They were not difficult to track. Even in the darkness, the apothecary left a blatant trail behind him, and the bandits, in their apparent haste, made little effort to cover him.

“They are leading us into a trap,” said Ashne in sudden certainty, when dawn broke.

“Most likely,” replied Phas. “But I have no other choice.”

Nor did she. And yet, and yet — something was not quite right.

“Your employer is quite unreasonable,” she said softly.

When he did not respond, she continued, “Why did he kidnap Princess Sarabis if it was the scabbard he was after? What purpose did it serve? Be honest with me! Does he mean to destroy the kingdom? Take it for his own?”

Still he would not look at her.

“How long have you been working for him anyway? That day in the forest — that was no coincidence, was it? You’ve been seeking that scabbard all along.”

“You are not wrong,” he said at last. “When I said I was seeking employment, that was a lie. I have already been in this man’s employ for some months.”

“Is it true, then? That he is the foreign sorcerer the apothecary seeks?”

“He is...” Phas began, then seemed to think better of what he had been about to say. “He is a complicated man, but not the one of whom the rumors speak. I dare not say more.”

“And the princess is truly safe with him?”

“She is.”

“And it is not the throne he is after?”

“His only desire is the scabbard.”

“What does he want with it? You served in the court of Khonua, you said. Or was that a lie as well?”

He met her gaze. “That was no lie.”

“Then surely you must understand its significance. Or rather, its lack of it. It is nothing without the blade.”

“I cannot say. I do not question the man’s motives. I am but a mere mercenary. I am paid to follow orders.”

No amount of payment could have ever been enough for Kitzon, she thought with sudden bitterness. Evidently this Phas Tiuknin was a different sort of man entirely.

“I must apologize for involving you in this,” he was saying. “It was my understanding that my only targets were to be those bandits.”

“Just tell me one thing, then. Were you involved in the princess’s kidnapping?”

“I was not. Until I met with them in Tham, I was utterly unaware of this development. This I swear upon my ancestors and the heavens above.”

She frowned, then. She raised a hand to her chest, where the glass pendant lay heavy against her skin, realization slowly dawning upon her. “You met them in Tham?” She backed away. Drew her sword. “What are you playing at? You’ve been working with the bandits all along! Or at least since Tham. You were working with them, until they betrayed you!”

He seemed genuinely startled. “What do you mean?”

She grabbed the pendant with her free hand, ripped it from her neck, held it out, arm trembling. “I found this at the magistrate’s! How else would you explain this?”

How could she have forgotten? How could she not have realized?

The damn apothecary had confused her. Muddled her thinking.

What had he said that night? You seek the princess; I seek the sorcerer. The mercenary will lead us to both. Not once had he claimed that Phas’s employer was the sorcerer himself. She had only assumed, certain that the sorcerer must be involved in the princess’s kidnapping, desperate for a human target to chase down.

The Tiger. Who else could have commanded the Tiger, but one of great power?

Phas reached out, fingers brushing against the glass eye, gaze distant. “This pendant... she was wearing it.”

Ashne snatched it back, blade still pointed at him. “Explain yourself. Now.”

His gaze settled back on her. “When we separated at the gates of Tham, I continued following the apothecary in hopes that he would lead me to where he had hidden the scabbard, or at least reveal some hint or clue to its whereabouts. Unfortunately, the bandits laid an ambush on him before I could make my move. As I dared not risk drawing the attention of the city guard, I gave up my chase to report to my employer. He was waiting then outside the fortifications. There I met the princess for the first time, and learned of what had transpired at Ranglhia. I... made my disapproval of his methods known to him. But he assured me the attack had not been his doing. That even he would not be rash enough to carry out such a deed on his own.”

The disguised assassins. He did not know, did not realize. He had thought it a simple kidnapping, if ever a kidnapping could be thought of as simple.

Before she could stop herself, she said, “But the Tiger. It was the Tiger that —”

At that his eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly. “Tiger?”

She hesitated. “The Ghost Tiger. It showed itself that night within the capital walls. It is the Tiger that stole the princess away to begin with.”

Had it acted on its own after all? Just how many forces had been at work on that dreadful night?

For some time neither of them spoke.

“I see,” said Phas at last, chilly, distant, giving away nothing.

“How, then, did she end up with you and your employer?”

“I do not know.”

Ashne swallowed. “And then? What did your employer tell you?”

