AN: I thought of having a prologue in which, say, Chiyo falls asleep after having watched too many samurai movies, but in the end that seemed superfluous—it should become clear pretty quickly what's going on :-)

The story's outline is based very, very roughly on Eiji Yoshikawa's fictional life of Miyamoto Musashi—"inspired by," really—and at least at the beginning has a bit of chronological splicing, like a Tarantino film. Enjoy!

1. The Rectification of Names

Clear weather, but cold. The men standing in the field wore thick cotton jackets over their kimono, and, while managing to keep their dignified postures, tried to rub their arms together a little. The only person who seemed unaffected by the cold was also the only woman present, standing a little apart from the others. On one side was a striking view of the foothills of the Kanagata range, tinted blue in the early light, and red where the rising sun fell on them; like a gentle sea that swelled underneath its surface, holding a violence that the slightest breeze would raise. This spectacle, that would have earned a look from even an uneducated peasant, and had any person of aesthetic sensibilities immediately on their knees, composing a poem or painting a sketch, this woman had resolutely turned her back on. She faced toward the woods, holding her elbows.

In the dirt ten paces away a standard was planted. A white design on blue, it showed two coiled snakes, each a symbol of wisdom—their intertwined tails represented the synthesis of ideas, the coming-together of seemingly antagonistic styles of combat, in which the current head of the House of Mizuhara took pride.

A man stood behind her. Without looking around she said:

"Speak."

The man, Masaki Oyama by name, said: "She's late."

Another man of the entourage, overhearing them, joked loudly: "Must be afraid!"

"That's no surprise, after all," said yet another. "After all, Miss Koyomi…"

Still the woman didn't turn her head. The long, straight fall of her chestnut hair stood between her and the others as she said softly: "Be quiet."

The men were immediately silent. They stood in their formal attitudes, looking at her again, with a wonder and respect that renewed from day to day.

Koyomi Mizuhara, the eldest daughter of renowned instructor Kimitake, was herself renowned in Kyoto principally for three reasons: the first the poise, control and tactical genius of her swordsmanship; the second her encyclopedic knowledge of the Chinese classics, even in these chaotic times, that would have earned her a post in any court as a tutor or scholar if not for her obligations to her father's school; and third for her foreign-made eyeglasses, a rarity. Some would say that this handicap made Koyomi's talent with the sword all the more remarkable, other only saw in it the mechanical genius of the foreign workman who had produced the device. In any case the eyeglasses, secured behind her head with a gold silk cord, had never once seemed to hinder her ability to fight—she was the undefeated victor of eighteen duels.

Though several had been contested. Koyomi, with the modesty expected of a samurai, tended to only claim fourteen victories—in the others her opponents, no doubt out of their own pride and cowardice, had made strange claims that the cunning head of the Mizuhara School (how unlike her manly father!) had intentionally manipulated the time, place and conditions of the duel, to her greatest benefit, and defeated them through trickery. Even were these allegations true, of what object was it?—the purpose of a duel was to win, throughout whatever possible means short of outright treachery. It was no one's fault but his own if the challenger had neglected to consider such factors as the time and location of the duel, contrary to the specific counseling of The Art of War.

After a moment had passed, Oyama, with a cautious sideways look at his teacher, said: "She is late, though."

Watching the forest, Koyomi didn't answer.

Her face, as frequently, was expressionless, but Oyama—used to watching that face—could see that one side of her mouth had, almost imperceptibly, tightened.

"She'll come," said Koyomi.

Relaxing slightly, Oyama laced his hands together behind his head.

"If she doesn't," he said, trying also to affect an easygoing tone of voice, "we'll spread it all around town she didn't have guts—then she'll be finished. Heh."

But in spite of his attempt to lighten her mood, Oyama knew as well as she did that cowardice was not the explanation for their opponent's tardiness.

