Smoke in the Sun

  Ōkami braced himself against a sudden wash of fury. “If you think we are leaving her in this castle to—”

  “It was not my decision.”

  It took Ōkami only a moment to understand. Then he laughed softly. Bitterly. “Of course it wasn’t.”

  “We told her we could find a way to get her out safely, my lord,” Yorishige said. “But Lady Mariko …” He trailed off.

  Ren harrumphed. “She declined, like the little half-wit she is.”

  Though anger flared near Ōkami’s heart, pride swelled alongside it. Hattori Mariko had never been one to choose the easy path. Nor did she make decisions from a place of fear. Her courage made him stand taller, despite the task set before them now.

  The task set before Mariko, as the new bride of Prince Raiden.

  Tsuneoki studied his friend. “You’re worried about her marrying that foul boy.”

  Ōkami said nothing for a time. “Mariko is more than capable of caring for herself. I know she will always make the best decision she can, given the circumstances.” His features hardened, causing him to grimace. “But if Minamoto Raiden touches her against her will, no one will be able to save him. Not even the sun goddess herself.”

  Ren’s eyes narrowed to slits. “If he hurts Mariko, we’ll make him wish he were dead, several times over.”

  Tsuneoki said nothing, though his eyes indicated his agreement. They waited in silence for a beat. Then Tsuneoki consulted his map once more. Directed them down another corridor, toward a low-ceilinged tunnel, slick with mold and lichen. Ōkami nearly lost consciousness from the pain of forcing his shattered body to move. Finally they stopped beside the entrance to a large drain. Stinking water flowed past their feet, picking up speed as it turned a bend.

  “There are not many reasons for this kind of unrest within the walls of Heian Castle,” Tsuneoki said. “If it’s what I think it is, soldiers will be watching every entrance and exit now. We’ll wait until the tumult dies down, then make our escape.”

  Ren sniffed with distaste. “Right alongside their waste.”

  As soon as they’d made it through the drain and into the open air, Ōkami turned his face to the moonlight. Its unchecked power entered his body in a rush. He gritted his teeth against the searing sensation as his demon tried to stitch him back together from the inside. Though the pain was excruciating, he was unsurprised by its force. Ōkami’s shapeless demon did not love him. Its dark magic was not meant to be a gift. It intended to cause him pain. It fed on his pain, just as Ōkami took his strength from it. In the deepest recesses of his mind, he heard the faceless creature speak, its words an icy whisper in his ear:

  This will cost you.

  Ōkami knew it would. Had always known it would. And he would give it, until there was nothing left to give. To this demon, he was eternally loyal. The hum of magic curled through his ears, and Ōkami attempted to take flight in a burst of dark smoke. He turned his eyes to the moon again.

  It failed him. Again.

  A wave of pain tore through his chest. He cried out, a curse barreling from his bleeding lips. If Ōkami’s demon betrayed him now, all their lives would be at risk.

  His friends—his family—would die for it.

  And Mariko …

  “He’s too weak,” Ren said, panic underscoring his words. “It’s not working.” The boy’s typically cruel demeanor was nowhere to be found. Tsuneoki helped brace Ōkami while Yorishige moved ahead to scout the landscape. Vegetation grew high on the hillside just to the right of the drain, concealing them from view.

  Tsuneoki said, “Then we’ll carry him out of the city.”

  “No.” Ōkami spat the blood and salt from his mouth. “You’ll be caught.”

  “You think we didn’t consider that before coming here?” Tsuneoki shot back.

  Ōkami almost smiled. “I’ve missed you, you bastard.” He slumped against Ren, the pain turning his sight black for an instant.

  “Stop acting like a child,” Ren demanded. “Stand up straight. Fight.” His words reminded Ōkami of Mariko and her countless admonishments. She wanted him to be more. They all wanted Ōkami to be more.

  Ōkami let his head loll again, his eyes drifting closed.

  Why did they not realize their words fell on deaf ears? What would it take for them to understand he was not worth such faith? Ōkami wished he could return to his cell. Wished he could continue receiving the blows he’d deserved for a decade. He flinched as he recalled a particularly vicious kick to the head that had sent stars across his vision.

