“Worried?” Braksya asked the next morning, after she mentioned to him her encounter. He did not look up, intent on the daily filing of his nails. She had expected him to react to the news of the sorcerer, at least.

“How could I not be?” she snapped back. The itch of observation from before had not dissipated with Rahm’s departure, and only now did she realize just how much more anxious his brief visit had made her. He had said little, but his evident flight from the group hinted at a falling-out or fundamental disagreement among the bandits: a potential weakness, an opening to be taken advantage of. And though such a development might have encouraged her under other circumstances, she could not now relax.

Despite Phas’s promises that the princess was unhurt and would remain so under the sorcerer’s care, almost two weeks now had passed. Those promises were no longer valid.

The men of Khonua had no reason to keep the daughter of their enemy alive.

There had been so many alliances broken and forged and then broken and reforged in the past weeks that Ashne no longer knew for certain who was on whose side. Not that she ever had. Only two things had remained constant all this time: the princess was alive. The princess was with Phas’s employer. That was enough. Had been enough. She did not care about the whys and wherefores. They were not her concern, nor was it her place to be concerned. Her only purpose was to bring the princess safely back home.

She had not, until now, given thought to the possibility of failure.

She had not let herself.

“I am sure your precious princess is still alive,” said Braksya, as if he had read her mind. It was no surprise to her if he had. She knew all too well that she was no good at hiding her emotions, least of all from him, who seemed to see the world in disturbing clarity. She no longer even bothered.

Instead she demanded, “How can you be so sure?”

“Think. Who has the scabbard? What does the sorcerer desire? What can he offer in exchange?”

“Her death. That’s what he can offer.”

“Close. Once she is dead, however, there is little that stops the bandits from doing what they want. And little that keeps her father the king from bearing down on them in righteous vengeance. She is far more valuable as a hostage, even now. Both that funny chieftain and the sorcerer must realize this. Old Matron and the noblemen certainly will, even if their prince does not.”

“You are mistaken. King Khosian cares little for his daughter. And he does not need such flimsy excuses to sound the war drums.”

“Oh? Perhaps that is so. But I doubt the bandits see it that way. With the northern states bearing down on him, King Wat has no time to turn his attentions to a little toothless rebellion in his own lands. But if the princess, the key player in your current marriage negotiations, were to be killed...”

“All the more reason for them to kill her! Those Dragon ambassadors will take it as an insult. They will call off all negotiations at once. Everything the king has been working for will be —” She realized that she had perhaps spoken too much.

“And then what will they do? Strike back in retaliation? Drown the wildlands in blood and chaos, subjugate the kingdom as Wat subjugated Nua? I cannot say for the bandits, but do you truly think Matron and her noblemen wish for such an outcome?”

“They would never defeat us,” she said. “Not unless they allied with those very same noblemen.”

“Have you forgotten how much the north scorned the barbarian riverking Pashrai? How they cowered in fear of his father before him? It would be a bitter alliance, and short-lived.”

“Perhaps that’s all they need.”

He threw his hands up, face betraying only the faintest hint of irritation. “Think what you will!”

And that was the end of that, for the rest of the day, at least. On the morning of the second, however, they came upon a fishing boat helmed by a lone elderly man, the first person they had come across on the river in days.

Braksya called out to him in greeting, startling both Ashne and the fisherman, who frowned as they rowed near, his tattoos faded and his face dark and leathery from the sun. Three cormorants with copper rings about their necks perched on the edge of his boat, and flapped their wings nervously at their approach.

“Are you the ones scaring away all the fish lately?”

“What lovely birds you have!” replied Braksya. “Hello there, my pretty fellows. Have you any news for me? No? Too bad —”

“We are headed to Kasa,” interrupted Ashne, who suspected that the fisherman understood Braksya about as much as Braksya understood him, and suspected even more that Braksya was still irked by their earlier exchange despite his cheerful demeanor. “Are we not far now from our destination?”

Sure enough, after another suspicious glance at Braksya, the fisherman relaxed. “Aye, you’ll reach the Great River in another day or two if the currents treat you well. Lucky you, though. Right in the middle of the rainy season, but the floods came early this year and it’s been awful dry ever since. Queer. Even the fish have all left seeking better waters.”

She proceeded to ask the fisherman her usual questions while Braksya continued to annoy the cormorants. As expected, the fisherman had nothing to tell her about the princess or the sorcerer. He could not even confirm the bandits’ passage. Though until now they and their company had left disgruntled villagers and angry gossip in their wake, this man had been trawling the river for days and had heard nothing of them.

