Flame in the Mist

  Never mind that it was a lie couched in truth.

  A lie meant to test their newest recruit.

  Anything Ōkami revealed about Yumi—whether or not it was true—would anger Ranmaru greatly. And after all Ranmaru had sacrificed for him, Ōkami would rather die than cause his friend pain.

  As it was, Ōkami had thought long and hard before disclosing this information. But the best way to gain trust was to give it. And Ōkami would murder Sanada Takeo with his bare hands before he let any actual harm come to Yumi.

  This would be the first of many tests Ōkami had designed for the young Lord Lackbeard. The wheels of the second test were already set in motion.

  Ōkami’s suspicion had begun to form the night they’d first met Sanada Takeo by Akira-san’s watering hole. It had deepened when he’d caught sight of the boy climbing like an insect across the rooftop. And solidified when Ōkami had pressed a forearm into the boy’s throat and heard him all but squeal like a girl.

  Ōkami had immediately regretted handling him in such a rough manner. Then felt a wave of irritation at his regret. Everything about this boy was green. Untried. From the soft skin of his hands to the ridiculous way he completed even the simplest task with such unnecessary precision.

  The boy had obviously been sent here to ingratiate himself to Ranmaru. To act the part of the bumbling young fool in desperate need of guidance.

  Only it had become abundantly clear to Ōkami that Sanada Takeo was far from being a fool. The boy was too clever—in words and in deeds—for that.

  Ōkami knocked the hair from his eyes. Refrained from kicking a wayward stone beside his foot. Why had he not just left the boy in Inako, as Ranmaru had suggested?

  He’d had the opportunity. Ōkami could have left Takeo in the bowels of the Iwakura district. Takeo could never have found his way back to the Black Clan’s camp. Instead Ōkami had felt strangely watchful of him. Almost protective.

  Sanada Takeo had been chosen to spy on them for this exact reason.

  To prey on their weaknesses. Ranmaru’s wish to inspire.

  Ōkami’s need to protect.

  The boy had always made him uncomfortable in a way Ōkami had been unable to adequately articulate. Whenever Sanada Takeo was around, he made Ōkami question everything about himself.

  And he did not like it.

  His suspicion had only solidified in the grey fog rising above the waters of the hot springs. The best way for Ōkami to confirm it was to watch the boy.

  And wait for him to make a mistake.

  TWISTED TALES

  Kenshin had spent too many nights in Inako.

  He’d attended too many gatherings and been forced to partake in too many insipid conversations. And gleaned virtually nothing of value.

  Despite all his attempts to learn whether any member of the nobility bore a grudge against his family, he had turned up empty-handed. Kenshin was not good at manipulating conversations in the same skillful way as his father. The way that enabled him to control the pace of the boat without even touching an oar. Without those around you ever knowing.

  No. Neither he nor Mariko had ever been gifted at that. Mariko was far too direct. And he was far too uninterested.

  Today Kenshin planned to leave Inako. To return home.

  A failure once more. In his eyes. And the eyes of his father.

  But he would first revisit the forest and stop to question the elderly man at the watering hole again. He was lying, and Kenshin no longer had any tolerance for deception. He’d dealt with pretense too often of late.

  In an imperial city rife with it.

  Kenshin stood beside the curved railing of an arched bridge in the first maru of Heian Castle. The glossy finish of the balustrade was red—smooth and cool beneath his touch.

  At his back, crisp footsteps drew close. “I hear you are leaving.” Roku spoke to him in a measured, lyrical voice. As though he wished to emulate a bird in song.

  Kenshin turned to bow. “I have no interest in dallying in Inako any further, Your Highness.”

  “But you did not find what you were looking for.” As usual, Minamoto Roku did not ask questions. He pried in other, far more insidious ways.

  In response, Kenshin said nothing. Hoped his face did not disclose anything of value.

