laughed. Others sang songs. Ken’ishi’s group—Ushihara, Michizane, and seven others—hunched quietly.

Ken’ishi opened his trunk and pulled out his bamboo flute, given to him when he was just a boy by the first human being he could remember meeting, an itinerant monk, high in the mountains of northern Honshu. Raising it to his lips, he began to play. The notes flowed like mournful birdsong, wavered and trilled and echoed, like a nightingale calling for its mate. The men fell silent. The group around him grew.

Ushihara sat near him with hooded eyes, scowling. “Damn you, quit that infernal racket. It makes my heart hurt.”

Ken’ishi had played this song for the girl he fell in love with on a long-ago forest road. The unquenchable yearning for her surged within him, like the scar in his thigh that ached when the weather was about to change, familiar as an old shoe, part of him. He closed his eyes and let it take him, pouring it into the song.

The flute was snatched out of his hands.

He opened his eyes.

Ushihara snapped the flute in two against his knee. “I said stop!”

The shock boiled up in Ken’ishi like lava from a fire mountain, turning to rage as it spilled over the top. He launched himself at Ushihara.

Ushihara met him with a fist against his teeth and fingers gouging for his eyes.

Ken’ishi bowled him over, rage stealing his reason, blood in his mouth. They rolled on the floor, a straining, shouting, punching knot.

Cries erupted around them. Hands reached for them, trying to pry them apart. Ken’ishi reared back a fist meant to slam Ushihara’s head into the floor, but someone caught it and used it to peel him loose.

Moments later, Sergeant Hiromasa appeared, roaring, along with armed guards of the night’s watch. Ken’ishi caught a glimpse of a truncheon moments before it slammed into his head. And then blackness.

* * *

Ken’ishi awoke surrounded by night, his outstretched arms aching from being bound, face-first, by coarse ropes to a cross. His head pounded from the truncheon blow. The winter wind sliced through clothing and stole all warmth from him. He gathered his feet under him to stand and relieve the tension on his shoulders, but the ground was too close for him to stand up, too far for him to kneel. He could only hang there from his arms, straining his shoulders.

The wood was rough and hard and merciless against his face. His breath misted from his mouth and formed a frost on the wood of the cross. The yard was silent, except for the quiet footsteps of the watch passing somewhere behind him.

His only thought was: How strange to be in a position of torture again so soon.

Green Tiger’s torturer had subjected him to such eternities of agony that, in the march of the real world’s time, he had no memory or imagination of how long it had lasted. Only an infinitude of hells.

He was not alone. On a nearby cross hung a dark shape. From the ragged shock of hair, Ken’ishi recognized Ushihara.

The crescent moon slid across heaven with its entourage of silken stars, silent and aloof, painting two sullen shadows onto the castle wall.

Eventually the ropes and strain and cold numbed his arms, and he hung in a half-daze, dipping in an out of a black stupor and visions of snarling oni coming to devour him. And with the practice he had learned in Green Tiger’s torturous hell, he let himself descend into the stupor, where things were quiet and dark and the pain only a distant beast clawing at the door.

Then a sound roused him.

Weeping.

Ken’ishi cranked his knotted neck to look at Ushihara, whose cheeks were wet with tears, lips glistening with snot and spittle.

After a time, Ushihara noticed Ken’ishi’s eyes on him. He sniffed and tried to compose himself, but his eyes still glowed with terror. “They’re gonna kill us!”

“No,” Ken’ishi said, “we’re to be flogged.”

“It hurts!”

“Shut up, coward.” It was only pain.

Ushihara wept. “It hurts, it hurts....”

Ken’ishi sighed and shook his head. “You cry like a peasant. You are no better than a gravedigger.”

At the last word, Ushihara flinched and began to struggle at his bonds, but it was no good.

From across the yard, a guard’s voice called out, “Shut up, you shit heads!”

Ushihara settled back against his ropes.

The shadows crept along the wall and exhaustion crept through Ken’ishi’s body, drawing fingers of blackness through his mind.

Then he heard Ushihara’s ragged whisper. “He made me!”

Several moments passed before Ken’ishi absorbed those words. “Who made you?”

“He said he’ll do to me a hundred times worse than a simple flogging if I tell!”

“Then why tell me anything at all?”

Long moments passed. Ushihara sniffled. “I don’t know.” Something in his voice—remorse?—suggested Ushihara spoke the truth.

Several times, Ken’ishi pressed for a name, and every time he met with fearful refusal.

The night dug deeper into itself, and Ushihara wept again.

For some reason he could not explain, Ken’ishi pitied the lout.

Allowing himself to drift in the currents of pain and cold, his consciousness dimmed until the shadows on the wall diffused into the gray of early dawn. Before long, the morning conch sounded, roused him fully, and brought the men out of the barracks.

All the recruits of Barrack Six shuffled out onto the practice yard, yawning and rubbing their eyes.

Sergeant Hiromasa’s voice roared, “Attention!”

The men leaped into line and stood straight, motionless, and silent.

Two guards approached the crosses where Ken’ishi and Ushihara hung.

Sergeant Hiromasa’s voice called out, “Are they alive?”

One of guards checked them. “Yes.”

“Then perhaps there’s hope for them,” Hiromasa said. He raised his voice toward the men standing at attention, speaking with gruff emphasis on each word. “I will explain this to you only once. Brawling is forbidden! Your flesh, your bone, your blood, your lives belong to your lord, and only to your lord! You die when he tells you to die! You fight when he tells you to fight! If you fight with another of his retainers, you are fighting with Lord Tsunetomo himself! If you injure or kill one of his retainers, you are doing harm to your lord! You may as well have cut off one of his fingers! He has given you a sword, comrades, a bed, food. Serve him well and he will care for you well. Until that day he deems it your time to die.” He paused, striding slowly before the line, glaring at each man in turn. In his hand, he carried a bamboo cane as thick as two fingers.

At the sight of the cane, a shiver of memory whispered through Ken’ishi. How many times in his boyhood had Kaa used a cane on him? Memory of its bite raised tingles on his buttocks and thighs.

“These two men harmed your lord!” Hiromasa shouted. “Should we show them mercy?”

Cries of “No!” came from the ranks.

Sergeant Hiromasa approached Ken’ishi and Ushihara. “Do you understand why you are here?”

Both croaked in affirmative.

“Now, let us get to the bottom of this. Who started it?”

“I did, Sergeant,” Ken’ishi said.

Ushihara gasped and stared at him.

Ken’ishi continued, “Ushihara offended me greatly, but I should have held my temper. I attacked him. Please give me his strokes.”

Hiromasa grunted with surprise. “And why would you accept his strokes? Has he not made himself your enemy?”

“We are brothers in service to Lord Tsunetomo, Sergeant.”

Ushihara’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

“Very well,” Hiromasa said. “But he will not be let off without punishment. When he should have been building comradeship, he rudely, blatantly offended one of his comrades. Ken’ishi will have half of Ushihara’s strokes. Ten strokes for Ushihara. Thirty strokes for Ken’ishi.” He squared himself behind Ushihara. “Strip him.”

The two guards came forward and tore Ushihara’s clothes from him, leaving him naked but for a loincloth. Ushihara clamped teeth hard onto his bottom lip.

“You will count,” Hiromasa said. “If you cannot count, I will continue until you can.”

Terror twisted Ushihara’s face. When the first blow fell, hissing, sharp, and meaty across his back, he clenched his teeth and shouted, “One!” When the second blow fell, a whimper found its way into the word, “Two!” Like the slow beat of a drum, the cane snapped into his back, driving the count from him. He convulsed around each blow like a worm touched with burning twig. The shout of “Ten!” came out with an explosive bleat of relief.

Two flicks of the tip of Hiromasa’s wakizashi severed Ushihara’s bonds, and he spilled onto the ground, clutching his arms to his chest like nerveless stumps.

“When you can get up,” Hiromasa said, “breakfast awaits.”

Trembling, gasping, Ushihara rolled onto his knees. His arms shifted shades of red and blue and purple. Stripes of blood seeping from the crimson weals on his back and buttocks, Ushihara rolled onto his knees.

Hiromasa turned toward Ken’ishi. “Strip him.”

The guards tore Ken’ishi’s clothes from him.

He breathed deeply and steeled himself for the first blow.

It came, shocking in its depth of pain, as if a strip of flesh had been ripped from him. Perhaps the chill that reached to his bones reduced the pain. He swallowed hard and said, “One.”

A silvery tendril reached into his mind, threaded between his thoughts, cooled the hot agony of the first blow.

After this, everything changes, Silver Crane said.

“Two.”

In a flash of staggering despair, Ken’ishi envisioned himself being cast out in disgrace.

That is not the man’s destiny.

“Three.”

Even such pain as this was bearable. It would pass, as all things bad and good.

Was his destiny further humiliation? Would he have to cut his belly open to escape it?

This is not the man’s humiliation. It is the threshold.

Is it just the wind

In the bamboo grass,

Or are you coming?

At the least sound

My heart skips a beat.

I try to suppress my torment

And get a little sleep,

But I only become more restless.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

A terrible nothingness stalked Kazuko like a lone wolf stalking a fawn. The nothingness was not a pleasant, floating void, but a vile, diabolical thing that ate at the substance of everything she was. Sometimes it took form and peeled memories from her like stale, sticky noodles, dipped them in her moon’s blood, and ate them with delight.

One by one, the nothingness flayed her memories away: her childhood, her coming of age, her studies of Chinese classics, her education in the ways of noble ladies and of how to pleasure a husband, and then, the memories of her night with—

A ragged gasp dragged her upright in bed, chest heaving. Chicken skin sprang up on both arms, across her shoulders, and up her neck.

Tsunetomo snored quietly beside her, his broad chest rising and falling. He stirred at her movement, then settled himself back into slumber.

The thought of losing who she was, of having her very self stripped away piece by piece, the sensation of it happening right now, of being replaced by nothingness, unsettled her so profoundly that she rose out of bed and stood above her husband, the grayness of early dawn seeping around the shutters. Frozen by shock, she stood for a long time until she roused herself and did the only thing she knew to drive away the most unpleasant of thoughts: she donned her practice garb, took down her naginata from its rack on the wall, and descended the narrow staircases through the floors of the keep, heading toward the practice yard. Physical exertion would fan the flames she knew to be within her and drive back the darkness of her dreams. She was Otomo no Kazuko, a samurai lady, and no mere visitation from the Land of Dreams would steal that from her.

Two drill yards, those of Barracks Five and Six, stood between her and the practice yard where Master Higuchi schooled her in the ways of the naginata. The men of Barrack Five stood outside, slapping their arms against the cold, preparing for their morning exercises.

Around a bend of the central keep, she entered the domain of Barrack Six, but here there was a punishment in progress.

The warriors stood at attention as another man, who was lashed to a cross, was flogged with a bamboo cane. She could not see his face. A pool of sick dread formed in her belly. With so many new recruits, many of them from lowly backgrounds and thus not schooled in the behavior and expectations of true samurai, such punishments had become almost commonplace in recent weeks. Her husband had assured her that once a few examples were made, the recruits would shape up. She could hardly disapprove if the alternatives were casting them out or demanding their seppuku.

Crossing the yard now would interrupt the proceedings, so she waited off to the side, unnoticed.

The man on the cross bore each resounding blow with a quiet, unfathomable stoicism. His voice counted out the strokes, calm and quiet and steady, as if he were in a trance, as if the pain did not touch him. Angry, scarlet welts crisscrossed his muscled back, weeping blood.

The burgeoning amazement was plain on the sergeant’s face.

“Twenty-seven,” the man called.

Something was familiar about his voice.

His forehead pressed against the wood. From her vantage point behind and to the left of him, she could not see his face.

Then he turned his face toward her. “Twenty-eight.”

Her heart burst through her ribcage and fell at her feet.

Some sound must have escaped her.

His gaze swept toward her.

Their eyes met.

The next blow fell.

Ken’ishi’s mouth opened, but no sound came forth.

The sergeant administering the blows paused for a heartbeat in his terrible rhythm. But the look of amazement on his face changed to something else, something harder. He struck again.

Still, Ken’ishi did not speak.

From this distance she could read nothing in the implacable mask of his face.

Another blow fell, and his body convulsed with pain as if for the first time.

Several of the men glanced toward her. She dared not reveal she knew this man, or the potential ripples of effect could be disastrous for him. She gave not a moment’s thought toward herself. Only for him. If it became apparent to anyone that she knew him, his life would be in danger.

She wiped all expression from her face and looked away. Willed the tears not to come, she stood taller, straighter, held her naginata with greater solemnity.

Finally, after four more blows, Ken’ishi found his voice again. But now its gasp made it barely audible. “Twenty-nine!”

His face turned away and he slammed his forehead into the wood—once, twice, thrice.

The sergeant struck again.

“Thirty!” Ken’ishi called, and then he sagged unconscious against the ropes.

With a deliberate pace that she hoped painted a picture of calm disinterest, she began to cross the yard.

At the sight of her, the sergeant called out, “Honor to Lady Otomo!”

All the men hurriedly prostrated themselves, pressing their foreheads to the earth as she passed. She hurried her step and kept her gaze steadfastly forward, so that she would not have to see Ken’ishi’s ravaged body lying in the dirt.

An eternity of stricken heartbeats later, she rounded the corner, out of sight, and then she fled. Once she reached her own practice yard, she leaned against the whitewashed plaster and slid to the ground, trembling.

“Within this body solidified by desire is concealed the absolutely desireless and upright core of the mind. This mind is not in the body of the Five Skandhas, has no color or form, and is not desire. It is unwaveringly correct, it is absolutely straight. When this mind is used as a plumbline, anything done at all will be right-mindedness. This absolutely straight thing is the substance of right-mindedness.”

—Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”

Ken’ishi sat near the fire inside his barrack. The bowl of rice cupped in his hands had long since gone cold. Sensation had returned to his arms. Strangely, parts of him warmed, allowing him to feel the cold again. The night’s chill had permeated his bones, made them feel like frozen boughs buried in his flesh.

He stared into the coals, unable to muster a coherent thought. His mind was an empty room, like the abandoned hovel he had found in the forest before arriving here, filled with nothing but dust and forgotten detritus.

Outside in the practice yard, the rest of Barrack Six drilled.

Ushihara sat across from him, his bowl of rice empty. “Aren’t you going to eat yours?” he asked.

Ken’ishi blinked and offered him the bowl.

Surprise flashed on Ushihara’s face. “Truly?” Then he snatched it.

Ken’ishi’s back burned as if covered in hot coals, but he did not care. This kind of pain would heal.

An old wound had been opened, one that cut deeper than any wound of the flesh.

A storm of emotions hung ready to crash over him, but squelched somehow, as if he had put the storm in a kettle and covered it with a lid. A strange moment passed over him, that he must be watching some other poor fool’s life unfolding before him. Such a cruel twist of fate could hardly be believed.

“When we were bound,” Ken’ishi said, “you told me that someone had put you up to it.”

Ushihara stopped chewing. “I-I didn’t say anything like that. You must have been dreaming.”

Abject terror blanched his face, but Ken’ishi lacked the strength to force the truth from Ushihara.

Around midday, the men in the yard filed inside with fresh bowls of rice and roasted fish on skewers.

Michizane sat down next to Ken’ishi, giving Ushihara a hateful look. Ushihara could not meet his gaze. “How are you feeling, Ken’ishi?”

Ken’ishi said, “I have not yet crossed to the realm of the dead.”

“Everyone is talking about how you withstood the pain. Thirty-five strokes as if they were nothing at all! How did you do it?”

Ken’ishi took a deep, painful breath and let it out.

When Michizane saw no answer forthcoming, he said, “Tomorrow we begin archery practice. How are you with a bow?”

“I can shoot.”

“What about on horseback?”

“I have only ridden one horse. We did not shoot.”

“They say Captain Tsunemori is a master horsebowman. Perhaps he’ll instruct us. I expect some of us barely know how to sit astride a horse, much less fire a bow at the same time.” He glared pointedly at Ushihara.

Ushihara turned to face the wall, shoulders hunched.

Sergeant Hiromasa approached, his face hard, eyes like chips of basalt. “Ken’ishi, tomorrow you will be a unit leader. Do not disappoint me again.”

Ken’ishi tried to jump to his feet, but his muscles allowed only a painful unfolding. He stood at attention. “Thank you, Sergeant. I will bring honor to Lord Tsunetomo.”

“See me before morning drill for your command roster.”

Hiromasa turned and left them all gaping in shock.

Ken’ishi sank back down beside Michizane, the lid on the cauldron of his emotions threatening to blow off. But this was a different sort of shock.

Michizane smiled. “It seems you have made an impression.”

