She did not sleep, could not sleep. The hours trickled past. The river lapped at her feet. She stared at the sky. The stars blurred. The moon cast shadows across her vision. The wind rustled by her ears. She scrambled upright and the earth shifted and swallowed her and she screamed and screamed until her voice grew hoarse and she saw the silver field, grasses softly swaying, dark tendrils reaching, and her voice was lost.

Then darkness once more, empty and still until she grew aware of dawn creeping in on her, cold and gray.

For a long time she lay there, unseeing.

Then, a flicker of shadow in the corner of her eye. She rose, this time slowly, movements wooden, and looked.

In the middle of the river stood a great scaled horse, stretching out dark leathery wings.

It turned its head, water streaming from its mane of reeds and river grass, gazing right through her with disturbingly pale eyes from a skull-like face. For a long time they watched each other. Beast and woman, spirit and mortal. Neither speaking, neither moving.

Then the horse tossed its head. Leaped into the sky, forked serpent’s tail flicking behind.

Wait, she whispered. Wait.

She took a step forward, her body suddenly light, airy. One step. Another.

The water tugged at her feet, gentle and insistent as a mother’s touch.

Though we were not born on the same day, in the same month, or in the same year...

The terrifying thing about drowning, she thought, was how quiet it was. A silent, futile struggle, and then the water simply took you.

No time to scream. No time to regret, as the waves pulled you under, swallowed you, and you sank, slowly, slowly, into the unknowable deep, light and sound fading into eternity.

She had seen the glassy eyes of those taken by river or sea, bodies forever consigned to fish. No fear, no grief, no rage. Nothing. Their faces bloated and pallid.

Another step. She could still see the dragonhorse circling overhead, a shadow against the clouds overhead. It was waiting for her. She was coming.

The water caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes.

Drifting, drifting. Like a babe in a reed basket, floating along the vastness of the ocean. Not a single living creature in sight. Nothing but waves and sky.

How could she have feared it? This tranquility. This ever-abiding calm. This world where even cold and hunger diminished to nothing. Why had she feared, when she should have embraced it?

This we swear.

I am coming. Wait for me.

Through the fog she saw two small figures. Girls. Lost. Walking hand in hand up a winding blue trail. The trees bending to protect them, the sun shining pale and dappled through a thousand branches, a thousand leaves. Deer and squirrels halting to watch these curious intruders.

The trail led to a great tomb on the mountaintop, carved into the earth, sealed with clay.

A child’s voice, ringing clear and bright across the clearing.

“Hear us, oh great lord of the mountain!”

We stand before you today not to seek your guidance, but to speak a sacred vow.

The fog crept closer, reaching out thin, ghostly tendrils. Birds of all sizes and colors perched in a ring, all watching, all silent, all waiting.

Though we were not born on the same day, in the same month, or in the same year —

The heavens have brought us together, she thought.

Thus shall we remain from this day forth. Through thick and thin. Through fire and through water.

This we swear, so that when the end comes, it will be as one: on the same day of the same month of the same year.

The girls faded. The mountain faded.

She drifted. Through shadow and mist, until the mist parted and she saw, in the distance, him.

Why? Why? She opened her mouth, but her voice came out garbled and strange.

He was singing. None of the old familiar songs he had entertained them with on the road, but a high keening refrain, harsh and strange to her ears. The wrongness of it all almost made her scream, until the boat passed by, hollowed wood roughly hewn and draped in delicate white blossoms.

She reached out, hand trembling, afraid to look, afraid not to.

No. Don’t go.

Bare gray feet.

A pale arm resting across a too-still chest. A gleaming bronze blade clasped underneath.

Two tigers carved of jade, standing guard against waves of dark hair, and a cicada caressing cold lips beneath a mask of gold.

Then, they too were gone. Floating silently down the silvery river.

He had condemned her to the vast murky seas. Forever drifting. Forever lost.

Don’t go.

“Don’t go!”

Water roared in her ears. She sank, or perhaps she flew. Fish fled before her, darting away just as she reached them. River grass swayed and tangled itself about her limbs, dragging her deeper, deeper. Above her, she heard the dragonhorse scream a warning.

The mists lifted. Fingers gripped her upper arms, nails digging deep into her skin. She kicked. Struggled.

She had to break free. She had to go.

They were waiting.

She had to —

The grip grew tighter.

“Ashne. Ashne!”

She stiffened. Bright sunlight in her eyes. Slumped back in the grasp of surprisingly strong arms. Wet hair clung to her cheeks in clumps and strands. Her clothes, too, weighed heavy and coarse against her clammy skin. Mud oozed between her bare toes. Water lapped against her knees.

Behind her, the apothecary sneezed. “Damn it, woman! What were you thinking?”

She freed herself from his hold. Turned, looking at him as if from very far away, feeling utterly cold despite the sun above. The river glittered beyond, mocking her.

She did not thank him.