“Only other soul I happened across this week was my friend from the neighboring village,” he said. “Told me of some trouble he’d heard about, some sort of fuss up north at the border. You wouldn’t happen to know about that, would ya? I’ve got family over in Krengsra.”

Ashne hesitated before shaking her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Ah, no matter. I don’t suppose it’ll be war again. Krengsra’s not bothered us in years now, not since that the alliance they made with the young Speaker. Hey now, stop that!” That last was directed at Braksya, who had reached out to poke his finger between an open beak.

Braksya withdrew his finger just as the beak snapped shut and grinned. Ashne pinched his arm and twisted. He yelped.

“I must apologize about my... friend,” she said. “He...” She gestured vaguely at her head.

The man shrugged as he calmed his birds. “Come to think of it, though, I saw a wild kammrae on the banks the other day. It was gone before I could take a closer look. Thought I mighta been seeing things. I wonder if was a sign?”

Zsaran. They’d caught up at last. In a single moment all her doubts were blown away.

“Perhaps,” Ashne agreed, hiding her sudden excitement, and thanked the fisherman for his time.

Zsaran would know what to do. Sorcerer or no sorcerer, Ashne did not doubt she already had plans regarding how to proceed. And with Braksya’s help, as stubbornly as he was behaving at the moment, they were sure to succeed.

As they bid the fisherman farewell and rowed away, she could not hold back a smile.

* * *

Even Braksya’s continued crossness could not dampen her mood.

“Good news then, I suppose?” he said after they turned another bend, arms crossed, brows furrowed.

“Not really.”

“Since I first met you, I have never seen you so damnably pleased with yourself.”

She dropped her smile.

“Nice try, but it’s not working.”

“He had news only of Tham, and weeks old at that.” She hesitated. “And he saw a kammrae.”

“Oh.” He sighed and leaned back. “Is that all.”

“It’s Zsaran,” she continued. “It must be. Remember what they said back at the village?”

He raised an eyebrow, and she realized her mistake.

“Some of the villagers had seen kammrae too.”

“Kammrae,” he repeated, drawing out the word, rolling it about on his tongue. “What’s that, a dancing —” He said something Ashne could not quite parse the meaning of, but was almost certain must have been a dirty remark.

“A golden deer.” She began to explain to him its significance, but was interrupted by an impatient snort.

“A deer. There are herds of them everywhere.”

“Not kammrae,” she said sharply, feeling her good mood begin to dissipate at last.

This time, he did not stop her explanation, and did not even offer any comment when she finished. She wondered if he had even been listening, or if he had been satisfied just to get a reaction from her.

They did not speak again until Ashne banked the boat some hours afterward, slightly earlier than they usually chose to stop for the day.

“I’m going to go look for her,” she said as she stepped onto shore. “She cannot be far.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little fishy?” he said then. “It was awfully convenient, her appearance at the bandits’ hideout. Not that I don’t appreciate her saving us, of course.”

She turned. Narrowed her eyes. “What are you playing at now?”

“I’m just saying. Not everyone can be quite so committed to their duty as you and dear Master Phas.”

“We swore an oath.”

“Oaths can be broken.”

“We owe the queen our lives. Without her we would be nothing. This is the least we can do in return.”

“Hmm,” he said. “And yet, is such dedication sincere? Can feelings of debt really engender true loyalty?”

A man like him would never understand.

“I suppose you aren’t loyal to anyone but yourself.”

He shrugged. “One would be a fool to put faith in such concepts as honor and loyalty. Kingdoms fall. Lords die. One who is at the height of his power today may no longer be in power tomorrow. It is dangerous even to trust in yourself, sometimes! Still, I find it much more convenient this way. You cannot ever know what others truly think or believe. But over yourself, at least, you can exert some degree of control.”

His argument was not entirely unreasonable. But in her heart she knew he was wrong.

Even so, a memory flew into her mind.

Winter’s end approached. They had drawn close to their target near the northern borders of Krengsra, but lost him again due to the uneasy political situation. Unable to act for fear of being apprehended. Reluctant to upset the delicate balance between Krengsra and the Court for fear that their own Awat would be dragged into the ensuing conflict as allies of Sra. So they hesitated, waiting, plotting. But by the time Kitzon and Zsaran finished negotiating with one of the Krengsra nobles for safe passage through his lands, the prince and his retainers were long gong.