* * *

Ken’ishi roused himself before dawn the next morning, preparing himself for anything that might come. In spite of what should have been a great success in being promoted to unit leader, he felt as if an invisible sword hovered just over his head. Someone in the castle had put Ushihara up to goading Ken’ishi into a fight. If anyone discovered that he and Lady Kazuko had been lovers before her marriage, both their lives would be destroyed. He did not care about his, but she would be disgraced, possibly cast out.

The enormity of the web of circumstances that had brought them both to this place at this time staggered him. He could sense the innumerable gossamer threads weaving him into the fabric of the universe, twining him with Kazuko, Kiosé, plus others he had encountered, but now those threads seemed hidden from him. Silver Crane had ignored his pleas for answers. The sword kept its mysteries well hidden.

The expression on Kazuko’s face was as indelible as a woodblock print in his mind. There had been surprise, but more than anything she looked like someone who had just encountered her worst enemy, the person who could destroy everything. Perhaps in that she was right, at least. The thought of causing her any harm, purposefully or inadvertently, sickened him. Surprise and fear on her face, and then...nothing. Her expression had become a blank wall, a Noh mask.

His muscles still felt like knotted, overstretched ropes, and the touch of the robe on his back chafed at the bruised, scabbed weals. At least he had blankets to warm him, even though sleep fled his every attempt to grasp it.

He stood outside the tiny room of the barrack sergeant with two other newly appointed unit leaders and Sergeant Hiromasa. Hiromasa gave each of them a list of the ten men under their command. Ken’ishi noted that Michizane and Ushihara were among his men.

As Hiromasa outlined the duties of unit leaders, Ken’ishi found himself grateful for this distraction. His body wracked by pain, his torso a sizzling cavern, he had lain on his side or his belly in his bunk all night, wide-awake. The more he yearned for sleep, the more it eluded him. His eyes felt puffy and full of grit, but none of that would deter him.

When he had found himself in command of an imperiled group of scouts during the invasion, thrust into that position by his own exploits, assuming command had felt natural. But all of that had been little more than an attempt to organize a desperate patch of order in a sea of chaos and death. Here, his mind floundered between attentiveness to everything that Hiromasa was telling him and fear that he would fail to remember any of it.

As night faded and he stood at the forefront of his ten men, leading them in exercises that warmed the sleep out of them, he spied a lone hawk sitting on the peak of the barrack roof. Its gray feathers blended with the morning sky, and its sharp eyes watched the proceedings with unusual interest.

A moment later, he recognized the hawk as the same one that had spoken to him in the rain, at a crossroads, as the typhoon descended upon the battlefields of northern Kyushu. The hawk was his old master and teacher, the tengu, Kaa. In its gaze was the mixture of exasperated impatience and incredulous amusement Ken’ishi knew so well. The tengu came and went at the strangest times. Seeing him here now made Ken’ishi stumble, disrupting the cadence of the drill.

For an hour, the hawk watched. Before long, several of the men of Barrack Six had noticed its presence and called to it. Its unwavering gaze seemed to judge them as a horse trader might examine a crop of foals. Ken’ishi did not see the hawk fly away. One moment it was simply gone, and he could only continue with the spear drills and wonder at the purpose for Kaa’s presence. The tengu did nothing without a purpose.

The afternoon brought a cart full of bows and arrows. Straw targets were erected. Since some of his men were peasant-born, like Ushihara, he had to instruct them in the most basic knowledge of how to string a bow, how to nock an arrow, and how to shoot without hitting their comrades.

By the end of the day, a modicum of satisfaction had chewed a few holes in his black mood. His skill with the bow remained undiminished, and in the instruction, the men found a new way to respect him.

Ushihara was still sullen, but he worked as hard as anyone, even though the pain must still have been crippling. Ken’ishi suppressed his own pain, much as he had done under the efforts of Green Tiger’s torturer. Ken’ishi thought Ushihara would not try to cause trouble for him again.

But who had put the man up to making trouble in the first place? How could Ken’ishi have enemies here already? Could he trust anyone? Even Michizane? Until he knew more, however, he would give Ushihara the widest berth.

“Calculating people are contemptible. The reason for this is that calculation deals with loss and gain, and the loss and gain mind never stops. Death is considered loss, and life is considered gain. Thus, death is something such a person does not care for, and he is contemptible.”

—Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

Yasutoki regarded the two men—Ushihara and Takuya—as they deposited their buckets of charcoal in the corner of his office.

“Have you any further work for us, Lord?” Takuya said.

“That will be all,” Yasutoki said. “You may return to your barrack.”

The two of them bowed and turned to leave. Ushihara’s expression was nervous, expectant. As Takuya slid open the door, Yasutoki said, “Oh, I do have one more thing. Ushihara, please stay a moment longer. This will not take long, I assure you.”

Takuya bowed and departed.

As soon as the door slid shut, Ushihara prostrated himself before Yasutoki, trembling with fear, whispering, “Forgive me, Lord! I tried!”

“Then how is it that he has been promoted?” Yasutoki asked, his voice steady and measured.

Ushihara shook his head. “I don’t know, Lord!”

“What am I to do? I am a loyal servant of Lord Tsunetomo. It is my duty to ensure the smooth workings of my lord’s estates and pass forward to him any information that might be deemed...unpleasant. I thought it strange to find a man named Ushihara—an unusual name, to be sure—on the rolls of my lord’s new recruits. I had heard recently of an eta, one of the unclean, a gravedigger by the name of Ushihara, a man wanted for the murder of a wealthy Kagoshima merchant.” A man with whom Green Tiger had had numerous profitable business dealings. “This other Ushihara is not you, I am quite certain. At least, for now. Of course, if I believed you and this other Ushihara to be the same man, I would have to have you arrested immediately, after which doubtless you would be tortured to death.”

Ushihara trembled, sweat trickling down his face.

Yasutoki said, “So I must ask the question. What can you do for me now?”

“I can’t bear another flogging, Lord.”

“Flogging is the most lenient punishment you are likely to experience ever again,” Yasutoki said. What kind of fool would still answer to a name that had been so tainted with a death sentence? Was he actually stupid enough to think that he would be safe here, hundreds of ri from the crime?

Ushihara cringed.

Yasutoki said, “I will ask you again, what can you do for me now?”

“A dagger across his throat in the dead of night, Lord?”

Yasutoki had considered the possibility of having Ken’ishi murdered. But such a brazen assassination would raise uncomfortable questions, such as why Ushihara had met twice, privately, with the lord’s chamberlain. Tsunemori already despised Yasutoki; he would be quick to point an accusing finger, and he was one of the few men with the status and rank to get away with it.

No, Yasutoki would have to find another instrument if Ken’ishi were to be killed. First he must determine if Ken’ishi possessed Silver Crane. He had already attempted to bring the man into his employ, many times, and been refused, many times, even under the coercion of torture. Would Ken’ishi be more willing to work for the lord’s chamberlain than for Green Tiger? Again, too many chances for Green Tiger to be recognized. Best to continue watching Ken’ishi from a distance. As long as Silver Crane was close, available for snatching at any moment, Yasutoki could tolerate his presence. Besides, now that Ken’ishi was here, he would make a perfect lever with which to pry Kazuko into doing his will.

“For now, I want you to pay attention to his sword. Study it. In a few days, you will tell me what you know of it.”

“I don’t know anything about swords, Lord. What do you want me to study?”

Yasutoki let out a controlled breath between tightened lips. “Tell me of any designs on the scabbard. Tell me what the hilt looks like. Tell me what the guard looks like.” Those details would tell him everything he needed to know. And then he could act from that knowledge. “Serve me well, and you will be rewarded. Betray me, and you’ll wish for that other Ushihara’s punishment.”

Frost covers the reeds of the marsh.

A fine haze blows through them,

Crackling the long leaves.

My full heart throbs with bliss.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

After so many days of training, a day of rest was declared. The men were free to venture out of the castle. It was a chill, windy day, with a sky swathed in gray clouds.

Ken’ishi’s back still pained him, but it was no longer a field of raw flames. Everyone else had gone to town for hot saké to warm their bones. Ken’ishi practiced sword drills alone, trying to focus his scattered mind, when a familiar voice called out to him.

“Always practicing, eh, Sir Ken’ishi?” Ishitaka said as he approached.

Ken’ishi sheathed Silver Crane, and they bowed to each other. Ken’ishi had not seen Ishitaka since that day in Hakozaki some weeks before, in the aftermath of the typhoon. Doubtless being the son of Captain Tsunemori entailed many duties far above the heads of lowly spearmen. Ishitaka’s beaming face and infectious grin betrayed his youth. He was only sixteen, but had been trained from birth to be a warrior of the Otomo clan. Their experiences in battle against the Mongols had turned them into comrades, despite the vast difference in their respective status.

Ishitaka threw an arm around Ken’ishi’s shoulders. “You are coming with me! After everything you’ve been through, you need to find some enjoyment.”

Ken’ishi stiffened. “You heard about the—”

“The flogging? Of course. I was very sad about that. Especially when it was the other man’s fault. What an uncouth bag of filth.”

The thought of his friend hearing about his disgrace made Ken’ishi lower his head.

“Brace up, Ken’ishi!” Ishitaka said, guiding him into movement. “The way you withstood the flogging is more on people’s tongues than the reason. And you took half his strokes! I’ve heard that forty strokes can kill a man. You look so glum, it’s as if you’ve resigned yourself to another round of torture. Let us look toward the future! A future where saké and girls await us!”

“Girls?”

“Of course! You don’t see any around here, do you? What better way to lift one’s spirits than the attention of a pretty girl?”

Ishitaka’s boyish zeal scratched at the black shell of Ken’ishi’s mood. He smiled. “Very well.”

* * *

The Roasted Acorn was the largest saké house in town, with a spacious common room on the ground floor, and two floors above for private meals and meetings. Tonight, the common room was alive with boisterous company, the men from the castle mixing with townsfolk and farmers. The aromas of hot saké, smoke from cooking fires, roasting chicken and fish, and steaming broth and steaming rice awoke fires of hunger in Ken’ishi’s belly. He and Ishitaka enjoyed course after course of simple food in sumptuous quantities. Jar after jar of hot saké poured warm honey into their veins.

Some of the men broke into drinking songs, and one of them stood up and began to dance with comical exaggeration, contorting his face into farcical expressions. Before long, he dropped his trousers and continued the dance with the utmost earnestness, trousers around his ankles, amidst roars of laughter.

The villagers of Aoka, where Ken’ishi had lived most of the last three years, had seldom been this boisterous except at New Year. The village’s fishermen had been a taciturn bunch. Ken’ishi had never had the opportunity to share the company of so many warriors, and he found himself enjoying their camaraderie and good humor.

Some of them, however, looked at him and whispered to each other. He often felt eyes upon him, but the kami were silent, so he was able to relax. Let them gossip. He need prove himself to no one except his lord. The man married to—

He slashed that thought short, sharply, and tossed back another cup of saké, letting the warmth assuage the cold buzz in his belly.

Ishitaka clutched Ken’ishi’s arm. A new serving girl had just brought a tray of fresh jars to a nearby table. She moved with incredible grace and a delicate, fetching sway. Ishitaka stared, rapt. Her hair was long and lustrous, hanging free over her shoulders.

“Ken’ishi!” Ishitaka gasped. “By the gods and buddhas!”

She glanced at them, then turned away and hurried into the back.

“She was the most beautiful girl I have ever seen!” Ishitaka breathed.

Ken’ishi said, “She was very pretty, but so young. Hardly fourteen.” But in spite of her youth, there was something older about her, a loss of innocence in her lips and eyes, the way she looked at all these men without a trace of fear, as if she knew precisely how to handle herself around them, heedless of all the ways they could hurt her. The kami niggled at his awareness like tadpoles.

“The perfect age! I am sixteen! A man should always be older than his wife!”

Ken’ishi laughed. “Wife? The son of a high-ranking samurai marrying a peasant girl?”

“Well, perhaps just concubine then,” Ishitaka chuckled. “I must speak to her!”

“I’m sure she will return.”

“I cannot wait that long! I must ask the proprietor if she’s available.” Ishitaka tried to stand and found himself somewhat unsteady.

Ken’ishi pulled him back down with a thump. “Calm yourself. Let us just observe.”

She did indeed return with another tray of saké jars and came to their table.

Ishitaka needed no more saké; his eyes drank only her. “What’s your name?” His words slurred together.

She smiled at him. “Yuri, Lord.”

“What kind of ‘yuri?’ What are your characters?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know, Lord. I cannot read or write.”

Ishitaka’s brows furrowed in concentration. “Surely your parents told you why they gave you that name?”

“I...” Something passed behind her eyes, and the kami voices grew louder in Ken’ishi’s mind. “It is a kind of flower, I think.”

“Ah, yes, the lily!” Ishitaka’s face bloomed with pleasure. “What a perfect name for the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.”

She bowed and began to back away. “I am just a serving girl, Lord. Please excuse me.”

“No, wait! Stop, you must sit and drink with us!”

“Why me, Lord?”

“Because I desire it, and it is my intention to woo you until your heart is mine forever!”

Her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “I am sorry, Lord, I must—”

Ishitaka lifted himself higher and gently took her hand. “You must stay.”

Ken’ishi raised an eyebrow. Such a gesture in public was incredibly forward.

She tried to speak, but half the eyes in the room were upon them, brimming with amusement.

“No, wait,” Ishitaka said. “Send your master to me.”

“Yes, Lord,” she said, then bowed and hurried away.

As soon as she disappeared, the room erupted with cheers and laughter.

The music continued. Another man got up to dance with the first, this one striking exaggerated feminine poses in Ishitaka’s direction. Ishitaka ignored them and said to Ken’ishi, “Did you see, my friend? A goddess walking among mortal men! Have you ever experienced that before?”

Ken’ishi emitted a wry chuckle. “I have.”

“I swear I will have her, or else my heart shall break into ten thousand bleeding shards.”

A short, balding man with a thin face came out of the back, wiping his hands on a towel, with Yuri just behind him, looking toward where Ken’ishi and Ishitaka sat. Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes when he saw Ishitaka. He slapped on a smile and approached their table. Ishitaka gestured the man to sit, poured a cup of saké, and offered it.

“I am Otomo no Ishitaka, sir. And you are the owner of this splendid establishment?”

“Heikichi is my name, and yes, Lord, this is my place. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord. Your exploits in battle precede you. Please look with favor on my humble establishment.”

Ishitaka waved a dismissive hand. “How is it that you have such an exquisite creature working here as a simple serving girl? She should be a princess! An empress!”

“She is new, Lord, only started this week—”

“Is she for sale?”

“Her bed is her own, Lord.” The man spoke haltingly, as if a number of conflicting urges tangled his words. “I do not offer her to customers. I do not own her—”

“Good! Because she is far too good to be a common whore. Is she a hard worker? Do you pay her well?”

Ken’ishi covered the amusement on his lips with a hand.

“She does passably fine, and customers seem to like her—”

“Excellent! How much are you paying her today? No, never mind that. Whatever it is, I will double it.”

“But, Lord—”

“Very well, sir, you drive a hard bargain! I will triple it if you consent to allow her to join my companion and myself for the rest of the evening.”

The proprietor’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Very well, Lord. You are most generous. May I interest you in a private room upstairs?”

“That sounds splendid! Just splendid!” Ishitaka’s words were losing their intelligibility. He beamed at Ken’ishi. “Now we must find you a girl, too!”

“But, sirs—”

Ken’ishi raised a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Heikichi. We don’t want to put you to any more trouble.”

The proprietor bowed to them. “Thank you, sirs, for your generosity and patronage.” He pointed to a beaded curtain in the corner leading to a stairway. “Up the stairs, second door on the right. I’ll send Yuri up with fresh saké and some mochi cakes with my compliments.”

“The No-Mind is the same as the Right Mind. It neither congeals nor fixes itself in one place. It is No-Mind when the mind has neither discrimination nor thought but wanders about the entire body and extends throughout the entire self….

“When this No-Mind has been well developed, the mind does not stop with one thing, nor does it lack any one thing. It is like water overflowing and exists within itself. It appears appropriately when facing a time of need.”

—Takuan Soho, “The Mysterious Record of Immovable Wisdom”

Upstairs in a small private room, Ishitaka and Ken’ishi settled themselves—somewhat unsteadily. Conversations and boisterous laughter seeped through the rice-paper screens, mostly masculine voices, but a few feminine as well. A servant boy brought a brazier and a bucket of coals and set them up to warm the room.

Ishitaka was still beaming. “The gods are smiling upon me today, Ken’ishi, I can feel it. How could such a beautiful creature be found in a place like this? Did you see the way she looked at me?” His eyes glowed.

