by Renee Ahdieh
He knew so little of her. Cared to know so little.
And it made her furious.
Yumi rode to the clearing that once housed her brother’s favorite watering hole. It had been abandoned after the elderly man who ran the establishment had been murdered by the Dragon of Kai, according to an anonymous note left at her Oklya, he’d been cut down where he stood, along with his two grandchildren. The boy, Moritake, had been friends with Yumi when they were children. His sister had trailed behind them while they played, ever a loving nuisance.
They’d all been killed in cold blood by Kenshin.
It was not an accident that Yumi had set her sights on the Dragon of Kai. A boy so different from his sister, yet so similar. Both were prideful. Both were stubbornly certain of their own correctness, even in the face of their many failings.
At least Mariko was willing to learn. She possessed a mind like a trap. Kenshin did not wish to know anything. His mind was a void, yawning and deep.
Yumi slid off her horse before the beast came to a full stop. She took off running, past the fringe of maple trees, through the field of overgrown grass surrounding the abandoned lean-to. She came to a skidding halt beside the flowing branches of an aging willow that had always offered those who wandered by a measure of shade.
Her breath flew past her lips in shallow gasps. The anger returned, tearing away the last of her sanity. Yumi knew she shouldn’t do this. Tsuneoki had forbidden her from initiating any unnecessary contact with him. He claimed the risk to her safety far too great. There were channels in place for her to communicate with those outside the imperial city. What Yumi planned to do next was not one of them.
Her brother always thought he knew best.
Yumi bit down hard on nothing until her jaw ached. Then she tore the creased paper from her haori, her gaze fixed. Determined. She’d not waited for the missive to dry before folding it. Her handwriting had smudged, a stark contrast from the measured, elegant script Tsuneoki had come to expect from her.
Asano Yumi did not care. She’d had enough of being told where to go and what to do, by a boy with only a single summer more to his name.
Yumi yanked a hairpin from the twist at the crown of her head. A ring of hair tumbled down her back. She studied the note still in her grasp. The symbol of a starling stared back at her. Years ago, Yumi had chosen it to represent herself. A simple bird that did not evoke fear on its own, for it was small and rather annoying.
But a flock of starlings?
They could decimate everything in sight. Destroy entire crops. Lay siege to a domain’s livelihood in the span of a single day, if they worked together.
Using her hairpin, Yumi stabbed the piece of washi to the willow tree. Stepped back with satisfaction. Maybe Tsuneoki did not see her as strong enough to fight alongside the men of the Black Clan.
But he would see how wrong he was very soon.
The suggestion of a smile taking shape, Yumi mounted her horse and raced back through the trees, ignoring the way the branches almost unseated her as she tore past them.
Tsuneoki would scold her if he knew the entirety of her plan. Would rage and yell and lecture. But Yumi did not always tell her brother everything. And she’d learned only today that the newly instated Emperor of Wa would be in a very specific place, at a very specific time in the coming week.
Asano Yumi intended to be there as well.
The Masked Troupe
Murmurs followed her wherever she went. Mariko moved through the crowd toward her seat, her head held high. Demonstrating a fearlessness she did not feel in her heart.
She’d come to the city’s theater district with a purpose today.
Keeping her gaze focused on the path before her—and nowhere else—Mariko took her place on a silken cushion in a shadowed corner, far removed from the common folk who jostled for a better look at Prince Raiden’s bride. They muttered behind their hands as they waved their painted fans. Wondering. Whispering.
The murmurs died down with the first flash of fire. When the clash of a wool-covered baton against a drum bounded through the space, the people positioned on the low benches began cheering. The sound and fire represented the thunder and lightning at the start of the play. A play that showcased how their brilliant former emperor had rooted out the traitors from his court and punished them for their duplicity.
The crowd cheered as the first masked member of the theater troupe took to the stage, the monkey fur around his mask trembling with each of his exaggerated steps. He crowed like a buffoon, his speech a singsong celebration of simple achievements, such as managing to clean his own backside and not stab a servant for brewing the wrong kind of tea. This fool of an actor was meant to represent Takeda Shingen, who—if the play were to be held as true—was nothing more than a pompous oaf who bungled his plan to overthrow the great Minamoto Masaru.
