Flame in the Mist Read online

  Perhaps we should have gone around Jukai forest.

  She quickly dismissed these doubts, then turned her attention to the parcel in her hands. Within it were two rice balls covered in black sesame seeds, along with pickled sour plums wrapped in lotus leaves. After unfolding her meal, Mariko shifted her fingers to light the tiny folded-paper lantern swaying above.

  It had been one of her earliest inventions. Small enough to hide in a kimono sleeve. A special slow-burning wick, suspended by the thinnest of wires. The wick was fashioned from cotton braided with river reeds dipped in wax. It kept its shape despite its size, all while burning a steady light. Mariko had made it as a child. In the heavy dark of night, this tiny invention had been her savior. She’d placed it beside her blankets, where it cast a warm, cheery glow by which she’d penned her newest ideas.

  Smiling in remembrance, Mariko began to eat. A few black sesame seeds fell onto the painted silk of her kimono; she brushed them aside. The fabric felt like water at her fingertips. The color of sweetened cream, its hem bled through with darkest indigo. Pale pink cherry blossoms crowded the long sleeves, unfurling into branches near Mariko’s feet.

  A priceless kimono. Made of rare tatsumura silk. One of the many gifts sent to her by the emperor’s son. It was beautiful. More beautiful than anything Mariko had ever owned in her life.

  Perhaps a girl who prized such things would be pleased.

  When more sesame seeds fell onto the silk, Mariko didn’t bother brushing them away. She finished eating in silence, watching the tiny lantern sway to and fro.

  The gathering of shadows shifted outside, growing closer and tighter. Mariko’s convoy was now deep beneath a canopy of trees. Deep beneath their cloak of sighing branches and whispering leaves. Strange that she heard no signs of life outside—not the caw of a raven nor the cry of an owl nor the chirr of an insect.

  Then the norimono halted again. All too abruptly.

  The horses began to pant. Began to stamp their hooves in the leafy earth.

  Mariko heard a shout. Her litter teetered. Overcorrected. Only to strike the ground with a vicious thud. Her head smacked against varnished wood, throwing stars across her vision.

  And Mariko was swallowed into a void.

  THE NIGHTBEAST

  Mariko woke to the smell of smoke. To a dull roar in her ears.

  To shooting pain in her arm.

  She was still in her litter, but it had toppled to one side, its contents smashed into a corner.

  The body of a familiar maidservant lay across her. Chiyo, who had loved to eat iced persimmons and arrange moonflowers in her hair. Chiyo, whose eyes had always been so open and wide and honest.

  The same eyes that were now frozen in Death’s final mask.

  Mariko’s throat burned. Her sight blurred with tears.

  The sounds of movement outside brought her back into focus. Her right hand pressed into a tender lump on the side of her head. She gasped into full awareness, the sound a strangled sob. Her arm pulsed sharply, even with the smallest of movements.

  Mariko shook her head clear. And looked around.

  From the way Chiyo was positioned across her—and from the way Mariko’s lacquered zori sandals had fallen from the maidservant’s hands—it was clear the girl had tried to free Mariko from the wrecked litter. Tried to free her and died in the attempt. Blood was everywhere. Splashed across the shining inlays. Spilling from the nasty gash in Mariko’s head. Pooling from the fatal wound in Chiyo’s heart. An arrow had pierced clean through the small girl’s breastbone; its tip dug into the skin of Mariko’s forearm, a trickle of crimson in its wake.

  Several arrowheads were embedded in the wood of the norimono. Several more were fixed at odd angles across Chiyo’s body. Arrows that could not have been meant to kill a kind maidservant. And had it not been for this kind maidservant, these arrows would undoubtedly have struck Mariko.

  Mariko’s eyes brimmed with more tears as she clutched Chiyo tight.

  Thank you, Chiyo-chan. Sumimasen.

  Blinking away her tears, Mariko tried to shift her head. Tried to seek her bearings. The ache near her temple throbbed, keeping time with the rapid beat of her heart.

  Just as Mariko began to move, a rumble of male voices drew near. She peeked through a break in the mangled screen above. All she could discern were two men dressed in black from head to toe. Their weapons shone bright in the light of nearby torches, their blades oiled a sinister red.

  It can’t be . . .

  But the evidence was irrefutable. The Black Clan had overrun her convoy.

  Mariko held her breath, wincing into the corner as they moved closer to the litter.

  “She’s dead, then?” the tallest one said in gruff fashion.

  The masked man to the right considered the overturned litter, his head cocked to one side. “Either that or she passed out from the—”

  A howl in the distance swallowed the last of their conversation.

  The men eyed each other. Knowingly.

  “Check once more,” the first man said. “I’d rather not be forced to report we failed in our mission.”