Ken’ishi could not help but smile at his excitement. “Perhaps we should switch to tea. Too much saké, and your little warrior will not stand at attention.”

“Bah!” Ishitaka laughed. “She could make a dead man rise to greet her.”

The door slid open, and Yuri entered with a tray of fresh jars. She tucked a lock of hair behind a delicate ear. Ishitaka’s eyes devoured her. Ken’ishi could appreciate his friend’s infatuation, but she was so young, with womanly curves only beginning to show.

She smiled graciously at them both. “I am at your service, gentlemen.”

Now, with her sitting right there, Ishitaka seemed to have been struck mute. His face flushed scarlet, and his mouth was frozen. Ken’ishi leaned back with an amused smirk at his friend’s discomfiture.

She said, “May I pour?”

Ishitaka said, “Of...of course.” He raised his earthenware cup.

She raised a jar and with dexterous grace did not spill a drop, even though she was aiming for a moving target.

Ken’ishi decided to let his companion catch his breath and asked the girl, “Aren’t you a bit young to work here? Have you any brothers and sisters?”

“No, sir, I am an only child. My father is a...a merchant. He travels a lot.” Her clothing was not the faded threadbare of peasants, but a fine weave, crisp and new.

Ken’ishi watched for a reaction from Ishitaka. Merchants held the lowest social standing of anyone besides whores and eta, as they produced no food, built nothing, crafted nothing, served no one but themselves, and made money solely on the efforts of others.

Ishitaka seemed not to care. “And your mother?”

Her head bowed. “Alas, she is dead.”

Ishitaka said, “That is a pity. You must be very lonely when your father is gone.”

She nodded sadly. “He tells me he is trying to find me a fine husband.”

“Is he traveling now?”

“Yes, sir. I like coming here to work when he is gone.”

Ishitaka’s eyes sparkled.

Ken’ishi watched her over the rim of his cup, measuring Ishitaka’s chances. If Ishitaka were a certain kind of man, his status as the nephew of Lord Otomo might allow him to force her into his bed, regardless of her wishes. Thus far, Ken’ishi could not discern whether she truly liked Ishitaka, or was simply indulging his infatuation with politeness. And there was something else about her. As if he had seen her somewhere before...

They whiled away another hour. A few cups of saké and her cheeks flushed and smiles bloomed on her lips. There was a darkness in her eyes, however, that the smiles could not disperse, some part of her spirit that had been lopped off or stuffed away. Ken’ishi had seen the same in Kiosé, after several years working as a common whore. But this girl was younger even than Kiosé had been. She asked many questions and looked interested in hearing them talk about life in the castle. She said, “I look up at the castle and wonder what it must be like up there, looking down on us poor creatures in the town.”

Ishitaka did his best to regale her with tales of his exploits, but the saké seemed to mix up the details. Nevertheless, Ken’ishi just leaned back, offered occasional corroboration, and watched. She listened with fascination, prompting Ishitaka with smiles and surprise.

Over time, she edged closer to him, until their shoulders brushed.

Ken’ishi finally excused himself to use the privy, and when he came back, found them leaning close, looking brazenly into each other’s eyes. At the sight of him, Ishitaka’s eyes flashed with frustration. Taking this cue, Ken’ishi said, “The night grows late, and I feel I must retire. Thank you, Yuri, for being such a charming companion. Perhaps we shall see each other again. Lord Otomo, by your leave.”

Ishitaka beamed a drunken smile at him. “Yes, yes, Ken’ishi, you must be very tired. I will see you again tomorrow.”

With that, Ken’ishi bid them goodnight, settled the bill with the innkeeper—a surprisingly large sum, considering the innkeeper had offered refreshments on the house—and walked out into the night. He could not afford another night like this anytime soon.

The sky had cleared for the frosty stars. He slipped his arms into his robes for warmth. His step meandered slightly. The town was quiet, redolent with the smells of wood smoke. A lantern man walked the streets, striking his bell four times to call out the Hour of the Pig. The hour would soon be midnight.

Ken’ishi chuckled at Ishitaka’s moony-eyed ardor, remembering how it felt. He yearned to feel such feelings again, unencumbered by the bitterness of loss. But he swore he never would.

At least now, he knew the answers to many of his questions about Kazuko. She had borne Lord Tsunetomo no heirs, and Ken’ishi wondered why. Had the gods cursed her for giving up her virginity to him?

He wanted to hate the man who had stolen her. But Tsunetomo had shown him incredible generosity and fairness in many ways. High- and low-ranked alike, the men respected their lord. The higher their rank, the greater their reverence and devotion. It was not just a matter of duty. Tsunetomo’s presence and bearing commanded this devotion, called men to follow him. It seemed an even worse torture that Ken’ishi could not hate him. Lord Nishimuta no Jiro, Kazuko’s father, on the other hand, Ken’ishi had plenty of reason to hate. But not the man to whom Kazuko had been given.

Perhaps, as long as Ken’ishi did not have to see her, he could accept her being just on the other side of a few walls, where at least she was safe and well. He wondered if Hatsumi was still with her, and how she was faring after what Hakamadare had done to her.

He drew a deep breath of frosty, invigorating air and gazed up at the castle silhouetted against the tapestry of stars. A needle-thin streak of fire shot halfway across the sky and then sparkled into non-existence, all in silence. He stared in wonder. The stars swam in his vision, misting with iridescent halos. He blinked and rubbed his eyes.

“Hey, samurai!” a voice called.

Ken’ishi paused.

A man’s outline stood bathed in the glow from within a shop. A fringe of graying hair glowed around a head backlit by a lantern. “Care to have your soul polished?” A wooden placard above the door read Souls of samurai polished here. As samurai believed their souls to be their swords, such signs were customary for sword polishers.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to be working, Uncle?”

The man gave a moist chuckle. “It’s never too late. I’m a bit of a night bird. My name is Tametsugu, and I polish a great many swords for Lord Otomo’s retainers. You might say I’m famous in these parts. That looks like an interesting sword. One doesn’t see tachi much anymore. Is it a family weapon?”

“It is.”

“May I examine it?”

Ken’ishi untied it from his obi and offered it to the man with both hands.

Tametsugu bowed and accepted it with both of his long-fingered hands. Then he turned his rheumy-eyed scrutiny upon it. “If you’ll forgive my rudeness, I must say the scabbard needs some sprucing up. Perhaps some new ray skin on the hilt. But the silver fittings are not tarnished at all. Very unusual for a piece this old. Do you polish the silver yourself?”

Ken’ishi shook his head.

“Very interesting.” The old man drew two hand-spans of blade from the scabbard and peered closer. His eyes widened. “No! It cannot be!”

“What is it?” Ken’ishi said with growing alarm. The sword had not been polished in years, not since he had passed through the capital and a high-ranked samurai had had it polished for him as a kindness. It had since bathed in buckets of barbarian blood. In spite of its use, however, its edge remained unmarred.

“Pray, sir, tell me if this sword has a name.”

After having Silver Crane stolen from him, after what he had suffered to reclaim it, he lied, “Not to my knowledge.”

The old man deflated slightly. “Ah.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, do you see the hamen? See how the temper line along the cutting edge looks like feathers? This is the work of one of the old Heian mastersmiths. There is no one left who knows how to do this. With the cranes on the guard and the silver fittings, it matches the description of a sword named Silver Crane.”

“What do you know of it?”

“Silver Crane was a treasure of the Taira clan. Taira no Tomomori was the last to possess it, and he died at the Battle of Dan-no-Ura, over a hundred years ago. The Minamoto clan caught the Taira fleet in the straits and wiped it out, destroyed most of the clan and even His Highness, the eight-year-old boy emperor, Antoku. The stories say Tomomori tied an anchor rope around his own waist and let it drag him to the bottom of the sea.”

Memories exploded like a bomb in Ken’ishi’s mind of dreams he had seen describing just such events, and of the tales Minamoto no Hirosuke, the historian, had told him while they were imprisoned in Green Tiger’s sea cave. Silver Crane had been at that battle, lost, and then found. Silver Crane had once told him, I follow the bloodline.

The sword polisher shrugged. “Yes, this is probably not Silver Crane. It’s doubtless still at the bottom of the sea. But once I remove the hilt, perhaps the name of the smith engraved on the tang will be a clue to its origin. If Silver Crane had been found and the remnants of the Taira clan got wind of it, they would not allow such a treasure to remain in the hands of someone not of Taira blood. If you’ll indulge an old man’s curiosity, sir, where did you get it?”

“From my father.”

“And who is your father?”

“Alas, I do not know. My parents were murdered when I was a baby.”

“A sad tale.” The sword polisher clucked his tongue, but curiosity still filled his face. “But you should know that this sword is beyond the work of a present-day swordsmith’s art. It would be my great honor to polish it for you.”

Ken’ishi stilled his mind and listened for the kami. Would this man steal the sword? Was he an agent of Green Tiger? Had Green Tiger survived the invasion? The answering silence of the kami put him at ease. “I would be honored for you to polish it.”

The old sword polisher beamed with gap-toothed pleasure. “Very well, come back in three days, at sunset, and your sword will be ready.”

“That is the New Year’s celebration.”

“Make sure you come at sunset, or you won’t find me.” The old man bowed deeply. “Thank you for the chance to polish your magnificent weapon. It is an honor I will not forget. And remember, come only at sunset.”

Ken’ishi returned the bow. They bid each other goodnight, and he walked up the street. As he was not yet familiar with all the town’s streets, he paid special attention to the neighborhood, making sure that he would be able to find the shop again.

A shudder of worry brought him around. The glow of the shop door had disappeared. Last year he had suffered unthinkable agony to recover Silver Crane, and now he had just given it into the hands of a sword polisher he had never met. Had he just made a horrendous mistake? But the kami were silent. He had to trust they would warn him. But would they?

We cover fragile bones

In our festive best to view

Immortal flowers

—Onitsura

The climb up the castle hill apparently dissipated the effects of the saké, because by the time Ken’ishi reached the first castle gate, the stars had resolved themselves back into brilliant silver dust. At the orchard below the first gate, naked cherry trees entwined their black branches toward the glittering sky like fingers.

He sat upon a stone and gazed up through the spidery branches at the stars. Six months ago, while he had waited for the itinerant merchant Shirohige to return from an errand inside the castle, he had thought he recognized Kazuko walking in this orchard. As it turned out, his eyes had not lied to him, but his mind had refused to grasp it then.

Kiosé had granted him three years of her life to distract him from his pain, but now she was dead, and the pain not only remained, but now bore the added weight of his guilt. Would Kiosé have forgiven him? Would it have been best to let her go? She had been oblivious, under an enchantment to erase her memories of him, of pain he had caused her. Would he have been able to win her back, as he had promised? Would it have been fair of him even to try?

A bellyful of saké did not make such musings easier.

A group of drunken samurai headed up the hill through the gates, laughing, singing, carrying two comrades unable to walk.

Then a familiar voice, coming from not two ken away, said, “You’re doing well for yourself, old sot.”

Ken’ishi gasped and spun. “Hage!”

“Observant as ever.” A round-bellied old man, a tuft of white beard dangling from his chin, wisps of unruly hair sticking out from his head, settled himself onto another rock with a gust of breath, wooden staff between his knobby knees.

Ken’ishi could not help but grin. “I am glad to see you.”

Hage smirked, eyes twinkling. “Been diddling the saké without me, I see.”

“And you survived the barbarians, I see.”

“A bit of a tussle there. They were as thick as lice and twice as stubborn. But I did find your leathery old benefactors after the storm passed.”

“How are Shirohige and Junko?” Ken’ishi still felt he owed a debt to the old merchant and his vile-mouthed sister for nursing him back to health after he escaped from Green Tiger’s clutches.

“Ill-tempered as ever, but they were alive when I left them.”

“Thank you, Sensei, for looking after them.” Ken’ishi bowed to him.

Hage waved a gnarled hand. “Bah! You are too soft-hearted for the likes of them.”

“How did you find me?”

“The same way I always do. You leave a stench trail a ri across. But you found what you sought. Service with a fine lord!”

Ken’ishi nodded, slowly. “I have.”

“What, ’tis not everything you hoped for?”

“It is...complicated.”

Hage rolled his eyes. “By Hachiman’s hairy balls, there’s another woman!”

“Sensei—”

Hage stood and waved his arms in exasperation. “Always a woman with you! Has there ever been a human more addled by love and loins? What did you do, fall in love with some nobleman’s wife?”

Ken’ishi’s faced heated.

Hage rolled his eyes again.

“It’s not like you think!” Ken’ishi said.

“I very much doubt ’tis like you think!”

“I knew her...before.”

Hage’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “Oh, you mean her. The one you would never tell me about.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I refuse to help you again like I did back in Aoka village.”

“Enchanting Kiosé’s memories was not ‘helping!’”

“I daresay you know not what help is!”

“Sensei,” Ken’ishi said. He had to draw a deep breath to push out the next words. “Little Frog was my son. And now he is dead. Killed by the barbarians. Kiosé, too.”

Hage’s eyebrows rose like white caterpillars, then he shrank with a heavy, sorrowful sigh. “Ah, I am very sorry to hear that. What a terrible pity.”

“I was a fool, a great, blind fool.”

“Without question.”

Stricken, Ken’ishi stared at him.

“Apologies, old sot. I was just agreeing with you.”

Ken’ishi stood. “Have you come to do anything but taunt me?”

“Don’t twist up your loincloth, sit down. I came to tell you what I’ve heard. About Green Tiger.”

Ken’ishi sat.

Hage untied a gourd from his rope belt, uncorked it, and took a drink. Ken’ishi caught the scent of saké. Hage offered it, and when Ken’ishi declined, shrugged and put it away. “The barbarians wiped out most of Hakata and Hakozaki. A few people managed to get away, but it will be some time before either town is rebuilt. Green Tiger’s organization was rooted in the Hakata Underworld. Gambling parlors, brothels, most of them built near the docks and seashore. Those were the areas mostly burned. Nothing of Green Tiger’s Hakata wealth remains. As for Green Tiger himself, he has disappeared.”

“Was he killed in the invasion?”

“Unlikely. Do you remember the house where we found your boar-poker?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the clan?”

“No. Most of that night is a fog in my memory.”

“I remember. Dual apricot blossoms.”

Ken’ishi let out a long, slow breath, his teeth clamped tight. “The Otomo clan!”

“We must consider a couple of possibilities, especially in light of your new situation.”

“Green Tiger is involved with the Otomo clan.”

“One of many possibilities.” He raised a hand and counted each point on his fingers. “Green Tiger is secretly a member of the Otomo clan. Or, he is closely allied with a member of the Otomo clan, close enough that Green Tiger can say, ‘Hide something for me’ and expect agreement. Or, perhaps a low-ranking servant or retainer of that house’s owner is working for Green Tiger. The connection is plain.” Hage scratched his beard with a dirty fingernail.

A chill went up Ken’ishi’s spine. Every bit of news, every revelation, gouged away at his happiness. He had once thought this was the greatest good fortune of his life. In fact, he may have fallen into a nest of vipers.

“Cheer up, old sot! Count your victories. You killed both of Green Tiger’s chief henchmen. He may well lie in a mass grave, riddled with Mongol arrows.”

“Or his web may still stretch through all the Otomo lands of northern Kyushu.”

“Well, there is that. Of all the Otomo lords, Tsunetomo casts the longest shadow of power and prestige, the perfect shadow in which one such as Green Tiger might hide.”

“This is not ‘cheering up!’ I should lose my appetite if I thought as you do.” Ken’ishi gestured at Hage’s bulging belly. “Appetite has never been a problem for you.”

“And thank the gods!” Hage hefted his paunch and heaved himself upright with a grunt. “I shall see you around, old sot. I have a few more visitations to accomplish tonight. There’s an inn with a well-stocked larder calling out to me to be pillaged. Fear not, I will pay attention for you. It would cause me sadness for Green Tiger to get his claws into you again. A tanuki’s ears can listen at more knotholes than yours.”

With that, Hage’s form shrank into the hunched, low-slung, furry shape of a tanuki. It winked at him and then ran off through the trees.

Stumbling up the hill came a lone figure. In spite of the figure’s drunken shamble, Ken’ishi recognized Ishitaka, so he waited.

Before long, Ishitaka spotted him and rushed forward, his eyes glowing with moonlight. “Ken’ishi! Ken’ishi! You won’t believe it! She...she...” The joy on his face evaporated, and he staggered to the side of the road, doubled over, and vomited.

Ken’ishi steadied him, looking up and down the path for anyone who might see. He hoped the sentries at the gate were too far away. He would have to be more careful with Ishitaka next time. Drinking could be a great pleasure, but for the son of Captain Tsunemori to exhibit such a state of excess would be an embarrassment. He guided Ishitaka into the orchard, sat him down upon a rock beside a tree, and let him hang his head between his knees. The heaving eventually stopped, and Ishitaka leaned back against the tree, eyes fluttering closed.