A decoy, she realized now.

But the possibility had not even occurred to them at the time. It had been difficult enough just to find the trail of the fake, and perhaps that very difficulty convinced them of the ploy. When all along the true prince had been right beneath their noses.

Still, they had not been much discouraged by their near miss. No matter where the boy fled, they would find him. They would hound his footsteps until he had nowhere left to flee. They had all the time in the world.

So they had thought.

They had been tired, then, from the winter months. The long, fruitless negotiations. What harm would a little break be? They had been waylaid for reasons far more trivial already.

And they were beautiful, the mountains in the region. One could spend lifetimes wandering through them and never tire of their majesty. Of the eternal secrets they clasped within their heights.

So wander they did: Zsaran scouting ahead, Kitzon leading his little red mare, Ashne watching them both, watching for enemies, for danger.

Their feet led them deeper and deeper into the mountains, until at last one day, they came across the waterfall: a fierce flowing veil against the vast green curves of the earth, crossed by a glimmering bridge of color.

She no longer remembered who saw it first. Only the delight and wonder that filled her. Zsaran’s infectious joy; Kitzon’s surprisingly boyish laughter muffled by the roar of water.

White foam sprayed them as they drew close to its base. Looking up, it seemed as if the river cascaded down from the heavens themselves. Even the little mare, normally shy, dipped down her head further on to drink from the river’s swift flow. Kitzon ran off with a whoop to explore.

Zsaran closed her eyes. The wind unfurled the waves and curls of her hair like a dark banner against the sky. Ashne stood at her side, listening to the water crash and thunder against stone and earth.

“Let’s come back someday,” said Zsaran, her voice unsteady, as if the words had been wrenched unbidden from her throat.

“Yes,” Ashne whispered.

But she knew it was impossible. They had sworn their lives to the queen. That they had had the fortune to be there, on that very day, at that very moment, was due to chance alone. If they had not been sent on this mission, if they had not met Kitzon —

Then she turned to look at Zsaran, and was shocked to see the expression on her face as she gazed up at the waterfall, or perhaps at the blue skies beyond.

Wistful. Perhaps even regretful.

And yet determined.

Until now she had forgotten it. That single impossible day. She had not wanted to remember anymore. Not after betrayal had marred all their memories, not when the pristine beauty that lingered yet in her heart lay blotted out by shadow.

Braksya was studying her again, as he was wont to.

“Zsaran is no traitor,” she said.

He shrugged again. “If you say so. It is no matter to me, either way.”

“Then you will not stop me.”

He waved, as if to say, Go ahead.

She hesitated. “And you’re coming with me. I don’t trust you enough to leave you behind with the boat.”

This time, he laughed. Stood.

“As you wish, Miss Ashne.”

* * *

There were no fields, no settlements nearby. Ashne waded through shallow streams and tall reed thatches, taking care to avoid stumbling upon any lurking alligators or one of their decomposing nests. She searched for patches of dry ground, looking for scattered embers, evidence of human waste, anything that might indicate a recent presence. Braksya followed behind her, more slowly, robes hitched up, sleeves tied back. She paused occasionally to check on him; once, she saw that he had plucked a cattail from the banks and was amusing himself by waving it around in the air.

About an hour later, she found her first sign: a lacquered hairpin sticking from the mud that she almost mistook for a broken stick at first glance. The men of the riverlands did not use such accoutrements, but neither did Zsaran, except at formal occasions, or when passing among those of the Court. And yet this hairpin in the middle of nowhere could only have been lost recently; the top half was still smooth and clean despite the surroundings in which it had fallen.

She picked up the hairpin and ran ahead, continuing to search, no longer waiting for Braksya. Unlike the jade comb she had found at the chariot wreck, this hairpin had not been deliberately placed. And the bandits likely had not passed so close to the river here, else the fisherman would have noticed them himself.

As the sun began to sink below the horizon, she glimpsed a single set of hoofprints hidden behind the rushes. Not the round, solid prints of a horse, nor the multi-toed prints of a tapir, nor even the delicately pointed impression of a deer. The prints were cloven, yes, but larger, more rounded, spread in flight with the telltale marks of dew-claws bunched behind. Pointed southeast, away from the direction of the Canal and the junction, heading instead for the banks further down the Great River.

