The girl held tight to her convictions. Once Hattori Mariko had agreed to marry him, Raiden did not sense anything but surety in her. She’d not asked to delay the wedding for any reason—even to ensure her parents’ attendance—though Raiden would have understood. Mariko’s only requests were been that he allow her to attend a play in the city—to be among the people of Inako—one last time. And that Takeda Ranmaru be executed without any fanfare, in the moments following the ceremony of their marriage. No more torture. Just a clean death.
She had enough of bloodshed as well.
It had moved Raiden that one of her requests was for justice absent malice. He longed for the ability to convince his brother of the merit behind this. His brother’s idea of justice made Raiden’s flesh crawl as though he’d waded into a pool of maggots.
Though he could not deny that she was a troubling creature, Raiden also admired Mariko for not succumbing to the pressures of court. For not lowering herself to the baser amusements of the nobility, who enjoyed asserting their hierarchy and putting others beneath their feet. When she first arrived, Raiden had questioned those attending her needs, and they divulged that Mariko did not approve of cruel behavior, even though derogatory whispers trailed her every footstep.
She stayed above it, and Raiden admired her for that.
Yet he’d not pressed to consummate their marriage. When given the opportunity, Raiden did not wish to move forward with the act. It did not seem right. Hattori Mariko had said she did not want to begin a life with him amid strife. Her words moved him further. Made him consider the advantage of being in a harmonious marriage. Of having a willing wife. One he could respect for the strength of her convictions.
Locking his gaze upon the tatami mats at his feet, Raiden bowed low, then proceeded toward the low throne upon which his younger brother now sat, an expression of supreme serenity on his face.
In the past, this expression had made Raiden smile.
Today it unnerved him.
He took his place at his brother’s side and waited for their meal to be served. His brother sipped his tea from a small cup resting nearby.
“It was a shame the prisoner died before offering any useful information,” Roku began.
“Indeed it was.”
“I’m assuming you will be continuing with your inquiries.”
Raiden bowed. “Of course, my sovereign.”
“Do not rest until you learn where the Black Clan has taken Takeda Ranmaru. Until each and every one of them—and all of their family members—are stretched from the ramparts as a warning to those who would dare to challenge me.”
Raiden nodded once more.
Roku set down his cup. “Enough of these unseemly matters. Today is your first day as a married man.” He smiled at Raiden, as though he were gazing fondly at an errant child. “Tell me, brother … was the daughter of Hattori Kano all she swore she would be?”
Raiden had not thought his brother would pursue the matter in quite so blunt a fashion. That feeling of disquiet coiled up his throat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. “Are you asking me to speak with you of my wedding night, my sovereign?”
“I am. It is important that we know whom we can trust, especially if they are to move about in our inner circle. Can we trust Lady Mariko? Was she untouched after living in close quarters with those traitors for several weeks?”
Raiden exhaled. “Would I be so untroubled if she were not?”
“That is not an answer, brother,” Roku said. He reached again for his tea. Took another small sip. “You did not lie with her.” His tone was pointed. “Perhaps if you are unable to complete the task, I can oblige you on that score.”
The disquiet shifted into anger. The kind that simmered in Raiden’s stomach. “There is no need for that.”
“Then she was a maid?”
“Of course she was,” Raiden lied without thinking. He was not sure why he did it. He had never before lied to his brother in such a brazen fashion. But he could not stomach any more of Roku’s paranoia. At times, it looked as though the emperor would do anything to ensure loyalty, even destroy the very foundation upon which it was built.
Roku watched his brother’s face. Studied it as though it were a stanza from a complicated poem. Then he smiled once more. “I am glad to hear it.”
After he returned his brother’s grin, Raiden ate his meal in silence, that same roiling feeling ruining his appetite. He missed speaking to his mother. For the second time since his wedding, he wished he had not dismissed her counsel for speaking treasonously about Roku.
He wished he had her voice in his ear at this moment.
He wished she would offer him her advice again.
The first thing Raiden did when he returned to his empty chamber was to remove the bedclothes from his carved tansu chest. He unrolled the pallet. Then—with only the slightest of hesitations—he slid his thumb across the blade of his katana, creating a shallow cut.
Raiden let his blood drip onto the center of the pallet—proof that Mariko had lost her maidenhead on her wedding night. With this action, he solidified the lie he’d told to his brother to protect his new wife.
Last night, he’d lied to protect the boy.
Today, he’d lied to protect Mariko.
Perhaps that was all Raiden could do. Lie. And protect.
A Sea of Memories
The last time Ōkami saw his mother’s home, he was a boy of no more than five. Thirteen years had passed since that summer. He wondered whether he would recognize it now. Whether the same patch of land produced the same white wildflowers. If the crashing waves still captivated his imagination as they had his mother’s. Whether the post on the far-left side of the stable still bore the marks he’d made on it with a wooden sword, the year his father gifted him the toy.
