by Renee Ahdieh
To spare her from his suffering, even in the smallest of measures.
Mariko swallowed slowly, letting her vision blur. Shoring up her reserve.
At Raiden’s behest, the lock of the cell was unlatched by a waiting soldier. Ōkami raised himself on an elbow, and the emperor’s brother stepped inside to level a vicious kick at his midsection. Mariko bit her tongue to keep from crying out at the muffled thud.
“You dare to address a lady in such a manner?” Raiden spat on Ōkami before kicking him again.
Mariko’s teeth ground together. It took every bit of her remaining willpower to stay motionless. Down to the marrow of her bones, she despised Raiden. Briefly she considered the satisfaction she would feel at shoving a blade through his stomach.
One day, I will make sure he pays for every wound he inflicts.
But she could not contemplate these thoughts now. The darkness needed to invade her. A cool wash of ice needed to flow through her veins. She needed this detachment. Needed to make sure she felt everything in a single instant and then nothing at all in the next breath.
As he watched her inhale, Roku stepped closer. Close enough to touch. The smell of fine silk and the hint of camellia oil radiated from his skin as he placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, startling her. Roku smiled. “Don’t worry, Hattori Mariko. We’ve made certain the son of Takeda Shingen won’t forget his place, not even for an instant. For the remainder of his short life, he will not be able to escape the tarnish of his treachery.” With a wave of his hand, he beckoned toward his brother.
Raiden moved the torch closer to Ōkami’s face.
In the dim reaches of the firelight, Mariko saw the wound below his jaw, etched into his skin in jagged strokes.
At first glance, something about it looked amiss. But when Mariko tilted her head, she realized what they’d done. The two characters meaning “loyalty” had been inked into Ōkami’s neck, but they’d been placed backward. A mark of mockery and shame. One undoubtedly meant to burn the memory of Takeda Shingen’s treachery into his son’s flesh.
As though it had not been there already.
Mariko’s first desire was to react with rage. She wanted to knock the emperor’s hand off her shoulder and sear the smile off his face.
It was a child’s desire. An exercise in futility.
Roku was a cruel boy playing a cruel game. It was clear the empire’s newest sovereign was a shrewd young man, but it was also evident that his cruelty rivaled his intelligence. The Emperor of Wa enjoyed toying with people to see how they would react. And Mariko refused to be any man’s toy.
It was time to show she had a spine. There was a possibility doing so would prove foolish; it was a gamble to allow anyone to see past her armor. But Mariko had assembled her own suspicions in the short time she’d stood calmly beside Roku. As he’d searched for what lay buried behind her heart, Mariko had done the same with him.
If Roku still watched over his prisoner’s cell long after his punishment had been doled out—if the emperor had chosen to keep Ōkami alive past the point when wisdom would have dictated otherwise—Mariko wagered it was not merely for the sport of it.
Something about Ōkami had wriggled beneath Roku’s smiles. The Emperor of Wa was not done causing the son of Takeda Shingen pain. Which meant he relished lording his power over others.
Mariko began with a low bow. She let the blood collect in her head so that when she stood once more, her face appeared flushed in what she hoped was a becoming fashion. “I beg your forgiveness, my sovereign. I do not mean to be impertinent, but I am still uncertain as to why I have been brought here.” Her nails continued digging into her palms. “It’s true this boy took me prisoner. He and his men forced me to work for them until my hands bled. But I am not gladdened to be reminded of this, nor am I the kind of woman who would enjoy seeing cruelty befall any living creature.” Mariko’s voice dropped to a hush. “Have I been brought here as a test of loyalty?” she asked outright, not caring that indignation seeped into her tone.
Roku peered at her, his gaze taking in her every move. “And if you were?”
She nodded once, biding her time. “I would understand why, my sovereign. But it would still cause me pain to hear it.”
“Why is that?”
