He yanked her toward him, chest to chest, grasping her tight by the collar of her threadbare kosode. Mariko expected to find fury in his eyes. Instead she was met with an impenetrable expression. Not the cold sort. But rather carefully veiled, though his eyes were remarkably clear. Like glass in a cavern at midnight.
Mariko returned his stare, her heart thrashing wildly. “If you were me, you would have done the same thing.” She could not prevent her voice from quavering on the last word.
“No, I wouldn’t.” Ōkami’s dark brows lowered. Shadowed his gaze. Something tugged at his lips. “I would have succeeded.”
“And how would you have gone about doing that?”
His mouth dipped again, the scar through its center white. “I gather you routinely think you possess the most intelligence of any man around you.”
She shook her head slowly.
“A word of warning . . .” He bent closer. The scent of warm stone and wood smoke emanated from his skin.
Mariko blinked.
“Don’t bare your neck to a wolf.” With that, Ōkami heaved her off his horse into the shallows of the nearby pond.
Mariko gasped as the cold water enveloped her, the mud clinging to one side of her body. She sat upright, using her bound wrists to brush vines and muck from her brow.
Ōkami waited along the bank. Then he twisted his horse away, without a glance back.
“Welcome home, Lord Lackbeard.” Ranmaru smiled.
“Home?” she choked. “What are you—”
“Clean yourself up. You were badly in need of a bath anyway. Then fetch me some firewood.” He clicked his horse from the embankment. “And don’t think of escaping,” Ranmaru said over his shoulder. “There are traps everywhere. You won’t make it a league from our camp.”
I’m at the Black Clan’s encampment.
“Why have you brought me here? What do you intend—”
“Today you work. Tomorrow . . .” Ranmaru shrugged. “I feed you to my horse.”
JEWEL STEEL AND NIGHT RAIN
He’d lost track of her.
Lost all sight of where his sister might be.
Kenshin had followed her trail along the westernmost edge of Jukai forest. Followed it even as her steps doubled back and across the many small villages there.
He’d pursued it nevertheless. Doggedly. Ignored the twinges of frustration that cut through his chest. But Mariko’s trail had disappeared this morning in the shadow of a run-down watering hole.
Inexplicably.
The elderly man Kenshin had prodded awake had ignored him at first. Ignored his queries while pushing him from the threshold of his ramshackle lean-to.
“Do you know how many travelers wander through here each day, young man?” the old man had finally rasped while cringing away from the sun. “Now I’m meant to recall each of them in vivid detail?” His laughter had greatly resembled a hacking cough. “You’d do better to ask me the position of the clouds at any given time.” Then his expression had puckered as though he’d been sucking on the meat of a yuzu fruit.
Kenshin had almost accused him of lying. Something about the way the old man had brushed him aside so easily. Brushed aside such a respectful request from a celebrated young samurai.
In his concern for his sister, Kenshin had almost threatened an elderly man. But he’d forced his muscles to relax. His mind to settle. He’d caught himself before his thoughts could become irrevocable action.
Kenshin would never commit such a dishonorable deed.
For though he definitely thought the old man to be lying, he had no proof.
His sister’s trail now hopelessly lost, Kenshin had been forced to return to his camp. What he’d found when he arrived was even more disheartening. His men had grown restless in his absence. Their supplies were dwindling.
Their direction was now lost as well.
Kenshin had realized it was time to return home. To resupply and devise a different tack.
His men had been thrilled with the news. Far more thrilled than Kenshin wished them to be. After all, they’d failed in their task to rescue their lord’s only daughter.
They—and he—had failed Hattori Kano.
It was true Mariko had never been greatly beloved amongst his father’s men. She’d been a curious sprite of a girl, armed with unceasing questions. Mariko had never shied away from an opportunity to learn. She’d pestered metalsmiths. Peered over the shoulders of alchemists. Stood unnervingly still as she’d watched Nobutada—the most gifted swordsman of his father’s samurai—practice his kata.
Kenshin had always known how irritated the men riding under his father’s crest had been. These were not the places for a young girl. Not the proper interests for the daughter of their esteemed daimyō.
Nevertheless his father’s men needed to fall in line. Now of all times. Mere words would not be effective enough today.
An example would need to be made. One his father would undoubtedly approve.
As their convoy crested the hill leading into the valley of his father’s domain, one of the ashigaru began singing a tune in time to their march. A melody offering tribute to the beauty of home, sung by a humble foot soldier. The men at Kenshin’s back became jovial at its sound. Like the rolling swell of the sea, the melody carried through their ranks.
Jubilant. Boisterous. Even in the face of failure.
Kenshin’s long-simmering irritation reached a boiling point. He yanked his reins to one side, curving his horse around the vanguard of the convoy. Kane reared once before driving his hooves into the fragrant earth. The convoy came to an abrupt halt.
The singing died down.
As the melody faded, Kenshin took a moment to seek out his quarry. Then he prodded his warhorse alongside the neat formation of ashigaru.
“You,” he said to the young foot soldier who’d been singing. “Step forward.”
