by Renee Ahdieh
Missing nothing.
After a time, they came upon a clearing. The same clearing they had sought for the past two days. Recently arrived vultures circled above in slow downward spirals, drawing the men closer.
Drawing them toward a scene of death and devastation.
Before the band of samurai lay the remnants of a wealthy convoy, recently plundered.
The men reined in their horses. Their leader dismounted without a word. He was so light of foot, his steps could barely be heard. The white fog swirled around him as he moved forward soundlessly.
Though he could have paused to take note of the men lost—the bodies of the fifteen samurai left to rot in an ignominious predawn—the leader instead moved with unfailing purpose toward a heap of wood that looked to be the remains of a recent bonfire. As he neared the charred traces, the shadow of an elegant, lacquered norimono formed before his gaze. The samurai adjusted the swords at his belt and removed his helmet.
A rosy light began to crest through the trees at his back. Unbidden, he turned to face its blushing warmth. He took in a careful breath. A breath mindful of the life he was still privileged to live. A breath mindful of the good death he was destined to have—
On the field of battle.
He was young. His face was lean. Hawkish. With a pointed jaw and eyes blacker than pitch. His topknot was perfect, every strand aligned in elegant submission. As he inspected the ruins, another armored samurai moved to his side, carrying a fistful of burned boro and silk—two singed banners, one bearing the same hexagonal crest and another bearing the crest of the emperor.
The second samurai passed along his confirmation. “I am sorry, Kenshin-wakasama.” Though his words were apologetic, he did not speak with remorse. He spoke with an understood promise.
One of bloody retribution.
Instead of meeting the samurai’s promise with one of his own, the young man with the dragon helmet did not even glance his way. Expressionless in the face of the horrors perpetrated on his own men—on his own family—he gripped a blackened piece of wood and yanked it aside with vicious precision. It splintered, its ends crumbling to dust in his grasp.
The young samurai peered inside.
The scorched body of a girl lay within. What remained of her skin was crackled black by the fire. When he studied the carnage further, Hattori Kenshin noticed the glint of several arrowheads buried beneath the girl’s remains, a suspicious stain darkening the norimono’s floor. Tarry. Thick.
Blood.
She had not died by fire.
He paused.
Then continued in his search, his eyes unceasingly roving.
Wedged into one of the only remaining corners of the richly appointed norimono was a small triangle of burned fabric. The same sort of boro fabric his family used to fashion their pennants. The same boro the peasants and maidservants wore.
He looked harder, scouring the embers for further glimpses of truth.
Mariko’s kimono. Not even a hint of the distinct tatsumura silk could be seen anywhere.
Kenshin’s eyes moved to the bare earth at his feet. Drifted to the left, then slowly to the right.
A zori sandal—all but hidden from his eyes—lay on its side a few steps away from the norimono. It shone, even in the dim reaches of the early-morning sun. A lacquered finish unmarred by flames. Kenshin stepped toward his sister’s shoe, kneeling to retrieve it.
“My lord,” the samurai at his back began in a hesitant tone, “I know—”
Kenshin silenced him with a glance, then returned to his work, his eyes still searching. Ever hunting.
Soon he found what he was looking for.
Tracks.
Two sets. One made in pursuit of the other, the second set of far less interest to Kenshin than the first.
The first set were the tracks of a woman’s split-toed tabi socks. Tracks like those of a wounded deer, staggering away from its inevitable demise. It was clear an attempt had been made to cover them. But few who traversed these woods possessed the dogged determination and unfailing skill of Hattori Kenshin. He knew these tracks. The shapes pressed into the earth were too small to be those of a man. Too delicate.
Though his twin sister was anything but delicate, Kenshin knew they belonged to her with the same sort of certainty he felt in his heart. In his every breath. She’d been alive three days ago.
And these tracks led to the left.
Away from the massacre.
Without a word, Hattori Kenshin returned to his wild-eyed warhorse. Born to the motions of a warrior—to the movements of a hunt—he replaced his dragon helmet and chin guard, then swung onto his oiled saddle.
“My lord,” the samurai protested again, “though it may be difficult to accept, I am afraid it is clear Lady Hattori—”
Kenshin raised his left hand. Curled his fingers into a fist. Then he signaled his men onward.
Following the tracks into the forest.
From his perch at the head of the convoy, the Dragon of Kai grinned slowly. Darkly.
His sister was not dead.
No.
She was much too smart for that.
THE GOLDEN CASTLE
His Imperial Majesty Minamoto Masaru—direct descendant of the sun goddess, heavenly sovereign of the Empire of Wa—was lost.
In his own gardens, no less.
But there was no need for him to worry. It was not the kind of lost to cause alarm. Today he’d intentionally wandered too far. Wandered away from those who hovered around him like flies to a carcass.
He often became intentionally lost on afternoons such as this.
The season was beginning its slow shift from spring to summer. Everything around him was in bloom, the air stirred by a soft breeze. An ocher sunset gilded the waters of the pond to his left. Its gently lapping shore rippled like molten amber. Fallen cherry blossoms littered its surface, pale pink petals strewn across slate-grey waters.
