Flame in the Mist (Flame in the Mist #1)(62)

To prey on their weaknesses. Ranmaru’s wish to inspire.

ōkami’s need to protect.

The boy had always made him uncomfortable in a way ōkami had been unable to adequately articulate. Whenever Sanada Takeo was around, he made ōkami question everything about himself.

And he did not like it.

His suspicion had only solidified in the grey fog rising above the waters of the hot springs. The best way for ōkami to confirm it was to watch the boy.

And wait for him to make a mistake.





TWISTED TALES





Kenshin had spent too many nights in Inako.

He’d attended too many gatherings and been forced to partake in too many insipid conversations. And gleaned virtually nothing of value.

Despite all his attempts to learn whether any member of the nobility bore a grudge against his family, he had turned up empty-handed. Kenshin was not good at manipulating conversations in the same skillful way as his father. The way that enabled him to control the pace of the boat without even touching an oar. Without those around you ever knowing.

No. Neither he nor Mariko had ever been gifted at that. Mariko was far too direct. And he was far too uninterested.

Today Kenshin planned to leave Inako. To return home.

A failure once more. In his eyes. And the eyes of his father.

But he would first revisit the forest and stop to question the elderly man at the watering hole again. He was lying, and Kenshin no longer had any tolerance for deception. He’d dealt with pretense too often of late.

In an imperial city rife with it.

Kenshin stood beside the curved railing of an arched bridge in the first maru of Heian Castle. The glossy finish of the balustrade was red—smooth and cool beneath his touch.

At his back, crisp footsteps drew close. “I hear you are leaving.” Roku spoke to him in a measured, lyrical voice. As though he wished to emulate a bird in song.

Kenshin turned to bow. “I have no interest in dallying in Inako any further, Your Highness.”

“But you did not find what you were looking for.” As usual, Minamoto Roku did not ask questions. He pried in other, far more insidious ways.

In response, Kenshin said nothing. Hoped his face did not disclose anything of value.

“I wish to help you, Hattori Kenshin.” Roku’s smile formed slowly. Too slowly to be real. “Though my brother has yet to admit it—even to himself—I know he is quite troubled by the death of your sister.”

“I do not believe Mariko to be dead, Your Highness.”

“Of course.” Roku nodded. “I’ve since learned why those men attacked us at the teahouse.”

Kenshin waited, not wanting to ask. Not wanting to be beholden to the crown prince on any score.

“It’s information I think you would be interested to know,” Roku continued, smiling once more. He strolled to Kenshin’s side, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “The whispers among several of the geiko there said these men were members of the Black Clan.”

Roku’s words confirmed Kenshin’s earlier suspicions. The Dragon of Kai gripped the red balustrade tight. Countless tales surrounded the Black Clan. Tales that had twisted into lore. Ones linking them to exiled rōnin. Of murderous men who drank the blood of their victims, leaving their bodies to rot in the shade of skeletal trees. Stories Kenshin had never given a moment’s consideration before. He had known the Black Clan frequented certain parts of Jukai forest, but Kenshin had dismissed earlier suggestions that these men had had anything to do with the attack on Mariko’s convoy. If the same lore was to be believed, the Black Clan was not disorganized enough to allow a survivor to escape. Mercenaries as celebrated as they did not maintain their livelihoods by allowing their marks to point fingers their way. Besides that, Kenshin had never known them to attack convoys guarded by samurai.

And he’d never heard of the Black Clan murdering young women before. Innocent girls like Mariko’s maidservant. It had been a chief reason Kenshin had removed them from consideration at the onset.

In his mind, there were only two reasons for the Black Clan to murder Mariko. One involved a great deal of money. The kind of money linked to those in the nobility.

The other reason involved hatred.

“Permit me to speak frankly, Your Highness,” Kenshin began. “I fail to see why this information would be of value to me. Beyond rumor, I have found little evidence to suggest the Black Clan could be responsible for the attack on my sister’s convoy.”

“Ah”—Roku angled his body, the smooth skin of his face all but unreadable—“but it should be of value to you, Kenshin-sama. And there is most definitely evidence.”

A part of Kenshin wished to strike Roku across the face. As soon as he realized this truth, Kenshin recoiled from it. These were not the thoughts of a samurai in loyal service to his liege lord. One day Roku would be his emperor. One day Kenshin would be honored to die at this boy’s command.

Roku’s eyes drifted across the serene waters of the pond. “Have you heard what happened to the last shōgun of the empire?”

“He was accused of treason and committed seppuku.”

Roku paused. “It appears a mistake was made in the process.”

“A mistake?”

“The traitor Takeda Shingen was executed ten years ago, after being accused by one of his dearest friends, Asano Naganori. The mistake made at the time was that my father allowed Takeda Shingen’s son to live. He was only eight when he watched his father die. I believe the emperor did not wish to have the blood of his traitorous friend’s son on his hands.”