Jokyōden stood perfectly still on the veranda. She closed her eyes; her lips parted.

Moments passed. Sano waited, watching Jokyōden. Suddenly the boughs of a nearby pine tree rustled. From them dropped a small gray object, which landed on the gravel path with a soft thud. It was a squirrel with curled claws and a furry tail. For an instant the animal lay motionless. Jokyōden released her breath. The squirrel scrambled up and ran across the garden.

“Never underestimate your adversary’s power, sōsakan-sama,” Lady Jokyōden said.

Sano stared at her. Arms folded, she gave him a triumphant smile. Thoughts jumbled in his mind. Had the force of Jokyōden’s will really felled the squirrel? Nature is full of small dramas; wait long enough, and something inevitably happens. Jokyōden’s performance reminded Sano of magic tricks that depend on the belief of the audience. But the palace harbored an ancient evil. Suddenly Sano was afraid of Jokyōden. If she did have the power of kiai, she’d already murdered two men. She could kill him in an instant.

Backing into the chapel, away from her, Sano said, “Well, thank you for your time.” His instincts warned against staying with Jokyōden a moment longer.

He thought he saw a flicker of relief in her tranquil gaze. As with Right Minister Ichijo, he had the sense of hidden secrets. Once more he wondered whether Chamberlain Yanagisawa had been entirely frank with him.

“Honorable Lady Jokyōden, you’ve given me a lot of evidence against yourself,” Sano said, pausing at the door. “1 could charge you with murder-and treason-on the strength of it.”

She just smiled. “But you won’t, will you?”

Now Sano understood that she’d accurately read his character, while hers remained a mystery to him. She knew she could play her bizarre, dangerous game with him because he wouldn’t make another arrest without solid proof. He’d lost control over the interview at the start.

Exasperated, Sano burst out, “Why are you doing this? To make me think that your candor means you must be innocent? Do you want me to believe that you’re guilty and you deliberately helped my wife find evidence against you? Or are you encouraging my suspicion to protect someone else?”

Jokyōden laughed; her humor further mystified Sano. “You are the detective. It is up to you to answer those questions.”

27

Alone in the chapel after the sōsakan-sama left her, Lady Jokyōden resumed her preparations for Obon. As she opened a box of incense, her hands began to shake, and she had to set down the box so it wouldn’t spill. The tremors spread through her whole body. Her vision darkened around the edges; the room spun in dizzying rhythm. She knelt, buried her face in her trembling hands, and succumbed to the delayed reaction to Sano’s visit.

Jokyōden had known Sano would come to question her regarding the second murder, and she’d employed against him a strategy designed to risk some dangers and avert more serious ones. She’d thought she knew how far she could lead him and still avoid harm, but some of his questions had caught her badly unprepared. Now aware of perils whose existence she’d never suspected, she feared she would regret what she’d told Sano.

Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Jokyōden willed anxiety away. At last the tremors and faintness subsided, but she desperately needed advice on how to prevent the destruction of her son, herself, and the entire court. Jokyōden rose and walked to the main altar, took one of the candles that burned before the Buddha statue, then knelt at an alcove in the corner and placed the candle in a stand on the table there. She opened the door of the butsudan. The little cabinet, made of teak that had darkened with age, contained a wooden tablet bearing characters that read, “Wu Tse-tien.”

Wu Tse-tien, who had lived in China almost a millennium before, wasn’t an ancestor of the imperial family. However, the women of Jokyōden’s clan worshipped her as a patron deity. At age fourteen she’d become a concubine to Emperor T’ai-tsung of the Tang dynasty. When he died, Wu Tse-tien had won the affection of T’ai-tsung’s son and heir, Emperor Kao-tsung. He was a weak, lazy fool, she intelligent and ambitious. Empress Wu Tse-tien became the only woman ever to rule China, in defiance of the Confucian code that prohibited female leaders.

Her example offered great inspiration to women who shared Wu Tse-tien’s nature.

Staring at the wavering candle flame, Jokyōden concentrated on the hazy brightness that spread across her vision. Soon an image began to form there. First appeared the silhouette of a human head and shoulders; then swirling colors coalesced. It was Empress Wu Tse-tien. Her black hair, piled in a high, elaborate coif, sparkled with jeweled combs. Embroidered gold dragons snarled on her red silk robe. Scarlet rouge and lip paint enhanced the beauty that had seduced two emperors. Wu Tse-tien regarded Jokyōden through sharp, shrewd eyes. Her mouth moved; her voice resounded in Jokyōden’s mind:

Greetings, my sister. The spirit of Wu Tse-tien spoke in Chinese, but Jokyōden understood every word. Why have you summoned me?

“I need your help,” Jokyōden said.

Wu Tse-tien’s image had appeared as a girl during Jokyōden’s childhood and gotten older through years of visitations. Now the Chinese empress looked to be Jokyōden’s own age of thirty-nine. Wu Tse-tien was her closest friend and confidante, as if they’d grown up together, although Wu Tse-tien possessed the wisdom of a lifetime. When Jokyōden described her meeting with Sano, Wu Tse-tien frowned.

It was foolish to provoke him that way. A woman in our position should polish her image until it shines like the sun, not tarnish it by throwing mud upon herself. Instead of compromising your own reputation, you must build it up.

This was exactly what Wu Tse-tien had done. She’d hired Buddhist priests to forge “ancient” documents that prophesied the coming of a great female ruler, the reincarnation of a bodhisattva. Then they’d declared Wu Tse-tien to be this ruler, legitimizing her controversial reign. But Jokyōden had troubles propaganda couldn’t resolve.

“I had to do it,” she said, then explained why she’d practically confessed her guilt to Sano.

Wu Tse-tien nodded. A daring but sensible strategy, she conceded. Your son is key to your success, as my sons were to mine. After Emperor Kao-tsung’s death, Wu Tse-tien had placed two of her sons, one after the other, on the throne as her puppets and founded her own Chou dynasty. Emperor Tomohito is a logical focus for the detective’s suspicion. To shield him is to shield yourself.

“But I dread what could happen if the sōsakan-sama investigates me,” Jokyōden said. “There are things I cannot have him discover.”

Yes… Wu Tse-tien’s expression was fond, though stern. However, you knew the risks when you started on your forbidden path. Now you must prepare to face the consequences, whatever they may be. To labor and fight, then ultimately triumph, is your destiny.

The pursuit of destiny had dominated Jokyōden’s life as it had Wu Tse-tien’s. She’d been born into the Takatsukasa branch of the Fujiwara clan, from which came many imperial consorts. Other kuge families considered their daughters mere pawns for improving their status at court and breeding future emperors, but the Takatsukasa had followed a different tradition. For generations they’d schooled their daughters in reading, mathematics, writing, music, Confucian philosophy, military strategy, astrology, ancient mysticism, and the art of politics-everything an emperor needed to know. Once they’d wanted more than just control over an emperor who shared their blood. They’d sought to oust the current imperial family and found their own court, and they planned to achieve this through a woman who could follow Wu Tse-tien’s example.