The girl spoke little.

Ashne did not blame her. Could not blame her. Grown woman though she was, the princess had never truly stepped out of the confines of the palace walls for long. To have her first venture into the outside world be at the hands of ruffians and conspirators could not have been a pleasant experience.

And she had faced her situation bravely, uncomplaining, with the quick-thinking cleverness of both her parents. The mission was by all accounts a success: the princess was safe and sound, and both Hazsam and its scabbard lay securely in her possession, as was right and proper. Kitzon had failed; his allies had turned against him, scattered, no longer a threat.

Ashne thought she ought to comfort the girl, praise her somehow for acting as befit the High Speaker’s heir even under such dire circumstances. But the words lingered at the back of her throat, then died, a hollow, empty gesture even within the silent spaces of her heart.

It was not just the girl. Neither she nor Braksya spoke much, as they rowed back up the long treacherous waters of the Canal and trekked across the forests and yellowing hills beyond. After all the troubles that had plagued her journey southward, Ashne could not rest easy. Yet no further obstacles materialized. Spirits, bandits, villagers and soldiers alike — all lay tranquil as the last of summer faded to dank autumn and drew near to the season of harvest, but for the flocks of birds that filled the sky, chasing after the slowly diminishing light.

Some nights, she wondered if she were still dreaming after all, until dawn broke overhead, hazy-bright and cruel, and she picked herself off the ground to prepare for the day’s travel like she had countless mornings before. Like a lone swimmer against the rising tide, she pushed on, thinking only of her mission, her success lying just ahead, barely out of reach.

After crossing the rivers, Ashne veered away from Tham, heading directly north for the capital. They were little more than a week away from their destination — not far, indeed, from the forest of ghosts where her journey had truly begun — when Braksya finally deigned to address her once more.

“Come here.” There was a strange dark hint to his voice, ominous in its uncharacteristic solemnity. Or perhaps it was only her imagination, fueled by the weeks of silence.

At any rate, the princess was still sleeping, shivering slightly in the morning chill. Ashne refused to budge.

“What do you want?”

He reached for her arm, as if to pull her away regardless, but seemed to change his mind halfway.

“Take this,” he said instead, and reached for something at his waist before handing her a small pouch. She opened it to find it filled with a coarsely ground blue-black powder.

“Poison?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Dye.” When she stared at him blankly, he continued, “For your hair.”

“For my hair,” she repeated.

“You do not fear your king’s soldiers?”

“I have the princess. I have Hazsam.”

“And if they turn you in to the king, claiming credit for your deeds while denouncing you as traitor and criminal?”

“What would be the point?” she murmured, but accepted the dye and did not argue further.

The next day, they stopped by a small stream. Upon satisfying herself that the princess was well and Braksya on his best behavior, she wandered off on her own along the banks, pouch in hand.

As she looked down upon her murky reflection in the water, she hesitated. Already she barely recognized herself. She looked tired. Aged and distorted. Perhaps even Shranai would no longer recognize her, would perhaps mistake her for a peer rather than a junior. But in the end Ashne relented. Followed the instructions Braksya had given her, proceeding through each step slowly, methodically, barely conscious of her own movements.

By the time she was finished, the sun had set and her palms were stained dark. This time, when she looked at her reflection, she saw a stranger. The dark hair plastered against her sallow cheeks made her look like a wild grovedweller.

As if she could be a true blood sister of Zsaran.

If only she could scream. But her voice was lost. Instead her hands tore blindly at her scalp, as if by doing so she could somehow erase all color from the world, rid herself of all remaining traces of her humanity.

For the first time in many years, she wept.

* * *

She woke the next morning to chill damp and an overcast sky. Still, it was bright enough that she knew she must have overslept, and wondered why the others had not woken her.

For a while she laid there, eyes still stiff and swollen. Gradually, she became aware of the murmur of voices.

First, the girl’s voice, soft but commanding.

Then, Braksya, glib and nonchalant.

