Mariko dropped her gaze, settling once more on the piece of unraveling straw near her knee. Back at her father’s province, she had known people like the empress. Women and men who took perverse pleasure in exacting unnecessary revenge on others. Even Ren had been guilty of similar behavior. But the empress was a strange variation of this. She believed herself better because she enacted cruelty to prevent something worse from happening.
Sparing girls public spite by encouraging it in closed settings.
Perhaps the empress was not at all like the people Mariko had known back home.
She was worse.
“Time teaches us all that we need to be better than men. But only by a thread.” The empress rose. “Cling to that thread. You will need it.” She gestured for one of the young attendants in the wings. “You will see my son now.” The empress smiled at Mariko’s kimono. Then shook her head in an approximation of regret.
“What a shame. That one was a favorite of mine, many years ago.”
Gleaming Darkly
Mariko’s hands shook. As the attendants slid open the doors, she gripped her kimono sleeves without a care for rumpling the delicate fabric. Her eyes averted, she bowed one last time to the empress, who remained on her throne, a serene smile upon her face.
Beyond the sliding doors stood Kenshin, as though Mariko’s torment was meant to be unceasing. If possible, her brother appeared even wearier than before. He looked at her face. At the frown tugging her lips and the lines creasing her brow. Then he cleared his throat, his gaze piercing, offering his sister silent advice.
In an instant, Mariko controlled her features.
Kenshin motioned for her to follow him. They turned to the left of the chamber, instead of the path to the right, which would have returned Mariko to the rooms she’d occupied since her arrival in Inako. As they walked, Mariko noted how many paces it took to move from one structure to another.
They exited the Lotus Pavilion and made their way toward a set of ornate sliding doors leading to the central courtyard. The men standing guard just outside were in simple hakama, each of their two swords slung through silk cords around their hips. Samurai, who would unsheathe their weapons only in dire circumstances, and never in front of the emperor, for death was the punishment if anyone dared to brandish a blade in his presence.
Forty-nine paces.
They waited while sandals were brought before them, Kenshin’s the simple geta of a samurai, and Mariko’s gleaming darkly of lacquered wood. Beyond the reaches of the castle, the sun had begun its descent below the horizon, its light caramelizing all it touched.
Mariko followed Kenshin across the center courtyard toward another wing of Heian Castle, one that rose from the main edifice of seven gabled roofs. The scent of the orange blossoms mingled with the yuzu trees, and the blend of sweet and sour citrus floated past Mariko, beckoning her toward the woods beyond. Strange how the forest had never transfixed her before, yet now called to her whenever its jagged shadows came into view.
As they strolled beneath a covered walkway—her wooden zori crunching over small white stones—Kenshin slowed.
Sixty-two paces.
“Do not react,” he said. “Not to what I’m saying, and not to what you are about to see.”
Though her first instinct was to ask questions, Mariko tamped down the desire.
Be water.
“They are trying to see how you will behave,” he continued. “If I’ve learned anything about the Minamoto family in my short time at Heian Castle, I’ve realized they are always testing you. React in a way that shows you care about the son of Takeda Shingen, and it will be used against you both.”
At the mention of Ōkami and the confirmation that he still lived, Mariko faltered in her steps, the rhythm of her motions broken.
“Am I wrong, then?” Kenshin asked quietly.
Mariko stood taller. She wanted so badly to tell him the truth. To tell him all that lurked in her heart, all that spun through her mind. To freely share with her brother every thought, every fear, every dream, just as she had when they were children. But she could not. Not until she understood why he no longer trusted her. Why he’d not once thought to ask before passing judgment.
Why he’d failed to come to her aid and averted his gaze from her wordless pleas.
“You’re wrong,” Mariko said, her tone curt.
Kenshin glanced over his shoulder at her, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t think I mistook the emotion on your face when Takeda Ranmaru revealed his identity in Jukai forest.”