“Because my loyalty—the loyalty of the Hattori clan—was never once put to question until I was stolen from my family against my will.” Mariko focused her attention on the floor, feigning humility as her speech turned tremulous. “Again I beg pardon for my frankness, but I have had a trying time recently.” She swallowed hard, as though she were warding away tears, her breath wobbling past her lips. “Is it wrong for me to believe I have suffered enough, my sovereign?”
Roku linked his hands behind him. “Then you do not wish Takeda Ranmaru to perish for his crimes?”
It was a delicate balance—the two sides of this game—for it was evident the emperor did not see the truth as she did. As Kenshin had warned, this was a test. If Mariko were simply to say she wished Ōkami dead, the emperor would continue toying with them. An easy answer would not lead to an easy outcome, not with a boy like Minamoto Roku.
Be water.
Warmth pooled in one of Mariko’s palms. Her nails had drawn blood. She let the pain radiate to her eyes and imbued grief into her expression. “Please do not think me ungrateful, my sovereign, but I would never wish to bring about a man’s death, no matter how deserved it might be.” A single tear welled in her left eye as she lied without so much as a care to the Emperor of Wa. Her heavenly sovereign.
It was an artful attempt at persuasion, especially when contrasted with her pitiable efforts earlier. Alas, Mariko’s attempt to convey sorrow did not appear to move Roku in the slightest. He said nothing as his eyes constricted, suspicion tugging at his lips.
Like the pounding of an approaching stampede, Mariko’s heartbeat rose in her ears.
Even with my best efforts, I’ve failed to convince him. Of anything.
Just as she thought her cause utterly lost, a figure shifted nearby. Mariko’s betrothed moved toward her from his place beside Ōkami’s cell, his torch still wavering in his grasp. “It is not the sight of suffering or death that should thrill you. It is the sight of our sovereign’s justice.” Prince Raiden’s thick eyebrows gathered. His eyes raked over her, not in appreciation but in consideration. As he caught sight of her tears, the tension in his arms seemed to abate. “I imagine the idea of torture must be disturbing to you, nonetheless, as a woman.” Though Raiden’s manner oozed of superiority, his expression looked tinged with something … strange. Something unexpectedly earnest. Something Mariko had yet to encounter within these walls.
Compassion? From this brutish boy?
The very idea made Mariko feel as though insects were scuttling across her skin.
When Raiden drew even closer, his body curved protectively around her, as though he were a cocoon and she a wingless creature caught in a trance. Mariko stepped away out of habit, twisting to meet his gaze. When Raiden realized what he had done—that he’d instinctively moved to protect her—furrows formed on either side of his mouth.
In that moment, Mariko knew it was more important than ever for her to begin channeling every skill of Asano Yumi she could espouse. Even then it would likely never be enough. A certain amount of confidence was needed to navigate the waters of artful seduction. Mariko was confident she did not possess it.
These worries fraying at her resolve, Mariko forced herself to keep her thoughts at bay. Gazing up at the stern and unforgiving countenance of Raiden, she brought to mind a different face. One of a boy in black with scarred lips and a sly smile. A boy who understood pain in a way these fools could not even begin to fathom. The same boy who undoubtedly watched her from his cell, in calculating silence.
“Please, my lord,” Mariko said to Prince Raiden, her words measured and clear. “I wish never to see the son of Takeda Shingen ever again. He stole me away from my family. Away from my futur
e. Away from … you,” she breathed without a sound. A fat tear trickled down her cheek. Mariko lowered her lashes, her body tingling with awareness.
It’s too much. It won’t work.
No matter how hard I try, I will never be Yumi.
The doubts crept into her throat. The blood began to well in her palm, threatening to catch notice, even in the darkness.
She remained still, her breath bated.
To her shock, a large hand took hold of Mariko’s elbow. Though it was a warrior’s roughened palm, its touch felt awkwardly gentle, as though it were unaccustomed to offering comfort. “I will see to it that you are returned to your chambers at once.” Raiden spoke gruffly.
When Mariko opened her eyes once more, she caught sight of the emperor in silent conversation with his elder brother. If Roku was surprised or displeased at this turn of events, he did not show it. The two sons of Minamoto Masaru held each other’s gazes for a moment before the emperor nodded once in dismissal.
