Beauty from ruin.
He cursed Amaya for being who she was. For taking his reason to hope away in one simple, selfless action. Kenshin inhaled deeply, letting his eyes return to the ceiling of the teahouse. Even the wooden rafters were etched with rows of intricate carvings. When he looked closer, he realized each timber told its own story. He followed one until he caught sight of a row of carved cranes soaring from one rafter to the next.
A story that ended in death. Golden cranes were meant to depict the flight of departing souls. Kenshin imagined that the crane bearing Amaya’s soul blazed the path of flight for those in its wake.
Even when he shifted his gaze beyond his reality—tried to forget—Kenshin was unable to escape the cold truth of her absence.
He was alone. Utterly.
The noise around him died down in a sudden hush, but Kenshin kept his eyes trained on the ceiling, allowing the sensation of the silk against his skin to steady his thoughts. Softly strummed shamisen music flowed from the far corner, its timbre poignant, its melody sad. A murmur of male approval began to take shape.
Kenshin let his gaze drift down from the ceiling. His vision spun for a moment before locking on the figure of a new geiko posed near the entrance, in preparation for a dance. Her face was half covered by a lacquered fan, but her eyes caught his attention. Large and perfectly bright, their centers glinted with mischievousness before sloping down at their edges. Kenshin locked eyes with her, and he saw a flash of something in their dark grey depths, there one second and gone the next. As though they’d borne witness to their own share of pain. Even if Kenshin saw nothing but her eyes, he would find the girl arresting. He did not even care to look elsewhere, so entranced was he by the story buried in their shining depths.
She held his attention with nothing else. Rapt, as though he’d been ensorcelled.
The geiko moved her fan in a graceful arc and turned in a single smooth circle. The back of her neck was long and pale, carved from smoothest alabaster. The faint luster of crushed pearls gleamed on her skin in the light emanating from the lanterns above.
Kenshin sat up, awareness flashing over him, making him feel all too alive. Alive in a way he had not felt for long days and endless nights.
The geiko lowered her chin and glanced over one shoulder, a half smile wending up her face. The sort of smile Kenshin knew to be false.
For a true smile did not involve thought or effort.
Nevertheless he found himself leaning forward. Bending toward her like a willow caught in the wind. The geiko anchored her eyes on him as she began her dance.
Even if she behaved in a similar fashion with every man in the room, Kenshin did not care.
He had to know her. Had to speak with her. Had to learn if her sadness mirrored his own.
The geiko whirled one fan around her right index finger and fluttered the fan in her left hand through the air as though it were buoyed upon gently rolling waves.
Kenshin knew better than to allow himself to be mesmerized by a young woman who specialized in such things. For most of her life, he was certain she’d practiced the art of the dance until her fingers blistered and her ankles swelled. She undoubtedly knew poetry, knew how to sing like a songbird, knew how to laugh with a mind to beguile, and knew how to smile until a man would give anything to know her secrets.
And yet that glimpse of pain Kenshin had seen in her downturned eyes. The story in the simplest of her movements.
It was as though no one else existed at all.
He closed his eyes. A memory of Amaya flitted through his mind, burning through his vision. Her earnestness. Her love. Her trust.
Kenshin cursed her once more. She’d left him alone. Ashamed.
Angry.
He opened his eyes, and the geiko smiled at him as she finished her dance. She swept the train of her luminous kimono behind her with a delicate motion, allowing him to catch sight of her small feet, encased in the white silk of her tabi. Then she shuffled his way, ignoring all else around her.
She bowed low, the dainty ornaments in her hair tinkling and flashing together like magic. With a stern look at the young woman still waiting by his side, the geiko exchanged places with his former attendant in a flurry of flying silk. Kenshin breathed deep as she leaned his way.
Orchids and honey. Escape and abandon.
“May I serve you, my lord?” she said softly.
There are ways to get what you want from young women, without being burdened by the weight of expectation.
