The Clever Hawk

by Ronan Frost

  *

  All is in readiness for my final one-hundred day block, and the completion of my trials. The route I must traverse is less than half of the previous block, and it feels as if its completion will be a mere formality. I take to the trails to test my legs, for although not required to begin for another few months, I am keen to begin as soon as possible. Somehow, my mind wanders, and my feet take me to the streets of Kyoto.

  I pause, and look up, my head clearing, half-wondering how I had gotten myself here. Everything I see is an assault upon raw senses that have been so long been deprived. The afternoon light slants through the buildings, every little detail trying to fill my mind, the industry and commerce upon the streets. Lush green foliage of cherry trees line the roads, the air swelling with the warmth of summer.

  I venture from the outskirts of the city and enter closer to its heart, and I at last come across what I seek: a road lined with the trailing branches of willows, colored lanterns strung partway across the road, evidence of preparation for festivities only half-complete. There are more people here; I see a score venturing out into the streets in the growing evening.

  Tanabata: the festival seventh day of the seventh month.

  So often had the number seven appeared in the pages of the books of Enryaku-ji. The seven Buddhist treasures, so often read in those nights of my study that all were committed to memory and could count them off on my fingers: the treasure of conviction, virtue, conscience, concern, listening, generosity, and discernment. And there were the seven deities of fortune, who travelled together on their ship upon the waves, visiting on New Year’s Eve to dispense happiness, each individual god having a characteristic virtue: longevity, fortune, popularity, candor, amiability, dignity, magnanimity. Seven celestial bodies, seven times the spirit is resurrected… And seven years of my life devoted to the trials.

  A shiver runs up my spine. I turn at the sound of footsteps, catching a glance of the young woman as she passes. My mouth moves to speak, but nothing escapes but a breath of air.

  It is not enough to draw her attention, and she continues to walk. She wears a yukata that, despite its plainness, has an elegant cut, hugging her hips. Her hair is bound up at the back of her head, exposing the elegant cast of her neck, and her skin is clean and pure, almost translucent. Something within me cries out to her as long moments pass, reaching futilely through that growing space between us like infant fingers grasping at a flow of water.

  Somehow, she stops as if struck, and turns to look at me. Her eyes narrow, and my heart caves into the vacant hollow of my chest. No longer a girl, she has metamorphosed into a young woman, yet still retains that quick characteristic tilt of her head, her lips together and slightly parted.

  It is Aki.

  Her eyes widen in surprise, brimming with sudden tears, and she clutches tight to the basket she carries. I feel a shot of weakness disperse throughout my body, fearing that if I should close my eyes for but a second the vision will vanish, yet knowing the longer I looked the more my heart is stretched.

  I move toward her, the entire world receding to leave only the two of us like actors upon a blank stage. I find I stand taller than her now. She reaches up and brushes her fingers against my shoulder. Despite her elegance there is something haunted about her, the way she moves close, as if wanting to be sheltered from something.

  Suddenly she drops her basket and is in my arms and I am holding her, her movement as smooth as if it had been rehearsed a thousand times, as if we have both been waiting for this moment our entire lives. She presses her body against mine, her hands a hard knot clasped together at her breast. I have never touched a woman before, and it is intoxicating.

  “Finally, you are here,” she says into the cloth at my shoulder in a choked whisper. She works free one of her hands trapped between us and gives a pat to my chest in the small cavity between us. “You are so very late.”

  “Aki,” I say, finding my voice, feeling my arms tremble.

  It is as if a spell has been broken. She backs out of my arms. It is only half a step, but I feel a painful ache at the sudden chasm between us.

  “I don’t use that name any more,” she says, glancing aside, as if afraid of being overheard. She moves quickly to retrieve her basket from the ground, holding it at her waist like a shield between us.

  “Are you real?” I ask. “How can you be alive? How can you be here?”

  She only shakes her head. “Those times… I do not want to talk about it…”

  We stand looking upon one another, separated by a pace, feeling a strange awkwardness after our sudden an unexpected embrace.

  “I have been dreaming of you. You have always been in my thoughts.”

  There is something Aki likes about my words. She moves closer again, so close that we are almost touching. She has to tilt her head back to look at me. My heart is beating furiously as I lose myself in that perfect face.

  “You are a monk,” she says simply, a flat statement that could perhaps be construed as accusation.

  I run a hand over my head of hair, the stubble only a finger-width long. I don’t know where I draw the courage, but somehow I find myself cupping her shoulder, drawing her near as gently as if I were handling a fluttering moth, taking care not to disturb that fine powder dusting its wings.