A kammrae. Likely the same one the fisherman had seen. But for what reason had it or its rider fled east? There were no signs of pursuit, no other tracks but her own.

She followed the prints. Dusk swept across the land, and she lost the trail, but she plunged on and found it again in a trampled winding path through the grass.

Something slunk past and darted into the moonlit night. A civet, perhaps, or a rat. Not a flying squirrel; there were no trees nearby, nowhere to hide, nowhere to disappear. Yet still no kammrae.

The breeze was warm and perfumed with a subtle sweetness. Night-blooming flowers, she thought, though she did not recognize the scent. Perhaps it was Zsaran after all, as she had thought, wandered off to enjoy the sights.

No. Even Zsaran would not have disregarded her duty for such a trivial matter. Not at a time like this.

Then the sweetness was assaulted by a different, darker scent. The scent of blood. The pungent, musky scent of fear. Ashne’s throat tightened. Once more she broke out into a run. She heard the apothecary shouting after her, but she ignored him.

Before long, she saw the kammrae. It lay crouched in the grass, legs bent, perfectly still, as if hiding from an alligator or a tiger. But its neck was stretched out as if on a sacrificial block, and one of its antlers had snapped in half, and blood smeared across its golden flanks, already browning.

It was indeed no wild specimen; beside it laid a colorful halter, evidently cast away. By its rider? By someone else? What had happened here?

Such a peaceful pose could not explain that smell of fear, or the evidence of it moistening the surrounding earth. And that long oozing gash in its side, a cut from a sword or a hunting knife rather than axe or claw or horn.

Another surge of sweetness wafted past.

Ashne fought the urge to gag. She rose from her examination, no longer thinking. Her limbs moved on their own, spurring her into flight. The world swept past in a mass of darkness.

Some indefinable instinct or understanding slowed her steps once more.

There. Before her. Against the horizon.

In the icy moonlight, she discerned a single figure standing amid a field of starflowers.

But it was not Zsaran. Too tall, too broad...

The man knelt as Ashne approached, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Before him lay a body, still and prostrate, as if in deep slumber.

Braksya caught up to her from behind, his footsteps slowing as he neared. He placed a firm but gentle hand on her shoulder.

A woman’s body, dark hair fanning out beneath her. The dappled trace of color across her face, cloaked in light and shadow.

The man scooped up the body and stood, cradling it in his arms with such tenderness that Ashne could only watch on, frozen in silence. He bowed his head, murmuring something in a tongue familiar in cadence and yet incomprehensible. Something dropped from his hand as his lips moved.

She knew. Without looking, she knew.

He turned.

A wordless scream tore from her throat.

“Ashne!” Her name, quickly muttered.

The apothecary. Braksya. His bony hand gripping her arm, fingers digging into her flesh.

The prince. The prince, too, had —

She tore away from the apothecary’s grasp. Ran.

From far away the tall man stared at her, through her, his scarred face cruel. Twisted. Unmoved. Then he turned again, walking away, body clutched tight to his chest.

“KITZON!”

She screamed his name again. Again. Again. Stumbled blindly through the silvery field.

He did not look back.

A great shudder ran through her. Before her eyes a great shimmering form materialized, slowly solidifying into the form of a giant beast.

A tiger. Gleaming against the dark skies, aura rippling through the vast fields. Heavy. Suffocating. Paralyzing.

And beyond, another ghost fading into the horizon.

Another name trembled at the tip of her tongue. But no sound left her lips.

The tiger glared, teeth bared, bloody breath hot against her face. Pain struck, sudden, unbearable. She crumbled to the ground. Broken. Insides ripped out. Feeling for her wound. Shaking so hard. She could not, could not...

It watched her, towering over her, harbinger of despair.

Then, as if satisfied, it turned, tail lashing, and leaped away in a single bound.

The world thawed. The wind arose once more.

The pain faded. She unfolded herself, whole again, and yet not.

She reached out, as if she could somehow force tiger and man alike to return. Her hand dropped to the ground.

Beside her, the apothecary stooped and picked up an arrow. He spoke, but she did not hear him.

“But why?” she whispered. “Why? You loved her...”

The apothecary stooped again, this time rising with silvery flowers in his hands.

For his damned herb collection, she thought, almost laughing out loud, but she choked. Her vision blurred.

Footsteps. They stopped at her side and did not leave. She looked up.

There he stood, peering down at her with a deep frown.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s go back.”