Ken’ishi patted his cheek. “Wake up, Ishitaka. We’re not home yet.”

Ishitaka’s eyes snapped open. “Oh! Yes! You won’t believe it, Ken’ishi! She told me to meet her beside the north bridge tomorrow night! Oh, by the gods and buddhas, I have never felt this before! After you left, she spoke such kind words to me. She said I was handsome! And gentlemanly! And brave! Her name is Yuri, the lily, the lily...”

“She is a fine judge of character.” Ken’ishi flung one of Ishitaka’s arms around his shoulders and lifted him upright. “Now, it is time to get you home.”

“To the tower, good sir!” Ishitaka cried, pointing to the shorter tower. “And we mustn’t wake father. Shhh!”

In spite of Ishitaka’s drunken gaiety, a chill had seeped into Ken’ishi’s bones. Had he landed himself squarely in Green Tiger’s very den? Had Green Tiger instigated Ushihara’s attempt to have Ken’ishi disgraced? And he had just given up his sword. He stopped for a moment, thinking to go back for it. But Ishitaka stumbled, dragging Ken’ishi forward, and he had a feeling that the polisher would not be found again tonight.

Regardless, he was finished being Green Tiger’s pawn.

“The appearance of pain in grasses and trees is no different than the countenance of suffering among human beings. When they are watered and the like, they grow and appear happy. When they are cut and fall, the withering of their leaves is no different from the death of a human being.

“Their pain and sadness are not known to human beings. And when grasses and trees look at the sadness of human beings, it is just like human beings looking at them, and they probably think we have no pain or sadness either. Simply, it seems that we do not know the affairs of grasses and trees, nor do they know ours.”

—Takuan Soho, “The Clear Sound of Jewels”

Kazuko pushed away the tray bearing her breakfast of honey-sweetened rice and tea. Another sleepless night, another dreary, gray morning, and another day of pain in her heart that could only be assuaged by working herself to near exhaustion in the practice yard. Her grip on the haft of her naginata had roughed her palms like a man’s.

Tsunetomo sipped his tea, raising an eyebrow. “Has something happened, my dear? You have not been eating. And I have not seen you this way since...well, for some time.”

He was talking about how she had withered away in the months after their marriage, secretly crushed by her forlorn longing for another.

“I am worried. About Hatsumi.” Not exactly a lie, but the secondary cause of her distress.

His voice hardened. “Has she done something else?”

“No, but...I fear for her. I fear her malady will return.”

“I have sent word to some of my kinsmen, asking about new handmaidens for you. Without question, there are young ladies of rank all over Kyushu who would be delighted to serve you. Besides, having only one handmaid is insufficient for a lady of your position.”

“Thank you, husband. You are very kind.” The thought of Hatsumi’s reaction to such news filled Kazuko with fear. Hatsumi had cowed the entire household of servants until she was the only one allowed to see to Kazuko’s daily needs. It was not a pleasant situation. She relished the idea of surrounding herself with good-natured young women, yet at the same time she was sickened with guilt at the thought of putting Hatsumi out. They had been together for almost as long as Kazuko could remember. Was Hatsumi eavesdropping even now from behind the thin rice-paper wall? Kazuko no longer trusted her to maintain the most rudimentary courtesies.

She waited for her husband to finish his rice so that she could call the servants. He sucked the last kernel from his chopsticks, drained his teacup, and prepared to leave. His valet offered him a cap and a jacket against the chill, and then tied his sword onto his obi. “Where are you off to today, husband?”

“The new horses are arriving today, all the way from the slopes of Mount Aso. A hundred stallions and a hundred bred mares, gifts from the Shogun. Tsunemori and I must appraise them.”

“Oh, that is good news!”

“I will pick out a good one for you.”

She clapped her hands in surprise. “Me? Learn to ride?”

He smiled indulgently. “Tomoe Gozen was a great rider. Why not you?”

“I am not Tomoe Gozen.” Her cheeks flushed at the mention of the legendary samurai woman, dead now some thirty years. With ivory skin and beautiful features, Tomoe was not only beautiful, but a remarkable archer and swordswoman. Her deeds of valor during the war between the Minamoto and Taira clans had become the stuff of songs, calling her a warrior worth a thousand men. She would challenge demon or god, mounted or afoot, handling even unbroken horses with consummate skill.

“She was a legend,” Tsunetomo said, “and so shall you be. We may not have children, but our names will echo through the ages.” He stood and gave her an affectionate kiss on the forehead.

The flush deepened at the resignation in his voice. He had meant those words as a comfort to her, to show that he did not resent her for not producing an heir, but in them she felt her failure like the stab of a dagger. She clutched his hand and gazed up into his eyes. “I will give you an heir, husband. I swear it.”

He tried to smile for her, but it did not travel far on his lips. He left her there to descend into her well of despair once again.

How long before he divorced her and took a new wife? How long before he chose a concubine and planted a son in her womb? Even a bastard son was better than no son at all.

Moments after he departed, the sound of movement from behind a nearby door caught her ear.

“Hatsumi, is that you?” she called.

No response.

“Hatsumi?”

Silence.

Kazuko stood and crossed toward the door where she was certain she had heard the movement. The sudden sound of cloth whispering against flesh and floor quickened her pace until she reached the door and flung it open.

Hatsumi hurriedly gathered her robes about her, gaze downcast.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kazuko said. “You are to come when I call!”

Hatsumi’s eyes blazed with hot rage, driving Kazuko back a step. “You’re going to send me away!”

The feeling of ice-water dashed over Kazuko’s shoulders, and she raised a hand as if to fend off an attack. “No...no, Hatsumi, I—”

“I heard you plotting against me!” Hatsumi’s voice was a grating sneer, her hair a disheveled mane of tangles. A haphazard effort at powdering her face failed to cover strange reddish blotches on her cheeks and throat. “After all I’ve done for you!” She stalked forward, and Kazuko retreated.

The chill became a spike of fear in Kazuko’s belly.

Hatsumi’s fingers curled into ragged claws. “You can’t send me away! I won’t let you! You’ll never find anyone as loyal to you as me! No one will ever love you as much as I do!”

“Stay away from me!” Kazuko cried. She snatched up her breakfast tray, the only thing close at hand.

“But you are my little sister! Why are you afraid of me?” Hatsumi’s blackened teeth looked wrong somehow, as if they had grown sharper. She crept closer on bare feet. Her toenails were strangely discolored.

A door slid open behind Kazuko, and the voice of Lord Tsunetomo’s valet came forth, “My lady, is everything—”

Hatsumi shrieked and flung herself at him, seized him around the throat with both hands, and squeezed off his cry of alarm. Blood-red lines shooting through her bulging eyes, Hatsumi swung him like a doll. Something meaty popped in the man’s neck, and he sagged in her grip like a rag.

Hatsumi let him fall at her feet and turned back to Kazuko. “Look at what you made me do!”

In Hatsumi’s wake, she had left a terrible, cloying miasma. Like the stench of the ichor that had once flowed in Hakamadare’s veins.

Kazuko cast about for some sort of weapon, but Tsunetomo had taken his swords. Her dagger, a beautiful gift from her father, was wrapped in silk in a black-lacquered box in a cabinet on the far side of the room, replaced after the night Kazuko had sat by Hatsumi’s side.

“It’s all because of him!” Hatsumi shrieked.

Kazuko backed away from the other woman, toward the cabinet. Her voice trembled. “Who?”

Hatsumi followed, step by step. That grating sneer again, “The ronin!”

Kazuko gasped.

“Yes, I saw him the day he arrived with all those other scurrilous vagabonds! And you have seen him, too! Out there pretending he’ll ever be anything but a filthy bandit! Oh, I heard your cute little sighs back then, the way you wanted to sell your honor for less worth than a ball of rice. You slut!”

Hatsumi knew of Ken’ishi’s presence, and she knew that Kazuko had loved him, in her heart at least. Did she know they had consummated her love? What would she do with that knowledge? Kazuko bumped up against the cabinet. Hatsumi advanced, claws clenching at her sides.

“Please, Hatsumi,” Kazuko said, “Calm yourself! Let us talk about this like sisters! Please!”

“No more lies!” Hatsumi’s voice rose to a ragged wail. “We were never sisters, no matter how much I wished it!”

“What do you want?” Kazuko reached behind her, slowly, fingers seeking the bronze clasp of the gilded cabinet doors.

“Renounce the filthy ronin forever! Better yet, have him executed! Only his death will satisfy me!” Hatsumi stood two paces away now.

“How can I do that? He has done neither of us any harm. He saved your life, Hatsumi!” Her hand was on the latch. The flick of a finger spun it open.

Hatsumi’s eyes blazed. “No harm? No harm! He destroyed us! He took your heart away from me! He let you escape! And I...I...”

Kazuko slipped a fingernail into the crack between the doors, pried them open ever so slightly. The box with the dagger lay on the bottom shelf. “I don’t love him anymore. I love my husband.”

Hatsumi stepped so close, her wretched breath washed over Kazuko. “You lie. I see it in your face. No one in the world knows you better than I do, little Kazuko. You will tell your husband of the ronin’s crimes and have him executed. Or else I will tell your husband!”

Rage flared in Kazuko, drowning all caution. She shoved Hatsumi back with both hands, with all her strength. Pushing Hatsumi felt like trying to shove a tree away, but Hatsumi floundered backward a step. Kazuko spun, whipped open the cabinet door, snatched the box, and whirled back just in time to catch Hatsumi lunging for her throat.

Hatsumi’s eyes blazed with heat like flaring coals. Her rough-clawed hands clamped around Kazuko’s neck, cutting off her air. With both hands, Kazuko smashed the lacquered box, emblazoned with the Nishimuta clan mon, against Hatsumi’s face. The box splintered. Hatsumi staggered back, shrieking more in surprise than pain, releasing Kazuko’s tender throat.

A silk-wrapped cylinder thumped onto the tatami. Kazuko lunged for it. Hatsumi lunged for her. Through the silk, Kazuko felt the hilt of the tanto. Hatsumi’s hand closed around the scabbard. Kazuko pulled hard. The silk slipped out of Hatsumi’s grasp, and Kazuko managed to unfurl it. Hatsumi plowed into her.

Kazuko jerked the tanto free of its scabbard and thrust it into Hatsumi’s chest.

Hatsumi halted, her claws a mere finger’s breadth from Kazuko’s face, a look of profound surprise on her twisted visage. She stepped back, and the dagger slid out of her with a tight slurp. What dripped from the blade was not crimson blood, but a venomous black ichor, a rancid putrescence that filled the air with noxious malignance.

Hatsumi’s face melted into anguish, like a child who had just been slapped by her mother for the first time. Her bottom lip quivered. “No...”

Kazuko brandished the dagger. “Stay back!”

Hatsumi looked back and forth several times between the dagger and Kazuko’s face, then at the blackness staining her fingers from the wound in her chest.

Loosing a horrific scream so loud that Kazuko fell back and covered her ears, Hatsumi launched herself at the nearest window. She crashed through the shutters like an ox plowing through a rotten fence. Kazuko gasped and leaped to the window. They were five stories above the courtyard.

Below, Hatsumi’s body lay amidst splintered wood on the hard-packed earth, her limbs twisted at grotesque angles.

Tears burst into Kazuko’s eyes. Was it finally over? Why did she feel only relief?

Cries of consternation and surprise from nearby warriors echoed up toward Kazuko. Several men began to converge on Hatsumi’s twisted shape.

Hatsumi’s foot twitched.

A bolt of dread shot through Kazuko. “No, get away from her!” she tried to shout, but it came out as a whisper.

Before Kazuko could gather her voice, Hatsumi sprang to her feet, pounced upon the nearest man, and tore out his throat with her claws, sending a fan-shaped spray of crimson across the earth. He collapsed with a gurgling scream.

The other men jumped back and drew their swords. Hatsumi’s blood-red glare swung once more up toward the window where she must have felt Kazuko’s eyes upon her. The look of rage and betrayal and anguish on Hatsumi’s face would be burned into Kazuko’s memory forever.

Then Hatsumi rushed through the ring of samurai, bounded over the wall to the next ring of fortifications below, and disappeared from sight.

Kazuko listened at the window for as long as she could as the cries and shouts left in the wake of Hatsumi’s flight echoed into nothingness.

Oh the anguish of these secret meetings

In the depth of night,

I wait with the shoji open.

You come late, and I see your shadow

Move through the foliage

At the bottom of the garden.

We embrace—hidden from my family.

I weep into my hands.

My sleeves are already damp.

We make love, and suddenly

The fire watch loom up

With clappers and lantern.

How cruel they are

To appear at such a moment.

Upset by their apparition,

I babble nonsense

And can’t stop talking

Words with no connection.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

The deaths of the two men, one of them Lord Tsunetomo’s personal valet, shattered the castle’s spirit like a discordant gong.

The tales grew wilder at every telling. Some said Lady Kazuko’s handmaid had been possessed by an evil spirit; others said Kazuko herself had become an oni; still others said the oni had been a servant. But many witnesses agreed how the demon woman leaped over the castle’s concentric fortifications in great bounds, with a terrible keening that could have been laughing or weeping. After murdering six townspeople and spreading a great panic through the rest of town, she disappeared into the forest.

Ken’ishi had not witnessed the incident, as he had been drilling with his men that morning, but his ear had caught the horrific wail echoing through the castle environs, a wail that had raised the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Later that day, Captain Tsunemori and the other officers addressed the men, assuring them that Lord Tsunetomo and Lady Kazuko were in good health, and explained that the culprit, the lady’s handmaid, Hatsumi, had been going mad over the course of several months.

Tsunemori said, “We seek volunteers to go after her. She must be found and stopped.”

From the ranks of troops seated around Tsunemori’s dais, Ken’ishi was the first to stand. He did not know Hatsumi well, but somehow he felt connected to what had happened to her. Responsible for her, maybe. After all, it had been his arrival on the scene three years past that interrupted the rape and stopped Hakamadare from killing Hatsumi. Perhaps Hakamadare’s evil had tainted her somehow. He was doubtless the only man here who had ever killed an oni as well.

Fifty men volunteered. It seemed a lot of men to capture one woman, but the forested hills around Hita town afforded bountiful places to hide. The searchers clad themselves in light armor and carried bows, nets, and ropes. They were ordered to capture her if possible, but not at the expense of any more lives.

Ken’ishi took his Otomo clan katana with him. Others carried lances.

One man said, “I saw what she did to Matsunari. These nets will not hold her.”

Captain Tsunemori took charge, a fact that surprised most, as he was too high-ranked to lead so small a party. Nevertheless, the determination on his face was earnest, and suggested he knew more than what the men had been told. “She must not be allowed to stain the honor of the family, or of the clan,” was all he said.

While Tsunemori and a dozen of Tsunetomo’s personal guards set out on horseback, Ken’ishi joined one of the groups on foot, searching the hills to the north and west.

Those on foot carried gongs and drums and shouted as they tramped through brown, waist-high grass, across terraced rice fields, through patches of forest, higher into the pine-swathed mountainsides and bamboo groves. Birds fled the clamor in cloud-like flocks. Ken’ishi sought a chance to speak to one of them, as Kaa had taught him to do as a boy. He wanted to ask for word of Hatsumi but could not get close enough. The dreary gray sky and close-hanging clouds created a sense of foreboding, and drained all sense of life from the land.

Snow began to fall in heavy, wet flakes, and the search went from dreary and exhausting to freezing and damp. At nightfall, they called off the hunt and returned to the castle.

Over the next two days, search parties scoured the countryside but returned to the castle empty-handed each night.

The pall that fell over the town and the castle dimmed the gaiety of the coming New Year festival. Preparations continued, but smiles were thin as people did their work to distract themselves from the worry about any terrible curse. Brightly colored banners, painted with images of koi and prayers and wishes for the coming year, fluttered from poles as usual, but many of the banners included talismans inscribed to ward off evil and protect people from harm.

The town shone with lights at night, and people walked the streets with wary expressions as if one of their neighbors could be suddenly possessed. Shinto and Buddhist priests collected offerings and filled the town with the scent of incense and the ringing of bells.

On the morning of New Year’s Day, a servant woman came into Barrack Six bearing a box of rice-paper packets for each of the men, a gift from the lady of the castle. Ken’ishi unwrapped his carefully, noting the elegant, feminine hand in which his name had been written on the scarlet ribbon. Inside he found three mochi cakes colored pink, green, and white. The men cheered the lady of the castle and devoured the cakes. Different flavors and colors of sweet bean paste filled each one.