“He merely laughed. He said that there was much I did not understand. That I must trust him. Even when I told him about my failure in obtaining the scabbard, he did not grow angry. He said only that I must bide my time, and wait for an opportunity to show itself. Then he told me he would be going ahead with the princess, and left. I know of no agreement or alliance with the bandits.”

“So you waited.” Ashne lowered her sword. “And just like that, we fell right into your waiting clutches.”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath. Then another. Her chest continued pounding.

No. Something was still wrong. Before the pendant, there had been the comb. The spirit attack by the river. What of that, then? Had she been mistaken about the victims after all?

If it had been the princess and his employer, surely Phas would have reacted then. Surely he would have known.

Or was that why both Phas and apothecary had disappeared that night?

And yet what use was it now to question him?

Their claims about Tham seemed to match up, at least. The apothecary had not seen Phas since the gates. Phas had watched the bandits take him, but had not interfered.

At last, she said, “I don’t know who to trust anymore. But two things, at least, are clear: the princess is with your employer, while the scabbard lies with the apothecary. And your employer is willing to exchange the princess unharmed for this scabbard. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Will you vouch for it?”

“I swear upon my father’s name, and his fathers before him.”

She sheathed her sword with an involuntary shudder. A light chill seemed to have seeped into her bones, invisible grasping tendrils curling round and around her heart.

“Still, we can’t just go on like this. Walking head on into a den of thieves.”

“He is our only lead.”

Zsaran. If only Zsaran were here.

What would she do in Ashne’s place?

“I wonder...” said Ashne then. “Why lead us into a trap, when they simply could have killed us in our sleep? When they have already obtained what they seek?”

“It’s that apothecary,” Phas said abruptly. “He is on no one’s side but his own. He must have said something to them, convinced them that they need us alive for some purpose.”

“Why does he want us alive, then?”

He did not respond.

After that, Ashne broached the matter of their immediate plans once more. They discussed several brief strategies for their approach as they continued along their way, but were unable to reach a consensus. It was not that their ideas conflicted. Rather, nothing either of them came up with seemed reasonable.

They were only two, after all, and they did not know their enemy. Whatever move they chose to make now posed great risk.

In the end, they decided there was nothing to be done but to enter the trap lying before them with their eyes wide open.

Meanwhile, the trail led them deeper and deeper into the hills to the southeast, past forest and stream, until at last they reached the mountains near the junction of the Slez and the greater Grui River into which its waters ran. They took turns napping when they could, never stopping for long.

By late afternoon, the trail had vanished. They separated, searching for any trace of human presence. The sun had almost set before Ashne found it at last: a single footpath, rocky and well-hidden by the greenery, leading further up the mountain.

She signaled to Phas.

“I have been often to this area,” he said as he approached, “but I knew of no village that existed here.”

“They have built a hideout here, perhaps. Are there no hunters in these parts?”

“Few. The slopes are treacherous.”

To a man of the Court, perhaps. But Ashne did not speak her doubt aloud.

After checking for hidden sentinels, they stepped onto this new path, eventually reaching a small stream, shallow enough to wade through. The path did not seem to resume on the opposite bank; after another brief exchange, they agreed to follow the stream to its source and see where it led.

This time, what they found waiting them was the gray outline hamlet nestled against the darkening slopes. A cluster of haphazardly constructed stilt houses, connected with a maze of wooden walkways crisscrossing the stream and its banks, carefully adhering to the curvature of the land. All eerily silent. Like a village of ghosts.

“I’ll go,” Phas said abruptly in the shadows.

Ashne glanced at him, startled.

“One of us should stay back and watch. If both of us are captured, all will be for nothing.”

She frowned. Looked back out from the cover of foliage at the village, certain there must be lookouts stationed somewhere, but unable to locate any.

“It is all the same, if we do not retrieve the scabbard.” And even if she should obtain it without him, who then would lead her to the princess?

He hesitated. “I have reason to believe... that they will be open to dealing with me.”

Whatever reason it was, it could not be enough. “And you expect me to believe you won’t just turn me in to them for your own purposes?”

“No,” he replied. “I expect you to use me. As a decoy.”

She considered him in a new light. “They must know we are together.”

“Not necessarily. I had not intended for you to be involved, and you are still hurt. They will expect that I abandoned you to your own ends.”

“The apothecary will tell them I would have never let you leave me behind.”

“I would not be so certain,” Phas said, hesitating again.

