Surprise flashed over Tsuneoki’s face at Haruki’s frankness.
Haruki continued. “I did not mean it as a criticism. Your devotion to those you love is the reason why so many of us have followed you for so long without question.” He selected a twig from several collecting at the edge of the creek bed. “I only meant that it is sometimes difficult to see the future when you are so focused on the past.”
“It would be suicide to try to storm the castle. It’s enclosed on all sides by seven enchanted maru.” Tsuneoki cleared his throat. “I won’t ask that of anyone.”
“But the Black Clan would follow you if you asked. I would follow you.” Haruki reached for another twig and ran it through the mud to fashion a phoenix, with feathers of fire flowing from its wings and tail. Then he scribbled through them with a line of curving mountains, from which he began to shape the image of a sea serpent.
As he watched Haruki work, Tsuneoki studied the metalsmith’s tranquil features. Features that—as always—hid a mind in constant turmoil. It was a trait they all shared, these warriors of the Black Clan: this roving, unceasing mind. It was something Tsuneoki had noticed in Mariko, the day he’d first encountered her, when he’d followed her in the form of a nightbeast. A trait that had especially bonded them all. Each member of the Black Clan had a past shaped by turbulence and haunted by specters, both dark and light. Haruki’s past was not one he often shared, but they’d all seen the vicious scars coiling up his shoulders. They’d all heard his screams in the middle of the night, when sleep had been more of a curse than a blessing. Both Ōkami and Tsuneoki had long held Haruki’s counsel close. Despite a childhood colored by violence, the metalsmith possessed an excellent mind and a carefree demeanor, unshackled by so many of the demons young men like Ren carried with them wherever they went.
But Haruki had never spoken so frankly about Tsuneoki’s devotion to Ōkami before. As though the metalsmith could see the truth at its core. Had always seen it.
Discomfort coiling through his stomach, Tsuneoki glanced at the four corners he’d drawn in the earth nearby, joined at the center. At the sea serpent Haruki had fashioned beside it. A childhood memory began to form in his mind. Not of the Takeda lands nor of the lands Tsuneoki’s father had controlled. They weren’t an option anyway, as the emperor had seized them many years ago. But a different idea began to take shape, as though it were being conjured from the ashes of the past.
Ōkami’s mother was the daughter of a powerful warlord. Her family’s crest had been a sea serpent, guarding a trove of diamonds.
Her land had been along the coast, not far from the imperial city.
If Tsuneoki remembered correctly, the lands in question had been deserted for years. Ōkami’s mother had disappeared in a summer storm during his third year. A lover of the sea and all its secrets, she’d scorned the advice of the fishermen, and ridden out beyond the bay, only to be taken by a giant wave. Not long after her death, her parents had perished of a mysterious illness, born of the briny air. Following this wealth of misfortune, their lands had been abandoned, branded as cursed.
Tsuneoki drew four diamonds to represent the four corners of the empire. He encircled them with the tail of a watchful serpent. Then he stood, ready to take action. Ready to do whatever it took to spare the son of Takeda Shingen any more strife and give his dearest friend back the legacy that had been stolen from him.
To restore the Takeda family’s good name.
All for the boy Tsuneoki loved most of his life, in secret. In his own whispered song.
“Tsuneoki,” Haruki said.
Pausing mid-step, Tsuneoki turned back to look at the metalsmith, still crouched near the stream.
“Even if you didn’t ask me,” Haruki said without looking his way. “I would follow you anywhere.”
The Song of the Nightingale
Sleep continued to evade Mariko, as it had for each of the three nights she’d been in Inako. Each time her mind would settle, another thought would wind through it, spiraling downward, taking hold of her heart. Her emotions roiled within her. Fury, pain, bitterness, uncertainty, each of them churning in a ceaseless cycle.
When the scars inked into Ōkami’s skin first came into view, she’d wanted to strike out at something and inflict wounds to match on her betrothed’s face. But the words of her brother had stopped her—had chided her silent—for though Kenshin had failed to be a source of comfort in the last few days, his earlier warnings continued to echo through her mind. A semblance of direction, in a world gone horribly awry.
Say nothing. Do nothing. Do not react.
Mariko had coaxed her expression into one of dismay. As she’d taken on the mantle of a victim in need of comfort, she channeled her rage. Molded it into something she could control. Moved it with the newest current. Even a mild-mannered young woman would react to the sight of brutality. It had been a stroke of luck that her tears and her trembling had caused Prince Raiden to spare her from any more of the emperor’s mind games. Once Raiden left her outside her chamber doors, she stood there in stunned silence, her eyes wide, like a rabbit caught in a darkening brush, uncertain how to proceed. As soon as she granted herself a moment’s peace, Mariko’s chest began to hollow with pain and regret.
Not once had she looked upon Ōkami with any sympathy or offered him anything of value—no information, no key to unlock his bindings, no reassurances of solidarity. None of the things her mind and heart would starve to possess, were she to share in his predicament.
Mariko had offered him nothing. Not even the smallest gesture of comfort or encouragement. Not even a single smile.
Her pain grew sharper when she recalled the glint of his warmth, hidden beneath his mocking exterior. Even though Ōkami had undoubtedly spent the last few hours in tortuous agony, he’d grinned up at her, a sly look that—at first glance—appeared taunting.
But it had given Mariko strength.
The useless girl.
It had given her the drive she needed to take action.
Hours later—beneath a glossy coverlet—Mariko waited until the sounds of motion outside her door steadied to a trickle. She made certain to note how often the guards patrolled past her chamber. Then Mariko knocked back the ridiculous blanket of padded silk and rose to her feet in a single motion. She slipped her toes in a new pair of soft tabi, then crept her way toward a tansu chest of fragrant pine, positioned against the far wall of her chamber.
There—folded in a neat stack—lay the clothes she’d worn when she first arrived in Inako. A loose kosode and a pair of faded trousers. They’d been washed and put aside, as she’d directed her servants to do earlier.
Her heart pounding in her chest and her ears on alert for any sounds of movement, she changed into the roughspun linen, its color a drab grey. It had once been black, but time and wear had lightened it. It was one of several that had been begrudgingly passed down to Mariko from Ren. Once she finished dressing, she gathered the items she’d hidden earlier and tucked them in a bundle within her kosode, strapping them securely to her side.
Ever vigilant, Mariko slid open the silk-screened entrance to her chamber and made her way into the corridors, careful to stay to the shadows. The dark edges along each hallway provided a place of safety, and she moved between the flickering lanterns, counting each of her steps, all while holding her breath tight in her chest. With great care, she followed the same path she’d taken earlier, out into the courtyard, across the tiny white pebbled walkways, her stockinged feet soundless as she glided through the night.
For a beat, she waited in the shade of a flowering orange tree, its scent soothing her rampaging nerves, until the patrolling guards on the outside of the gabled structure passed just in front of her. Then—in watchful silence—she made her way through one of the unlatched sliding doors and into Heian Castle itself.
Now was the true test.
The nightingale floors.
Mariko crouched on the wide sill just inside the main corridor, knowing full well that any misstep would alert all those on patrol outside to the presence of an intruder. She tested one foot on the wooden surface. The suggestion of a creak sighed beneath her toes the instant she put her weight on it.
I could crawl.