Flame in the Mist

by Renee Ahdieh

  Raiden laughed as though the entire idea were ludicrous. “If she chooses to side with you, then I cannot help her.”

  At that, Hattori Kenshin stepped forward. Though he tried hard to conceal it, Ōkami saw the horror wash onto his features. Bloom across his face like a brushfire.

  “Mariko!” he yelled. “Where are you?”

  Not a sound emitted from the shadows and smoke.

  “Mariko!” the Dragon of Kai called out once more, his voice increasingly desperate.

  Again not a single answer.

  “Put Takeda Ranmaru in chains,” Raiden said as he reached for his reins and began retying the chin guard on his helmet. “And kill anyone left standing.”

  —

  Mariko heard the hum begin to gather even before Raiden made his final pronouncement. She grabbed Ren and handed him her sword.

  She would prevent any more blood from being spilled this night, no matter the cost. Mariko could not bear to lose anyone she loved.

  “Kick me and strike me if you have to,” she said to Ren in an insistent tone. “Make them believe you hate me. Trade me for your safety.”

  Ren’s eyes widened as Mariko swiped mud across her face and clothes.

  “Don’t just stand there!” she said. “Here’s your chance to hate me as you’ve always hated me.”

  Ren swallowed. “I’m—I’m truly sorry,” he said simply. “It wasn’t what I wanted to feel, Lord Lackbeard.” With that, he shoved her from the shadows.

  “Try not to limp,” she said through gritted teeth. “Be strong. Unafraid.”

  The sword at her back faltered.

  “Stand tall, Ren,” she whispered. “The only true weakness is weakness of the spirit.”

  The men before her shouted when Mariko and Ren came into view. The hum around Ōkami only increased in intensity. Ranmaru—or rather Tsuneoki—put a hand on the Wolf’s shoulder. Only then did the hum slowly begin to dissipate.

  Mariko halted her march ten paces away. Ren cleared his throat. In a flash, he positioned the blade of the tantō at her throat. “You wanted your bride, Minamoto Raiden? She is here. I’ll return her to you in one piece. Under one condition.”

  Raiden dropped his reins. “Why would I want a bride who has betrayed me?”

  “This ridiculous girl?” Ren laughed maniacally. “She couldn’t even betray herself. Cried herself to sleep most nights. Look at her. She’s filthy. When we took her prisoner, we had no idea who she was.”

  Kenshin moved forward. “Mariko? Is this true?”

  It wasn’t the sight of her brother that moved her to tears. It was the thought that those she cared for—her friends, the boy of her heart—the thought that they might die that made Mariko’s sight begin to water. The tears gathered and spilled over, trailing down her muddy, bloody face.

  “Kenshin,” she said, her voice quavering, “please take me away from here. My lord Raiden, these men kidnapped me. They are liars and thieves. They have treated me abominably.”

  The son of the emperor remained unmoved. He continued to address Ren and not Mariko. “Even if she is my bride, what makes you think we would trade Hattori Mariko for the lives of all the men left standing?” Raiden said, his hand still resting on the hilt of his katana.

  In that moment Mariko had her first taste of hatred for her betrothed. And she knew it would not be her last.

  “Because it is not just one life to be traded. Leave the rest of my men alone. And I will go with you as well,” Ōkami said quietly.

  No!

  Mariko fought back the urge to cry out. To scream in protest.

  But Minamoto Raiden smiled his menacing smile. And the deal was done.

  Ren pressed Mariko into the fold. Kenshin swept closer, and Mariko ran the rest of the way. As she passed Asano Tsuneoki—the real son of Asano Naganori—her eyes met his for a moment. They glowed yellow and feral as he nodded once.

  And the look was a promise. The beast would be at her back. Keeping watch. Always.

  Kenshin took her in his arms. Held her tight. The tears continued to spill down Mariko’s face unchecked.

  Over her brother’s shoulder she saw Raiden shove Ōkami until he was kneeling in the mud. Watched as imperial soldiers bound his wrists in chains. Mariko closed her eyes tight, willing away the image.

