Flame in the Mist Read online

  ALSO BY

  RENÉE AHDIEH

  The Wrath

  and the Dawn

  The Rose

  and the Dagger

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Renée Ahdieh.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  Ebook ISBN 9780698185913

  Design by Eileen Savage.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To and Mama Joon—

  For teaching me that true weakness is weakness of the spirit.

  CONTENTS

  Also by Renée Ahdieh

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Seven Tenets of Bushidō: The Way of the Warrior

  Epigraph

  The Beginning

  Illusions and Expectations

  The Nightbeast

  Not a Girl

  The Dragon of Kai

  The Golden Castle

  A Calculated Risk

  Fall Forward to Keep Moving

  An Unmerited Blessing

  The Choice

  The Consequence

  Jewel Steel and Night Rain

  Many Kinds of Strength

  Weakness of the Spirit

  Jubokko

  The Throwing Star

  Rivets of Gold and Petal Pink Waters

  Hanami

  The Swinging Lantern

  An Honest Exchange

  The Hot Springs

  Twisted Tales

  Foxglove

  A Lesson to be Learned

  A Forest of Blood And Fire

  A Murderous Rampage

  Smokeshields and Sorrow

  A Province of Pain

  The Raid

  My Name Is Mariko

  Lost in the Ashes

  The Shadow Warrior

  The Black Orchid

  A Mountain of Fire

  The Phoenix

  An Ending

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  THE SEVEN TENETS OF BUSHIDŌ:

  THE WAY OF THE WARRIOR

  Gi—Integrity

  Yūki—Courage

  Jin—Benevolence

  Rei—Respect

  Makoto—Honesty

  Meiyo—Honor

  Chūgi—Loyalty

  “In this age of decadence that we live in, people’s minds are twisted and only words are loved but not practical deeds.”

  —from Vol. I of the Bansenshukai, the ancient manual on the shinobi no mono, or the art of the ninja

  THE BEGINNING

  In the beginning, there were two suns and two moons.

  The boy’s sight blurred before him, seeing past the truth. Past the shame. He focused on the story his uba had told him the night before. A story of good and evil, light and dark. A story where the triumphant sun rose high above its enemies.

  On instinct, his fingers reached for the calloused warmth of his uba’s hand. The nursemaid from Kisun had been with him since before he could remember, but now—like everything else—she was gone.

  Now there was no one left.

  Against his will, the boy’s vision cleared, locking on the clear blue of the noon sky above. His fingers curled around the stiff linen of his shirtsleeves.

  Don’t look away. If they see you looking away, they will say you are weak.

  Once more, his uba’s words echoed in his ears.

  He lowered his gaze.

  The courtyard before him was draped in fluttering white, surrounded on three sides by rice-paper screens. Pennants flying the golden crest of the emperor danced in a passing breeze. To the left and right stood grim-faced onlookers—samurai dressed in the dark silks of their formal hakama.

  In the center of the courtyard was the boy’s father, kneeling on a small tatami mat covered in bleached canvas. He, too, was draped in white, his features etched in stone. Before him sat a low table with a short blade. At his side stood the man who had once been his best friend.

  The boy sought his father’s eyes. For a moment, he thought his father looked his way, but it could have been a trick of the wind. A trick of the perfumed smoke curling above the squat brass braziers.

  His father would not want to look into his son’s eyes. The boy knew this. The shame was too great. And his father would die before passing the shame of tears along to his son.

  The drums began to pound out a slow beat. A dirge.

  In the distance beyond the gates, the boy caught the muffled sound of small children laughing and playing. They were soon silenced by a terse shout.

  Without hesitation, his father loosened the knot from around his waist and pushed open his white robe, exposing the skin of his stomach and chest. Then he tucked his sleeves beneath his knees to prevent himself from falling backward.

  For even a disgraced samurai should die well.

  The boy watched his father reach for the short tantō blade on the small table before him. He wanted to cry for him to stop. Cry for a moment more. A single look more.

  Just one.

  But the boy remained silent, his fingers turning bloodless in his fists. He swallowed.

  Don’t look away.

  His father took hold of the blade, wrapping his hands around the skein of white silk near its base. He plunged the sword into his stomach, cutting slowly to the left, then up to the right. His features remained passive. No hint of suffering could be detected, though the boy searched for it—felt it—despite his father’s best efforts.

  Never look away.

  Finally, when his father stretched his neck forward, the boy saw it. A small flicker, a grimace. In the same instant, the boy’s heart shuddered in his chest. A hot burst of pain glimmered beneath it.

  The man who had been his father’s best friend took two long strides, then swung a gleaming katana in a perfect arc toward his father’s exposed neck. The thud of his father’s head hitting the tatami mat silenced the drumbeats in a hollow start.

