The apothecary was another man again over the next few days, aloof and abrupt and prone to holding conversations with his basket of herbs and medicines in the middle of the night. No amount of questioning or threatening seemed to shake him. Ashne, exasperated but convinced at last that he was only trying to make himself as troublesome as possible, gave up on making any sense of him and left him alone.

“What do you know of this foreign sorcerer?” she asked Phas instead, mulling over the little Minister Muntong had known or chosen to tell her and Zsaran. “Is he a Dragon man?”

“Much has been said of him, but no two things alike. Some say he is a barbarian from the far north; some say he was born from the western tribes. Still others claim he is no foreigner at all, but a native of the riverlands.”

“Then you do not think he comes from the Court.”

“No,” Phas admitted, face shuttered. “The men of the central domains put little stock in such superstition. It is difficult to believe one of such power could have originated there.”

“Do you not believe in the spirits?”

“Some still do. But not in the way the outlanders believe.”

Ashne, remembering the fog, stroked the head of her kammrae, who had been delegated to pack-bearing since the men traveled on foot. Her old wound had healed enough again that the walking was not so much of a strain, and on the main roads they would not lose so much time. She considered how to better broach the subject, but could think of nothing. “I meant you, personally.”

Phas hesitated. “I have lived in the south half an earth-branch cycle now, and witnessed many things I would not have thought possible back home in Rha.”

And that was all Ashne dared inquire of him, though he seemed honest enough. In this matter, at least, she did not so much distrust him as she did not wish to pry. Those who had been touched by the other world were often reluctant to share their experiences with others.

Like the ministers, she, too, remembered Woodcutter Mountain.

As a child she had set eyes on the mountain numerous times, though she had entered its domain but once. It was, despite its humble name, a mountain of kings, blue-green wilderness veiled in dainty white wisps, no place for a pair of nameless, ragged orphans. Even as an adult, she had returned there again only once.

In her memories she could still feel the heavy, damp air clinging to her skin; still see, as if from a distance, their small procession winding sluggishly up the verdant trail. Hear, as if right at her side, Zsaran’s bright laughter ringing clearly across the throng, despite the solemnity of the occasion. The capital had not yet then moved north beyond the river, but the kingdom of Khonua had fallen at last. The war that had endured for so many long years, since before they were even born, had finally come to an end.

The procession came to a halt at the foot of the old Speaker’s burial mound, where a great tomb had been carved into the mountaintop.

“Honored Father! Beloved Mother!” said King Khosian. “Rejoice! For Awat has prevailed, and justice is ours. Kasa has fallen, Khonua is destroyed, the tiger’s seed is no more. Our land lies unbroken, our people are now as one. And those of the Dragon Court shall yet learn to fear my name, as they once feared the Prince of Light.”

The king beckoned forth his servants.

“Tonight, we head north. I ask leave to take you with us. Your new resting place lies atop Whitespirit Mountain, overlooking our new capital. From there shall you, my honored parents, stand witness to the everlasting glory of Awat.”

The servants strode forward, some with shovels, and some with axes to destroy the sloped wooden roof and break through the layers of charcoal and white clay sealing the stone chamber underneath.

With a howl the wind arose, tossing men to the ground like dolls.

Three times in all the servants approached the tomb, and three times the wind whipped up rock and sand and battered all who came near, until at last the king held up his hand.

“Our former lord, it seems, will not suffer himself moved.” No sign of anger showed upon his face, but the cool sardonic tone of his voice gave him away.

And that might have been the end of it then, were it not for Zsaran.

Unnoticed by the rest of the gathering, Zsaran stepped forward. The distant cast of her eyes frightened Ashne, who reached out, grabbing for her sleeve. It slipped out of her grasp like a passing breeze.

Panicking, Ashne followed.

And it was as if heaven and earth had reversed. As if they had stepped into another world entirely, where color faded and light dimmed, and fanciful, indistinct shapes danced and twirled beneath a filmy layer of silk. Ashne sank through murky clouds, struggling against some invisible current. She tried to call for Zsaran, but in this place no sound existed, as if the shadows had swallowed even the voices of men.

