The meeting has gone well, but Genji's mind swims with news. Arcane magic. Stones and pyreal motes. Great weapons. Some spoke of having glimpsed a dread demon. Others said that they had been contacted by a dark presence.

"Detachment," Genji whispers to his reflection. "Detachment."

The ring glints in the light, in the steam from the basin. He has hung Asoka's canvas -- the brushed circle -- on the wall. It is limp and heavy in the moist air.

The ring, a silver ring. He once gave it to his teacher in Ispar, many years before. And now it has appeared in Dereth, giving power to a demon sent to kill Basho Genji. Akemi and Pew recovered the piece and banished the demon. Murasaki Tanka never removed the ring. Certainly, the fact that it fell into the hands of his enemies must mean that he is dead. Certainly he perished.

"Detachment."

And this circle, brushed by Asoka. What does it mean? And why now? Why must there be so many questions now, when Dereth itself calls upon Jojii's Sword for protection? It is, indeed, a great test of Detachment. Indeed, he and the others must put aside these fears and questions. Duty, and nothing else.

He throws hot water into his face and rubs it hard into his cheeks. Grime and dirt, there, from a day of practice and meditation. The blood of shreths, ravers and mosswarts threads into the steaming pool. He tosses up another handful of water and suddenly is struck. The water, with the force of all time and space, shocks his senses. The light shimmers on the pool's surface and explodes. The circle on the wall spins, ties itself into a knot and then pulls into a line. It expands to fill his whole mind. The stars of the sky stretch past him, through him. Voices -- no, all voice speaks to him so rapidly that it becomes a thin layer of brittle noise at the top of his head. He is within a great river. He is the river, with all who are. This, he knows, if knowing still exists, is the unity that a circle brushed upon canvas can only begin to express. But nothing, nothing seen or heard expresses it more completely. It is the Great Precept.

Unity.

Repetition.

And, suddenly, it is over. He stands in the bath house. The water falls from his hands and face, the lazy liquid sounds shattering against the wet stone wall. Rivulets run down his arm and into his robe. His breath falls into the steam, echoes in the chamber. Beneath the water and his breath is a silence. Beneath all sound. He can hear it. Silence. The puddle at his feet is clammy and, then, he is a million miles away. Years ago. Ispar. He is a young man.

* * *

"Why do we go to this estate, Murasaki Sensei?"

He is fourteen or fifteen. He left his parents years before.

"We go because we are summoned. I know this lord."

"Why does he ask us to appear before him?"

"So many questions! If I answered all of your questions, young Genji, then what would there be left for you to learn?"

Murasaki Tanka wore the ring, by then. He wore it on his left hand and never removed it. It seemed a symbol of his tenure over Genji.

"How shall I act in front of this lord?"

"Do not let him know that you are the son of a pig tender. Do not speak. Remember your manners and stay behind me, always. Kneel when I kneel. Bow when I bow. Rise when I rise."

By midday he sat with his teacher around a low, lacquered table. The room was small, set off from the rest of the estate by a short path through trees. The lord was fat, not as old as Genji's father or, certainly, Murasaki Tanka. Murasaki and this nobleman spoke as if they knew one another, but still respectfully, as if they knew only from business. Genji stared at the bowls of food. He was dreadfully hungry, but Murasaki Sensei had not taken any for himself. So Genji refrained.

The two older men spoke stiffly.

"You must train my soldiers," said the lord.

"I will not interfere in petty battles between trade houses."

"I will pay you handsomely."

"You know this means nothing to me."

There were bowls of rice. There was chicken and beef. Soup. Fish. Tea steamed away in cups.

"Petty battles, Murasaki? We speak of the very Porcelain Road. We speak of conquest by Alluvia. With the help of the Gharun, we might survive."

Genji felt faint with hunger. He bit his lip, tasted the salt of blood. This shocked him back to life.

"... money in your pocket," Murasaki concluded. Genji did not hear the first words.

And then, before he knew what was happening, Genji was marching from the small room and into the garden. The lord stood and scowled at their backs. Genji's vision began to cloud about the edges. He would collapse. He knew it. Sound and sight trickled in. Heat prickled on the back of his neck and in his queasy stomach.

"Imagine the nerve of these so-called nobles!" Murasaki was saying. "Hurry, Genji. Hurry. Let us be off of this fool's land!"

Genji tripped, stumbled. He glanced about.

A young girl. A young girl peered from behind a tree. She had been there all along. He knew it. He had felt her staring all along.

"Imagine the nerve of this ..."

She had been listening. Hiding.

"... this Yoshioka."

* * *

Drips against the wet stone wall echo loudly.

Lord Yoshioka. That is who they had seen that day. The name comes to Genji now from the pit of his memory. Lord Yoshioka. Of course it was him. How could Genji not have remembered?

Murasaki Tanka would later say only, "It matters not how, Genji. Then was then. We must face all that happens to us now."

That meeting, more than ten years ago, was at the root of all of it.

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