Laughter trilled from Mariko’s lips—an attempt to bring levity to the situation. “Now you are adept at reading emotion?” she teased. “I am glad for you, especially on behalf of Amaya.”
To her surprise, Kenshin flinched as though she’d struck him. “Do not speak her name to me ever again, Mariko.” His voice was low. Laden with feeling. Not at all the kind of response she had expected.
At a loss, Mariko said nothing.
They continued toward the central structure of Heian Castle, removing their sandals before entering the wooden hallways. Here, everywhere they stepped they were met with the shrill creaking of the drafty nightingale floors. But they did not walk in the direction of the emperor’s receiving room. Instead Kenshin led her down a side corridor, past a series of shuttered doors, toward a darkened expanse with a set of aging stairs cut into its center.
Thirty-seven paces.
Once they descended and Mariko peered down the dimly lit pathway, another layer of the castle came into view. It seemed as though this hidden structure had been constructed from the earth itself. A warren of tunnels branched into low-ceilinged rooms, upon which the seat of the imperial city rested. As the lore suggested, Heian Castle was indeed built in an odd fashion, with a sense of magic loitering in every shadow. It had been designed centuries ago by a famed mathematician, aided by the power of a reclusive enchantress.
But even knowing these things did not prepare Mariko for what she now beheld. Most fortresses she’d encountered in the past did not possess a mysterious structure beneath them. Reinforced on all sides by stone and immense timber beams, this place was meant for something secret. Perhaps even illicit. Seemingly crafted without design, it was impossible to determine where the passages began or ended.
In silence, the two siblings wove through this dank underbelly of the castle. Mariko shivered, the warmth of the sun lost in this underground lair.
When the light began to wane, Kenshin paused to reach for one of the torches anchored to the wall. Before they moved toward the second set of stairs—these carved from solid stone rather than timber—he turned to her.
“Show them nothing,” her brother said quietly.
Mariko did not know if he spoke to her or to himself. The wet smell wafting from below almost drew a shudder. As they descended, her eyes locked on her brother’s shoulders. On the unwrinkled expanse of his kosode and the comforting weight of the swords at his sides. Ever since they were children, Hattori Kenshin had always embodied the perfect ideal of a samurai.
In these creaking halls—taking in this poisonous air—Mariko wished that she, too, had the weight of a weapon at her side.
As the silence between them grew heavier, an onslaught of questions caught in her throat. Mariko wanted so much to confide in her twin. But the way Kenshin disdained her these last few days—the way he’d treated her like a thing beyond his consideration—remained in the forefront of her mind.
She thought he would at least give her a chance to explain. But he was not the same brother Mariko had left behind. Something had changed in Kenshin, and she wondered whether it had anything to do with the mention of Amaya’s name.
They moved past a stack of used charcoal near the last step, and the hem of Mariko’s kimono slipped through a patch of murky water, dripping from a large stone channel above. She gasped as the icy wetness soaked through her tabi onto her feet.
In that moment, Mariko recalled the empress’s parting w
ords about the priceless garment.
Where am I being taken? Am I being led to my death?
No, her own brother would never be party to that. But the memory of how he’d stood by as Minamoto Raiden threatened her … that memory could not be ignored, no matter how much she wished it. No matter how many excuses she wanted to grant her brother, Kenshin had done nothing, save watch the spectacle unfold.
Just as he continued to do after arriving in Inako.
The clang of metal against stone ricocheted in the darkness, startling her into awareness. A lone torch flickered through the gloom ahead. She shifted her eyes to the floor, her hands and feet turning to ice even as the blood flashed hot through her body. She kept her gaze averted until a vaguely familiar groan echoed through the darkness before them. Its echo haunted her, almost halting her steps, making her fear to look upon its source in unfettered light.
She breathed deeply before recoiling against the smell. It was not just the expected rot and ruin of a space bereft of sun. The closer Mariko and Kenshin came toward the flickering torch, the stronger the scent of singed flesh permeated the air.
They burned Ōkami.