  Still the boy did not look away. He watched the crimson spurt from his father’s folded body, past the edge of the mat and onto the grey stones beyond. The tang of the fresh blood caught in his nose—warm metal and sea salt. He waited until his father’s body was carried in one direction, his head in another, to be displayed as a warning.

  No hint of treason would be tolerated. Not even a whisper.

  All the while, no one came to the boy’s side. No one dared to look him in the eye.

  The burden of shame took shape in the boy’s chest, heavier than any weight he could ever bear.

  When the boy finally turned to leave the e
mpty courtyard, his eyes fell upon the creaking door nearby. A nursemaid met his unflinching stare, one hand sliding off the latch, the other clenched around two toy swords. Her skin flushed pink for an instant.

  Never look away.

  The nursemaid dropped her eyes in discomfort. The boy watched as she quickly ushered a boy and a girl through the wooden gate. They were a few years younger than he and obviously from a wealthy family. Perhaps the children of one of the samurai in attendance today. The younger boy straightened the fine silk of his kimono collar and darted past his nursemaid, never once pausing to acknowledge the presence of a traitor’s son.

  The girl, however, stopped. She looked straight at him, her pert features in constant motion. Rubbing her nose with the heel of one hand, she blinked, letting her eyes run the length of him before pausing on his face.

  He held her gaze.

  “Mariko-sama!” the nursemaid scolded. She whispered in the girl’s ear, then tugged her away by the elbow.

  Still the girl’s eyes did not waver. Even when she passed the pool of blood darkening the stones. Even when her eyes narrowed in understanding.

  The boy was grateful he saw no sympathy in her expression. Instead the girl continued studying him until her nursemaid urged her around the corner.

  His gaze returned to the sky, his chin in high disregard of his tears.

  In the beginning, there were two suns and two moons.

  One day, the victorious son would rise—

  And set fire to all his father’s enemies.

  ILLUSIONS AND EXPECTATIONS

  TEN YEARS LATER

  On the surface everything seemed right.

  An elegant litter. A dutiful daughter. An honor bestowed.

  Then, as if to taunt her, Mariko’s litter lurched, jouncing her shoulder into the norimono’s side. Its raised mother-of-pearl inlays would undoubtedly leave a bruise. Mariko took a deep breath, stifling the urge to grumble in the shadows like an angry crone. The smell of the norimono’s varnish filled her head, bringing to mind the Dragon’s Beard candy she favored as a child.

  Her dark, sickly sweet coffin, bearing her to her final resting place.

  Mariko sank farther into the cushions. Nothing about the journey to the imperial city of Inako had gone well. Her convoy had left later than intended and stopped all too often. At least now—by the way the norimono listed forward—Mariko could tell they were traveling down an incline. Which meant they’d moved past the hills around the valley, more than halfway to Inako. She leaned back, hoping her weight would help balance the burden.

  Just as she settled in, the litter halted suddenly.

  Mariko raised the silk screen covering the small window to her right. Dusk was starting to descend. The forest before them was shrouded in mist, its trees a jagged silhouette across a silver sky.

  As Mariko turned to address the nearby soldier, a young maidservant came stumbling into view. “My lady!” the girl gasped, righting herself against the norimono’s side. “You must be famished. I’ve been remiss. Please forgive me for neglecting to—”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Chiyo-chan.” Mariko smiled kindly, but the girl’s eyes remained wide with worry. “It was not I who halted the convoy.”

  Chiyo bowed low, the flowers of her makeshift hairpiece falling askew. When she stood once more, the maidservant passed along a neatly wrapped bundle of food to Mariko. Then Chiyo moved back to her post beside the litter, pausing only to return Mariko’s warm smile.

  “Why have we stopped?” Mariko asked the nearby member of the ashigaru.

  The foot soldier wiped the perspiration from his brow, then switched the long pole of his naginata to his other hand. Traces of sunlight glinted off its sharp blade. “The forest.”

  Mariko waited, certain that could not be the extent of his explanation.

  Beads of sweat gathered above the soldier’s lips. He opened his mouth to speak, but the clatter of approaching hooves stole his attention.

  “Lady Hattori . . .” Nobutada, one of her father’s confidants and his most trusted samurai, reined in his charger beside Mariko’s norimono. “I apologize for the delay, but several of the soldiers have voiced concerns about traveling through Jukai forest.”

  Mariko blinked twice, her features thoughtful. “Is there a particular reason?”

  “Now that the sun has set, they fear the yōkai, and they worry—”

  “Silly stories of monsters in the dark.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing more.”