  Something melts inside of her and she allows herself to be drawn in. My focus narrows until I know of nothing else in the world but her. The deepening evening is ours alone. There is only Aki, and she is looking at me. There could be nothing simpler yet more complete.

  Aki seems to catch herself, and glances up and down the street.

  “It’s not safe here,” she says.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “I know somewhere, come on.”

  She grabs my hand, tugging at my arm, pulling me off balance and then when I yield she surprises me and starts running, my hand in hers and I am strung behind, a grin plastered across my face as we run down a darkened walkway between ramshackle buildings. I cannot let her go. It feels as if this is all a dream, and I do not fight lest I somehow wake.

  She too is laughing as our footsteps echo down a narrow paved street that drops lower from the main road, slapping past tall weeds growing on either side and I see we are running alongside the river. We approach a bridge from beneath and she slows, the wooden supports towering above us as she leads us to where the grassy banks drop into the lazy waters. In the growing darkness the silhouettes of the limbs of cherry trees lean and skim the surface.

  I see that the bridge spans the river at the point where two rivers join, the Takano from the northeast and the Kamo from the north. Somehow, the confluence of the two flows lends the scene a special serenity. We have a clear view of a rising full moon hanging white and huge above the mountains, its broken reflection upon the hypnotizing ripple of the river dancing over stone and rock. Our breathing slows and I suddenly become aware that the air is roaring with the sound of cicadas, and I wonder how it took me so long to notice them. It feels as if we are the only people in the entire world.

  She places the basket on the grass at her feet. Her chest rises and falls after our brief flight. She looks at me. Our hands are still entwined. My senses are sharpened, feeling the softness of her palm, her fingernails as she holds my hand tight. My head is burning with a thousand questions. I cannot help but be drawn back to that night at Miyamori castle, the last time I had seen her, her warning that allowed me to escape with my life. I do not know where to begin, my mouth is working and at last I am able to form a question.

  “How did you - ?”

  She reaches with her free hand and places a slender finger against my lips. She shakes her head

  “No questions,” she says. There is something behind her eyes, a sadness, as if she hides a hurt. She quickly wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand as if forcing away tears, and tries a smile.

  “I have azuki-mochi.” she says. She slides a hand under the cloth covering her b
asket and withdraws a neatly wrapped bundle. There is a strange manner in the way she is quick to keep whatever else is inside from my view. As she passes me the sweet I see the rise of two veins beneath the skin arcing beautifully across the back of her hand.

  I cannot help but grin, and bring the azuki-mochi to my mouth. I eat slowly, the sticky rice cakes stuffed with red bean are an assault to my tongue, a barrage of sweetness that is almost cloying after the years of simple food of Enryaku-ji.

  She misinterprets my hesitation, and says, “It’s not good?”

  “No, no, it’s incredible.” I lean over and crane my head. “I hope you have plenty more in there.”

  Aki shifts the basket away and presses a hand to my shoulder to deflect my attention.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I saw you, some months ago now, although at the time I feared you were a ghost.”

  Her brows furrow and her lips disappear as she sucks in her mouth into a tight line of concern.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you, here, in Kyoto.”

  “No, you must have been mistaken. I have just arrived, I don’t –”

  “You were climbing from a handcart, it was decorated with cranes and bamboo leaves. You were wearing the most exquisite kimono, and you turned, and for a moment, you looked at me.”

  Her face crinkles in confusion, the plums of her cheeks rising.

  I laugh, feeling awkward, and reach out and take her hand.

  “I think you smiled at me. And I remember the warmth of it filled my soul. That feeling drew me back, a part of me knew you would be here.”

  We sit facing each other, the long summer grass soft beneath us. Her throat of her yukata has loosened; I am enchanted by the ridge of her collarbones, and suddenly I want nothing more than to touch that perfect skin, to feel that impossible softness in the cup of my palm. Her skin is so smooth it makes my fingers feel like coarse pads as I trace the tender rises and falls about her throat.

  As slowly as the rising of the moon we move closer, until at last she tilts her head, eyes closed, lips parted, and kiss. It is the lightest, most tender touching. My thoughts stop and time has no meaning: the future, the past, they cast only weak shadows as we embrace in the wholeness of the now.

  We break, and draw away, and when I see her face in the moonlight her eyes are glassed with tears and she turns away from me suddenly.