She could not make out their words. She closed her eyes, concentrating. The voices drew nearer.

“What do you feel?”

“Nothing.”

“What a peculiar creature you are! Even our good protector, who barely grasps its significance, retains enough sheer animal instinct to be wary.”

They spoke of Hazsam, she realized. Ashne had neither looked at nor touched either sword or scabbard since that day at Gokho Lake.

“It is not the sword I fear,” said the princess.

“Oh? And here I thought your people just about worshipped them.”

“A blade is forged in flame and water. In flame it may be destroyed again.”

“You mean to destroy this great treasure?” he said in mock despair.

No passion colored her reply. “Even the greatest treasure is nothing without a soul.”

“But your people have plenty of souls to spare, is that not so? How does that song of yours go again —”

His voice dissolved into incoherent mumbling, but Ashne knew the verses to which he referred.

First soul rises to the heavens
Second sinks into the earth
Third is bound to the otherlands
Fourth is that which returns...

The princess said, “As do yours.”

“Only half as many, I’m afraid.”

“But enough.”

“Perhaps!”

Whatever they were discussing, Ashne did not comprehend. But she had never heard the princess so vocal before. Hearing her converse thus, almost like a normal girl, a normal woman, made her feel... if not relief, at least a certain sense of closure.

“And you?” said the princess, in the same measured tone of utter disinterest. “What do you feel, when you hold this treasure in your hands?”

This time Braksya’s only response was a chuckle. The sudden noise broke the spell that had been cast over her. She sat up slowly, rubbing the last remnants of weariness from her eyes.

When she looked out into the distance, she saw the hills blazing red, as if immersed in a sea of flame.

* * *

Later that very day, she hired a passing merchant to ride ahead on his oxcart with a message for the queen.

They had, she thought, returned at last.

* * *

The settlement outside the capital walls was quiet, subdued, the buildings of packed earth crumbling and worn. It had been a lively place when Ashne last stepped foot there, shortly after she and Zsaran set out on their final mission, the villagers surprisingly warm and welcoming despite their abrupt displacement from within the walls. The main city had changed hands countless times already, the village head told them. Rha, Zhae, Sra, Nua, Wat. They had learned to not to fight the flow of time and the ever-shifting hearts of men.

“Why do you not move elsewhere?” Zsaran had asked, genuinely curious.

“Where else might we call home?” the old chief had replied, over a jug of rice wine. “My father’s father moved north from the riverlands to escape the wrath of the tribes. My wife’s family fled west and south from the fall of the Wilderness, and my son’s wife fled east from the chaos of Czu. We who possess no loyalty can hardly expect loyalty in turn.”

Zsaran had frowned. “I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“It would be a lie to say we harbor no resentment at all,” he’d said then, chuckling. “But the lives of men are short. Too short to dwell on such fleeting matters. Lords and kings squabble over scraps of power and land, desperate to establish enduring legacies for their line. But it is not so for us, we who dwell with earth and water. We till the land, we divert the rivers, we cut down the forests, but in the end our mortal works pass into dust, while the mountains and the sea remain.”

Ashne thought of what the chief had said while she made arrangements for her party. Her mind drifted, and she found herself wondering if the spirits of the land felt the same. If they had intended their relics to be passed on through the generations thusly, to be used and misused and ultimately forgotten by mankind.

Why did they choose to involve themselves in mortal affairs? Why did they then leave? And now, why had they returned?

The old chief had since passed on. His successor was a young man — young enough that he had not received the rites of adulthood and he wore his hair bound in the style of the Dragon Court. His grandson, or a nephew, perhaps. She supposed it did not matter.

Though he did not recognize her, he welcomed them with as much courtesy as the old chief had, offering them a space in his own quarters to stay in, and if he guessed at the identity of the princess or wondered at the strangeness of the apothecary, he did not remark upon it.

Some time after they had settled in, he returned, undisguised surprise on his face.

