Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(27)

Jubilant. Boisterous. Even in the face of failure.

Kenshin’s long-simmering irritation reached a boiling point. He yanked his reins to one side, curving his horse around the vanguard of the convoy. Kane reared once before driving his hooves into the fragrant earth. The convoy came to an abrupt halt.

The singing died down.

As the melody faded, Kenshin took a moment to seek out his quarry. Then he prodded his warhorse alongside the neat formation of ashigaru.

“You,” he said to the young foot soldier who’d been singing. “Step forward.”

The ashigaru on either side stepped back as one, still maintaining their neat formation.

The singer was a boy. Possibly younger than Kenshin’s seventeen years.

Beads of perspiration collected beneath the young singer’s hachimaki. Kenshin watched the thin band of hemp around the boy’s forehead start to slide, the Hattori crest in its center darkening.

Before stepping forward, the boy straightened his hachimaki. Stood tall.

Kenshin briefly admired his bravery. Briefly regretted what he was about to do. The image of his father’s stern visage glimmered through his mind.

And his regret vanished.

“Why were you singing, soldier?” Kenshin’s voice sliced through the silence. A sheaf of ice cleaving from a mountain.

The boy bowed low. “I apologize, my lord.”

“Answer my question.”

“I—I sang in error, my lord.”

“A resounding truth. But still not an answer.” Kenshin urged his steed closer. “Do not make me ask again.”

The boy’s hachimaki was soaked through now. “I sang because I was happy.”

Kenshin’s horse stepped impossibly closer. Close enough for the horse’s nostrils to flare at the boy’s scent. As though Kane had smelled his next meal.

The boy recoiled from the wicked gleam in the warhorse’s gaze.

“Happy?” Kenshin’s voice dropped. “You were happy to have failed in your mission?”

“No, my lord.” The slightest of hesitations.

Frustration warmed across Kenshin’s skin. “Your purpose on this earth is what, soldier?”

“To serve the honorable Hattori clan.” He said the words loudly, in rote fashion.

Kenshin leaned forward in his saddle, an unsettling twinge slicing through his stomach. “And serve them you shall.” Without warning, he kicked the boy in the face. The crunch of broken bones echoed in time to the boy’s startled yelp. He hit the mud beside Kane’s hooves with a splat. Bright blood dripped from his nose and mouth.

As Kenshin watched the boy try to swallow his pain—to accept his punishment—another whisper of regret rose in his throat.

An unfamiliar uncertainty.

He swallowed it quickly. Then lifted his gaze to the rest of his convoy.

“There is no cause to be happy here.” Kenshin let his voice carry across the ranks of ashigaru and mounted samurai. “No cause to celebrate. We have failed in our mission. But know this: that failure will not stand. You will each have a night’s rest. On the morrow, we shall depart once more.” Kane stamped his hooves in place, the battered boy cowering further into himself with every thud. “And there will be no singing—no laughter, no celebration—until we are successful.”

Kenshin spurred Kane back toward the head of the convoy. But he did not pause there. Instead he kicked his steed into a full gallop. Shifted him toward a different path.

One that would grant them a moment’s reprieve.

Hattori Kenshin did not want to be greeted at the main gate as though he was a victor returning from war.

He did not deserve it.

The path he chose led to the back entrance of his family’s compound. An entrance unfrequented by those in the nobility.

Before him rose a wicket gate, its wooden slats tightly pressed into an arch. Stacked stones enclosed the perimeter; stones arranged with such precision as to render mortar unnecessary.

The rear courtyard housed many of the Hattori clan’s most important servants and vassals. It also served as residence for a few of the scholars and artisans Kenshin’s father hosted, many for years at a time. All with the desire to further his reputation as a lauded daimyō with growing influence.

In truth Kenshin often preferred to return home to this entrance. It offered him an opportunity to be present without being seen. If he were to arrive at the main gate, his mother would be waiting for him, with countless servants in tow. His father would follow only a few steps behind.

The wicket gate swung open, and Kenshin directed Kane toward the back stables. The moment he dismounted, a stable hand rushed to assist him.

“I’ll curry my horse,” Kenshin said to the servant. “And please wait to inform my mother of my arrival until after I’m done.”

Stepping back, the young servant bowed low.

Kenshin led Kane into the first empty stall, taking his time to remove the boiled leather armor from the horse’s sweat-slicked back. In response to no longer being restrained, Kane whickered, pawing at the ground. He had always been a restless beast. With a smile, Kenshin took hold of a wide brush and began tending to his horse.

Another task he enjoyed. Another task he too rarely was given the chance to do while at home.

Behind him, light footsteps rustled across the woven mats strewn across the stable floor.