  Nobutada paused, doubtlessly taking note of her interruption. “They also claim the Black Clan has been seen near here recently.”

  “They claim?” A dark eyebrow curved into Mariko’s forehead. “Or they’ve sighted them in truth?”

  “They are merely claims.” Nobutada lowered the chin guard beneath his horned helmet. “Though it would be unusual for the Black Clan to rob us, as they do not generally attack convoys containing women and children. Especially those guarded by samurai.”

  Mariko lingered in consideration. “I defer to your opinion, Nobutada-sama.” Recalling the foot soldier from a moment ago, she attempted a smile. “And please see that the ashigaru have time to rest and take in water soon, as they appear overtired.”

  Nobutada scowled at her last request. “If we are forced to go around Jukai forest, it will add a full day to our journey.”

  “Then it will add a full day to our journey.” She was already beginning to lower her screen, the awkward smile still pasted across her face.

  “I’d rather not risk angering the emperor.”

  “Then it is an easy choice. We must lead so that others may follow, Nobutada-sama. You taught me that, even as a young girl.” Mariko did not look away as she spoke. Nor did she attempt to apologize for the sharpness of her retort.

  His scowl deepened. Mariko smothered a sigh. She knew she was being difficult. Knew Nobutada wished for her to make a decision. At the very least, wished for her to offer an opinion.

  To make a useless play at control. A play Nobutada could then smugly subvert, as her elder.

  As a man.

  Try as she might, Mariko could not help the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

  Control is an illusion. Expectations will not rule my days.

  Not anymore.

  “Perhaps not easy,” Mariko amended, her fingers toying with the edge of the screen. “But it is simple.” She softened her tone—a pitiful attempt to mollify him. One that was sure to chafe, as her contrary nature so often did. Her brother, Kenshin, frequently gave her grief about it. Frequently told her to be less . . . peculiar.

  To conform, at least in these small ways.

  Mariko dipped her head in a bow. “In any case, I defer to your wise judgment, Nobutada-sama.”

  A shadow fell across his features. “Very well, Lady Hattori. We shall proceed through Jukai forest.” With that, he urged his charger back toward the head of the convoy.

  As expected, Mariko had irritated him. She’d offered no real opinion on anything since they’d left her family’s home that morning. And Nobutada wanted her to play at directing him. To give him tasks befitting such a vaunted role.

  Tasks befitting the samurai in charge of delivering a royal bride.

  Mariko supposed she should care she might be arriving at Heian Castle late.

  Late to meet the emperor. Late to meet his second son—

  Her future husband.

  But Mariko did not care. Ever since the afternoon her father had informed her that Emperor Minamoto Masaru had made an offer of marriage on behalf of his son Raiden, she’d truly not cared about much.

  Mariko was to be the wife of Prince Raiden, the son of the emperor’s favorite consort. A political marriage that would elevate her father’s standing amongst the ruling daimyō class.

  She should care that
she was being exchanged like property in order to curry favor. But Mariko did not.

  Not anymore.

  As the norimono lurched forward again, Mariko reached above to adjust the slender tortoiseshell bar speared through her thick coils of hair. Tiny strips of silver and jade dangled from its ends, snarling with one another in a ceaseless war. After Mariko finished sorting them into place, her hand fell to the smaller jade bar below.

  Her mother’s face took shape in her mind—the look of determined resignation she had worn as she slid the jade ornament into her only daughter’s hair.

  A parting gift. But not a true source of comfort.

  Just like her father’s final words:

  Be a tribute to your family, Mariko-chan. As you were raised to be. Forswear your childish wishes. Be more than . . . this.

  Mariko’s lips pressed tight.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ve already taken my revenge.

  There was no reason for Mariko to dwell on these things anymore. Her life was on a clear path now. Never mind that it was not what she wanted. Never mind that there was so much left to see and learn and do. She’d been raised for a purpose. A foolish one at that—to be the wife of an important man when she could easily have been something else. Something more. But it did not matter. She was not a boy. And—despite being barely seventeen—Hattori Mariko knew her place in life. She would marry Minamoto Raiden. Her parents would have the prestige of a daughter in Heian Castle.

  And Mariko would be the only one to know the stain on that honor.

  As dusk fell and the convoy made its way deeper into the forest, the scent of warm, wet air took on a life of its own. It mixed with the iron of the earth and the green of newly trod leaves. A strange, heady perfume. Sharp and fresh, yet soft and sinister all at once.

  Mariko shuddered, a chill taking root in her bones. The horses around the norimono whickered as if in response to an unseen threat. Seeking a distraction, Mariko reached for the small parcel of food Chiyo had given her, staving off the chill by burrowing into her cushions.