Ōkami rode up to the low stone wall surrounding the outermost border of his mother’s domain. He stopped short—his horse rearing—as he took in the sight of the dilapidated barrier. At the sound of galloping hooves at his back, he glanced over his shoulder. The motion caused him to wince, despite his efforts to conceal it. Three nights had passed since Ōkami’s arrival at the Black Clan’s new camp. In that time, he’d managed to regain most of his strength, but still could not escape the lingering discomfort.
Tsuneoki and Haruki reined in their horses alongside him. They paused to survey the crashing sea in the distance and the rolling stretch of land beyond the dilapidated stone wall.
“Do you feel it?” Ōkami asked, without turning to look at either of his friends.
Haruki nodded. “Did it always feel this way? Like the air is … full of spirits?”
“From what I can remember.” Ōkami breathed in deeply. The scent of the seawater wafting across the mulberry fields stirred something deep in his memories.
“When Ōkami was a boy, he loved to tell me his mother’s home was haunted by ghosts.” Tsuneoki steadied his horse as it began to move about, almost as though it had understood its rider.
Ōkami looked at his best friend. He still did not comprehend the reason Tsuneoki had asked him to come here. What he wished to show him. This place dredged up too many things. Images that had long since faded from recollection.
The trio rode past the worn gates, through the sea of swaying grass toward the main compound. Ōkami said little as they traveled past the echoes of his childhood, but he marveled to himself at how effective time was at collecting its due. It troubled him how certain sparks of memory would burn across his vision, only to vanish the next instant. After so many years, he didn’t really remember what his mother looked like. He only caught flashes of feeling, ripples of scent, a strong hand clasped tightly to his, even when he tried to yank it away.
His mother had been beautiful, that much he knew. A lover of the sea and all its spoils. A singer and an artist. A woman who’d enjoyed arguing with his father, to their mutual delight. But these things were told to Ōkami when he’d grown older, and it was not unusual for young so
ns to think their mothers the loveliest of all.
After his wife had been swallowed by a giant wave, Ōkami’s father did not speak much about her. For five days and nights, the fishermen in the nearby village tried to find her, but the storm that day had been quick and wild. It had caught her without warning. Now all that remained of his mother were Ōkami’s flickers of recollection.
And Ōkami remembered so little.
Her name was Sena. Toyotomi Sena.
As Ōkami dismounted from his horse, he caught sight of fabric scraps lying among the debris. On some of them, he saw the faded remnants of the Toyotomi crest—a sea dragon guarding a trove of diamonds. He stopped beside the entrance to the run-down fortress. Without a word, Ōkami pushed through the splintered gates, their hinges protesting with a rusty whine, their wooden slats warped by the sun. Dried leaves littered the main courtyard. They blew across the moss-covered stone, catching in tiny twists of air.
High above head fluttered a large banner. Even from this distance, Ōkami could see the outline of the Minamoto crest in its center. For an instant, his vision darkened with anger, but Ōkami reached beyond the sentiment, settling for apathy.
It was much easier not to care.
A haunted moan unfolded across the old tile roof. The main edifice had not been constructed as many of the modern strongholds were now built. There were no tiered gables. It possessed a single story. The only form of true protection was the river along the outermost border; a single bridge availed intruders with access to the domain. Back then, these things were thought of as unnecessary. The fallen fortress of the Toyotomi clan had been built when no one thought to challenge their protectors.
Had his father been a protector? Had he truly been a great man who cared about those beneath him? Ōkami had not thought so. For most of his life, he’d believed his father had simply succumbed to a selfish notion of honor. One that idealized his death and held him up as a standard of greatness. But Mariko had offered Ōkami a different perspective. It was not anything she said, but rather all that she done. All she became. Two months ago, Mariko had arrived to their encampment in Jukai forest as a spoiled daughter of a callous daimyō. But she changed. She allowed her mind to be open to other possibilities.
To the chance the things she’d believed all her life might be wrong.
Had Takeda Shingen cared more about those he’d been sworn to protect than his honor? Had he truly been a great man?
Ōkami frowned. No. He was not wrong about his father. Takeda Shingen had wanted to be a hero of legend, not a man of the people. A great man would not have left his only son without answers. His people without hope.
“Why are we here, Tsuneoki?” Ōkami asked. His voice was a low growl. It belied his desire to remain indifferent. He cleared his throat and asked again.
But his friend had already noticed his irritation. “I thought to make this our new stronghold.”
“It’s a mistake. The emperor will find out.” Ōkami spoke without hesitating.
“Of course he will. But the river within this domain flows swiftly and runs deep. A single bridge is the only way to cross it, which should prove difficult for a large army, especially if we rig it to collapse under a certain weight. And I don’t expect us to be here long. Either we will prevail or die trying. We’ve never been equipped for a long siege.”
“It’s foolish to lead the men here.”
Tsuneoki paused. “It’s even more foolish to continue hiding them in the forest. You’ve seen how quickly we’ve grown. How quickly we continue to grow. A force as large as ours requires adequate space.”
