by Renee Ahdieh
The Shrine of the Sun Goddess
It was Mariko’s wedding day.
She’d been prepared for it only a few weeks ago. Perhaps prepared was the wrong word. She’d been resigned to it. But her union to the son of Minamoto Masaru was not a cause for concern anymore. It fell in the shadow cast by a far greater goal.
Mariko would rescue Ōkami today, even if it meant she had to marry a snake, kiss a spider, and burn a golden castle to the ground to do it. She waited with her attendants in a low-ceilinged room, her head bowed, her eyes affixed on the polished wood floor.
Suke watched her carefully, anticipating her every need, as only the best courtier could do. Following their conversation in the imperial gardens and a rather spirited game of Go, Mariko had requested for Suke to be the first official member of her circle at court.
“Is there anything you desire, my lady?” Suke asked.
“A way to turn back time.”
Suke smothered a smile. “And if that is not possible?”
“A way to speed it forward, so that I may know what the future might bring.” Mariko lifted her chin, and the heavy ornaments adorning her hair—styled in the classic coif of a bride—tugged at the mass of artificial strands near her crown. She grimaced, then sent a smile Suke’s way. “Are the other ladies of court still cold to you?” Mariko dropped her voice as she glanced to one side of the chamber, toward the group of girls to which Suke had once belonged. Mariko had learned that this trio contained the most desirable young ladies of the imperial court. Women with wealthy fathers, exorbitant dowries, and judgmental notions.
Suke eyed them sidelong. “Not cold. Simply indifferent.”
“So much for their absolute mercy.” Mariko coughed through her laughter, the dryness in her throat catching her unawares.
Another grin ghosted across Suke’s lips. “Would you care for some water, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Suke slipped past the maidservant Isa. She took hold of a square of soft linen and held the cloth to the rim before placing the cup against Mariko’s lips, for the long sleeves of Mariko’s formal bridal kimono were far too heavy to lift without assistance. It was known as a jūni-hitoe—a twelve-layered garment. A mountain of multicolored silk, beginning with a snow-white underrobe and ending with a rich purple coat that reminded Mariko of plums in springtime. Each hue had its own elaborate name. When all twelve layers were assembled, the garment’s colors comprised a poem. At her collar and along her sleeves, the tiers of fabric resembled a rainbow. The garment was ridiculously heavy, though it did look beautiful, in that way of outlandishly expensive things. Every kimono Mariko had ever worn before paled in comparison, and she’d been fortunate to don some spectacular garments in her short life.
When Mariko caught signs of dismay on Isa’s face, she stopped short. “What is it?”
Isa balked for an instant, as though she dared not offer any criticism.
“If something is amiss, don’t be afraid to tell me. As I’ve been informed many a time in the last few days, all eyes will be upon me.” Mariko smiled comfortingly.
“Yes, my lady.” Isa bowed. “The rose-petal stain on your lips has bled down your chin.”
Mariko turned to Suke. “Do I look a mess?”
Suke’s nose wrinkled in appraisal. “You look like the most beautiful demon bride I have ever beheld.”
Mariko laughed outright, then turned to Isa for assistance. The girl’s stature was smaller than Mariko’s, as was often the case. For most of her life, Mariko had found herself among the tallest girls of her acquaintance. With the added bulk of her jūni-hitoe, she was sure to look like a colorful demon set on devouring everything within reach.
When Mariko angled her head to help Isa reapply the rose-petal stain on her lips, her intricate headdress slid to one side, almost jerking her neck in an unnatural fashion. Mariko refrained from letting loose a chorus of Ren’s choicest curse words.
“Why won’t this monstrosity stay on straight?” Mariko grumbled.
“My lady?” Isa began. “Perhaps …”
Mariko waited for her to continue.
Isa swallowed before speaking. “I believe it is a result of your hair’s length. Usually a bride’s hair is quite a bit longer than yours, and it helps to hold all the necessary ornaments in place. We tried to use a piece of tufted brocade to bolster the style, but I am certain it is quite uncomfortable.”