And when his last cake was gone, Ken’ishi found, half-obscured by rice flour, meticulously written in tiny script on a slip of paper underneath, a poem:

The nightingale listens from her cage

At the Sanmon Gate

For footsteps at dusk

Caught between darkness and light

She calls,

“Will he come? Will he come?”

A bolt of simultaneous joy and suspicion shot through him. The words wormed into him, kicking his heart into a faster rhythm.

He crumpled the paper and tossed it into the brazier.

The coals licked orange along the crumpled edges, and fire bloomed and blackened.

He watched it burn until it was nothing but ash.

* * *

Ken’ishi thought about his dilemma. He could not meet Kazuko when he was appointed to retrieve Silver Crane. The sword polisher had said that he must come at the exact appointed time, or he would not find him.

But this could be his only chance to speak to Kazuko, ever. Warriors of his rank were not allowed to speak to ladies of hers. Any secret liaison invited discovery. If he failed to go to her, what then? And if he could speak to her, what would he say? That his heart had not been his own since the day they met?

He trusted no one else to retrieve Silver Crane from the sword polisher, nor could he send anyone in his place to meet Kazuko.

Besides, the Sanmon Gate at the temple and the shop of the sword polisher were on opposite sides of town. If he did not meet the sword polisher, he might never see Silver Crane again.

Around him, the men dispersed from the barracks to join the festival in the town, from which the sound of merrily beating drums echoed up to the castle.

Michizane sauntered up and said, “What say you, Ken’ishi? Let us join the merriment and forget our troubles until tomorrow.”

Ken’ishi acquiesced. The festival lay nearer both destinations anyhow. Together they walked into town to where brightly colored tents had been erected. Villagers pounded cooked rice into mochi with great, wooden hammers and hollowed out tree stumps as bowls. The streets were redolent with smells of roasting chestnuts, boiling seaweed, and roasting fish. Gongs and jangles rang and jounced. Knots of giggling children ran past. In spite of the gaiety, the kami still whispered to him of the tension in everyone’s hearts. Perhaps they sang and laughed a bit too boisterously. Perhaps they drank just a little too much.

A group of performers had gathered before the Roasted Acorn, jugglers and dancers and singers, collecting a large crowd of laughing onlookers. The performers were dressed in brightly colored clothes, some sewn with tattered rags that bounced and twirled as they moved.

One of the jugglers was a tall man with a hatchet-like nose, wearing a suit of fluttering, rainbow-like rags, who kept a veritable cloud of multi-colored balls arcing over his head. The Raggedy Man. Kaa, the tengu, in the same guise he had used to seduce Kiosé the previous year. How shocked Ken’ishi had been to discover them, soon after Hage had enchanted away her memories.

“What is it?” Michizane said. “Did something just bite you?”

Ken’ishi cleared the lump from his throat. “There’s someone I must speak to, right now. I’ll find you later.”

He hurriedly circled the crowd to where the Raggedy Man juggled for a pack of children, who squealed with laughter at his preposterous expressions and incredible dexterity. Before Ken’ishi could get close, however, the Raggedy Man turned his dark eyes upon him like spear points, and tracked Ken’ishi for several long, painful moments as he wormed through the crowd. The balls fell into the Raggedy Man’s hands. Then he bowed with exaggerated aplomb, turned, and disappeared into the gap between the Roasted Acorn and the paper-maker’s shop next door.

Ken’ishi circled the paper-maker’s shop at a run, hoping to catch the Raggedy Man in the alley behind.

But no one was there.

“Sensei!” Ken’ishi called. “Where are you?”

The reply was a burst of cheering from the street. The only other occupants of the alley were three chickens in a bamboo cage, huddled together against the cold. He tried to talk to the chickens, but they were all so terrified of human beings that they flung themselves into a squawking, feather-flapping frenzy until he sighed and moved on.

He searched the alley and finally gave up, returning to the street, where a man in a fearsome oni mask cavorted with a comically bulbous club. Initially, the crowd was hesitant to embrace his efforts, but he won them over with ribald songs whilst slapping his own backside.

Before long, the resonant tones of a great bell rang up and down the street, growing louder with each slow chime. Monotone chanting joined the sound of the bell as a group of thirty shaven-headed monks rounded a corner, carrying a large shrine on poles hefted on their shoulders. They chanted and rang the bell with a great, padded wooden clapper.

The crowds in the street parted and bowed as they passed, hands pressed together in prayer. As one sutra came to a close, the abbot, riding upon the shrine as if it were a palanquin, extended his arms and then bowed his head in fervent prayer for all the buddhas and bodhisattvas to deliver the town from evil influences. By the time the shrine and its attendants passed, the crowd was already resuming its former boisterousness.

Michizane brought hot saké for each of them, which they drank straight from the jar.

“Is it possible to understand religion?” Ken’ishi asked Michizane. “All those gods and buddhas. It is so complicated.”

“This procession is meant to bless the town through the coming year. They will pass by here twice more before sunset.”

“That’s simple enough, I suppose....”

“If you want to know more, I’m not the man to ask,” Michizane said. “My father always said that the Shinto priests and the Buddhists are simply two sides of the same false coin. I’m with him.”

“You don’t believe in the kami?”

“I have never seen a kami, nor had a prayer answered to my satisfaction. The gods are either cruel or careless. I’ll have truck with neither.” Michizane took a drink. “You look as if you disagree.”

“I don’t know about gods and buddhas, but I know the kami to be real.”

“How?”

“They talk to me every day. And I talk to them.”

Michizane raised an eyebrow with a slight smirk. “And how do you manage that?”

“My teacher taught me how to listen for them when I was a boy. They are there, if you know how to listen.”

Michizane shrugged. “I’d rather listen to my wife’s sighs in my ear. I wish she were here.”

* * *

The clouds parted, allowing the sun to warm the festivities and turn the snow into slush. Amid flurries of giggles from village children, snowballs flew in random directions. Villagers danced and sang to the music of drums and gongs and flutes.

The afternoon of merriment wore Ken’ishi’s mood into roughness, however, because he had not yet resolved his dilemma. His mind kept going back to the look the Kaa had given him through the Raggedy Man’s eyes. It had been angry, almost challenging him, daring him to do something foolish. Why had he chosen to appear now, in the same guise with which he had fooled Ken’ishi and seduced Kiosé? With Kaa’s otherworldly powers, should Ken’ishi bother to wonder whether the tengu knew of the note?

As the afternoon progressed, his demeanor lost all affability, and Michizane wandered off to join another group of men from Barrack Six.

The only decision Ken’ishi could accept was that he would try his utmost to reach both meetings in time.

First, he would go to the sword polisher’s shop. And then he would run as fast as he could to the Sanmon Gate, and hope that whoever sent the note would still be waiting for him.

At sunset, he went to the sword polisher’s shop. On his way, he spotted the gray hawk perched on the thatched peak of a roof against a sky so splashed with orange and purple that it filtered down onto the snow-dusted mountaintops, turning the entire landscape into exquisite stillness. The sunset gleamed on the bird’s feathers, and its eyes followed him with cool judgment.

“Sensei!” Ken’ishi called. “Please, I have questions!”

The hawk ruffled its feathers and looked away.

Ken’ishi sighed and scanned up and down the street for the sword polisher’s placard above the door. He scratched his head. This was without doubt the correct street. After walking further up the lane again, he paused and looked behind him. Had he gone too far? He walked up and down, searching for the placard.

The hawk remained upon his perch.

The shining fingernail of the sun slipped away behind the distant hills, and the shadows deepened.

A light emerged from a doorway some distance down the street. It did not match his memory of the sword polisher’s location, but perhaps whoever was there would know where to find it.

Approaching the door, he peeked inside and found the sword polisher, wiping Silver Crane’s scabbard with a soft cloth. A dim, gray eye flicked toward the door, caught sight of Ken’ishi, and a gap-toothed grin emerged. “Ah, Sir Ken’ishi. Please, do come in. I am just finishing up.”

Ken’ishi slipped off his zori and stepped up into the shop. The sword polisher shuffled over to greet him and bowed.

“It was indeed a privilege to polish so fine a blade. May I show you?”

Ken’ishi bowed. “Of course.”

The sword polisher drew the sword, and its blade caught the lantern light like liquid silver, almost as if it glowed with the light of the moon itself. He pulled a handful of long, gray hairs from his unruly fringe and laid them across the upturned edge, light as whispers, and they fell, divided, on either side. He grinned with pride at Ken’ishi.

“That is the greatest work, sir,” Ken’ishi said. “Your skill does me honor.”

“Let it never be said that Tametsugu does not know his business.” He slid the blade back into the scabbard with a swift clack. Then he bowed and offered it up to Ken’ishi.

Ken’ishi accepted it and tied the scabbard to his obi. Then he took out his coin purse, having some heft nowadays thanks to his lord’s generosity.

The sword polisher held up a hand. “Oh, no, I could not take something as vulgar as gold for polishing a sword such as this. I must ask a different kind of price.”

“Oh?” Ken’ishi’s wariness trickled over his back. He had encountered too many mystical creatures, and this sounded like a dangerous kind of price. At the same time, he itched to be away, to meet the mysterious poet at the Sanmon Gate.

The sword polisher’s face darkened. “This is a weapon as demonic as it is magnificent. Guard your soul, samurai.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a tremendous, unseen weight upon it. It has drunk blood like the waves of the ocean. I see you know this. Good! You are not a fool. What does it say to you?”

Ken’ishi did not know how to answer.

“Oh, it has power, this one,” Tametsugu said. “Power like the rivers that can eat a mountain away. My thoughts are too small to encompass what it has told me. It is Silver Crane. And it made its way from the bottom of the sea back into the hands of a great warrior of the Taira clan, a man who thought that becoming a farmer would make men forget. But powerful men never forget. All that blood, all that weight of souls set free by its cutting edge. It is a terrible burden. You have spilled much blood for it, have you not?”

“I have, during battle—”

“Oh, but it loves battle. The only moments when it is truly free to fulfill its purpose. Sir Ken’ishi, look to your soul. The soul of the samurai lives in his blade, but this blade already has a soul of its own. Do not doubt your own soul. There may come a day when yours will be tested, when you must answer the question of who is the servant and who is the master. And remember, the more blood you spill at its behest, the greater your burden.”

“I—”

“There is already a burden upon you, I see. But alas, that is not for me to polish away. My price is this.”

The sword polisher raised his hands and placed them on Ken’ishi’s shoulders. “At the moment you most desire to use Silver Crane, when deepest peril and greatest triumph are suspended in balance, you must put the sword away. If you do not, your immortal soul will be in danger.”

“H-How?”

“Go now. My time grows short.”

Ken’ishi turned and stepped outside the shop into his sandals.

The sun had disappeared, and it was darker now than it should be. The sky should still be painted with dusk. How long had he been inside?

The old man’s silhouette wagged a finger at him from the glowing doorway. “Guard your soul, samurai.”

Ken’ishi bowed. “Thank you.” He walked a few paces away, his mind churning with all the old man had said, and then he remembered the Sanmon Gate. He broke into a run. Reaching the next intersection, he glanced back.

The glow of the shop was gone.

I waited all night.

By midnight I was on fire.

In the dawn, hoping

To find a dream of you,

I laid my weary head

On my folded arms,

But the songs of the waking

Birds tormented me.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

Ken’ishi’s breath huffed in and out as he sped across town toward the temple. His zori slipped and slid and collected mud from the melting snow. He ran through aromas of food and sounds of revelry. His heart beat so fast that he felt lightheaded, and not because of his pace. The heavens appeared too dark, as if the sunset had been hours previous. Had he stumbled into another realm of enchantment, where the loom of time moved differently? How long would Kazuko wait for him?

At the outskirts of town, the temple hill reared above him, its summit a froth of black treetops against the stars. Up the manicured mountain path he ran. The ancient forest formed a moss-draped tunnel, limned in lantern glow, and the forest floor had been carved into steps. The only sounds were the clap of his sandals on the stone steps and his heaving breath. His sandals pounded off bits of caked mud as he climbed, and the lines of a gate at the temple entrance came into view, the single-story Somon Gate, its roof swooping upward at the tips.

Beyond, bathed in globes of lantern light, lay the two-tiered Sanmon Gate. Through its three openings, people could enter the temple proper. Each opening allowed the pilgrim to free himself from the sins of greed, hatred, and foolishness.

In the lantern light, he cast about for signs of anyone, but silence lay like a blanket. The portable shrine the monks had carried through town now resided in the center of the temple yard. If any monks were not abed, they were nowhere in sight.

His beating heart grew cold.

The earth around the gate and through the central opening had been torn up by hundreds of fresh footprints. But around the sides... Would she have waited out of sight?

He took down one of the paper lanterns, careful not to extinguish the lone candle inside, and used it to light his path as he examined the areas around the sides of the gate.

There, in the soft, moist earth. The tracks of geta, small enough, perhaps, to belong to a woman. A bit farther on, he found those geta impressions gathered in great profusion. Someone had waited there, pacing, for some time.

His heart sank even lower.

This might have been his only chance to speak to her. If she had waited for him for a long time, what must she think of him now? If the note was indeed from Kazuko, she had put herself at great risk to meet him. And he had failed her. He wanted to apologize somehow, but how could he send a message to her? Low-ranked bushi did not simply send letters to the lady of the castle. Should he pretend he had not received the message? What had she come here to say?

Too many questions. Too many worries. Too many failures.

He sat down upon the ancient foot-smoothed planks of the porch that encircled the gate. Then he took a deep breath and quieted himself.

Silver Crane’s luminous bell rang in his mind. Many threads coming together, weaving and interweaving.

Snow still rested upon the gate’s eaves above. Water dripped before his feet. He sat there for a long time, envying Hage’s tanuki nature, and wishing he could simply scamper off into the forest.

* * *

Kazuko barely felt the cold mud around her toes from having trudged through a slush-puddle. She clutched her straw peasant’s coat tighter, more out of instinct than awareness of the chill. She had acquired a torn, threadbare set of robes from one of her servants, without offering explanation of why she wanted them. Her long hair was still raised in a haphazard bun, like that of a beleaguered servant woman, her face smudged by soot. She kept her gaze squarely downcast, lest she be recognized. As night advanced, such an event was unlikely. And on New Year’s Night, the castle gates would be open until dawn to admit revelers, so she would be able to slip back inside, unnoticed.

Her wild, forlorn attempt to contact Ken’ishi had been a failure. He had not come. Possible explanations twisted her insides like a cyclone. He had not received the note in time, or at all. He had not realized that it was from her. He suspected a trick and stayed away. He did not want to see her. He wanted to come, but was delayed....

He did not love her anymore.

The last possibility was a curdled tincture of relief and bitterness.

In her shock and grief over Hatsumi, her heart had yearned until the only way to assuage it had been to reach out to the only person who would understand. Perhaps Ken’ishi would know what to do.

Was that all she wanted? Or was it something more? A torrid, romantic liaison? Or an opening of her heart once again and for all time?

She was certainly not starved for carnal attention. Her husband bedded her more nights than not, still seeking an heir, and this modicum of fleshly pleasure had sustained her through long, dark times. Growing to love Tsunetomo for his goodness, his strength, his fairness had saved her from a lifetime of despair, but he had never set her loins aflame the way Ken’ishi had.

But those were negligible concerns in the face of the devastation that might be wreaked if she succumbed to those desires. To be a samurai lady meant steadfastness, loyalty, duty, honor. To be with Ken’ishi was the antithesis of those ideals.

Nevertheless, to simply talk to him again, to have him tell her that all was forgiven...

Perhaps that was it.

She wanted his forgiveness.

For allowing her father to cast him out of the province on threat of death. For marrying Tsunetomo. For not running away with Ken’ishi, regardless of his refusal to allow it. For being unable to even speak to him.

She had wronged him in so many ways, none of which he deserved.

And she wanted to know where he had been these three long years. Had he a wife somewhere? Children?

She walked up and down the streets, the winter night leeching all warmth from her. Tsunetomo was carousing tonight with his brothers and high-ranked retainers at a special party for the men, hosted at the estate of Hoshino no Katsumitsu, head of one of the Otomo clan’s prominent vassal families. The estate lay just to the west, and boasted a hot spring revered for its healing properties. With his shoulder still on the mend, he had been grateful to accept the invitation, taking Tsunemori, Ishitaka, and Yasutoki with him. It was these absences that had emboldened her to attempt to reach Ken’ishi.

A band of drunken village men came down the street, arms around each other’s shoulders, singing ridiculously out of tune. She stepped out of the light of the street lanterns and slipped into the shadows between two houses.

The singing grew louder, and she shrank deeper into the shadows.