Oyama respected his teacher for her gravity, in a time when many samurai, even skilled swordsmanship, were becoming crude or frivolous. But sometimes he, at heart a man who enjoyed life and wanted to make the best of it, felt that she could be overly serious—and at a time like this it was more than a social annoyance, it could be dangerous. It would be difficult for him to explain this to Koyomi without offending her pride—and pride was, likely, one of her faults, and age and sagacity were never listed among her virtues. Oyama himself, still a young man of twenty-eight, was her elder.

"She'll come," Koyomi, in the precise same tone of voice.

Oyama was silent.

Then from behind them came a sighing noise, as if the world itself, or the gods, had been struck by the beauty of the vista that Koyomi was so steadfastly ignoring.

Behind the circular lenses of her eyeglasses she shut her eyes.

Oyama looked around, surprised. A swift and chaotic wind had started to blow across the previously silent plain, and the dirt underneath their feet, poorly held in place by thinning white grass, blew up all at once in a cloud.

"Damn!"—coughing, Oyama wiped his eyes. The other men were also surprised, and cursed or fanned the air in front of their faces to clear the dust. Only Koyomi herself did not seem at all surprised, neither did the dust irritate her—the glass already protected her eyes, and she had only squeezed them shut out of irritation. Oyama, quickly looking to her to make sure she was unharmed, observed this.

The abrupt wind lasted only several minutes, then it seemed a spirit had blown it all away in one direction. The plain was once again clear. Koyomi lifted her head, turned it the slightest degree to the left, and said with undisguised irritation:

"She's here!"

The men all spun around, still wiping the dust from their sleeves; not one of them had sensed the approach of the challenger in the same way. Then all together their faces grew dark with anger. There, between the trees, had appeared that woman, who had brought their school into such disrepute; that cocksure nobody who had first had the gall to challenge them, then the further, unspeakable gall to emerge victorious.

The woman stood between two tall, straight elm trees, herself tall and straight.

The first thing any observer marked about her—and, unless they possessed any deeper, spiritual sense of a human being, the principal thing they marked—was her tallness. Next the equally long black hair that glanced off her shoulders like purity of a mountain waterfall.

But for all this her face, framed by that long hair still blown about slightly by the echoes of the wind, had a peaceful expression.

Seeing her, Oyama suddenly realized precisely why his teacher had fixed on such a place for the duel—and why the ronin's slightly late arrival had proved so irksome. The blasts of wind favored Koyomi, and if the duel had begun at the appointed time the challenger would have been undone—but Oyama wondered if she could have sensed it coming somehow, and delayed her arrival for precisely that reason. Again he was struck with admiration for his teacher's cleverness, but now an ache of foreboding began to built in his chest.

The woman ronin was dressed in a plain dark kimono. Inside of it her figure was womanly, and unlike Koyomi, she had made no effort to tie back her considerable womanhood; most likely because the effort would have been futile. Oyama had to admit to himself that he could not help being a little struck by her beauty—it was only fortunate that Koyomi, another woman, was to be her opponent. He tried to harden his expression.

Koyomi drew her sword, refracting the dim light in an explosion.

She stood on a slight incline, perhaps one foot above the ronin, her chest on level with the ronin's head.

"Sakaki!"

Koyomi's shout was like the wind that had briefly kicked up the dust. Then silence settled between again them.

The woman nodded slightly.

"Come forward," said Koyomi. "Unless you're afraid to die."

Sakaki nodded again.

Her expression could not be said to be friendly—but it was completely lacking the anger that Koyomi was no longer able to conceal. She remained obviously calm as she came out of the trees and began to ascend the rise toward Koyomi. In her right hand was a long dark object. When she had approached within twenty paces of them, she stopped and bowed.

"Forgive me," she said, her voice melodious and low, "for my tardiness. I was crafting my weapon…"

And she held out what proved to be a wooden sword made of dark, nearly black wood, the length of a katana. Oyama, eyeing it, lifted his brow—it looked in every respect like the work of a professional. But Koyomi's eyes narrowed.

