Black Arrow

Picking it up, Akitada noted both signature and seal, glanced at the content, then rolled up the document and put it in his sleeve.

TWENTY-TWO CHRYSANTHEMUM AND GRASSES

When they returned to the tribunal late that night, Akitada was exhausted in mind and body from the business of settling affairs at Takata-he had left Kaoru and Takesuke in control- and emotionally drained. The long ride back with Hitomaro’scorpse slung over the horse beside him had given him unwanted time to brood on his actions. Takesuke had congratulated him on his courage, and Akitada had wanted to wipe the look of admiration from his face. At least Tora, who had lost a lot of blood, would heal. Akitada felt profoundly guilty that, of the four of them, he had come out of the fight unscathed.

Genba wept like a child when he carried the body of his friend to a temporary bier in the tribunal hall. There he and Tora would keep watch over Hito’s corpse.

Akitada entered his private quarters only briefly. Seimei tried to fuss over him, but the small amount of bleeding from his old shoulder wound and assorted bruises where his body armor had deflected sword blows amounted to nothing. When Akitada saw the joyous relief on Tamako’s face, it seemed so inappropriate to him that he was sickened and turned from her without a word to seek the solitude of his office. He wanted nothing so much as sleep, oblivion, a few hours of escape from himself-from a man he never knew, from the blood lust that had lain hidden inside him all his life, from the death of a friend.

But it was not to be. By theflickering light of the oil lamp, he saw a strange figure sitting at his desk.A very old man was hunched over the lacquered box of the shell game, turning itslowly in gnarled hands, absorbed in the pattern of the decoration. He raisedhis eyes unhurriedly to Akitada and nodded a greeting. The yamabushi hadreturned.

He looked at Akitada for a longmoment. Then he gently set down the game and indicated the other cushion. “Pleasebe seated, Governor,” he said courteously in a deep, restful voice. “You lookvery tired.”

Dazed, Akitada obeyed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and shivered, but it was not from cold, forit was almost cozy in the light of the single oil lamp casting a warm glow on the desk between the two men.

The old priest pushed the brazier a little closer to Akitada. Steam and a curious fragrance rose from the small iron tea kettle on it. The master reached for a cup, poured, and stirred.“Drink this,” he ordered, sharp black eyes watching from a face as wrinkled and dark brown as a nut.

Akitada tasted, then slowly emptied the cup.

“An infusion of dried berries,herbs, and certain tree barks,” the master said, answering an unspoken question. “You will feel refreshed in a moment and later you will sleep.”

“Thank you. It has a pleasant taste.” The visitor’s solicitude was comforting. Akitada became aware of awelcome warmth. He frowned with the effort to remember. “You’re right. I have had a long and difficult day.” Even the soreness in his shoulder seemed to ease. His eyes strayed to the desk where the yamabushi’s conch shell had joined the black-feathered arrow and the shell game.

“Tell me what happened at Takata,” the priest encouraged.

“We took the manor. Makio isdead … and so is Hitomaro.” And no medicine or spell would make that right again.

“Ah!” A long pause ensued, then the yamabushi shook his head regretfully. “It’s a pity about Hitomaro. Iliked that young man.” His silver hair and beard shimmered in the light of the oil lamp. He looked at Akitada and said, “But you, you are alive. You must learn to forgive yourself for what is merely a manifestation of fate. It is a hard lesson, but death is right in its time.”

Empty platitudes, Akitada thought. He felt shame like the thrust of a knife to his belly and turned his head away.

“Come, I did not think you a fool, Governor,” the yamabushi said more sharply.

Angered, Akitada swung back. “Iam not a fool. But neither am I a saint or a martyr like you, my Lord. When I lose a friend through my own carelessness, I cannot shrug it off and busy myself with good deeds and prayers instead.”

The old man sighed. With his gnarled finger he traced the design on the lacquer box. “The chrysanthemum is the last flower to bloom,” he murmured. “Its petals fall and the young grasses shrivel and die when the storm of winter touches their brief lives. Death,Governor, is a wide gate no one can close.”

Akitada clenched his fists. “Never mind! You cannot understand.”

The priest laughed very softly.“On the contrary. I, of all people, understand very well. If you know who I am,you should also know that.”

The man’s complete detachmentfilled Akitada with fury. He leaned forward and stabbed an accusing fingertoward him. “I know that you are the late Lord Maro’s older brother, the uncleof Makio,” he growled. “I know that you have a grandson, Kaoru, who has playedvarious roles-among them those of a humble woodcutter from the outcast villageand my sergeant of constables. I know about the crime of which you stoodaccused. I know that you fled, giving up your birthright and hiding among theoutcasts as a mountain priest.” He paused and pulled from his sleeve thedocument he had found at Takata and tossed it on the desk. “And now I also knowthat you were innocent of the murder of that woman and child. Read your brother’sconfession.”

The old man ignored the paper. “Didmy foolish grandson reveal so much?”

“No. Kaoru did everything he could to protect your secret. Every time I asked questions about you or his background, he became evasive. But I noticed that he was as familiar with a hermit’s life in a mountain cave as with the secret passages in Takata manor.”

The white head nodded. “He likes you, too,” he said, seemingly inconsequentially.

This was getting them nowhere.Akitada pointed at the paper on the desk. “Your brother wrote this on his deathbed. Forty years ago he used one of your black arrows to murder your father’s young wife and son because he wanted to rid himself of both you and your father’s favorite. But the deed haunted him. I have no doubt he eventually spoke to his son about it, and that Makio kept him a virtual prisoner after that. When your brother felt death approaching, he asked a trusted servant to smuggle paper to him during the banquet Makio gave in my honor. Today I retrieved his confession from the place where the two old men had hidden it.”

Akitada fell silent.

Today! Was it still the sameday? The memory of the blood, of the tangled bodies of Makio and Hitomaro rosevividly before his eyes. Hitomaro’s last words had been about his wish to die.He had rushed toward death from the moment they had entered the secret passage.Life was too short for some, and much too long for others. The old man across from him had held the key to a deadly mystery for forty years. It could be argued that all the suffering in this province had been caused by the wrong son seizing power in Takata forty years ago. Now the true heir was sitting across from him, apparently unmoved and unsurprised, not even curious enough to pickup the scroll for which the faithful Hideo had died.

As if he had read his thoughts,his visitor asked, “What happened to Hideo?”

Akitada said coldly, “He was tortured and then thrown off the mountain when he would not reveal the hiding place of your brother’s confession. No doubt he would have died in either case,since he knew the truth.”

To Akitada’s satisfaction, the old man finally reacted. He put a hand over his eyes. “Makio did this?” heasked in a tight voice.

“Kaibara. I was there that night. Kaibara was the only one who left the banquet at the right time. He was seen going to the old lord’s pavilion by the same two maids who had watched Hideo taking writing paper to your brother earlier.”

“Ah.” His visitor lowered hishand, and nodded. His face was calm again.

“However, since Kaibara had not been summoned from your brother’s pavilion, it means almost certainly that he was carrying out Makio’s instructions.”

The white head nodded. “Yes. I tmay well have been so.”