It was only one word. But it was everything.
The master’s pattern established itself over the weeks that followed. Mornings remained brutal, but our afternoons became something altogether different.
We studied calligraphy until our hands cramped and read poetry—classic works by masters whose names I had only vaguely heard. The master brought in other monks to teach us music. I learned to play theshakuhachi—a bamboo flute whose haunting tones filled the practice room. Kenta excelled at this, as well. His playing was so beautiful it made something ache in my chest. And we studied philosophy, the teachings of great thinkers, both from our own land and from beyond the great sea. We debated concepts of honor, duty, loyalty, and sacrifice, what it meant to live well—and what it meant to die well.
Weeks into these lessons, the master added to our discussions strategies of war, of planning a battle, of leading men. The others appeared excited by this shift, but struggled with even basic concepts. Years of standing beside myDaimyofather as he ruled one-eighth of the emperor’s lands paid off. I didn’t simply see the pieces on the board; I saw the board itself, the spaces between, the possible futures of one move versus another. For the first time since arriving at Temple Suwa, the master seemed truly pleased with my work.
One afternoon, while walking between training areas, I passed near the gates where visiting monks gathered to exchange news from other temples. I should have kept walking—we were discouraged from lingering near such conversations—but I heard a word that made me pause.
Asami.
I slowed and pretended to adjust my training clothes.
“—three provinces have declared for Asami Eiko,” one monk was saying, his voice low but urgent. “The rebel army swells with each defection. What began as scattered resistance is becoming something . . . organized.”
“How organized?” another asked.
“Enough to hold territory. Enough to raid Imperial supply lines across the north with impunity. Their attacks grow bolderwith the passage of time.” The first monk shook his head. “They struck a garrison outside Ishido Shrine two weeks ago. Two hundred soldiers gone, the compound burned to ash. Thank the gods they left the shrine alone.”
“And the capital?”
“Untouched. The rebels remain well north of Bara, but Asami Eiko’s reach grows longer each season.”
“The Emperor—”
“The Emperor does nothing,” the first monk spat, blasphemous derision dripping with each word. “TheDai Shogunsends battalions north, but what good are soldiers when entire provinces turn against the throne? When farmers and merchants and lesser nobles join the rebellion rather than fight it? They are withholding rice. Rice!”
The Empire was fracturing. The threat I witnessed in my father’s audience hall was growing, becoming something that could not be ignored—or in my homeland’s case, avoided.
“Move along, boy,” a voice said behind me.
I turned to find one of the senior monks scowling. “Yes, Master.” I bowed quickly and hurried away, my mind churning.
War. Real war, not just distant rumors. Provinces declaring for the rebels. The Asami representing organized resistance rather than scattered bandits. At least the capital remained untouched . . . for now. But what happened to temples and shrines when war came? What happened to novices still in training? Would we be conscripted? Would the masters send us north to die in battles we were unprepared to face?
Or would the temples themselves become targets?
They were a symbol of the old order, the Emperor’s authority, ripe for destruction by rebel forces. They had remained neutral so far, but would they remain so when the true threat appeared on the Emperor’s doorstep?
So many questions haunted me.
That night at dinner, I glanced at Uncle Takeo across the hall. He sat alone, as always, but his expression was troubled, his gaze distant.
He knew. Of course he knew.
He would have heard the same reports, likely more detailed ones, as theHatamotoof a major house, even if he’d been sent far from his home shores.
I wanted to ask him what it all meant, what we should do, whether we were safe here, but the chasm between us felt uncrossable—and perhaps there were no good answers anyway.
I returned to my meal, appetite gone, and tried not to think about how many ways the world could fall apart while I was still learning to hold a sword properly.
That night, I lay on my mat and stared at the ceiling, as I did most nights until sleep came.
My body ached, my muscles throbbed, and bruises darkened my ribs where Kenta had landed a strike during sparring, but my mind felt alive. It felt sharp and engaged in a way it had not been since before my capture.
I thought of Kaneko, as I always did, as I always would.
Where are you? Are you suffering? Do you think of me?
