by Renee Ahdieh
The beautiful maiko—his sister Yumi—entered the room a moment later.
“What did you say to him?” Yumi asked.
“He won’t tell me the truth. He won’t tell me why he tried to kill me.”
She frowned, her lovely features gathering. “I don’t believe he tried to kill you.”
“Why not?” Mariko cried. “That’s what they do. That’s who they are! And now I will never know the truth. They won’t let me return to the forest. They won’t let me return to—” To the only place I’ve ever truly belonged. She began to sob, her words turning ragged.
Yumi set down the tray of food in her hands. She knelt beside Mariko. “If you really think that’s who Ōkami is—that that’s who Ranmaru is—then you don’t deserve to know them anymore, Hattori Mariko.”
LOST IN THE ASHES
Kenshin sat on the ground, his elbows braced against his knees. He stared into the distance, seeing nothing. Tendrils of dark smoke continued to rise from what remained of his family’s granary.
But he couldn’t think about that.
He couldn’t even consider the fact that he might have seen his sister last night. It wasn’t possible. A trick of the smoke. A dance of the wind-whipped flames.
Even all thoughts of Mariko were pushed from his mind.
Kenshin could think of nothing else but Amaya.
She was gone.
The fire had killed the only girl he’d ever loved. They’d searched the rubble for her remains, and been unable to find anything of significance. At least two other souls had perished in the fire.
Muramasa Amaya would never even have a proper burial. Kenshin would never see those soft grey eyes—or hear her musical laughter—again.
He should have stopped her. Should have barred her from that final fateful path. But Kenshin was never meant to watch over Amaya. To be the keeper of her heart. He’d told her long ago to find another. To find a man who didn’t shoulder his responsibilities. Who wouldn’t one day inherit his father’s duties. Amaya had laughed at him and said she didn’t want Kenshin to be her hero. She’d simply wanted to hold his hand. Let her be a comfort to him, as he was a comfort to her.
Kenshin should have stopped her. Last night. And so many nights before.
“What are you going to do about this?” His father stood alongside him, his face drained. Dour. “The harvest is not for several months. I can increase what I take from those who work our land, but this could possibly ruin us. Now that we’ve lost your sister’s dowry, we may not have enough to last us until the next harvest.”
“She’s gone,” Kenshin said aloud, the words like ash in his mouth as he took to his feet.
They began to walk past the shadow of the charred granary. “What happened to Muramasa-sama’s daughter is unfortunate. If this harvest is plentiful, we can give her father a purse of gold. Of course he will always have a place here. But that is not the issue of importance, Kenshin. You are my son. The Dragon of Kai.” Hattori Kano’s gaze leveled as he eyed his son sidelong. “What do you intend to do about the theft and destruction of your family’s property?”
Fury blazed through Kenshin, hot and fast. His father thought to give Muramasa-sama a purse of gold? How would that even begin to offer recompense for what the revered metalsmith had lost? His father should be at the metalsmith’s feet, begging for forgiveness! Asking for atonement. Kenshin turned, intent on confronting his father once and for all. On changing his father’s mind. Influencing him to see the good, honorable, righteous path.
Kenshin stopped in his tracks.
This was precisely the way his father had always been. When confronted with an obstacle, Hattori Kano had simply offered money as a means to brush it from his path. Why would his father change his mind for the mere daughter of a famed artisan?
Kenshin knew better than to try to persuade Hattori Kano that the righteous path was the correct one. Indeed he knew better than to convince his father of anything that did not already fall in line with Hattori Kano’s established way of thought.
Especially since what Kenshin planned to undertake now had nothing to do with the charred remains of his family’s storehouse. Nothing to do with honor or respect.
He would never forget the look of disgust on Amaya’s face before she went inside the granary to finish what Kenshin should have started from the beginning.
The last look they’d ever shared.
Before he gutted each of the men in the Black Clan, he would burn them first.
Then, at least for an instant, they would understand his pain.
—
Yumi floated across the tatami mat, a tray of food balanced in her hands. The way she walked reminded Mariko of a swan gliding across a pond, neck straight and silken feathers impeccable.
“I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself,” Mariko said.
“I have no intention of feeding you,” the maiko replied, her features almost prim in their mockery. “I’m not your servant. I’m merely here to help, as your hands are not yet healed.”
“I promise I’ll continue taking care of them. May I please leave?”
“You may not. I promised Ōkami I would watch over you. If you’re one to make promises, you’re one to understand their value.”
“I understand nothing.” Mariko attempted to cross her arms, but the bulky bindings around her hands prevented her. “And I need the help of no one.”
“I see.” The beautiful girl’s tone was not condescending. Though Mariko knew she deserved to be patronized for being so petulant.
Mariko sighed in defeat. “I thought I possessed all the answers. Or at least most of them. Now I know I understand nothing.”
“That knowledge is key to understanding the world, don’t you think?” Yumi said as she knelt beside Mariko and handed her a bowl of steaming rice.
Mariko nudged the handle of her spoon with a bound fingertip. “Are you ever angry you were born a woman?”
