I. Parker: Black Arrow

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.

“No need to thank me.” The old man took the arrow and put it into his rope belt. “It was not a personal matter. I merely mention it, because you doubted my sense of duty to my people. Fate also follows the dutiful action. Kaibara’s is the only life I have ever taken, and I broke my Buddhist vows when I decided that your life was more valuable to my people than his.” He sighed. “I suppose I must add another sin, the satisfaction of having avenged my old friend Hideo.”

Suddenly Akitada felt overwhelmed by sadness. So many wasted lives. And now all was over and done with. What remained was the future. He looked at his visitor uncertainly. Even the ravages of decades spent exposed to the harsh elements of the cold north could not altogether hide the grace and charisma of the strange creature across from him. His skin was blackened, and his hair and beard flowed wildly about his shoulders and chest, but his eyes were alive with intelligence. He wore fewer clothes than the poorest beggar and looked more like a goblin than a rational man, but his speech and manners were those of a man born to rank. Moreover, he seemed to have gained the respect, even reverence, of the local people.

With a sigh, Akitada said, “It is late. You must spend the night. We will meet again in the morning to discuss your reinstatement. It will please the people and bring harmony back to the province.”

The rightful Lord of Takata raised his hand. “No. I am a Buddhist priest and have no desire to resume my title.”

“What?” Akitada was dumbfounded.

The old man stroked his beard, smiled, and nodded. “My grandson will do very well instead,” he said complacently.

“Kaoru?” Akitada opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. The capture of Takata manor would have been impossible without that remarkable young man’s ruse, and he had proven his courage and military skill not only in combat but also on the occasion of Boshu’s attack on Hitomaro. Hitomaro!

“Dew and tears are equally transient,” remarked the old man with a sympathetic nod.

Akitada flushed. The way the other man seemed to read his mind was uncanny. “It is true that your grandson Kaoru has some superior qualities,” he said stiffly. “I assume it was you who taught him archery and to read and write Chinese? He told me the arrow that killed Kaibara belonged to a dead man and that a Buddhist priest instructed him in Chinese.”

The proud grandfather chuckled. “A quick learner, that boy! His father did not do as well.”

And that raised the problem of legitimacy. Akitada hesitated, then asked bluntly, “You say you are a priest. Did you take one of the outcast women to wife?”

For the first time, the old man looked uncomfortable. His dark, leathery hand reached out to the box of shells and touched it almost apologetically. “No,” he said, “not an outcast, though we both became untouchable. Masako was a young woman of good family who had the bad karma to be sent to Takata for training in household matters. She became fond of me. When I had to flee, she followed me into exile. It seemed right that I should make her my wife. I took priestly vows after her death.”

“Ah!” At least she was not the madwoman of the outcast village, the one through whom the gods spoke. That one must be the mother of the dead son’s wife. “You married in exile? And you had a son soon after?”