Smoke in the Sun
Page 28

Mariko let her smile waver. “I feel more like myself.”
“It’s amazing what a proper bath and well-trained servants can do.” His grin turned arrogant.
Irritation flared behind Mariko’s heart. As she’d first suspected, Prince Raiden was proving to be precisely the spiteful, judgmental young man she’d first believed him to be. “We are in agreement on that, my lord.” She inclined her head sweetly, remembering her wish to endear herself to him.
He cleared his throat and looped his thumbs through the thick silk cord at his waist. Where his half brother, Roku, appeared like a snake—with his cutting eyes and insidious grin—Raiden most resembled an osprey, its wings hovering as it scoured the sea for signs of its prey. Lofty and above reproach. Mariko remembered a time—not so long ago—when she’d listened to her maidservant Chiyo gossip about how handsome Prince Raiden was and what a wonderful husband he would be.
How wrong she was.
As though he could sense the tenor of her thoughts, Raiden frowned. “I am … not good at this.”
Surprised by this admission of weakness, Mariko responded without thinking. “We are in agreement on that score as well, my lord.” Dismay settled on her skin. She gritted her teeth against it and tried her best to appear steely. Above reproach, just as Raiden was. As though she’d meant to say it just that way and had no intention of apologizing. With seasoned warriors, it was best to meet strength with strength. Ren had been the one to teach her this lesson, with his snide comments and well-aimed pebbles.
Raiden’s eyes widened. “Are you teasing me?”
The dismay wound through her stomach. “No. I mean yes, my lord. I mean …” Mariko trailed off, frustration taking root in her core.
I am awful at this.
“You’re not good at this either.” Raiden smiled with pompous satisfaction, but Mariko caught a hint of humor in his eyes.
She remained silent.
“I’m sure you know why it is I’ve asked to meet with you.” He did not grant her a chance to reply, so certain was he of his position. “The emperor wishes for us to wed in the coming week.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She nodded to buy herself a moment to think.
“I can’t say that I know what to do or say at present, given the unconventional circumstances,” Raiden continued, his elbows crooked at his sides and his feet widespread. Ren sometimes did this same thing: occupied more space than necessary. It was the tactic of a boy with something to prove. But again, Mariko caught the glimmer of hesitancy.
The prince continued. “This situation has proven to be somewhat difficult. My … interactions with women outside my family have been brief. I don’t know how to speak my mind to you on this matter without causing offense.”
Given Raiden’s status, none of these things were appropriate to say to his betrothed. But Mariko appreciated his honesty. At least he didn’t try to hide his thoughts.
When she still did not respond, Raiden pressed on. “Since I don’t know where to begin, I’ll start with the first thing that comes to mind. What do you want to do, Lady Mariko?” he asked. “Do you wish to be my bride?”
Again he took her off guard. Not once in the entire time her family had been in negotiations with the imperial family had anyone thought to ask Mariko what it was she wanted.
Strange that it would be Prince Raiden to first pose the question. Instead of answering, Mariko turned to pace the room and grant herself leave to consider this unforeseen turn of events. In silence, she studied the collection of weapons adorning the walls. Some blades had been sheathed in their ornate saya, then placed on lacquered wooden stands. The crests of vanquished clans adorned many of the scabbards. In some cases, the designs had been worked into the gleaming handles themselves. Mariko caught sight of dried blood wedged in the elaborate etchings of an ivory tsuba. She stopped to consider what story this weapon told. What lives had been taken with every swing of its blade. What sorrows it had wrought.
As she turned to face Raiden again, a particular weapon caught her eye on a pedestal in a darkened corner, discarded from the rest.
Its blade was white. Almost luminescent. There appeared to be a bar of curved gold through its center, around which an almost alabaster stone had formed. The katana was not housed in its shirasaya, which lay to one side, a firebird etched into its ivory hilt. Its handguard was fashioned from alternating tongues of fire and phoenix feathers, all inlaid with gold. It was a thing of supreme beauty. A blade meant to be seen and studied. Yet strangely it had not been placed in the center of the room, where it would undoubtedly be the talk of any gathering.
Even though it had been cas toff in the shadows, Mariko recognized the weapon the moment she laid eyes on it.
“It’s the Takeda sword,” Raiden said as he moved to stand beside her. “It’s called the Frinkazan. A weapon forged by the spirits from a bolt of lightning after it struck the sand dunes by the Sendai river over a thousand years ago.”
Mariko shifted closer to the blade. Farther away from the prince. “If it is truly a thousand years old, it is in remarkable condition,” she murmured.
“Bewitched blades do not rust, nor do they have any need of sharpening.”
She took note of the inscription etched where the alabaster blade met the golden tsuba. “As swift as the wind, as silent as the forest, as fierce as the fire, as unshakable as the mountain.”
“The Takeda motto.” Raiden frowned, and the gesture carved lines around his mouth. “This blade interests you.” His nostrils flared.
“Of course it does,” she replied in an airy tone. “It is unique, and I am fascinated by unusual things. Are you not, my lord?”
He did not reply.
“May I ask what made it glow that night?” Mariko sent a tentative smile his way.
Irritation took further hold of his features. “It glowed because it was in the presence of the Takeda heir, no matter how unworthy he might be. The lore says when the blade is wielded by a warrior possessing a pure heart, it will become a weapon unlike any other. Stronger than any other.” He waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “Throughout history, only men of the Takeda clan have proven worthy, but I doubt any son of Takeda Shingen’s line could possess those traits in truth.” Every word he spoke oozed with disdain.
He’s wrong. The Frinkazan burned for kami.
In that instant, Mariko realized why the blade had been cast to the side instead of being granted a position of honor in Raiden’s receiving chamber. The blade had responded to a thief in the forest. But it had not responded to him. Which meant that he—the great Prince Raiden, firstborn son of the heavenly sovereign—was not a warrior with a pure heart. He was not good enough.
He doubts his worth.
With this newfound realization, Mariko chose to employ Raiden’s own tactic against him. Instead of asking a question, she made a statement. “You detest Takeda Ranmaru—not just for what his father did—but for something else.”
Raiden snorted. “It doesn’t matter what I think of that traitorous coward. He is to be executed soon. I am pressuring my brother to put an end to this farce and send him to meet his father, at long last.” A shadow fell across his face. “May they meet in the fire where traitors dwell.”
Mariko’s vision swam. She gripped the edge of the stone pedestal housing the Takeda sword. A strange sensation took shape in her stomach, akin to being sick.
I pressed him too far.
“It doesn’t matter.” Raiden paused. “As its master’s vanquisher, this sword belongs to me now. Everything that once belonged to Takeda Ranmaru belongs to me now. My father set aside the Takeda lands for my inheritance, years ago.” He stepped away as he spoke, dismissing the now trivial item of the sword. His expression turned morose. “Though it may not matter what happens with it, if this mysterious plague continues to wreak its havoc.”
“Plague?” Mariko’s eyes narrowed. “Is something amiss beyond the city, my lord?”
Raiden considered her before replying. “A foul wind has settled on several provinces east of Inako. Entire villages have succumbed to the illness. Those who still cling to life have lost control of their minds, mumbling and trembling as though they are fevered.”