Then a quiet, crunching, snapping sound behind her spun her around with a gasp.

Two yellow eyes swung toward her, hanging close to the ground, catching the lantern light from deep in darkness. The creature stopped chewing.

Their eyes met.

Its silhouette, barely discernible in the darkness, was low-slung, mound-like, and indistinct. It was not a dog. A tanuki.

The revelers passed by in the street.

The tanuki looked past her.

An unexpected, irrational fear clutched her. If the tanuki made any noise, it would give her away. If the men saw her, they might recognize her. What might a gang of drunken peasants do to a lone, unprotected woman? Even if she got away from them, what sorts of rumors might begin to fly? The uneasiness and gossip about Hatsumi had already darkened the town’s mood, with talk of curses and evil influences.

The tanuki kept silent, but its eyes never left her, sparkling with mischievous intelligence.

The singing moved off down the street, and she began to breathe again. The men stumbled on into the dark. When she turned back toward the tanuki, it was gone.

Kazuko hurried back into the street and quickened her pace toward home.

A frosty moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the street in luminescence so bright it cast her shadow at her feet. Through the streets of town she went, until the road reached up toward the castle gates.

As she passed by the orchard, a distant sound caught her ear and she stopped to listen. It had been like the forlorn howl of a dog. It could not be a wolf, as there had been no wolves on Kyushu for generations. And yet, in the ululation lurked primal emotion, a bestial cry of anguish.

“She is out there,” a small, child-like voice said, “So full of pain.”

She jumped with shock and cast about for who had spoken. She saw no one.

“She will draw strength from the mountains, become more powerful.... He’s going to have to go after her, I’m afraid,” the voice said from the moon-shadow of a stone. “Ken’ishi. She’ll come after him. He’ll have to kill her.”

The words chilled her, as if the speaker knew everything.

A hoarse whisper was all the voice she could muster. “Who are you?”

Sharp, yellow eyes turned upon her with a chuckle. A furry shadow emerged from the shadow of the stone. Another tanuki? Or the same one?

“Are...are you truly...a tanuki?”

“Glad to see you’re no fool, Lady Otomo,” said the tanuki wryly.

She flinched back with a gasp.

“And I am not ‘mound-like,’” the tanuki said with a sniff of umbrage.

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

“No, you are not dreaming. But you should return to the castle before you’re missed. ’Twould be quite a shame to stir up even more trouble.”

“Do you...do you know Sir Ken’ishi?”

“Do you?”

“I...I...yes.”

“Well, I see honesty is one of your virtues. So that makes two of us who know our former ronin. What shall we do about that?”

“I do not know. I have never spoken to a tanuki before.”

“And the richer you are for the experience.” Then another distant howl drew his attention again. “Such suffering is a blight upon the natural world.” He fixed her once again with his luminous gaze. “You must be careful, lady. Or else go the way of that creature.”

“What are you saying?”

“Love, hate. Laughter, rage. Clinging too tightly to any of them is a disease. Ah, I see something ringing true for you, lady.”

“I am not blind to my own failings.” Her voice turned bitter, and she clutched her coat tighter around her.

“Well, then, that is a fine beginning. The world moves. All living creatures, even the gods, must move with it or perish in our own self-made hells. Like her.”

Kazuko’s eyes teared. “Dear Hatsumi...”

“Evil is everywhere. We make our own. It sticks to us. It sticks to others. It sticks to the world. It all feeds upon itself, and it twists everything.” A long moment passed, and the tanuki licked a front paw. Then he said, “Perhaps it would interest you that I knew Hakamadare, back when he was a man.”

Terrifying memories shot through her of the oni’s horrific face, yellow tusks, and three horns and lantern eyes, the way it had leered at her, the way it had feasted upon the flesh of her slaughtered bodyguards, what it did to Hatsumi...and what it would have done to her, if not for Ken’ishi. She said, “How could you talk to such a beast?”

“He was not a mindless beast. Given to fits of rage, lust, greed, all of those great passions, perhaps, but so are humans. But he was never any less clever, or else he would have been caught and killed long before he met his demise. Oh, but what a black, twisted sense of humor he had! A fine drinking companion! Now, if I may continue my spellbinding tale?”

“Please, do continue.”

The tanuki said, “Hakamadare got his name from the droopy way he wore his trousers. He was clever, tenacious, bold—all excellent traits for a robber. And a robber he was. He loved it so. I encountered him and his gang on a number of occasions. He tried to rob me once, thinking I was a mendicant monk. A man must have a terribly hard life to steal from a monk. But Hakamadare’s life was given to wild swings of fortune. As rich as an emperor one week, a starving beggar the next. Humans most often have some chief downfall within them, a favorite kind of trap, different for everyone. For Hakamadare, it was greed. He could never steal enough to satisfy his appetites. And it was also fear.

“The beginning of his downfall was his encounter with a nobleman named Yasumasa, I forget the family name. Yasumasa was walking down the street one night, playing his flute, carefree as can be, and Hakamadare decided he wanted the nobleman’s fine clothes. He ran up to the nobleman, thinking to jump him. But the man simply turned around and looked at him, unperturbed. The robber found that he could not attack, so he ran away, confounded.

“Twice more he tried to ambush the nobleman, but each time the man just stopped playing his flute and said, ‘What in the world are you doing?’ Hakamadare lost all his courage when faced with Yasumasa’s gaze.

“The nobleman asked him again what he was doing. He replied, ‘I’m trying to steal your clothes.’

“The nobleman said, ‘Come along.’ Then he went on his way, playing the flute.

“Hakamadare followed him all the way to the rear gate of a wealthy estate. The nobleman said, ‘Wait here.’ For some reason—and Hakamadare told me this himself—”

She gasped. “He told you himself!”

“I already said we tipped a jar now and then.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Anyway, while he waited at the gate, Hakamadare realized he was dealing with an extraordinary man.

“The nobleman returned carrying an armload of clothes of the richest kind and said, ‘If ever you need clothes again, come here and tell me. If you keep going around jumping people, you might get hurt.’

“And in meeting that nobleman, all of Hakamadare’s failures, every misdeed, every weakness came home to him, and he wept at the nobleman’s gate until the night watch found him and arrested him. This knowledge, that he could never become such a man as Yasumasa, no matter how much he stole, no matter how fine the robes he acquired, ate at him like rats in the belly of a carcass. And that is how he became an oni.”

Kazuko said, “You are very wise, Mr. Tanuki.”

“Sometimes. But mostly I talk too much. And now, the hour grows late. Proper ladies should be abed, and proper tanuki should be seeking victuals and amusement.”

“But what about Ken’ishi?”

“What about him?”

“What shall I do?”

“Wake up to the sunrise. Go to bed at night. Breathe. Eat food you like. Anything else is a boon.” With that, the tanuki scampered off into the darkness.

As she headed back into the castle, she was thankful at least that the howling had ceased.

How many lives ago

I first entered the torrent of love,

At last to discover

There is no further shore.

Yet I know I will enter again and again.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

The day after New Year’s Day was the first of many days of celebration. Lord Tsunetomo returned and led a great procession of his retainers, including Ken’ishi, to the temple. Joined by the abbot and all the monks, Tsunetomo knelt with hundreds of his men in the temple courtyard, gave thanks to the Buddha and bodhisattvas for the defeat of the barbarian invaders, and entreated them for aid in the trials certain to come.

The abbot blessed them, and many sutras were sung to a profusion of bowed heads. Incense filled the air in melodious, fragrant clouds.

The abbot gave a sermon in which he extolled the bravery of the fighting men gathered there, talked of virtues and evils, of the Three Treasures, kharma and dharma and sangha. Ken’ishi found his thoughts wandering back to the events of the night before.

Was he a member of the Taira clan by birth? The sword claimed to follow the Taira bloodline, but until now such an idea had been ephemeral, uncertain. Should he claim his birthright and seek out others of his blood?

But the Taira had been all but destroyed by the Minamoto-founded shogunate for supporting the Emperor. They were all but an outlaw clan.

Would he put himself in danger by trumpeting his lineage to the world? Should he care about any possible danger to himself? Was he any different as a man today, now that he knew more of the truth, than he had been a month ago? Would the remnants of the Taira clan embrace him? Would they even believe him?

He still did not know who had killed his parents. Had the Taira clan turned on them? Or had they been purged by the Minamoto?

Then something the abbot said broke his reverie.

“—Warriors are unique in the halls of the universe. Your purpose is to fight for those who command you. But to cause the death of living things brings a heavy kharmic burden. Our actions in this life ripple throughout all our lives into eternity, until we finally embrace the Way and join the Buddha in Nirvana. But if the warrior kills for his lord, for duty and honor, for right, for justice, is he then to be punished in subsequent incarnations?”

A sudden realization crashed over Ken’ishi like a storm surge. How many deaths were on his hands?

The dozens of Mongols he had killed? They had obeyed the orders of their lord. Was their adherence to duty and honor any less than his? The fact that they drank blood sickened him, but Kaa’s admonishment to consider their origins had clung to his thoughts. Underestimating them, making them any less brave or fierce or earnest than him, was to invite defeat.

And what about the tens of thousands of Mongols and the Koryo sailors drowned and smashed by the typhoon? Was he responsible for their deaths?

A typhoon brought to life by Silver Crane’s power to weave the threads of fate. Power granted by the slaughter Ken’ishi had wreaked upon the Mongols in that desperate Hakozaki street.

Were all those tens of thousands of deaths now an enormous kharmic weight upon his soul? If that were true, his next hundred lives would be spent as an earthworm.

Queasiness settled in his gut.

The end of the abbot’s sermon brought him back to the moment again. More sutras were chanted. Lord Tsunetomo offered a gift of many bags of rice, casks of saké, and pieces of gold to the temple, which the abbot accepted with dignified thanks. After this, the ceremonies were concluded.

As the chill descended that evening, Tsunetomo hosted a great feast for all of his retainers in the main courtyard of the castle. Hundreds of lanterns festooned the walls and hung from strings crisscrossing the sky, bathing the entire courtyard as if in daylight. Several bonfires provided warmth. It was a sumptuous feast such as Ken’ishi had never experienced, even grander than the fealty ceremony. Servants carried woven bamboo platters bearing great mounds of steaming rice. Cauldrons of soup warmed their bones against the winter chill that the bonfires could not defeat. Trays of sweet rice cakes were emptied with astonishing gusto. The kami of the wind and sky smiled upon them and opened up the heavens, allowing the stars to sparkle above like the inside of a cosmic bowl.

It was a beautiful evening for a feast.

Lady Kazuko sat upon the dais with her husband, resplendent in quilted robes of golden brocade, quite the contrary vision to the warrior woman Ken’ishi had seen in the courtyard, and thankfully far enough away that he could pretend to pay little attention to her. With this being his first real chance to look at her since they parted ways three years before, however, he could not help but notice how she had changed. Her face now was thinner, more angular, with more maturity in it, but it had lost not a momme of its beauty. He admonished his heart for beating faster whenever he looked at her.

Ken’ishi sat among the men of Barrack Six and tried not to let his troubles dim the merriment of those around him.

The performers from the village the night before—without the Raggedy Man, however—made another appearance here, and created the same sort of gaiety with their antics and songs. The audience was more gruff in its appreciation, but, as the saké flowed, their applause increased.

Captain Tsunemori, seated with his wife and Ishitaka on a lower dais to Tsunetomo’s right, caught Ken’ishi’s eye at one point and raised his saké cup.

Ken’ishi blushed and raised his, too.

Eventually the eating flagged, servants gathered up the bowls and plates, and the performers dispersed.

The lord’s chamberlain, Yasutoki, stood up from his place on Tsunetomo’s right, held aloft a gong, and struck it three times.

Conversation ceased by the third percussion.

Lord Tsunetomo raised his voice. “There has been much talk of the barbarian invaders and the stroke of fortune that destroyed their fleet. It is true that the gods smiled on us that day, or it would have gone much worse for us. The men of Kyushu suffered many defeats that day. The Mongol ways of battle were unfamiliar, dishonorable. They put us back on our heels. But here is something that needs to be said again and again: They blackened our eyes, but we held. They cut us, and we held. They pierced us with storms of arrows, but we held! And then we struck back, and contained them until the power of the gods could do its work. This could not have happened without deeds of bravery and prowess that will soon become legendary. Songs will be sung about how the Wolves of Kyushu caught the invaders in their teeth and crushed them.”

Several of the men raised fists and howled, to great rounds of laughter and applause.

“I am fortunate indeed to have so many of the fiercest wolves here before me on this night of celebration, where we look to the coming year. The Mongols might not come again this year, or the next, but there is one thing certain—they will come. Next time, we will be ready, and the gods will smile and know there is nothing left for them to do but sit back and watch us destroy the barbarians.”

This brought another round of howls and applause.

“The Shogun knows there are heroes among us, and he wants us to reward them. It is only meet and right to thank them. I have here a list of those who distinguished themselves during the fighting. If your name is called, come forward and receive your reward. If your name is not called, recognize that it may be your turn next time, if you can rise to the deeds of your valiant brothers.”

Tsunetomo unfurled a scroll and began to read the list of names, along with the deeds that distinguished them. First upon it were Captain Tsunemori and Captain Yoshimura, who had organized the remnants of fleeing troops and marshaled counterattacks. Each left his respective seat and went to kneel before Lord Tsunetomo. He gave them each a carefully wrapped packet of rice paper, which they accepted with great humility.

The entire crowd waited in silence and solemnity as the names were read. Ishitaka was among them, and tears of joy were in his eyes as he accepted the packet from his uncle, who extolled his bravery in the scout force where he had been gravely wounded, the scout force in which Ken’ishi had found himself the leader. A dozen more names were read, including Sergeant Hiromasa for holding a strategic bridge through Hakata in the face of waves of enemy attack. Hiromasa approached the dais like a swaggering block of granite and accepted his reward with taciturn gravity.

“Ken’ishi,” Tsunetomo called. “For slaying five Mongol scouts, for saving the life of Otomo no Ishitaka and the others of his unit, and for killing more than a score of the barbarians singlehandedly in the streets of Hakozaki.”

Ken’ishi’s heart leaped. He had not dared hope to be recognized here. He stood, and felt his legs turn to wood at the thought of approaching the dais where Kazuko sat, demure and quiet, without a trace of emotion on her face. Weaving through the crowd, he feared his thrashing heart might break free of his ribs. Scores of eyes followed him, wide with amazement at his exploits. Sweat formed on his face. Voices whispered around him.

Ken’ishi kept his gaze downcast. He did not glance at Kazuko, but she remained in his peripheral vision. If she glanced at him, he did not see it. Tsunetomo offered the packet and he accepted it, feeling a lump in his throat choking off his breath. He pressed his forehead to the ground, spun, and retreated, his insides churning. With every step, anger grew in him at her utter indifference. She had treated him like a common stranger. But if the note had been from her, how must she be feeling that he had not come? How could he be angry with her, when the cost for her would just as high as for him? His emotions whipped into a storm of confusion.

He returned to his seat among the men of Barrack Six, where Michizane and others clapped him on the back and raised their cups in honor. Even Ushihara, sullen as he was, raised a cup to Ken’ishi.

Ken’ishi and Ushihara had not spoken since their flogging, except to give and receive orders during drill. Ushihara’s furtive glances caused whispers from the kami, but Ken’ishi did not know what to do with him, other than to treat it all as a past unworthy of worry. Ushihara had never thanked Ken’ishi for taking half the strokes, but he seemed embarrassed about it. As long as Ushihara caused no more trouble, Ken’ishi saw no reason to think poorly of him. Ushihara earnestly applied himself to weapons and marching drills, even though he lacked agility.

Finally Lord Tsunetomo folded up his list and said, “I am honored by your service. I will strive to be worthy of it. And now, good night to all. May your revels please the kami and bring us good fortune in the coming year.”

Servants returned bearing baskets of fresh onigiri, rice balls stuffed with pickled plums and wrapped in sheets of nori. They distributed several of these to each of the men.

With heads swimming from saké, Lord Tsunetomo’s retainers dispersed. Some of the men of Barrack Six returned there, while others headed down into the town to join the villagers’ celebration.

Ken’ishi knew not what to expect when he opened the packet. Inside he found a series of documents.

First was a certificate of ownership for a trained stallion, bred on the slopes of Mount Aso. He thought back to Thunder, the stallion he had befriended during the invasion. They had fought together against the invaders, and nearly died together upon the tusks of a wild boar in the forest. Having to put down the brave stallion, mortally wounded as he was, had been a terrible thing.

Second was a certificate to an account in Ken’ishi’s name in Lord Tsunetomo’s treasury. The account held one hundred pieces of gold, available for him to use however he saw fit. He had never conceived he would possess such a sum. In truth, he had no idea what to do with so much money.

