Kanako seethed to herself as she wandered through the colorless world of the enchanted maru. Her plans had been torn asunder. The injustice of it all continued to writhe beneath her skin, ready to be unleashed.

Then a coolness washed over her. An answer came to mind.

Her failure had been in entrusting others with such important tasks.

She would not fail like this again.

Raiden made his way across the nightingale floors. They squeaked and whistled with every step. Though the sound was irritating, its rhythm was steady, soothing. Consistent. It offered him a strange kind of comfort.

He’d woken in his bridal chamber to find his new wife asleep at the foot of their pallet, fully dressed. It should have annoyed him.

Instead he’d experienced the strangest tremor by his heart. The girl—his new wife—was most definitely a nuisance. She said less than half of what she thought, and of that half, Raiden was certain only a fifth of it was true. Though she appeared to have been earnestly frightened when the first arrow had struck the emperor, Raiden was not entirely certain of her innocence.

She was a liar. A manipulator.

He should have killed her for it, the moment the doubt first entered his mind. But Raiden had had enough of bloodshed after last night. Enough of it to last a lifetime.

Then—when he was most in need of it—Mariko had simply listened to him. She’d not asked for anything. Simply offered him quiet company. A measure of solace. When he’d been younger, his mother had done that for him. It was the reason Raiden did not feet the need to retaliate against those who shunned him for his birth.

His mother’s silent encouragement. The simple fact that she had been there. Often that had been all Raiden had needed as a child. Someone who cared. For a blink of time, he’d seen the same quality in Hattori Mariko. The same quiet strength. Perhaps that was why Raiden had acquiesced to his brother’s demands and married her, despite his many reservations.

The girl held tight to her convictions. Once Hattori Mariko had agreed to marry him, Raiden did not sense anything but surety in her. She’d not asked to delay the wedding for any reason—even to ensure her parents’ attendance—though Raiden would have understood. Mariko’s only requests were been that he allow her to attend a play in the city—to be among the people of Inako—one last time. And that Takeda Ranmaru be executed without any fanfare, in the moments following the ceremony of their marriage. No more torture. Just a clean death.

She had enough of bloodshed as well.

It had moved Raiden that one of her requests was for justice absent malice. He longed for the ability to convince his brother of the merit behind this. His brother’s idea of justice made Raiden’s flesh crawl as though he’d waded into a pool of maggots.

Though he could not deny that she was a troubling creature, Raiden also admired Mariko for not succumbing to the pressures of court. For not lowering herself to the baser amusements of the nobility, who enjoyed asserting their hierarchy and putting others beneath their feet. When she first arrived, Raiden had questioned those attending her needs, and they divulged that Mariko did not approve of cruel behavior, even though derogatory whispers trailed her every footstep.

She stayed above it, and Raiden admired her for that.

Yet he’d not pressed to consummate their marriage. When given the opportunity, Raiden did not wish to move forward with the act. It did not seem right. Hattori Mariko had said she did not want to begin a life with him amid strife. Her words moved him further. Made him consider the advantage of being in a harmonious marriage. Of having a willing wife. One he could respect for the strength of her convictions.

Locking his gaze upon the tatami mats at his feet, Raiden bowed low, then proceeded toward the low throne upon which his younger brother now sat, an expression of supreme serenity on his face.

In the past, this expression had made Raiden smile.

Today it unnerved him.

He took his place at his brother’s side and waited for their meal to be served. His brother sipped his tea from a small cup resting nearby.

“It was a shame the prisoner died before offering any useful information,” Roku began.

“Indeed it was.”

“I’m assuming you will be continuing with your inquiries.”

Raiden bowed. “Of course, my sovereign.”

“Do not rest until you learn where the Black Clan has taken Takeda Ranmaru. Until each and every one of them—and all of their family members—are stretched from the ramparts as a warning to those who would dare to challenge me.”

Raiden nodded once more.

Roku set down his cup. “Enough of these unseemly matters. Today is your first day as a married man.” He smiled at Raiden, as though he were gazing fondly at an errant child. “Tell me, brother … was the daughter of Hattori Kano all she swore she would be?”

Raiden had not thought his brother would pursue the matter in quite so blunt a fashion. That feeling of disquiet coiled up his throat, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. “Are you asking me to speak with you of my wedding night, my sovereign?”

“I am. It is important that we know whom we can trust, especially if they are to move about in our inner circle. Can we trust Lady Mariko? Was she untouched after living in close quarters with those traitors for several weeks?”

Raiden exhaled. “Would I be so untroubled if she were not?”

“That is not an answer, brother,” Roku said. He reached again for his tea. Took another small sip. “You did not lie with her.” His tone was pointed. “Perhaps if you are unable to complete the task, I can oblige you on that score.”

The disquiet shifted into anger. The kind that simmered in Raiden’s stomach. “There is no need for that.”

“Then she was a maid?”

“Of course she was,” Raiden lied without thinking. He was not sure why he did it. He had never before lied to his brother in such a brazen fashion. But he could not stomach any more of Roku’s paranoia. At times, it looked as though the emperor would do anything to ensure loyalty, even destroy the very foundation upon which it was built.

Roku watched his brother’s face. Studied it as though it were a stanza from a complicated poem. Then he smiled once more. “I am glad to hear it.”

After he returned his brother’s grin, Raiden ate his meal in silence, that same roiling feeling ruining his appetite. He missed speaking to his mother. For the second time since his wedding, he wished he had not dismissed her counsel for speaking treasonously about Roku.

He wished he had her voice in his ear at this moment.

He wished she would offer him her advice again.

The first thing Raiden did when he returned to his empty chamber was to remove the bedclothes from his carved tansu chest. He unrolled the pallet. Then—with only the slightest of hesitations—he slid his thumb across the blade of his katana, creating a shallow cut.

Raiden let his blood drip onto the center of the pallet—proof that Mariko had lost her maidenhead on her wedding night. With this action, he solidified the lie he’d told to his brother to protect his new wife.

Last night, he’d lied to protect the boy.

Today, he’d lied to protect Mariko.

Perhaps that was all Raiden could do. Lie. And protect.

A Sea of Memories

The last time Ōkami saw his mother’s home, he was a boy of no more than five. Thirteen years had passed since that summer. He wondered whether he would recognize it now. Whether the same patch of land produced the same white wildflowers. If the crashing waves still captivated his imagination as they had his mother’s. Whether the post on the far-left side of the stable still bore the marks he’d made on it with a wooden sword, the year his father gifted him the toy.

Ōkami rode up to the low stone wall surrounding the outermost border of his mother’s domain. He stopped short—his horse rearing—as he took in the sight of the dilapidated barrier. At the sound of galloping hooves at his back, he glanced over his shoulder. The motion caused him to wince, despite his efforts to conceal it. Three nights had passed since Ōkami’s arrival at the Black Clan’s new camp. In that time, he’d managed to regain most of his strength, but still could not escape the lingering discomfort.