“What do you mean?”

“I do not think he wishes you harmed, any more than I.”

At that, Ashne stared.

“It was not my intention to imply anything untoward,” continued Phas, in that solid, controlled tone of his that gave away nothing, not even reassurance. “It merely seems to me that he is a man who takes his profession seriously, no matter his personal eccentricities.”

“He is no physician.”

“One who peddles herbs and remedies holds the same responsibilities to his customers as a healer would to his patients.”

Perhaps that was so for one such as Phas. But of the apothecary she could not say the same.

But Phas was right. This was their best chance.

“Fine.” Without saying anymore, she began to unload what remained of their supplies in the nearby shrubbery, taking care to conceal them with rushes and peels of bark. Phas followed suit.

With luck, they would not be gone long enough for wild beasts to find their store.

After a final glance and nod, Phas strode off.

Ashne waited, listening to the breeze. When she judged that enough time had passed, she removed the queen’s insignia and the jade comb from her waist, then tied them around her neck along with the glass pendant for better safekeeping.

Then she followed in the direction Phas had gone, keeping to the shadows, masking her movements with the sway of grass and branches.

She heard rustling at her side. Jumped.

Turned, only to see that Phas had returned, blade in one hand, other hand held to his lips in a gesture of silence. His eyes were troubled, and his entire posture was tensed, ready for an attack.

Ashne moved to approach him, but he shook his head, backing away.

Her own sword was already out of its sheathe when he stilled, head tilted back. She, too, stiffened.

“Stop where you are,” growled a voice behind them.

Khonua dialect.

As if on cue, tattooed men emerged all around them from the underbrush, bearing spears and dagger-axes.

That explained why there were no lookouts at the village. They had circled back to surround them.

“Drop your weapons.”

They did.

“Well, well,” said the voice, suddenly at Ashne’s ear. She jerked to the side despite herself. “Two little rabbits snared in our trap.”

Ashne knew without looking who it must be.

Sure enough, the man who stepped forward was none other than the bandit chief himself.

“What should we do with them, Chief?” asked one of his subordinates.

The chief roared with laughter, evidently finding the situation rather humorous, even if his own men did not. At last he managed to bring himself back under control, and grinned, crooked teeth gleaming. “There’s someone I’ve been thinking they’d just love to meet! How about it?”

With that, he began to laugh again, head tossed back, shoulders shaking.

“At this rate, you’re gonna cause a landslide,” muttered the bandit in response.

The other men shrugged and exchanged looks and smiles. Then, ignoring their temporarily incapacitated chief, they wasted no more time in carrying out their orders.

* * *

They were marched down the muddy lanes of the village, wrists bound behind them. Around them the men spoke in murmured undertones. Ashne caught only a few whispers: the Matron. Chief. The scabbard. The deal. They told her little she had not already known or suspected, and nothing at all of what to expect.

On they trudged, past the stilt houses, past the men on guard, past a scrawny hunting dog who began to yip and whine at their approach. To Ashne’s surprise, she caught the glimpse of a child’s face at one window. At one of the doors stood a cluster of staring women, who fled back inside upon the bandits’ approach.

Families?

At last they came to a stop by a murky spring. Wedged between the mountain slope and the spring was a large, two-story longhouse partially overlooking the water.

One of their captors called out to the guards stationed by the steps. “We’ve got them!”

The guards waved back, and made way.

Up the wooden steps they climbed, into the door of the lower level.

The first thing Ashne saw was the apothecary sitting bound in the center of the room, his usual insufferable idiot’s grin illuminated by the fire flickering in the hearth at his back. Then she looked around at the other occupants of the building.

Ministers, she realized with shock, upon seeing their attire. Noblemen and government officials of Khonua — one or two tattooed, but most not. About half of them sprawling or sitting cross-legged upon the bamboo mats spread across the floor, the other half kneeling properly. All dressed in stuffy, formal Dragon Court attire, a sharp contrast to the loose, colorful patchwork tunics of the bandits.

Though they numbered not more than fifteen, far less than the group of bandits who had taken Ashne and Phas captive, their presence spoke volumes.

This was no bandit hideout. It was a village of exiles. A village populated by the remnants of King Pashrai’s inner circle.

“Why, is that you, Phas Tiuknin?” said one of the officials, scorn dripping from his voice.

“What? The dog of Rha is here as well?”