  “I’ll take you home,” Kenshin said softly.

  “No,” Mariko said. “There’s nothing left for me at home. Take me to Inako.” Her tear-filled gaze bore into the face of her betrothed, daring him to lay hands on Ōkami again. “If my lord Raiden will still have me, I’m ready to begin my life in the imperial court.”

  “Are you certain?”

  The tears burned in her eyes as she watched smiling, taunting imperial soldiers drag Ōkami to his feet. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”

  AN ENDING

  This was to be an unusual tea ceremony.

  In an unusual location. At an unusual time of night.

  But then her emperor had always been an unusual man.

  Her Imperial Majesty Yamoto Genmei, Empress of Wa, slowly made her way to the moon-viewing pavilion, each step itself a journey. A reminder.

  Her nerves were wound tight within her. But she did not show it. Years spent living in Heian Castle had taught her better than to wear her every emotion for all the world to see.

  The emperor had asked her to join him for tea this night.

  It had been years since he’d asked her to partake in anything together. Years since he’d asked her to share in anything under the stars. And the moon-viewing pavilion was one of his favorite places to be on a warm summer’s eve. In fact, this particular pavilion had been built for her. For his whore, Kanako.

  Genmei paused in her steps. She reached into her sleeve and drew out a tiny glass vial. Slipped a drop beneath her tongue and took a deep breath, letting the tincture spread down her throat. Cool her burning nerves.

  She lifted her head high. And continued down her path. The emperor had asked her to join him this night. It had not been a mistake.

  Genmei reached the moon-viewing pavilion. The emperor was already there, his hands behind his back, his head turned to the stars. He looked her way after she removed her lacquered zori and bowed at the top of the steps.

  “I’m pleased you are here,” he said with a smile.

  “My sovereign asked me to come.”

  “You could have refused.”

  “I have never refused you anything.”

  “All the same, you could have done so tonight.”

  Genmei dipped her head. “My life has been devoted to serving my emperor.”

  The emperor smiled again. He directed her toward the tatami mat positioned before the iron tea brazier. “Will you join me for tea?”

  Again Genmei bowed. “Only if I may be allowed to serve it.”

  The emperor nodded warmly.

  The silks of Genmei’s elegant kimono and tabi socks brushed across the mats as she knelt before the brazier. With utmost care and precision, she began by folding a piece of clean orange cloth in three, then rolling it into a neat bundle. Using one side of the cloth, she lifted the lid off the iron brazier.

  The emperor knelt across from her. Settled into position, his features almost kind.

  Genmei used the long-handled bamboo ladle to spoon out steaming water into a small glazed porcelain bowl. She rinsed the bowl out, then—with another side of the orange cloth—wiped it clean before carefully portioning three tiny scoopfuls of pale green matcha powder into the porcelain bowl.

  With a bamboo whisk and another ladleful of steaming water, Genmei mixed the tea until it was frothy and light. Each of her movements was precise. Calm. Artful.

  Such was the tea ceremony. One of harmony. Respect. Purity. And tranquility.

  She wiped the
edges once more before turning the bowl toward the emperor. Serving him with an almost hesitant smile.

  There was so much between them. So many unspoken sentiments.

  The emperor drank deep from the bowl. Set it down.

  Genmei rinsed it and repeated the process so that she, too, could drink from the same bowl. Share in the same ceremony of harmony and respect.

  “I have been unkind to you,” the emperor said quietly, when Genmei had finished drinking her tea.

  She said nothing. Refused to allow hope to enter her mind.

  Hope was a poison to her world.

  “It was not my wish for things to happen in such a way. But I do wish for things to change in the future,” he continued.

  “Forgive me, my sovereign, but how can things ever change when—when she is still here?” Genmei said, her words laced with venom.

  “Kanako is my royal consort. She is not leaving Heian Castle.” The emperor’s tone was firm. “But I do want to mend things between us. I do want to create a bridge between our worlds.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I look at our son, and I want our son to be better than we are, Genmei.” The emperor sighed. “I want him to see a better example.”

  “Roku is better than we are.”