His father’s words echoing in his ears, Kenshin nodded, his mouth dry. “I am”—he cleared his throat—“Hattori Ken—”
“The Dragon of Kai,” she replied. “I know who you are.” A true smile touched her perfect rosebud lips. “My name is Yumi, my lord. How may I serve you?”
The Sword of Truth
What am I doing here?
Mariko struggled to answer this question last night, when Ōkami had posed it to her beside his cell. At first, she thought the obvious response was to rescue him. But it had seemed incongruous in that instant. Especially because she failed to do so only a breath before.
She’d not considered the possibility of failure. Nowhere in her plans had she thought she would be unable to find a way to save Ōkami, somehow. Ever since she was a child, it had been Mariko’s long-held belief that there was always a solution, so long as there existed a spirit. In truth, she’d hoped to free Ōkami from his cell soon after arriving in Inako, so as to thwart any possible attempt on his life.
How silly she’d been.
Hattori Mariko had known she was coming to a city built on secrets and lies, and she’d believed her time dressed as a boy, sleeping beneath the trees like a wood sprite, had taught her everything she needed to know to fight whatever enemy wandered into her path. As though such a thing could be taught at all. Not once had she considered whether or not she possessed the tools needed to take on such a task.
Once again, Mariko was a silly girl, just as she’d been before, when she’d thought to disguise herself in a dead man’s clothing and triumph against seasoned warriors in the process. She was arrogant in her intelligence. As though the greatness of her mind had granted her leave to act without thought.
At least Mariko had not arrived completely empty-handed and addlepated. She’d worked to devise a plan while they’d journeyed to Inako, the winding roads jostling her about in her makeshift norimono. The litter had been a twisted nod to the first time she trekked to the imperial city as a bride, less than one month prior. From its shadowy confines, Mariko had laid out a strategy. By day, she would convince the imperial family of her harmlessness, until they’d all but dismissed her as useless. By night, she would learn where they’d imprisoned Ōkami, even if she had to search every corner of the castle herself. From there, she would use whatever means were at hand to help him, whether she had to lie, cheat, steal, or kill. She would do what needed to be done to set him free and learn why someone had gone to such lengths to frame him for her murder several weeks ago.
Mariko had begun pilfering items as soon as she’d arrived to her rooms. First the metal hairpin from the elderly servant Shizuko. Then the camellia oil from her nightly regimen. Then the taper and the chopstick. Following these insignificant thefts—the kinds of thefts that should go largely unnoticed by her countless attendants—Mariko made plans to take note of all the many paths across the castle grounds. A task that filled her with strength, for she found the solution to her biggest quandary even before beginning her search.
The fools had led her straight to Ōkami’s cell.
But her ingenious plan to pry open the locks proved disastrous. She’d watched, helpless, as it crumbled to pieces before her very eyes. While traveling to the imperial city, Mariko considered many ways to help Ōkami escape his bindings. She devised a mental list. But even the simplest undertakings had been hampered by both her lack of opportunity and her station as Prince Raiden’s presumed bride. By the watchful eyes that followed
her wherever she went. As a lady of the imperial court, she owned nothing and controlled even less. Were she to ask for a bar of soft iron and a smelting tool, Mariko knew well the questions that would likely follow.
Of course she’d considered the possibility of picking the lock. But she’d quickly dismissed that idea the moment she’d taken a closer look at it, even in the darkness. Ōkami had shared the same initial thought. He’d asked for the metal pin to try his hand at prying open his chains, but Mariko knew that to be equally impossible, if they at all resembled the lock securing the iron bars of his cell. That tumbler had at least three working mechanisms within it. He would need a source of bright light and more than one piece of metal—perhaps even three—to make any headway.
But it would occupy his time. Perhaps instill in him a measure of hope.
These realizations alone had driven Mariko to do something her better self cautioned against: masking the harshest truths to spare a loved one even a moment of pain, just as Ōkami had done by making her laugh.
