“Then let it burn.” The taller man did not flinch. Nor did he look their way.
“We should leave.” The man just outside glanced over his shoulder. “Before the scent of blood and singed flesh draws the nightbeasts.” He was near enough to touch. Near enough to strike, had Mariko the courage.
The taller man nodded. “We shall leave soon enough. But not before you check to make sure the girl is dead.”
The mournful baying grew louder. Closer. Hemming them in.
When the man nearby reached for the mangled screens, one of the norimono’s damaged poles split in two. The broken wood struck his arm, sending a flurry of sparks every which way.
Leaping back, he cursed under his breath. “The girl is as good as dead.” The man spoke more forcefully, his torch whipping about in the wind. Heat from the mounting fire sent sweat down Mariko’s neck in steady trickles. The growing blaze near her feet crackled as it seared Chiyo’s skin.
Mariko’s stomach lurched at the smell. Sweat poured onto her stiff white collar.
Make a decision, Hattori Mariko! How do you wish to die?
Her teeth chattered. With a forceful swallow, Mariko dug her fingernails into her palms, her eyes flitting about the small, shattered space. Bravery did not come to her naturally. She spent too much time weighing her options to be brave. Too much time calculating the many paths before her.
But Mariko knew it was time to do more. Time to be more.
She would not die a coward. Mariko was the daughter of a samurai. The sister of the Dragon of Kai.
But more than that, she still held power over her decisions.
For at least this one last day.
She would face her enemy. And die with honor.
Her sight blurring from the thickening smoke, Mariko pushed Chiyo aside, her hands trembling despite her best efforts.
A shout rang out in the darkness. The man near the norimono twisted around at its cracking toll.
The cries were followed by the snarl of an animal. The growl of several more.
Another shriek. The echo of a death knell. With it came the cries of feasting animals.
“The nightbeasts!” The man with the torch pivoted again, his flame leaping with his motions. “They’re attacking our flank!”
“Check the girl,” the first man insisted. “The girl is more important than—”
“The prince’s bride is as good as dead!” With that, he threw his torch on top of Mariko’s norimono, whirling away as he sealed her fate. “Collect our fallen. Leave nothing behind,” he yelled to men she could not see.
Mariko bit back a scream as clanking metal and rustling bodies converged in the nearby shadows. Chaos grew with each passing moment. The flames in the norimono leapt higher. Faster. Their heat turned her skin pink. She clasped her fingers tight, smothering her coughs as she shrank farther into the corner. Tears streamed down her face, leaching her of all resolve.
Coward.
The torch above crackled to fire against the varnished wood of the norimono.
It wouldn’t be long before Mariko would burn along with it. The lacquered tinder around her popped and fizzed, the melted resin burning into blue flame.
A shuddering breath flew past her lips.
I am not a coward. I am . . . greater than this.
Her tears stained the front of her kimono silk. She refused to die like an animal locked in a cage. Like a girl with nothing save her name.
Better to die by the sword. Better to die at the mercy of the nightbeasts.
To die in the night air. Free.
Her pulse trilling in her fingertips, Mariko shoved Chiyo’s body away in final decision. She kicked open the norimono’s door. One glossy sandal fell as she struggled to heave herself through, gulping air to quench the burn in her throat. Mariko reeled from the ruins, her eyes wild as she glanced about, frantic.
The forest was full dark.
And her kimono was on fire.
Her mind worked quickly. Instinctively. Mariko wrapped the silken material around itself, robbing the fire of the air it needed to burn. Her wrist seared beneath the kimono’s folds, smoke curling from the watered silk in grey wisps. With a rasping cry, Mariko tore at her obi, cursing the way it had been wound about her waist. So intricate. So unnecessary. Stumbling through the underbrush, she ripped the beautiful kimono from her shoulders, lurching away from the burning norimono like a drunken fool.
Her eyes sought the darkness for any beacon of light. All she could see was her litter, engulfed in flames. Her kimono smoldered against the forest floor.
If the men return, they will see the kimono. They will know I escaped.
Without hesitating, Mariko took hold of the hem and hurled the silk back at the pile of hissing flames.
It flared as it touched the melting varnish. Burning silk and scorching lacquer. Melting Dragon’s Beard candy.
Mingled with the scent of searing flesh.
Chiyo.
She blinked hard, struggling to remain steady.
All around her were the bodies of her father’s convoy. Maidservants. Samurai. Foot soldiers.
Slaughtered as one.
Mariko stood swathed in shadow, her chest heaving as her eyes flew across the damp earth.
Anything of value had been taken. Swiftly. Efficiently. Trunks had been emptied. Imperial chargers had been yoked as chattel, leaving nothing but their tasseled reins behind. Ribbons of red and white and gold littered the ground.
But Mariko knew robbery had not been the primary objective.
The Black Clan tried to murder me. Even though they knew I was to marry Prince Raiden, they still carried out their task.
Someone with sway over the Black Clan wishes me dead.
Cold shock descended upon her in a sudden rush. Her shoulders began to wilt. Again—as if on instinct—Mariko set them straight, her chin braced against the threat of further tears. She refused to succumb to shock. Just as she refused to grant refuge to her fears.
Think, Hattori Mariko. Keep moving.
She staggered forward, intent on fleeing without a glance back. Two halting steps were all she managed before she thought better of it. Thought better about the odds of proceeding through a darkened wood, unarmed and dressed in nothing but her underclothes.
Shielding herself from the worst of the carnage, Mariko moved toward a fallen samurai. His katana was missing, but his shorter wakizashi was still in its scabbard, bound to his waist. She took the small, wieldier weapon in hand. Pausing only to kick soil across her tracks, she moved through the forest, without direction, without purpose. Without anything, save the need to survive.
The darkness around her was oppressive. She stumbled on roots, unable to see. After a time, the lack of one sense heightened all the others. The snap of a twig or the scuttle of an insect rang through the air with the resonance of a gong. When the bushes nearby rustled—steel grinding against stone—Mariko pressed into the bark of a tree, terror finally taking the last of the warmth from her blood.
A low growl crawled from the earth, cutting through her like the thunder of an approaching army. It was followed by heavy paws padding over dead leaves.