  I am struck dumb, not sure how to react. The sound of the cicadas is joined by the croaking of a crow in the distance; an oddly jarring sound, a sound that reality has returned. Aki released her pent breath and stands abruptly, gathering her arms close to her chest as if to ward off a chill.

  “I have to go.”

  “No, wait! You can’t go, not yet.”

  “I have something important I must do.”

  I am on my feet and manage to catch her hand in mine. “This is the moment,” I say. “I cannot let you go, I will not.”

  “It’s not as simple as that. I’m sorry.”

  “This can be simple.”

  She looks at me with pity. It was then I knew. I had fooled myself. I had allowed myself to think that all this time I had been on her mind, she had been waiting and looking for me, and I could simply sweep in and take her away.

  The first few drops of rain begin to fall.

  “Leave Kyoto, while you still can,” she says. She gathers herself together, purses her lips and gives me a wry smile, and simply walks away.

  I stand there, watching her back, but she does not turn, and is gone up the path of long grass and vanishes from my sight. I turn back to the river, watching the circular ripples of rain reflected in the moonlight upon the languorous flow of the river. I cannot make sense of anything, all I know is that I am losing something, throwing away my one chance.

  Filled with sudden resolve I scramble to my feet and hurry up the grassy slope after Aki. I clamber up to the street above, searching left and right. For a moment it seems like I am too late, but then I catch a glimpse of her figure, her poise is unmistakable as she rounds a corner in the distance, her steps quick. The rain is heavy now as I start after her, my pace at first a walk, then quickly hastening when I realize I am losing ground. When I round the corner I am careful that she does not see me, making sure to keep a good distance between us.

  She walks up a steep, cobbled road, and as I follow I fancy that I can smell her perfume. I only see her figure appear now and again as she turns down streets with small shops lining the road, lights from within casting thin strips of orange light.

  Aki moves past all, not pausing or deviating from her course. Even from this distance I see she moves in haste, as if late for some appointment, yet she keeps her composure, her steps short and rapid. I walk without taking my eyes away from her, trusting that my feet will find their own way. I see her step into a narrow doorway of a house set close between others, and the door closes, and she is gone.

  I wait there, on the far side of the street, in the shadows. I feel a twinge of shame at what seems like deception, as if I betray her trust, but I know that I cannot rest with her out of my sight. I content myself with the thought that I will simply wait here, and the future will bring what it may.

  I lower myself to a squat, resting easily upon my haunches as I wait. I do not dwell on the tumultuous night that has been, but simply let myself go into that stream of thought. The rain grows heavier, thundering down upon the streets, driving the few people about on the streets into shelter.

  When Aki appears at the doorway the rain has stopped, and I turn my head away, hiding my profile. She has changed her dress, and now wears a fine golden kimono, her hair bound up high and hard at the top of her head, makeup on her face and a fan in her prettily folded hands. She takes quick small steps, her socked feet in wooden geta clacking upon the stone as she heads up the hill.

  I follow.

  I see she approaches a large fortified building, but just then a large group of people move before me, shaking their umbrellas of water, and it is some moments before I can see ahead once again. She has disappeared.

  I continue up the steadily climbing road. My steps slow as I grow closer to the two storeyed building fenced by a tall bamboo palisade with gates standing closed at its front. From this elevation, it commands an excellent view of the city. From her last movements, I calculate that Aki must have been heading here, for she is no longer in sight.

  There I pause upon the far side of the street from the building, skulking in the shadows under the dripping eaves, when a voice at my ear startles me.

  “It is the Tiger of Kai,” whispers the beggar, his breath fetid, clothes bedraggled, and his hair corkscrewed

  “I’m sorry?” I ask.

  The beggar tosses his head to the high walled building where two stern-faced samurai in red-laced plates of black armor guard the gate. “Inside. It’s Lord Takeda Shingen, the Tiger of Kai, the leader of the Takeda clan.” His voice drops and he rocks a little. “I am to keep watch…”

  I shake my head to clear my thoughts, confused. I peer closer at the guards and sure enough see the emblem of the Takeda clan; four interlocking diamonds. Something is odd, for I know the Takeda clan, who has long been friendly to the monks of Hiei and Enryaku-ji, is aligned against Oda Nobunaga, the man who has taken this city.

  “You are to keep watch? For who?”

  The beggar did not reply, but with darting eyes seemed to recall himself. “I cannot speak to anyone,” he says to himself in self-rebuke, shuffling away.

  “No, please, tell me,” I say, moving after him. “How do you know who is inside?

  “The man, he pays me to watch. So I watch.”

