by Renee Ahdieh
Ōkami wished for many things, but he refused to give the emperor any further power over him. He stayed silent, his eyes gleaming like daggers.
“You wish for vengeance, do you not, phoenix?” Raiden said softly, as he increased the pressure of his foot against Ōkami’s face. “To rise from the ashes?”
Roku smiled as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
“First you must burn.”
Traps of Spun Silk
Mariko kept her head bowed, her eyes lowered. She followed in the footsteps of the servant Shizuko, each of her split-toed tabi susurrating across the polished wooden hallways of Heian Castle.
It felt strange to once again don the garments of a young woman. Though Mariko had lived as a boy in Jukai forest for only a few weeks, her instincts had changed even in that short time. As she shuffled down these vaunted corridors, Mariko wished to raise her head and take unabashed stock of her surroundings. To commit every detail to memory, for she did not know when even the most insignificant one might be of use.
Instead she forced herself to settle back into the steps of the dance she’d performed most of her life.
Head bowed. Eyes lowered. Voice a whisper not even the wind could catch.
As she and Shizuko turned another corner, two young servants took their places at her flank. Mariko glanced over one shoulder, and the small pieces of silver and jade dangling from her hairpiece tinkled across her forehead in a merry chime. She used the motion to lift her gaze surreptitiously, taking in the silk-covered walls and the elegant screens of the sliding doors—some opened to allow for a breeze and some latched shut, in no particular order—as well as the delicate paper lanterns covered with cranes and roaring tigers and serpentine fish.
As her eyes returned to the floor, Mariko once again focused on the almost rhythmic motion of her footsteps. They glided in a schooled fashion, each heel in line with the other. Her kimono rippled like waves on either side of her split-toed socks. Mariko’s gaze drifted over the gleaming hem of the pale tatsumura silk.
The long sleeves of her furisode were covered with an intricate array of tiny flowers—camellias, violets, orange blossoms, and sakura—each individually sewn onto the garment by hand. Linking all the flowers were painted vines shadowed by veins of liquid gold. Tiny birds flitted from blossom to blossom across the entire expanse of the watered silk. This kimono was Mariko’s armor at court: the most ornate armor she had ever worn in her entire life. It had been brought from the imperial family’s personal store of garments, as a way to honor her status. When the kimono had been unveiled in her chamber earlier this afternoon, the wide eyes and muted gasps of those around Mariko had not escaped her notice.
She was being brought before someone important. That was all Mariko knew.
Perhaps her betrothed. Or perhaps even the emperor himself.
She took a deep breath. Strange how her fortunes could turn so much in the matter of a few short days. Mariko had arrived in Inako two nights ago, in the filthy kosode of a warrior returning from battle. Now she was dressed as an empress and being led through the Golden Castle for an audience with a member of the imperial court.
If Mariko had any desire to find humor in her situation, no doubt her task would be an easy one. The sort Ren would scoff at, and Ranmaru—no, Tsuneoki—would tease her for afterward. But the desire to laugh had been set aflame in Jukai forest, managing to burn to ash on her tongue in less than a week.
Mariko focused instead on preparing herself for what was to come.
Will I be questioned? Doubted? Made to answer for someone else’s crimes?
There was no way to be certain this was not a trap, after all. If she’d learned anything about the imperial court, she’d learned it was a place of secrets and deceit.
And with such things came the possibility of anything at all.
As Mariko’s small assemblage of women made their way into another corridor, the ceilings above them vaulted higher, and the carved screens along either side became even more ornate. Beneath her silken tabi, the floors squeaked loudly as though they were ancient and in need of repair. Mariko had heard tell of these floors. The sounds they made were reminiscent of the uguisu’s cry; thus, they were called nightingale floors. The wooden surfaces had been constructed to prevent anyone—friend or foe—from traversing across them without being heard. The fact that Mariko walked over them now meant she was entering a part of Heian Castle that was undoubtedly under heavy guard.