“A messenger from the Lady Consort,” he murmured.

Ashne glanced at the princess and the apothecary, who both seemed preoccupied — the princess with something in Braksya’s basket, and Braksya with Hazsam and its scabbard.

“Take me to him.” Her voice sounded strange and hoarse from disuse.

Outside, a servant knelt on the ground, one of the Speaker-Consort’s reed-and-gold insignias cupped in his hands, reminding her of the one she had left behind.

“Has the lady sent for me?”

The servant rose, and the young chief departed to allow them some measure of privacy.

“My apologies, miss,” said the servant. “But you must not enter the city. The queen commands it.”

Ashne started. Stared. “What? But why? Do you even understand? The princess is —”

“I do understand. And I thank you for your accomplishments on behalf of our joined peoples. But it is the queen’s command.”

“The girl was kidnapped! She has been missing for weeks! Thought dead!” Zsaran died for her, she did not say. Instead, she finished, lowering her voice, “And this is the welcome we get?”

“My apologies,” the servant repeated.

She remembered the clear desperation in the queen’s countenance on the night of the attack. A mother’s grief.

“At least give me a reason.”

The servant hesitated, as if considering whether or not it was wise to tell her. At last, he said, “It is the diplomats from Tai. They are still here.”

Helpless anger faded to quiet confusion. “Still? It has been weeks.”

“They are very insistent. The king cannot turn them away. Nor can he admit the truth about the princess, though they must have guessed the truth already from the gossip on the streets, or something close to it.”

“All the more reason for us to report back as soon as we can. Does not our return solve all these problems at once?”

“On the contrary. Your return has complicated matters greatly.”

Her hands clenched. “I do not understand.”

But the servant seemed to think he had spoken too much, for this time he shook his head.

“My apologies. But it is the queen’s command,” he said yet again, and with another bow, took his leave.

Ashne stared after him as he shuffled down the lane. She could not question his word: there was no doubt that he had held the queen’s seal. And he had no reason to lie to her either way. Not with the princess alive and safely in her charge.

She felt suddenly weary. Soon this nightmare will be over, she had told herself. And yet that too was now proven to be a falsehood.

She made her way back to the chief’s hut, mind an utter blank, and ran into Braksya idling by the central hearth, in front of the temporary partition that had been erected between the main living area and the guest quarters.

“Change in plans?” he said, eyebrows raised.

The sight of him transformed her weariness into something else yet again.

“Why are you still here anyway?” she muttered. “Is not your business with us over and done with?”

He had met his sorcerer. Decided it wasn’t the one he was looking for. What more could he want?

“Not until I get my scabbard back.”

“Take it, then,” she said, bitter and more than a bit reckless. “I have no more need for it.”

“Yet do you not need Hazsam to prove your story to the king?” he replied. When she did not respond, he continued, “They are a pair, this sword and its scabbard. It would not do to part them again.”

She doubted the king would let anyone else have Hazsam even after the blade’s presence satisfied his suspicions. If it satisfied him. But as she turned and walked back out the door, she said, “Do as you please!”

She had to go to the palace. She needed more information on the situation inside the capital.

With or without the princess, she had to return.

* * *

There was little time remaining before the gates closed for the night. Ashne hoped she would be able to uncover the information she needed before then. Meanwhile, she entrusted the princess’s safety to the young chief, asking him to keep an eye on Braksya as well.

To her surprise and unease, the guards at the city walls let her through without question. Although the dye made her less immediately recognizable, it was rather careless or perhaps brazen of them, considering the delegates’ presence. Did they not fear their guests’ potential assassination? Or indeed, for the safety of the king and queen? Perhaps it was peacetime that had softened them. Such laxness would have been unthinkable during the war. More than once Ashne herself had taken advantage of distracted soldiers or unsuspecting guards, but in those days distractions had to be devised, and carefully employed. After all, though Pashrai of Khonua could not be said to have been a cautious man, he had not been stupid.