Mariko sighed to herself and closed her eyes. She knew this was the way of it. This was how it was done. How a girl marrying into the imperial family comported herself.
For a moment, Mariko allowed herself to dream of what a wedding would look like if she were to dictate its terms, instead of having them dictated to her. She’d never been like Chiyo, her maidservant at home, who’d often fantasized aloud about the colors she would wear or the way the sky would look on the day of her wedding. But just this once, Mariko allowed herself the luxury.
She kept her eyes closed, as though she were composing herself.
In her dreams, her wedding would be during the fall, in a pavilion at the end of a tree-lined lane. Though many believed spring to be the loveliest time of year—with its pale pink cherry blossoms tumbling like silken snow—Mariko always preferred the way the trees looked in fall. Deep red leaves that resembled bleeding stars. Alongside them, there would be ginkgo trees, bursting with golden yellow fronds. If a breeze were to brush through their branches, the leaves would flutter like tiny fans.
Mariko breathed deep.
At the end of a lane strewn with red and gold leaves, there would be a boy with scarred lips and a sly smile. He would be dressed in black, his hair flowing into his face. He would watch her as she walked toward him, his eyes for no other.
Ōkami.
Together they would step inside the simple wooden pavilion at the end of the lane, secluded from any wandering eyes. Even though tradition dictated that others be present—a chief ritualist to run the ceremony, a chamberlain wearing a centuries-old weapon, a court lady, and an unwed priestess as a symbol of purity—that would not be the case for Mariko and Ōkami. They would exchange symbolic sips of sake to declare their union, and no one else would be there, save for the swaying trees and the whispering wind.
How would I look?
Her kimono would be simple, but of the finest silk.
And her hair?
“I wish you could just wear it unbound and loose,” Suke said, interrupting Mariko’s reverie. “At least then you’d be able to hold your head high and move about without having your neck twist in such unnatural angles.”
Like Raiden’s mother.
Mariko’s eyes flashed open. She glanced toward her maidservant. “Isa, will you please request that Lady Kanako join me for a moment?” Satisfaction warmed across her skin. If Mariko wished to buck tradition, she would need an ally. And something told her that her future husband’s mother—a woman who’d made it a point to sneer at tradition—would be the best person to assist in this endeavor.
Mariko’s body had been purified from head to toe, in preparation for the steps she would take in her next life.
It was time for her mind to make a statement of its own.
Mariko began her ceremonial walk, pacing slowly through the ornamental forest toward the shrine to the sun goddess, her head bowed, her fingers trembling in her rainbow sleeves. The sky above was grey. No rain had fallen yet, but the setting sun seemed determined to remain hidden. As though it did not condone what was about to take place.
The blood rushed through Mariko’s veins. Her nerves wound tightly in her chest. Any moment now, those in attendance would notice her small act of defiance.
Not a single soul said a word, but Mariko sensed the tenor change in the air when they caught sight of her unbound, unornamented hair. She eyed the attendants lining the pebbled footpath and the nobles watching and waiting behind them. For an instant, she locked gazes with her brother. Kenshin’s features were somber, as though he
were present at the commemoration of a death, rather than the uniting of two powerful clans and the rising tide of his family, of whom he alone represented. The wedding had been planned too quickly for their parents to make the journey.
Mariko watched Kenshin struggle to conceal his frown. Around him, those of the nobility looked away, discomfort rippling through the crowd. The sight imbued Mariko with strength. She lifted her head—again flouting tradition—her gait fearless, despite the immense height of the lacquered zori on her feet. Though she appeared at peace, her mind spun in constant turmoil. Calculating. Considering. Wondering if the Black Clan had received the messages she’d passed through Yumi. Wondering if the rudimentary map she’d sketched had made its way to Tsuneoki’s hands.
Ignoring all else around her, Mariko centered her thoughts on Ōkami. If her plan failed today—if those she trusted did not take advantage of the distraction her wedding provided—Ōkami would die tonight. He would take with him so many of their hopes and dreams.
