On the grassy field before them, the yabusame—the imperial army’s elite force of mounted archers—conducted an exhibition. Most of the imperial court had come to partake in the scene. Kenshin had heard from others who frequented Inako that the emperor often invited those in the nobility and their guests to witness the might of the empire’s army.
The skill of its best soldiers and finest samurai.
Though Kenshin was mildly interested in watching the display, he kept beyond the gathering of noblemen in their silken finery and the ladies of the court fluttering their folded fans. Kept apart and removed, as he often felt in such company. Kenshin had never been at ease around those in the imperial court. It was not that he harbored any judgment against them. He knew these shows of extravagance were necessary. They offered outsiders a glimpse of the empire’s glory, and they gave its citizens a chance to revel in its greatness.
As he continued watching the exhibition, Kenshin’s expression began to sour.
These were skilled riders. Skilled archers. The best the empire had to offer.
But it was still a show. And such immodesty did not sit well with the ideals of bushidō. Was not in keeping with the way of the warrior.
Weapons were not meant for show.
They were meant for war. Meant to be used in defense of a samurai’s lord. In defense of one’s family.
And, above all, in defense of the emperor.
A member of the yabusame soon drew every onlooker’s notice. The young rider sat atop a dappled steed. One side of his fine silk robe hung from his right shoulder—revealing the armored silver yoroihitatare beneath—freeing his arm for unencumbered movement. With a rattan-reinforced bow, he fired whistling arrows at a notched post, three times in rapid succession, all while riding faster—and more fearlessly—than any of his peers. Not once did the young warrior reach for the reins, but directed his horse entirely with his knees. Even from a distance, Kenshin could see how he rode—heels down, locked in placed, steady. Excellent horsemanship was a requisite of being in the yabusame. As was the ability to fire arrows at high speeds with uncanny accuracy.
Not once did the warrior miss his target.
Whispers of admiration rippled through the crowd. They unfurled into a steady murmur when a slight boy clad in silks stained a rare shade of yellow—almost like burnished gold—took position at the opposite end of the field.
Kenshin did not immediately recognize him, but he felt certain the boy had to be the crown prince, Minamoto Roku. Though he’d never met him before, Kenshin had heard from both his father and from Nobutada that the crown prince did not possess a striking appearance, yet nevertheless managed to hold his own at court.
Kenshin could see why now. There was a noble bearing to the boy. A distinct haughtiness to the set of his thin shoulders and the tilt of his pointed chin. The only member of court with finer robes was the emperor himself.
The crown prince drove three kaburaya into the ground. Kenshin immediately noticed how the whistling arrowheads did not appear to be the blunted sort generally used for practice. Without pausing for thought, the crown prince fitted one of these arrows to the string of his bow. At that exact moment, the finest archer of the yabusame—the one who had caught everyone’s attention earlier—broke ranks and began riding toward the crown prince.
With no sign of stopping.
Concern flared through Kenshin. Several members of the nobility took to their feet, alarm spreading across their faces.
Without even a glimmer of concern, the crown prince fired an arrow at the warrior on the grey-and-white steed. The warrior dodged it, effortlessly sliding from his saddle as the horse continued its wild gallop. He clutched the reins as his feet sluiced through the soft earth. When the crown prince fired another shot, the warrior vaulted back onto his saddle, easily avoiding the arrow’s mark. He continued riding toward the crown prince, undeterred.
The crown prince’s shots were well timed. Well aimed.
Meant to strike.
But the rider drew closer and closer to the crown prince, refusing to veer. Refusing to yield.
At the last possible second, the crown prince fired another arrow, straight at the warrior’s chest. The warrior yanked it from the air and—quicker than a flash of lightning—nocked it to his bow. He fired it back at the crown prince.
The arrow embedded in the dirt at a perfect angle, a hairsbreadth from the prince’s feet.
The crown prince smiled.
As soon as the warrior reined in near him, he dismounted and removed his helmet. Then he bowed low. Grinning at one another, the two young men clapped each other on the back appreciatively.
The smattering of awkward applause became cheers.
Only members of the royal family would be permitted to touch the crown prince with such impunity.
Kenshin saw the resemblance. Despite the fact that the member of the yabusame was nearly a head taller. Considerably broader.
The rider was Prince Raiden.
His sister’s betrothed.
—
“I was very sorry to hear about your sister’s untimely death, Kenshin-sama,” Minamoto Roku said as he dropped to his cushioned seat before a low table in the corner of his chambers.
Though the crown prince’s words sounded heartfelt, Kenshin did not feel any warmth in them. The statement was coolly pronounced. Said with the same inflection Roku might have offered when commenting on a spate of bad weather. The contrivance in the prince’s tone bothered Kenshin, but he stifled his irritation. After all, he was in the presence of royalty. At audience with the emperor’s two sons.
Mariko’s betrothed.
And the future heavenly sovereign of Wa.
A future sovereign who was—at the moment—far too concerned with arranging sheets of ivory washi paper on the table before him. Smoothing their surfaces. Anchoring their edges with weights. Preparing to practice his calligraphy.
Roku looked at Kenshin—as though he expected Kenshin to elaborate further on the matter of Mariko’s untimely death—before smiling to himself and slowly circling an ink stick in the well of a carved inkstone to his right.
In moments like these, Kenshin wished Mariko were at his side. She would be thinking far in advance of what anyone might do or say. Holding her emotions close and in check. His sister was leagues ahead of anyone in most conversations. Far past anyone’s present. In contrast, Kenshin often found himself crashing through the underbrush of conversations Mariko skirted with ease. It was not that his sister was a particularly gifted conversationalist. It was more that she always seemed to know what people intended to say even before they did.
She read people much like she read books.
Such ability would be of great use to Kenshin right now.
But he was a warrior. Not an envoy or a strategist.
Kenshin cleared his throat. “I do not believe Mariko to be dead, Your Highness.” He glanced toward his sister’s betrothed to see if he could sense any reaction. Minamoto Raiden exchanged a wordless conversation with his brother, but Kenshin could not glean the sentiment behind his expression.
It could be worry. It could be anger. It could be suspicion.