Her betrothed bowed in deference to his younger brother. The next instant, Raiden directed Mariko’s elbow forward, away from the blood and the ruin.
Every part of her wanted to turn back, one last time. To offer Ōkami a measure of solace. At least the same strength and solidarity he’d given her. The son of the last shōgun remained quiet throughout these exchanges, but Mariko felt the weight of his gaze. Heard the strain of his thoughts. And she wished more than anything that she could share in them.
But Mariko did not so much as look over a shoulder. She knew better than to let either the emperor or his elder brother suspect her sentiments for even an instant. Instead Mariko permitted Raiden to lead her back toward the stairs. The recent ordeal had caused her shoulders to tremble, but she did not prevent them from shivering as she would have normally done, for she’d learned much in the last exchange she witnessed between the two brothers.
Signs of her fragility moved Prince Raiden, even when nothing else did.
Even when it had the exact opposite effect on the emperor.
Mariko intended to take every advantage of this, especially if it meant seeding enmity between the brothers. When she and Raiden started ascending the stairs, she pretended to stumble as though she’d missed a step. Her bloodied palm braced her fall, and she pressed her skin into the rough timber beam along the wall. With a soft cry, she inhaled abruptly. A whiff of the discarded charcoal used to heat the braziers floated into her nostrils, and the crystallized dust swirled down her throat, its flakes causing her to cough.
Raiden caught her against his side. “Are you injured?”
Her expression rueful, Mariko lifted her bloodied palm into the light. “I’m not badly hurt, my lord. Just clumsy.” She smiled a hesitant smile, lingering to gnaw on her lower lip. “Thank you … for being there to catch me, my lord.”
Raiden let his eyes run the length of her. He paused on the soiled hem of her kimono. On her trembling hair ornaments. On her bloody hand and tearstained face.
Then made a decision.
“You’re welcome, Mariko.”
Secrets of a Bamboo Sea
Whenever Tsuneoki had time to himself, he liked to reflect upon life. To consider the many decisions—both good and bad—that had led him to where he was now, strolling alone through a forest of bamboo, with nothing but sparkles of sunlight to guide his way.
As a boy, it had been easy for him to make rash decisions. Youth was a powerful excuse for folly. After Asano Naganori betrayed Takeda Shingen—accusing him of moving against the emperor—a chasm formed between factions of the nobility. In the chaos following, Tsuneoki lost his best friend. Then—a mere month later—he lost his own father. Alone and afraid, he swore to do whatever it took to earn Ōkami’s trust again.
And Tsuneoki had done anything and everything. Even sold his own soul.
Not long after the death of Takeda Shingen, Tsuneoki’s father was executed for treason as well. Tsuneoki fled his family to follow after Ōkami, leaving his mother and younger sister in the care of others. It seemed so simple at first, to disappear with his best friend on another adventure, as they’d often done before. To forget everything, especially his sorrowful mother and his wailing sister.
But they were so hungry on their own. Cold. Ōkami was lost. Tsuneoki was desolate. Against Yoshi’s advice, they met with a bedraggled wielder of magic, who brokered a deal for the boys in the winter of their tenth year.
With the aid of blood oaths and a black-stoned dagger, Tsuneoki and Ōkami gave their futures to demons of the forest—his to a nightbeast, and Ōkami’s to a shapeless demon of wind and fire. Tsuneoki learned to control his beast before it wrought havoc on everything it encountered. Ōkami’s demon was harder to control, but these demons of old relished the chance to once again take shape and be more than spirits sighing in the night.
The two boys swore to never betray their demons.
To follow the light of the moon.
To never have children of their own, for the demons would always be their masters. These decisions had been easy for boys barely ten years of age. Simple things to barter for the power to move about without fear.
But now?