  “I wish to help you, Hattori Kenshin.” Roku’s smile formed slowly. Too slowly to be real. “Though my brother has yet to admit it—even to himself—I know he is quite troubled by the death of your sister.”

  “I do not believe Mariko to be dead, Your Highness.”

  “Of course.” Roku nodded. “I’ve since learned why those men attacked us at the teahouse.”

  Kenshin waited, not wanting to ask. Not wanting to be beholden to the crown prince on any score.

  “It’s information I think you would be interested to know,” Roku continued, smiling once more. He strolled to Kenshin’s side, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “The whispers among several of the geiko there said these men were members of the Black Clan.”

  Roku’s words confirmed Kenshin’s earlier suspicions. The Dragon of Kai gripped the red balustrade tight. Countless tales surrounded the Black Clan. Tales that had twisted into lore. Ones linking them to exiled rōnin. Of murderous men who drank the blood of their victims, leaving their bodies to rot in the shade of skeletal trees. Stories Kenshin had never given a moment’s consideration before. He had known the Black Clan frequented certain parts of Jukai forest, but Kenshin had dismissed earlier suggestions that these men had had anything to do with the attack on Mariko’s convoy. If the same lore was to be believed, the Black Clan was not disorganized enough to allow a survivor to escape. Mercenaries as celebrated as they did not maintain their livelihoods by allowing their marks to point fingers their way. Besides that, Kenshin had never known them to attack convoys guarded by samurai.

  And he’d never heard of the Black Clan murdering young women before. Innocent girls like Mariko’s maidservant. It had been a chief reason Kenshin had removed them from consideration at the onset.

  In his mind, there were only two reasons for the Black Clan to murder Mariko. One involved a great deal of money. The kind of money linked to those in the nobility.

  The other reason involved hatred.

  “Permit me to speak frankly, Your Highness,” Kenshin began. “I fail to see why this information would be of value to me. Beyond rumor, I have found little evidence to suggest the Black Clan could be responsible for the attack on my sister’s convoy.”

  “Ah”—Roku angled his body, the smooth skin of his face all but unreadable—“but it should be of value to you, Kenshin-sama. And there is most definitely evidence.”

  A part of Kenshin wished to strike Roku across the face. As soon as he realized this truth, Kenshin recoiled from it. These were not the thoughts of a samurai in loyal service to his liege lord. One day Roku would be his emperor. One day Kenshin would be honored to die at this boy’s command.

  Roku’s eyes drifted across the serene waters of the pond. “Have you heard what happened to the last shōgun of the empire?”

  “He was accused of treason and committed seppuku.”

  Roku paused. “It appears a mistake was made in the process.”

  “A mistake?”

  “The traitor Takeda Shingen was executed ten years ago, after being accused by one of his dearest friends, Asano Naganori. The mistake made at the time was that my father allowed Takeda Shingen’s son to live. He was only eight when he watched his father die. I believe the emperor did not wish to have the blood of his traitorous friend’s son on his hands.”

  “Forgive the impudence, Your Highness, but I am struggling to understand why this information is of value to my search for Mariko.”

  Another slow smile, sinister in its bent. “The leader of the Black Clan is Takeda Shingen’s son. And I believe t
hey murdered your sister in revenge.”

  Kenshin blanched in shock. “Revenge? Why would they wish revenge on my family?”

  “Your misinterpretation is quite understandable. The son of Takeda Ranmaru wishes revenge on my family. Murdering your sister is only the beginning.”

  “Mariko is not—”

  “Of course. She is not dead.” Roku waved a dismissive hand, then faced the water once more. “But if she lives, I believe the Black Clan knows where she is. And I would urge you to be wary, Kenshin-sama, as it is clear—following the events of that night in Hanami—that a target has been painted on your back as well.”

  Silence settled between them. Kenshin did not know what to believe anymore.

  But he would most certainly find out the truth.

  —

  From a distance, the Emperor of Wa watched the crown prince speak with the Dragon of Kai. He saw the son of Hattori Kano frown repeatedly. Saw his back straighten with unmistakable purpose.