The ashigaru on either side stepped back as one, still maintaining their neat formation.
The singer was a boy. Possibly younger than Kenshin’s seventeen years.
Beads of perspiration collected beneath the young singer’s hachimaki. Kenshin watched the thin band of hemp around the boy’s forehead start to slide, the Hattori crest in its center darkening.
Before stepping forward, the boy straightened his hachimaki. Stood tall.
Kenshin briefly admired his bravery. Briefly regretted what he was about to do. The image of his father’s stern visage glimmered through his mind.
And his regret vanished.
“Why were you singing, soldier?” Kenshin’s voice sliced through the silence. A sheaf of ice cleaving from a mountain.
The boy bowed low. “I apologize, my lord.”
“Answer my question.”
“I—I sang in error, my lord.”
“A resounding truth. But still not an answer.” Kenshin urged his steed closer. “Do not make me ask again.”
The boy’s hachimaki was soaked through now. “I sang because I was happy.”
Kenshin’s horse stepped impossibly closer. Close enough for the horse’s nostrils to flare at the boy’s scent. As though Kane had smelled his next meal.
The boy recoiled from the wicked gleam in the warhorse’s gaze.
“Happy?” Kenshin’s voice dropped. “You were happy to have failed in your mission?”
“No, my lord.” The slightest of hesitations.
Frustration warmed across Kenshin’s skin. “Your purpose on this earth is what, soldier?”
“To serve the honorable Hattori clan.” He said the words loudly, in rote fashion.
Kenshin leaned forward in his saddle, an unsettling twinge slicing through his stomach. “And serve them you shall.” Without warning, he kicked the boy in the face. The crunch of broken bones echoed in time to the boy’s startled yelp. He hit the mud
beside Kane’s hooves with a splat. Bright blood dripped from his nose and mouth.
As Kenshin watched the boy try to swallow his pain—to accept his punishment—another whisper of regret rose in his throat.
An unfamiliar uncertainty.
He swallowed it quickly. Then lifted his gaze to the rest of his convoy.
“There is no cause to be happy here.” Kenshin let his voice carry across the ranks of ashigaru and mounted samurai. “No cause to celebrate. We have failed in our mission. But know this: that failure will not stand. You will each have a night’s rest. On the morrow, we shall depart once more.” Kane stamped his hooves in place, the battered boy cowering further into himself with every thud. “And there will be no singing—no laughter, no celebration—until we are successful.”
Kenshin spurred Kane back toward the head of the convoy. But he did not pause there. Instead he kicked his steed into a full gallop. Shifted him toward a different path.
One that would grant them a moment’s reprieve.
Hattori Kenshin did not want to be greeted at the main gate as though he was a victor returning from war.
He did not deserve it.
The path he chose led to the back entrance of his family’s compound. An entrance unfrequented by those in the nobility.
Before him rose a wicket gate, its wooden slats tightly pressed into an arch. Stacked stones enclosed the perimeter; stones arranged with such precision as to render mortar unnecessary.
The rear courtyard housed many of the Hattori clan’s most important servants and vassals. It also served as residence for a few of the scholars and artisans Kenshin’s father hosted, many for years at a time. All with the desire to further his reputation as a lauded daimyō with growing influence.
In truth Kenshin often preferred to return home to this entrance. It offered him an opportunity to be present without being seen. If he were to arrive at the main gate, his mother would be waiting for him, with countless servants in tow. His father would follow only a few steps behind.
The wicket gate swung open, and Kenshin directed Kane toward the back stables. The moment he dismounted, a stable hand rushed to assist him.
“I’ll curry my horse,” Kenshin said to the servant. “And please wait to inform my mother of my arrival until after I’m done.”
Stepping back, the young servant bowed low.
Kenshin led Kane into the first empty stall, taking his time to remove the boiled leather armor from the horse’s sweat-slicked back. In response to no longer being restrained, Kane whickered, pawing at the ground. He had always been a restless beast. With a smile, Kenshin took hold of a wide brush and began tending to his horse.
Another task he enjoyed. Another task he too rarely was given the chance to do while at home.
Behind him, light footsteps rustled across the woven mats strewn across the stable floor.
He did not turn. “Mother, I—”
“You are the last kind of beast I expected to find in the stable.”
A smile ghosted across his lips again. “The last kind of beast I expected to find in the stable, my lord.” Kenshin turned as he spoke, not even trying to conceal his pleasure at the arrival of this unexpected visitor.
A young girl in a simple kimono of deep blue silk leaned against the gate door. She wrinkled her pretty nose in playful distaste at his words.
Their titles had long been a source of amusement for them both.
For this girl was not in fact one of Kenshin’s servants.
Despite what his father frequently said in private.
“It’s not often that you surprise me, Hattori Kenshin.” As the girl spoke, her tone became flatter. Almost morose.
Her amusement had already begun to wane. So quickly.
Too quickly.
Kenshin cleared his throat, letting his smile drop, despite his wish to remain lighthearted. There were smudges across her cheek and nose. He’d have wagered ten gold ryō they were from the dust of polishing sand. Just like when they were children. Just like when she’d helped her father—celebrated artisan Muramasa Sengo—polish weapons in the nearby smithy.