Beneath the layers of her kimono and its many underrobes, Mariko’s knees began to shake. She curled her toes as she walked, forcing her legs to remain strong. This dance would be a difficult one, and Mariko needed all her emotions in check to perform it well. Despite the efforts of her parents and numerous tutors, she had never been the kind of girl who could enter a room and feel at ease. Mariko had always preferred the company of her own mind to the witless prattle of those in the nobility.
Her thoughts drifted to Yumi. The maiko had been one of the few exceptions to that rule. Asano Tsuneoki’s younger sister possessed a formidable intellect and a gift for understanding what men wanted, besides the obvious. Though Mariko had spent only a few short days in her company, she’d come to believe that Yumi knew what men wanted even before they themselves did.
I would give every gold ryō in my dowry for a chance to learn the art of poised conversation from Asano Yumi.
Mariko was so consumed with her thoughts that she all but stumbled at the next sight that greeted her. Her throat caught on a slew of questions, the loudest ones threatening to barrel forth at any instant:
What have they done with Ōkami? Is he … dead?
She was not foolish enough to think she would ever receive an answer. Especially not from him. Not from this boy who gazed on her with such mistrust.
Standing at the entrance to one of the corridors branching off the main thoroughfare stood a silent figure, waiting for them to pass. His features were solemn, his posture rigid. His dark silk hakama was crisp and unwrinkled. He was a young man for whom such things appeared as natural and unstudied as herons in flight. Only his eyes were at odds with his demeanor—a shadow Mariko could not place darkened their depths.
Kenshin.
Her brother. Her twin.
The blood crept up her neck, heating her skin. Mariko stopped her fists from clenching, then let her gaze rest on her brother in what she hoped was an expression of affection.
Be water. Move with the current.
He watched her. Carefully. Even from this short distance, Mariko knew her twin well enough to see that he did not believe a single word she said. It cut at something deep within Mariko’s chest. Threatened to sever a bond that had existed between them since their birth. The night they’d left Jukai forest, he’d studied her with the same look, as though he were gazing upon a riddle he could not solve. Though the Dragon of Kai said very little, it was clear Kenshin questioned every move Mariko made, both in the past and in the present. Wondered if duplicity lay at its root. Each time she locked eyes with her brother, Mariko beheld mistrust and uncertainty.
Two things that had never crossed their paths before.
She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She’d wager it was something different, yet the same. Something tinged in pain.
“Mariko,” Kenshin began softly.
Her retinue paused before him. Shizuko and the servants at their flank bowed low. After all, Hattori Kenshin was the Dragon of Kai—one of the most famed warriors in the entire empire. The son of an honored daimyō. A samurai held in high esteem amongst the members of the imperial court.
Mariko coaxed herself to smile. Forced her eyes to mean it.
“Did you … rest well these last two nights?” Kenshin asked.
“Very well.” She nodded. “It’s the first restful sleep I’ve had in weeks.”
Yet another lie.
She’d already lost count of how many she’d told him.
“I’m glad to hear it. You lo
ok … better. More like yourself.” The Dragon of Kai chose his words carefully, as though he were picking fruit from a tree. It was just like him to behave in such a manner. Exacting to a fault.
But Kenshin’s principles would not serve him well today. His unspoken questions hung in the air like spiderwebs, waiting to catch their victim unawares. And Mariko knew it best to avoid any traps of spun silk, at all cost. Her voice needed to match her face. She let her shoulders fall in relaxation. Made her neck lengthen as though she were confident.
I am speaking to my brother, as I have done for nearly every day of my life. Nothing more.
She smiled at him, allowing her mind drift to memories of a fonder time. An easier life. One in which the truth of her family’s wealth and privilege still remained shamefully beyond her notice. “I have not had a chance to thank you properly—for saving me.”
It was not a lie, in a manner of speaking. He’d brought her to Inako, as Mariko had wished, and she did feel a sense of gratitude for it.