  Even his father’s sword had gleamed with promise when Ōkami had drawn near. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, that ridiculous blade believed in him, if the lore were to be held as true. It was supposed to recognize the pure heart of a warrior. There was nothing pure about Ōkami, even if the blood of Takeda Shingen flowed through his veins. Ōkami did not want the responsibility. What had his father’s pure heart earned him in the end?

  A chance to die in front of his only son.

  Ōkami opened his eyes and glared at the night sky. He let the hum rise once more in his throat, the vibrations ripple over his broken bones. He bit his tongue until more blood pooled in his mouth. His body was too damaged. The demon had turned its back on him. Ōkami’s knees started to give. He wanted to sleep. To lose consciousness and fade into nothingness.

  Tsuneoki grabbed him by the collar. “Takeda Ranmaru, don’t you dare—”

  An arrow hissed through the vegetation, a hairsbreadth from Tsuneoki’s head. Yorishige burst through the curtain of vines concealing them, his features horror-struck, just as a second arrow rasped from the darkness at his back. It struck Yorishige spearing clear through his chest, killing him instantly. He toppled to the ground like a doll, his mouth hung open in dismay.

  “Get to the clearing!” Tsuneoki said before fading into the darkness. Disappearing from sight.

  “There are more men beside the drain,” a voice cried out from beyond the vines. “They tried to murder our emperor. Show them no mercy!” The roar of gathering soldiers—their armor clanging through the air like warning bells—grew with each passing moment.

  “Go with Tsuneoki,” Ōkami said to Ren, his eyes locked on Yorishige’s motionless form.

  Ren leaned Ōkami against the drain, then whipped his hooked swords from his back and assumed a fighting stance.

  “Leave me,” Ōkami said. “Get out of here, you fool!”

  “Not a chance, my lord,” Ren shot back under his breath before dissolving into the shadows on the other side of the drain.

  Again Ōkami glowered at the moonlit sky, a wave of pain swelling across his body. An arrow whistled past his shoulder, nicking the skin of his arm. Another rebounded off the drain. Though it had taken Ōkami off guard to watch his friend vanish at the first sign of a threat, at least Tsuneoki had known better than to stay. Ōkami was grateful for his friend’s pragmatism. The men of the Black Clan would need their leader. Soldiers crashed through the vines, their weapons raised, their shining blades catching the stars above.

  As the light of the moon continued burning through him—trying in vain to stitch his broken bones back together—Ōkami used the sturdy stone of the drain to keep his body upright. He struggled to breathe. Fought to find focus so that he might defend himself. As the soldiers came toward him—weapons in hand, arrows pointed at his heart—a figure advanced through the darkness, a pair of hooked swords linked as they slashed through the air.

  An arm was severed from the soldier bearing down on Ōkami. Howling in pain, the man fell into the tall grass, blood spurting through the sky in a wicked arc. The other soldiers turned to meet this new foe. Arrows rained down around them without a shred of mercy.

  Ren charged. He fought—a blade in either hand—his eyes glowing with rage. An animalistic growl emanated from behind him. A growl Ōkami would recognize anywhere. Before the soldiers could blink, a nightbeast leapt into the fray, snarling as it ripped an axe from a soldier’s g
rasp, taking a hand with it.

  Tsuneoki had turned to his demon for assistance.

  Ōkami could not remember a time in his life when he’d felt more useless. More of a burden than anything else. He’d fought for a life devoid of this feeling. A life in which no one needed to rely upon him.

  He’d enjoyed living without this burden. Without these responsibilities.

  Yet he stood here, watching as two of his dearest friends fought to keep him safe. Risked their lives for his own.

  A yelp cut through the din of clashing metal, and Ōkami saw Tsuneoki limp away on three of his four legs. He’d been wounded. Or a past injury had been aggravated. Ren continued fending off the onslaught of soldiers that poured from the hillside beyond. Everywhere he spun his blades, blood spurted in their wake. His eyes were alight with fury. He turned into the path of the blade that caught him. It speared him clean through his stomach, cutting upward at the last instant. One moment Ren wore a look of triumph, the next of confusion.