“Treacherous carrion-eater turned tail at the first sign of trouble! Coming back to meddle in our affairs — how unexpected!”

“Well? What have you to say to the spirit of our late king? And all that after he troubled to take in a runaway like you!”

To none of the jeers did Phas respond. But when Ashne sneaked a glance at him, his gaze was cast to the ground and his shoulders and arms were tensed.

He must have realized the truth behind this village before she had. That must be why he had turned back.

Suddenly the gathering fell silent. From the steps leading to the level above, an old woman had appeared, her gaze proud and dark, her back straight as a rod. Behind her sauntered a tall, white-faced boy sucking noisily on the pale flesh of red raike fruits.

For a moment Ashne forgot to breathe.

“Matron!”

“Your highness!”

“Prince Ruibhan!”

The officials prostrated themselves. Even the bandits bowed their heads in respect.

It could not be. She had killed the wrong boy after all. A double. A sickly innocent.

But the sword — the sword could not lie. The blade should have responded only to the true heir, and respond it had.

The boy was dead, and the treasure sword Hazsam with it.

Then who was this child they called Prince? He was a healthy, strapping lad, albeit a bit pale, and wore a suit of lacquered leather armor in the Dragon fashion. In looks, at least, he was certainly more suited to the title than the frail young man she had faced on the shores of Gokho Lake, after cutting through the servants and guards who yet remained loyal to him.

And that loyalty had been sincere. They had each of them fought to the death, with the fierceness of a mother tiger protecting her cub. Such fierceness could hardly be feigned. And yet would these ministers and nobles present here be so loyal to a boy who did not possess true claim to the throne?

Some might, she thought. But after so thorough a defeat, they would not dare to move so swiftly with a fake. Would they?

And yet as she fretted, a small part of her felt relief, too. Zsaran had nothing to do with the diviner’s auguries after all. Whatever Kitzon told her had truly been another of his wild stories.

She thought again of the boy they had killed. She had killed.

If it had been he who was the fake...

“Yo, Matron,” said Chief Tuanwat with a booming laugh. “A couple more presents for you and his royal highness!”

The sword could not lie. But could it have been tricked, just as they had been tricked? If the child had been of Pashrai’s blood, unacknowledged...

But surely they would not have dared risk a succession dispute. Not at a time like this.

Perhaps it no longer mattered.

“I see that, Lord Tuanwat,” the old woman said.

This woman they called Matron reminded Ashne of Shranai, and yet the two women could not be more different. Where Shranai’s foot was crushed and twisted, the Matron carried herself with the ease of a woman half her age. Shranai’s hair was still dark, and her ever-sour face was narrow and pinched, prematurely aged and marked only faintly by tattoos; Matron’s face was bland and forgettable but for the beautiful patterns etched across her wrinkled skin, and her hair was white as a cranes wing.

Above all, Shranai spoke with a thick, coarse accent, while Matron’s voice carried the smooth, polished melodies of one who had walked among great lords and ladies all her life.

Could she be the frightening woman the bandit back in Tham had spoken of? If so, Ashne must be wary.

“Two more inconveniences to pile onto the first,” the Matron was saying.

Tuanwat chuckled. “Aw, don’t say that, Matron! I come bearing good news, too, see?”

“Oh? And what manner of news might that be?”

“Why, news about ol’ Khosian himself! Just wait till ya hear. Betcha’ll be so excited that y—”

“Speak,” said the Matron, “and I shall judge whether it is news worthy of excitement.”

With an outrageous wink and a sweeping, grandiose gesture, Tuanwat said, “The princess of Awat has been kidnapped!”

Sure enough, silence paralyzed the room, but for the crackling of the hearth.

Then the men broke into excited murmurs.

Ashne bit her lip. The worst case scenario, or close enough. Even should she manage to escape now, she would no longer be able to act as freely as before. Now, more than ever before, the princess’s life would be at risk...

The Matron frowned, then shook her head. “Kidnapped? By whom?”

Tuanwat shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Matron!” shouted one of the officials. “Now is the perfect time to act!”

“Precisely! Khosian has his hands full now with the north, just as our lord did when Khosian betrayed us! It is beyond time to pay him back in kind!”

“I’ll bet he hasn’t slept a wink ever since his daughter went missing!”

Their voices swelled and crashed over Ashne like waves. The damp heat of too many warm bodies pressed close combined with the smell of smoke made her feel queasy.

