Flame in the Mist

by Renee Ahdieh

  The crown prince drove three kaburaya into the ground. Kenshin immediately noticed how the whistling arrowheads did not appear to be the blunted sort generally used for practice. Without pausing for thought, the crown prince fitted one of these arrows to the string of his bow. At that exact moment, the finest archer of the yabusame—the one who had caught everyone’s attention earlier—broke ranks and began riding toward the crown prince.

  With no sign of stopping.

  Concern flared through Kenshin. Several members of the nobility took to their feet, alarm spreading across their faces.

  Without even a glimmer of concern, the crown prince fired an arrow at the warrior on the grey-and-white steed. The warrior dodged it, effortlessly sliding from his saddle as the horse continued its wild gallop. He clutched the reins as his feet sluiced through the soft earth. When the crown prince fired another shot, the warrior vaulted back onto his saddle, easily avoiding the arrow’s mark. He continued riding toward the crown prince, undeterred.

  The crown prince’s shots were well timed. Well aimed.

  Meant to strike.

  But the rider drew closer and closer to the crown prince, refusing to veer. Refusing to yield.

  At the last possible second, the crown prince fired another arrow, straight at the warrior’s chest. The warrior yanked it from the air and—quicker than a flash of lightning—nocked it to his bow. He fired it back at the crown prince.

  The arrow embedded in the dirt at a perfect angle, a hairsbreadth from the prince’s feet.

  The crown prince smiled.

  As soon as the warrior reined in near him, he dismounted and removed his helmet. Then he bowed low. Grinning at one another, the two young men clapped each other on the back appreciatively.

  The smattering of awkward applause became cheers.

  Only members of the royal family would be permitted to touch the crown prince with such impunity.

  Kenshin saw the resemblance. Despite the fact that the member of the yabusame was nearly a head taller. Considerably broader.

  The rider was Prince Raiden.

  His sister’s betrothed.

  —

  “I was very sorry to hear about your sister’s untimely death, Kenshin-sama,” Minamoto Roku said as he dropped to his cushioned seat before a low table in the corner of his chambers.

  Though the crown prince’s words sounded heartfelt, Kenshin did not feel any warmth in them. The statement was coolly pronounced. Said with the same inflection Roku might have offered when commenting on a spate of bad weather. The contrivance in the prince’s tone bothered Kenshin, but he stifled his irritation. After all, he was in the presence of royalty. At audience with the emperor’s two sons.

  Mariko’s betrothed.

  And the future heavenly sovereign of Wa.

  A future sovereign who was—at the moment—far too concerned with arranging sheets of ivory washi paper on the table before him. Smoothing their surfaces. Anchoring their edges with weights. Preparing to practice his calligraphy.

  Roku looked at Kenshin—as though he expected Kenshin to elaborate further on the matter of Mariko’s untimely death—before smiling to himself and slowly circling an ink stick in the well of a carved inkstone to his right.

  In moments like these, Kenshin wished Mariko were at his side. She would be thinking far in advance of what anyone might do or say. Holding her emotions close and in check. His sister was leagues ahead of anyone in most conversations. Far past anyone’s present. In contrast, Kenshin often found himself crashing through the underbrush of conversations Mariko skirted with ease. It was not that his sister was a particularly gifted conversationalist. It was more that she always seemed to know what people intended to say even before they did.

  She read people much like she read books.

  Such ability would be of great use to Kenshin right now.

  But he was a warrior. Not an envoy or a strategist.

  Kenshin cleared his throat. “I do not believe Mariko to be dead, Your Highness.” He glanced toward his sister’s betrothed to see if he could sense any reaction. Minamoto Raiden exchanged a wordless conversation with his brother, but Kenshin could not glean the sentiment behind his expression.

  It could be worry. It could be anger. It could be suspicion.

  Or perhaps it could be all of these things.