  “Uesama?” he mouthed to Ōkami.

  It was what his father’s men had called Takeda Shingen.

  Their shōgun.

  Ōkami’s features twisted at the sight. He yanked the metal pin Mariko had given him from his shirtsleeve and lurched into the fight. Narrowly dodging the swing of a katana in his path, Ōkami stabbed the pin into the neck of the nearest soldier, then tore the screaming man’s weapon from his grasp.

  Hatred flowed through his veins.

  More of the people Ōkami loved were dying because of him. Even when he’d fought for so long to prevent it. He grasped the hilt of the blade in both hands. The stars above him seemed to sway. Searing pain rippled across his body.

  He saw Ren fall to the ground, his eyes frozen open in shock, as though—even in death—he still could not believe he’d been beaten. His body struck the earth slowly, as though time had stilled. First his knees, then his torso, then his head. Ōkami felt each of the jolts as though they were punches to his gut.

  Here one moment, gone the next. In the stories, all the heroes had time for farewells. In truth, Ren had time for nothing.

  Everything around Ōkami ground to a halt. It was as though he were viewing these events from above, as a detached observer, witnessing the end of a foolish boy who should have known better.

  His rage was clarity. His rage was strength. His rage moved him to action.

  Ōkami still had broken bones. He still felt each of the agonizing twinges and aches of his protesting body.

  It no longer mattered.

  He grabbed hold of another weapon. A smaller sword, so that he held one in each hand. It had been years since he’d fought with blades. His fingers trembled from the weight, but Ōkami swung both swords in unforgiving arcs. Shouts of agony rained down around him. Though his body was shattered, the weapons felt natural in his hands, like extensions of himself. Of his pain. Of his heartbreak.

  He faltered as he moved forward. Lost his center for a moment. A sword slashed past his side, the edge of the blade nicking his skin. Glancing off his ribs.

  That soldier lost his head in a single blow.

  Then Ōkami reached Ren. Before he could grant himself a chance to think, he locked eyes with the moon and yelled the guttural yell of something barely human. Then he dissolved into a dark smoke that spiraled into the night sky, the echoes of an otherworldly scream trailing in its wake.

  When Ōkami landed in the clearing, he dropped Ren’s lifeless body. Then he took a single breath before collapsing to the ground.

  Severed Limbs and Broken Ties

  Hours later, in a darkened corner of the castle grounds, the imperial guards found a boy trying to conceal a bow and arrow deep in a servant’s well. He panicked when he saw the samurai racing toward him. In his panic, the boy nearly threw himself into the well along with the weapons.

  He could not have been more than twelve years of age.

  When the boy was brought before Raiden, tears streamed down his cheeks. He was not even old enough to have a single hair on his chin. The first thing he asked for was his grandmother. A soldier cuffed him across the side of the head for his insolence.

  It would not be the last time the boy was struck.

  Raiden clenched his right fist. The ache from his injured arm radiated into his side. He let the pain wash over his body, reminding him of how closely he’d strolled beside Death. How closely his emperor—his younger brother—had been to meeting his end.

  He intended to punish the boy. Extract whatever information he could, and then separate the boy’s head from his body with a single swipe of a sword.

  Alas, that was not his brother’s plan.

  Mariko remained kneeling on her chamber floor for hours before Isa slid open the doors. The maidservant bowed at the threshold and set down a tray of food. Then the samurai guarding Mariko permitted her brother to enter. To speak with her, alone.

  Though he appeared stern, haggardness lined Kenshin’s features, as though he had not slept for an age. Mariko’s fingers shook with relief at seeing her brother unharmed. “Is the emperor badly wounded?”

  “No.” He stayed beside the door, declining to meet her gaze.

  Mariko swallowed. “Is Raiden?”

  “No.”

  He sounds … disappointed.

  Unsure of what to say, Mariko bided her time. “I—”

  “Once the commotion dies down, I intend to leave Inako and return home.”