  “I know I can be better. That we can be better.” The emperor stood and made his way to the steps of the moon-viewing pavilion. He waited for Genmei.

  Something he’d never done before.

  Each of her movements guarded, Genmei joined him. They donned their zori and walked together toward the pond’s edge. Waxy lily pads glistened beneath a ghostly full moon. Frogs and cicadas sang together in discordant chorus.

  The emperor cleared his throat. “There is hatred between us.”

  “There is,” Genmei agreed.

  “Will you not agree to become better than our hatred? For the sake of our son?”

  Genmei turned toward him. Looked her emperor in the eye.

  He coughed as he met her gaze. His face became flushed.

  There was a time she would have given anything to hear him say these words. To hear him say he cared about her—cared about their future—even in the barest of measures.

  The emperor coughed again, a fist raised to his lips. Awareness began to take shape in his eyes. They bulged as his fingers grasped at his collar.

  He tried to shout. But his voice remained lodged in his throat.

  Genmei stood silent. She watched.

  Tranquil. In harmony with herself.

  As the Emperor of Wa keeled over into the pond beside his favorite moon-viewing pavilion.

  Genmei looked at her husband for a moment.

  “No, my sovereign,” she spoke softly. “We cannot become better than our hatred. But to protect our son from your mistakes, I will do whatever is necessary.” With the toe of her lacquered sandal, she shoved his head beneath the water.

  Then Genmei breathed deep. Waded into the pond. And began screaming.

  “Help! Someone please help. The emperor has fallen!”

  Above them, a swallow with iridescent wings took flight on a gust of wind.

  Vanishing into the night.

  GLOSSARY

  Akuma—an evil spirit from folklore

  amazura—a sweet syrup

  anate—the command for “fire,” as in “to fire an arrow”

  ashigaru—foot soldiers

  Bansenshukai—the ancient manual on the shinobi no mono, or the art of the ninja

  bō—staff

  boro—patchwork fabric worn by maidservants and peasants

  bushidō—the way of the warrior

  -chan—a diminutive and expression of endearment, as in Chiyo-chan

  chūgi—loyalty; one of the tenets of bushidō

  daifuku—a confection of glutinous rice stuffed with bean paste

  daimyō—a feudal lord who is typically a vassal of the shōgun; the equivalent of an English earl

  dō—chest armour

  Fūrinkazan—a sword of light, associated with the Takeda clan; it is inscribed with the phrases As swift as the wind. As silent as the forest. As fierce as the fire. As unshakable as the mountain.

  geiko—geisha

  gi—integrity; one of the tenets of bushidō

  Go—a complex strategy board game for two players; using black and white pieces called “stones,” the goal is to surround a larger territory than your opponent

  hachimaki—headband

  hakama—traditional clothing of pleated trousers over a kimono top

  haori—type of coat

  honshō—true

  ichi-go, ichi-e—one lifetime, one meeting; i.e., “live in the moment,” “for this time only”

  jin—benevolence; one of the tenets of bushidō

  jinmaku—camp enclosure

  jubokko—vampiric tree

  kaburaya—a whistling arrow

  kagemusha—a shadow warrior; man behind the scenes

  kanabō—a spiked club or truncheon

  kata—set combinations of movements for martial arts practice

  katana—type of sword

  koku—a unit of measurement, typically associated in feudal times with land

  kosode—simple robe worn by both sexes

  kunai—type of dagger

  maiko—apprentice geiko

  makoto—honesty; one of the tenets of bushidō

  maru—castle bailey

  meiyo—honor; one of the tenets of bushidō

  naginata—bladed weapon on a long shaft

  norimono—litter, vehicle; palanquin

  obi—wide sash

  okaa—mother

  ponzu—sauce containing citrus, vinegar, and soy

  rei—respect; one of the tenets of bushidō

  rōnin—masterless samurai

  ryō—gold currency

  -sama—a term of respect, a little more formal than -san, as in Mariko-sama

  samurai—a member of the military caste, typically in service to a liege lord or daimyō