Kenshin nodded, his eyes narrowing at the corners. “You would do the same for me.”
“Of course.” Mariko breathed deeply. “But—now that I’ve had a moment to recover—there are matters I wish to discuss with you.”
He nodded again. “I’m … glad to hear it. I, too, have things I—I wish to tell you.” Kenshin winced as though he were in pain. A part of Mariko wanted to press him for details, but it seemed odd to expect frankness from him when she herself would not give it. “When you’ve had a chance to recuperate fully, let us make time to speak with each other,” he finished.
“I would like nothing more than that,” she said. “After all that has happened, it will be a comfort to speak with someone I love and respect, rather than listen to idle men who prey on the efforts of those above their station.” Mariko continued smiling as she spoke, in a sad attempt to dispel the awkwardness. “I appreciate your patience with me, Kenshin.”
Her brother nodded, then glanced once more at the silken collar of her kimono. As he took in the long sleeves laden with intricate embroidery, his eyes grew wide. Even a warrior with little understanding of women’s clothing knew it to be a kimono without parallel. “Are you meeting with Prince Raiden?”
Her smile faltered. “I … have not yet been informed as to where it is I am going.”
Mariko watched her brother stop himself from reacting in plain view of the servants surrounding them. Servants who were likely in place to report anything suspicious. Again this attempt to deny his instincts—however poorly—was so unlike Hattori Kenshin. It was the kind of behavior that had undoubtedly been learned during his short tenure in the imperial city.
Kenshin took a step forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his wakizashi. Mariko could not tell if he wished to protect her or if he wished to offer her a warning. His lips remained poised between sound and speech. Then Kenshin stepped back, nodding to himself in decision. “Be a tribute to our family, Mariko.” His words were echoes of their father’s final admonition, that fateful morning she had left on her journey for Inako.
They only strengthened her resolve.
She would earn herself a place of trust in the imperial court. Forge alliances wherever possible. Undermine the cause of the emperor at all turns.
And do whatever it took to free Ōkami, the boy she loved.
Never mind that it sounded foolish—like the dreams of a small child with ambitions far beyond her ken.
Everything in life began with an idea.
Shizuko bowed beside Mariko and Kenshin, offering an end to the odd silence that had settled between them. Her sudden deference did not seem in keeping with the servant’s demeanor for the last two days. “I beg pardon for the intrusion, my lord, but we must proceed on our path toward the empress’s pavilion.”
Kenshin glanced at the servant as though he’d only just noticed her presence. “The empress?”
“Yes, my lord.” Shizuko turned toward Mariko, a frown tugging at her lips.
“I’ve been instructed to bring Lady Hattori to the Lotus Pavilion. The empress would like to see her now.”
Gilded Petals and Dripping Wounds
As they neared a set of sliding doors adorned with carved lotus blossoms, Shizuko slowed, Mariko still trailing in the servant’s wake. The guards standing on either side moved apart to let them pass. Mariko crossed the threshold and bowed low, her feet resting just beyond the raised wooden sill. Her forehead touched the newly woven tatami mats, their fresh scent curling into her nose, clean and piney and inviting.
When she and Shizuko took to their feet once more at the far end of a vast receiving room, something caught her eye, and a new realization settled upon Mariko. One she’d managed to miss for the last two days, consumed as she was with her own worries. Shizuko had proven beyond capable and efficient, if somewhat thorny. Just this morning, Mariko had wondered why the older woman—with seniority over many of the other servants—had been relegated to assist with the bastard prince’s bride, rather than serve in a more venerated position within the imperial family’s personal retinue. It was only when Mariko watched Shizuko struggle to her feet that she understood the reason. The grimace and the momentary imbalance gave her away.
Shizuko had an injury to her neck—perhaps even to her spine—that gave her movements an impermissible flaw, likely beyond her control. A servant in the imperial court could not distract from anything. They needed to move about like flitting shadows, and shadows did not sport their flaws before the emperor.