* * *

She rowed and he rowed. By the time evening fell, the apothecary’s eyes looked glazed, his face even paler than normal. His breath came out in wheezes, though he tried to hide it. And that night, he tossed and turned in his sleep, keeping her awake as well.

Awake, and safe from her dreams.

The next morning, when he tried to take up the oar, he stumbled.

“You’re sick,” Ashne informed him.

“Am not.”

She held her hand out to his forehead, brushing away the sticky strands of his hair as she remembered Old Shranai once had, when as a girl she had caught the dreaded marsh fever during a particularly humid summer.

She and Zsaran both...

“You’re burning up,” she said, eyes curiously dry.

He gave her a peculiar look. Laughed until he started coughing. “‘You’re burning up,’ she says. Can’t you sound at least a little more upset for my sake?”

“Stop talking.”

He sobered.

“Sweet wormwood.”

“What?”

“In my basket. For fevers.”

She docked their boat. Dragged him ashore. Built a fire, dug through the layers in his basket to find the packet of dried leaves he had described hiding beneath a pouch of wrinkled blossoms. Followed his curt, hoarse instructions as best as she could. Forced him to drink the medicine she brewed. Wiped his face with a wet cloth.

As the night wore on, he drifted in and out of consciousness. In the darkness, strange thoughts arose within her heart.

Abandon him. Leave him here.

He had been nothing but trouble from the moment she’d met him. That day in the capital, in the sudden shower. True, he had saved her. Once, twice. Time and time again he had aided her, whether for his own selfish purposes or out of genuine kindness she still did not know.

But he was little more than a burden now.

She had no time to waste. The princess — the princess might well be dead by now. Even so. She had to bring her back. For the queen’s sake, if nothing else.

For Zsaran.

That night, she thought. That night —

How little of it she remembered now.

The boy, bleeding to death. Hazsam’s cold glow slowly fading.

Kitzon, leaning over to pick up the sacred blade.

At last, he had said, eyes alight with fiery triumph. At last!

What are you doing — Kitzon —

He’d turned to her then, trying to fight back a smile, but failing. Sorry, Ashne. No hard feelings.

“No hard feelings,” she whispered. Her hands trembled against her knees. She stilled them.

The wrong boy. And Kitzon still alive after all. And Zsaran, Zsaran —

You loved her.

Had these last months been nothing but a dream? A long, long dream from which she had yet to awaken. If only that were so! Instead everything she had known or believed true had turned out to be a lie.

She had killed him. Killed them both with her own hands. The fake and the traitor. She was sure of it.

She had seen the shock in his eyes as Hazsam slipped from his grasp, dull and lifeless, sinking into the depths of the lake. As she thrust her own blade into him, unforgiving, even as her own wounds bled out into the earth.

He had not thought her capable. He had thought her no match for him.

But if not her, then who could have done the deed?

Zsaran had loved him too.

And now she was dead. Dead at the hand of the man Ashne had killed for her — or thought she killed. She could almost laugh at the irony of it all.

After all, if she had survived her wounds, then was it so strange that he had survived his?

In the corner of her eye, she saw the apothecary stir.

She went to his side, reaching out to test his temperature.

At her touch, he cried out. She jerked back, startled. Stood.

“No, don’t —” His voice cracked. “Don’t leave me.”

How pitiful he sounded. How easy it would be to turn away. Pretend she had not heard. Perhaps this was his sad idea of a joke. It would not surprise her if it were.

How easy it would be to take the boat and go.

But she did not.

Instead, she knelt back down. Awkwardly smoothed away his hair. “I’m still here,” she whispered.

If he heard her, he gave no indication of it.

“Please. No. Not Wei. Please.”

How wrong it seemed, to hear him — this man, of all men — begging in such a manner. With such quiet desperation.

He moaned. Muttered something else, this time his words slurring together, too incoherent to make out.

Then he began to struggle, limbs tangling beneath his blankets.

“Stop! Wait! Take me instead!”

She took hold of his shoulders, trying to pin him back down. “Calm down!” she said, suddenly uncertain what to do, what to say to him, how to retrieve him from whatever nightmare had managed to ensnare him.

It was the least she could do for him in return.

“No one’s taking anybody anywhere. Please. Calm down. Braksya!”

At his name he froze. Went limp. To another person the sight might have even been comical, but Ashne could find no humor in the situation.

She tugged and nudged him back into place. Rearranged his blankets. Sat back, wondering if any further action were required on her part.

Then, realized with a start that his eyes were open.

Watching her.

“You were dreaming,” she said, blood rushing to her cheeks.

For some time he did not reply, but continued to stare at her, uncomprehending. Annoyed, she stared back.

“Thank you,” he said at last. The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “You’re lovely.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Am not,” he mumbled, eyes drifting closed again.

Ashne waited by his side for some time longer until his breathing steadied.

Then, exhausted, she crawled back to her own place by the fire and fell asleep.