  Though she was surprised to hear this, Mariko kept it to herself.

  After a moment of stony silence, Kenshin continued, still refusing to look her in the eye. “Now that your marriage ceremony has concluded, I intend to seek the whereabouts of—”

  “What happened to Amaya, Kenshin?”

  Her brother stopped short. His weariness grew even more apparent. “I asked you before not to—”

  “No.” Mariko’s words were a tattered whisper. “I’ve kept silent. I’ve done this dance of lies so many times I fear I no longer know what’s true. I’ve hidden my thoughts and feelings from you in ways I never believed I would.” She tried to stand and failed, the heavy silks of her layered garments making it impossible to take to her feet without assistance. “Why are you treating me as though I am a criminal, Kenshin?”

  He crossed the room in two long strides, towering over her. “You think I’m the only one among us who has acted unfairly?” Kenshin’s breath shook with rage. “Not once—not a single time after the battle in Jukai forest—have you looked at me without duplicity in your eyes.”

  “If I deceived you, it was only because you left me with no choice,” Mariko cried. “You never once thought to ask me what happened after my convoy was overrun. The moment I emerged from the forest, you treated me with nothing but cold disdain.” She took a halting breath. “You let Raiden and his men fire arrows at me. You didn’t care if I was hurt, so long as you stood on the winning side.”

  “What should I have done? What could I have done?” A look of abject pain crossed Kenshin’s face. “What choice did you leave me? You were fighting alongside traitors.”

  She forced her back straight and lifted her chin. “I was not allied with them. I was their prisoner.” The fingers folded in her lap trembled.

  “More lies, little sister,” he said in a dangerous whisper, his expression turning to ice. “I saw your hands. The mud you used to make it seem as though you were being held captive. It coated the sprays of blood from battle. Why would you have smeared mud on your body if not to conceal the proof that you fought alongside them?” Each word was a small cut made with a newly honed dagger. Kenshin continued looming over her, his fists curling and uncurling at his sides. As though he wished to strike something and watch it shatter in his shadow. No trace of the brother Mariko had known and loved all her life remained. He was a warrior intimidating his quarry. A samurai intent in his purpose. The threat of violence tinged the air like a blade shining in the sun.

  For the first time in her life, Mariko fe
lt afraid of her brother. The feeling stole her breath, like claws tightening around her neck. “How could you possibly have known any of that before you let Raiden’s men try to murder me?”

  Kenshin’s nostrils flared. “I am the Dragon of Kai. Do you think I would not know when a mere girl tried to deceive me?” His gaze darkened as though clouds had settled across his vision.

  At the sight, Mariko tamped down the urge to strike out at him. To silence him where he stood. Horror followed the thought.

  Mariko wanted to cause her brother physical harm.

  This was Kenshin. Her twin. Her family. No matter how much they differed—how at odds they were in both attitude and agenda—she’d never wished to truly hurt him even once in seventeen years.

  A muscle ticked in Kenshin’s neck. With visible effort, he battled against the rage teeming like an unchecked demon beneath his skin. “Do you think I had a say in what happened that night in Jukai forest? The instant I put our men in formation behind Prince Raiden, I knew I had lost all control.” He dropped his voice. “You are not foolish enough to believe I could have stopped them. And this is not about what happened that night. No words can excuse what we did to each other. You are just as much to blame as I am.” He drew closer, his toes grazing the edge of her silken hem. That same desire to strike out at him—to spare herself from being cornered by a bigger, stronger foe—caused Mariko’s fingers to ball into fists.

  He is my brother.

  This would always be their truth. Just as it would always be their truth if they crossed an irrevocable line right now. If Kenshin tried to hit her. If Mariko moved to attack him. It would be an action that could never be undone. There were ways for her to disarm her brother, even now. To allay his fears with falsehoods. At the mere thought, lies began collecting on the tip of her tongue.

  But Mariko had lied to him for so long. It wearied her, these stories she spun like yarn to everyone around her. Just once she wanted to tell Kenshin the truth. To put an end to this dance of fury and deception. It was a risk, but her brother had kept her most precious secret in the last few days.