"That's your weapon?"

Sakaki gave the same mild nod.

"Just so you know," said Koyomi, her cultured voice dripping contempt, "I'll be using a real sword."

Sakaki nodded.

The silence between them could have extinguished a festival bonfire.

Then Sakaki spoke. "The way I fight," she said gently, "it doesn't matter if I use a wooden sword or a real sword."

"Oh, really?" said Koyomi. "Is that so?"—and with each word, her polite language sounded more and more and more unforgivably insulting. "How nice for you. Well, then, shall we get started? That is if it's convenient for your lordship."

Oyama was unsurprised when Sakaki, again, simply nodded.

Just then there was a final disturbance. At the quick movement Oyama put his hand on his sword, but it proved to be only a small girl, coming out from between the trees. Her two pigtails bobbed wildly as she climbed the hill, running headlong.

Koyomi arched one eyebrow.

"What's this! Did you decide to bring a second more capable than yourself?"

By this time the other men, her disciples, had gathered around her and confronted Sakaki, glowering.

The girl stopped, panting, within a few paces of Sakaki.

She tried to speak: "S-Sensei, sensei—!"

"Remove this child from the dueling grounds at once!" Koyomi commanded Oyama, and he was about to move when Sakaki held up one hand:

"Wait."

She looked down at the child.

"What is it?"

"Sakaki-sensei!" said the little girl, who could not have been more than twelve years old, her voice shaking pitifully. "Don't fight; you'll be killed! Miss Yomi's the greatest swordswoman in Kyoto…they call her the Art of War because they say fighting her is like fighting the book herself! You…please, you musn't…"

Sakaki turned her head, looking back at Koyomi. Her face was now as expressionless as Koyomi's at the best of times. Oyama, however, watching her, somehow had an unmistakable knowledge of her thoughts—she was too courteous to say so out loud, it seemed, but she did not make so much of Koyomi Mizuhara. Then she looked back at the child.

"Don't worry," she said, then added with an awkward kindness: "Little one."

She began to move again.

The girl took one step after her, again saying: "Sakaki-sensei…!"—but then she saw the armed men all standing around Koyomi, and faltered.

Oyama caught her eye and shook his head. Finally she drew back. Kneeling on the cold ground well back of them, she put her hands together, and began to pray to some god or buddha—he could faintly hear her muttered chant.

"You ready?" Koyomi said curtly.

The other disciples had drawn respectfully away, and now Oyama followed their lead. He watched the two combatants carefully, and almost felt inclined to mouth a prayer himself.

Up close it was obvious how much taller than Koyomi the ronin Sakaki was. And there was something else…but Oyama, although no amateur swordsman, lacked the eye to pick it out for certain.

"Ready," said Sakaki.

"Wait." Reaching up with one hand, Koyomi slightly adjusted the bridge of her eyeglasses. "Once I kill you, what do you want us to do with the body?"

Sakaki shrugged her shoulders. "I have no close relatives." Then she looked back over one shoulder. "The girl will decide, but she may need some help carrying me. I would appreciate it if…"

Oyama nodded. "Rest assured," he said.

"Thank you."

There had been no false bravado in Sakaki's voice—but at the same time he noticed that while she admitted she might die, she had not bothered to make any plans for the internment of her body.

Her particular confidence…

Oyama's mind drifted only for a moment. But if he had been engaged in combat himself, that fraction of a moment would have cost him his life. Before the thought could complete itself the crucial moment had suddenly passed, and everything had happened.

It is said that once Duke Li, wishing to rid his court of corruption and intrigue, called on the assistance of the great sage Confucius. When asked the essential first step toward attaining these aims, Confucius replied that is was, without question, the "rectification of names." By this he meant that if everything were called by its proper name, and if every person understood its name in common, there would never be any confusion. If Koyomi Mizuhara herself could have defined her style of swordsmanship by any one term, it would be the "rectification of names."

