Both boys looked to the open entrance: it was Aritaka’s female advisor again, dressed in a handsome, forest green kariginu with gold cords. Her long hair was swept back and topped with a tall black cap. Though finally confronted with a clear vision of her face, Kazuchiyo could discern very little about her age or demeanor. Not young, but not aged; not concerned, but not disinterested. She strode into the room with two young women in pleated skirts, each carrying a tray of supplies.

“The hell are you?” Yagi grunted, and Kazuchiyo, already bowing his head, cringed at his disrespect. But the woman was unperturbed, and she lowered to her knees just beside the pair of them. She pressed her open palm to Yagi’s shoulder.

“Lie down,” she said, and then Yagi’s back hit the floor with a great smack, leaving him gasping and wincing.

Kazuchiyo flinched as well, hate stirring in his belly as he listened to Yagi’s ragged breath. “Please don’t punish him too harshly, honored master,” he said, praying she would hear only his sincerity. He found Yagi’s hand and gripped it tight. “He’s very nearly delirious from his wounds.”

“Then once he is cured of that, there should be no excuse for future rudeness,” she replied, her voice rough like a bullfrog. “Lift your head, Kazuchiyo. You ought to see me at work.”

Kazuchiyo did so, watching as the two assistants began setting out their tools. One was pouring a bitter-smelling broth into cups, while the other was preparing an inkstone and paper. When he regarded each of the pair more closely, he realized they looked nearly exactly alike, and they devoted themselves to their task with such focus that their concentration seemed to take on an inhuman quality.

“Don’t touch me,” Yagi growled, gripping Kazuchiyo’s hand back so hard that it ached. “Fucking demon!”

“A compliment indeed, coming from Yagi-douji, the howling oni of Shimegahara,” said the woman with a tilt of her head. She regarded the boy as one might a delicious meal offered by a disliked acquaintance. “Hush now. I have very little patience for time wasted.”

One of the assistants pushed the tray with the ink and paper over to her, and with swift elegance she took up the brush and began to write. The other offered up the steaming cups to Kazuchiyo. “Drink,” said the woman without looking up from her calligraphy. “One for each of you. He’ll need your help, Kazuchiyo.”

“I’m not drinking that,” Yagi said hatefully.

Kazuchiyo accepted the first cup and there hesitated, though not for long. The memory of this mysterious priest sliding his father’s head into a silken bag was tempered somewhat by her warning him of impropriety in Aritaka’s hall, and he couldn’t bring himself to believe she truly meant them harm. There were plenty of less obvious ways she could have done away with them, if that was her goal. Still gripping Yagi’s hand, he drank.

The first gulp was bitter, and he grimaced, forcing himself not to gag. The rest went down easier, warm and earthy, and he managed it all in one breath. When he finished, he was surprised to see the intensity with which Yagi was watching him. It did not seem to be paranoia for his own safety, and it warmed Kazuchiyo all the more.

“It’s not pleasant,” he warned, trading the empty cup for the second dose. “But it will do you good to have something in your stomach.”

“Then have her bring saké,” Yagi retorted, but his resistance did not last much longer. With a great effort to appear rebellious, he allowed Kazuchiyo to support him while he drank. Just as the last drop was spent, the woman swept up the rectangular paper tag she had written on and pressed it to his chest.

Yagi jerked away, his cup clattering to the ground. “What is this?” He scratched at the paper but somehow he couldn’t get his fingernails beneath it. “Get this off me!”

“Leave it be,” the woman scolded. “It’s there to help you heal.” When Yagi ignored her and continued to paw and scrape, she sighed and put her hand again to his shoulder. “Lie down.”

Yagi’s back hit the floor again, and he hissed, teeth bared. “Stop that!”

He looked ready to say more, and the woman ready to punish him for it, so Kazuchiyo did all he could think of, covering Yagi’s mouth and bowing over him. “Thank you, for your kindness toward my undeserving friend,” he said, relying on manners instilled in him by his mother. “And for your kindness toward me when I was in audience with Lord Aritaka. I am very grateful.”

The woman snorted, and then chuckled, sharp and brief, her coarse voice giving it an eerie tone. Her assistants giggled beside her. “I had high hopes for you having sense,” she said. “Do you know who I am?”

