PROLOGUE

Feudal Japan

FEBRUARY, 1788

Edo (now known as Tokyo)

He’s not used to waiting. The guard who greeted him at the temple gate feared him enough to hustle him into a private room instead of making him stand outside with the coughing and miserable rabble, but his irritation is ratcheting up by the minute. What’s keeping that head priest? Feeling naked without his swords, the daimyō of Yodo Castle clutches a wooden box, pacing the bare anteroom. Three there, three back, three there, three back.

The door slides open, revealing a shaven-headed figure in white linen robes, forehead pressed to the floor.

“His Reverence extends his apologies for keeping you waiting, Your Excellency.” The priest rises. “If you’ll come this way . . .”

The two retainers posted outside the door fall in behind their commander, and the scent of smoking sandalwood grows stronger as they near the chapel where the carved figure of the Kinkokoro Jizo awaits.

The temple staff must have been burning incense day and night since the outbreak, because the long chains of golden lotus surrounding the altar disappear into a sacred haze before they reach the coffered ceiling. The head priest is bowing front and center, clad in magnificent gold brocade vestments for the occasion, flanked by a dozen minions.

The daimyōs eyes dart around the chapel. Who are all these fools? He doesn’t need—Ah, there it is. Oblivious to the pomp surrounding it, the face of the shoulder-high, wooden saint radiates serenity. Healing. The kind of healing he came here to obtain.

Introductions are made, polite phrases exchanged. The burning sticks of incense in the offertory urn grow shorter, along with Lord Inaba’s patience. Why are they wasting time with needless—

“What brings you here to petition the Jizo-san today, Your Excellency?”

Finally.

“My son,” he growls. “It’s the pestilence.” The pestilence that has claimed more than a tenth of his household, the pestilence that struck down his favorite concubine, the pestilence now trying to take his son.

He motions to the retainer on his left, who steps forward to extend a bulging doeskin pouch. It clinks softly as an under-priest receives it with a low bow. The retainer on the daimyō’s right steps forward, offering a shock of rice, representing the tithe of his holdings that he will pay in perpetuity to Senkō-ji temple from this day forward. It, too, is received with ritual gratitude.

Then the warlord himself limps forward, holding a box. He’d commanded that it be brought from the family stronghold in Kyoto, but he still hesitates before offering it. His father would have forbidden him to allow its luck and influence to escape their clan. The tea bowl in this box had cemented his House’s hold on Yodo Castle, consolidating allegiance among the nobles who exerted power through a devious command of culture and custom, not their swords.

But there will be no House of Inaba if his son dies. The daimyō hides his desperation behind a fearsome scowl as he extends the box with both hands.

“Please accept this humble offering and appeal to the Jizo-san to spare my son’s life.” He bows. “I beg you.”

And the tea bowl named Hikitoru passes out of one circle of influence, into another.