“I can provide some,” he said.

After he and the pharmacist struck a deal, Miwa went off and gathered pebbles, then caught a stray cat and pulled out some of its fur. He mixed the fur with mud, molded it around the pebbles, and coated them with gray paint he stole from an artisan’s workshop. The pharmacist paid him a large sum for the fake rhinoceros-horn pills. Soon Miwa had a thriving business selling the aphrodisiac, and enough money to rent lodgings. He planned to quit as soon as he could finance his medical practice.

However, his customers began complaining that the pills didn’t work. When the police came to his lodgings to arrest him, they found shaved cats in cages, a supply of paint and pebbles, and Miwa assembling more pills. The magistrate convicted Miwa of fraud and ordered him to refund his customers’ money, but he’d already spent it on medical equipment, so he was sentenced to three months in jail.

Now, as Dr. Miwa stood in his underground chamber, the specter of past misfortunes hovered near. If he failed this time, he would suffer worse punishment than jail. He anxiously watched the novice who’d drunk the potion. The novice kept chanting, his voice still strong and his eyes bright; he showed no physical change.

“Enough time has passed. Your formula is no good,” Priest Kumashiro said, sneering at Dr. Miwa.

“How disappointing,” Abbess Junketsu-in murmured with a quick, nasty smile.

“What seems to be the problem?” Cold fury lurked beneath Anraku’s quiet voice.

“The formula works at full strength,” Dr. Miwa said defensively. His hatred of Kumashiro and Junketsu-in almost overwhelmed his fear of Anraku. They were like the two apprentices, always needling him, always savoring his defeats. Junketsu-in was mistress to Anraku, and Kumashiro held the coveted post of second-in-command; thus, they both outranked Dr. Miwa, whose medical skill was his only advantage over them. “The low concentration is the problem. But I’m sure the next formula will work.”

An impatient gesture from Anraku signaled for him to proceed. Dr. Miwa hastily poured liquid from the second bottle, added water, and fed the potion to another novice. He must please Anraku. He must repay the debt he owed the high priest.

After serving two months in jail, Miwa had begun dreading his release. His fraud had ruined his reputation; he couldn’t practice medicine in Edo. How would he earn a living? He mourned the waste of his brilliant talent. Then one day, while he was emptying slop buckets, a guard came to him and said, “Someone has bought your freedom. You can go.”

It was Anraku who’d repaid Miwa’s customers, Anraku who met him outside the prison gate.

“Why did you do this?” Dr. Miwa said, distrusting the priest’s good looks, and motives.

Anraku smiled. “You are a physician of great genius. I value your talents as the world cannot.”

The words were a healing elixir to Miwa’s wounded pride. Grateful, yet still suspicious, he said, “How do you know about me?”

“I see all. I know all.” Anraku spoke with convincing simplicity; his one-eyed gaze pierced Miwa’s spirit.

“What do you want from me in return?” Miwa said, beginning to fall under the priest’s spell.

“My temple requires a physician. I have chosen you.”

Anraku had taken Dr. Miwa to the Black Lotus Temple, newly constructed at that time, nine years ago. He gave Dr. Miwa a hospital, nurses, and authority over the medical treatment of the temple’s growing population. The post brought Dr. Miwa the respect and recognition long denied him. He worshipped Anraku as his god. However, medical training had taught him the skill of scientific observation, and soon he understood the inner workings of the kingdom his god had created.

He believed in Anraku’s supernatural vision, but he learned that the high priest had many spies conveying knowledge to him. These spies were followers and paid informers throughout Japan. They had reported on Miwa and identified him as potentially useful to the sect. Miwa discovered that he wasn’t the only person recruited this way. Anraku scouted society’s criminals and had found Kumashiro, Junketsu-in, and many of his senior priests among them. Dr. Miwa also learned how Anraku bound these wayward individuals to him.

They, like Miwa, were in desperate straits. Anraku determined what each person desired, then provided it in exchange for loyal obedience. These recruits became dependent upon him. He was all things to all people-guide, father, lover, tyrant, son, judge, savior. Because the Black Lotus Sutra said there was an infinite number of paths to enlightenment, elite disciples such as Dr. Miwa could pursue destiny however they liked. Not until they’d severed all ties with normal society and morality did they discover the dark side of their paradise: Anraku’s intolerance toward anyone who didn’t perform the duties he expected of his disciples.

Within two years of his arrival at the temple, Dr. Miwa was dividing his time between the hospital and the subterranean laboratory. Above-ground, he treated the sick; below, he worked on experiments for the Black Lotus’s day of destiny and tortured disobedient sect members. He found that causing pain aroused him sexually. He could never return to normal life because the temple was the only place where he could have everything he needed. But now the specter of the monk Pious Truth shadowed his memory. Dr. Miwa knew he was not exempt from similar treatment, should he displease Anraku. He watched the novices, all of them healthy and robust, and he couldn’t bear to wait and see if the second formula worked.

“I shall test the last formula now,” he said.

Under the daunting scrutiny of his colleagues, Dr. Miwa mixed the potion and took it to the third novice. He was fifteen years old, plump with baby fat. He drained the cup, exclaiming, “Praise the glory of the Black Lotus!”

Suddenly his face flushed crimson. His eyes became wide and blank; he swayed. His words blurred into an incoherent babble.

“The formula is working,” Dr. Miwa said, filled with relief and jubilation.

The novice began shaking violently. While his comrades chanted, he retched, vomiting bile. Its sour stench tainted the air. He collapsed in a fit of convulsions.

“I see the Buddha. I see the truth,” he murmured. Awe veiled his gaze. He gave a final shudder, then lay still. Dr. Miwa crouched, examined the novice, and looked up at Anraku. “He’s dead.”

Anraku beamed, illuminating the room as if the sun had penetrated the earth. “Good work,” he said. Kumashiro nodded in grudging approval; jealousy narrowed Junketsu-in’s eyes. “We shall be well prepared to meet our destiny.”

Anraku glided soundlessly from the laboratory. At Dr. Miwa’s orders, the surviving novices carried the corpse away to the crematorium. Their chanting faded down the tunnel. Kumashiro and Junketsu-in lingered.

“Congratulations,” Kumashiro said to Dr. Miwa in a sardonic voice. “It seems you’re good for something besides gratifying yourself with other people’s pain.”

How like Kumashiro to spoil his triumph, Miwa thought bitterly as the priest left the room. Kumashiro was like Commander Oyama. The commander had been another arrogant, forceful man who enjoyed tormenting the weak. He’d come to the temple seeking a spiritual remedy for stomach pains, and Dr. Miwa had cured him, but Oyama gave the credit to Anraku while mocking Miwa and treating him as a mere lackey. Miwa rejoiced that Oyama had been punished for his cruel ingratitude. If only Kumashiro would die, too.

Abbess Junketsu-in said snidely, “Lucky for you that the formula worked. Anraku-san told me yesterday that after what happened in Shinagawa, he would give you one more chance, and if you failed again…”

Arching her painted brows, she let the unspoken threat hang in the air. Dr. Miwa gazed at her in helpless fury. She always flaunted her intimacy with Anraku and aggravated Miwa’s insecurities. He despised her even more than he did Kumashiro because he wanted her so badly.