Anger coiled through Mariko’s throat, making it difficult to swallow. She chastised herself for not noticing Shizuko’s condition earlier. Wondered what could have been the cause. How could Mariko ever attempt to champion those less fortunate—to claim to care for someone besides herself—while mired in her own concerns? If Mariko wished to see beyond her own experience, it was clear from this misstep that she was doing an abysmal job of it.
In that moment, a sense of awareness descended on her. The kind that crept over Mariko with surprising frequency of late. It had first struck her when she’d witnessed the family partake of their meager evening meal on her father’s land, the night the Black Clan raided the Hattori granary. That night, she watched a small child don the mantle of a much older soul. There—hovering in the darkness, with Ōkami by her side—Mariko realized that every person she’d ever met, from the smallest of children to the most notorious of thieves, had a life as intricate and significant as that of an emperor or a samurai or an elegant lady of the court. Not once in her seventeen years had she heard a member of the nobility discuss this. Those who served them had been born beneath unlucky stars and could never share the same sky, no matter how hard they might wish for it.
“Men cannot change their stars, just as cats cannot change their stripes,” her father had often said with a shrewd smile.
The remembrance caught in her chest, its bitterness clawing at her tongue.
She looked to the right as one of the young servants—the same girl with the round face and button nose from the day before—rearranged Mariko’s skirts. While the girl worked to ensure that her mistress appeared nothing less than perfect, Mariko studied her face, taking note of the small scars along her jaw, likely from a childhood illness.
“What is your name?” Mariko whispered to the girl, her lips barely moving as she spoke. They were too far away for those at the opposite end of the chamber to overhear their exchange. Nevertheless Shizuko startled beside her, proceeding to chuff with irritation.
Color mottled the young servant’s skin. “Isa.”
“Thank you, Isa.” Mariko committed the name to memory. Then she lifted her gaze to take in the sight of a long receiving room with a low ceiling constructed of polished acacia wood. The walls were papered in thin silk, adorned with elegantly gilded paintings—scenes from spring gardens, replete with flowers and arched bridges framed in the amber glow of an afternoon sun. Fresh tatami mats arranged in a perfect grid lined the floor, which was
warmed from beneath by slow-burning charcoal braziers.
Young women knelt on either side of the space, their garments fanning about them becomingly. They were likely courtiers or daughters of the empire’s most important families. The women murmured among themselves at the sight of Mariko, their beautiful kimono rustling as they struggled to seek better vantage points. If Mariko were to squint, the chamber before her would greatly resemble its own elegant garden, its blossoms swaying in a dainty breeze—splashes of pink and purple and pale green petals dyed to resemble jade, arranged as though every color had been chosen in an effort to bring to life the artwork gilding the walls.
At the opposite end of the chamber sat an elegant woman on a silk cushion positioned before a low throne, with a wooden back lacquered to look as though the teak wood gleamed from within.
Mariko did not meet the eyes of the stately figure awaiting her arrival. After gliding to the foot of the slightly raised platform, she knelt with great care, slipping the front of her kimono beneath her shins to keep the delicate material from wrinkling. The brush of the silk across the tatami mats was like the whisper of a sword being drawn.
She bowed once more, careful to avert her gaze until addressed.
“Hattori Mariko.” The empress spoke in a high-pitched tone, almost girlish in its lilt. “Welcome to the Lotus Pavilion.”
Inhaling through her nose, Mariko lifted her gaze.
Her Imperial Majesty Yamoto Genmei, Empress of Wa, rose to her feet in a seamless motion, a warm smile spreading across her features. She appeared small and delicate, swathed in a peach kimono. But her presence was nevertheless commanding, especially for a woman who had just lost her husband. Mariko had first thought she might find the empress in mourning, but it did not appear to be the case. She seemed determined and at ease in her station. Perhaps it was because within the same breath, the empress had lost her husband and also gained a son in the seat of power.
It appeared that fear and sadness did not suit the occasion.