Okami_A Flame in the Mist Short Story

  ALSO BY

  RENÉE AHDIEH

  —

  Flame in the Mist

  Smoke in the Sun

  The Wrath and the Dawn

  The Rose and the Dagger

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Renée Ahdieh.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or dist7ributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9781984812131

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_2

  CONTENTS

  Also by Renée Ahdieh

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Born of Fire

  BORN OF FIRE

  Ōkami sat in the corner of the makeshift wagon, his eyes closed. He let the cool night air fill his lungs, the tang of iron lingering on his tongue. A gust of wind taunted him as it riffled his hair.

  He shifted his pose. Cricked his neck. The chains around his wrists and ankles clanked softly. At the reminder of his predicament, a smile ghosted across his lips before settling into a frown. There was nothing vaguely amusing about this situation, but old habits were difficult to ignore. He’d spent a lifetime turning to humor in moments of difficulty. It often made the unthinkable endurable. When Ōkami had been a small boy confronted with the loss of his father—the loss of everything he knew—the weight of it had made him curl into himself. Made him small and weak.

  He refused to ever be small and weak again.

  The horse bearing the wagon continued trundling down the dirt road toward the outskirts of Jukai forest. Toward Inako.

  Toward his impending death.

  Ōkami should have felt afraid, but he would not allow his worries to take hold. Small tendrils of fear had attempted to clamp around his heart, and he’d forced them back. There would be a time to feel sorry for himself, of that he was certain. But that time was not now. He needed to be cool and calculating if he was to endure the judgment of the imperial city.

  As Ōkami mused on what the future might bring, he sensed a presence shift nearer, the sound of an approaching warhorse moving alongside the prison wagon. Even with his eyes closed, he knew it was not the presence he most wanted right now. Mariko was closer to the back of their convoy, kept under heavy guard for her protection.

  Protection?

  Ōkami’s lips twitched.

  These foolish men were the ones most in need of protection. From him.

  And especially from Mariko.

  When the presence beside Ōkami lingered like a haze of gnats around a lantern, curiosity took root in his chest. But he refused to capitulate and open his eyes. The sight of the moonlight would be too tempting, his wish to escape too strong. Nevertheless, the piercing gaze remained focused on him, with the kind of focused study that prickled the skin at his back.

  Still he refused to look upon its source.

  Until the source in question grunted softly. Clearly trying to catch his attention. Refusing to be ignored. With a sigh, Ōkami opened his eyes. A morose part of him almost welcomed the distraction. When his sight focused, he was met with the clear-eyed stare of the Dragon of Kai.

  Mariko’s brother.

  A flurry of emotions passed through Ōkami’s chest, snaking into his arms, turning his hands into fists. For a moment, they studied each other in silence. Ōkami searched for signs of the girl he loved, hidden behind the gaping dragon’s maw of Hattori Kenshin’s chin guard. Signs of her ingenuity. Signs of her quiet brilliance. The slightest suggestion of any similarity.

  All he sensed was a young man in conflict.

  Ōkami cleared his throat. “I’d ask what about my appearance has captivated you so,” he said, allowing amusement to color his words, “but I doubt you’d respond with anything resembling the truth.”

  Lord Kenshin’s eyes narrowed. Furrows formed on either side of his mouth. He kept silent.

  “I’ve been told the truth can hurt,” Ōkami continued. “And it must sting to know how much prettier I am than you.”

  The soldier helming the reins of the wagon turned and backhanded Ōkami. Though Ōkami had expected it, the blow knocked his head against the warped wooden railing at his side. His vision blurred as he sat up. He touched his fingers to his bleeding brow. Glared up at the man, who wore a dilapidated kabuto. The neck guard on the back of his helmet possessed only two overlapping shikoro—a sign of limited status. It was unsurprising. Usually those with money to spend or favor to curry did not helm a run-down prison wagon.