  “Did you see…” I pause, swallow. I look back at the fortified entrance. “Did you see a courtesan enter a few moments ago?”

  “Oh, the Lord Shingen likes tea ceremonies,” says the beggar, his eyes lighting up, a knowing smile on his lips. “And has a special fondness for pretty ladies.”
r />   With a cackle he turns his shoulder to me and shuffles away.

  My heart is heavy, my thoughts mired in confusion. Surely, there is no point in continuing this fruitless endeavor, what was I hoping? That I could chase her down, make her run away from her life with me? It is puerile fantasy.

  I shake my head, at last ready to leave Aki to the life she has made for herself here. It is clear I can follow her no more. I breath in, filling my lungs with the rich smell of the summer rain, letting go of that tangled web of thoughts. I feel an itch, the need to walk, to run through the forest. The city is not my place.

  I turn my back upon the beggar and the fortified house, and take in the vista of the buildings of Kyoto. The rain has eased, and the sky is beginning to clear, the edges of the streets running with water and all about is the slowing small percussions of droplets from roofs. I am just about to walk away when, from the corner of my eye, I see movement, and I turn my head slightly. The beggar dashes from his place of concealment and towards an old man upon the road drawing a handcart, his head cowled against the last remaining mist of rain in the air. I draw myself back into the cover of the shadows. The beggar runs up to the old man and the old man, without pausing his stride, reaches into his clothing and surreptitiously passes something to him. A quick word or two is exchanged, and the beggar gives a quick little nervous bob of his head before nervously ducking away, running back down the street in a flurry of rags.

  The old man and his handcart continue along the street towards the building and the guards before it. The samurai guard snaps his hand upon the hilt of his katana.

  The old man rests his handcart down upon its legs and straightens the severe bow in his back and indicates to the handcart with a toss of his head. I cannot hear what he is saying, but the samurai guard lifts the lid of his cart and I see stacks of steam buns. As the guard moves his head about, giving the contents a thorough inspection, I cross the street, angling closer to the gate, where I can hear them conversing.

  The old man tosses back his hood. His bulbous head is ringed with a band of cloth, his skull shadowed by close-cropped hair, his face broad, eyes deep-set in the softness of his face. That face -

  My senses come alive like water poured into a sleeping man’s ear. My focus sharpens; I can see every detail, can hear every sound, even the smell of the steam buns mingled with the rains is unnaturally striking. It has been years, and he grown obese, but there is no mistaking those wide-set eyes, thin lips and long downturned mouth like that of a crouched bullfrog. I would recognize my old master anywhere: Masakage.

  Unable to move, I simply watch, feeling myself drawn in all directions at once, deeper and deeper into this strange world of unreality.

  The guard gives a curt nod of acknowledgement and waves the old man through, the tall double doors guarding the house opened from within at his signal. The old man lifts his handcart and pushes it through, and is gone within. I still haven’t moved as the guard returns to his post and the doors have closed once again.

  Aki.

  If he finds her, he will know her instantly, and he is not a man to forget old vendettas.

  I move without thought, crossing the cobbled stones with stumbling haste. The samurai steps in my path.

  “You must let me though!” I say. “I am…” I pause, and that uncertainty is my undoing. “I am a monk of Enryaku-ji.”

  The guard gives a shake of his head. “We have been instructed to let none but those authorized through.” He pauses, his eyes steely, then adds. “We have been advised to be especially wary of shinobi disguised as monks.”

  “I am no assassin! Please, listen to me. I know that man you just admitted. He is a servant of Lord Date, and a sworn enemy of the Takeda clan! He can mean only death, you must let me in!”

  The guard exchanged a glance with his superior. The first guard shakes his head and remains still.

  Frustrated energy wells and pools in my body like a natural spring bursting from the earth, for the moment capped yet I can feel the pressure rising. Nine days of intense mediation have left my mind as keen as a freshly forged and quenched katana blade and I know my course of action immediately. There can be no time for haranguing.

  I walk away hurriedly, not breaking into a run, far enough away to be out of sight of the guards, my head straight and gaze unflinchingly before me. I find that my body has not forgotten those old skills Masakage had taught me. My fingers find the small indentations in the bamboo palisade, using them only for balance, letting most of my bodyweight be borne by my toes worked between the cracks and twisted sideways to lock them in place. The key is to keep upward momentum, not to panic and try to hold my weight through my hands. The wall is higher than I had first supposed but I do not allow a moment’s hesitation until at last my hands find the lip. The tops are sharpened into points but I do not allow the pain to distract me. I bring my legs and body over the top and roll over the other side and hang by my hands, looking down between my feet. My hands are slippery with blood. I cannot delay. There is a garden below, and I judge my landing. Pushing back slightly with my knees I let go, taking up the impact upon the ground with bent knees.