But humor was not the only thing they both needed now.
Hope was the thing.
And Mariko needed both humor and hope more than ever. She’d been so concerned with following through on one course of action that she’d all but ignored the rest.
Her betrothed asked to see her. Finally. On her third day at court.
An array of thoughts and feelings flashed through her mind at the request. Disgust and fury were the most primal. Then the realization that Mariko could not rely on such emotions in the tense moments that were sure to follow. Anger was indeed a temperamental beast—a dragon that threatened to burn all in its path—and she could not afford to let it drive Raiden away or spark any sense of suspicion.
Mariko needed Prince Raiden to trust her enough to grant her permission to travel into the city. She had to meet with Asano Yumi so that the maiko could establish contact between Mariko and any surviving members of the Black Clan.
Tsuneoki needed to know that Ōkami was still alive.
That his circumstances could change at any moment.
That the emperor was the quiet, devious sort, who appeared to lean toward violent means to justify his ends. That his mother, the dowager empress, was deeply concerned with appearances. And that his brother, Prince Raiden, harbored the beginnings of doubt.
Any and all of these facts could be used to the Black Clan’s advantage, especially if they meant to punish those responsible for destroying their home. For murdering Yoshi. For taking Ōkami captive.
If Prince Raiden did not trust Mariko or failed to see her as an ally, she would no longer be in a position to help her brothers in the Black Clan. Nor would she ever be granted the freedom to roam the imperial city at her discretion.
So Mariko had done what any decent emissary would do.
She’d donned another disguise. Become the fox cloaked in lambskin. With her smiling eyes and shy laughter, Mariko rallied Shizuko to her cause, then called the maidservant Isa to her side. Together they selected—from the countless stores of garments at Mariko’s disposal—a kimono far less extravagant than the one she’d worn the day prior. In truth, it was far less in some ways, and far more in others. The collar hung lower down her back, exposing more of her bare neck. This was a deliberate choice. Through Isa’s connections, Mariko had managed to glean several things of import.
Green was Prince Raiden’s favorite color. The green of the finest jade. He disdained most cosmetics on the ladies of court, save for a hint of color on the lips. And he enjoyed gazing at the back of a beautiful young woman’s neck. So Mariko waited now in a receiving chamber, her cheeks pale and her lips stained, wearing garments meant to entice a boy she despised.
She considered the space, searching for sources of possible conversation. As Mariko had expected, the walls of Prince Raiden’s receiving chamber were lined with polished weaponry, some of them housed in ornate display stands, others resting on honed stone pedestals.
The sounds of voices and movement gathered just beyond the doors. Mariko arranged the folds of her layered underrobes and gripped her sleeves to allay her nerves. A moment later, the screens behind her slid open.
A pause followed. One that grew around its void, until discomfort settled in its place. Though she was curious, Mariko elected not to turn immediately. When she did, she moved with deliberation, letting her eyes fall half lidded in the same way Yumi had gazed upon Ōkami that night at the teahouse. The motion felt foreign to her. Forced in a sinister fashion. But she was here to play a part, and she would play it to the best of her ability.
She bowed toward her betrothed, letting the blood rush to her head. Letting her breaths deepen until her pulse settled beneath her skin. When Mariko straightened once more, she found Prince Raiden standing just inside the shuttered doors, his expression thoughtful.
“You look … different,” he began. Though he appeared daunting and confident—with his broad shoulders and richly appointed hakama—his speech came across as strangely uncertain.
Mariko let her smile waver. “I feel more like myself.”
“It’s amazing what a proper bath and well-trained servants can do.” His grin turned arrogant.
Irritation flared behind Mariko’s heart. As she’d first suspected, Prince Raiden was proving to be precisely the spiteful, judgmental young man she’d first believed him to be. “We are in agreement on that, my lord.” She inclined her head sweetly, remembering her wish to endear herself to him.