“Hey now!” someone said. “Don’t you think you’re all being too hasty? What if it’s a trap laid by that cunning old fox? Our good Lord Tuanwat said nothing of who has the girl. How can the word of a ruffian like him be trusted?”

“Why, you!” shouted one of the bandits.

“And why should we suffer being under your beck and call, huh? What have you done for us? Or for anyone? Lazy worms!”

“You’re nothing but cowards hiding behind that ol’ Matron’s skirts!”

“The little princeling ain’t of Turtle blood anyhow!” said yet another bandit. “Why should we bother with him?”

The official who had first spoken rose to his feet. “How dare you speak thus of our king’s heir!”

“The boy’s that Krengsra bitch’s grandson, isn’t he? He’s of no relation to the royal line!”

“Wrong! He is the grandson of the king’s royal brother, the brave and noble Prince Tungrui!”

Added another official, “Even were this not so, he is the heir chosen by the late king himself!”

But the bandit only scoffed. “Tungrui? Dead before he could even take the reeds! Pashrai? A coward who took his own life rather than face defeat like a true warrior!”

“Aye!” shouted another bandit. “Better to die on the water like a man than trapped in flames like a beast!”

“Shut up, all of ya! SHUT UP, YOU FOOLS!” roared the chief. But his voice only added to the furor.

And then, a single voice rose above the throng.

“Silence!” The Matron, stern and forbidding, stepped forward, arm raised. Her voice continued to echo as bandits and officials alike settled and turned their attention to her.

“The sword,” she said then, gaze scanning across the room, “will prove all.”

“The sword is lost, you daft woman,” shouted one particularly foolhardy bandit.

“That is why we need the scabbard,” she replied. “Like draws to like... The fates of scabbard and blade are more intertwined than you know.”

Silence.

The boy chose that moment to interrupt, speaking out for the first time. “Matron, that’s all very well and good, but the trash refuses to hand it over.”

His voice had not quite broken yet, and his fingers were stained dark from raike shells. The old woman gave him a disapproving look, but said nothing.

Chief Tuanwat snorted. “Well, we’ll just have to make him hand it over then, won’t we?”

“Right you are,” said the boy. He tilted his head back. “Matron?”

She sighed. Closed her eyes, then opened them again.

“Let me speak to the captives alone.”

The officials looked at each other, then seemed to come to some unspoken agreement.

“Yes, Matron,” they chorused. The bandits shuffled uneasily in response, muttering among themselves.

“Take the northern dog away,” said the Matron with a wave of her hand.

“No,” said the prince then, rising from his seat. “Wait.”

He strode to where Phas kneeled.

“You betrayed my great-uncle, didn’t you?” he said, in his mocking man-boy’s voice.

Phas did not look at him or respond.

The boy heaved a dramatic sigh and began to walk away. Then, suddenly he whirled around, sword drawn.

Stabbed.

The entire room froze. The prince nonchalantly drew out his blade. Blood streamed down its length, dripping to the floor. There passed a long, still moment. Then Phas slumped over slowly, clutching at the blooming stain on his clothes, face knit in a shocked grimace.

But still clinging to life. The boy had missed Phas’s vitals, whether through lack of skill or deliberately, Ashne could not be certain.

“That’s what happens to traitors under my rule.”

Matron gripped his shoulder with a trembling hand, face blazing with fury. “Your grandmother would have never approved of such methods.”

The boy scowled and shrugged off her hand. “Remember your place, Matron! My grandmother was just some Krengsra bitch. Why should I care about the approval of some woman who died before I was ever born?”

“Do not speak thus of your own flesh and blood! You had already been born when Lady Naiwenh’s life came to an end. You were but an infant, it is true. But it was for you that she gave her life. And you had best remember it.” Matron turned to the rest of the room. “You had all best remember the lady’s sacrifice. Now go! Leave us!”

The bandits filed out first, still muttering. The officials followed more quietly, seemingly cowed. Two of them had enough wits remaining to drag Phas’s body out along with them. Only the boy remained where he stood, head lowered, arms crossed, still scowling.

Not until the room had emptied entirely did the Matron speak again.

“How much do you want?”

Ashne looked up, but it was not to her that the question was addressed.

The apothecary gave a little cough. “Two bowls of noodles please. And perhaps some mushroom crabs. I’ve always wanted to try some!”

The Matron looked him over, expression unchanging. “I will pay whatever you ask for. All I want is the scabbard in return.”

