He was glad when night fell, and the possibility of an attack became remote. Candles and lamps were extinguished early and they prepared for sleep. The women stayed in the hut, but Ribata came out with blankets for her guests and spoke briefly to Toshito, who nodded and disappeared on some errand.
In spite of his blanket, Akitada awoke, shivering, long before dawn. He got up and started moving his body vigorously to warm his sluggish blood. His knee felt much better. Haseo still slept, and there was no sign of Toshito. Eventually, as the night sky slowly paled, he decided to make himself useful and gathered sticks for the fire. When it was burning, he squatted beside it and rubbed his chilled arms.
A touch on his shoulder made him jump. Masako held out his blanket. “Put it around you until the sun comes up.” He did and watched her heating water for rice gruel, regretting his anger of the day before.
“How far is it to Mano?” he asked.
“Half a day’s walk with a shortcut. The road passes on the other side of this mountain.” She left to go back into the hut.
Only a few hours’ walk? Akitada felt fit enough. Surely Haseo could manage a short journey, one that would become easy once they reached the road. After that-well, they would deal with whatever came.
Masako returned. “Ribata wants you,” she said.
When he ducked into the shadowy room, he found the nun at prayer. She sat in the center of the small square space, perfectly straight and still. Dark wooden beads passed through her thin fingers like beans falling through the ribs of a bamboo strainer. He could not see her face clearly, but her lips moved, and now and then he caught a word or cadence from a sutra.
He sat down across from her, quietly waiting, wondering again about this strange, aristocratic woman who seemed content to lead a simple, religious life so far from court. Good manners and respect for her present status forbade his asking questions. Once he reached Mano and the governor and started an investigation into Kumo’s activities, and those of his fellow conspirators, he hoped that the tangled relationships between the Kumo family, the late prince, and Ribata would also unravel.
As if she knew what he was thinking, Ribata said, “You should both be able to travel in another day. Then the governor will reconvene the court and Toshito’s name will be cleared.” She sighed and folded her hands around her beads. “Life is filled with pain. But the young people can settle down and raise their family. And you, too, will be eager to return to wife and child.”
Akitada nodded. He thought of the baby son he had left behind. Children often sickened and died during their first year.
“Place your trust in the Buddha and all will be well,” said the nun.
“Yes.”
He suspected that she was steering his thoughts to his family and smiled in the darkness because she had succeeded. His heart swelled with love and gratitude for the slender girl he had left behind among strangers, far from her home and family. He remembered how she had stood in the doorway, holding their son in her arms. Smiling bravely, she had faced their separation without complaint, certainly without self-pity, her back straight and her voice strong when she called out, “We will be waiting when you return.”
The sun was rising outside and the first ray crept through the door. It touched Ribata’s sleeve and shoulder, then lit up her pale drawn face. She moved out of its light and looked at him.
Her eyes were extraordinarily bright for a woman her age.
“I am happy for you,” she said. Then she reached into her sleeve and held out a flute to him. “And I am returning this to you. I hoped that you would come for it someday.” He took it, uncertain, raised it into the sunlight, and saw that it was Plover’s Cry, the flute she had given him in Kumo’s garden, the flute taken from him by Wada.
“But how did you get it back?” he asked, shocked.
“Sanetomo returned it to me. It seems the regrettable Wada had it in his possession. Sanetomo recognized it, of course.” Sanetomo?
Then Akitada remembered the name, and drew in his breath sharply. Kumo Sanetomo had returned the flute to its owner.
She must have known what had happened to him all along, he thought, his mind racing at the implications. And Ribata had sent Toshito away the night before. The knowledge of what his errand must be came too late; the damage was surely done by now. In his anger and despair Akitada almost broke the flute in his hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Akitada slowly laid the flute on the floor between them.
Hot fury at the betrayal churned in his belly and pounded his temples. With an effort he kept his hands from shaking; with another effort he controlled his voice. “Where is Toshito?” There was a moment’s silence, then she said vaguely, “He’ll be back soon.”
Imagining what this might mean, Akitada clenched his hands. Then he gestured to the flute. “I cannot accept your generous gift after all.” When her eyes met his, puzzled, he added harshly, “And I am not beaten yet.” Rising abruptly, he inclined his head, saw with satisfaction that he had shocked her, and left the hut.
Outside, the early sun made golden patterns on the ground, and birds were singing, but the valley below still lay hidden in white mist. Masako was stirring the morning gruel in the kettle.
Akitada looked at her suspiciously. He had met with more female duplicity lately than in his entire previous life. It seemed likely now that she had told Ribata of his mission, and that Ribata had alerted Kumo.
Haseo was up. He stood at a spot overlooking the valley and shaded his eyes against the sun. High in the translucent sky circled the first kite. The world was dew-fresh and very beautiful.
Akitada had too recently emerged from continuous night not to feel an almost dizzying fear of losing his fragile freedom again.
“Haseo,” he called out. “We must leave.” Haseo did not turn. Instead he motioned to Akitada, who repeated, more urgently, “We must leave immediately. I think we have been betrayed.”
“Ah.” Haseo nodded without surprise and pointed to the foot of the mountain on the far side of the valley. Where the sunlight had melted away a narrow patch of fog, gray rocks and towering cedars floated like a small island in the sea of white which filled the rest of the valley.
And there, among the firs and pines, something sparkled and moved. As insignificant as ants at that distance, a small contingent of horsemen wove in and out between the trees and, one by one, disappeared into the misty sea. The scene was surreal, and they would have missed it, if the sun had not caught the shining helmet of the leader and then drawn the eyes to the rider who followed, a colored standard attached to the back of his armor.
There had been fewer than ten horsemen, but more might follow.
Akitada felt certain that the man in the gilded helmet was Kumo himself, eager to make an end of their cat- and-mouse game. He turned to look back at the hut, its drapery of morning glories an intense blue in the sun. Ribata had come out on the veranda, a small and frail figure in her grayish white nun’s habit.
Masako was looking from Ribata to them, a frown on her pretty face. No doubt Toshito was among the horsemen in the valley below, showing Kumo the way to the hermitage, certain that the women would keep their prey distracted.
Ribata called out, “What is the matter, my lord? Is something wrong?”
Ignoring her, Akitada turned back to Haseo and said in a low voice, “They will have to leave their horses below and climb up on foot. It gives us a little time. Kumo counts on surprising us, on finding two invalids taking shelter. We must go down the other side of this mountain. Masako said the road to Mano passes there. It’s not far.”
Haseo nodded. It was like him not to argue or ask questions.
Instead he said with a regretful grin, “A pity! They’re a mere handful apiece. What I wouldn’t give if we had a