The flowers were beginning to die. To fall under the weight of the sun.
It was his favorite time of year. Warm enough to wander the royal gardens of Heian Castle without feeling the threat of a chill, yet cool enough to forgo the nuisance of an oiled-paper umbrella.
Perhaps he would venture to the moon-viewing pavilion tonight. The sky had been unusually clear today. The stars, too, should be unusually bright.
He took his time across the squared stepping-stones encircling a miniature pagoda. Its tiered eaves were sprinkled with birdseed. A heron strutted near the shore, blasting a warning to the black swan gliding by: Keep clear of my domain.
The emperor smiled to himself.
Was he the heron, or was he the swan?
His smile fell as quickly as it rose.
A familiar warble cut through the silence at his right shoulder. A swallow soared toward him, landing on a corner of the miniature pagoda, its wings an unearthly shade of iridescent blue. The diminutive bird puffed out its stomach and shook out its feathers, tilting its head to one side.
Waiting for the emperor.
The emperor took two steps toward the swallow. Leaned in close, his left ear angled near the swallow’s bright orange beak. The small bird tilted closer, unafraid. Unnatural. Its familiar warble faded to a hushed whisper. A melodic sigh.
The emperor nodded. The swallow preened. Once more the bird took flight on a wisp of wind.
Vanishing into the clouds above.
Without even a moment’s pause, Minamoto Masaru turned from the shore, back in the direction of his castle. After wending down a few misguided paths, he finally saw the topmost gable of the imperial palace rising above the trees.
In honeyed moments like these, the emperor understood why Heian Castle was often called the Golden Castle. A sea of gilded roof tiles spilled from tier to tier, catching the light in slowly descending waves. Along ea
ch hipped eave were carved figurines of cranes, fish, and tigers. Cherry trees lined the eastern foot trails; orange trees bordered the west. The covered walkways leading from building to building were constructed of citrus-scented cypress wood, their paths formed of neatly raked white gravel.
He stopped to watch his castle become awash in the colors of a setting sun.
If he didn’t take time to enjoy such sights, they would soon be lost to him.
Like tears in rain.
The emperor proceeded to walk by a granite monument resting on a hillock to his right. His eye caught on the flapping pennants adorning its four corners.
A trio of gentian flowers above a spray of bamboo leaves.
The Minamoto clan’s royal crest.
His frown deepened as he continued onward.
In a few months it would be time for the festival of Obon. The time each year when all the empire’s citizens returned to their ancestral homes to honor their deceased. Soon the emperor would be making the journey to Yedo for this very reason. To clear his ancestors’ graves of weeds and pay homage to them with food and drink.
But would his forefathers feel pride at his return?
Or would they feel disdain?
The emperor could not answer these questions. Not yet. For he had not yet accomplished all he meant to accomplish. All his greatest aspirations had yet to be realized. Yes, it was true he’d maintained power over the Empire of Wa for the entirety of his reign. But it was a muddled sort of power—much like a loosely tied ribbon, its ends trailing the ground. He had not achieved half of what his father had achieved before passing on the crown; he had not made the Empire of Wa bigger or stronger.
He had not managed to build a greater legacy for his sons.
Indeed, it could even be suggested that he’d left his empire in worse condition. One far weaker than before. One that would rely on the strengths of both his sons.
Roku’s intellect.
And Raiden’s fist.
Strange that all this had come to pass. Come to pass despite the emperor having sacrificed so much to give his sons more. He’d gone as far as to execute many of his childhood friends to keep them from challenging his reign.
The emperor halted again in his stroll, as though the wind had been cracked from his chest. He took a slow breath. A pinching one, heated tongs clenched tight around his heart. He still felt it, even after all this time; the weight of his friends’ deaths would always be a heavy burden. A constant reminder. But he could not afford to feel remorse for his past decisions.
They had not been made lightly.
The Emperor of Wa could not be openly challenged by any man, not if he ever meant to achieve his greatest desires. And his friends would undoubtedly have challenged him. Naganori would never have remained quiet in the face of the emperor’s most recent edicts. His most recent attempts to consolidate his holdings. To raise taxes on his lands. To collect his due. All before striking out on his grandest of conquests:
Waging war for dominion over the sea and all its spoils.
Yes. Naganori would always have been a problem. An Asano man, through and through. Married to the law and its pervasive sense of justice.
But perhaps Asano Naganori could have been controlled in time.
Were it not for others . . . less willing to bend.
Takeda Shingen.
A cloud of yellow butterflies wafted across the white gravel before him. They took flight on a twist of air, curling and unfurling into themselves like a beating heart.
No. The emperor’s childhood friends would have been far too problematic.
Better he keep his council small.
Better he keep it amongst his family. And no one else.
He pushed through the cloud of butterflies, leaving them to scatter in disarray.
