by Renee Ahdieh
Now she was stretched across the floor, her toes still resting on the edge of the thick stone sill and both hands spread in front of her as though she were about to take flight.
What do I do with my feet?
On instinct, she shifted her right foot forward, balancing her body on her three remaining appendages. Then she placed her foot on top of her hand, spreading it from her toes to her heel slowly and evenly, compensating for any additional noise around her by shifting her stance.
When the nightingale floor bore her weight without any loud protests, Mariko almost crowed aloud, only to have her triumph abruptly silenced. The creaking sound of an approaching guard emanated outside the hallway to her right. Mariko stayed hovering above the floorboards, her limbs starting to tremble from the strain of remaining still.
Once the footsteps faded into the distance, Mariko resumed her crablike scuttle across the nightingale floor, rolling her hands and balancing on her toes, all the while anticipating any sounds of protest from below. The faintest whisper continued emanating from beneath her, that same odd creaking sound, muted by her watchful efforts.
After she passed over the central corridor, she broke away and followed the path she’d trod earlier, in the shadows along each wall.
Her lips counted out her steps, and her heart thundered in her chest as she made her way past the stone walls bound in aged oak timbers to the darkness of Heian Castle’s underbelly. Again she stayed to the walls, aiming toward the narrow slit of window cut high into the wall to the far left. It sent a strip of moonlight downward, just near the entrance to Ōkami’s cell.
Ōkami stirred as she neared, his chains grazing the wall. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised he sent an assassin in the—”
“Be quiet!” Mariko said in a low rasp.
A moment of shocked silence passed.
“Mariko.” The sound of his voice changed in a single word. Her name. There had not been many occasions for Ōkami to use it, for he’d not learned of it until recently. And each time Mariko heard him say it, a warmth enveloped her for an instant, like the falling of a cloak around her shoulders on a chilly autumn night. For just a moment, it made her feel like one of those silly lovesick fools she’d disdained for most of her life.
Enough.
Now was not the time or place for Mariko to enjoy hearing anyone’s name on anyone’s lips. Without stopping to even acknowledge Ōkami, she removed the parcel she’d stuffed inside her kosode, her heart hammering for a different reason.
“What are you—”
“Follow directions for once in your life, and keep silent while I work,” she admonished. Guilt rippled through her when she realized how harsh she must sound, especially to someone who’d been tortured and mistreated by soldiers for days on end. Without pausing in her task, Mariko tossed a wrapped steam cake through the bars, in Ōkami’s direction. Then she took hold of the large iron lock securing the metal gate. After only a moment’s consideration, she uncapped a small vial and poured a thin stream of oil inside the lock, turning it on all sides before dripping any excess liquid onto the dirty straw at her feet.
Mariko felt his eyes on her as a soft rumble of laughter passed from his lips.
Of course Ōkami knew what she was trying to do without her needing to say a word.
“Be quiet, please,” she repeated through her teeth. Her hands shaking under his watchful gaze, Mariko lifted the wax taper she’d pilfered from her chamber into the moonlight emanating from the small window above. She struggled to light the wick, her fingers trembling spitefully. She tried once. Twice.
Finally, it caught.
Even through the darkness, the weight of Ōkami’s attention fell heavy upon her. Though he remained silent, his unspoken question hung heavy in the darkness.
Mariko sighed. “I’m fine. Nothing horrible has happened to me yet. I’ve managed to eat well, and I’ve slept far longer than permissible beneath a blanket of padded silk.”
“Are my thoughts so loud that you can hear them?” His amusement filled the space.
“They’re debilitating. Now keep silent.” Pursing her lips, Mariko shifted the lit taper slowly on its side, until the flame bent into the wax. It began to drip. Without a word, she inserted the thin metal bar of the tortoiseshell hairpiece she’d filched from Shizuko’s tray into the lock itself. The melted wax trickled around the bar, and Mariko rotated the lock in careful quarter-turns, coating its insides. She paused until the cooling wax pushed past the entrance of the keyhole, then kept steady, waiting for it to harden and lose its translucent quality.