As the crowd’s laughter lilted into a sky set aflame, another equally ridiculous man in a grinning mask lurched to the first actor’s side to portray the role of Asano Naganori. A gaggle of swooning young women trailed in his footsteps, their lips puckered, their hands clasped, as he bombarded the audience with tales of his numerous sexual exploits, including his discovery that bigger breasts were better. In fact, bigger everything was better.
The fool and his flock of honking geese.
Ōkami’s father and Tsuneoki’s father were being rendered as bumbling louts to entertain the masses and eradicate any trace of their greater deeds. Mariko watched and pointed and laughed with them all. She tittered behind her lacquered fan, until she’d lost the attention of those in attendance, who undoubtedly found the spectacle onstage far more captivating.
She’d chosen this particular play for many reasons. No one would question her request to see it, for it would seem odd to prevent her from watching a tale lauding the achievements of her future husband’s family. Following Minamoto Masaru’s death, it was only natural that there would be many performances depicting his heroism. His brilliance. His ingenuity, even in the face of such reckless traitors.
But this particular play?
It was a long one. Far longer than usual. It would hold its audience’s attention well past nightfall.
As the story continued—as the rapt masses became absorbed in the tale of treachery unfolding before them—Mariko slid farther into the darkness along the edges of the outdoor pavilion. She eased to standing, then lingered on the fringes, carefully fading into the deepest shadow beside the walls of screened shoji. As she moved, she slid the tinkling ornaments from her hair. Pulled a thin bundle of dark silk from her kimono sleeve. Then—when Takeda Shingen and Asano Naganori’s duplicity was unmasked onstage to sounds of sheer loathing—Mariko let the shouts and the jeering and the pounding of the drums conceal her departure.
Her heart hammering in a steady thrum, she wrapped her shoulders in silk the color of night. The silver flashes and thunderous roars of the performance reached their pinnacles, and Mariko shouldered past the gap between two shoji, angling for the small alley nearby.
“My lady?”
A voice rang out from her right.
Mariko stopped short, a wash of panic unfurling across her skin.
Isa.
Struggling to paste a smile onto her face, Mariko turned to meet the confused gaze of the young maidservant. Isa took in Mariko’s unmistakable attempt to conceal her appearance, however haphazardly.
The girl did not need to ask any questions.
Mariko’s shoulders sagged. Isa would tell whomever she reported to that Prince Raiden’s bride had attempted to flee into Inako without warning. The guards posted near the entrance of the theater pavilion would escort her back to Heian Castle, where she’d be forced to face her betrothed.
And explain herself to the emperor.
“Please,” Mariko said softly. She took a step, then stopped, not knowing what to say or do. If she should say anything at all.
Isa’s chest rose and fell. The puzzlement remained on her feat
ures, her forehead creased with concern. “Why?” she whispered.
Mariko shook her head. “Please, Isa-chan,” she entreated once more. “I’ll return before the play is finished. No one would need to know.”
Isa’s eyes darted to Mariko’s face. Back over her shoulder. Then toward the entrance where imperial guards awaited their return. She took another deep breath. It was as though Mariko could see Isa’s heart and mind at war with each other. Her loyalty should be to their emperor. Just as Mariko’s should be.
The same emperor who had turned a blind eye toward a plague as it ravaged Isa’s home province.
Mariko watched the maidservant make her choice.
The lines across Isa’s brow vanished. Without a word, she bowed low and went back toward the performance.
Mariko did not stop to think. She raced into the alley, pulling the silk tightly around her shoulders. In less time than it took to flutter her fingers, she was hidden beneath the canopy of a jinrikisha, being whisked into the winding roads just beyond the theater district.
Gratitude coursed through her veins. Isa had bought her this chance. And Mariko had no intention of wasting it on this play of lies and puffery. Her marriage would occur in a few short days. Acquiescing to it had granted her a single night to wander the city of Inako without a full retinue in tow.