  It never ceased to frustrate Kenshin how he was able to notice tangible things with the eye of a hawk. How the smallest detail was never missed. But when it came to analyzing the unseen—the unspoken subtleties of life—he was far from being a hawk. He was more of a mole, wandering through a world of darkness. Even with Amaya, he’d been painfully unaware of her feelings until it was far too late.

  After a time, Minamoto Raiden took a steadying breath. He traded another glance with the crown prince, whose expression remained neutral. Then he leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “Kenshin-sama,” his sister’s betrothed began, “I was told Mariko’s convoy had been attacked in Jukai forest by a band of thieves. Several members of my father’s personal guard believe it to be the work of the Black Clan—though I’m not as inclined to agree. It seems far too . . . simple. Far too predictable. Not to mention beyond the typical behavior of the Black Clan.” He rested an elbow on a knee, inclining toward Kenshin even farther. “Is it possible your sister still lives, despite all the evidence to the contrary?”

  As Raiden spoke, concern seeped into the small lines framing his mouth. He was only nineteen years old, but the effect of this concern made him appear battle-hardened. Weary. The sight strangely comforted Kenshin. As did the words his sister’s betrothed spoke. They were in keeping with Kenshin’s earlier thoughts. But it was also possible this was a ruse meant to earn his trust. Meant to plant seeds of unforeseen doubt.

  Yet Minamoto Raiden did seem far less calculating than the crown prince. Far less conniving. And Kenshin appreciated how he appeared to value forthrightness more than his younger brother. Raiden’s character was more in keeping with his own. Since this marked Kenshin’s first interaction with his sister’s betrothed, these feelings set his mind somewhat at ease. At this moment, any sign of subterfuge remained solely in the black eyes of the crown prince. The slight, pale boy clad in golden silk, calmly practicing his shodo.

  Perhaps Minamoto Roku had been the one to orchestrate the attack on Mariko’s convoy.

  And yet . . .

  A part of Kenshin did not quite believe the crown prince would strike out at his own brother by murdering Raiden’s future wife. After all, what would he have to gain by doing so? Roku was already first in line to the throne. And not once in all his years had Kenshin heard of Raiden having designs to usurp his younger brother. They could easily have been at war with each other. Brothers in similar situations had often killed each other for power in the past. But that did not appear to be the case here. By all accounts, these two brothers—despite the enmity between their birth mothers—were close friends. Trusted confidants.

  Perhaps Kenshin had been wrong to suspect that members of the nobility had plotted to murder his sister. That someone in Inako had tried to thwart the nuptials between the emperor’s firstborn son and the daughter of an ambitious daimyō.

  Or perhaps Minamoto Raiden was merely good at reading people as well.

  As though he could hear the tenor of Kenshin’s thoughts, Raiden smiled reassuringly. He began to speak again, but was immediately silenced by his younger brother.

  The crown prince shot a pointed look their way. As soon as Roku made certain he held their attention, his eyes drifted toward the beautifully carved folding screen to his left. “This is not the place to discuss such things,” he said in a harsh whisper. “The walls of Heian Castle possess ears.” The last was said in a barely audible tone.

  A cultivated whisper, belying his earlier disinterest.

  Following this admonition, the cr
own prince took hold of his right sleeve and dipped his brush in ink once more, positioning the bristles above the washi paper at a perfect angle. “Perhaps it would be nice to share some tea with us later, Kenshin-sama,” he said, his voice as mild as before. Filled with that same feigned lack of interest.

  But spoken in a tenor meant to be overheard. Meant to be interpreted by attending servants and chance observers alike.

  In his zeal to learn the truth, Kenshin had almost forgotten.

  Inako was—first and foremost—a city of secrets. Ones to be stolen and sold off to the highest bidder at first chance.

  Nodding in understanding, Raiden stood swiftly. “Will you be our guest this evening, Kenshin-sama?”

  Kenshin was not fool enough to question the conversation’s rapid change in course. He may not be well versed in recognizing emotion, but he was the Dragon of Kai, and he knew the sharp tang of fresh blood. Of a path to be followed. Quietly. Carefully.