Yumi’s dream for revenge on those who had destroyed her life.
Tsuneoki’s hope that his friend would become more than the Honshō Wolf.
Mariko’s dream for a world with a place for her in it. Not as someone’s daughter. Not as someone’s wife. But as a woman who made her own choices. Lived without fear. Even if it meant being married to Prince Raiden, Mariko wanted to live in that world. A world in which the boy she loved still lived. A world in which she could bring about lasting change.
Her hope blazed bright at the thought, despite the fear lurking in her heart. The final strides she took toward the shrine were not shrouded in darkness. It did not matter that the sun refused to shine. Mariko was not beholden to its light.
When she mounted the steps, she was surprised to discover only the participants of the ceremony present, as well as the emperor and Raiden’s mother. The dowager empress was not there. Neither was any member of her retinue. Mariko removed her shining black sandals, and a light rain began to fall, misting everything it touched. A good omen.
Heads turned once more to watch Prince Raiden make his entrance, dressed in a sokutai dyed in the brilliant hues of a setting sun. The elaborate kanmuri on his head was fashioned of black silk. His features looked chiseled from stone. Upon his arrival, the prince was presented with a sacred sprig.
Mariko drowned out the sound of the emperor offering them his grace and protection. Of Raiden pledging his unending loyalty. She instead gazed upon the solemn figure of his mother, watching them closely. When their eyes met, Kanako smiled, the ends of her hair lifting in a passing breeze. Though Mariko still did not trust her fully, she felt a strange sense of solidarity with her. As though they fought alongside each other, bearing the same standard. It comforted Mariko. When she’d requested assistance with her hair—in tossing aside decorum—Raiden’s mother had offered nothing but enthusiasm, almost to the point of amusement.
The emperor witnessed the occasion with a small smile pasted on his face. When the chief ritualist moved to finalize the union, Mariko hid her shock at the glimmer of emotion that passed across Roku’s features. It was clear these feelings were reserved for his elder brother. A bolt of lightning could strike Mariko down where she stood, and the emperor would simply go about his day. But he genuinely cared for Raiden. Odd how such a cold and calculating young man could harbor true affection for his elder brother, especially one raised to be his enemy.
As the ceremonial cup of sake was passed his way, Raiden looked down at Mariko, his brow furrowed. Uncertain. A pang of indecision unfurled in her chest. It had been a mistake for her to imagine this moment with Ōkami. The ache that settled in her throat refused to fade. Raiden touched his lips to the rim of the cup, his gaze locked on Mariko’s face. She wondered what kind of thoughts he might be hiding behind his eyes. What worries or regrets he might be concealing.
Why he had even agreed to marry her.
He passed the sake her way. It was the final symbol of their union, this shared cup between a husband and his wife. Mariko gritted her teeth and brought it to her lips. Their marriage would be a small price to pay if it paved the way to greater opportunities. If it allowed her larger plans to fall into place.
Before Mariko could take a sip, the screams began.
The first arrow struck the emperor in the shoulder, clearly intended for his heart.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Raiden shoved Mariko to the ground, the cup of sake rolling across the polished wood floor. He growled at her to keep still before leaping to his brother’s aid.
A second arrow shot from a higher angle grazed Prince Raiden’s arm before all the guards had managed to surround them. Kanako shouted in fury, her hands twisting through the air, calling for a fog to settle around the pavilion.
Mariko’s heart pounded against the wooden floor, the wind struck from her chest, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. Before she could regain control of her body, she was lifted to her feet and cocooned in the center of armed samurai, each with their hands on their weapons, the emperor being whisked from sight beneath a canopy of shields.
Shouts of servants echoed nearby. Mariko could see nothing but molded armor, white smoke, and flashes of silk. They crossed into another room before she was shoved in a darkened corner, three samurai guarding her path.
“Where is Kenshin?” she gasped.
They did not turn to look at her once.