Mariko needed to move quickly.
Without a moment’s hesitation, she told the driver of the jinrikisha where to go.
The moment Yumi saw Mariko, her reaction was to chastise the girl for coming to her okiya unannounced. The daughter of Hattori Kano must be ignorant to her brother’s recent comings and goings, and the Dragon of Kai would likely arrive at the teahouse next door at any moment.
If he saw her …
In the same breath, Yumi realized that Mariko had come alone. An impossible feat for any lady of the court. Suspicion flooding her mind, she shoved the girl into a shaded alcove, then pressed her through a set of sliding doors to a private room cloistered in the shadow of a birch tree.
“Whatever reason drove you to come to Hanami, I sincerely hope it to be a good one,” Yumi began in a hushed voice.
To her credit, Hattori Mariko did not waste time on unnecessary chatter. “Have you received word from your brother?”
Yumi pursed her lips at the younger girl. A part of her could not ignore the annoyance she felt whenever she considered Lady Mariko. After all, this was the girl her brother had allowed into the Black Clan. The girl who’d won the heart of Ōkami. For the last few days, Yumi had soothed her bruised ego with the possibility that this alone was the reason Tsuneoki had allowed Mariko into the ranks of their brotherhood. For Ōkami’s sake. No part of Yumi wanted to believe that Mariko deserved her brother’s admiration, much less that of the Honshō Wolf.
When Yumi was a child, she’d adored the son of Takeda Shingen. Even gone so far as to insist they would marry one day, despite his loud protestations. Age and circumstance had disavowed her of the notion. She now considered Ōkami more of a brother than her own flesh and blood, but it did not stop her from wondering what this earnest-eyed waif possessed that she did not.
“I do wish you would exercise more caution, Lady Mariko,” Yumi said, even as she continued pressing the girl’s back into the wall. Restraining her. “This city thrives on gossip, and information of this sort—that Prince Raiden’s bride was seen in Hanami—would undo most young women.”
An exasperated sigh passed Mariko’s lips. “I don’t have time for caution or silly traditions. Please answer my question. Why has Tsuneoki not attempted to make contact with me? Does he have any plans to mount a rescue effort for Ōkami?”
“Keep your voice down.” Yumi chastised her with a sharp glare. “I don’t know if he plans to mount a rescue yet. There have been some … developments along the eastern edges of the empire, and they’ve been a hindrance to passing and receiving information.”
“You’re speaking of the plague.” Mariko nodded, her tone hovering just above a whisper. “I do not have many details, but I do know that it has also been a source of consternation between the emperor and his elder brother.”
Unable to withhold her appreciation for the girl’s resourcefulness, Yumi tilted her head in thought. “Interesting.”
“Can you find a way to deliver Ōkami out of the city, if I manage to get him to you?”
The girl was relentless, and it made Yumi’s begrudging admiration for her grow. “That might prove to be difficult,” she said drily. “It would not be an easy feat to leave the city with Takeda Shingen’s son and Prince Raiden’s betrothed in tow.”
“I will not be going with you. It will just be Ōkami. But these details are unimportant right now. Do you have a way to get word to your brother and see if he can assist?”
This time, it was impossible for Yumi to hide her surprise at Hattori Mariko’s revelation. “You do not intend to go with Ōkami, Lady Mariko?”
“My name is simply Mariko,” she said. “Please call me that and dispense with all these ridiculous formalities.” She bit at her lip while seeming to struggle for the best way to lend her thoughts a voice. “I would like nothing more than to leave this place behind, but I do not think it is possible, and”—Mariko sucked in a breath—“I believe I can serve the Black Clan better if I remain at Heian Castle. They will need a listening ear at court if they ever intend to prevail over the Minamoto clan, and I can easily provide that as Prince Raiden’s wife.”
Yumi nodded, impressed by her logic. Hattori Kenshin’s sister was not the same girl who’d been left to convalesce in the okiya, broken and burned after the disastrous raid on the Hattori granary. Thus far, Yumi had thought Mariko simply possessed a mind for invention. Not an eye for strategy.
