That would destroy the case against Mutobe and his son.

But what of the poisoned dog? Or had there been a dog?

Perhaps that was a lie, too. Or the dog had been poisoned as an

afterthought. And then another, more terrible thought entered

Akitada’s mind. What if Okisada had become ill because some-

one had administered poison to him over a period of time?

Shunsei’s account of Okisada’s “transformation” could describe

the effects of systematic poisoning, and his death in the pavilion

would have marked the final dose. That would also clear young

Mutobe, who could not have had the opportunity to adminis-

ter all the prior doses. But why kill Okisada, whose return to

imperial power had been the object of the plot? Was there

someone else who wished Okisada dead? Akitada shook his

head in confusion.

Shunsei’s soft sigh brought him back. The monk said

gravely, “Do not doubt the miracle, as I did. He achieved what

we had both prayed for, a state of blessedness, a cessation of

pain. I know, for he has come and told me so.”

Akitada looked at Shunsei’s deep-set, feverish eyes and felt a

great pity. This man was dying himself, by his own choice, and

in the final stages of starvation and meditation he must have

been hallucinating.

Kumo, Taira, and Sakamoto need not worry about his testi-

mony. Shunsei would not live long enough to travel to Mano.

Of course, there was still Nakatomi. They had wanted the

I s l a n d o f E x i l e s

219

physician to testify only to the cause of death, and not touch on

the prince’s prior state of health. They had known of his illness.

But Akitada’s eavesdropping had convinced him that his death

had shocked and surprised them. Sakamoto in particular had

complained bitterly about it. Only one fact was certain: they

all wanted the governor’s son convicted of murder as soon as

possible.

Shunsei still sat quietly looking down at his hands.

“You knew he would die?” Akitada asked.

The monk raised his eyes and smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes. Only

not so soon.”

“And young Mutobe? Is he to die also?”

The smile faded to sadness. “If it is his karma. We all

must die.”

Akitada gritted his teeth. A moment ago he thought he had

his answer, but Shunsei seemed to have changed his mind again.

Perhaps he was dealing with a madman after all. He looked long

into Shunsei’s eyes. Impossible to tell. The large black orbs

gazed back calmly.

“But you do not believe that he murdered the prince?”

Akitada finally asked bluntly.

Shunsei smiled again. “He assisted in the transformation,”

he corrected.

“What? How?”

“He helped him achieve nirvana more quickly.”

Akitada staggered to his feet. He had failed. Shunsei, who

had been present, truly believed that young Mutobe had poi-

soned Okisada. “Thank you,” he muttered, and bowed.

Shunsei also rose. He swayed a little as if light-headed.

“Thank you for coming,” he said politely. “Please tell them what

I said. His memory will be sacred forever.”

Blindly, Akitada walked to the door, followed by Shunsei.

On the steps, he turned one more time to look back at the other

220

I . J . P a r k e r

man, who stood on the veranda, supporting himself against a

column. The moon cast an eerie whiteness over his face, sharp-

ening the angles of the underlying skull and turning the eyes

into fathomless pools of darkness.

On some strange impulse, Akitada said, “I was told the

prince enjoyed fugu. Did he, by any chance, eat some the day he died?”

This time, Shunsei’s smile broke the spell of strangeness and

made him almost human again. “Oh, yes. The blowfish. He sent

me to the fisherman’s wife for it. He was not well and wished to

be strong for the meeting. He always enjoyed fugu, but since his illness he also derived relief from it.”

Akitada reached for the railing. “But . . . no fugu was served to the others.”

“Oh, no. He prepared it himself in his room and carried a

small dose with him. He was very familiar with the prepara-

tion.” Shunsei pressed his palms together and bowed. Then he

disappeared back into the room, extinguishing the lights until

all was plunged into darkness again.

Akitada groped his way back to the monks’ dormitory, his

mind as murky as the darkness of the forest around him. Had

Okisada died by accidentally poisoning himself?

Or had he committed suicide to escape the torment of his

pain?

C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

L I E U T E NA N T WA DA

Akitada woke. At first he was not certain what had disturbed

his sleep because all was dark and silent. He turned over, but the

memories of the previous day began to crowd in. It was finally

over and soon he would be home. The prince had taken the poi-

son himself. Okisada might have mistaken the dosage or, in the

knowledge of a slow and increasingly painful death, decided to

end it quickly, but ultimately it did not matter. He was dead, all

danger of his leading another rebellion was over, and the con-

spiracy against the governor would fall apart as soon as the fact

was known. True, Shunsei’s condition was worrisome, but there

was at least one other person who knew that the prince had

eaten blowfish: his regular supplier, Haru.

He sat up and stretched. Hearing soft noises next door in

Osawa’s room, he got up, opened the door, and peered out. It

was still night in the forest, but the sky above the trees was al-

ready turning the deep blue-black which precedes dawn, and a

few birds chirped sleepily.

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I . J . P a r k e r

It was unusual for Osawa to rise this early, but he, too, now

had someone to rush back to. Akitada smiled, yawned, and took

a few deep breaths of the pine-scented air. It was deliciously

cool and he hated to leave the woods for the hot plain again, but

tonight they would be back in Mano.

Akitada looked at Osawa’s closed door and decided to get

dressed. If Osawa was in such a hurry, he was not going to delay

him. The sooner he could settle this affair and leave Sadoshima,

the better. He longed for his family with an almost painful

intensity.

After lighting the oil lamp, he reached for the blue robe he

had been wearing for days. It looked and smelled the worse for

the hard wear. In his bag was still his own robe of plain brown

silk, the one he had arrived in and which had been stained and

torn during those first appalling days. He shook his head at the

memory of the misery suffered by convicts.

He rolled up the blue robe and shook out the brown one

after removing the flute from its folds. Surely Osawa would not

mind if he put on clean clothes for the trip back. They had no

more official calls to make on the way.

The silk robe was a little creased, but it looked and smelled a

great deal better than the blue one. He slipped it on and fas-

tened the black sash about his waist. Reaching up to adjust the

collar, he touched the stiffness of the documents between the

layers of fabric. They, too, would soon no longer be needed. He

thought guiltily of Masako, who had not only nursed him

back to health, but had washed and mended his clothes. He was

ashamed of having rejected her affection so harshly. Tonight

he would speak to her, explain his situation, and offer

her . . . what? He thought he would know once he knew her real

feelings for him.

Smoothing down the familiar cool silk, he felt relief that it