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patterns from the tips of pine needles to scent the earth and the air. He had learned much during the time of the sword making. A word, a phrase here and there. Not perfect, but they were beginning to understand more about each other, though to tell the truth, Casca found Muramasa to be as much of a mystery and as fascinating as any man he'd ever met. Never had he seen such concentration as he and his old helper had on their faces when they worked the steel. He also saw the first sign of fear on one of their faces when, after returning from the spring, the helper had, with Muramasa's permission, touched the blade now called Well Drinker. Instantly, as if the blade were fresh from the coals, he jerked back his weathered hand, looked at Muramasa, bowed his head, gathered his few belongings, and left the camp without another word, not even looking back. Casca wondered what had gone on but couldn't fathom it.
    Overhead the clouds moved in, luminescent at first, then growing darker. The back of his mind was aware for some time that Muramasa did not sleep, that he walked the night with the new sword of his making in his hands. Sometimes he thought he heard voices and could only speculate that Muramasa was talking to the gods or his father's spirit as he knew was the custom among the Chin.
    Muramasa did indeed speak to the gods and his father that night. He railed at them and prayed for guidance. He threatened to cast the sword into a lake but knew he could not. And as always, he found at last that he could not escape his karma. What was to be, would be. The sword was with him and they would gather their few belongings together and leave the camp. When first light came, Muramasa did not look back either. It was as if he were leaving something behind and had no wish to return. A part of his life was finished and something new was to come. He was not the same man as he had been the day before. Something awaited him.
    When Casca asked Muramasa where they were going, Muramasa only growled in his fashion and pointed to the north. "Yoritomo Minamoto." That was it, and Casca guessed it had to be enough. He hitched his pack a bit higher on his shoulder. It was a little heavier now. The additional weapons they had acquired from the dead men by the spring and their few belongings gave them sufficient provisions to make their way for some time.
    As Casca had guessed, they were outlaws of some kind. They had with them several different coins of value including three small pieces of gold. If they had to they could sell the dead bandits' swords, to eat, even though they were of poor quality and not nearly the temper of the swords they'd taken by the sea.
    Their first day's march they kept to the mountain trails, though often they could see the sparkling blue of the sea in the distance. Muramasa led the way with long, certain strides. He moved as a man with a mission. Casca just brought up drag, not really having any other choice. Whatever Muramasa was going to do he was involved in it. That was enough for now.
    Twice in three days Muramasa traded off some of their captured goods for food and better clothing. He seemed to have suddenly decided that they needed a more prosperous appearance. The poorly made blades of common iron were not worth robes of silk but they did bring each of them two outfits of good quality cotton, though Casca would have preferred a combination other than trousers of deep plum set off by a yellow and black striped tunic. Muramasa took the better grade of clothes for himself, which he deemed as only his right, for he was without a doubt the leader of their two man expedition. And it was painfully obvious that his companion was at best a higher grade of low class barbarian and should therefore be satisfied with anything he was given.
    On midday of the fourth day, Muramasa became a bit uneasy as they came down from the mountains. He pointed to a valley below where neat squared paddies were filled with young green rice