Nor was Khosian, wariest of men, who trusted no one but himself.

Clearly, the lack of security indicated that whatever orders the queen had relayed to her servant had been hers alone, not the king’s. Indeed, that the king was plotting something of his own.

Ashne knew the queen must have her reasons, as she always did. That she had not sent Shranai or the twins to further explain the current circumstances must be because she wished to keep her movements secret from the king.

And that was troubling. Especially when Ashne recalled the conversation she had overheard between them, that final night in the capital.

Never before had Marnua and Khosian acted counter to each other’s wills in such a manner. No matter their disagreements, always they had worked together as husband and wife, in harmony, as pillars of support to each other and to their shared goals. Minister Muntong had remarked wryly once that he had never seen a better matched couple.

But that had been years ago. When Ashne had been but a girl.

Perhaps, without her noticing, the hearts of her lieges had long since diverged.

Too late, now, to regret her blindness.

She headed straight for the palace grounds as the sky darkened, wasting no time lingering in the outer courtyards. Unable to recall where the guest quarters were located, she instead stole towards the temple of war and administration. So close to the central area, she was bound to be discovered sooner or later. But discovery need not reveal her identity or mission. The reasons for her presence or sudden reappearance in the capital. And if she was quick enough, she need not fear even that.

But she must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, for she soon found herself in a quiet corner of the palace complex, near the gardens where they had transplanted the citron trees from the old capital. The surviving tree bore few fruits at this time of year, most of them green and shy, struggling to hide among baring branches. The last of them would ripen some weeks before the coming of winter.

Zsaran had hoped so dearly that new specimens would take root in the coming years, whether cut from this hardy survivor, or brought up from the southern groves. Zsaran had loved all things sweet, and might well have chosen to survive entirely on fruit were it possible to do so. Citron, plum, white peach and yellow apricot, raike, piquant dragonfruit. A feast fit for kings, she had declared once, and Kitzon had replied, For a monkey king, perhaps! while Ashne choked on a seed.

They would never taste so sweet again.

A few servants wandered past, and Ashne ducked between the wall and the trees, taking advantage of the shadows. When they were far enough again, she slipped back out, blending her footsteps with theirs.

Her coming here had been a fool’s endeavor. If she had truly wanted information, she should have thought over a route of action first. Made plans. Covered all contingencies.

The truth was, she could not bear further inaction.

She passed another courtyard by an older section of the complex. This time, to her surprise, heard voices, low murmurs in the gathering dusk. After quickly weighing her risks, she squeezed herself into another cranny between two broken walls, and angled her head to the wind.

“I did not struggle and fight all these long years just to bend my knee to the north in the end!”

Minister Aorang’s voice. But whom did he address?

“Water Minister, I understand your concern. But I beg you, trust in me. In your queen. All is under control.”

The deep, carefully considered tones of Minister Muntong. Ashne caught her breath and stilled.

“But for how long?” demanded Aorang. “You know Khosian. In all the years we’ve served him, mere words have never sufficed to sway him. Not when he has already made up his mind.”

“I know. That is why the lady and I took action.”

“Too late.”

“Perhaps. I regret my delay in counseling her. And yet neither of us could have foreseen...”

Footsteps. Ashne tensed, preparing to flee. She heard one of the men whirl around. “Who’s there?”

“Father.”

Father? That voice —

Minister Aorang relaxed audibly. “Oh, it’s you. Where have you been? You were due back days ago!”

“Sorry,” said the newcomer in a laconic drawl. “Had to take care of the mess in Tham.”

Impossible.

“Should have sent birds, you little fool —”

Muntong interrupted. “It is good to see you doing well, young Lord Rahmta.”

The reply came with a hint of amusement. “And you, Minister.”

Preposterous. Chief Tuanwat’s right hand man, Aorang’s son?

