Light from the lanterns they carried preceded Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano into the clearing. Hirata followed mutely, obediently, under their spell. Kitano swept leaves off the rock and set out a ceramic flask and a metal incense burner he’d brought in his knapsack. He lit the burner while Deguchi placed and lit oil lamps around the perimeter of the clearing. Hirata waited, an inert lump of flesh and misery. Purplish smoke and golden sparks issued from the burner, which was filled with a mixture of herbs from China, a recipe from the magic spell book. The other three men leaned over the burner and inhaled deeply.
“You, too,” Tahara ordered.
Resisting with all his might, Hirata obeyed. The smoke burned into his lungs, spread through his veins, and clouded his mind. Unnatural light colored the forest as vibrantly green as in daytime. Noises amplified. Small animals in the underbrush sounded like bulls charging. The moon’s smile enlarged and shrank with the throbbing of his heart.
Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano began to chant a spell in ancient Chinese. “Don’t just stand there,” Kitano said. “Chant.”
Hirata helplessly recited the foreign, melodic syllables he’d memorized without understanding them. Tahara took a swig from the flask, then offered it to Hirata. “Drink up,” he said, his white smile flashing.
Hirata’s hand lifted, closed around the flask, and poured the contents into his mouth. His throat muscles swallowed the potion he wanted to gag on and spit out. The potion tasted different every time. This time it seemed less a liquid than a sensation of jasmine-flavored ice splinters that vaporized before they reached his stomach. Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano chanted louder, faster. Their images swam around Hirata. His voice kept pace with theirs. He felt a familiar, terrifying burn in his muscles, nerves, and bones.
He was going into a trance.
One moment he was in the clearing with Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano. The next, he was alone at a crossroads in the middle of a vast field. Afternoon sunlight dazzled his eyes. The air was chilly, damp. He could move again. On both sides of the field rose mountains, the woods on them vivid with crimson, orange, and gold autumn foliage. He breathed the iron-and-salt smell of blood, the foul odors of death.
The field was littered with men’s corpses. They wore armor tunics and leg guards, and metal helmets. Some had banners printed with clan insignias on poles attached to their backs. Some still clutched swords, spears, or arquebuses. They lay on grass that was red with their spilled blood. As Hirata gazed in horror at the carnage, vultures flocked amidst it. The air resounded with the buzzing of flies. A figure came trudging toward him, backlit by the sun, along the muddy road. He recognized the tall silhouette-the helmet crowned with horns shaped like an upended crescent moon, the flared ear guards and armor tunic, the jutting swords. Panic assailed Hirata. It was the ghost.
The ghost accelerated his pace so fast that he cut a fiery streak across the landscape. He was standing within arm’s length of Hirata before Hirata could flee. Although his heart thudded with fear, curiosity immobilized Hirata. He took his first good look at the ghost by daylight. The ghost’s armor was made of small metal plates covered with black leather and laced together with blue silk cord. A circular crest with two crossed feathers in the center adorned his black lacquer breastplate. Chain mail encased his arms; leather gloves with metal backs protected his hands. His face was hidden by the brim and face shield of his helmet.
“Who are you?” Hirata asked.
“My name was Otani Yoshitsugu.” The ghost’s voice, echoing inside his helmet, had the resonant, booming cadence Hirata recalled. He removed the helmet. His head was bald, his face a raw, red sore that had eaten away at his nose. Filmy eyes stared from lidless sockets.
Hirata shouted and recoiled.
Otani burst out laughing. “I had leprosy when I was alive.” The sore suddenly healed. Eroded flesh grew back; new skin spread over sinews; hair sprouted into a sleek black topknot. “It no longer afflicts me now that I’m dead.” Otani had the face of a man some forty years old, with the mark of strong character in his slanted brows, shrewd eyes, and broad, firm mouth.
“What is this place?” Hirata recovered enough to ask.
Otani swept his gaze around the field. “This is where I died.”
The valley was the site of the famous Battle of Sekigahara, in which Tokugawa Ieyasu-the shogun’s ancestor-had defeated his rivals, including Otani. The battle had apparently just ended. The trance had sent Hirata to the past.
“When my side began losing the battle, I committed seppuku rather than be captured and executed. My retainer cut off my head.” Otani gestured toward the ground near Hirata.
There Hirata saw Otani lying in the mud. His head was severed; it lay beside him. Its raw, disfigured face grimaced in agony. Then the vision dissolved. Beyond shock, Hirata looked up at Otani. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To show you what I suffered at the hands of the ancestor of your lord. To show you why I seek revenge.”
Hirata knew that the ghost was trying to break down his resistance. He couldn’t help admiring Otani, a samurai who’d followed the Way of the Warrior to the ultimate degree. But Hirata was also furious at Otani for leading him astray from his own honor.
“To hell with your problems,” he said. “I’m not doing anything else for you.”
He turned and ran down the road. Otani’s image stayed in front of him. Hirata ran until he was gasping for breath, but he couldn’t escape the ghost. The corpse-strewn valley stretched ahead farther than he could see. Hirata shook his head, pressed his hands against his temples, and screamed, but he couldn’t break his trance.
“I will let you go back to your world after I have told you what to do and you have promised to do it,” Otani said.
Hirata collapsed, panting, to his knees in the mud. Bitter wind cooled the sweat on his face. “Damn you!”
Otani said, “Kill Deguchi.”
Rage gave way to shocked disbelief. “But … Deguchi is one of us. Why do you want me to kill him?”
“Suffice it to say that he must die.”
“How is his death supposed to help you destroy the Tokugawa regime?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It is my business, when you’re telling me to commit murder!” Hirata pushed himself to his feet. “How am I supposed to kill Deguchi anyway? He’s a better martial artist than I am.”
“Not by much.” Otani added, “Don’t tell Tahara or Kitano what I want you to do.”
“They’ll want to know what you said. What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Anything but the truth. Until you promise to kill Deguchi, you’ll stay here with me.”
Hirata smelled the bloody corpses, saw the carrion birds feeding. He thought of his family and Sano. The ghost apparently had the power to keep him from ever returning to them. He weighed that against the prospect of killing a man for whom he had no love.
“I promise,” he said.
“Good,” Otani said, as if he’d never expected Hirata to do otherwise. “I’m granting you a new talent in exchange for your cooperation. You can levitate objects using mental energy. When your task is finished, we will meet again.”
Hirata abruptly found himself back in the clearing.
The darkness of the mild spring night engulfed the forest. His mind echoed with the parting words from Otani: “If you renege on your promise, I will kill you during your next trance. Die in a trance, and you die for real.”
Hirata stood by the altar with Tahara, Deguchi, and Kitano, paralyzed again.
“What happened?” Tahara asked. The men had never accompanied Hirata into a trance. They had their trances with the ghost at other times.
“I’ll tell you after you set me free,” Hirata said.
Tahara looked to Deguchi and Kitano. They nodded. The paralysis left Hirata so abruptly that he fell against the altar stone. Regaining his feet, he flexed his stiff muscles. “I went to the site of the battle of Sekigahara. The ghost introduced himself. His name is Otani Yoshitsugu.”