Or likewise, her motto was: "See what the other one does." She knew every style of swordsmanship in Japan by its name, along with techniques for fighting with staves, sticks and lances, and in a book—the pages of which were only open to her and her most senior disciples, like Oyama—was written a counter for every strike, a superior strike for every counter, a penetration for every defense she had ever observed.

Koyomi had never met a swordsman whom she could not, at a glance, name. And once she had named him he was defeated. Her ploys with weather, terrain and time were only safeguards to assure her victory; her faith in her basic method was unshakeable. In her glass eyes the opponent was reduced to an illustration on a page, a list of written items. She read them, it could almost literally be said, like a book.

Today, however…

Koyomi had often seen white scrolls before they were touched by ink. In the practice of her calligraphy, she often paused to contemplate the pure white page before she began. But the woman standing facing her, holding her wooden sword in an idle-looking stance while Koyomi clutched hers beside her jaw—was a pure black scroll that had been covered with completely with ink.

Koyomi set her teeth. Sakaki began to move with effortless footsteps to the right; her sword trailed behind her. Koyomi matched her pace as she turned, reacting defensively as she was given to. Then Sakaki leaped to the side, and for a brief moment—as brief as when Oyama's mind had strayed from the spectacle in front of him…

She stood in the sliver of physical space where the edge of the right lens of Koyomi's glasses cut off her vision.

The sound raced far over the silent, cold plain. A man standing far off might have mistaken it for the sound of two swords clashing.

Koyomi had collapsed on her side and Oyama, unmindful of the danger, ran to her.

Sakaki had leapt twice—once to the side, then once forward as she attacked. Now a third time she leapt backward, landed with a whisper, and watched as Oyama threw himself over Koyomi's body.

She was breathing; deep, shuddering breaths. She had made no sound when she was struck, as if the surprise were greater than the pain, but when Oyama touched her she gave a moan that chilled him through his heart.

Her sword lay on the ground several feet away. The edge of Sakaki's wooden sword had struck her shoulder and shattered it like a clay pot.

In such pain a weaker person would have lost consciousness—Koyomi whimpered as she clung to Oyama with her other hand.

"Coward!" yelled a man, the same who had early boasted that Sakaki was scared.

The woman so named, the victor, only looked puzzled—after all the accusation hardly made sense.

He had drawn his sword, and so had several others. But seeing this, Sakaki raised her own weapon halfway, and they drew back like dogs that had struck their noses in a bed of embers.

Oyama looked up at the tall, long-haired ronin, his face now expressionless as hers.

"Are there any others?" she said.

No answer. The men's eyes trembled behind their swordblades.

"Are there any others?" she repeated, and the swords hung in the cold air. When there was still no answer, the turned away, carelessly exposing her left side to the armed disciples, and began to walk. She came to the foot of the standard of the House of Mizuhara, glanced at it and uprooted it. She leaned it on one shoulder, and it waved feebly.

"I don't have a standard of my own," she said, "as of yet. So, if it's alright, I'm going to modify this one."

No one seemed to have any objection.

Sakaki turned and began to walk away.

Then one of the boastful disciples, brandishing his sword and stupidly screaming a battle cry, rushed at her exposed back.

In an entirely natural motion she shifted the standard pole on her shoulder. Its end slid past the man's guards, striking him in the soft part of his throat—his own momentum drove the blow home. His eyes exploded with agony and he fell on the ground, coughing and choking.

In Oyama's arms, Koyomi had clenched her eyes shut, and had begun to weep from the pain. He gently laid her down.

Across the field, Sakaki stood by her friend, the young girl. Oyama might have thought they were mother and daughter, except that they did not quite look alike; and they behaved more like an older and younger sister. The girl was still kneeling in prayer with her eyes shut. Sakaki put one hand on the top of her head, and she opened them and looked up.

AN: This will get funnier in future chapters, I promise. Maybe.