Just as she began to see the light at the end of the path, the sound of approaching footsteps ricocheted from the stairs behind her.
Panic drove her to meet Ōkami’s gaze, his eyes like two black diamonds buried deep in the shadows. While Mariko pinched out the lit taper, he gestured with those flashing eyes toward the far wall. A moment later, she found herself pressed against the cold sludge as it oozed through the thin fabric of her garments. Many-legged creatures scuttled in all directions along the wall behind her, their tiny limbs like wet feathers brushing across her outstretched fingertips. She did not cringe away from the darkness and the creatures it brought. Welcomed it for the cloak it provided.
The footsteps grew louder. The light of a torch wavered into view.
Mariko held her breath tightly in her throat, wishing once more for the weight of a weapon at her side. Wishing for anything that could be used in her defense, beyond an endless store of lies.
With nothing but her wits within reach, Mariko waited to see what hand Fate would deal her tonight.
If
A torchlight angled toward them, glancing the way of Ōkami’s cell. Its tongue of fire leapt across the walls, pitching shadows at the slightest suggestion. It paused for a moment, a stone’s throw from where Mariko stood, her body flattened against the muck. She willed herself smaller, her eyes squeezed shut, her nails digging into the slime.
When the torch’s bearer found what he sought—the emperor’s prisoner, still ensconced in his prison—the light returned the way it had come. After a period of perilous silence, Mariko crouched back to her position beside the lock, inhaling through her nose to settle the strain of keeping her body still.
The wax she’d poured within the lock had hardened to a pale yellow. Gingerly she began prying the thin metal of the tortoiseshell hairpiece from the tumblers. The oil she’d used to coat the inside of the lock helped loosen the wax, and the entire mass broke free after Mariko wiggled it back and forth, easing it from its position.
What she removed resembled a twig with many misshapen branches springing from its end. She knew somewhere beneath this contorted lump was the form of a key. Mariko studied it, turning it this way and that, her fingers still shaking from the recent ordeal. Breathing deeply, she mopped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve.
Now came the difficult part: fashioning a working key from this convoluted mold.
“This is dangerous.” Ōkami’s words were so soft, Mariko first thought she’d imagined them.
“Don’t talk.”
“I don’t want you risking yourself for me,” he continued, his voice unhurried. “Not anymore.”
“I’m not risking myself for you,” Mariko retorted. “I’m here for me. Because I still have things I wish to accomplish with my life.” She refocused her attention on the misshapen mass. Slowly began chiseling away twisted fragments of wax, using a lacquered chopstick she’d pilfered from her evening meal. “It turns out my wishes have something to do with you.”
A moment passed in stillness. “I don’t have any wishes, Mariko,” he said gently. “I haven’t had the luxury of dreams for many years.”
“Liar.” Her brow furrowing in concentration, Mariko broke away another piece of hardened wax.
“I’m not lying.”
“Then what are you doing here? Why did you allow yourself to be captured?” she asked in a hollow whisper, her exasp
eration mounting. “Why do you persist in provoking them? Do you hope they break every one of your bones a million times over?” Her ire grew with each question, but Mariko could sense Ōkami smiling as she continued chipping away at the hardened wax.
“Are we in a lovers’ quarrel?” He laughed. “I’ve missed sparring with you, in words and in … other ways.”
Her fingers tightened around her work as warmth blossomed in her neck. “Stop acting like a fool.” Mariko gritted her teeth. “It’s not going to work with me. Stop pretending nothing matters, when I know that to be far from the truth.”
Ōkami did not reply immediately. “I guess you know all my secrets now.” Though amusement tinged his tone, Mariko caught the spark of something else beneath it. Something limned in fire.
Anger.
He is not the only one with a reason to be angry.
