Or perhaps it could be all of these things.
It never ceased to frustrate Kenshin how he was able to notice tangible things with the eye of a hawk. How the smallest detail was never missed. But when it came to analyzing the unseen—the unspoken subtleties of life—he was far from being a hawk. He was more of a mole, wandering through a world of darkness. Even with Amaya, he’d been painfully unaware of her feelings until it was far too late.
After a time, Minamoto Raiden took a steadying breath. He traded another glance with the crown prince, whose expression remained neutral. Then he leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “Kenshin-sama,” his sister’s betrothed began, “I was told Mariko’s convoy had been attacked in Jukai forest by a band of thieves. Several members of my father’s personal guard believe it to be the work of the Black Clan—though I’m not as inclined to agree. It seems far too . . . simple. Far too predictable. Not to mention beyond the typical behavior of the Black Clan.” He rested an elbow on a knee, inclining toward Kenshin even farther. “Is it possible your sister still lives, despite all the evidence to the contrary?”
As Raiden spoke, concern seeped into the small lines framing his mouth. He was only nineteen years old, but the effect of this concern made him appear battle-hardened. Weary. The sight strangely comforted Kenshin. As did the words his sister’s betrothed spoke. They were in keeping with Kenshin’s earlier thoughts. But it was also possible this was a ruse meant to earn his trust. Meant to plant seeds of unforeseen doubt.
Yet Minamoto Raiden did seem far less calculating than the crown prince. Far less conniving. And Kenshin appreciated how he appeared to value forthrightness more than his younger brother. Raiden’s character was more in keeping with his own. Since this marked Kenshin’s first interaction with his sister’s betrothed, these feelings set his mind somewhat at ease. At this moment, any sign of subterfuge remained solely in the black eyes of the crown prince. The slight, pale boy clad in golden silk, calmly practicing his shodo.
Perhaps Minamoto Roku had been the one to orchestrate the attack on Mariko’s convoy.
And yet . . .
A part of Kenshin did not quite believe the crown prince would strike out at his own brother by murdering Raiden’s future wife. After all, what would he have to gain by doing so? Roku was already first in line to the throne. And not once in all his years had Kenshin heard of Raiden having designs to usurp his younger brother. They could easily have been at war with each other. Brothers in similar situations had often killed each other for power in the past. But that did not appear to be the case here. By all accounts, these two brothers—despite the enmity between their birth mothers—were close friends. Trusted confidants.
Perhaps Kenshin had been wrong to suspect that members of the nobility had plotted to murder his sister. That someone in Inako had tried to thwart the nuptials between the emperor’s firstborn son and the daughter of an ambitious daimyō.
Or perhaps Minamoto Raiden was merely good at reading people as well.
As though he could hear the tenor of Kenshin’s thoughts, Raiden smiled reassuringly. He began to speak again, but was immediately silenced by his younger brother.
The crown prince shot a pointed look their way. As soon as Roku made certain he held their attention, his eyes drifted toward the beautifully carved folding screen to his left. “This is not the place to discuss such things,” he said in a harsh whisper. “The walls of Heian Castle possess ears.” The last was said in a barely audible tone.
A cultivated whisper, belying his earlier disinterest.
Following this admonition, the crown prince took hold of his right sleeve and dipped his brush in ink once more, positioning the bristles above the washi paper at a perfect angle. “Perhaps it would be nice to share some tea with us later, Kenshin-sama,” he said, his voice as mild as before. Filled with that same feigned lack of interest.
But spoken in a tenor meant to be overheard. Meant to be interpreted by attending servants and chance observers alike.
In his zeal to learn the truth, Kenshin had almost forgotten.
Inako was—first and foremost—a city of secrets. Ones to be stolen and sold off to the highest bidder at first chance.
Nodding in understanding, Raiden stood swiftly. “Will you be our guest this evening, Kenshin-sama?”
Kenshin was not fool enough to question the conversation’s rapid change in course. He may not be well versed in recognizing emotion, but he was the Dragon of Kai, and he knew the sharp tang of fresh blood. Of a path to be followed. Quietly. Carefully.
“I would be honored, my lord,” Kenshin said. “Where is it you wish to go?”
Raiden grinned, and the sight greatly reminded Kenshin of a snarling bear. His voice dropped until it became more breath than sound.
“The finest teahouse in Hanami.”
HANAMI
Mariko had been to Inako once, when she was younger.
As a girl.
As a boy, the sights of the imperial city were entirely different. And it was not merely because a blindfold had been torn from her eyes only moments before.
Everything seemed crisper. Colors seemed more alive. Scents flooded her nostrils, and sights flashed across her vision—marinated squid sizzling over an open flame, vividly dyed paper lanterns strung above bolts of lustrous silk, displays of painted fans and freshly sliced persimmons, creamy bean curd floating in barrels of cold water. She smelled and tasted everything in the air with the abandon of a girl in a fevered dream.
Mariko felt free. Freer than she could remember feeling in quite some time.
Her current situation notwithstanding.
At least in Inako there’s little chance of me being snared by a blood-draining tree. Or being pelted by sharp rocks.
Ranmaru studied her. Caught her grinning with open glee. “Is this your first visit to the imperial city?”
Mariko thought quickly. “Yes.” Her answer more easily explained how enthralled she was. It also helped circumvent any further inquiries about her past. The Black Clan had been blessedly uninterested in who she was before she came to the forest, and Mariko wished to keep it that way for as long as she could.
“Try not to appear so green once we arrive at the teahouse,” ōkami said from his perch atop his warhorse to her right.
Mariko wrapped her fingers tightly around her reins, struggling to bite her tongue. To ignore the rope trailing from ōkami’s horse to hers, keeping her tethered to the Wolf’s side.
At her left, Ranmaru laughed, his brown eyes sparkling. “Or when you first set eyes on Yumi, the most beautiful girl in the empire.”
“I doubt Lord Lackbeard has ever seen a geiko before in his life,” ōkami said. “Much less been with a beautiful girl.” Even as he provoked her, ōkami maintained a cool affect. One of careful indifference.