Yagi huffed against his palm, and the pair of them exchanged a look. Only once Kazuchiyo was confident that he would not cause them further trouble did he remove his hand. “Forgive me, I do not. Though if you’ll permit me a guess, I suspect you’re an onmyouji in Lord Aritaka’s employ.”

“‘Employment’ does not accurately describe our arrangement,” the woman replied. “But yes, I have offered him my advice on celestial and other matters. Are you very familiar with onmyouji?”

“No, honored master. Though my father sometimes consults with the temple priests.”

“Wise men usually do.” There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone that set Kazuchiyo on edge, but she gave him no opportunity to dwell upon it. “I am called Iomori no Jun. You may address me as Master Iomori. Make sure your ‘friend’ leaves that o-fuda alone. His bloodlust is attracting the spirits of the men he’s slain, and they very well might possess him through his wounds without it.”

Yagi stiffened, his eyes quite wide. Though Kazuchiyo was unsure again if she spoke in earnest, seeing his anxiety raised his as well. “I will, Master Iomori.” He bowed deeper. “Thank you, again, for your assistance.”

The assistants began gathering up the supplies, and Kazuchiyo was glad for it, eager for the woman to move on from them. Her bland stare was beginning to dig beneath his skin. To his disappointment, she motioned for the two women to depart ahead of her, and with bows they did so. “Your oni friend here asked a question as I was arriving,” she said. “I think it only fair the two of you know the truth, it being the same for both of you.”

Kazuchiyo lifted his head cautiously, his neck hairs on end. “‘Why are we still alive?’”

“I’m sure you recognized that Aritaka did not tell you the truth,” Iomori continued, matter-of-fact bordering on smug. “And you’ve likely heard other speculations.” The subtle downturn of her lip convinced Kazuchiyo that she specifically had the Lady Satsumi in mind. “But the truth is very simple: you’re alive because I convinced Aritaka that you should be.”

Yagi made no sound, but Kazuchiyo could feel him seethe, while he himself was unsure of his own reaction. “May I ask why, Master Iomori?” said Kazuchiyo.

“Because,” she said, leaning closer as if imparting a grave secret, “I have read your future, Young Dragon. I see great things for you yet to come.” Her eyebrows quirked. “And for your fearsome ally here. Both of you have destiny written in your names that you must yet fulfill. And I would see it done.”

“My name?” Kazuchiyo flushed with heat, and his throat went unexpectedly tight. He tried to gulp it back. “I don’t...have my full name yet.”

“Kazuchiyo.” Iomori traced the shape of the characters against the floor with her finger. “‘A thousand ages of peace.’ Aritaka would say your father chose such a name out of cowardice, eager to put his lifetime of war behind him before you came of age. But to the wise, peace is never cowardice. Only the strong can afford peace.” She narrowed her eyes on him, and he felt their grip hard around his chest. “And you will be strong. I have seen it.”

Kazuchiyo could not respond, and none could blame him for that. One question with three answers, and none of them he could lay his trust upon. But to his credit, he bowed his head to serve as acknowledgement. He did not trust his voice no matter what he could have said. And Iomori took pity on him.

“It is fine, if you do not fully understand yet,” she said, leaning back. “Know only that I am held highly in Aritaka’s favor, and that I want you alive.” She glanced to Yagi. “Both of you. That should be all that matters to you now.”

She stood, and instinctively Kazuchiyo lowered his head again. “Thank you, Master Iomori,” he murmured. Yagi offered nothing, and without a parting word from her, she removed herself from the room.

“Liar,” Yagi grumbled once she was far gone. He raked his nails across the o-fuda a few times and finally gave up. “A noble like that will feed us to her dogs as soon as we’re not useful to her. Whatever she’s after.”

Kazuchiyo nodded, but he still had no strength to speak his mind. Her talk of names had shaken him more deeply than he could have prepared for, and all around him the unfamiliar castle echoed with pounding rain and the voices of dead kin. He would never take the name his father had prepared and already it haunted him, like a ghost dragging him away from a world he no longer belonged to.

“I need to go back to my room,” he said with hard-fought composure. “Please just do what she said.” Despite Yagi’s confusion he asked the guard to escort him back, and once returned to the only brittle privacy afforded him, he closed himself away to weep.