The smoke from the pyre twisted ōkami’s way. It made his eyes burn, his throat close. He coughed, and moisture collected in his eyelashes. His first reaction was to fight it. ōkami did not cry, not even when he was sure no one was there to bear witness. He would never allow such weakness to overcome him.
Ren had not deserved to die at so young an age. So uselessly. Perhaps it meant something that he’d died in battle. Died honorably, protecting a friend.
Honor.
ōkami glared at the fire until his eyes burned once more. Honor was a thing to hate. It drove people to act foolishly, as though they were heroes. As though they were invincible. ōkami hated heroes more than anything else. As a boy, he’d concluded that heroes cared more about how the world perceived them than they did about those they’d left behind.
Tsuneoki came to stand on the other side of the birch tree. He gave his friend space, though ōkami knew the gesture to be unlike him. Save for the times he assumed the form of a nightbeast, Tsuneoki was not known for fading quietly into the shadows. Proof of this was in what he’d managed to accomplish in only ten days: the ranks of the Black Clan had swelled to nine times their previous number.
“Would you like for me to send a healer to tend your wounds?” Tsuneoki asked gently.
“Not now.”
Tsuneoki waited again. “The loss of Ren—of a friend and brother—is not something that will be easy to forget.” His voice turned hoarse. “I’m not sure I ever want to forget it.”
Anger sent another spasm of pain shooting through ōkami’s chest. “You should have left me there.”
Tsuneoki’s morose laughter filled the air. “You would have liked that. Then you could have died the tragic death you’d always hoped for. Like a hero.”
“I am no one’s hero.” His fists curled at his sides, but ōkami fought the urge to lash out at his friend. “You’re trying to provoke me.”
“Is it working?”
“No,” he all but snarled back.
“Liar.”
Wincing through the smoke, ōkami looked away. “Why are you doing this?”
“You must feel responsible for what happened.”
“If you say so.” He raised his shoulders in glib fashion. Another flare of pain nearly caused him to cry out. ōkami grunted in an effort to conceal it.
“Of course you feel responsible,” Tsuneoki repeated.
“I’m not going to humor you with—”
“Stop it. Act like that in your next life.” Tsuneoki faced him straight on. “You are not the only one to have lost everything, Takeda Ranmaru. Some of us just choose to do something about it.”
A white haze of fury clouded ōkami’s mind. “What makes you think I—”
“I don’t have anything more to say to you on the matter.” He paused. “I’ll send for the healer. And you will listen to what she says.” Tsuneoki began walking away, then halted only a few steps from where he’d stood. “I’m happy to see you again, ōkami. I’m thankful you’re safe. When you’ve given your anger a chance to abate, let a sentry know. There’s something I would like to show you.”
“Go to hell.”
Tsuneoki grinned, his gaze sharp. “Save me the seat beside you.”
A Measure of Solace
Injustice was not a new form of nourishment for her. It had been served every day of Kanako’s life. Sometimes it was expected, others it arrived wearing the guise of something less sinister. But always it was there.
Her anger at injustice had become a thing with teeth. Claws. An icy thing that raged between the bones of her chest, howling to be set free.
All her plans had been ruined by Hattori Kenshin’s lingering convictions. He was no longer the boy with the pliant mind she’d first selected for this task. His suffering had not made him weaker; it had made him stronger. His fury at the sight of Muramasa Amaya’s entrapped form had not been enough for him to take revenge on the emperor. That must have been the reason his shot had gone wide. It could be the only explanation. Hattori Kenshin was known as the Dragon of Kai. A famed warrior—a samurai—of the highest order. It was not possible for him to have missed his mark, not when he’d been granted every opportunity.
Kanako had set everything up perfectly. She’d put her scapegoat—that sniveling child—into position to hide the weapons afterward. Aligned the stars so that no one would see what happened in the shade of the nearby clouds.
Still it had not been enough.
And who had fired that second shot? The one that had nearly struck her son? It had come from a different angle—higher than the first—which meant it had been an entirely different archer. Who would dare to threaten Raiden?
Kanako seethed to herself as she wandered through the colorless world of the enchanted maru. Her plans had been torn asunder. The injustice of it all continued to writhe beneath her skin, ready to be unleashed.
Then a coolness washed over her. An answer came to mind.
Her failure had been in entrusting others with such important tasks.
She would not fail like this again.
Raiden made his way across the nightingale floors. They squeaked and whistled with every step. Though the sound was irritating, its rhythm was steady, soothing. Consistent. It offered him a strange kind of comfort.
He’d woken in his bridal chamber to find his new wife asleep at the foot of their pallet, fully dressed. It should have annoyed him.
Instead he’d experienced the strangest tremor by his heart. The girl—his new wife—was most definitely a nuisance. She said less than half of what she thought, and of that half, Raiden was certain only a fifth of it was true. Though she appeared to have been earnestly frightened when the first arrow had struck the emperor, Raiden was not entirely certain of her innocence.
She was a liar. A manipulator.
He should have killed her for it, the moment the doubt first entered his mind. But Raiden had had enough of bloodshed after last night. Enough of it to last a lifetime.
Then—when he was most in need of it—Mariko had simply listened to him. She’d not asked for anything. Simply offered him quiet company. A measure of solace. When he’d been younger, his mother had done that for him. It was the reason Raiden did not feet the need to retaliate against those who shunned him for his birth.
His mother’s silent encouragement. The simple fact that she had been there. Often that had been all Raiden had needed as a child. Someone who cared. For a blink of time, he’d seen the same quality in Hattori Mariko. The same quiet strength. Perhaps that was why Raiden had acquiesced to his brother’s demands and married her, despite his many reservations.
The girl held tight to her convictions. Once Hattori Mariko had agreed to marry him, Raiden did not sense anything but surety in her. She’d not asked to delay the wedding for any reason—even to ensure her parents’ attendance—though Raiden would have understood. Mariko’s only requests were been that he allow her to attend a play in the city—to be among the people of Inako—one last time. And that Takeda Ranmaru be executed without any fanfare, in the moments following the ceremony of their marriage. No more torture. Just a clean death.
She had enough of bloodshed as well.
It had moved Raiden that one of her requests was for justice absent malice. He longed for the ability to convince his brother of the merit behind this. His brother’s idea of justice made Raiden’s flesh crawl as though he’d waded into a pool of maggots.
Though he could not deny that she was a troubling creature, Raiden also admired Mariko for not succumbing to the pressures of court. For not lowering herself to the baser amusements of the nobility, who enjoyed asserting their hierarchy and putting others beneath their feet. When she first arrived, Raiden had questioned those attending her needs, and they divulged that Mariko did not approve of cruel behavior, even though derogatory whispers trailed her every footstep.