  I scan my surrounds, taking my bearings, shaking my hands by my side. I am fortunate, for the main building is deeper into the enclosure, an imposing wooden structure five storeys high, lit by several lanterns that cast pools of orange light through which patrolling samurai guards. I look at the palms of my hands by the light of the moon. The cuts are superficial.

  Before me is a large lotus pond upon which a bridge leads to a teahouse built out over the water. I tense a moment, listening: there are no shouts of alarm, the garden is still and windless. There is only the gentle trickle of running water.

  My nerves are on edge, so much so that I jump at the sudden punctuation of sound to my right, a sharp rap of a shishi-odoshi, the deer-chaser. I lower myself back down to my haunches, taking deep slow breaths, as the water slowly fills the green bamboo tube of the mortar, and drops again a few moments later with a sharp clack, spilling its water before springing back into place, the process endlessly repeating. Keeping my movements smooth, I advance. Then I see it.

  The handcart stands near the start of the bridge, ominously silent and still, the covers open and Masakage nowhere in sight. I start forward, heart racing, scanning the teahouse, seeing motion within. My heart is hammering. I have no weapon, but I am prepared to fight tooth and nail. The bamboo mortar clacks sharply behind me, but I hardly hear it. I am just about to break into a run when a hunched figure that can only be Masakage emerges from the teahouse and with quick furtive steps crosses the bridge back to his handcart. Only now do I see a samurai as he steps forward to meet Masakage. He had been hidden from my sight by a wall of foliage, and had I charged forward I would surely have been downed by the willow-leaf arrow he holds nocked and lose in his short bow.

  Masakage gives a wave of acknowledgment to the samurai, an apology for taking the other’s time, and they engage in some brief conversation that seems amicable, and Masakage returns a tray to his handcart, and takes up the handles, and moves away.

  I sink back into the cover of the bushes, feeling weak. I am too late. I shake my head, trying to order my thoughts. I do not know that Aki is in the teahouse, perhaps she had been invited into the main building instead. But my heart knows, and is filled with dread.

  Taking care to avoid the samurai guard, I slip quietly into the waters of the pond. A part of my mind notes the chill but only fleetingly. I take care not to slip upon the roots and uneven footing; the pond is not deep, barely up to my waist, and I take a deep breath and crouch low so the waters are up to my eyes. I feel the cold push upwards into my nose, against my mouth, and all sound I hear overwhelmed by that harsh clack and warble of water reverberating in my ears. The water is murky and turgid and I move through it with huge, propelling steps toward the teahouse. I know that the ‘v’ of ripples in my wake are a tell-tale advertisement to any who may happen to look, but I
cannot restrain myself to go any slower.

  I find the supports of the teahouse and finally I can draw breath as I raise my head from the water. My hands slip on the wooden railing in my haste and I have to grab again, clawing my way up and under the railing.

  It is like a landed fish that I flop to the landing, white robes heavy with rivulets of streaming water. The teahouse is round-walled, with a low exposed beamed ceiling, thatched walled, with a low table in the center upon which sit neatly arranged accoutrements of the tea ceremony. Two cushions are arranged on either side of the table. Within, a figure stooped over a low table straightens with a gasp.

  I stagger to my feet and rush to her, crossing into the room upon sodden feet. Her face flashes guilt and panic, wide eyed with shock. I pause in momentary hesitation, for she is entirely transformed: she wears the white makeup of a courtesan all over her face, a line of bare skin around her hairline giving the illusion she wore a mask. Her eyebrows are colored dark, her upper lip painted vivid red, her lower lip white but for a thin strip of color, her teeth blackened and disappearing into the blackness of her mouth.

  Every part of my body is shaking with relief. I have found her. She is alive.

  “What are you doing here?” she hisses.

  Booted feet sound upon distant floor boards. Looking out into the glare of the burning torches I see two samurai on the narrow bridge, twin swords of the katana and wakizashi at their belts, hair bound up in top knots atop a visage weathered by battle. Behind them comes a nobleman wearing a crested black kimono, flanked by a young girl of regal bearing; Lord Takeda Shingen and his daughter, I presume. They pause midway, where his daughter points delightedly at the pond, and together they admire the length of the carp that swim beneath. Their samurai guard halt with them. It was dark within the teahouse; they hadn’t seen us yet.