Alas, the deaths of his friends had not succeeded in putting an end to the whispers at his feet. The murmurs of those who would prefer to see a man with military skill at the helm of the empire. Especially of late, the emperor had witnessed the pomp and grandeur of the royal court being cast in a weak light. The weak light of undue opulence. Of unnecessary excess.
Awareness flared in his throat. Pulsed in his ears. The grandeur of the court was the grandeur he knew well. It was the grandeur of his son, the crown prince of Wa, Minamoto Roku. Second born, but first in line to rule.
It was not the grandeur of his other son, Raiden. Firstborn.
Yet destined to rule nothing.
Indeed, Destiny was a fickle beast.
“There you are, my sovereign.”
Warmth riffled through the emperor at the sound of this voice. A stirring that began in his bones and thrummed to his fingertips. The comfort of a loved one. Of an embrace he need never question.
But he did not turn at its sound.
The husky female voice continued. “I thought I would find you here.”
He did not face her. The emperor did not need to look to see her face. Its image lingered ever in the forefront of his mind. It was the face of the woman he had loved all his life. The mother of his elder son, Raiden.
Not his empress. Not his wife. But the woman of his heart.
She was here. With him. Though he’d failed to make her his empress, she’d stayed by his side as his royal consort. Stayed by his side and never questioned anything.
“You know me well, Kanako,” he said without looking her way.
“Yes.” Her laughter was the music of a softly strummed shamisen. “I do.”
Finally he turned toward her. Time had not weathered her features as they had his. Her figure was willowy, her skin like smooth ivory. She was still beautiful. He would always find her beautiful. From the moment he’d watched her conjure animals from the stuff of shadows, he’d found her to be the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld.
They’d been young then. Not much older than children. He’d loved her still. And she’d loved him still, even when his father had forced him to marry a different young woman. One from a wealthy family with a million-koku domain.
The emperor did not reach for Kanako, though he wanted to. It was impossible to know who watched them, even now. Which servants reported to which master.
Or mistress.
And it would not do for anyone to witness the emperor in a moment of weakness, no matter how insignificant.
Blossoms from a nearby cherry tree slanted their way. Kanako wove her slender fingers through the shower of petals, catching several in a grasp of magic. A swirl of sorcery. Almost absentmindedly, she conjured the petals into slowly churning eddies. Shapes. First a dragon. Then a lion. Then a snake.
Transfixed, the emperor watched the snake consume the lion. Kanako smiled, her lips curving into a gentle crescent.
“Did my little swallow deliver its tidings?” she asked softly, letting the snake roll between her fingers.
The emperor nodded. Waited to hear more of what he craved.
“The daughter of Hattori Kano is nowhere to be found,” she continued. “She was due here two nights past. Many are saying her convoy was ambushed near Jukai forest.” A pause. “By the Black Clan.”
He waited further.
Kanako let the petals drift away. “It is not clear if the girl lives.”
Though a tic rose in his jaw, the emperor nodded carefully. Then he resumed his stroll toward his castle.
“You have told our son?” he asked under his breath.
“Not yet.” Kanako glanced sideways at him, her dove-grey kimono silks parting like waves at her feet. “Not until we decide what must be said. What must be done.”
They rounded a bend in the white gravel walkway. The empress’s pavilion bloomed into sight. The emperor could hear the tittering of female voices, the undoubted condescension passing through the ranks of his wife’s countless attendants.
The emperor is walking through the gardens with his witch whore.
Again.
He refrained from sneering. From showing any reaction at all. Those foolish women knew nothing but this. They were the reason his reign had been tarnished by the stain of weakness. Of excess. These insipid young nobles and their families, forever grasping for favor.
The emperor had to transcend this stain. He had to have a tribute worthy of his lineage. He knew now—more than ever—how much he needed the might of both his sons to achieve this. No matter how improbable that may seem. No matter how unlikely his wife would be to acquiesce.
Her beautiful, obedient Roku would never be allowed to work alongside the son of the witch whore.
When a burst of nearby female laughter caught his attention, the emperor’s eyes flitted to a covered walkway across the courtyard. The empress’s billowing pink kimono pooled against the white stone as she bowed low, then spun away before he could catch her gaze.
Before he could see the hurt in her eyes.
Unmoved, the emperor watched his wife float away, her back rigid and her tittering minions trailing in her shadow.
“What of my wife?” he asked Kanako in a low voice.
A hesitation. “She knows.” The edge in her voice could cut through steel.
The emperor straightened his spine. Hardened his will.
“And so it begins.”
A CALCULATED RISK
Foolhardy. It was not a word people often attributed to Hattori Mariko.
Curious had been the word most often ascribed to her when she was younger. She’d been the watchful sort of child. The one conscious of every mistake. When Mariko had erred, it had usually been intentional. An attempt to push barriers. Or a desire to learn.
Usually it was that. A wish to know more.
As she grew from a curious child into an even more curious young woman, the word she most often overheard at her back was odd. Much too odd. Far too prone to asking questions. Far too apt to linger in places she wasn’t meant to be.
The sort of odd that would bring her—and her family—nothing but trouble.