“Ashne? Ashne!”

Zsaran’s voice. Ashne opened her eyes to find herself still standing frozen in that damp, sunlit clearing. The rest of the procession had already trickled away, ready to head back down the mountain.

“What just happened?” she whispered, and when Zsaran did not reply, she asked instead, “What did you see?”

“A bird of flame,” said Zsaran, wonder in her face and reverence in her voice, and would not speak any more.

* * *

Ashne refused to let herself worry any more about Zsaran as they pressed farther down the road. Sometimes they passed by trickles of travelers: some heading north chasing business prospects, some heading south to avoid impending war. Though their own party drew many strange looks thanks to the apothecary, few on the roads were eager to converse with strangers. Ashne did not blame them. In times of turmoil, trust was difficult to come by, and the land had not known true peace in many generations.

Of those who were willing to speak, she asked of the sorcerer, of buffalo and missing children, of strange travelers on the road. But it was as Phas had said. No two individuals related the same tale about the sorcerer. One said he was as tall as three men, and had hair the color of fire. Another claimed he was no man, but a vindictive mountain ghoul. Still another was convinced he was a frog-eyed Pale One from the lands beyond the sun, while his friend argued that he was a char-skinned servant of the Queen Mother of the West.

One or two had heard of the buffalo, but none had seen them firsthand. Of the matter of missing children, they simply shrugged. War had made orphans of too many already.

Even now, all the talk was of bandits.

They set up camp by a small lake roughly a day away from the main branch of the Slez Waters. After the crossing, only another day remained before they would reach the outer fortifications of Tham. They ate a quick meal in silence, much as they had over the past week of traveling, before the apothecary turned in for the night and Ashne and Phas discussed their routes for the next day. Though Ashne had traveled in these parts previously, Phas, who had grown up farther north along the shores of the Slez, was more familiar with the area than she.

It was a warm, muggy night, reminiscent of the old capitals. Ashne found herself swatting idly at the air as they spoke, the strains of their conversation buzzing in her ears like pesky insects. Some distance away, the kammrae strained at its lead, keening and bleating, pacing nervously in circles, its cries growing more and more frantic until Ashne stirred from her tired stupor and exchanged a look with Phas. He stood, grabbed his sword, lit a lantern, and strode off without another word.

Ashne rose as well, scanning their surroundings for any suspicious activity as she approached the beast. She took hold of its antlers in attempt to calm it, and was rewarded with an uneasy snort.

Nevertheless, the kammrae stilled.

Soon enough, Phas returned, looking troubled.

“I think it is best if you come.”

Ashne glanced at where the apothecary lay snoring like a drunkard, then at the kammrae.

“It’s not far.”

She nodded, and followed him along the lake shore.

He had not lied. A familiar stench made itself known to her not a thousand paces away from their camp; fifty paces later, Ashne saw a lump swarming with flies in the distance, confirming her suspicions.

It was a warhorse, not long dead. Its neck lay at an odd angle, and pale maggots squirmed in the great gashes that streaked across its side. A snapped shaft staked its flanks. Nearby lay the shattered remains of a chariot.

“Tiger,” said Phas, frowning, after he finished examining it. “Driver must have escaped.”

She thought instantly of the Ghost Tiger.

“It’s too close to the crossing,” said Ashne, stooping down as well for a closer look. Tigers were not uncommon, even here in the north, but few roamed so close to signs of civilization. They did not attack men unless desperate. Or hunted. And a desperate tiger would hardly have left its prey unfinished, out in the open.

Who could say how a spirit might behave?

When she looked up again, his frown had grown deeper. “No wolves run in this region...”

“A bear, perhaps?” she suggested half-heartedly, even as her heart raced faster. Unlike tigers, bears were known to attack humans without provocation at times. And they were not normally hunters, which would explain the uneaten carcass.

He shook his head, clearly preoccupied with other matters. “As you said, it is too close to the crossing.”

And too far from the mountains.

She had found the trail at last.