  The second man gave a curt nod and moved toward the litter, his torch held high.

  Panic took hold of Mariko. She clenched her rattling teeth still.

  Two things had become clear as these masked men spoke:

  The Black Clan obviously wanted Mariko dead. And someone had tasked them with killing her.

  Mariko changed position, ever so slightly, as though it might conceal her from their prying gazes. As though it might shrink her into nothingness. Chiyo’s head slumped forward, thwacking against the battered wood of the norimono. Mariko bit back an oath, cursing her thoughtlessness. She inhaled through her nose, willing her heart to cease its incessant pounding.

  Why did it suddenly smell so strongly of smoke?

  Mariko’s eyes darted around in alarm. The edges of Chiyo’s bloodstained robe were blackening. Brushing against the crumbled wick of Mariko’s tiny lantern.

  Catching flame.

  It took all her restraint to remain quiet and still.

  Terror pressed in on her from all sides. Pressed her to make a final decision.

  If Mariko lingered, she would be burned alive. If she moved from her hiding place, the masked men outside would undoubtedly finish their dark task.

  Flames licked the hem of the maidservant’s robe, grasping for Mariko’s kimono like the tentacles of an octopus.

  Her panic rising, Mariko shifted once more, stifling a cough in her shoulder.

  It was time to make a decision.

  How am I to die today? By fire or by the sword?

  The advancing man halted a hairsbreadth away. “The litter is on fire.”

  “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.

  A savage sort of stealth.

  A nightbeast, stalking the last of its prey.

  Mariko’s stomach clenched, and her fingers shook as she prepared to meet her end.

  No. I will not cower in a corner.

  Never again.

  She scrambled away from the tree, her ankle catching on a scree of rocks. Each movement jolted through her as she landed on the forest floor, only to claw back to her feet. Her body felt alive, energy rolling beneath her skin in waves, all while her blood coursed through her body. There was nowhere to hide. The white silk of her underrobe did nothing to shield her from the forest’s most sinister monsters.

  The growling behind her had become a steady grumble. Undeterred. Moving ever closer. When Mariko spun around to face her attacker, two saurian yellow eyes materialized in the darkness. Like those of a giant snake.

  The creature that formed around these eyes was immense, its features resembling a jaguar, its body as massive as a bear. Without further provocation, the beast rose on its hind legs, saliva dripping from its bared fangs. It threw back its head and howled, the sound ricocheting into the night.

  Her knees turned to water as Mariko fought to brace herself.

  But the creature did not attack.

  It looked to one side, then back at her. Its yellow eyes glowed bright. It canted its head, as though glancing past her shoulder.

  Run! a voice within Mariko cried out. Run, you silly little fool!

  She inhaled, taking a slow step back.

  Still the beast did not attack. It glanced again to the same side, then back at her, its growl rising in pitch and ferocity.

  As though it was warning her.

  Then—without another sound—the beast glided toward her. Like a ghost. Like a demon of
the forest, flying on a whorl of black smoke.

  Mariko’s scream tore through the night sky.

  The creature disappeared in a whoosh of air. In a swirl of inky darkness.

  “Well.” A gruff voice resonated from behind her. “Fortune has indeed smiled upon me tonight.”

  NOT A GIRL

  A dirty man materialized from the shadows. He stalked toward her, twigs snapping at his bare feet.

  “What are you doing here, girl?” His lips glittered with saliva. “Don’t you know this part of the forest is dangerous?” Beady black eyes raked over her trembling form.

  No man had ever dared to look at her like this before.

  With such unchecked evil alighting his gaze.

  “I’m . . .” Mariko paused to think before answering. To devise the safest tack. She could not admonish him as her mother would have done. This was not one of her father’s vassals or servants. Indeed—after what she’d just witnessed—there was no way for her to know if the man was of flesh and bone at all.

  Enough of this nonsense.

  Fear would not drive her to discern shape from smoke and shadows.

  Mariko stood tall, angling the wakizashi against her underrobe. Out of sight. Instead of adopting her mother’s imperious tone, she spoke calmly. Softly. “In truth, I’d rather not be here. Which is why I’m trying to find my way out.” She met his eyes with a silent challenge.

  “Dressed like that?” He leered at her, his smile a jumble of grime and missing teeth.

  She said nothing, though every bone in her body stretched thin.

  The man oozed closer. “I take it you’re lost, then?” His tongue leapt out of his mouth, a lizard questing for purchase.

  Mariko swallowed the urge to reply. The urge to take him to task. Kenshin would have led him away in chains, with nothing more than a nod to the men at his back. The men bearing the crest of the Hattori clan. But Kenshin had the might of a soldier. The will of a samurai.