“Clearly I don’t know all your secrets.” Mariko let the sound of indignation mask her pain. “Or have you already forgotten how you concealed your identity from me for weeks?” A flash of recent memories caused her sight to swim. “Even after we’d shared more than I’ve shared with anyone else?” She swallowed. “Even after I’d given you my heart?”
Ōkami said nothing for a time. The pain renewed in her chest, spreading like blood through water, but she refused to fill the silence first. Refused to ask the question that had been burning on her tongue since that fateful night in the forest.
“You can ask me, Mariko,” he said finally. “From you, there is nothing I wish to hide. Not anymore.”
Mariko inhaled. “Why did you lie to me about who you were?”
“It was enough that Tsuneoki and Yoshi knew. In truth, I would have preferred it if no one did.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He frowned. “I didn’t want anyone to think they owed me allegiance or apology.”
“So you lied to everyone from a misguided sense of nobility?” She blinked. “Allow me to congratulate you, Lord Ranmaru, for you are now the noblest of fools. And now your life may be forfeit.”
Ōkami’s eyes glinted as he shifted forward. “My life is always at risk.”
“I see,” Mariko replied. “So why bother trying to preserve it for anyone, least of all for yourself?”
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing things clearly, Lady Manko.”
Her brow furrowed. “Don’t mock my pain.”
“My apologies. I’d say I was only taking the bait, but my foolish nobility dictates I behave otherwise.” His words were measured, refusing to engage her in any meaningful way. Refusing to offer the slightest apology. With a yawn, Ōkami leaned into the wall at his back, as though he were bored and in need of rest.
It was what he always did. What he’d always done since the day in the clearing when Mariko had first met him. As soon as Ōkami was ever forced to answer anything of substance, he found a way to worm out of it with a dash of humor or a turn of apathy. Like a coin being tossed through the air.
Tonight his apathy enraged Mariko beyond measure. It grated on her even more than his usual condescension. She’d managed to keep the worst of her fears at bay for much of the night, but now they threatened to return, their claws scraping near her heart.
“After all your family lost, I don’t understand how you can continue to be so indifferent. Are you feigning it?” Mariko demanded. “Or have you been feigning apathy for so long that you no longer know the difference? Do you even know what it means to truly feel?” The words left her in a sudden rush, her anger mounting beyond her control. With a muted cry, she threw the empty vial of camellia oil against the iron bars, the glass shattering on contact. The exploding shards rang out a twisted melody as they struck the metal, the song clamoring through the darkness, threatening to draw the notice of anyone listening above. A gasp of fear escaped Mariko’s lips. A worry that her anger at him would be their undoing.
They waited like statues until silence once more engulfed the space.
When Ōkami spoke, his voice was soft. Apologetic. “That was … dramatic.” He sighed. “But I suppose I am to blame for that.” All trace of sarcasm had vanished. “I have no excuse for provoking you, especially when you came to help me.”
“No.” Mariko shook her head, her right hand trembling as she brushed a tendril of hair behind one ear. “My behavior is mine and mine alone. You are not to blame. I let my anger take hold, and anger is a temperamental beast.”
“As always, you are the wisest man I know, Sanada Takeo,” Ōkami said gently.
“Ha!” Mariko resumed her work with the lock. “When I next see Yoshi, I will be sure to tell him you said that.”
Ōkami did not respond immediately. “I can think of nothing I’d want Yoshi to hear more.” He cleared a strange rasp from his throat. “Though he would likely agree with you, especially after all that has transpired.”
Another small piece of wax fell from Mariko’s hands. “I still don’t understand why you allowed Prince Raiden’s men to put you in chains. Why didn’t you simply turn into smoke and kill them that night in the forest?”
“I could have done that, it’s true.” Another beat of quiet passed as Ōkami pressed farther into the shadows, all but concealing his face from view. “But I could not take the risk of what might have followed.”
Mariko’s focus remained fixed on the makeshift key. “That we might have won?”
“No.” He paused. “That I might have lost … everything.”
“Noble fool,” she grumbled.