Or had she? She had no proof the Tiger was behind the mysterious deaths, only suspicions. And the previous rumors had claimed the dead were unmarked, while the horse’s carcass displayed clear signs of violence. On the other hand, the mud and grass around it had been so thoroughly trampled that barely anything could be made out. Hoofprints, frantic and scattered. Dried blood. A booted foot here and there. The faint imprint of armor or weaponry. Farther beyond, the trace of wheels. More hooves.

No paw prints. No stalker’s tracks. And where was the other horse? Or horses, as the case might be?

Perhaps she was mistaken. She wondered what Phas had made of it.

She gathered herself before speaking again. “What was a lone charioteer doing so far south? There hasn’t been a battle here recently, has there?”

“None that I know of,” replied Phas. “That is what troubles me.”

It was not so far from the borders of both Rha and Krengsra.

“Tham would have sent word to the capital.” Zsaran would have told her. “And there has been no sign of troop movement in recent weeks.” She watched him carefully, but he gave no indication of having noticed anything peculiar.

Instead he sighed and straightened. “There is nothing more we can do here. Let us make inquiries at the crossing tomorrow.”

She kept her own face smooth. “Shall we set a watch?”

“Yes. I think that would be best.”

When they returned to camp, Ashne saw that the apothecary had awoken, and was standing by the kammrae, stroking the creature’s neck, murmuring something in its ear. At their approach, he looked up.

“Whatever is the matter, Miss Ashne?” he asked, pronouncing her name in three lilting syllables. “Why the grim face?”

“Dead horse,” replied Phas.

“Oh, is that all? And here I thought it must be something quite dire.”

“A tiger attack is nothing to laugh at,” said Ashne, suddenly quite unhinged by the apothecary’s clear, steady gaze.

“Tigers? Truly? So close to the crossing?”

“It has been a dry season,” said Phas. “A hungry season.”

The apothecary shrugged. “Ah, well. I suppose you would know. After all, I am but a humble stranger to these parts.”

“Stranger or no, you would be wise to uphold caution on the roads,” Phas said, a note of warning in his voice, then turned to Ashne. “I’ll take first watch.”

He strode off, shoulders tensed.

“Well, then,” remarked the apothecary, raising an eyebrow suggestively. “I suppose it’s off to bed for us.”

Ashne grabbed the kammrae’s lead from him instead of gratifying him with a response.

* * *

She woke from a nightmare with the deep, sudden certainty that something had gone wrong. She sat up. Loosened her hand’s trembling clasp on her nameless sword. Wished, momentarily, for the more comforting presence of her own Shenkes.

Neither Phas nor the apothecary could be seen. The kammrae paced by the glowing embers of their campfire, making whuffing noises. Its lead dragged loose behind it.

“Shh,” she said. “Shh.”

Both she and Phas had sat through one watch apiece. When she’d woken Phas for his second watch, the apothecary had been dead asleep, and the kammrae dozing lightly on its feet. And despite having spent her entire watch pondering the matter of the charioteer, of the missing tracks, she had fallen immediately into a deep slumber afterward, evidently more tired than she’d thought.

Where could the men have gone? Upon first awakening, she had assumed betrayal. But here she stood, alive. Their packs lay untouched nearby, the apothecary’s basket included. Only Phas’s quiver and bow were missing. She felt the ground where the apothecary had been sleeping, but the earth was as cool as the night breeze.

The warhorse’s carcass, she thought then. Had Phas noticed something after all? Or was it the apothecary who had snuck off to examine the body himself? But in that case, how had he slipped past Phas’s notice?

No, he must have persuaded Phas to go with him, somehow. Persuaded, or tricked.

And yet Phas was a cautious man. He would have woken her, in such a case.

They were working together after all.

But to what ends?

And yet they had left her and her mount unharmed, on a night she had left herself unguarded.

She retied the kammrae and strapped on her sword, then ventured into the darkness beyond their camp.

Even in the shadows it was not difficult to retrace the path to the dead warhorse. Despite the proximity to the lake, the growth here was low, sparse. Phas had not been untruthful when he said it had been a particularly dry summer, despite the recent rains.

