“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.