Tsuneoki pushed aside the bright green shoots in his path. Paused to catch his breath before continuing his trudge through the sea of swaying bamboo. He’d long harbored the hope that one day Ōkami would return to his rightful place. Begin to care about things of significance again. Tsuneoki started the Black Clan—this band of wayward rōnin, set on offering hope to those in need of it—with a mind to inspire his best friend to greatness. But Ōkami built a wall around himself, preventing him from feeling anything of significance, be it pain or joy or sorrow.
Nothing Tsuneoki did or said managed to breach that wall, not once in years.
Until the arrival of Hattori Mariko.
A sharp pang seared through Tsuneoki’s side. The injury inflicted by the ghostly fox had just started to mend, and its memory was still sharp, the creature’s claws raking over his insides, even as he slept.
He could not shake the sense of disquiet that had lingered in him ever since the Black Clan attempted to take Akechi fortress. The dark magic he’d felt there reminded him so much of that fateful night eight years ago, when he and Ōkami met with a sorcerer clothed in tattered garments, beneath the light of a sickle moon.
That same sense of disquiet had descended over him then, as it did now.
He shook it off with a turn of his shoulders. Tsuneoki moved forward. The bamboo stalks bent at his will, his body rolling across their smooth surfaces. When he listened closely, a hushed melody seemed to sigh from their hollow centers, spilling secrets to the birds above. Soon he found himself winding down a narrow path, hidden deep in the woods.
He paused again to take stock of his surroundings.
Following the attack that had taken place in Jukai forest the week prior, the Black Clan abandoned their former encampment; it was no longer an option for obvious reasons. The battle against the imperial forces cost them many good fighters, each with families and lives and dreams of their own. Upon learning of these losses, several of the fallen warriors’ relatives elected to take their places and bear weapons against those in the imperial city. Word had spread across the nearby provinces. Friends and family members rode through the night, intent on joining the ranks of the Black Clan. They’d answered the call to action—the call to justice—being painted on stone walls and aging fences, hearkening to the not-so-distant past. Nodding to a symbol that combined the crest of the Asano clan with that of the Takeda.
The events in the forest had been an awakening for them all.
With the capture of the only living son of Takeda Shingen, the nobles loyal to the Minamoto clan attacked the last vestiges of the old ways. It was true that both Takeda Shingen and Asano Naganori mounted an uprising and were executed for treason as a result, but before that, they were heroes. Warriors of legend, upholding a sense of honor that had defined their ranks for centuries.
Over the last few days—despite all the odds—Tsuneoki had witnessed his numbers swell. Families who were no longer content to watch the fruits of their labor fill the coffers of their overlords had sent their sons to the Black Clan. Their brothers. Their fathers. Their nephews.
In less than a fortnight, they’d become too many for any one village to conceal.
Two days ago, Tsuneoki and his men took refuge in an unexplored domain, set against the mist-covered mountains. This maze of bamboo was known as the Ghost’s Gambit, famed for the unfortunate wanderers who had lost their way and were now believed to haunt its twisted paths. Tsuneoki’s men decided not to fight against this sea of bamboo, but to work with it. In doing so, they devised a unique kind of refuge.
Tsuneoki listened to the chiming of the wind as it flowed through the hollow bamboo stalks. A soft melody coiled around him, its ghostly fingers a whispered caress. It was the kind of song one heard if one knew how to listen. Soon he found the spot he’d been looking for. Not a clearing, but a narrow stream blanketed by a haze of fog. At first glance, nothing around him stirred, save for the rustling wind and the burbling water. Everywhere he looked, all he saw were long branches creaking in a liquid sway.
Then figures materialized from behind the stalks.
The Black Clan had built their homes in these trees. They used the bamboo as a means to conceal themselves. By collecting and weaving the sturdiest fronds through the treetops, they created platforms upon which structures had begun to take shape, floating in the canopy above. A wandering traveler would see nothing along the forest floor, save for the swirling mist.
Ren shifted from behind a curtain of stalks, a typically sullen look pulled across his features. One moment he was not there, the next he was in full view, the bamboo undulating in his wake. A boy no older than fourteen trailed at his heels—Yorishige, the nephew of Yoshi, who had traveled far to avenge the death of his eldest uncle.