She listened to the sounds of the wilderness even as she counted paces. The low hum of insects. The familiar bark of frogs interspersed with the occasional whoop of an owl. Nothing unusual interrupted the medley but for her own soft, controlled breathing and softer steps.

A hundred paces away from the body, the rush of wings swept past her. She brushed loose strands of hair from her face. Fought the sudden urge to gag.

Something stank — not of blood and offal, but the choking, overripe smell of fruit that had been left out too long to rot, intermixed with garlic.

A man’s shout. A flicker of flame.

An angry squeal.

She unsheathed her blade and ran.

Something hard barreled into her and she tumbled, rolling away, hand hovering protectively over her wound.

Another screech. The smell creeping all around her now, sinking into her skin. She dared not look, and yet she must.

She looked.

A boar, she thought. Stout, hirsute, ears pricked. But she had never seen a boar so huge. And even in the brief flashes of light she knew she could not have been mistaken. In place of snout and tusks, the creature had a human face.

She ducked again at another gust of wind. Sought cover. Almost tripped again, but caught herself in time, then crouched down behind the chariot wreckage she had noted earlier, concealing herself best as she could with grass and weeds.

The Ghost Tiger. No mortal weapons had been able to harm it. Would this creature be the same?

There was nowhere to run.

This time, when the wind came, she stabbed.

A high shriek pierced her eardrums. Her hand unclenched involuntarily and she realized she was screaming as well. Sticky liquid ran down her arm, hissing with steam.

She was still screaming when a flaming arrow came flying through the night, lighting the area before sputtering out in the dark waters of the lake beyond. Jagged yellow teeth loomed above her. She threw herself to the side, feeling for her dropped sword. Something crunched at her side; she caught a glimpse of a clawed bird’s foot. One, two, three feet before she picked herself back off the ground and whirled into the shadows.

The pain in her side blossomed.

Not now not now, she chanted under her breath.

Another arrow flew past, this one unlit, but too close for comfort. For a brief wild moment she thought yet again of betrayal before she spotted the glint of her blade not far beyond the carcass of the warhorse and leaped.

A wing struck her back. She dove to the ground, landing next to the carcass. Stretched her arm out, reaching desperately for her sword, ignoring the pain in her side.

Another shriek. She rolled away, blinded suddenly by a white web of light snaking all around her. Razor-sharp talons clawed at the web, then withdrew with an angry cry.

Her heart beat faster. Back in the courtyard, with the tiger...

“Over here!” shouted someone. The apothecary, she thought. She scrambled up, grabbing her sword, heading in the direction of his voice, though she could not be sure whom it was that he called for.

The web of light faded. Talons slashed across her back, knocking her over again. A heavy weight pressed down on her, pinning her sword arm beneath her body.

She squirmed, twisted, fingers still gripping the hilt of her blade. Looked up to see yellow teeth, sticky and glistening. The creature’s scent filled her nostrils and she thought of death. Of the last mission. That final sweltering night, as she lay there, slipping between a nightmare of blood and a dream of the vast, dark sea.

In her heart she remembered the oath again, that silly old vow they had pledged together as children atop Woodcutter Mountain, that first, secret solemn venture into the sacred grounds, long before they understood a thing about the workings of the world.

Zsaran, oh Zsaran. The boy is dead. The sword is dead. And I have paid.

She could not die here. Not with her mission left undone, and her so far from home, and Zsaran marked for execution in a distant capital.

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

The memory goaded her forward. She summoned the last of her strength, directing her inner energies to her upper body, and with a great push, freed her sword arm.

She thrust. The creature’s blood splashed over her again, bringing tears to her eyes, but this time she was prepared, and did not let go.

The creature howled and staggered away, trying to shake off the blade embedded within its chest. Another arrow flew past, and this time found its target. With one final scream, the creature toppled to the ground, still writhing.

Its body began to fade, crumbling away like dust until nothing remained.

Blade and arrow clattered to the earth.

As if nothing had been there at all.

Ashne crouched down, panting, shaking, her ears still ringing with the creature’s cries.

“A spirit...” she whispered to herself.

They’ve breached the gap.