And lastly, there was a letter of personal thanks from Captain Tsunemori for saving Ishitaka’s life. Ken’ishi’s face warmed with a mix of pride and embarrassment at the praise heaped upon him.

Until he began to fold it all back up together.

It was then he spotted the innocuous slip of paper tucked between Tsunemori’s letter and the wrapping. On the paper, another poem brushed in the same graceful hand as before.

At the Sanmon Gate, pricked by greed,

At the Sanmon Gate, haunted by hate,

At the Sanmon Gate, drowning in foolishness,

The nightingale awaits the moon

But it does not come.

When it deigns to appear

Its glow does not touch her

At the Sanmon Gate

Ken’ishi crumpled up the note, approached the brazier, but stopped himself from throwing the note in. It hung there in his fist, fingers locked around it. The men of Barrack Six bustled around him, sang songs.

He did not need to read the note again. The words still blazed in his memory, brighter than the coals before him. For a long time, he stood there and chewed on the words. Pricked by greed, haunted by hate, drowning in foolishness. Greed, hate, and foolishness, the three sins absolved by passing through the gate.

When the heat from the coals stung his fist, he pulled it back and thrust the paper into his robes. He sucked the reddened skin of his knuckles.

With a bellyful of too much revelry, he unfolded his futon atop his bunk. As mechanically as a mill wheel, he climbed into the bunk above Michizane and lay atop his blanket, staring at the ceiling.

The coals dimmed to a dull orange, deepening the shadows. A chorus of snores rose. His eyes would not close. His stomach, so full from the lavish feast, roiled and clenched. Too many thoughts. Too many uncertainties. Too many injustices. Did she hate him? Did she think him cruel?

He sat up in his bunk. There was something he must do if he wanted to sleep ever again.

If I thought I could get away

And come to you,

Ten thousand miles would be like one mile.

But we are both in the same city

And I dare not see you,

And a mile is longer than a million miles.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

Ken’ishi sat on the stone in the orchard and placed two warmed onigiri beside him. Then he poured a cup of warm saké and placed that beside the rice balls. Faint wisps of steam rose from the saké and onigiri, lifting into the night breeze.

And thus, he waited. Occasionally he fanned the food and drink into the breeze.

In the distance, a strange howl echoed and moved away, like the cry of a lost soul. Its bereft keening sent a chill up his spine, until the sound disappeared among the black slopes of the mountains.

“You know me too well, old sot,” said the tanuki.

Ken’ishi jumped.

“A warrior should hone his alertness, else he lose his head.” Hage sat back on his haunches, onigiri clutched between his front paws. He took a luxuriant sniff and then an enormous bite.

“I need your help.”

“What is it?” said Hage, cheeks bulging with rice. “Do you require another woman bewitched?”

“No—”

“I met her last night, you know. She was here. Probably pining for you. Foolish girl.”

“I may well be the greater fool. You must help me get inside the keep. I must give her a message.”

Hage sighed and finished chewing his mouthful. He put down the rice ball, took up the cup of saké in both paws, and drained it in one gulp. He burped and held the cup aloft. Ken’ishi refilled it for him.

“Old sot, normally I would give you a shove toward such a woman, loins foremost, but even a randy old badger such as I can see great danger here. What are you going to do?”

“I must speak to her.”

“And what are you going to say?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“’Tis frightful fire you’re playing with.”

“Yes, Sensei.”

“I must think about this. Allow me to finish these delightful onigiri, and I will give you my answer.”

Ken’ishi sat listening to Hage’s little jaws chomping and licking, the small grunts of satisfaction, filling the saké cup when it was raised, trying to gauge the tanuki’s response from the tenor of his noises.

Finally, Hage took a deep breath and settled himself. “Very well. I will help you.” He burped again, and his furry jewel sack swelled between his rear legs until it raised him from the earth. He balanced perfectly upon it. “Give me your hand.”

Ken’ishi extended his hand, and Hage took it in his front paw. A crackle of lightning passed between them, coursing through him from the skin of his fingertips to the deepest bones of his hips and thighs. Ripples washed through the tiny hairs all over him. His skin smoothed and softened. Parts of him plumped and rounded. Others shrank until they disappeared. His hair lengthened and fell around his face, down his back. His robes changed to the coarser weave of a servant’s, but with festive pink camellia blossoms woven into the fabric. His feet and hands became small and dainty.

“You do make a fine-looking woman.” Hage grinned with satisfaction.

“Sensei—!” Hage had turned him into a woman once before, but only for a moment. The loss of physical strength, of stature, of power sent his spirit into a brief panic.

“No arguments this time! You have until sunrise.”

* * *

Yasutoki prowled the halls of the castle with a small lamp in hand, as he often did when his mind would not settle. Echoing among the polished wood floors, latticed rice paper walls, heavy wood ceiling beams, the narrow staircases of this great edifice, were sounds of continuing revelry. In their modest chambers, the servants were still drinking and singing to small skin drums and bamboo flutes. Walking allowed his mind to fall still, wherein he could sort and weave threads of information and possibility. The distractions of the servants did not bother him. If he wanted absolute silence, he would descend into the earthen storerooms built into the castle’s foundations.

Seeing Ken’ishi there at the banquet, all hale and strong again after being tortured and starved into a skeletal shadow of his former self, had pleased Yasutoki. The man had extraordinary powers of recuperation—and the luck of the gods—to be standing there tonight before Lord Tsunetomo and accepting such generous gifts. After everything the ronin had suffered at the ministrations of Goumonshi the torturer, Ken’ishi had been able to recover in time not only to defeat Masoku and steal back Silver Crane, but also to join the battle against the invaders. Extraordinary indeed.

Green Tiger would never be able to recruit him. Yasutoki knew that now. Ken’ishi would never bend. But could he be recruited by Yasutoki? And the question still remained: how had he first acquired Silver Crane? From his father, he said. But who was Ken’ishi’s father, and how had he come by the sword?

A furtive step in the hallway ahead of him caught his attention. A servant girl rounded the corner, carrying a tray and a teapot.

Yasutoki raised an eyebrow. She was strikingly pretty for a lowborn girl, dressed in a fetching kimono woven with delicate pink camellia flowers. She was as pretty as she was familiar, but he could not remember seeing her before. As he occasionally availed himself of the pleasures of the young servant girls, he would have noticed this one.

Spotting him, the girl started, and turned away.

“Stop,” he said. “Turn around.”

“I am sorry, Yasutoki-sama,” she said with a deep bow. “You...you startled me. I must take this special tea to Lady Otomo.”

“I have not seen you before. What is your name?”

She hesitated, eyes downcast. “Oiwa, Lord.”

A stolid, robust peasant woman’s name, and this lithe, pretty thing was none of that. Clearly, her parents had been among the less imaginative. “Come here.”

Others might not have noticed her steel herself, but Yasutoki had made a life-long study of reading people as if they were calligraphy on a scroll.

“Is something wrong, Lord?” she said.

“How long have you worked in the castle?”

“About a week. My lady added me to the staff in preparation for the New Year celebrations.”

“Why have I not seen you before? You are very pretty.”

Her cheeks flamed scarlet, and she tensed. “Begging my lord’s pardon, but I have seen you before. I knew you instantly. Perhaps you have seen me before.”

“You are indeed so familiar. Have you a brother?”

“No, Lord.”

Yasutoki approached her. He would enjoy a bit of feminine distraction tonight.

He could not visit Tiger Lily tonight. Besides, in the last few days, she had been behaving strangely. He wondered if some aspect of working in the Roasted Acorn disagreed with her. She moved to obey a heartbeat less quickly. After the last two occasions when he bedded her, she had turned sullen and taciturn. In Hakata, she had embraced her life as his flesh puppet, but here, something was changing. Perhaps it was because she did not live in his house. With odious Hatsumi out of the way, his reason for keeping Tiger Lily hidden away had disappeared. Perhaps it was time to bring her into the castle. Would she not make a splendid replacement for Hatsumi? It could be an incredible stroke of fortune for him to replace the hag with one of his most loyal playthings.

He began to circle Oiwa, admiring her shape and her grace, the curve of her soft neck. He slid a hand up the back of her leg to cup her buttock.

She gasped and tensed. Her gaze flashed back at him, but it was not with fear. It was anger, quickly squelched by submissiveness. “Please, Lord...” Her voice trembled. “My lady awaits the tea.” Her hands clenched the black lacquered tray.

He smiled. This one had spirit. He considered how he should respond. Should he break her immediately? Or should he toy with her for a while?

He stood before her, cupped her chin in his hand, and raised her gaze to meet his. “We must not keep the Lady Otomo waiting. When you have delivered your tea, you will come to my quarters.”

What happened next was the strangest series of moments he could recall. First of all, her eyes held no fear. He had never encountered any female whose gaze did not betray a number of closely nursed fears. Being the weaker sex and at the mercy of men, none but the most extraordinary women managed to hold any control over their lives. This girl looked at him as a man would, as an equal.

Second, the moment he lowered the tone of his voice to harness its authoritative power and looked down into her eyes, he saw recognition bloom in them, then a flash of shock, then a blazing roar of suppressed fury.

He drew back, seized her chin, and studied her face. “Do I know you?”

At that moment, two castle guards rounded the corner, and froze in deep bows. “Apologies, Yasutoki-sama.”

Then she twisted her face out of his hand and looked back at her tray, trembling with something that was not fear. “May I go, Yasutoki-sama? I swear on my honor...that I will find you.”

What a strange thing for a woman to say. “You may go. I will await your return.”

She bowed. “Yes, Lord.” Her face now was strangely white, with flushed spots on each cheek. Then she hurried away, the tea pot clattering on the tray.

As he watched her go, her reaction, her recognition of him wormed into his thoughts and lodged there. Some stark realization had struck her in that moment. But how was it then that he could not remember her at all? He would have recalled a girl so comely.

Were it not for the guards’ presence, he would have halted her. In any case, he would have those answers when she came to his chamber. And if she failed to obey, she would rue that failure.

Nothing in the world is worth

One sixteenth part of the love

Which sets free our hearts.

Just as the morning star in

The dark before dawn

Lights up the world with its ray,

So love shines in our hearts and

Fills us with glory.

—The Love Poems of Marichiko

Kazuko held the seashell for a long time, the meticulously painted samurai on the interior of the shell seeming to perform the movements of a dance. The shell’s mother-of-pearl glowed in the lamplight, and her fingers stroked its milky smoothness, so gently sliding over the faint ridges of paint that formed the samurai’s face.

Lady Yukino cleared her throat. “Which shell do you have?”

Her three handmaidens shifted in their places around the beautifully woven silk cloth, where lay several other shells face-down. Beside the cloth sat two elegantly lacquered and gilded buckets, both filled with more shells waiting to be drawn.

Kazuko blinked and wondered how long she had been lost in her own mind. She laid the palm-sized shell on the silk. “A proud, dashing warrior.”

One of the handmaidens clapped her hands with gentle glee. “Oh! I know where the match is, my lady!”

Kazuko knew the matching shell to which the handmaiden referred, a painting of a demure, noble maiden, awaiting her lover’s return under sakura branches. Instead, she reached across nearer to where Lady Yukino sat and turned over the image of an oni about to be vanquished. “This one.” The two shells placed side-by-side formed the picture of the samurai facing the fearsome demon in a battle of life and death.

A handmaiden said, “Forgive me, my lady, but is the proper match for the oni not the Buddha, defeating evil through kindness and compassion?”

Lady Yukino smiled faintly. “An appropriate match for Lady Kazuko.” The rules of kai-awase allowed the players to form their own associations.

Everybody knew how Kazuko had been saved from Hakamadare by a ronin who happened along at the critical moment. She had told none of them his name.

“Of course, my lady,” the handmaiden said, bowing.

The game went on, with each of them taking turns drawing from the containers and seeking matches from there, or from the shells already in play.

Kazuko’s hand stroked the shell before her, the image of the fierce, proud samurai, while the other women tittered and chatted.

The shadow of a servant in the hallway darkened the rice-paper wall. A light knock sounded at the door.

“Tea, my lady,” came a servant girl’s voice.

“I did not request any,” she said absently.

“Oh, but tea would be lovely now,” Lady Yukino said, beaming. “I would love something to warm these old bones.”

“My lady!” said one of the handmaidens, “You are not old!”

“Bring the tea,” Kazuko said.

The servant girl slid the door open and brought in a tray. “I am sorry! I did not know you had guests.”

“Then who sent the tea?” Kazuko asked. She had never seen this girl before. There was a powerful familiarity in the servant’s face. Kazuko had also never seen a servant dressed in such a pretty robe before, woven with delicate pink camellia blossoms. It was not the kind of fabric within the means of a servant.

“The servants, my lady. Offering you thanks for being such a good mistress.”

“Are you new here?” she asked.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Where do you come from? Your accent is...unique.” Kazuko had heard its like only once before.

“I am far from home, my lady. Please, the tea. I promise to return with more for your guests.”

“How did you come into service here? Did Yasutoki find you?” Her voice took on a suspicious edge. As the overseer of the daily workings of the castle, Yasutoki always seemed to hire the prettiest servant girls, regardless of their competence. His motivations had more to do with his carnal pleasures.

“Yes, my lady. Have I displeased you?”

Kazuko sighed. “Bring more tea and all will be well.”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl pressed her forehead to the tatami and departed with peculiar haste.

Kazuko said, “I will pour for you first, Lady Yukino.”

“You are too gracious, little sister,” Yukino said with real affection.

Kazuko took up the teapot and poured a cup of emerald green tea. Tucked between the pot and the cup was a slip of folded paper. She offered the cup to Lady Yukino, then picked up the paper.

Written on it in charcoal, in a rough hand, was a poem.

The moon walks too far below

The Lady of the Stars

To heed her call.

He cannot reach her.

His path is marked.

Her voice is law.

The Sanmon Gate is where

Heaven and Earth might meet

The next time

Day and night greet.

“What is it?” Lady Yukino said, sipping her tea.

Kazuko’s hand was trembling. “It is...a poem from my husband.”

A handmaiden clapped her hands and bounced where she sat. “Oh, how romantic! Look how she is overcome with emotion! Oh, my lady, your beauty has inspired him!”

Kazuko smiled and cleared her throat. “So it seems.” She slipped the paper into her robes. “Well, whose turn is it?” She focused her attention on the shells, avoiding the gentle pressure of Lady Yukino’s gaze.

* * *

The most difficult part was the waiting. “Oiwa” would never again appear in the halls of the castle. She would be a ghost, a curiosity, an enigma to which only Ken’ishi would ever know the explanation. He did not dare return to Barrack Six in his womanly guise, so he slipped out of the castle in the midst of the revelries and made his way through town to the temple.

But he had no coat or blanket and the winter night was cold, so he slipped into the central temple. The golden glow of the Buddha filled the alcove, painted with candlelight. The Buddha’s eyes radiated kindness, and seemed to watch Oiwa as she knelt there and prayed.

It was a peculiar sensation, having nothing hanging between her thighs, and soft, sensitive mounds on her chest that her arms continually bumped. Damn Hage for the extra-plump bosom.

Walking across town to the temple had been frightening. Her vulnerability to the crowds of drunken men meandering the town had been a stark fear. Hage had not seen fit to provide Oiwa any weapons. A peasant girl with so much as a dagger would rouse instant suspicion.

It was the bit of shocking new knowledge, however, that was most perilous. Green Tiger was alive and well, and serving as chamberlain to Ken’ishi’s new master!

Ken’ishi had never seen anything of Green Tiger’s face except the eyes, but that was enough. There was no question, no mistake. In the eyes, in the voice, in the manner that he had used to try to intimidate Oiwa, Green Tiger had revealed himself. What could be done about it? Yasutoki was a high-ranked member of the Otomo clan, one of Lord Tsunetomo’s most trusted vassals. He could not be accused by a low-ranked samurai, only by someone of comparable or higher rank, and then the testimony of witnesses must be substantial. Of that, Ken’ishi had none. He could attack Yasutoki outright, attempt to kill him, but the most likely outcome, even if he was successful, was that he would forfeit his own life for the murder of a high-ranked Otomo vassal. Would his death be worth it to rid the world of a monster like Green Tiger? Could he stalk Yasutoki on some excursion and kill him when he was vulnerable? Ken’ishi was no assassin. Yasutoki was no warrior who could be challenged to a duel of honor. The difference in their rank meant that Ken’ishi simply could not touch him.