“We do what we must.” Ōkami leaned forward. “It’s my turn to ask a question. What are you doing here, Mariko?”
Startled by the question, Mariko almost dropped the lacquered chopstick. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to rescue you.”
“You volunteered to come to Inako—to marry a heap of steaming dung like Prince Raiden—simply to set me free?”
Mariko chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Do you not wish to be set free?” Her forehead creased. “To fight alongside your men to restore justice to our land?”
“Justice to our land?” Ōkami laughed. “You’ve been spending too much time around Tsuneoki.”
“Stop making jokes. They’re inappropriate at a time like this. They won’t do anything to dispel your anger.”
“I disagree.” Ōkami sat up, wincing through the motions. “And I’m not angry. Just bitter.” He paused in contemplation. Took a deep breath. “I watched Yoshi die, Mariko.”
A sudden hush settled around them as Mariko stilled in her work, her hands dropping into her lap. It was as though something had reached into her chest and wrapped her heart in a burning vise. The feeling grew until it reached her eyes. All the burdens of the last few days seemed to descend on her in a rush, as though a dam had been broken, the water fighting furiously to regain its lost ground.
Tears began rolling down her cheeks in steady streams. Tears she had once considered a sign of weakness, but Mariko knew—in this moment—that Yoshi would have encouraged her to shed them. Encouraged her to be true to herself, no matter the cost.
It had taken her losing everything she knew to finally understand. Feeling pain and sorrow was not at all a sign of weakness.
It was a sign of love.
As he watched her cry, Ōkami let his head rest against the wall, his fists clenching at his sides until his knuckles turned white. As though he could take hold of his pain and leash it tightly to him. He said nothing for a time, and the space around them fell silent, like Death itself had come to roost.
Mariko concentrated on the sound of his breathing. Despite the worrisome whistle emanating from his throat, she let its rhythm lull her into a feeling of calm. The last time she’d listened to Ōkami breathe was the night he came to her tent in Jukai forest, after she’d been welcomed as a member of the Black Clan. The first girl to join the ranks of their brotherhood. Ōkami fell asleep beside her, his bare skin pressed to hers, and Mariko kept still, not wanting to disturb him.
Not wan
ting the magic to end.
It had been the last time she’d felt as though all would be well. As though hope were a sunrise, burning brightly along her horizon.
If her family would let her be.
If Mariko could have stayed there, free to blaze her own path in life.
If Ōkami would be by her side. Always.
If.
If.
Understanding flared within her, like a moon emerging from behind a bank of clouds. This must have been what Ōkami dreamed of. The same thing that kept him from chasing after his birthright. The need to be at peace, surrounded by those he trusted.
Safe.
When was the last time Mariko had felt safe before that night?
I can’t remember.
“After I lost my mother to the sea, I spent a great deal of time with Tsuneoki’s family,” Ōkami began in a calm voice. “My father’s position often took him away from our province, so it was better for me to remain among friends. Better for us all. When we were small, I would often find myself fighting to defend Tsuneoki. Even though he is taller than I am now, he was small for most of our childhood and a bit odd, not unlike you.” He smiled to himself. “One day during the winter of our fifth year, I slipped and fell while chasing after a boy who’d been trounced by Tsuneoki in a game of Go. The boy had taken his loss out on Tsuneoki’s face, which was unfortunate, since Tsuneoki’s appearance has always been his only asset.” His grin widened, and Mariko found herself smiling with him, despite all.
Ōkami continued. “When I fell, I landed in a patch of melting snow. It splashed everywhere, and my nursemaid had to drag me indoors before I became sick from the cold. The boy and his friends laughed like it was all a great joke. Later that night, Yoshi found me crying outside. It was one of the last times I remember crying. When I tried to hide it—because I’d been taught that a young man, especially the son of a fearsome shōgun, did not cry—he said, ‘Little lord, don’t stop yourself from feeling. That is what it means to truly live.’” Ōkami fell silent, lost in remembrance, his eyes hinting at something deeper. Richer. Truer.