Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(37)

“For his efforts to right this wrong, the man who valued justice was hung by his feet in Yedo Bay. Drowned before his family.” Ranmaru slanted his head. As though he wished to speak directly to ōkami. But could not. “In the dead of night, the son of this drowned man—a wolf in his own right—set fire to the tent of his father’s accuser and fled into the mountains.”

The air around them churned with unspoken thoughts. Countless unuttered sentiments, across years and generations.

Yet Mariko understood, all the same.

The tale Ranmaru told was of him and ōkami. A tale of two boys who had lost their fathers to an ambitious man. A man who had once been their dearest friend.

ōkami’s father had betrayed Ranmaru’s father. This was the reason ōkami served Ranmaru. The reason he held such unswerving allegiance to the Black Clan. These two boys were inextricably linked by this betrayal. Linked by life and death.

A friendship forged in blood and fire.

As Ranmaru’s story faded like a ghost into the night, the image from several days past—the memory of the boy standing in a courtyard, staring at stones stained red with his father’s blood—formed in Mariko’s mind.

As she’d first thought, this boy was Takeda Ranmaru.

Not a boy anymore. Now a young man, imbued with a shadowed purpose. One Mariko had only begun to grasp. Against her will, her curiosity abated, like a tide pulling from a desolate shore. In its place rose a tentative sadness—a halting kind of sympathy. She could not imagine what it would be to lose her family right before her eyes. To lose all she held dear, in an instant. Her mother. Her father. Kenshin . . .

But it could happen.

This forest had taught her that, even in a few short days.

As Mariko considered the possibility of such loss, a heaviness settled onto her skin. A burn began to rise in her throat.

The burn of injustice.

Ranmaru had killed her father’s men. And Chiyo.

He’d tried to kill Mariko.

And she would never forget it.

Follow orders. Engender trust.

Strike when they least expect it.

“Watch closely, Sanada Takeo.” Ranmaru slid his sword from the dead boy’s slumped body and stood tall. “This forest protects us. These trees—the jubokko—are everywhere. Our forest is guarded by yōkai, and they will not look kindly on you, should you attempt to run. Should you attempt to betray us in any way.” He turned to face her. “But if you stay true, one day Jukai forest may serve you as well.”

Mariko stared down at the lifeless young man. His skin had taken on a waxy hue.

To her left, ōkami finally spoke, his words a whisper on a dying wind—

“Never forget, Sanada Takeo: in this forest, there is no place to hide.”





THE THROWING STAR





Over the course of the next four days, Mariko listened. Followed orders without complaint. She learned that many of the twenty or so members of the Black Clan left the camp at odd hours, often returning laden with small trunks of silk. With leather satchels of gold ryō and countless tins of copper pieces. Then they would leave again under a cloak of darkness, taking their stolen spoils deep beneath the trees. Disappearing from sight.

In this forest, there is no place to hide.

ōkami’s words echoed through Mariko’s mind like a haunted refrain. They gave her leave to shudder when she thought no one was watching. To embrace her fears as she never had before.

Mariko discovered there was wisdom in facing her fears headlong. Acknowledging them made her cautious. Made her smarter. Perhaps these fears would help her obtain a shred of information. Something to warrant all this effort. Anything to justify the horrors she had witnessed four nights ago in Jukai forest.

She needed a way to earn the Black Clan’s trust. If not their trust, then at least a semblance of their admiration. With it, she could then begin digging her way to the truth, like an army of termites set to decimate a structure from within.

If the incident with the jubokko had taught her anything, it was that one way to gain Ranmaru’s confidence was through ōkami. Their bond seemed unshakable. The kind of trust built over time. Alas, Mariko could not begin to understand how to earn the Wolf’s favor. He was not exactly the demonstrative sort.

Now she was left to fight for Ranmaru’s attention on her own.

So intent was she on devising the best way to impress the leader of the Black Clan that it had taken her five days to work up the courage. To take action.

And though she now possessed a plan, Mariko still remained uncertain. Whatever free time left to her had been spent mulling over the details. Considering the possibilities. All while putting aside the likelihood that—at any moment—her great secret might be revealed.

That a member of the Black Clan might learn she was not in fact a boy.

Fear again took hold of Mariko, leaving her immobile for a breath. Leaving her weakened. The only remedy was to return its cold embrace once more.

It fed her. This fear.

It gave her a sense of will.

Mariko straightened her shoulders. Reshaped her thoughts.

Ranmaru had paid her no attention today. As far as he was concerned, Mariko could be a single leaf among many. ōkami was equally hopeless. An endless well, covered by years of neglect. Only two members of the Black Clan continued to pay Mariko mind—Ren and Yoshi. The former plagued her at every turn. The latter made it his duty to instruct her on the most inconsequential of lessons: how to light a fire, how to boil water, how to dig for edible roots. Ever since the night the jubokko had drained the young intruder of life, Mariko had been left to handle the most trivial tasks around the camp.