When his mind had exhausted itself on Green Tiger, it churned onto what he would say if Kazuko appeared. Since their parting, he had had so many conversations with her in his mind, some of them angry, some recriminatory, others because he wanted to show her something, or tell her about something. She had walked his dreams in a hundred different forms. When he had taken up with Kiosé, such thoughts had diminished, but never disappeared. He had often wondered if Kazuko would approve of him, think well of him, or help him if he were in dire need. And so much of the last year had been the direst of need. In his darkest moments, his thoughts had gone to Kazuko, not Kiosé.

But this was all tiresome, well-trod ground.

Little Oiwa huddled there before the Buddha on the polished wooden floor of the temple, warming her hands over candles and rubbing warmth back into the rest of her.

Her eyes felt full of sand by the time the sky began to gray. She wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there would be none of that. Not until after.

She was tired of admonishments and danger. This all had to end, or she could not go on. Ken’ishi might as well become ronin again and flee to Shikoku or Honshu, where the Otomo clan could not reach. But running away was the most dishonorable of paths. When could he ever stop running then? He had spent too much of his life running.

It all had to end. Somehow.

Here in the temple, wearing this female form, Ken’ishi entreated the gods to lift the burden of death from his soul. There were too many deaths haunting him. But had he not done only what he must? He had not been cruel, or vicious, or unjust to the barbarians he had slain. He had done only what men must do in war; he had protected his comrades and fought the enemy.

In the pre-dawn stillness, monks stirred from their slumber and entered the temple for their morning prayers and chants and meditation. They greeted her with warm smiles and asked if she would like anything to eat. One of them draped a blanket over her shoulders, and it was one of the most welcome kindnesses Ken’ishi could remember. Such kindnesses were few in a world where the currency was strength and prowess. Ken’ishi expected them to ask questions about why they found a woman alone in their temple, but there were none.

With dawn drawing nigh, Oiwa thanked the monks for their compassion and ventured out to the Sanmon Gate, where she waited, wondering if Kazuko would find a way to come.

After a time, a gray shadow hurried up the long series of steps, a woman, judging by her shape and gait, not dressed in the rich robes of a lady, but in the threadbare tatters of a desperately poor peasant. Soot besmirched her face and hands.

Breath heaving, she rushed to the level of the first gate, the Somon Gate, and ran through it, the pale beads of her eyes wide.

Spotting Oiwa there, standing near the gate, wrapped in a blanket, the gasping woman stopped short. “Oh. It is you.” Kazuko’s beauty shone through the soot like the breathing coals of a forge. “I thought...”

Oiwa swallowed hard. “You were right to come. I’m glad you’re here, although I’m afraid we won’t have much time to talk.”

“Who are you?”

“We have...a mutual friend. You know who I speak of.”

A flurry of emotions flashed across Kazuko’s face. “Are you...his lover? His wife?” There was a forlorn bitterness in her voice.

Oiwa shook her head. “No. Would you prefer that I was?”

“No.”

“Is that all? No?”

“What would he have me say? We are both slaves to our duty. We are not free to love whom we will.” Kazuko peered around the area, into the bushes, as if wondering if someone was listening. “Where is he?”

“He’ll be here soon.” Oiwa’s breath made a steaming pennant into the brightening morning. “Tell me, my lady. What would you have him do? If it could be anything in the world.”

Kazuko’s brow furrowed for a long moment, then smoothed again. “I would wish him to serve as befits the heroes of legend, because that is what I think he would want. I want for him everything that befits a warrior’s dreams. Strength, honor, glory. If it were within my power, I would make him the greatest general in the world or the most renowned swordmaster, whichever is his wish. I would give him the moon and stars.”

“But you would not give him your heart.”

“He already has that.” The sigh that came out of her was long and shuddering. “But I cannot give him the rest of me. That belongs to someone else. And if my husband were a cruel man, a vicious man, a slothful man, a foolish man, a greedy man, any of those things, then putting aside my duty would be easier. But he is none of those things. My husband deserves better than I am. So I aspire to be worthy of him. But what about Ken’ishi? What would he have me do, if it could be anything in the world?”

“He would have you do what honor demands. Because while the love is great between you, to succumb to its temptations would make you unworthy of it. He loves the lady not just for the beauty of her face, but the beauty in her heart, which shines out of her like the moon behind clouds. He loves her for her strength and honor. But if she joins her dew with his, thus forsaking her husband, both of them become unworthy of the lord who trusts them. In his darkest moments, he dreams of taking you away to China, as you once suggested.”

Kazuko’s face flushed behind the soot as she gasped. “How is it that you know this? I have told no one of the words we spoke together...that night. Not even my handmaid Hatsumi, who has been like my sister since I was a little girl. What are you to him?”

“I am the only woman in the world who knows him better than you.”

“But you are not lovers?”

“No.”

“Has he...loved anyone else?”

The sky was shifting from purple to red.

“There was another. But she is dead now. They had a son. Killed by the barbarians.”

Kazuko sat on the porch surrounding the gate, stricken, tears bursting. “Oh, that is a pity. How terrible for him. To lose a son so cruelly... When some of us want one so desperately.”

A ray of sunlight touched the topmost branches of the massive camphor tree nearby.

Kazuko sniffed and wiped her eyes. “And what of his dog? He had the cutest, smartest dog with him. Akao was his name. He looked at me with more wisdom than many human beings I have met.”

“Akao was killed, three years ago. He saved...four lives that night, facing down an oni. He was so brave, so valiant. I shall never encounter his equal again.”

“You knew him even back th—?” Kazuko cut off her own question.

Oiwa’s voice had begun to deepen.

The camellia robe was now the garb of a man, and legs and arms were lengthening to fit it, shoulders thickening.

A quiet, astonished “ohhh…” escaped from Kazuko’s open mouth.

Hands hardened. Jaw squared. Chest broadened.

Kazuko swallowed hard, comprehension filling her face, and her voice was a mere whisper. “How...?”

“A gift from Hage.”

“Who is Hage? A shugenja, that he can make you change form?”

“A tanuki.” Ken’ishi could not help but smile at how foolish it sounded.

“Oh, him.” She smiled at a memory. “How is it that you have such interesting friends?”

“I am not certain I can call him a friend. Mostly I think I amuse him.”

“I have no friends at all.” As soon as she uttered the words, she seemed to realize how pitiful they sounded. “But it matters little. Sometimes all that can be hoped is that nobody wishes one ill.”

Seeing her there, radiant in spite of her exhaustion and disguise, remembering the way she had felt in his arms, remembering every curve of her breasts and thighs, every swoop of her soft belly, every curl of petal-soft down between her legs, the taste of her, the feel of her, the smell of her, brought it all roaring to life again.

But the chasm between them yawned wider than ever. And to cross it—as they had done on the night of her betrothal—meant dishonor and death.

“I will tell you what I will do,” Ken’ishi said.

Looking up at him, her cheeks glistened with tears, her eyes brimmed with silent entreaty.

He said, “You said that I have your heart. I tell you now and for all time that you have mine. I shall serve you with a loyalty born of that love, in the only way I can. We shall remain worthy of our lord, faithful to our duty, and loyal to the love we share.” He knelt before her, pressed his forehead to the ground at her feet, then straightened again. “By my sword, by my blood, by all the strength in me, I am yours, Lady Kazuko. Until the end.”

“It is a fact that fish will not live where the water is too clear. But if there is duckweed or something, the fish will hide under its shadow and thrive. Thus, the lower classes will live in tranquility if certain matters are a bit overlooked or left unheard. This fact should be understood with regard to people’s conduct.”

—Hagakure, Book of the Samurai

“There is no doubt, Lord,” Ushihara said. “The sword he bears is the one you’re after.”

The peasant who would become samurai knelt before Yasutoki in his office. On this, the third day of New Year festivities, all the warriors were still at liberty, so there was little questioning of movements and associations.

Yasutoki had already surmised this, but it was time to stroke his new pet. “You have done well, Sir Ushihara.” He laid a tightly wrapped paper bundle, stamped with the mon of the Otomo clan and the character gin, for silver, before Ushihara.

Ushihara’s eyes bulged. His hands trembled as he reached for the bundle. Yasutoki thought for a moment that the man might drool.

“Do I have your attention now, Sir Ushihara?”

“Yes, Lord!”

“I can be as generous to those loyal to me as I am cruel to those who fail me.”

“Yes, Lord!”

“And I shall sweeten the cup. Take this slip to the Roasted Acorn and give it to the proprietor.” Yasutoki produced a rice paper card from a drawer in his bureau. On the card were written the three characters that made up the word whore, stamped with an official seal.

“What’s it for?” Ushihara said.

Yasutoki kept his breath steady. Maintaining patience for illiterates taxed him. “He will bring you a whore. It would be a pity for you to spend all of that silver right away. Enjoy yourself.”

Ushihara’s face beamed. “Thank you, Lord! Thank you!” He pressed his forehead to the floor over and over.

“You may go.”

Ushihara scooped up the bundle of coins, clutched them in both hands, and retreated.

After Ushihara had gone, a woman’s phlegmatic voice came from the doorway. “You called for me, Yasutoki-sama.”

“Come, Oguri,” Yasutoki said.

The servant woman bowed her way in. Decades of hard work had slumped Oguri’s shoulders, callused her hands, grayed her hair. A broad mouth, thick lips, and deeply lined features gave her the appearance of an old, wrinkled frog. She knelt before him. “What do you require?”

“There is a new servant in the castle. I wish to interview her. Her name is Oiwa.”

“Eh? Forgive me, Lord, but there have been no new servants since the eighth month.”

“But I saw her last night. She was carrying a tea service for Lady Kazuko. She claimed her name was Oiwa.”

Oguri rubbed a bit of sweat from her wrinkled brow. “Very sorry, Lord. But there is no one by that name in the castle’s employ.”

A spy? This unexpected turn put a cold blade against his spine. “She was wearing a robe with pink camellia flowers. Very pretty.” A whore from town smuggled into the castle? Not implausible. But by whom? Tsunetomo was not a man given to bedding whores and tavern girls. Such clandestine dealings without Yasutoki’s knowledge was an affront soon to be corrected.

“I did not see her, my lord,” Oguri said. “Shall I ask around?”

“Yes. And report back to me by the end of the day.”

Oguri bowed her way out.

Now, perhaps he could finish some work—

A figure filled his door and strode in without a word or the slightest gesture of respect. Yasutoki opened his mouth to unleash a torrent of recrimination, but then reached for the shuriken concealed in his sleeve.

Ken’ishi slammed the door shut behind him. He was armed with the tachi Yasutoki knew so well hanging from his obi.

The bushi stood over him, his eyes dark and full of purpose. “I know who you are.”

Yasutoki gauged the distance between them. His office was small enough that the tip of Silver Crane’s blade could reach him with the draw. But if Ken’ishi intended to attack, he would have already done so. Yasutoki remained poised to act, like a spring cranked to highest tension, a handful of poisoned shuriken in his right hand, concealed within his sleeve. “And I know who you are.”

Their eyes met like spear points clashing, tip on tip. Yasutoki held his gaze. “I must commend you on your escape. No one else has ever managed it. Sit. We must talk.”

Ken’ishi gripped the hilt of Silver Crane. He did not sit. “Is this what you’ve been looking for? Again?”

Gauging the distance, Yasutoki knew the warrior could draw and strike him down almost instantaneously.

“What are you going to do with that?” Yasutoki nodded at the tachi.

“You are a fool to employ Ushihara. The man is as subtle as a three-legged ox.”

Yasutoki allowed a small smile. “One uses the tools at one’s disposal. How were you able to enter the castle armed? Only guards are permitted weapons. If you are caught, it could mean your head.”

“My head is less important than why I am here.”

“What do you intend to do? Strike me down? That would be most unwise.”

Ken’ishi’s hand had not yet left his hilt. “Leave the castle now. Beg Lord Tsunetomo’s forgiveness for abandoning his service and take your vows as a monk. Go into retirement.”

“Are you planning to take your revenge if I refuse? You see, I know who you are, Ken’ishi the Oni-Slayer. Ken’ishi, the ronin who murdered Nishimuta no Takenaga, a duly appointed constable of the Nishimuta clan. Ken’ishi the ronin who saved Nishimuta no Kazuko from the bandit Hakamadare, thus depriving me of a valuable associate, I might add. The same ronin who despoiled the honor of the girl betrothed to Lord Otomo no Tsunetomo.”

Ken’ishi’s eyebrows jumped.

“Oh, yes, I do know about that. I have suspected this moment might come since you appeared on the rolls of Tsunemori’s new recruits. Thus, I have written a letter that describes in detail everything I know about your relationship with Lady Kazuko. I was there to see much of it for myself, you will recall, and I had even more from the lady’s servant Hatsumi before she went mad. If anything happens to me, if I am killed by brigands or die of infection from a splinter, this letter will be delivered by someone loyal to me into the hands of Lord Tsunetomo. You are samurai. I do not doubt for a moment that you would spend your life to take your revenge on me. You could do it now. But the more interesting question is whether you care about what happens to our Lady Kazuko. If this knowledge were exposed, her shame and humiliation would be the least of the consequences. Lord Tsunetomo would be within his authority to have her executed. But I have no interest in that. I have no interest in rocking the boat, as they say. Thanks in part to you, I have lost almost everything. The tiger must repair to his cave and lick his wounds.”

“I have written a similar letter.”

“A bit childish to say, as I doubt that very much. If I allow you to leave this office, however, I do not doubt that you will soon write one.”

Ken’ishi scowled. “Or perhaps you’re lying. Perhaps no such letter has been written.”

“Are you willing to take that chance?” Yasutoki’s gaze remained fixed on Ken’ishi’s face. If the man’s right hand so much as twitched, Yasutoki would send a storm of poisoned blades at his naked face.

Ken’ishi growled, “You tortured me. Imprisoned me. Starved me. The gods would thank me for sending you to Hell.”

“Doubtless you’re correct. But I don’t intend to meet them any time soon.”

“If Silver Crane ‘disappears’ again, the gods themselves will not save you,” Ken’ishi said.

“I am content to let you have it. I know now that it was wrong to take it from you. Besides, now I know where to find you if I have need of it.”

“I’ll never bow to your will.”

“But you already have. We are talking, rather than hacking off bits of each other. Do you know that sword’s history?”

“I do. But I don’t know why it matters so much to you.”

Yasutoki considered for a moment. Throughout his life, he had honed the art of weaving secrets and lies in the most advantageous ways. “It belonged to my great-grandfather, Taira no Tomomori, who died at the Battle of Dan-no-Ura, protecting the Emperor Antoku.”

Another flash of surprise on Ken’ishi’s face.

“You do know its history,” Yasutoki said. “Then you know it was lost at sea. And yet, somehow, it has been found. It is a treasure of the Taira clan, priceless beyond measure.”

“You are Taira clan?”

“An illustrious heritage, to be sure, but one that it is no longer expedient to claim. Only those who swore fealty to Minamoto no Yoritomo were allowed to keep their family name. The rest were expunged, but a few, my grandfather, managed to escape into anonymity. So, as you see, the sword has great value to me, both sentimental and monetary. There are those who would pay an emperor’s ransom for it. There is a legend as well that the sword grants power to one of Taira blood who wields it.”

Thoughts flickered behind Ken’ishi’s eyes.

“With that sword,” Yasutoki said, “you defeated an oni, five Mongols on the road to Dazaifu, and untold dozens more in Hakozaki. That sounds like great power. This inclines me to consider that you might be of Taira blood yourself. You claim no knowledge of your heritage. Your parents were murdered when you were a baby. That may well have been in one of the purges by the Hojo clan to make sure that no scattered seed of the Taira clan ever takes root again. We may well share the same enemies.”

Ken’ishi’s face quivered with suppressed emotion.

“Now then, as we may well be kinsmen,” Yasutoki said, “we must decide what to do. Rather than forcing you to work for me, a proposal to which I know you will never agree, I suggest a truce.”

“A truce.” Ken’ishi spat the word like it was poison.

“Neither of us can kill the other outright, as neither of us relishes the idea of our secrets being exposed. But we are both ambitious, more than willing to kill those in the way of what we want. Perhaps one day you will come to appreciate my powers, as Lord Tsunetomo does.”

“Never!”

Yasutoki waved a hand. “As you will. But it is such resolve that makes you powerful. I predict that you will go far in Lord Tsunetomo’s employ. If you can manage to keep your secret.”

“Stay away from me,” Ken’ishi said. “Stay away from her.” Then he spun and stalked out of the office.

Yasutoki released his breath slowly, let the tension ease out of him. He had been not at all certain this confrontation would pass without bloodshed. Unfortunately, Yasutoki now had a vulnerability, even if he still held the advantage.

Better still, he now knew the key to moving Ken’ishi, the lever by which to move a mountain.

Kazuko.

 

 

SO ENDS THE SIXTH SCROLL