  The web had been spun. Now the spider would wait for its prey to make a fatal mistake.

  The emperor smiled to himself.

  Roku would make a fine emperor indeed.

  Beside him, Kanako toyed with the hundred-year-old carp swimming just beneath the surface of the water, angling for its next meal. She drew it closer, capturing its attention by catching rays of sunlight in the ring she always wore on her left hand. At first glance, the ring was nothing remarkable. Upon further study, a casual observer would note how the stone in its center appeared rather strange. The color within it looked and moved almost like liquid silver. But that was all a casual observer would ever see.

  Because when anyone stared at the ring for too long, a cloud of pure white fell across his vision. The observer would need to blink hard. Shake his head.

  And forget what he was even looking at in the first place.

  Kanako ran her right hand over the ring. The prongs holding the stone in place lengthened. Melted from metal into something much more pliant. Then turned darker. The liquid silver stone formed a spherical body, rising from her finger and scuttling to her nail’s edge.

  A silver spider—fashioned from the ensorcelled stone—descended from the tip of Kanako’s slender finger into the water, its silk a gold glint, refracting the sun’s warm rays. The carp remained below the surface, mesmerized, as the spider’s legs touched the carp’s lips.

  Kanako closed her hand into a tight fist.

  The spider disappeared.

  She walked away.

  When the emperor looked down, he saw the body of the motionless carp float beneath the bridge.

  And vanish into the waters of the pond.

  FOXGLOVE

  The forest smelled of citrus and cedar. In that way of mist and rain.

  A late spring shower had livened the air. Sweetening it. Blurring the lines while bringing all else into sharper focus. The rumble of low thunder. The rich green of the leaves. Mariko’s feet sloshing through a cool puddle.

  It made her want to stick out her tongue and catch raindrops on its tip.

  But a boy would never do that.

  Would he?

  Kenshin had never done that. At least not to her recollection.

  Instead Mariko continued trudging along the narrow footpath cut beneath the jagged outcropping of cliffs. Ahead were the hot springs. If she finished her task early enough, perhaps she could sneak in another bath.

  At Yoshi’s behest, Mariko had spent the last half hour collecting a certain kind of mushroom that sprang to life only when it rained. The cook had told her she would have the most success finding these particular mushrooms around the hot springs, and Mariko had happily left in the late afternoon to oblige. Only recently had she been freed from the constant companionship of her tormenter, Ren, and now was the perfect chance for her to revel in her newfound freedom.

  As Mariko hunted through the underbrush—searching for a creamy white stalk and a smooth brown cap—another plant caught her attention from the cliff above. Tiny, vivid purple blossoms, suspended from their stems like bells.

  Foxglove.

  Mariko remembered her tutor mentioning it once.

  The plant was poisonous. When prepared properly, a tea brewed from its petals could slow a person’s heart to the point of death.

  Her lips pursing in contemplation, Mariko set down her basket of mushrooms and circled the base of the cliff. When she turned the corner and glanced up, she discovered a large gathering of deep purple blossoms, suspended right above the hot springs. The foxglove had apparently burst to life after the rain, many of them still mere buds awaiting their moment to open.

  I should collect the flowers. Save them for when I might have an opportunity to use them.

  Again Mariko recalled her tutor’s teachings. Foxglove had more than one purpose. She briefly recollected watching her tutor experiment with the stem and seeds of the plant. He’d reduced them to a paste. Then touched the paste with the end of a lighted stick. It had flashed hot and bright—causing Kenshin’s face to startle and Mariko’s eyes to widen—before burning white and disappearing in a smokeless flame.

  That day, their tutor had warned Mariko and Kenshin about the many perils of foxglove.

  A plant that could kill in several different ways.

  Mariko scanned the cliffs for a time, putting together a plan.

