We each stared into nothing.
After a painful moment, I buried my face in his arm and whispered. “Es, I’m scared. I’ve never been afraid of anything before, but the whole Empire may be counting on me now. I don’t know what to do.”
“You know I’ll do anything to help.” His hand cupped my cheek. “But I don’t know any more about running an empire—or a war—than you do.”
“I think you were right,” I finally admitted.
He grunted, “About?”
“We’re wrecked.”
The next morning, Kon stood at Heiwa’s gates as our greatly enhanced escort prepared to leave. After the ambush, he’d insisted on adding not a dozen but a hundred soldiers and fifty Yumi Samurai to our numbers. Our caravan snaked as far as I could see down the winding path; and there we were, near the front, the head of the most awkward, most heavily armored centipede ever to slink its way across Mugen.
It felt strange to ride in silence, more than seven score men winding their way across roads and through passes while barely speaking a word. Even the horses’ tongues remained stilled, rarely snorting or uttering a sound.
The spectacle of gold-and-black Imperial banners beside Yumi’s black-and-gold pennants dropped common folk to their knees as we passed. Their deference made my inadequacy feel even sharper.
My father deserved their worship.
Kioshi did, too.
But I’d earnednoneof their respect.
For most of my life, I’d barely remained sober long enough to remember the names of those who guarded or served me. The whole thing felt so overwhelming, so . . . royal.
On our second day since leaving the safety of Heiwa’s walls, a commotion near the front of our caravan snapped my mental spiral. Guards sat straighter atop their mounts, expanding their protective ring withkatanadrawn across their laps in warning.
“We’re approaching Bara,” Esumi said. Then quieter, “I believe your people have come to welcome you home.”
“Stop that,” I hissed. “Kioshiwillreturn.”
He shrugged and spurred his horse, galloping past the front rank of Samurai and disappearing toward the lead scout who reported everything ariahead of our column. When he returned a few minutes later, his pale face and fallen features screamed before he could utter a single word.
“Oh, gods, what now?” My voice sounded distant and hollow. “Esumi, just tell me what’s going on.”
“Follow me,” he said, his voice hushed, his eyes darting to nearby guards.
Kaneko and Yoshi watched from behind, but a quick shake of Esumi’s head kept them in line as he led me off the road and away from prying ears. The lead Samurai raised a fist, and the caravan halted to wait for our return.
Esumi led me into a nearby grassy field.
“Whatever it is, just say it.”
Esumi—ever confident and forever sardonic—lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. For the briefest moment, I thought I saw his hand tremble.
I nudged my horse closer and gripped his forearm. “Es, please, what happened?”
He looked up, his hand falling to his side. In his eyes, I saw a terror noninjaor Samurai could ever instill. He sucked in a sharp breath, then spoke words I hoped to never hear.
“Kioshi is dead.”
The world blurred, and I felt my body falling sideways off my mount.
Esumi’s hand shot out to steady me.
Guards still on the road started forward, but Esumi raised a palm to keep them at bay.
“Kioshi?” I whispered. Tears flowed hot and sudden. “No. He can’t be . . . he isn’t . . . I don’t believe it. Es, this can’t be happening.”
