Four days had passed since he’d defeated Kobori, and six since Kobori had stolen into his bedchamber. Every night when Sano had gone to sleep, he’d feared he wouldn’t see another dawn. Every waking moment he’d waited for an internal explosion of energy that would stop his heart, extinguish his consciousness. He’d watched Reiko watch him anxiously, expecting him to drop dead. Yet he had not, even though he’d suffered grievous injuries at the Ghost’s hands.
By the time he’d gotten home after the battle, he’d been in such pain he’d fainted at the gate. By the next morning he was covered with bruises and so stiff and sore he couldn’t move. His urine came out crimson with blood. Reiko fed him broth out of a spoon because chewing hurt. So did breathing. A physician treated him with medicinal potions and massages; a priest chanted prayers over him. Urgent summonses from Lord Matsudaira and the shogun went unanswered. Sano had abandoned the government to run itself while he lay on what he thought was his deathbed…
… until he’d begun to recover. Yesterday he’d felt well enough to get out of bed and eat solid food. Today he could move without extreme pain. The bruises were fading. There had been no single, revelatory moment when Sano knew that the Ghost hadn’t given him the touch of death; rather, a gradual belief had sunken in that Kobori’s last words had been a mere false threat meant to terrify him, a vain attempt at revenge. Now he celebrated each moment as a rare, fragile gift. As he gave Masahiro his first lesson in swordsmanship, he silently thanked the gods that the bond between father and son was unbroken. He rejoiced that he would live to guide his little boy along the path to manhood, to protect him, to see him grow into an honorable samurai, make a name for himself, and father his own children.
But this moment of perfect peace and happiness couldn’t last. Sano had duties of grave importance.
“That’s all for today, Masahiro,” he said.
They sheathed their swords. “We swordfight again tomorrow?” Masahiro said.
“Yes,” Sano promised, “tomorrow.”
A crowd gathered outside a small shrine wedged in a road of basketry shops in Ginza. Out the torii gate marched Detectives Arai and Inoue, hauling two samurai rebel outlaws who’d been hiding in the shrine. Hirata followed on horseback with more detectives who carried out guns, ammunition, and firebombs that the rebels had stockpiled for attacks on Lord Matsudaira’s regime. As he passed the gawking spectators, Hirata reflected on what a dramatic difference a few days could make.
Business was back to normal now that Kobori had been slain. Sano’s position was secure, and so was Hirata’s own. Yet not much else had changed for Hirata. He was still a prisoner of his ailing body. He still sat on the sidelines while other men acted, as he had during the battle against Kobori. His memory of that night was clouded with the shame of his helplessness. His life seemed destined to continue this way, for he hadn’t seen Ozuno again, even though he’d spent every spare moment looking for the priest. Ozuno was an opportunity that fate had tantalized him with, then taken away.
But Hirata closed the door on self-pity and regret. He had his position, his family, and his good name. He still had his dreams in which he could fight and always triumph, as well as his memories of battles won. Hirata counted himself as lucky.
As he rode off with his men and their captives, he saw a familiar figure limping toward him. It was Ozuno.
Hirata felt his face brighten with joyful amazement. He scrambled off his horse and rushed to meet the priest. “Hello!” he called.
“What? Oh, it’s you,” Ozuno said.
The chagrin on his face struck Hirata as comical. Hirata laughed, so glad to see Ozuno that he didn’t mind that Ozuno wasn’t glad to see him. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I thought you’d left town. Isn’t it astonishing that we should happen to run into each other?”
“Sometimes we find what we want when we’re not looking for it.” Ozuno added snidely, “And sometimes we stumble upon what we don’t want no matter how hard we’ve tried to avoid it.”
Hirata was too happy to care that Ozuno had been hiding from him. “Some of us are just luckier than others.”
Ozuno nodded grudgingly. “I hear that Chamberlain Sano has captured my renegade pupil. I owe him a great debt for taking Kobori out of the world.”
“He owes you a great debt for your advice,” Hirata said. “It helped him defeat Kobori.”
“I’m glad to have been of service.” Ozuno’s chronic bad temper relented, although not by much.
“Do you remember what you said last time we met?” Hirata asked. “That if we met again, you would be my teacher?”
Ozuno grimaced. “Yes, I did say that. After living eighty years, I should know enough to keep my mouth shut.”
“Well, here we are,” Hirata said, opening his arms wide as if to embrace the priest, their surroundings, and this blessed day. “This is the sign that we’re destined for you to teach me the mystic martial arts.”
“And who am I to ignore a sign from fate?” Ozuno rolled his eyes heavenward. “The gods must be playing a joke on me.”
Now that Hirata’s dreams were within reach, hope invigorated him. He glimpsed a vast reservoir of power that would soon be his to tap. “When do we begin my lessons?”
“We can’t know how much time we have left on this earth,” Ozuno said. “All we have for certain is this moment. We should begin your lessons at once.”
Now that Hirata had his heart’s desire, he felt less haste to claim it. “In a few days would be better for me. I have work to finish. When I’m done, you can move into my estate at Edo Castle, and-”
Ozuno slashed his hand through Hirata’s words. “You are now my pupil. I am your master. I decide when I’ll train you and where. Now come along, before I change my mind.” His stare skewered Hirata. “Or have you changed yours?”
Hirata experienced an internal shift, as though cosmic forces were realigning his life. His allegiances to Sano and the shogun still ruled him, but he’d put himself under Ozuno’s command. Until this instant he hadn’t thought of what conflicts of interest or what physical and spiritual challenges might come with becoming one of the secret, chosen society. Yet he could not refuse his fate any more than Ozuno could.
Hirata called to the detectives who’d paused to wait for him: “Go ahead without me.” He turned to Ozuno, who regarded him with scant approval as though he’d passed the first test, but just barely. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Inside Edo Castle, a procession of samurai marched slowly down an avenue lined with cedar trees. All wore elaborate, ceremonial armor. Each carried a large box wrapped in white paper on his upturned hands. The shogun led the procession. Lord Matsudaira walked on his right, Sano on his left. Ahead of them filed ten Shinto priests clad in white robes and black hats. Some bore lit torches; others held drums and bells. They entered a large space newly cleared in the castle’s forest preserve and spread with white gravel. Clouds drifted in the overcast sky; the morning was as dim and cool as twilight. Faint earth tremors shook the ground. The procession moved down a flagstone path toward the new shrine that the shogun had ordered to be built.
During his convalescence Sano had heard axes ringing day and night as many woodcutters removed the trees. Now he beheld the shrine that honored the memory of the men who’d died in the battle against Kobori. It was a wooden building whose curved roof overhung the steps that led up to it from a raised stone platform. A grille covered the entrance to the chamber that the spirits of the dead could inhabit when summoned. Beside the shrine were stone lanterns; in front of it, a low table that held a tray of incense cones adjacent to a metal vat. The building wasn’t large, but its ornate carved brackets and trim indicated that no expense or labor had been spared. Many craftsmen must have worked nonstop to finish the shrine by today, which the court astrologers had deemed an auspicious time for this memorial ceremony.