  She huffed loudly. There was nothing to be done for it. If Mariko wished to collect the foxglove, she would have to scale the cliffs. She wiped her damp hands on her rain-soaked kosode—an exercise in futility—and reached for the nearest handhold to her right.

  The surface of the stone was slick. As soon as she braced one foot along a ledge to heave herself up, her foot slid off. With a sigh, Mariko removed her sandals and split-toed socks, knowing her bare feet would offer better traction.

  She began working her way up the cliff face to the particular outcropping littered with the most flowers. The bell-like purple blossoms trembled beneath another smattering of soft rain. Below her, steam rose from the hot springs, curling into her face and obscuring her vision. Once Mariko had made her way far enough upward, she began moving sideways, hand over hand, foot over foot.

  Soon she found herself stuck a mere body’s length from the outcropping of flowers. She reached above and could not find a suitable handhold. Then she reached to one side and her fingers—damp with rainwater—slid from their perch.

  Mildly alarmed at her predicament, she toed her way to the opposite side, seeking purchase.

  And slipped.

  With a screeching cry, Mariko plummeted through the air.

  Into the steaming waters of the hot springs.

  The instant she landed, all the air was knocked from her chest. Reflexively, Mariko gasped.

  And swallowed a mouthful of hot water before passing out.

  —

  With a bemused expression, Ōkami had watched Sanada Takeo begin his climb up the mountain face.

  Why was the idiot climbing upward when there were plenty of mushrooms to be had on the forest floor? It was only when Ōkami saw Takeo reach for the purple blossoms that he even began to understand.

  That little fool hoped to poison someone with foxglove.

  Ōkami crossed his arms.

  Someone? The fool’s intended victim was likely Ōkami himself. Not that Ōkami blamed him. Were he in a similar situation, Ōkami would draw the same conclusion. At the moment, Sanada Takeo would be hard-pressed to find a bigger threat than he, even in a camp full of murderers and thieves. After all, no one else save Ōkami harbored such suspicions against the Black Clan’s newest recruit. Nor did they make the effort to spy on him.

  Ōkami snorted to himself as he continued watching Sanada Takeo struggle to find a foothold. As though anyone would not recognize foxglove the instant the little shit tried to bring it into
camp! Yoshi would smell the green-scented blossoms from a league away.

  When Takeo began to slip, Ōkami was not the least bit surprised.

  A fool’s errand often resulted in a fool’s fate.

  He’d wait for the boy to fall, then take him to task. Takeo had climbed high, but it was not high enough for it to kill him. Ōkami watched, unmoved, as the boy struggled. Lost all footing. Predictably fell.

  It was the sound of Takeo’s scream that tore Ōkami from his silent amusement.

  It sliced through him.

  The sound of Sanada Takeo’s scream.

  Ōkami was already racing from behind the tree when the boy plunged into the hot springs.

  And failed to surface.

  —

  Mariko coughed loudly. Wretchedly.

  Warm water spilled from her mouth as she was turned onto her side. Her vision blurred, then focused.

  Ōkami hovered above her, his eyes wide.

  Mariko stared up at him. Their chests heaved in unison. Water dripped from Ōkami’s unbound hair into her face. He was gaping down at her, incredulous.

  One of his hands rested on the center of Mariko’s chest.

  Her kosode had been ripped open, the muslin bindings across her breasts bared for all the world to see.

  An array of emotions passed across Ōkami’s face. Shock. Anger. Bewilderment.

  Mariko had never thought she’d see so many naked feelings cross his finely chiseled face. The dark centers of his eyes had grown. Now they glistened through the swirling steam like black ice on a mountaintop.

  He knows I’m a girl.

  “You . . . saved me,” Mariko sputtered lamely, trying in vain to keep him from speaking. Keep him from saying anything that might cause her trouble of any kind. Even she knew how ridiculous the words sounded as she said them. How obvious.

  “You . . . liar.” A mirthless smile began to take shape on Ōkami’s mouth. A smile savage in its beauty. A smile that clearly tried to mask the emotions of only a moment before.