Liu Yun began to chant, willing the ritual to calm him, but the ceaseless lament howled in his mind: Hsi! My brother. Gone, forever! As he stared at the wall, scenes from another time and place appeared there.

Spring, sixty-five years ago, on the Liu family’s estate in Shantung Province. The scent of flowers drifted through the window of the study where Liu Yun and Liu Hsi, aged ten and eight, took their lessons. Old Teacher Wu fixed his shrewd gaze on Liu Hsi. “What are the five cardinal virtues of Confucius?”

“The five virtues are, uh …” Hsi gulped, then blurted, “What good is school, when I want to be a soldier?”

“Don’t talk back to teacher!” Liu Yun exclaimed, mortified because he was the good son who wanted to please his elders. Also, he’d coached Hsi in his lessons, and his brother’s failure reflected poorly on him.

Teacher Wu pummeled Hsi’s head and shoulders with his cane. “You will apologize for your rudeness!”

As Hsi sobbed, a wild, contradictory impulse seized Liu Yun. He’d often tried to beat sense into Hsi, but couldn’t bear for anyone else to hurt his brother. An invisible cord—stronger than love, hate, or blood—joined them. Liu Yun shot out of his seat and jumped on Teacher Wu’s back, shouting, “Leave him alone!”

Teacher Wu screamed and whirled and struggled, trying to dislodge Liu Yun, while Hsi laughed and clapped his hands.

“What a good fighter you are, elder brother!” he cried. “Let’s run away together and become soldiers!” And Liu Yun, though horrified at his own behavior, roared in triumph.

Their victory was short-lived. Teacher Wu resigned; Liu Yun’s father beat both sons for driving away their tutor. Still, the early pattern held. Liu Yun would coach, beg, and punish Hsi, trying to mold him into the Confucian ideal of scholarship and filial piety. Hsi would resist. Liu Yun would defend his brother, and they would both suffer. …

Now Abbot Liu Yun acknowledged the impossibility of meditation and sleep. Tonight other matters besides grief troubled his mind. The shōgun’s detective was investigating Jan Spaen’s murder. Liu Yun feared that his alibi and statements wouldn’t withstand close scrutiny. Furthermore, he’d recently embarked on a venture that could bring him great satisfaction—or disaster. He longed to know which.

He carried the lamp to his study, a chamber lined with shelves of holy texts and documents concerning the temple’s administration. From the cabinet he took a cylindrical lacquer container, incense, writing materials, and a book wrapped in black silk. He would consult the I Ching—the Oracle of Change, which revealed the secrets of the universe, used by Chinese philosophers, statesmen, warriors, and scientists for some four thousand years.