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 a welcome 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 is dead ... 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. I liked 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. “I am 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 detachment filled Akitada with fury. He leaned forward and stabbed an accusing finger toward him. “I know that you are the late Lord Maro’s older brother, the uncle of Makio,” he growled. “I know that you have a grandson, Kaoru, who has played various roles—among them those of a humble woodcutter from the outcast village and my sergeant of constables. I know about the crime of which you stood accused. I know that you fled, giving up your birthright and hiding among the outcasts as a mountain priest.” He paused and pulled from his sleeve the document he had found at Takata and tossed it on the desk. “And now I also know that you were innocent of the murder of that woman and child. Read your brother’s confession.”

The old man ignored the paper. “Did my 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 same day? The memory of the blood, of the tangled bodies of Makio and Hitomaro rose vividly 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 pick up 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?” he asked 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 his hand, 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. It may well have been so.”

Without disguising his contempt, Akitada said, “Many people have died as a consequence of that false accusation, my Lord. You knew it was false, yet you chose to run and hide among the outcasts when you should have faced your troubles and fought for justice. Not doing so has plunged this province and its inhabitants into misery and bloodshed. It cost Hideo his life. And today I lost a friend because of it.”

The old man looked back at him calmly. “That is very true.”

“Just now you lectured me about fate,” Akitada cried angrily, “but you understand nothing of duty. If you had done your duty by your people and defended yourself against the charges, fate would have taken a different course. Your religious life with all its sacrifices, your service to the poor, and your sentimental protection of every criminal in the area do not absolve you from the guilt of having abandoned your duty.”

“When it comes to duty,” said the old man with a gentle smile, “I hope that you will think my offense somewhat mitigated by the fact that I found a suitable substitute in you.” He took the arrow and held it up. “I can still bend a bow and hit a target when it is required.”

Akitada tensed. Of course. How could he have forgotten? This old man was the Uesugi heir who had been a champion archer in his youth. It was he who had killed Kaibara and saved his life that night among the graves. “Yes,” he said. “I should have known it was you.” Miserably, he added, “I suppose I must be grateful, though I cannot take much pleasure in my life at the moment.” Hitomaro’s death would not have happened, if Kaibara had been successful that night.