“Hmm.”

“The young lord will grant you titles. Land. Anything you wish for.”

He sighed. “Did I not already tell you earlier? All in its own time.”

“We need it now. It is of utmost urgency.”

His only response was to sigh again.

The boy straightened. “We’ll just have to make him talk, don’t we, Matron?”

Before Matron could respond, he walked to where Ashne and the apothecary knelt. With a lazy swipe, he knocked off Ashne’s hat.

“Oh, I’m surprised. It’s a woman.” The prince laughed. “Matron, isn’t that funny? And here I thought that bandit bitch was the only one.”

Matron stepped forward, hissing. “One of Marnua’s Maidens.”

Ashne looked away, neither denying nor confirming the accusation. But she knew that her reaction in itself was confirmation enough.

“That Tuanwat certainly has good eyes,” muttered the old woman. Then she said, “Damn! Do they know? Have they taken action already? No. The spare should have convinced them.”

End this. Let my people rest.

“You.” Ashne struggled for words. “You sacrificed an innocent boy.”

The prince shrugged. “One of my servants. He was dying anyway. A weakling like that — he ought to have considered it an honor to give his life for his liege.”

“Khosian is a wily one. And his wife no less so.” Matron strode up to Ashne, tilted up her chin with a gnarled finger. “Speak, girl. How much have they figured out?”

She hesitated. “I am but a humble servant,” she said at last, all but spitting out the words. “I only do as I am told.”

Matron looked her in the eye for a moment longer. Then, seemingly satisfied, dropped her chin and moved away.

“All this time, I thought Marnua had the scabbard,” she said coolly. “All traces of it were lost after Hazsam was lost. I assumed you, her loyal Maidens, must have brought it back to her as a prize, as proof of your success. Had I known otherwise before, I would not have wasted those men’s lives at Ranglhia.”

“Then it was you who sent those assassins —”

Matron’s eyes narrowed. “Assassins? Hardly. They were but mere distractions for my spy. Oh, yes. Did you think I had no eyes at your court, even after our disgraceful defeats and through these years of exile?”

Of course they had known. Known, or at the very least suspected: the little serving girl who had claimed to be an orphan but whose accent sometimes betrayed her in the heat of frustration, the orchard-keeper who often disappeared on supposed visits to his family, and still others besides.

The most obvious of the spies had been kept satisfied with rumors, half-truths, and unimportant tidings. The guards and servants closest to the king and queen had been handpicked by Khosian and Marnua themselves. Much like Ashne and her sister Swordmaidens.

Could the court be more rife with enemies than she had assumed?

Surely not. The war was over. The only dangers expected now were from Krengsra and the Court. Of the two it was the fecund western kingdom that greedily collected news and information about their humble riverine allies, not the lofty Dragons of Tu who cared little for events beyond their reach and notice.

Save, perhaps, for the recent matter of marriage and alliance.

The Matron took her silence in stride. “Do not think we have given up, girl. Though our king sleeps in the hills, though our capital lies half-burnt and abandoned — still the tiger’s blood remains. While it is so, we shall never bend our knee to that pretender!”

“Do you think to seize back your kingdom with naught but a bunch of rabble?” Ashne asked incredulously.

“Is that what you think?” Matron laughed.

But the prince, it seemed, had already bored of the proceedings. “If you think her such a danger,” he said, “why not have her executed along the traitor?”

The apothecary spoke then, in a lazy, arch tone, “My dear princeling, have you forgotten our agreement so soon?”

The boy’s face twisted. “Shut up, madman. If she won’t get us the scabbard any faster, then she serves no use to me!”

“Patience, your highness!” said Matron, but said no more of the matter, leaving Ashne to wonder exactly what kind of agreement the apothecary had made, in addition to or in place of whatever agreement he had made with the bandits.

The Matron turned back to Braksya. “We need the sword. We need Hazsam. The men are restless: they shall not be satisfied with empty promises for much longer. But Hazsam lies at the bottom of Gokho Lake, by the ruins of the old capital... Only the scabbard can retrieve it now. Only it can call for its brethren. Will you not cooperate with us?”

Braksya shrugged. “I have already given you my terms.”

Matron’s eyes narrowed. “I see. In that case, I have no choice. Guards!”

Several bandits hurried back inside.

“Take these two away!” said the Matron. Then, under her breath, she muttered, “We shall see if we cannot break them yet.”

Ashne gritted her teeth.

