Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(46)

Roku looked at Kenshin—as though he expected Kenshin to elaborate further on the matter of Mariko’s untimely death—before smiling to himself and slowly circling an ink stick in the well of a carved inkstone to his right.

In moments like these, Kenshin wished Mariko were at his side. She would be thinking far in advance of what anyone might do or say. Holding her emotions close and in check. His sister was leagues ahead of anyone in most conversations. Far past anyone’s present. In contrast, Kenshin often found himself crashing through the underbrush of conversations Mariko skirted with ease. It was not that his sister was a particularly gifted conversationalist. It was more that she always seemed to know what people intended to say even before they did.

She read people much like she read books.

Such ability would be of great use to Kenshin right now.

But he was a warrior. Not an envoy or a strategist.

Kenshin cleared his throat. “I do not believe Mariko to be dead, Your Highness.” He glanced toward his sister’s betrothed to see if he could sense any reaction. Minamoto Raiden exchanged a wordless conversation with his brother, but Kenshin could not glean the sentiment behind his expression.

It could be worry. It could be anger. It could be suspicion.

Or perhaps it could be all of these things.

It never ceased to frustrate Kenshin how he was able to notice tangible things with the eye of a hawk. How the smallest detail was never missed. But when it came to analyzing the unseen—the unspoken subtleties of life—he was far from being a hawk. He was more of a mole, wandering through a world of darkness. Even with Amaya, he’d been painfully unaware of her feelings until it was far too late.

After a time, Minamoto Raiden took a steadying breath. He traded another glance with the crown prince, whose expression remained neutral. Then he leaned forward almost conspiratorially. “Kenshin-sama,” his sister’s betrothed began, “I was told Mariko’s convoy had been attacked in Jukai forest by a band of thieves. Several members of my father’s personal guard believe it to be the work of the Black Clan—though I’m not as inclined to agree. It seems far too . . . simple. Far too predictable. Not to mention beyond the typical behavior of the Black Clan.” He rested an elbow on a knee, inclining toward Kenshin even farther. “Is it possible your sister still lives, despite all the evidence to the contrary?”

As Raiden spoke, concern seeped into the small lines framing his mouth. He was only nineteen years old, but the effect of this concern made him appear battle-hardened. Weary. The sight strangely comforted Kenshin. As did the words his sister’s betrothed spoke. They were in keeping with Kenshin’s earlier thoughts. But it was also possible this was a ruse meant to earn his trust. Meant to plant seeds of unforeseen doubt.

Yet Minamoto Raiden did seem far less calculating than the crown prince. Far less conniving. And Kenshin appreciated how he appeared to value forthrightness more than his younger brother. Raiden’s character was more in keeping with his own. Since this marked Kenshin’s first interaction with his sister’s betrothed, these feelings set his mind somewhat at ease. At this moment, any sign of subterfuge remained solely in the black eyes of the crown prince. The slight, pale boy clad in golden silk, calmly practicing his shodo.

Perhaps Minamoto Roku had been the one to orchestrate the attack on Mariko’s convoy.

And yet . . .

A part of Kenshin did not quite believe the crown prince would strike out at his own brother by murdering Raiden’s future wife. After all, what would he have to gain by doing so? Roku was already first in line to the throne. And not once in all his years had Kenshin heard of Raiden having designs to usurp his younger brother. They could easily have been at war with each other. Brothers in similar situations had often killed each other for power in the past. But that did not appear to be the case here. By all accounts, these two brothers—despite the enmity between their birth mothers—were close friends. Trusted confidants.

Perhaps Kenshin had been wrong to suspect that members of the nobility had plotted to murder his sister. That someone in Inako had tried to thwart the nuptials between the emperor’s firstborn son and the daughter of an ambitious daimyō.

Or perhaps Minamoto Raiden was merely good at reading people as well.

As though he could hear the tenor of Kenshin’s thoughts, Raiden smiled reassuringly. He began to speak again, but was immediately silenced by his younger brother.

The crown prince shot a pointed look their way. As soon as Roku made certain he held their attention, his eyes drifted toward the beautifully carved folding screen to his left. “This is not the place to discuss such things,” he said in a harsh whisper. “The walls of Heian Castle possess ears.” The last was said in a barely audible tone.

A cultivated whisper, belying his earlier disinterest.

Following this admonition, the crown prince took hold of his right sleeve and dipped his brush in ink once more, positioning the bristles above the washi paper at a perfect angle. “Perhaps it would be nice to share some tea with us later, Kenshin-sama,” he said, his voice as mild as before. Filled with that same feigned lack of interest.

But spoken in a tenor meant to be overheard. Meant to be interpreted by attending servants and chance observers alike.

In his zeal to learn the truth, Kenshin had almost forgotten.

Inako was—first and foremost—a city of secrets. Ones to be stolen and sold off to the highest bidder at first chance.