Turning his steps homeward, Akitada considered how to break his news to his mother. She would be very angry with him for failing again. They had barely enough to support themselves, and he had returned with another mouth to feed. Lady Sugawara’s reaction to Tora had been mixed. After expressing her displeasure privately to Akitada, she had taken Tora as her personal attendant.

The thought of Tora cheered Akitada a little. Perhaps it would all work out. They would have time for their morning exercises again. And today he was going to show Tora the city. Akitada smiled. At least he would not have to transfer to the Ministry of Ceremonial.

♦

The following evening, considerably the worse for a night on the town with Tora, Akitada approached Kosehira’s mansion. Introducing the “Tiger of the Tokaido” to the pleasures of the capital, not the least of which were the wine shops, had finally blotted out the image of Minamoto’s reptilian eyes, but it was exacting its price now, for his head hurt and there was a dull ache behind his eyes.

Akitada was probably the only guest who arrived on foot for Motosuke’s celebration. Torches lit Kosehira’s street and his courtyard, where at least fifty carriages of all types had been crammed together. The oxen had been unhitched and stood about, munching hay, while their drivers sat around small fires, talking or throwing dice.

Akitada knew his way and went to the main hall with its reception rooms. Servants were everywhere. Someone helped him remove his boots, someone else took his quilted outer robe, and a third man held a mirror so that he could adjust his hat.

Loud talk and laughter came from the rooms beyond. Akitada looked in each of them for Kosehira’s familiar round shape and cheerful face. The company was intimidating. To judge from the colors of the court robes and the rank ribbons on the hats, Motosuke had illustrious friends. Perhaps, thought Akitada, still smarting from his meeting with President Minamoto, he should just send a message of congratulation to Motosuke and leave quietly.

Too late! Kosehira had spied him.

“Here is the man of the hour!” he cried. “Come in, Akitada. Everyone’s been waiting to meet you.”

Akitada flushed with embarrassment. He cast an anxious look around and recognized three imperial princes, two ministers, several imperial councilors—Motosuke’s prospective colleagues—and one of the sovereign’s uncles. Kosehira bounced forward and pulled him into the room by his sleeve. His good cheer was infectious; Akitada met with smiling faces everywhere. He was asked questions, which he answered briefly and cautiously, hoping he was not breaking some rule he had not been warned about.

His head still felt fuzzy and, worried that he might say the wrong thing, he refused the offered wine. It was ironic that so many people of rank appeared pleased with his success while the two men who held his future in their hands regarded him as a fool and a bungler.

Kosehira steered Akitada through the throng into the next room. There, in the place of honor sat Motosuke, resplendent in purple and flushed with wine and happiness. When he saw Akitada, he jumped up to embrace him and led him to a cushion next to his own.

“This is the man to whom I owe my good fortune,” he announced. “If you ever get yourself into deep water, call on him and your fortune will be made.”

That caused laughter and more questions. This time Akitada’s reticence about the events in Kazusa was futile, for Motosuke took it upon himself to give a detailed and colorful description of everything that had happened, interspersed with such highly flattering comments about Akitada’s brilliance that the latter wished the floor would swallow him.

Kosehira eventually rescued him. “Enough babbling, cousin,” he said irreverently to the new councilor. “There is someone who wants to see Akitada.”

They left the main hall by one of the covered galleries, walking toward Kosehira’s private quarters. Akitada was curious, but Kosehira maintained an air of secrecy. The sound of voices and laughter faded, trees blocked the light of the torches and lanterns, and the quiet of the wintry garden surrounded them.

Akitada saw the lake where Kosehira had given him his farewell party before his departure for the east. “How different the garden looks,” he said. “Is there really someone waiting, or are we just having a quiet chat?”

“You will know in a moment,” said Kosehira mysteriously. They entered the dim corridor that led to Kosehira’s study. Before the door, Kosehira put his hand on Akitada’s sleeve. “He is inside. Join us again when you can.” Then he left.

Akitada slid the door open. The room was lit only by the moonlight and the snow outside. On the veranda sat the still figure of a young monk in a black robe. His back was to Akitada, and a string of prayer beads moved slowly through his fingers.

There must be some mistake. What business could he possibly have with a monk? He was about to withdraw quietly when a soft voice asked, “Is that you, Akitada?”

Recognition came suddenly and painfully. “Yes, Tasuku. Kosehira sent me.”

The other gestured toward a pillow lying near him, and Akitada went to sit down.

Now that he could see his friend’s face, he was shocked. It was not merely that the thick, glossy hair had been shaved off, leaving nothing but a naked skull tinged an unearthly silver-blue in this light. Tasuku’s once handsome face looked almost emaciated. Gone was the youthful roundness of cheeks, chin, and lips, and gone was the healthy tan. The eyes still burned darkly, but the full lips were compressed. Worse, the bones in his friend’s wrists stood out, and his once muscular shoulders drooped as if the thin black hemp of his robe were too heavy to support.

“Tasuku,” Akitada cried, “have you been ill?”

“My name is Genshin now.” He smiled a little, sadly. “I am well. And you? You have returned to great honors, I am told. It seems we were all wrong when we tried to dissuade you from your journey.”

Akitada glanced across the snow-covered garden to the lake, where they had sat composing their poems so many months ago. If he had known then that he would meet violent death in so many dreadful forms, he would have accepted the conditions of his life. He saw again, in his mind, the broken body of the child, Higekuro’s split skull and the carnage around him, Joto’s blood bubbling from his lips, the frail corpse of Lord Tachibana.

On the large terrace of the main house, Motosuke’s guests strolled about admiring the moonlit scene. Someone was leaning against the balustrade to look out over the trees. Just so had Ayako stood.

Akitada sighed. “No. You were right after all. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done.”

His friend glanced at him, then looked up at the moon. “The same moon,” he said, “but, oh, how changed we are.”