Memories stirred through Kenshin, pleasant and warm. He should not—would not—smile at this particular girl so familiarly again. No matter how much he wished to do so.
Such a gesture would not serve them well.
A grip of doubt took hold of Kenshin’s throat. A terrible sensation that only ever came about in this girl’s presence. “Would you like me to leave?”
“Well, I have no intention of currying your horse for you, even if you are the fearsome Dragon of Kai.” Though her words were crisp—plinks of water against clay—her voice was calm.
It suited her. Amaya.
A night rain.
Crisp. Yet calm.
Kenshin gritted his teeth. “You should not—”
“You haven’t brought your sword to be polished in quite some time.” Amaya stepped toward him. “My father mentioned it only yesterday.” She held out her left hand. “Give it to me.” She spoke as though nothing were between them.
As though Kenshin meant nothing to her.
That same grip of doubt tightened its hold. Kenshin threw it off with a roll of his shoulders, like an unwanted burden.
Better Amaya think he was nothing to her. Better for them both.
The longer he thought it, the sooner it would become true.
Without a word, Kenshin removed his katana from its bindings and passed it to her.
Amaya unsheathed the blade from its ornate saya. Her eyes flitted across the intricate tsuba—across the copper-gilt filigree of the Hattori crest worked into the hand guard. Over the gaping dragon’s maw inlaid with turquoise enamel. She stopped to tsk at the sight of the sword itself. “Do you not know by now?” Amaya scolded lightly. “Art such as this is meant to be cared for.”
Kenshin watched her study the grooves in the painstakingly crafted jewel steel. The notches of wear and neglect. Her eyes were soft puddles of grey. Concern etched a groove between them. One he desperately wished to smooth with a quick pass of his thumb.
It was this groove—this concern for something Amaya should no longer trouble herself with—that tempered the anger in Kenshin’s veins.
Despite her efforts to conceal it, Muramasa Amaya always cared about things far more than she should.
“You’re right,” Kenshin replied. “Anything made by Muramasa-sama is meant to be cared for.” His words were laced with tender meaning.
Those same soft eyes lifted to his. Unhesitatingly. “Father would agree.” She paused, then glanced away. “I’ll see to it that the blade is sharpened and returned to you tonight.”
“There’s no need.”
“No.” Amaya returned the katana to its saya with a smooth flick of her wrist. “Father would not want a blade he fashioned to remain in such disrepair.” She spoke as if her father—perhaps the most famed metalsmith in all the empire—would personally hone and polish the sword, but Kenshin knew Amaya would be the one to do it.
Knew it with the certainty of the rising sun each dawn.
A sharp pang carved a path around his heart.
But he said nothing. Did nothing.
It was better this way.
As Amaya turned to take leave, she looked over her shoulder. If he hadn’t known her better, Kenshin would have sworn he saw Amaya hesitate.
“Mariko . . . isn’t dead, Kenshin. She can’t possibly be dead.”
“I know.”
“Good.” Amaya nodded once. “Don’t give up in your search for her.”
“I won’t.”
A small smile curled up her face.
His resolve broke at the sight.
“Amaya . . .” Kenshin closed the gap between them. He wanted so badly to wipe the smudges from her cheek. To press the g
roove between her eyes until it vanished beneath his touch. His hand rose to her face.
She pulled back. “Good evening, my lord.” Amaya bowed low.
In the gesture, Kenshin saw none of her teasing. None of their usual humor.
He missed it more than he could ever say.
But Kenshin knew better. He stepped to one side. Dipped his head in a bow.
When she turned to go, Kenshin found himself moving forward, his feet obeying his heart’s unspoken commands.
He could not watch her walk away.
Not again.
Instead Kenshin brushed past her coldly, back into the afternoon sun of the courtyard. He almost stopped short when he saw his mother standing there. Waiting. She was not looking at him. Her knowing eyes were trained on Amaya. Their piercing centers followed the daughter of Muramasa Sengo until the girl’s slender shadow vanished around the nearest corner.
Kenshin did not falter as he approached his mother. He bowed before her.
“Mother.”
“Son.” She searched his face. For what, he could only hazard a guess. “Your sister?”
Kenshin shook his head.
His mother’s regal shoulders sagged the smallest fraction. Only someone standing close by could ever have detected it.
Here, at least, Kenshin could offer comfort. He placed a hand against her cheek.
“She is alive, Mother,” he said. “I promise you. Mariko lives.”
The fire of truth blazed in her eyes. “Bring her back to us safely, Kenshin.”
“I will.”
“Then you have a plan?”
Kenshin nodded. “Tomorrow I leave for the imperial city.”
“You hope to find your sister in Inako?”
“No.” His lips thinned into a hard line. “I hope to find answers.”
MANY KINDS OF STRENGTH
Mariko had never known she could hate anyone with such deep-seated ferocity. She’d long considered the sentiment an exercise in futility. Hatred served no purpose, except to plague its bearer.
But these last few hours had proven her wrong.