Fear gripped her from within. She did not know if her brother was safe. And now that Mariko was under watch, she could not make contact with those outside to ascertain whether Ōkami had been rescued. This assassination attempt would ensure that every entrance and exit to the castle grounds was heavily guarded, every samurai on high alert.
If Ōkami had not already managed to escape, it would be all but impossible now.
She’d failed him. Just like with the waxen key. Like the night with the firestones, when Kenshin had caught her. There had been so many times Mariko had tried to rescue Ōkami and failed. Why had she even come here?
For more than a week, Mariko had fought to stave off an onslaught of tears. Tears of pain and fear and desperation. The only times she’d permitted herself to cry openly and without reservation had been strategic. If her tears did not serve an immediate purpose, Mariko had considered them a waste.
Now—huddled in a corner, with samurai shielding her from prying eyes—Mariko cried in earnest, watching her tears fall on the many layers of her wedding kimono. Watching them seep through the twelve layers, like blood.
Something Barely Human
He’d been unable to channel his demon, even after the moon had emerged from behind the clouds. Though Ōkami had managed to free himself using the firestones Mariko’s brother had tossed his way, it had not made a difference. His body was too far broken. The moon had tried to imbue him with strength. Had tried to heal him. Its light had fought to find him through the darkness.
But it had not been enough.
“I need to be outside.” He groaned, his head lolling to one side.
When Tsuneoki first caught sight of Ōkami lying beneath the slip of moonlight, he’d stopped short. Even Ren had kept silent, his eyes bulging from his skull. The third member of their party—a boy whose features reminded Ōkami greatly of Yoshi—could not look away even as he heaved an iron axe against the lock of the cell.
“I’ll destroy all of them,” Tsuneoki ground out. “Every bit of pain they inflicted will be met, ten times over.”
Ōkami struggled to sit up. He would not be able to walk without support. At least four of his toes had been broken. The instant he put weight on his left foot, a searing pain shot up his thigh.
He would never be able to move about like this.
“Just get me outside,” he repeated, biting down to keep from crying out. “Into the light.”
The boy who resembled Yoshi braced Ōkami against his side. Ren took hold of Ōkami’s other arm, and the two young men began dragging him from his cell. Dirty water drippe
d from the conduits above. As they hurried through the blue darkness, Tsuneoki guided them with surefooted steps, even absent a source of light. Ōkami found this strange, as he was certain his friend had never been here before.
His unspoken question was answered when Ōkami realized Tsuneoki was counting his steps. Only Mariko could have found a way to give the Black Clan this advantage. He smiled to himself as another shock of pain rippled across his body. Ren had inadvertently jostled his side.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Ren mumbled.
“Keep at it.” Ōkami tried to jest through the pain. “A few of my ribs aren’t broken yet.”
The boy resembling Yoshi laughed awkwardly, though he loosened his grip on Ōkami, as though he were handling a frail creature at risk of shattering at any moment. “I am Yorishige, my lord. It is an honor to—”
“Save your deference for the deserving, Yorishige-san,” Ōkami muttered.
Tsuneoki held up a hand to halt their steps. Even through the thick stone walls, Ōkami sensed a strange hush descend on them, like the calm before a summer storm.
Ren gripped Ōkami tightly, urging him forward.
The collective roar that emanated from above was one of shock. Not of celebration. Stampeding footsteps shook the very walls of the castle.
“Something’s wrong,” Tsuneoki whispered. They crouched in the shadows while he paused to note where they were in relation to the map in his hand. “Thirty-two paces forward, turn left, move for twenty-four paces, enter a low-ceilinged hallway with the distinct scent of burned charcoal. Proceed,” he whispered.
Ōkami knew his friend said this aloud to edify them all. If they backtracked or were forced to split apart, they would need to know how to return to the same place. To resume the same path.
Leaning his weight on Ren’s shoulder, Ōkami lifted his head, forcing his swollen eye to stay open. “If something is wrong, we need to—”
“Before you say another word, know that we are not stopping to rescue Mariko,” Tsuneoki said.