It was a clear day. The sun shone down upon the six young samurai as they crossed the courtyard of Shiro no Kiraso. From beyond the battlements, the lonely screech of a hawk was heard, echoing off the water of the lake below.

The six solemnly climbed the worn granite steps to the Shiro no Kiraso family shrine. The size of the building loomed above them - it had never appeared so large before. But now it was the center of things. White streamers of mourning adorned the walls; white flags waved over the roof; and the petals of white apple blossoms covered the courtyard all around. Boka was first to the massive red door. He waited for the others to join him and then swung the portal in.

With a low creek and a grind of the post in the stone hinge, the young samurai were immersed in the heady scent of funeral incense and the thrumming sound of chanting monks. At first, the hall appeared deeply enshrouded in darkness - but as their eyes became accustomed, they became aware of a dim shimmering light from thousands of candles ensconced in the walls. In the shadows around the room, thirty or more hooded monks swayed back and forth to a low droning prayer.

At the center of the room were three kneeling figures facing away before the shrine - wearing the ceremonial white kimonos of mourning. They too swayed with the chant. Each was outlined by the flickering illumination of an incense candle held closely before him.

The chant rose in volume and then silenced, as if from the sharp cut of a blade. The six entered and dropped to their knees in respect. As if by some silent command, the monks rose in unison and filed out. The scrape of thirty pairs of sandles echoed softly off the walls as the young men focused their eyes on the still forms sitting before them. Moments later, the familiar low creek and grind sounded again as the portal was shut from behind.

The two outside figures turned their seats and faced the six. Each young samurai made out the hard features of Daihini Shoshobe and Rimoshi Kirasho, the daimyo's of their two respective families. The six bowed deeply.

Shoshobe addressed them, "My grandfather wishes to speak to us all. Since Rimoshi passed away, he has prayed at the shrine. Day and night. Intermittently, he sleeps - though he never has left this hall since entering. Yesterday evening, he called for Kirasho and myself. We came and he called for you. These are the only words he has uttered for these past weeks." Shoshobe glanced at the still figure behind him and the six men could see for the first time the lines of worry etched into his face.

For eons it seemed they all sat, breathing the incense and each pondering what thoughts were passing through the old man's mind. Daihini, together with Rimoshi the two founders of their clan - the Raven. Of his life before, they knew little. He had been a member of the Imperial Guard with Rimoshi. And one day the two had saved the Emporer's life and had been granted the boon of their own clan. Such was spoken by all the Raven people. The tale had been told time and again - growing and changing with each retelling. Daihini and Rimoshi had retired to the Brotherhood and lived these past years as monks - but in the eyes of all young Raven - the two were living legends. And now the two were one.

A sigh came from the white figure between the two daimyos. With slow, pained movements, the ancient man turned in his seat to face them all. Settled, he gazed over each man and nodded to himself.

Daihini spoke. "It is time." The soft words echoed like a clarion around the hall. The six looked up and thought they saw all the candles brighten - if only for a brief second. "It is time you heard the truth about old Rimoshi and me. It is your truth as well you know." Daihini chuckled to himself - a quiet hacking sound. He looked in Shoshobe's eyes, smiled, and then gazed around the hall. While his body was clearly feeble, his eyes were clear - like deep pools. With his gaze, he seemed to drink in every turn and fold of the room around him. "You men think that the Raven began with Rimoshi and myself, those years ago when the Emperor granted us this land and charter. You think we are a young clan - with no history, no traditions." He grinned suddenly - the smile creasing his face in a thousand wrinkles.

"You think wrong." He looked at each of the men surrounding him in turn, suddenly animated, "You think I did not have a mother and father? That Rimoshi did not? That we did not have family, grandparents, uncles, aunts, brothers and sisters?" He looked into each of the men's eyes, searching for doubt. The young samurai were taken back and quickly shook their heads in denial. In the meantime, each processed the thought. Of course Rimoshi and Daihini had once come from families. But it seemed so strange to consider. They were the *founders*.

"Or that we had ancestors..." Silence. Suddenly the room felt filled with other presences - each candle a soul harkening upon the words of the old man sitting on the floor before them. "Yes, ancestors. They speak to me, you know. Rimoshi and I were the last - the last of an ancient family. All their voices, the voices of generations I have heard - speaking the litiny of our people. It has been a burden I have borne with honor - my duty to keep the history so that the past will survive. But my time is passing. With Rimoshi gone..." A tear slipped down the creases of Daihini's now impassive face, "with him gone, everything has become clearer for me. Soon I will join him. And so the time has come for me to tell you our secret - the most terrible story you will ever hear. It must be a story you hold close to your hearts, for it can never be written down. I hope it will make you strong as it made Rimoshi and I. Our history is what binds us to each other - it's what guides us in this world..."