  “I would be honored, my lord,” Kenshin said. “Where is it you wish to go?”

  Raiden grinned, and the sight greatly reminded Kenshin of a snarling bear. His voice dropped until it became more breath than sound.

  “The finest teahouse in Hanami.”

  HANAMI

  Mariko had been to Inako once, when she was younger.

  As a girl.

  As a boy, the sights of the imperial city were entirely different. And it was not merely because a blindfold had been torn from her eyes only moments before.

  Everything seemed crisper. Colors seemed more alive. Scents flooded her nostrils, and sights flashed across her vision—marinated squid sizzling over an open flame, vividly dyed paper lanterns strung above bolts of lustrous silk, displays of painted fans and freshly sliced persimmons, creamy bean curd floating in barrels of cold water. She smelled and tasted everything in the air with the abandon of a girl in a fevered dream.

  Mariko felt free. Freer than she could remember feeling in quite some time.

  Her current situation notwithstanding.

  At least in Inako there’s little chance of me being snared by a blood-draining tree. Or being pelted by sharp rocks.

  Ranmaru studied her. Caught her grinning with open glee. “Is this your first visit to the imperial city?”

  Mariko thought quickly. “Yes.” Her answer more easily explained how enthralled she was. It also helped circumvent any further inquiries about her past. The Black Clan had been blessedly uninterested in who she was before she came to the forest, and Mariko wished to keep it that way for as long as she could.

  “Try not to appear so green once we arrive at the teahouse,” Ōkami said from his perch atop his warhorse to her right.

  Mariko wrapped her fingers tightly around her reins, struggling to bite her tongue. To ignore the rope trailing from Ōkami’s horse to hers, keeping her tethered to the Wolf’s side.

  At her left, Ranmaru laughed, his brown eyes sparkling. “Or when you first set eyes on Yumi, the most beautiful girl in the empire.”

  “I doubt Lord Lackbeard has ever seen a geiko before in his life,” Ōkami said. “Much less been with a beautiful girl.” Even as he provoked her, Ōkami maintained a cool affect. One of careful indifference.

  A geiko?

  So they were not traveling to a mere house of ill repute, as she’d initially surmised. A geiko would never set foot in such a den of iniquity.

  Regardless Mariko kept silent. Stewing in unspoken reprisals.

  Ranmaru’s brows arched. “Tell us, Lord Lackbeard. Are you indeed untried?”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Of all the questions for Ranmaru to ask, of course he would choose that one. Men left to their own devices were so sadly predictable. “I am not untried. I have been with . . . many women.” Her words were half true, at least. She was no longer a maid. Though the one and only occasion had not involved another girl.

  It had involved rebellion.

  Mariko recalled the face of the young stable boy fated to accompany his master to her father’s province one spring morning not so long ago. She remembered the boy’s kind smile. His enthusiasm. His obliviousness.

  It was his smile that had drawn Mariko to him. Drawn him into a sun-drenched hayloft to while away a moment in her embrace.

  He’d been kind. Gentle.

  Only hours later had a horrible realization shaken Mariko to her core. Her actions that afternoon could have resulted in this kind and gentle boy’s death. Not once—not in the entire time they’d spent lazing about in the fragrant hay—had she paused to consider what might happen to the boy if they were caught. Her anger with her parents had been too sharp. Her wish for control far too blinding.

  She considered Ōkami’s words from a fortnight past:

  Anger is an emotion that poisons all else.

  Even in Mariko’s thoughts, it did not sit well to admit the Wolf might be right about something.

  The morning of her undoing, she’d dressed in the clothing of a peasant. In this disguise, Mariko had seduced the stable boy. Given him the gift her parents had recently traded for the emperor’s favor. The gift her parents had calculatingly sold.

  Despite the risks, not once had Mariko regretted her decision, though the act itself was awkward. Not unpleasant, but definitely not worth the fuss. And absolutely not worth ceding control.