“My brother will not leave you behind.” Yumi sighed. “And Ōkami will never permit it.”
“It is not something for him to permit.” Mariko spoke with conviction. “It is my choice. I’m counting on you to help me with it, Yumi-san. You know it is the best course of action for me to stay at court. I will only slow their escape, therefore …” She glanced at Yumi sidelong, an unspoken request hanging in the air.
“You wish for me to lie.” It was not a question.
“I wish for you to help me by holding these details close at hand, only for a short while.”
“You wish for much.” Though Yumi wore a steely expression as she said the words, she began to relax for the first time since she’d set eyes on the girl today.
They’d spent time in each other’s company before. Yumi had cared for Mariko while the girl had healed from her injuries. Though Yumi had kept Mariko hidden and fed, she had not spent much time actually speaking with her.
It was quite simple: Yumi had not trusted her. And why should she? Ōkami had been livid when he’d brought the girl to the okiya. Mariko had concealed her identity from him, putting them all at risk.
Any esteem Yumi had felt for her had been relegated to the simple fact that Mariko had won over the heart of Ōkami. Another impossible feat. Up until now, Yumi had seen little to recommend a true friendship between them. Yumi held her secrets close to her heart, and Mariko was direct in her pursuits. Far more direct than Yumi thought wise.
Though it pained her to admit it, Yumi realized her reticence to befriend Mariko might stem from jealousy. It bothered her immensely to know that. She had far better things to do with her time than be jealous of another girl.
The two young women knelt in the center of the small chamber of Yumi’s living quarters, regarding each other in silence. Her trusted maidservant, Kirin, slid open the doors, and an elegant courtyard framing a serpentine stream flashed into view. The calming sounds of the winding water granted Yumi a moment of serenity in a world of madness. Her sense of peace renewed, Yumi smiled as Kirin shuffled back to the sliding doors, leaving a tray of steam cakes and other refreshments behind.
Yumi and Mariko drank their tea. From beneath her eyelashes, Yumi studied Hattori Kenshin’s sist
er, trying to glean more of her personality.
Now that Yumi had spent two nights in Kenshin’s company, she could say without reservation that Mariko did not resemble her brother at all, in manner or in speech. There was a beautiful urgency to everything she did. An earnestness that both warmed Yumi and cautioned her in the same instant. In contrast, Kenshin seemed determined to punish himself for every breath he took. Nothing seemed urgent to the Dragon of Kai, save for escape.
For the first time, Yumi understood what Ōkami saw in Mariko. Unfaltering resolve. Ōkami had always been steadfast in his lack of principles. One could even suggest it was an honor-bound struggle for him. He cared about little and loved almost nothing. Yumi understood why. He’d lost everything, just as she had. In recent years, Ōkami provided her with a foil for Tsuneoki. She’d knowingly used her affection for him to inflict hurt on her brother.
To make him feel the pain of her rejection as she had felt the pain of his.
Yumi set down her porcelain cup and let her shoulders fall in relaxation. “Mariko, we’ve spent most of our time together speaking about the men we are unlucky to know, but I wish to learn something of you. Why are you doing this?”
Dismay flashed across Mariko’s face. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to be involved in these matters. You could simply live your life. Get married if you wish to marry, go home if you wish to go home. You are not in a situation where your life depends on whether or not we can depose Minamoto Roku. In fact—given your family’s longstanding support of the Minamoto clan—it might be more problematic for you than helpful to assist us.”
A breath passed in stunned stillness. Yumi watched Mariko’s features shift from astonishment to guilt to calculation. She appreciated the girl for not trying to play a game of words simply to impress. It shed further light on her character.
“I’ve not spoken about this with anyone before,” Mariko said. “No one in my family’s province could have been trusted with it, even my personal attendant—a girl who died trying to save me that day in the forest, when my caravan was overrun by bandits. I’ve been listening to the words of men all my life. I’ve done what I was told to do for seventeen years. Before I infiltrated the Black Clan, do you know the last time I felt in control of my own life? The last time I felt alive?”