  Aki storms to the far side of the room and lifts a section of the thatch of the wall where the bindings have been loosened. “You can’t be here!”

  I stare at the slender opening dropping to the waters below. I shake my head and move towards her, confused.

  “What is this? An escape route?” I cannot hide the quaver in my voice. Is it fear or anger I feel? “What are you planning?”

  In contrast to the short sleeves of a married woman, an unmarried woman wears a kimono that have long sleeves, and as the kimono has no pockets, these sleeves are often used to hold personal items. As I make to grab hold of Aki she withdraws and I catch only her arm, dislodging a package nested within those pockets and something falls to the floor.

  There is a beat, and for a moment we are held in silent tableau as if we are players upon a stage. We both look down at the item blazing quietly upon the floor between us: a tiny wooden tube, stoppered at both ends. She makes to snap it up but I am closer, and my reactions a fraction faster.

  “He was here. Masakage. What did he give you?” I ask.

  “Pay back my favor from all those years ago. I saved your life, you can save mine now. Do not betray me, leave me to my duties.” Tears glisten upon the white of her face, trembling upon her brink of her eyelashes, but do not fall. I see Lord Shingen and his entourage has resumed walking down the bridge.

  I unstopper the tube, a piece of rolled paper, thin and translucent between my fingers as I withdraw it like the dried husk of a cicada. I see deeper within the tube lies white powder.

  I raise my eyes to find Aki’s face. She shakes her head, a fractional movement of denial, almost invisible, and makes a snatch at the tube. The tiny parchment tears in twain easily, but I retain the bottom fragment and the tube of powder. Aki’s expression of guilt opens a floodgate of answers and the world recedes as all the pieces of the puzzle fit together, my gaze tracing up to the tea set upon the low table in the center of the room. The cups and pot are lacquered bright red, every surface perfectly smooth. Ironically fitting, I reflect, that lacquer derived from the sumac tree should be toxic.

  I do not have the strength to stand, somehow I am on the floor, slumped against the wall. I feel as if every last ounce of wind has been knocked out of me. It takes a long moment to overcome that frightening sensation and at last draw in enough breath to speak.

  “You have been part of this from the very beginning,” I say softly.

  Aki draws herself up, filling her chest with fierce pride. “I serve the powers of peace, and the only fool remaining who has the power to disrupt it - ” she tosses her head towards the doorway, her black hair snapping, her voice a furious whisper, “- are those of Kai.”

  “They have come to Kyoto to talk peace.”

  “They only flap their gums and mouth empty promises. They will return to their lands with haughty heads held high, not caring what blood is spilled due to their stubbornness. I have a chance to save untold hundreds of lives by taking one.”

  As if in a dream I lift the fragment of scroll to my eyes. Aki turns her back and watches the doorway, her eyes set in fatalistic anguish. My eyes take conscious effort to focus on the characters of the incomplete message.

  If I do not take them away now, this great trouble will be everlasting. Moreover, those priests violate their own vows: they eat fish and stinking vegetables, keep concubines and never unroll the sacred books. How can they be vigilant against evil, or maintain the right? Surround their dens and burn them, and suffer none of them within to live!

  “What is this?” I ask her.

  “Something that is not intended for your eyes.”

  “Please, this is very important,” I say, clutching at the fragment. “Who are these directives from? It speaks of priests, does it mean…?”

  “The thorn in the side of Kyoto. I cannot fail in my tasks today. There can be no aid from the forces of Kai.”

  My throat is so dry I can hardly form the words. “How soon? Aki, tell me, how soon will they attack?”

  For answer, Aki steps towards me and reaches with slow deliberation for the slender tube of silent death, her fingers slipping between mine in a strange parody of when our fingers intertwined but a few hours ago, and I do not resist as she twists it from my grip.

  “I can only ask one more time. Leave me to my duty.”

  “Your duty.” I repeat her words and they seem to ring in my head. How could I have deceived myself into thinking that in freedom I could find my true self, when in fact to be one and complete means to be a part of the whole.

  “I owe you my life. I will not betray you,” I say. At the rear wall I lift the loosened section of thatching. My feet are through first, searching and finding the supports, and I lower myself. I pause as my chest is upon the floor and look back; Lord Shingen is but moments away. Aki swishes herself between the open door as I hear the two samurai retainers enter, her gown a shield. She drops to a crouch, her gaze meets mine, and in that instant I am looking into those depthless black wells of her eyes and am in love all over again.

  Footsteps echo within the room, and I slip softly away.