Mariko fought to maintain her composure. When the light of the torch crackled nearby, her vision distorted. She forced herself to look away. Forced herself to remain silent and accept the cold glare of truth.
A huddled heap lay against a wall of darkness before her. Iron bars separated her from the broken young man lying within. The metallic scent of blood filled Mariko’s nostrils, making her gaze swim.
They’d burned him. Beaten him. Bled him. And for what?
Ōkami had already surrendered. Not once on their journey had he put up a fight.
Which meant that pure suffering had been the goal.
Fury and humiliation warred within her. Calling upon all the strength Mariko could muster, she forced herself to tuck both emotions away, deep behind her heart, where no one could find them.
No matter what they have done to Ōkami, I will look upon him without fear.
“Kenshin-sama … it is good to have you once more in the imperial city.” When the emperor spoke, Mariko took a moment to form a memory. At first glance, much about Minamoto Roku appeared uninteresting. His skin was inordinately pale, his features forgettable, especially as he stood alongside his taller, far more commanding brother. The grandest thing about Roku was his garments. They were made from a costly silk of burnished gold.
On second glance, however, there was definitely something more to be found beneath the surface. Though he was deep in a dank pit, far beneath the splendor of the world above, Roku spoke as though he were in the midst of a comfortable gathering between friends. A lighthearted affair, perhaps in a flowering garden, rather than a meeting in this gloomy underworld.
In contrast, his elder brother did not appear at ease. Not in the slightest. Prince Raiden reminded Mariko of a caged beast.
At least he has the grace to appear unnerved by these circumstances.
Mariko desperately wished to learn more about Ōkami’s condition, but she refrained from glancing his way. She did not trust herself to remain coolheaded. Not yet.
The emperor continued addressing Kenshin in the same unhurried manner. “I have no doubt you will enjoy your stay here even more than before. I’ve already composed a message to our favorite teahouse in Hanami; you’ll recall it from that unfortunate incident several weeks ago. As a reward for your success in apprehending this criminal and rescuing my brother’s betrothed, please be my guest there tomorrow night.” A crisp nod punctuated his directive.
Kenshin bowed, ever the ideal samurai honoring the wishes of his sovereign.
“You may return to your rooms now, Kenshin-sama,” the emperor finished.
Though Mariko knew something had broken between her and Kenshin, her heart lurched in her chest at the thought of her brother leaving, as though his presence had provided her with a last bastion. A final buffer between Mariko and imminent doom. After passing to one side of Prince Raiden, Kenshin paused to glance back at her, and the torchlight flashed across his eyes. Their darkened centers delivered Mariko a final reminder:
Show them nothing.
In silence, her brother took his leave. Once his steps had faded into the murkiness beyond, the emperor shifted her way. “Lady Mariko.” He canted his head as he regarded her. “The adage must be true. Even in war, flowers will bloom.”
Despite the disgust rising in her throat, Mariko bowed even lower than her brother had. “It is an honor to be in your presence, my sovereign.”
Another choice made. Another part of myself lost.
But honor would not gain her a footing in the imperial court. Nor would it spare those she held dear.
“It is unfortunate that it had to be under such circumstances.” Minamoto Roku smiled at her. As with his mother, the young emperor’s expression almost surprised her with its show of kindness. Had she not spent most of the afternoon in the presence of the dowager empress, Mariko might have been fooled.
But no member of this family would ever fool her again, even for a moment.
Mariko bit down hard on nothing before standing taller. She struggled to keep her voice even. “I, too, am deeply saddened about the circumstances surrounding my arrival in the imperial city. But my sadness has been eclipsed by gratitude. I am thankful to be here now, my sovereign, and doubly thankful to have been rescued by my brother and my betrothed.”