Rahm. A common short-name among the children of the Turtle. Rahmta, Rahmka, Rahmla, Rahmluen, Khorahm, Parahm, Busarahm. She had not thought to connect the name with Aorang’s son — had not even remembered, until now, that the son’s name too was Rahm.

Even back at the old capital, at Mount Kuehgei, Aorang was always complaining about his wayward son, who never saw fit to show his face at court and was even said to have run away from home. And Aorang’s wife had been often absent in her illness as well, until her demise at the hands of assassins who had mistaken her for the queen, shortly before the final siege of Kasa. Ashne had met her only once, and the rumored son never.

But for the missing son to have been consorting with bandits all along — surely that was too much of a stretch.

Yet thinking on it now, she could not deny that the two men bore more than a hint of resemblance to one another. She did not dare look now, but she remembered their eyes in particular, dark and flecked with gold. The intense, watchful gaze of a hawk.

And certainly this explained why Rahm had chosen to bail out of the bandits’ expedition to Kasa. As well as his swordplay.

“The situation in Tham is back under control, then?” said Muntong.

“Sure. It’s settled down.” Rahm — Rahmta — hesitated, as if wanting to speak further, but for some reason refraining.

“Explain yourself,” snapped Aorang. “Your last message —”

“Is it true?” said Muntong, urgent. “That you met the sorcerer?”

There was another long pause before he replied. “Maybe.”

“Maybe? All this time, and all you can say is maybe?”

“Dunno. He was a sorcerer, all right. Maybe not the same one.”

“Do you mean to imply that you believe there are two such men with such powers roaming the wilds right now? Do you have any idea what that means?”

Muntong said, “Tell us of the one you met, at least.”

“Scarred man. My age, maybe older. A westerner.”

Aorang’s voice lowered to a growl. “One of the vultures of Pra.”

“What did he want? What were his goals? Who hired him?”

“Nobody did. Seems he’s after Hazsam.”

“Money, then,” said Muntong, with something approaching relief. “Did he not realize Hazsam has been lost?”

This time there was no hesitation in his voice. “Guess not.”

Ashne wondered at the lie. At his omission of any details involving the princess. Unless he had not realized — but that was silly. Tuanwat clearly had known. Inhai had known. So, too, must have Rahm.

But he could not know Hazsam was no longer lost. He had left too soon.

“Then he is no threat after all,” murmured Aorang.

“Not in the immediate future, no,” replied Muntong. He continued, addressing Rahm once more, “Is that all you managed to uncover?”

“Yep.” A beat passed. “If that’s all...?”

“Ah, yes, you must report to his majesty. Am I correct? Don’t let us keep you. Go.”

“See ya. Minister. Father.”

And then footsteps again.

So he was not only Aorang’s son, but an agent of the king as well.

Why was she still so surprised that everything she had once believed true was little more than illusion?

Aorang heaved a great sigh. “I cannot even begin to understand that boy.”

“A boy no longer,” Muntong pointed out gently. “Not for many years.”

“Hmph, don’t keep reminding me, old man.”

For some time they were quiet, and Ashne began to think it wise for her to leave. She doubted, after all, that there was much more she could learn here.

But then Muntong spoke again. “I am glad the matter of the sorcerer is resolved.”

“Only for now. Imagine if someone truly managed to obtain Hazsam once more...”

“Hazsam is lost,” repeated Muntong. “For better or for worse. May we never encounter its like again.”

To that, Aorang did not reply. Instead he said, “You truly think the diplomats will continue to keep quiet.”

“Our king is one who drives a hard bargain. That is well known, even in the north.”

“But the one they call the Smiling Wolf — he grows impatient. He must already know, or suspect... By now even the others must be aware that not all is well. You cannot deflect their attentions with those false rumors of yours for much longer.”

“They have probably known right from the start. Even with the rumors I spread.” He hesitated. “In its own way, perhaps, the Tiger’s return was a fortuitous turn for us. This way, at least, we were able to stall for time. Our choice between the two houses of Tai may well be delayed for another season.”

