Whatever device Mariko had invented with the intention of helping Takeda Ranmaru, it was sure to be elaborate and ingenious. Kenshin tucked the small package into the sleeve of his kosode and moved through the pathway beneath Heian Castle toward the prisoner in his cell.
Kenshin knew from his conversations with the emperor that Roku would visit Ranmaru each night and reopen all manner of wounds. Tonight the emperor had come later than usual to inflict his particular brand of torture. It was cruel and unbecoming behavior for a heavenly sovereign, but the Dragon of Kai had realized almost as soon as he arrived to the imperial city that the new emperor was not a man of honor, but rather one of duplicity.
This boy Kenshin was bound to serve.
At this thought, a sigh seemed to emanate from behind him. The gust of air that followed was icy. It touched the back of his neck before sliding down his spine in a cold caress. The voice carried on it was a garbled one, but a thought settled at the back of his skull. A thought of blood and death. Kenshin shook it off with a toss of his head, the troubling feeling still scraping at his skin. He moved forward in time to hear the sound of fists against flesh resume.
Pleased to see Kenshin join in this nightly ritual, the emperor nodded at him appreciatively.
To his credit, the son of Takeda Shingen had stopped crying out. In truth, Kenshin suspected he might not live to Mariko’s wedding day, despite her attempts to spare him. While the emperor continued taunting his prisoner, Kenshin waited to one side with an air of nonchalance. The smell of blood saturated the space with salt and copper.
Kenshin remained unaffected as he watched the son of the last shōgun take his punishment. Wondered what kind of boy existed beneath that battered shell. There was defiance there. Strength. These were surely the reasons the emperor could not bear to leave Takeda Ranmaru be. What was it Mariko had called him?
Ōkami. The wolf.
Wolves were pack animals. They smelled blood from leagues away. Tracked it for days, even through snow and through sleet. Fought to defend their own without hesitation or remorse.
And they did not leave a member of their pack behind.
When the emperor had had his fill of bloodshed, he ordered his guards to stand down. The soldiers locked Ranmaru’s cell behind them and left after bowing to Kenshin, who lingered behind. As Roku took his leave, he paused, an eyebrow arched in question. “You wish to remain here, Kenshin-sama?”
“I wish to enact my own punishment on this boy for what he did to my sister.” Kenshin bowed low. “If you would grant me permission, my sovereign.”
Roku’s expression remained unreadable. “By all means.” He led his soldiers down the corridor toward the stairs, a pleasant smile on his face. As though he were a child recently gifted with a sweet treat.
Kenshin moved closer to the barred cell. Over his shoulder he heard the sound of returning footsteps. Though the emperor had given the impression of trust, Roku had sent one of his soldiers to keep watch over Kenshin. Which meant the emperor did not wish for him to be alone with the prisoner, despite all that Kenshin had done to demonstrate his loyalty. Despite the way he’d threatened his sister. Even if he meant to protect Mariko by doing so, it did not erase his pain when he thought of her words.
I would rather die for love than stand by and watch my love perish.
Kenshin listened to the wheeze of Takeda Ranmaru’s breath. The struggle as he tried to right himself and no longer choke on the blood dripping from his nose and mouth. “I hear you are to be my sister’s wedding gift.”
Takeda Ranmaru coughed. It sounded suspiciously like laughter.
“Don’t try to escape,” Kenshin continued, his tone hollow. “Don’t fight back. If you attempt to harm any member of my family ever again, I will flay you alive and wear your skin as a cloak.”
The guard settled to one side as Kenshin bent to pick up a small stone resting between his feet. He tossed it through the bars, striking the boy’s shoulder. Then he picked up another one. Perhaps it was dishonorable to behave in such a fashion. But Kenshin’s pain eclipsed his sense of propriety. He lobbed another small stone at the broken young man inside the cell. “I am grateful you will no longer be a torment to my family.”
“As am I.” Takeda Ranmaru coughed again. “I wish to be rid of the cursed Hattori clan as soon as possible.”
Kenshin pitched another stone. It ricocheted off the wall near Ranmaru’s head. “And we wish to be rid of you.” He crouched even lower and threw the small pouch he’d taken from Mariko through the doors. It struck the boy’s thigh.
The son of Takeda Shingen had the good grace to flinch, though a flash of recognition passed across his face. He lifted his eyes to meet those of Kenshin.
Then he nodded once.
Kenshin took to his feet, his fists at his sides. “I wish you to disappear from our lives, Takeda Ranmaru. Forever.”
The Shrine of the Sun Goddess
It was Mariko’s wedding day.
She’d been prepared for it only a few weeks ago. Perhaps prepared was the wrong word. She’d been resigned to it. But her union to the son of Minamoto Masaru was not a cause for concern anymore. It fell in the shadow cast by a far greater goal.
Mariko would rescue Ōkami today, even if it meant she had to marry a snake, kiss a spider, and burn a golden castle to the ground to do it. She waited with her attendants in a low-ceilinged room, her head bowed, her eyes affixed on the polished wood floor.
Suke watched her carefully, anticipating her every need, as only the best courtier could do. Following their conversation in the imperial gardens and a rather spirited game of Go, Mariko had requested for Suke to be the first official member of her circle at court.
“Is there anything you desire, my lady?” Suke asked.
“A way to turn back time.”
Suke smothered a smile. “And if that is not possible?”
“A way to speed it forward, so that I may know what the future might bring.” Mariko lifted her chin, and the heavy ornaments adorning her hair—styled in the classic coif of a bride—tugged at the mass of artificial strands near her crown. She grimaced, then sent a smile Suke’s way. “Are the other ladies of court still cold to you?” Mariko dropped her voice as she glanced to one side of the chamber, toward the group of girls to which Suke had once belonged. Mariko had learned that this trio contained the most desirable young ladies of the imperial court. Women with wealthy fathers, exorbitant dowries, and judgmental notions.
Suke eyed them sidelong. “Not cold. Simply indifferent.”
“So much for their absolute mercy.” Mariko coughed through her laughter, the dryness in her throat catching her unawares.
Another grin ghosted across Suke’s lips. “Would you care for some water, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Suke slipped past the maidservant Isa. She took hold of a square of soft linen and held the cloth to the rim before placing the cup against Mariko’s lips, for the long sleeves of Mariko’s formal bridal kimono were far too heavy to lift without assistance. It was known as a jūni-hitoe—a twelve-layered garment. A mountain of multicolored silk, beginning with a snow-white underrobe and ending with a rich purple coat that reminded Mariko of plums in springtime. Each hue had its own elaborate name. When all twelve layers were assembled, the garment’s colors comprised a poem. At her collar and along her sleeves, the tiers of fabric resembled a rainbow. The garment was ridiculously heavy, though it did look beautiful, in that way of outlandishly expensive things. Every kimono Mariko had ever worn before paled in comparison, and she’d been fortunate to don some spectacular garments in her short life.
When Mariko caught signs of dismay on Isa’s face, she stopped short. “What is it?”
Isa balked for an instant, as though she dared not offer any criticism.
“If something is amiss, don’t be afraid to tell me. As I’ve been informed many a time in the last few days, all eyes will be upon me.” Mariko smiled comfortingly.
“Yes, my lady.” Isa bowed. “The rose-petal stain on your lips has bled down your chin.”
Mariko turned to Suke. “Do I look a mess?”
Suke’s nose wrinkled in appraisal. “You look like the most beautiful demon bride I have ever beheld.”