  “Keep silent, traitor,” the man spat, glancing over his shoulder. His right eye was scarred through its center. A blade had sliced from his forehead into his cheek. The scar was white and old, and had likely blinded the man in his right eye.

  For a ridiculous moment, Ōkami thought about his father. It had been a long time since he’d pondered what Takeda Shingen would do or say in any given position. As shogun, Lord Shingen’s kabuto had been emblazoned with the crest of his clan, the tiers of its many shikoro unfurling down his neck. The crest at its apex had been painted in liquid gold. The sight of this helmet had instilled fear in the hearts of his enemies. Taller than most warriors, Ōkami’s father had always seemed larger than life. A giant among men.

  Until the day he’d fallen to his knees in a courtyard and driven a tanto into his stomach.

  A giant among men would not leave his only son to suffer this sight. Nor would he surrender to a lesser foe, as Ōkami had done only hours ago. He’d watched members of the Black Clan—his brothers—perish in a hailstorm of arrows and ash. Then he’d witnessed the firstborn son of his father’s greatest enemy brandish the Takeda sword like a spoil of war.

  Through it all, Ōkami had kept pragmatic. He’d cast aside his fury. Flicked away the desire for revenge as though it were a worrisome dragonfly. Objectivity had served his purpose. It had stopped him from lunging at Prince Raiden in a fit of rage. From smashing a fist into the face of Mariko’s brother.

  Ōkami still recalled the events of less than a fortnight ago, outside the Hattori granary. He could not forget the way Kenshin had taken advantage of Ren’s weakened state. How the venerable Dragon of Kai had tortured a wounded boy in an attempt to draw out a response. It was not that this behavior was surprising to Ōkami. But some part of him had expected Mariko’s brother to be different. To be a better kind of warrior.

  Where were the heroes Ōkami’s mother had told him about when he was a small boy? He remembered hearing her lyrical voice in the balmy night air of her family’s home along the coast. How she would weave a tale of a man who began with nothing, only to rise to power on wings of honor and glory.

  Perhaps these heroes did not exist, save for in stories.

  Ōkami was not a hero. His father had died trying to be one.

  Perhaps heroes were a thing to hate.

  Blood began to
crust along his forehead from the earlier blow. Ōkami wiped his brow on his sleeve, then leaned back against the wooden rail, its splinters cutting through his black kosode. He caught sight of Lord Kenshin once more. Mariko’s brother continued studying Ōkami from atop his warhorse. As though he were an oddity put on exhibition. The Dragon of Kai’s head was canted to one side in consideration.

  Ōkami stared back. Bared his teeth in a vicious smile. Then laughed to himself.

  It was all he could do to tamp down the rage. To banish the memory of the light leaving Yoshi’s eyes. The careworn smile on his face. Was it true that Yoshi had died only a few hours ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed.

  Another spate of laughter rolled from Ōkami’s lips.

  At the sound, a rider from the vanguard of the convoy turned toward them, cantering his stallion toward the opposite side of the wagon.

  Prince Raiden. Mariko’s betrothed.

  A new emotion cut through Ōkami’s core. One tinged in pettiness. The boy inside him wished nothing more than to taunt the son of Minamoto Masaru. Wished to make insinuations about the prince’s prowess. To shame and deride him, as Raiden undoubtedly wished to do to Ōkami.

  But the man lurking inside knew better.

  Ōkami would not risk Mariko. Not for a single moment of paltry satisfaction, no matter how deserved.

  His throat grew tight. It was as though it were trying to contain all the things he wished to say. All the accusations. All the vilifications. It was irrational for Ōkami to worry about Mariko’s safety; he knew she could well care for herself. But if Raiden did anything—even looked at Mariko in an unseemly way—Ōkami could not be responsible for what followed.

  “I’m not certain what this dog finds so amusing, Lord Kenshin,” Prince Raiden said, as though Ōkami were not privy to their conversation. “Do not worry. The Honsho Wolf’s future is at an end. He will not live much longer to torment you.”

