“My father,” Keiko repeated. A wellspring of hurt bubbled inside her. She felt violated—her mind, her whole life altered. “How could he do this to me?”
“The truth lies in there.” Takeshi pointed to a second book. “You need to open it. This is your mind, Yamanaka-san. I can’t do it for you.”
Keiko doubted that. More likely, he wanted her to face it for herself. She placed a trembling hand on the cover, threw it open, and backed away as if opening a cobra’s cage.
Instantly, a soft blue light climbed from the pages, lifting and swirling like a miniature shield. It drifted to the floors and expanded until it filled the corner of the room. Inside, she saw the unmistakable—if young—figure of Matsuda Yamanaka, her father, dressed in the familiar robes and sash of the White Spirit. His head was shaved, like the monks in the castle, and his dark, piercing eyes had a startled cast to them.
Torn between joy and anger, Keiko didn’t know whether to hug or hit him. “Pop?” She stepped forward. “What have you done, Pop?”
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