Ōkami did not answer as he walked up the steps and into the main residence. Inside were the remnants of many small fires—spots of blackened stone and piles of ash. The domain of the Toyotomi clan was abandoned by Ōkami’s family not long after he’d lost his mother. Following the mysterious death of his grandparents, the land was branded as cursed. The few who’d chosen to remain behind burned anything of value, rather than have it be taken by conquerors. This gave Ōkami a measure of comfort. At least the late emperor had not stolen anything of worth from his mother’s land. Minamoto Masaru had taken everything from the Takeda family. Even purloined their crest and melded it with his own.
The only thing of value that had been stolen from the Toyotomi clan were its lives. Its beating heart. Somewhere in the darkened corners of the structure—beneath the layers of dried grass and scurrying insects—were most likely the remains of the poor souls who’d fought to defend his mother’s land.
What would tie them to it, long after its protectors had left it to ruin?
“If you wish to use this domain as your stronghold, you do not need my permission.” Ōkami turned to meet the gaze of his best friend. “You’ve never needed my permission for anything.”
“All the same, I wished to ask.”
Ōkami pivoted in place to return to his horse. “It was a waste of time coming here. I thought you were the last person to waste time.”
“Ranmaru,” Tsuneoki called out.
Ōkami stopped short. Tsuneoki rarely used his given name. And never in the presence of others. “What do you want?”
“You should go to your mother’s chambers.”
“Why?” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “To what end?”
“Just go.” Tsuneoki kept still as Haruki moved to stand beside him, as though to offer him strength.
Ōkami frowned. Then shrugged.
If he was here, it would not cause him harm to humor his friend.
Redemption
Kanako wandered a final time through her garden between worlds. Her fingers floated over the dazzling leaves, the silver of her rings causing their mirrored surfaces to shimmer at the slightest touch.
This would be her last day visiting this place. For almost two decades, this colorless world had provided her with a haven—a place to conceal her true self, even from her son. Today would also mark her final attempt to give Raiden the greatest gift she could offer: the power to rule as heavenly sovereign.
She shook out her hair. Removed the lacquered zori and silken tabi from her feet, so that she could feel rooted to the earth wherever she stood. Then Kanako raised her hands, the dark sleeves of her kimono fluttering in an enchanted wind. She watched the leaves take flight from their hedges. They encircled Kanako as though she were a black swan, and they her glittering attendants. They began to drift higher until they changed shape, blossoming into the figures of men and women. The ones Kanako had carefully chosen for her flock.
Some would be her bodyguards. Others would provide her with distractions during the coming invasion.
The winged mirrors assumed their human forms, but they did not appear to have control over their minds. They behaved exactly like the mindless creatures Kanako had left behind in the domains east of the imperial city, as a warning.
As a portent of what was to come.
Kanako did not learned much from her lover, Minamoto Masaru. But she learned the inexorable value of fear.
She turned her attention back to the lives she’d collected for her flock. The army she’d amassed in her enchanted world, biding time for the right moment to strike. Some of its ranks were young. Some were elderly. Some were infirmed. Minamoto Roku’s imperial soldiers would hesitate before striking them down. And in the heat of battle, to hesitate was to die.
Many more were strong. Young. Warriors bearing the weapons of samurai from the eastern provinces. At the vanguard of this troop stood the tortured figure of Nobutada, Hattori Kano’s friend and confidant. His grizzled features twisted with despair as Kanako moved him forward. He lurched as though he were fighting against her control.
Poor fool. Nobutada would be a welcomed sacrifice to a much greater cause.
Death always collected its due.
When Kanako prodded the minds of the soldiers—ordering them to take leave of this place—pain flashed across their features. A pitiful kind of resistance. Honor-bound warriors did
not like being led against their will. Unperturbed, Kanako drove them forward in small groups, out into Inako, where they would spread across the city and begin wreaking their havoc. Make it rife for the taking.
Kanako turned to those who remained. Her distractions. They were not to be used now. She would save them for when she planned to overtake the castle, once the city belonged to her son. It would do no good to wrest control of the emperor’s stronghold without first securing its borders. She studied her distractions for a moment, particularly captivated by the face of a young boy, who reminded her greatly of Raiden as a child.
The pain in his expression—his silent scream—gave her pause. But only for a moment.
Magic required pain. She, too, had suffered a great deal.
In life, everything worthwhile involved sacrifice.
Kanako waited until most of the castle had fallen asleep. The chaos of the last few days had left its mark everywhere. In corners strewn with colorful banners and broken shards of pottery. In the droves of imperial guards patrolling the castle grounds.
It was good she had sent her flock of warriors beyond the enchanted maru, into the city proper. They would begin seeding their discord in the outermost wards of Inako—the streets least patrolled by imperial soldiers. Then they would make their way toward the golden castle in the city’s center. It would not be long before the people bore full witness to their emperor’s incompetence. Before they begged for the might of a warrior like Raiden to lead them to safety.
But Kanako knew there were still obstacles to overcome. Unforeseen possibilities. These worries drove her to take precautions. The ring she wore on her right hand had been gifted to her by an especially wicked creature of the wood. An eight-legged demon that had ruled a domain of darkness since the beginning of time. Kanako rarely channeled this spirit. It unsettled her to descend into its form and look upon the world through so many eyes. With such unmitigated hunger.