“Only a man of Sra could possibly say that with a straight face. You know very well it will all be for naught if the girl is —”

“The princess is safe. Trust me in this.”

“And if you are wrong?”

Muntong sighed. “I have made the arrangements you asked for.”

Ashne knew, then, with sudden certainty, exactly what arrangements Minister Muntong had made.

“Good. And you are certain the blame for the... mishap will fall on Krengsra?”

“As long as his majesty still refuses to change his mind.”

It was Aorang’s turn to sigh again. “That stubborn old goat! Whoever would have thought his pride would manifest in such a strange manner? I cannot see why he continues to insist on this pretense of negotiation. This sham of an alliance. Why not just be done with it all now?”

“You know it is wise to refrain from hastiness. His majesty learned that all too well at Spice Hill.”

“Excuse him all you like, Muntong. I say he has just grown too used to waiting. Waiting was all well and good when we were not yet strong. But now — can you not see that it is beyond time to act?”

“I see what you see. But it is of no use, what you and I know.” Muntong paused. “There’s only one man. One man who might have persuaded him.”

“Yes, and he fled like a damn coward.”

Silence.

“I’ll take my leave,” Aorang said at last, his voice more defiant than apologetic. “I appreciate your taking action on my behalf, and pray our next meeting shall be more fruitful.”

“Good night, Minister,” murmured Muntong.

Ashne waited until she was certain Aorang had left the area before unfurling herself from her cramped hiding position.

As she left, Muntong spoke again, and for a moment she feared she had been spotted. But as she jolted into a sprint, she realized that he did not address any living mortal, but the wind.

“Ah, Bahmre, my friend. If only you had not...”

She did not hear the rest.

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time she made it back to the gates. The soldiers paid her even less heed than they had upon her entry, likely assuming she was just one of the villagers heading home for the night after a day of business within the fortifications.

How much simpler everything had been during the war. The war — not the years of endless fighting on some distant bloody front or the plains covered in orderly lines of dead that the word conjured among the Dragon Court. But rather, a cycle of feints and misdirection escalating into sudden brief clashes before shuddering into a standstill once more. Always there had been some mission to accomplish, the queen to protect on her multiple excursions into dangerous territory, some glorious vision of a promised future shining brilliantly in the distance. There had been orders, simple and direct, and she only need follow them, trusting thus in her contribution to some greater purpose.

She slowed her pace as her feet brought her back to the village, to the chief’s hut. What would she say to the girl? How could she explain that their ordeal was not yet over, that they must endure for some time yet?

Was the princess to be married off? Or was she not? And if she were, to whom? They had never been questions she paid heed to, nor indeed had the subject even passed her mind once. The battlefield was no place for such domestic concerns.

Yet now the matter seemed of utmost urgency. Not just to the girl’s royal parents, the king and queen, Speaker and Consort, but to the ministers as well, and these strangers from the north. So urgent, indeed, that even kindly Muntong, for whom assassination had been a last resort even during the direst years of the war, plotted death in secret as easily as if he were planning the next day’s luncheon.

She could not understand it. Could not even begin to comprehend. It had seemed so simple to her. The princess was her lieges’ daughter. And to them she had pledged her lowly life.

Bring back my daughter, the queen had said. And Ashne had done just that.

Only for the queen to warn her now to keep away.

So preoccupied by her thoughts was she that she did not notice until some ways past the settlement gates how quiet it had grown. Even more quiet than it had been, just that morning.

Perhaps because she had just passed through the streets of the capital, the dusty paths here now seemed unnaturally empty, with nary a sign of life.

And at the chief’s hut, no one waited by the main entrance or at the hearth.

Perhaps they had turned in early.

The sound of her footsteps seemed to linger in the stillness. Even her breathing seemed to rattle and slither against the walls. She moved as if in a dream, no longer fully conscious of her own actions.

Heart pounding, she pushed past the partition to the guest room.

They were gone.