She stayed above it, and Raiden admired her for that.
Yet he’d not pressed to consummate their marriage. When given the opportunity, Raiden did not wish to move forward with the act. It did not seem right. Hattori Mariko had said she did not want to begin a life with him amid strife. Her words moved him further. Made him consider the advantage of being in a harmonious marriage. Of having a willing wife. One he could respect for the strength of her convictions.
Locking his gaze upon the tatami mats at his feet, Raiden bowed low, then proceeded toward the low throne upon which his younger brother now sat, an expression of supreme serenity on his face.
In the past, this expression had made Raiden smile.
Today it unnerved him.
He took his place at his brother’s side and waited for their meal to be served. His brother sipped his tea from a small cup resting nearby.
“It was a shame the prisoner died before offering any useful information,” Roku began.
“Indeed it was.”
“I’m assuming you will be continuing with your inquiries.”
Raiden bowed. “Of course, my sovereign.”
“Do not rest until you learn where the Black Clan has taken Takeda Ranmaru. Until each and every one of them—and all of their family members—are stretched from the ramparts as a warning to those who would dare to challenge me.”
Raiden nodded once more.
Roku set down his cup. “Enough of these unseemly matters. Today is your first day as a married man.” He smiled at Raiden, as though he were gazing fondly at an errant child. “Tell me, brother … was the daughter of Hattori Kano all she swore she would be?”
Raiden had not thought his brother would pursue the matter in quite so blunt a fashion. That feeling of disquiet coiled up his throat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. “Are you asking me to speak with you of my wedding night, my sovereign?”
“I am. It is important that we know whom we can trust, especially if they are to move about in our inner circle. Can we trust Lady Mariko? Was she untouched after living in close quarters with those traitors for several weeks?”
Raiden exhaled. “Would I be so untroubled if she were not?”
“That is not an answer, brother,” Roku said. He reached again for his tea. Took another small sip. “You did not lie with her.” His tone was pointed. “Perhaps if you are unable to complete the task, I can oblige you on that score.”
The disquiet shifted into anger. The kind that simmered in Raiden’s stomach. “There is no need for that.”
“Then she was a maid?”
“Of course she was,” Raiden lied without thinking. He was not sure why he did it. He had never before lied to his brother in such a brazen fashion. But he could not stomach any more of Roku’s paranoia. At times, it looked as though the emperor would do anything to ensure loyalty, even destroy the very foundation upon which it was built.
Roku watched his brother’s face. Studied it as though it were a stanza from a complicated poem. Then he smiled once more. “I am glad to hear it.”
After he returned his brother’s grin, Raiden ate his meal in silence, that same roiling feeling ruining his appetite. He missed speaking to his mother. For the second time since his wedding, he wished he had not dismissed her counsel for speaking treasonously about Roku.
He wished he had her voice in his ear at this moment.
He wished she would offer him her advice again.
The first thing Raiden did when he returned to his empty chamber was to remove the bedclothes from his carved tansu chest. He unrolled the pallet. Then—with only the slightest of hesitations—he slid his thumb across the blade of his katana, creating a shallow cut.
Raiden let his blood drip onto the center of the pallet—proof that Mariko had lost her maidenhead on her wedding night. With this action, he solidified the lie he’d told to his brother to protect his new wife.
Last night, he’d lied to protect the boy.
Today, he’d lied to protect Mariko.
Perhaps that was all Raiden could do. Lie. And protect.
A Sea of Memories
The last time ōkami saw his mother’s home, he was a boy of no more than five. Thirteen years had passed since that summer. He wondered whether he would recognize it now. Whether the same patch of land produced the same white wildflowers. If the crashing waves still captivated his imagination as they had his mother’s. Whether the post on the far-left side of the stable still bore the marks he’d made on it with a wooden sword, the year his father gifted him the toy.
ōkami rode up to the low stone wall surrounding the outermost border of his mother’s domain. He stopped short—his horse rearing—as he took in the sight of the dilapidated barrier. At the sound of galloping hooves at his back, he glanced over his shoulder. The motion caused him to wince, despite his efforts to conceal it. Three nights had passed since ōkami’s arrival at the Black Clan’s new camp. In that time, he’d managed to regain most of his strength, but still could not escape the lingering discomfort.
Tsuneoki and Haruki reined in their horses alongside him. They paused to survey the crashing sea in the distance and the rolling stretch of land beyond the dilapidated stone wall.
“Do you feel it?” ōkami asked, without turning to look at either of his friends.
Haruki nodded. “Did it always feel this way? Like the air is … full of spirits?”
“From what I can remember.” ōkami breathed in deeply. The scent of the seawater wafting across the mulberry fields stirred something deep in his memories.
“When ōkami was a boy, he loved to tell me his mother’s home was haunted by ghosts.” Tsuneoki steadied his horse as it began to move about, almost as though it had understood its rider.
ōkami looked at his best friend. He still did not comprehend the reason Tsuneoki had asked him to come here. What he wished to show him. This place dredged up too many things. Images that had long since faded from recollection.
The trio rode past the worn gates, through the sea of swaying grass toward the main compound. ōkami said little as they traveled past the echoes of his childhood, but he marveled to himself at how effective time was at collecting its due. It troubled him how certain sparks of memory would burn across his vision, only to vanish the next instant. After so many years, he didn’t really remember what his mother looked like. He only caught flashes of feeling, ripples of scent, a strong hand clasped tightly to his, even when he tried to yank it away.
His mother had been beautiful, that much he knew. A lover of the sea and all its spoils. A singer and an artist. A woman who’d enjoyed arguing with his father, to their mutual delight. But these things were told to ōkami when he’d grown older, and it was not unusual for young sons to think their mothers the loveliest of all.
After his wife had been swallowed by a giant wave, ōkami’s father did not speak much about her. For five days and nights, the fishermen in the nearby village tried to find her, but the storm that day had been quick and wild. It had caught her without warning. Now all that remained of his mother were ōkami’s flickers of recollection.
And ōkami remembered so little.
Her name was Sena. Toyotomi Sena.
As ōkami dismounted from his horse, he caught sight of fabric scraps lying among the debris. On some of them, he saw the faded remnants of the Toyotomi crest—a sea dragon guarding a trove of diamonds. He stopped beside the entrance to the run-down fortress. Without a word, ōkami pushed through the splintered gates, their hinges protesting with a rusty whine, their wooden slats warped by the sun. Dried leaves littered the main courtyard. They blew across the moss-covered stone, catching in tiny twists of air.
High above head fluttered a large banner. Even from this distance, ōkami could see the outline of the Minamoto crest in its center. For an instant, his vision darkened with anger, but ōkami reached beyond the sentiment, settling for apathy.