The emperor stepped closer. Too close. He stood barely taller than she, his gaze nearly level with hers. Roku’s eyes drifted across her face, as though he were taking note of every feature, every flaw. “I’m sure you are wondering why I asked to meet you here, in the bowels of the Golden Castle. It is because I wished for you to witness how we punish those who dare to challenge us. And especially how we punish foolish young men who dare to touch another man’s bride.” He glanced toward the cell at his back, his expression imbued with meaning.
Heat flared across Mariko’s cheeks as he spoke. Knowing she owed it to Ōkami—and to herself—Mariko followed the emperor’s gaze and took in the dreaded sight of the boy who’d become a source of strength for her, even in a short time. The boy who carried her heart with him, wherever he went.
This boy, who was her magic.
Covered in blood and grime, the son of the last shōgun lay in a pile of filthy straw. His chest rose and fell with each of his heavy breaths. A faint wheeze whistled from the back of his throat. One side of his face had swelled to the point of being unrecognizable. He remained silent and still as they spoke around him, causing Mariko’s heart to ache with worry.
Nevertheless, she kept her features locked. Immobile.
“Are you gratified to see the sight?” Roku asked. Again he tilted his head to one side, and the gesture reminded Mariko so much of his mother.
She forced herself not to wince. “Gratified, my sovereign?”
He continued studying her, searching for chinks in her armor. “Did this traitor not steal you from your rightful place and force you to work like a beast of burden for him?”
As with the dowager empress, Mariko suspected that Roku did not simply wish to hear the correct reply. He wished to unravel his own truths, concealed beneath the things people said—the things they felt in the darkest reaches of their hearts. Because of this, Mariko realized it was possible to err by agreeing with him immediately and offering the right response. True ladies of the nobility did not condone violence, at least not outwardly. She remembered the day she’d first laid eyes on Ōkami, when they were children. The day his father died. She’d seen the blood on the stones. The pain in his eyes. Her nursemaid scolded her for looking upon it all without batting an eye.
Ladies were supposed to look away, and Mariko refused to do so, even as a child. But if she channeled outrage now, it would come across as disingenuous. A strong affirmation often masks a denial. It was something her father used to say.
Mariko weighed the words on her tongue befor
e speaking them. “I am never gratified to see the suffering of any creature, my sovereign. Even thieving cowards.” Still refusing to look away from the evidence of Ōkami’s silent suffering, she threaded her fingers and pinched at the meat of her palm. With utmost focus, she latched on to the pain. Let it radiate through her, so it reached her face from a place of truth.
So it masked the rising fury.
Roku stood tall, his eyes unflinchingly upon hers. She envied the emperor’s ability to hold his features in complete control, without the use of any diversions. It was a skill she lacked.
I would rather be as I am. Because this boy lacks any evidence of a soul.
Her nails dug into her palm even farther. She swallowed in an attempt to look unnerved. “But I am gratified to see my future family best our enemy,” Mariko finished in a clear tone.
At this, the chains binding Ōkami jangled. Her eyes going wide, Mariko watched him struggle to sit upright, strangely grateful to know he still retained some of his faculties. To know that a part of him still lived. As his face shifted into a pool of torchlight, her nails nearly drew blood.
Please let my sorrow be masked by my pain.
The beating had been worse than she first thought. Now Mariko could make out a terrible, glistening wound on his neck, just below the right side of his jaw.
Ōkami stared straight at her, even through an eye swollen shut.
Then—to the surprise of all present, save Mariko—he began laughing. He coughed around the sound as he leaned closer to the torchlight. The flickering flames rendered his broken face into a mass of moving shadows. “You brought the useless girl with you. I hope it was worth getting her dressed like an empress to see this,” he rasped with amusement.
Ōkami had said something similar to Mariko before. Called her useless when she’d felt most vulnerable. It had stung then, laden as it was with truth. But Mariko knew he said it now for a reason. She could see the glint of something in his gaze—a strength of will the sons of Minamoto Masaru had not even begun to break. And Mariko knew Ōkami was trying—even as he lay broken and bleeding against a filthy mound of straw—to offer her comfort by hearkening back to their time together.