  -san—a term of respect, as in Akira-san

  saya—scabbard

  sensei—teacher

  seppuku—ritual suicide

  shamisen—stringed instrument

  shinobi no mono—the art of the ninja

  shodo—calligraphy

  shōgun—military leader

  sumimasen—thank you

  tabi—split-toed socks

  tantō—blade shorter than the wakizashi

  tatami—a woven mat traditionally made of rice straw

  tatsumura—a rare type of silk gauze, used to fashion priceless kimono

  tsuba—hand guard of a sword

  uba—nursemaid

  umeshu—plum wine

  wakasama—young lord

  wakizashi—blade similar to but shorter than the katana; samurai traditionally wear both blades at once

  washi—a type of paper commonly made using fibers from the bark of the gampi tree

  yabusame—mounted archers

  yōkai—forest demon

  yoroihitatare—armored robe

  yūki—courage; one of the tenets of bushidō

  yuzu—a small citrus fruit with a tart flavor similar to a pomelo

  zori—type of sandals

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “You must understand that there is more than one path to the top of the mountain.”

  —Miyamoto Musashi

  I’ve written seven novels, several of which will—thankfully—never see the light of day. Whenever I finish writing a book, I always take a moment to reflect on what the experience has taught me. In many ways, writing Flame in the Mist was a bigger challenge than anything I have ever attempted professiona
lly.

  It was also one of the most rewarding.

  Of course, it often takes a village to point me in the right direction. To my compass—my agent, Barbara Poelle—I am thankful every day for you. Your wisdom, your guidance, your humor, your candor—this dream of mine would never be possible without you.

  To my editor, Stacey Barney: will there ever be enough words to express my gratitude? I think not. So instead let’s clear out a few more restaurants and make sure every place we visit is haunted by the echoes of our laughter.

  To the team of amazing people at Penguin: I am always struck by your limitless passion. The work you do—and the work you enable me to do—is beyond important, now more than ever. To Kate Meltzer and my tireless publicist Marisa Russell: you never fail to keep this ship of ours on course. Thank you, a thousand times over. A wealth of gratitude for Carmela Iaria, Alexis Watts, Doni Kay, Chandra Wohleber, Theresa Evangelista, Eileen Savage, Jen Besser, Elyse Marshall, Lisa Kelly, Lindsay Boggs, Sheila Hennessey, Shanta Newlin, Erin Berger, Christina Colangelo, Colleen Conway, Judy Parks Samuels, Tara Shanahan, and Bri Lockhart. And a special note of thanks to Kara Brammer for all of your ingenious ideas.

  These last few years, I’ve been privileged to meet and interact with so many amazing bloggers, librarians, readers, and book lovers across the globe. Thank you so much for the laughs, the fan art, the letters, and the shared excitement. You are the reason I do what I do. A shout-out to Natasha Polis and Christine Riccio: that bird in San Diego will never be the same after seeing us.

  To my writing sisters—Joy Callaway, Sarah Henning, Ricki Schultz, JJ, Roshani Chokshi, and Traci Chee—I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for us as we continue this journey together.

  To the early readers of Flame in the Mist—Sabaa Tahir, Marie Rutkoski, Dr. Jan Bardsley, Misa Sugiura, and Sarah Nicole Lemon—your notes and your guidance and your love were invaluable. This book would not be what it is without you. Any errors or oversights within the work are mine alone.

  Among the greatest gifts of this career have been the friendships I’ve made with so many astoundingly talented writers. To Beth Revis, Lauren DeStefano, Sona Charaipotra, my tour wifey Dhonielle Clayton, Victoria Aveyard, Adam Silvera, David Arnold, Nicki and David Yoon, Victoria Schwab, Jason Reynolds, Daniel Jose-Older, Brendan Reichs, Soman Chainani, Margie Stohl, Kami Garcia, Megan Miranda, Gwenda Bond, Sarah Maas, Cassie Beasley, Lauren Billings, Christina Hobbs, and Nic Stone: thank you for all the laughter and the wonderful late-night chats. Lo, I don’t think I can go to Vegas again without you. Brendan and Kami: thanks for braving the super spider in our quest for the One Ring.