Smoke in the Sun (Flame in the Mist #2)

Heads turned once more to watch Prince Raiden make his entrance, dressed in a sokutai dyed in the brilliant hues of a setting sun. The elaborate kanmuri on his head was fashioned of black silk. His features looked chiseled from stone. Upon his arrival, the prince was presented with a sacred sprig.

Mariko drowned out the sound of the emperor offering them his grace and protection. Of Raiden pledging his unending loyalty. She instead gazed upon the solemn figure of his mother, watching them closely. When their eyes met, Kanako smiled, the ends of her hair lifting in a passing breeze. Though Mariko still did not trust her fully, she felt a strange sense of solidarity with her. As though they fought alongside each other, bearing the same standard. It comforted Mariko. When she’d requested assistance with her hair—in tossing aside decorum—Raiden’s mother had offered nothing but enthusiasm, almost to the point of amusement.

The emperor witnessed the occasion with a small smile pasted on his face. When the chief ritualist moved to finalize the union, Mariko hid her shock at the glimmer of emotion that passed across Roku’s features. It was clear these feelings were reserved for his elder brother. A bolt of lightning could strike Mariko down where she stood, and the emperor would simply go about his day. But he genuinely cared for Raiden. Odd how such a cold and calculating young man could harbor true affection for his elder brother, especially one raised to be his enemy.

As the ceremonial cup of sake was passed his way, Raiden looked down at Mariko, his brow furrowed. Uncertain. A pang of indecision unfurled in her chest. It had been a mistake for her to imagine this moment with ōkami. The ache that settled in her throat refused to fade. Raiden touched his lips to the rim of the cup, his gaze locked on Mariko’s face. She wondered what kind of thoughts he might be hiding behind his eyes. What worries or regrets he might be concealing.

Why he had even agreed to marry her.

He passed the sake her way. It was the final symbol of their union, this shared cup between a husband and his wife. Mariko gritted her teeth and brought it to her lips. Their marriage would be a small price to pay if it paved the way to greater opportunities. If it allowed her larger plans to fall into place.

Before Mariko could take a sip, the screams began.

The first arrow struck the emperor in the shoulder, clearly intended for his heart.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Raiden shoved Mariko to the ground, the cup of sake rolling across the polished wood floor. He growled at her to keep still before leaping to his brother’s aid.

A second arrow shot from a higher angle grazed Prince Raiden’s arm before all the guards had managed to surround them. Kanako shouted in fury, her hands twisting through the air, calling for a fog to settle around the pavilion.

Mariko’s heart pounded against the wooden floor, the wind struck from her chest, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. Before she could regain control of her body, she was lifted to her feet and cocooned in the center of armed samurai, each with their hands on their weapons, the emperor being whisked from sight beneath a canopy of shields.

Shouts of servants echoed nearby. Mariko could see nothing but molded armor, white smoke, and flashes of silk. They crossed into another room before she was shoved in a darkened corner, three samurai guarding her path.

“Where is Kenshin?” she gasped.

They did not turn to look at her once.

Fear gripped her from within. She did not know if her brother was safe. And now that Mariko was under watch, she could not make contact with those outside to ascertain whether ōkami had been rescued. This assassination attempt would ensure that every entrance and exit to the castle grounds was heavily guarded, every samurai on high alert.

If ōkami had not already managed to escape, it would be all but impossible now.

She’d failed him. Just like with the waxen key. Like the night with the firestones, when Kenshin had caught her. There had been so many times Mariko had tried to rescue ōkami and failed. Why had she even come here?

For more than a week, Mariko had fought to stave off an onslaught of tears. Tears of pain and fear and desperation. The only times she’d permitted herself to cry openly and without reservation had been strategic. If her tears did not serve an immediate purpose, Mariko had considered them a waste.

Now—huddled in a corner, with samurai shielding her from prying eyes—Mariko cried in earnest, watching her tears fall on the many layers of her wedding kimono. Watching them seep through the twelve layers, like blood.





Something Barely Human




He’d been unable to channel his demon, even after the moon had emerged from behind the clouds. Though ōkami had managed to free himself using the firestones Mariko’s brother had tossed his way, it had not made a difference. His body was too far broken. The moon had tried to imbue him with strength. Had tried to heal him. Its light had fought to find him through the darkness.

But it had not been enough.

“I need to be outside.” He groaned, his head lolling to one side.

When Tsuneoki first caught sight of ōkami lying beneath the slip of moonlight, he’d stopped short. Even Ren had kept silent, his eyes bulging from his skull. The third member of their party—a boy whose features reminded ōkami greatly of Yoshi—could not look away even as he heaved an iron axe against the lock of the cell.

“I’ll destroy all of them,” Tsuneoki ground out. “Every bit of pain they inflicted will be met, ten times over.”

ōkami struggled to sit up. He would not be able to walk without support. At least four of his toes had been broken. The instant he put weight on his left foot, a searing pain shot up his thigh.

He would never be able to move about like this.

“Just get me outside,” he repeated, biting down to keep from crying out. “Into the light.”

The boy who resembled Yoshi braced ōkami against his side. Ren took hold of ōkami’s other arm, and the two young men began dragging him from his cell. Dirty water dripped from the conduits above. As they hurried through the blue darkness, Tsuneoki guided them with surefooted steps, even absent a source of light. ōkami found this strange, as he was certain his friend had never been here before.

His unspoken question was answered when ōkami realized Tsuneoki was counting his steps. Only Mariko could have found a way to give the Black Clan this advantage. He smiled to himself as another shock of pain rippled across his body. Ren had inadvertently jostled his side.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Ren mumbled.

“Keep at it.” ōkami tried to jest through the pain. “A few of my ribs aren’t broken yet.”

The boy resembling Yoshi laughed awkwardly, though he loosened his grip on ōkami, as though he were handling a frail creature at risk of shattering at any moment. “I am Yorishige, my lord. It is an honor to—”

“Save your deference for the deserving, Yorishige-san,” ōkami muttered.

Tsuneoki held up a hand to halt their steps. Even through the thick stone walls, ōkami sensed a strange hush descend on them, like the calm before a summer storm.

Ren gripped ōkami tightly, urging him forward.

The collective roar that emanated from above was one of shock. Not of celebration. Stampeding footsteps shook the very walls of the castle.

“Something’s wrong,” Tsuneoki whispered. They crouched in the shadows while he paused to note where they were in relation to the map in his hand. “Thirty-two paces forward, turn left, move for twenty-four paces, enter a low-ceilinged hallway with the distinct scent of burned charcoal. Proceed,” he whispered.

ōkami knew his friend said this aloud to edify them all. If they backtracked or were forced to split apart, they would need to know how to return to the same place. To resume the same path.

Leaning his weight on Ren’s shoulder, ōkami lifted his head, forcing his swollen eye to stay open. “If something is wrong, we need to—”

“Before you say another word, know that we are not stopping to rescue Mariko,” Tsuneoki said.

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