  “It is not that I worry about his future, my lord,” Kenshin said, his words minced. “It is that I worry about his past.”

  Ōkami spat blood over the railing in Kenshin’s direction. Then he leaned back once more and closed his eyes.

  “Filthy peasant,” Prince Raiden said. “Living among murderers and thieves has made him nothing but an animal. What a disgrace to a once venerated line.”

  Ōkami grinned to himself.

  Raiden continued. “At least no one else will have to suffer on Takeda Ranmaru’s account.” Then he spurred his stallion back toward the vanguard.

  Nothing the prince said troubled Ōkami greatly. He expected to die, when all was said and done. He’d known it the moment he’d emerged from behind the trees. His father’s sword—the Furinkazan—had blazed brightly, its white light offering proof of Ōkami’s lineage. Offering whatever justification Prince Raiden needed to take action.

  A small part of Ōkami had hoped it would not be so. He’d hoped the blade would know better than to believe him worthy of its power. After all, Ōkami did not even remotely resemble a warrior with a pure heart. In the vaguest reaches of his mind, he’d even hoped to see such a samurai in Mariko’s brother.

  But heroes, after all, were a thing to hate.

  And though Ōkami expected to die, he wasn’t ready for it. He preferred the idea of living far more than he did of the unknown. But he did not deserve to live in place of others. Especially those far greater than he. Yoshi had been a far greater man, yet his body undoubtedly lay among the smoldering trees. Yoshi had been like a father to Ōkami. He’d cared for an angry orphaned boy with more patience than many men espoused in a lifetime. A sense of anguish seeped into Ōkami’s heart. He quickly drove it away, refusing to succumb to such weakness.

  To any feeling of despair.

  Ōkami opened his eyes to the night sky. Starlight filtered through the swaying leaves. He felt the moon’s power slowly work to heal the wound along his brow. It knitted around his eye, burning into his temple.

  With nothing but the wish, Ōkami could free himself of these chains. He could cut the throat of Kenshin before the Dragon of Kai had a chance to blink. In the next breath, he could force Prince Raiden to his knees. Drive the Furinkazan through his stomach.

  Would he get to Mariko in time? And even if he did, what would become of his men in the forest? His brothers. His friends.

  The emperor would kill them all, just as he had Ōkami’s father and Tsuneoki’s father.

  At the thought of Tsuneoki, Ōkami swallowed carefully. He’d allowed his dearest friend to take on the burden of his name for nearly a decade. Tsuneoki had been far better suited for it, after all. A true leader. The exact kind of warrior worthy of the Furinkazan.

  But this alone had not been the real reason Ōkami had let his friend bear the weight of the Takeda name. He’d let Tsuneoki assume his identity because he’d wished for his friend to suffer. They’d been barely eight years old when their fathers had died. If Asano Naganori had stayed firm in his commitment to support Takeda Shingen—if he had not succumbed to his fear—perhaps it would not be Ōkami riding in a prison wagon to meet his death.

  What kind of person punished his best friend for his father’s crimes?

  Ōkami swallowed again.

  Even if he did not wish to die, he deserved it. For this and many other reasons. He breathed deeply of the night air. Let it settle his raging heart and calm his swirling thoughts. It did no good for Ōkami to ponder all he’d done and all he’d failed to do. What might have happened in a different world. In a different life.

  Instead Ōkami let his mind drift to happier memories. To brighter times.

  He would need the strength of these remembrances, if he was to face what was to come.

  So Ōkami filled his mind with laughter. With Yoshi teaching him how to mend his clothing. With Tsuneoki scheming of ways to recruit other lost young men to their band of forest-dwelling thieves.

  With mist coiling above hot springs. The scent of rain in Mariko’s hair. The feeling of her heart pounding beneath his palm.

  To me, you are magic.

  Warmth settled around his heart. Soothed his soul.

  Even if Ōkami died a thousand deaths, it would be worth it.

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  Renee Ahdieh, Okami_A Flame in the Mist Short Story

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