He cleared his throat and looped his thumbs through the thick silk cord at his waist. Where his half brother, Roku, appeared like a snake—with his cutting eyes and insidious grin—Raiden most resembled an osprey, its wings hovering as it scoured the sea for signs of its prey. Lofty and above reproach. Mariko remembered a time—not so long ago—when she’d listened to her maidservant Chiyo gossip about how handsome Prince Raiden was and what a wonderful husband he would be.
How wrong she was.
As though he could sense the tenor of her thoughts, Raiden frowned. “I am … not good at this.”
Surprised by this admission of weakness, Mariko responded without thinking. “We are in agreement on that score as well, my lord.” Dismay settled on her skin. She gritted her teeth against it and tried her best to appear steely. Above reproach, just as Raiden was. As though she’d meant to say it just that way and had no intention of apologizing. With seasoned warriors, it was best to meet strength with strength. Ren had been the one to teach her this lesson, with his snide comments and well-aimed pebbles.
Raiden’s eyes widened. “Are you teasing me?”
The dismay wound through her stomach. “No. I mean yes, my lord. I mean …” Mariko trailed off, frustration taking root in her core.
I am awful at this.
“You’re not good at this either.” Raiden smiled with pompous satisfaction, but Mariko caught a hint of humor in his eyes.
She remained silent.
“I’m sure you know why it is I’ve asked to meet with you.” He did not grant her a chance to reply, so certain was he of his position. “The emperor wishes for us to wed in the coming week.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She nodded to buy herself a moment to think.
“I can’t say that I know what to do or say at present, given the unconventional circumstances,” Raiden continued, his elbows crooked at his sides and his feet widespread. Ren sometimes did this same thing: occupied more space than necessary. It was the tactic of a boy with something to prove. But again, Mariko caught the glimmer of hesitancy.
The prince continued. “This situation has proven to be somewhat difficult. My … interactions with women outside my family have been brief. I don’t know how to speak my mind to you on this matter without causing offense.”
Given Raiden’s status, none of these things were appropriate to say to his betrothed. But Mariko appreciated his honesty. At least he didn’t try to hide his thoughts.
When she still did not respond, Raiden p
ressed on. “Since I don’t know where to begin, I’ll start with the first thing that comes to mind. What do you want to do, Lady Mariko?” he asked. “Do you wish to be my bride?”
Again he took her off guard. Not once in the entire time her family had been in negotiations with the imperial family had anyone thought to ask Mariko what it was she wanted.
Strange that it would be Prince Raiden to first pose the question. Instead of answering, Mariko turned to pace the room and grant herself leave to consider this unforeseen turn of events. In silence, she studied the collection of weapons adorning the walls. Some blades had been sheathed in their ornate saya, then placed on lacquered wooden stands. The crests of vanquished clans adorned many of the scabbards. In some cases, the designs had been worked into the gleaming handles themselves. Mariko caught sight of dried blood wedged in the elaborate etchings of an ivory tsuba. She stopped to consider what story this weapon told. What lives had been taken with every swing of its blade. What sorrows it had wrought.
As she turned to face Raiden again, a particular weapon caught her eye on a pedestal in a darkened corner, discarded from the rest.
Its blade was white. Almost luminescent. There appeared to be a bar of curved gold through its center, around which an almost alabaster stone had formed. The katana was not housed in its shirasaya, which lay to one side, a firebird etched into its ivory hilt. Its handguard was fashioned from alternating tongues of fire and phoenix feathers, all inlaid with gold. It was a thing of supreme beauty. A blade meant to be seen and studied. Yet strangely it had not been placed in the center of the room, where it would undoubtedly be the talk of any gathering.
Even though it had been cas toff in the shadows, Mariko recognized the weapon the moment she laid eyes on it.
“It’s the Takeda sword,” Raiden said as he moved to stand beside her. “It’s called the Fūrinkazan. A weapon forged by the spirits from a bolt of lightning after it struck the sand dunes by the Sendai river over a thousand years ago.”