  But it had been Mariko’s first time, and—for that one time only—she’d wanted her body to be her own. The decision to be hers and hers alone. Her body was not for sale. It did not belong to her parents to sell to the highest bidder. Nor did it belong to Minamoto Raiden or to any other man.

  She remembered Chiyo telling her that finding one’s match was like finding one’s other half. Mariko had never understood the notion.

  She was not a half. She was wholly her own.

  A hand waved before her face. When Mariko’s vision cleared, Ranmaru’s features came into focus as he attempted to draw her back into the present.

  “What were you thinking about just now?” the leader of the Black Clan asked. “You disappeared.” Though his words were nonchalant, his look was as sharp as a razor.

  “Family,” she said smoothly. “And entitlement.”

  Ahead of them, Mariko thought she saw Ōkami slow his horse. But he did not look back. Nor did he lean toward their conversation. It was possible she had imagined him easing up on his pace.

  Ranmaru continued studying her sidelong. “Interesting that you link the two together.”

  “I don’t find it interesting at all. Family can entitle you to many things. It can also feel entitled to much from you in return.”

  “Is that why you ran away from yours?”

  Mariko swallowed. She’d known all along she could not escape answering questions about her past. Men like Ranmaru—even ones as young as he, with such ready charm—did not rise to positions of power on blind faith alone.

  A simple lie—threaded from truth—could be Mariko’s best answer. “My father arranged for me to marry. I wished to do otherwise. When we could not come to an agreement on the matter, I left.” She kept her explanation unembellished. Abrupt.

  “You wished to marry someone else?”

  “No.”

  “So then you are not one of those poor fools enamored by the idea of love?” he teased.

  She scowled. “Certainly not.” At least in this, a lie was unnecessary.

  “You don’t believe your great love is out there, simply waiting to be found?”

  “Do you?” Mariko pitched her voice low. Graveled with disbelief.

  Ranmaru’s broad lips spread into an easy smile. “I believe the stars align so that souls can find one another. Whether they are meant to be souls in love or souls in life remains to be seen.”

  Mariko found herself momentarily at a loss. It was . . . a lovely sentiment. Were she dressed in the
fine silks of a young girl, she would have felt her gaze soften. Her cheeks grow pink.

  Beautiful words were beautiful words, even to the most practical of minds.

  Instead Mariko focused on the worn fabric of her reins. Coughed with undisguised discomfort.

  “There,” Ranmaru pronounced, his tone one of supreme self-satisfaction. “I’ve managed to embarrass Lord Lackbeard simply by talking about love. And not once did I mention anything about women.” He turned toward Ōkami, his palm outstretched. “You owe me five ryō.”

  Mariko froze in her saddle, her posture rigid. “That—is a lie.”

  “Which part?” Ranmaru blinked.

  “You mentioned Yumi.” She sniffed. Deepened her speech to a drone. “The most beautiful girl in the empire.”

  At that, the Wolf started to laugh. It began softly, like the rumble of a drum. Then it rose to a steadying rain. It wasn’t a rich kind of laughter. Its sound didn’t fill Mariko’s ears with its honeyed resonance. But it was clear and deep, much like the color of his eyes.

  And a part of her couldn’t help but think—were he another boy, in another time, in another place—Mariko would have liked to hear Ōkami’s laughter.

  Would have enjoyed being the cause of it.

  But he was a member of the Black Clan. The band of mercenaries who had tried to kill her. Who had slaughtered Chiyo and Nobutada.

  She hated this boy and all he stood for.

  It was dangerous for her to consider anything else, even for a moment.

  Mariko grasped her reins tighter. As though she were taking firm hold of herself. “Do I receive any share of the gold?” She looked to Ōkami, her features expectant.

  “No.” He didn’t hesitate before responding.

  “I saved you money. Shouldn’t I receive at least half of it as a reward?”

  “Taking half my money isn’t saving me anything.”

  She spurred her horse closer to his. “You thought Ranmaru could embarrass me by talking about love?” A sneer touched the edges of her lips.