Careful to place his tantō beside him, Raiden lay down on the pallet, not bothering to use the silk-tufted blanket provided for them. Mariko waited for a time, then came to kneel at the edge of the pallet, still dressed in her wedding night finery.
She watched Raiden stare at the ceiling above them. At its intricate alcoves and painted silk screens. Every dark eave was interwoven with parts of a story; most were of the conquests made by his family.
Her family now. Though it was likely some of its ranks had tried to kill her, as she’d suspected from the begining. Strange how that seemed to be the least of her worries now. The very question that had driven her to defy her family and disguise her identity. Only to find the truths hidden within.
Mariko waited until Raiden’s eyes drifted closed. Beneath his jaw, she caught sight of a muscle twitching, even as he slept. Once he’d fallen asleep, she removed the jeweled pins the servants had placed in her hair and let her tresses tumble to her shoulders. She lay beside him, keeping her body as far away from his as the space would permit.
Mariko chewed on the inside of her cheek, the events of the day winding through her mind. Then Raiden rolled over. He threw an arm around her waist, his fingertips grazing the thin silk at her hip. Mariko froze, the pace of her heart doubling its rhythm. His breaths were long and drawn, as though he were in the throes of deepest sleep. But his body twitched like it was ready at a moment’s notice to rise from their pallet, sword in hand.
Mariko eased from beneath his arm, uncomfortable with this unexpected display of intimacy. She slept in a ball at the foot of the pallet, her dreams clouded by images of a dark garden filled with tiny mirrors.
No One’s Hero
The smoke curled from the funeral pyre into the twilit sky. Ōkami studied the flames as they danced above Ren’s body—all that remained of his friend. The fire crackled and fizzed, filling the air with the scent of burning flesh.
Ōkami leaned against a birch tree along the fringes, disdaining any offer of assistance. It was not that he was too proud. If anything, the misfortunes of his life had proven to him how pointless it was to let pride dictate his actions. No. He was not proud.
He simply wanted to be alone.
It was a strange emotion for him.
After he’d lost his mother as a small child, then witnessed the death of his father only a few years later, one of Ōkami’s greatest fears was being left alone. The dreams that tore apart his sleep—that set his teeth on edge—were usually ones in which he was left to fend for himself in cold darkness or blearing sunlight, begging to no one for a cup of water or a bowl of rice.
Ōkami shifted against the tree, and a wave of pain unfurled down his body. Though his demon had worked beneath the moonlight to repair the damage, he was still a shadow of his former self. And he’d left those responsible for it unscathed.
Worse, he’d left Mariko. Alone.
Grimacing, he returned his attention to Ren’s funeral pyre.
Under cover of night, the men of the Black Clan had taken them from the clearing to a bamboo forest known as the Ghost’s Gambit. Ōkami could not remember how they’d brought him here. He only remembered that he had been unable to relinquish his hold on Ren. He would not leave his friend alone. Anywhere. Even in death. It still stole the breath from his body to know that Ren had died protecting him. Just like Yorishige, that boy who’d reminded him so much of Yoshi.
That child Ōkami had left behind.
Uesama. It had been the last word Ren had spoken in this life.
The smoke from the pyre twisted Ōkami’s way. It made his eyes burn, his throat close. He coughed, and moisture collected in his eyelashes. His first reaction was to fight it. Ōkami did not cry, not even when he was sure no one was there to bear witness. He would never allow such weakness to overcome him.
Ren had not deserved to die at so young an age. So uselessly. Perhaps it meant something that he’d died in battle. Died honorably, protecting a friend.
Honor.
Ōkami glared at the fire until his eyes burned once more. Honor was a thing to hate. It drove people to act foolishly, as though they were heroes. As though they were invincible. Ōkami hated heroes more than anything else. As a boy, he’d concluded that heroes cared more about how the world perceived them than they did about those they’d left behind.
Tsuneoki came to stand on the other side of the birch tree. He gave his friend space, though Ōkami knew the gesture to be unlike him. Save for the times he assumed the form of a nightbeast, Tsuneoki was not known for fading quietly into the shadows. Proof of this was in what he’d managed to accomplish in only ten days: the ranks of the Black Clan had swelled to nine times their previous number.
“Would you like for me to send a healer to tend your wounds?” Tsuneoki asked gently.
“Not now.”
Tsuneoki waited again. “The loss of Ren—of a friend and brother—is not something that will be easy to forget.” His voice turned hoarse. “I’m not sure I ever want to forget it.”
Anger sent another spasm of pain shooting through Ōkami’s chest. “You should have left me there.”
Tsuneoki’s morose laughter filled the air. “You would have liked that. Then you could have died the tragic death you’d always hoped for. Like a hero.”
“I am no one’s hero.” His fists curled at his sides, but Ōkami fought the urge to lash out at his friend. “You’re trying to provoke me.”
“Is it working?”
“No,” he all but snarled back.
“Liar.”
Wincing through the smoke, Ōkami looked away. “Why are you doing this?”
“You must feel responsible for what happened.”
“If you say so.” He raised his shoulders in glib fashion. Another flare of pain nearly caused him to cry out. Ōkami grunted in an effort to conceal it.
“Of course you feel responsible,” Tsuneoki repeated.
“I’m not going to humor you with—”
“Stop it. Act like that in your next life.” Tsuneoki faced him straight on. “You are not the only one to have lost everything, Takeda Ranmaru. Some of us just choose to do something about it.”
A white haze of fury clouded Ōkami’s mind. “What makes you think I—”
“I don’t have anything more to say to you on the matter.” He paused. “I’ll send for the healer. And you will listen to what she says.” Tsuneoki began walking away, then halted only a few steps from where he’d stood. “I’m happy to see you again, Ōkami. I’m thankful you’re safe. When you’ve given your anger a chance to abate, let a sentry know. There’s something I would like to show you.”
“Go to hell.”
Tsuneoki grinned, his gaze sharp. “Save me the seat beside you.”
A Measure of Solace
Injustice was not a new form of nourishment for her. It had been served every day of Kanako’s life. Sometimes it was expected, others it arrived wearing the guise of something less sinister. But always it was there.
Her anger at injustice had become a thing with teeth. Claws. An icy thing that raged between the bones of her chest, howling to be set free.
All her plans had been ruined by Hattori Kenshin’s lingering convictions. He was no longer the boy with the pliant mind she’d first selected for this task. His suffering had not made him weaker; it had made him stronger. His fury at the sight of Muramasa Amaya’s entrapped form had not been enough for him to take revenge on the emperor. That must have been the reason his shot had gone wide. It could be the only explanation. Hattori Kenshin was known as the Dragon of Kai. A famed warrior—a samurai—of the highest order. It was not possible for him to have missed his mark, not when he’d been granted every opportunity.
Kanako had set everything up perfectly. She’d put her scapegoat—that sniveling child—into position to hide the weapons afterward. Aligned the stars so that no one would see what happened in the shade of the nearby clouds.
Still it had not been enough.
And who had fired that second shot? The one that had nearly struck her son? It had come from a different angle—higher than the first—which meant it had been an entirely different archer. Who would dare to threaten Raiden?