The Daimyo's Daughter

Misconceptions

"I'm not the Daimyo's daughter." The words burned like acid on your tongue. A filthy, polluted product. A terrible mistake at the right time to be of some use. And as you—and certainly many others—suspected, the product of a liar.

"Then who are you?" The ninja's posture remained relaxed, but the steely edge to his voice told the story of his beliefs for him. He thought you were an enemy. He was unwilling to trust you.

No matter, just another person to scorn my existence.

The hallway was silent. Even the palace hounds had stopped their frenzied racing, and the guards had disappeared long ago. It was like you were on a chopping block, awaiting judgment once again.

"I am the product of an affair the Daimyo had with his seamstress. Though, I doubt the word 'affair' adequately describes the coercion that must have occurred."

"A half-daughter? That still counts—"

"So they say. My mother claimed the Daimyo was her only partner at the time. And the Daimyo and his wife— I'm sure you've heard the fuss surrounding their issues with conception. They brought me in for the image, so they looked a little less hopeless."

"He isn't your father?"

"I imagine not," you confirmed. A shameful excuse for a daughter. A product of contention in the palace. Hardly a royal despite how hard you tried to be useful.

The ninja at your side was quiet, and the silence made you queasy. Would he abandon you now that he knew your prestige was a sham? Would he even bother speaking to you? Or would he turn away without another word, disgusted by your life of half-truths?

Carefully, you slipped the book into your shirt, and with graceful, silent steps, you began to walk down the hallway. The ninja followed, voice low and deep as he murmured, "Where are we going?"

"The garden. Reappearing there will be less suspicious. The palace has been overturned tenfold."

You certainly hadn't inherited the Daimyo's love for war by living with him, but you liked to consider yourself careful and strategic. Anything to save yourself. Anything to be useful in all the ways they told you that you were worthless. You'd prove them wrong, even if the Daimyo and his wife never saw it.

The palace was easy to sneak through at night, but the empty halls and wide, sweeping corridors were often incredibly foreboding. All the filigree and décor bore down on you like a vice, and you wondered how often others enjoyed the lavish furnishings. Perhaps the ninja behind you enjoyed the luxury. He'd arrived dusty and with a faint air of fatigue, as though he'd traveled a particularly long way just to reach the palace. You wanted to ask him where he'd come from and where he'd go next. You wanted to ask what the world was like and how many interesting people he'd met. You wanted to ask him about jutsu and ninja animals and the bonds between those that fought together. But instead, you remained silent. And pushed into the back courtyard.

It, too, had been overturned. So much of your hard work, wasted by hurried, violent hands. It was intentional, that much you knew. None of the Daimyo's swords were moved. The Daimyo's wife's vases were untouched. But your flower garden—the bastard princess's flower garden—was fair game to destroy. That was especially true when you were causing such a fuss.

Foliage ripped from the stem, plant roots discarded on the sidewalk, petals shaken from the rose bushes, you stepped over it all, whispering silent apologies to the poor plants that couldn't be saved.

They reminded you so much of yourself; primped and preened into beauty but useful if anyone dared to look closer. You'd always tried to look closer.

The ninja followed you like a shadow, and he seemed aware enough of your footfalls to avoid unnecessarily trampling the plants. For that, you were grateful.