Yumi sat back on her heels and studied Mariko for a spell. “I’ve never been angry to have been born a woman. There have been times I’ve been angry at how the world treats us, but I see being a woman as a challenge I must fight. Like being born under a stormy sky. Some people are lucky enough to be born on a bright summer’s day. Maybe we were born under clouds. No wind. No rain. Just a mountain of clouds we must climb each morning so that we may see the sun.”
As she let Yumi’s words sink beneath her skin, Mariko’s eyes drifted across the maiko’s perfect face. Across her beautifully sloe-shaped eyes. Her pointed chin and broad lips. Then Mariko’s gaze wandered around Yumi’s chamber. To the elegantly displayed kimono. To the ivory pot filled with a powder made of crushed pearls. To the pigments prepared from safflower rouge for the lips and cheeks. To the paulownia wood used for the eyebrows. Cosmetics and silks to both mask and enhance a woman’s features.
Mariko supposed it was possible all women and men were forced to wear their own kind of masks.
“But how can you say you’re not angry?” she asked quietly. “Your brother left you here because there was no other place you would be safe alone. No other place for a young woman to live alone, save a geiko teahouse in Hanami.”
“My brother brought me here because he was too much of a coward to care for me himself,” Yumi said curtly. “It had nothing to do with me being a girl.”
Though she was surprised to hear Yumi call Ōkami a coward, Mariko could not help but agree on this score. “We are given less,” she continued arguing her point. “We are treated as less. And whenever we make a mistake, it is weighed so much greater.”
“The only great mistakes are the mistakes that remain ignored.”
Mariko sniffed. “I’m tired of being treated this way.”
“Have you felt as though you are incapable of fighting back?”
“For most of my life I have not fought
back.”
Yumi laughed, and the sound brought to mind a set of wind chimes. “Ōkami warned me you were quite a liar. I see what he meant.”
“Why do you believe me to be lying?”
“Because, Hattori Mariko, you are not one to conform to any man’s expectations. Is that not—in a way—a manner of fighting back?” She smiled. “Believe me when I tell you I would not want to sleep with my feet pointed in your direction.”
“Believe me when I say you would be alone in thinking that.” Mariko frowned.
Yumi inclined her head, her expression thoughtful. “There is such strength in being a woman. But it is a strength you must choose for yourself. No one can choose it for you. We can bend the wind to our ear if we would only try.” She leaned closer. “Are you not the one who invented a weapon of exploding fire? Did you not bend the will of countless men with nothing but the fruits of your mind?”
“I can bend nothing. I can’t even make your brother listen to me. Your entire family is exasperating.” Again Mariko tried to cross her arms. Again she was thwarted. “Don’t act as though being inscrutable makes you anything more than irritating.”
Yumi laughed again, softly and lyrically. A knock resounded at the sliding door to her chamber. The maiko stood to answer it, returning with a sealed piece of parchment. While Yumi read it, the edges of her lips became downturned. Her eyes started to narrow.
Without a word, the maiko burned the letter.
“What is it?” Mariko asked.
Yumi hedged. Bit her lip.
Mariko set aside her bowl of uneaten rice. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I know many things I am never supposed to tell you.” It was a leading kind of statement. The sort Mariko knew better than to ignore.
She leaned forward. “Tell me anyway, Asano Yumi. And at least for one day, we can climb the mountain together.”
Yumi’s smile was pointed. “My loyalty is not to you, Hattori Mariko.”
“Then to whom do you owe it?”
“To my brother and his lord, Takeda Ranmaru.”
“So why are you even mentioning any of this to me?” Mariko pressed.
“My brother will not return to the city for some time. But I need to get Ōkami a message.”
“What is it?”
“Hattori Kenshin is marching on the western edge of Jukai forest.” She paused. “In an attempt to rescue his sister.”
“Why now of all times?” Mariko cried, throwing back the embroidered coverlet. “The rumors of the Black Clan being responsible for my supposed death have existed for months!”
“I cannot tell you why he is marching on them now. But word must be sent to my brother.”
“How did you normally reach him?”
“Ōkami comes here often. Unfortunately I was never told how to find their camp. My brother thought it was far too dangerous for me to know. It was something someone could hurt me in an effort to learn.” Yumi sidled closer, tucking her pale green kimono neatly beneath her knees. “Are you certain you could not find their camp if you searched for it?”
“I have no idea how to find it.”
Yumi’s voice dropped in sudden urgency. “Do you think you could try? You owe them that, at least.”
A part of Mariko agreed. She did owe the Black Clan something. As much as they owed her an explanation. If they weren’t responsible for attacking her convoy and trying to kill her, then who was? Who had tried to impersonate them that ill-fated night in the forest? “I can try. Do you”—she swallowed—“really think Ōkami revealed my identity to the Black Clan?”
“I have never heard the Honshō Wolf make idle threats.”
Mariko inhaled slowly.
“They might not look kindly on you when you return,” Yumi warned. “They’ve slit the throats of other men for less.”
With a careful nod, Mariko made a decision. “Will you help me with something?”
“As long as it harms no one, then yes. What is it?”