Once upon a time, spirits and gods alike walked the earth. But they had disappeared long ago, all but the most powerful of spirits vanished behind a barrier of their own making, and the gods retired to their heavenly abode.

Once, long ago, it was said that men possessed the ability to call upon the power of the spirits. Singing down mountains, taming floods, spreading pestilence across the land: all this and more had they been capable of. But no longer. Surely, no longer.

She thought of the sickly young heir of Khonua. The night they had finally caught up to him, on the shores of his birthright, after so many long months of hunting. The strange shadows beneath the surface of the lake. How still it had been. Not even the barest whisper of wind. And the sword Hazsam, blazing bright within her grasp.

And the Tiger. Returned after all these years. Woodcutter Mountain. The rumors of the sorcerer. The dead and the missing. The fog in the forest of ghosts.

And now this.

Perhaps there was no sorcerer after all. Perhaps Kitzon had been right all along.

In her mind she could still see it: visions swirling in the water, the boy looking her in the eye, chest rattling as he gasped for breath.

End this.

“Are you all right?” asked Phas, approaching from where the monster had crumbled, startling her out of her memories. His face looked ashen in the light of his torch, and his clothes were spattered with blood.

She glanced at her arm, rolled up her sleeve. Both cloth and skin were stained dark, but neither burns nor blisters made themselves visible to her beneath her tattoos. She wondered if she had only imagined the searing, the steam.

“Yes,” she said. “You?”

He nodded. Then looked up again, expression suddenly stormy.

The apothecary stepped forward, face glistening with sweat, but looking otherwise none the worse for wear. He smiled back innocently at Phas before turning to Ashne.

“How curious,” he said. “Are you contracted?”

“What nonsense are you spouting now?” demanded Phas.

“What do you mean, contracted?” said Ashne.

Phas warily watched them both as the apothecary gave her a long, considering look. “Never mind,” he said, still smiling. “Perhaps I am overthinking things.”

After a moment Ashne said, “What on earth was that creature?”

“Nothing from our world, I wager,” replied the apothecary.

“A spirit,” murmured Phas in a troubled, uncertain tone, but less surprised or unsettled than Ashne had expected based on his reaction to the fog at their first meeting. His eyes hardened. “Now we know the culprit behind the earlier attack.”

“Hmmm. I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“What would you propose, then?”

The apothecary shrugged. “A tiger?”

Phas turned sharply on his heel and began to walk away. The apothecary tagged along. “Oh dear. Have I angered you? It was a joke, good sir. A joke. You looked like you needed it.”

Ashne sighed.

But the apothecary was not wrong. No matter what the creature had been, this was neither the time nor place to worry about it. It was dead. Gone. It could do no further harm.

As she straightened to follow them, the glint of something in the shadows where she had fallen earlier caught her eye — too pale to be an axle, not bright enough to be a blade. She picked her way carefully through the grass and stooped down, digging through the mud with her fingers.

It was a woman’s jade comb, wrapped very deliberately in a carefully torn scrap of silk. Both mudstained, but still recognizable. The simple geometric pattern on the silk seemed to indicate that it had once been part of a waist sash, but it was the comb, decorated with carvings of a frog and a waterbird, that sent thrills through her.

A southern lady’s ornament.

Hope surged in her breast, not for the first time that day. She had not been mistaken after all. The princess was surely close by. Alive. Waiting for her to come. Leaving what signs she could — for the wrapped comb surely would not have otherwise survived an accident in perfect condition, would not have been placed so neatly for her to find.

Aside from the horse, there had been no other bodies. The princess and — unfortunately — her captor must have survived the winged monster’s attack. Escaped on the other horses.

Ashne frowned and slipped the comb into her own sash. A chariot driver. The situation was more serious than she had assumed. And yet what could all this possibly portend?

Either Krengsra or one of the Dragon states was preparing for war. Perhaps both. Against whom, she could not say. But the princess’s kidnapping must be related. Few individuals could afford the thundering chariots of the battlefield. Only lords and kings for their proud armies... And those who drove them were no common footsoldiers, but themselves nobles and high-ranking generals.

Whatever the case, the consequences would not be small.