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The letter arrives just before the end of the hour of the Horse.
Mansairaku sits in Seimei’s room in the Bureau of Divination, maps and charts spread out on the desk before him. Through the window he watches the messenger approach—not a pretty pageboy in elegant dress but a rough, burly retainer. The matter is of some urgency, then, and not just a request to cast a fortune or to divine the most appropriate day for visiting the temple on Mount Hiei.
One of his colleagues, Ki no Yorimichi, goes out onto the veranda to take the letter. Mansairaku hears the murmur of their conversation, like water over pebbles, then the messenger retreats across the white raked gravel of the courtyard. Yorimichi comes back inside the Bureau, turning the letter over in his hands, his expression curious.
Behind Seimei’s mask, Mansairaku narrows his eyes. The message is written on thick Michinokuni paper, the type used only in formal correspondence. If he were alone, he would have accepted the letter without disguise, but since others inhabit the Bureau, he is forced to continue the pretence of almost-blindness. He bends closer to the constellation chart he’s annotating and waits until Yorimichi enters the room.
Like most of the yin yang masters within the Bureau of Divination, Ki no Yorimichi is a fool. He does, however, possess a fine speaking voice and a flare for oration. It is no hardship to listen to him when the words are not his own.
Yorimichi clears his throat. “Lord Seimei, a letter has come for you.”
Mansairaku sits up, lifting his head in Yorimichi’s direction. “Open it. Read it.”
Self-importance settles on Yorimichi’s face as he opens the letter from its heavy twists and folds. Fragrance rises from it, the faint scent making suggestions rather than demands. Mansairaku inhales, breathing in the subtle sweetness of cherry blossoms.
“To Lord Abe no Seimei, greetings,” Yorimichi reads aloud. “I pray your forgiveness in this poor manner of correspondence. I cannot claim even a passing acquaintance with you, and though naturally I have heard of your abilities and admired your long service to the imperial throne, to my sadness we have never been formally introduced. This letter, then, simple as it is, must serve as both introduction and request...”
The effect is stilted, the phrasing tentative and over-considered. With a certain cruel skill all but wasted in the Bureau of Divination, Yorimichi’s delivery pinpoints the deficiencies of the writing. Mansairaku holds up a hand, and Yorimichi falls silent.
“Who sent the message?”
A rustle as Yorimichi unfurls the paper to the end. “The Commander in Chief of Northern Defences, Minamoto no Mitsunaka.”
“Minamoto...” The irony drops Mansairaku into thought. Behind the darkness of Seimei’s mask, he wonders if the Minamoto clan are a blessing or a curse. Perhaps they’re both at once. Such things are possible; he knows it from experience.
Mansairaku knows he is only one facet of Seimei’s being. He has an awareness of Seimei, but he can’t perceive Seimei’s true intentions. Mansairaku is merely Seimei’s springtime, more than a shikigami, more than human, but still not quite whole. He’s aware that he is lacking, but whether this is due to the circumstances of this decaying world or if his own nature is at fault, Mansairaku does not—cannot—know.
In another world, in a place not so far distant, on the other side of a reality much like this one, another member of the Minamoto clan has captivated Seimei. Minamoto no Hiromasa has the affectionate, indulgent attention of Seimei’s summertime—a long, hot summer, one that seems to stretch endlessly. Mansairaku considers this parallel existence and wonders if he will be so fortunate with his branch of the Minamoto.
He has been quiet too long. Yorimichi fidgets. “Shall I continue?”
Mansairaku exhales. “Please.”
Yorimichi reads out: “It is perhaps not good form to be so blunt so early in a correspondence, but I have not the time to be more allusive. Again please forgive me for departing from protocol: My son Raikou is ill. I want you to cure him.”
Breaking off, Yorimichi casts a glance at Mansairaku before he continues, “Raikou has a wasting sickness. I have done everything that a father can do in this situation—I have made offerings, I have sought advice from priests and quacks, I have called in exorcists, I have ordered sutras chanted. Nothing has worked, and my son grows frailer by the day...”
“I cannot perform miracles,” Mansairaku says softly. His words are blunted by the mask.
Yorimichi seems not to hear, pitching his voice higher and louder. “Therefore I beg you, Lord Seimei—intercede for my son. Examine his condition and treat him to the best of your ability. If you cannot help him, I know no one can, and I will accept my family’s future sorrows.
“Signed Minamoto no Mitsunaka.” Yorimichi looks at the letter one more time, then starts to fold it.
Through the narrow eyeholes of the mask, Mansairaku studies Yorimichi. “You do not seem surprised by the request.”
“It’s well known at court that Commander Mitsunaka’s eldest son is ill.” Yorimichi gives the folded letter an inexpert twist and sets it on the desk. “Lord Raikou took sick at the start of summer, when the first rains fell. I wonder that you don’t remember it—but now I recall you were away from the palace for most of the fifth month.”
“I was.”
“The gossips spoke of nothing else for more than a week. It became quite tedious to hear the women especially—Lord Raikou is considered handsome, and they bemoaned the fact that his illness took him away from court and away from their admiring looks.”
“How cynical you are,” Mansairaku says lightly.
“Anyway.” Yorimichi clears his throat. “Will you require me to write your reply?”
Mansairaku sweeps out his sleeves and rises to his feet. “No.” He keeps his voice soft, low. “I will deliver the answer myself.”