Mariko wobbled to her feet and began unraveling the bandages on one hand. “If I am marching to my death, then I will march to it as a girl. Without fear.”
THE SHADOW WARRIOR
Mariko was not afraid anymore.
As her time with the Black Clan had taught her, avoiding fear made her weak. Embracing it made her strong.
True weakness is weakness of the spirit.
Mariko had lived a life of wealth and privilege. A life spent blissfully unaware of the suffering around her. A life she herself had never fully appreciated. Her mother did not give without expecting something in return. Her father only ever took.
And Kenshin?
Kenshin gave to others from a sense of honor and responsibility. But his honor and responsibility had failed him that night. Mariko had watched him torture Ren. Had seen the aftermath of his attempts to find her in Jukai forest. The bloodied bodies of innocent young men and women. Of an old man much beloved by many.
Only a few days ago, Mariko had been the reason such chaos had unraveled before her very eyes. Her invention had wrought havoc on her people. Undoubtedly hurt some of them. And she did not yet know what had happened to all the members of the Black Clan.
Her . . . friends?
Yes. If they were no longer her enemies, perhaps Mariko could one day consider them her friends. Certainly Yoshi. He’d only ever been kind to her. Offered her guidance and delicious food. Laughter in moments when she desperately needed it. And Ranmaru had been a strange source of reassurance for Mariko. This boy with an almost mysterious air to him, who nevertheless came across as approachable and direct in all of his dealings. Even Ren—her erstwhile tormentor—well, on second thought, Mariko supposed he could never be a friend. Not unless she could catch him unawares with a few strategic strikes of her own.
And Ōkami? No. They could never really be friends.
Mariko wasn’t sure she wanted to be the Wolf’s friend anyway. Could she ever be friends with a boy after dreaming of the way his calloused hands felt on her bare skin? Of the way his scarred lips felt pressed against her own?
She supposed not.
Mariko had never had friends before. Real friends. Ones who were not threatened by her family or by her strangeness. Her strange desire to learn about anything and everything.
Not until Mariko had first gone to the forest dressed as a boy did she ever realize how small her world had been. What it meant to be truly challenged. What it meant to be truly happy, in a world where no one questioned her place.
The Black Clan might reject her.
They might kill her.
Ōkami had said he would tell them. He’d said he no longer felt any obligation to keep her secret. Not when she’d betrayed them as she had, by helping her brother.
Their enemy.
Mariko stopped in the clearing where Akira-san had perished. Where Kenshin had lost his way. The burned lean-to was still standing. She looked to the trees. Studied the jagged silhouette of the mountain in the distance.
A silhouette she’d often studied while at camp.
Everyone had told Mariko she would never be able to leave their encampment. That she could not run.
But could she make her way back if she tried?
Northeast. If Mariko trekked in that direction, it would be possible to find some kind of path. Some evidence of where the encampment was.
Unlikely. But possible. These were odds Mariko could work with.
She began walking northeast, keeping the mountain in her sights.
If there was any chance of finding the Black Clan’s encampment without stumbling into a trap, Mariko hoped a girl would be the first one to do it.
—
The sun had descended behind the trees. A white-gold glow limned the horizon.
Nightfall was imminent.
Soo
n Mariko would be lost in Jukai forest. Lost amongst the yōkai. Lost amongst the jubokko. Lost amongst those she’d recently betrayed.
She trod carefully, searching for signs of black flowers. Sniffing the air for the scent of blood. Seeking vines covered in thorns. Watching for anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
Fear kept her alert. She would always let it feed her. Never let it consume her.
Mariko stopped in her tracks when a pair of yellow eyes formed in the darkness.
A pair of yellow eyes she recognized well.
When the beast took shape around them, Mariko held her breath. It eyed her as it had before, its head tilting to one side. Then it leaned back on its haunches and howled. The sound was low, but it began to widen, to layer with the weight of many voices, large and small. It echoed through the trees, ricocheting into the night.
She was not afraid.
Then the beast turned. Waited for her to follow it.
That time before—with the filthy man who had trailed after Mariko the night her convoy was attacked—the beast had warned her.
She would trust it tonight. A part of her understood she’d almost expected the beast to find her again, as it had that first time.
It padded through the dirt and dead leaves. Mariko realized it moved without making any noise. When she tried to draw close, it whipped its head back at her.
The beast was edged in dark smoke. Perhaps even fashioned of it. She followed it up an incline. Until they came across a pool of freshwater. Though it was full dark, the beast stepped with an otherworldly sure-footedness. Then it dissolved on a wisp of wind, its eyes fading into black. Mariko stood within a tight grove of trees. The chirruping of insects halted, and the gentle sound of rustling leaves ceased.
She heard nothing.
Then, from the darkness, a single torch began weaving her way.
It flickered through the branches as it approached her.
Mariko’s heart raced, but she was not afraid.
She was strong. Free.
Other torchlights took shape around her. They all drew toward her like water gathering near a dam. Shapes materialized behind each ring of fire. Darker, thicker shadows, enveloped in night. But corporeal.