* * *

They were dragged through the inky night to one of the smaller houses and thrown into the back room, where they were tied to posts on opposite sides of the room. After the bandits left, Ashne tested the knot a few times, but the rope held.

For a long time they were silent, the apothecary staring openly at her, lips quirked, while she tried to calm herself. The floor was strewn with moldy straw, and a portion of the ceiling was evidently rotting. Outside, wood creaked as men trudged along the walkways, calling out to their friends or shouting directions. The only light in the room came from the lit torches flickering beyond the screened windows.

Before she knew it, words tumbled from her lips, broken syllables of accusation. “Why did you have to be so stubborn? If you had only cooperated with Phas —”

She could have retrieved the princess, safe and sound, and long since been on her way back home. Back to the capital. But even as she spoke, she knew she was being unfair. If he had not run off with the bandits, she would have never learned of this village.

Of the boy.

The apothecary, suddenly serious, eyed her with something approaching disdain. “Have you not figured it out yet, Miss Ashne?”

“What is there to figure out, apothecary?” she spat, unable at last to restrain herself. “Weren’t you looking for the sorcerer? You had the perfect opportunity —”

“My name is Braksya. Braksya the Mad.”

Something in his voice silenced her.

“You must understand,” he said, returning to his usual ironic tone. “The scabbard is not so worthless as you seem to think.”

“That much has been obvious even to me for some time now.”

“Tsk. Have you truly been unaware all along? And here I thought you were just playing me for a fool!”

“Stop being so damn cryptic!”

“My apologies.” He did not sound sorry at all. “But surely you must have noticed what immense power that scabbard possessed?”

She opened her mouth to retort. Then the meaning of his words hit her. She gaped at him in silence.

“Of course everyone knew the blade had power. The stories about it have been passed down through the ages and spread across the land like so many little buzzing flies. Bzzzt! Even a foreigner like me could not remain ignorant of them.”

A chillier beauty she had never seen, she thought. Not the dark, deathly cold of a northern winter, devoid of all hope, but the pure gleaming cold of moon and stars, of metal forged in fire and doused in the stillness of the deepest mountain pools.

“But then I heard a most peculiar account while on my journeys, which changed my opinions entirely. Or perhaps more accurately, not quite an account, but a question. It is the blade that possesses power. It is the blade that proves the worthiness of the ruler. Why then, is the sacred heirloom of the riverlands not the sword itself, but sword and scabbard both? A mere matter of aesthetics? Convenience? Happenstance?”

“Just — get to the point.”

“You see,” he continued blithely, as if he had not heard her, “A blade of such power should be cause of much destruction if left unrestrained. And yet in all these generations, no great disasters have been witnessed. In none of the songs and records do they speak of the conqueror’s blade, of the one with the power to change the course of history and twist the fates of men. Even your little disputes have each time come to an end without much loss. Have you not ever wondered why this is so?”

How dare he speak so of all they had gained and lost and gained again over the years?

“No matter the blade’s inherent power, its true effectiveness depends above all upon its wielder.”

“You are saying then, that the kings of Khonua have been weak?”

“No. The Prince of Light...” she murmured. Fool though his son may have been, Ghuproh himself had been no coward, no weakling. He had demanded the forging of the twin swords Kanzsang and Maklhia, seized three of the five Royal Blades of Awat as tribute before one of them abandoned him for a new master — all of them specimens of great beauty and power. And yet all along Hazsam, oldest and most powerful of them all, had been his to wield, his to command.

“I will never understand why you Riverfolk still call him Prince, when the greatest of his deeds were accomplished as king!” he replied. “But see, even you must agree it was strange that he did not employ the blade that was his by birthright.”

He was right. She had never wondered, never considered the unspoken laws that one who possessed no fear for the gods and all the ambition of the earth might choose to transgress.

“The natural conclusion,” he continued, “is not that mercy miraculously awakened within his bloodthirsty heart, but rather that he could not employ its power, for whatever reason. From there, the answer is clear. After all, for every blade, must there not exist a sheath strong enough to hold it?”

She bowed her head, struggling to piece together these new revelations. If this were true, if all this were true, then even Kitzon had not understood the full picture. Else he should not have been so careless.

It was difficult for her to believe that he had been so mistaken.

“So the scabbard did not just passively restrain the powers of the blade, but forcefully suppressed it through powers of its own? Is that what you are insinuating?”

“Hmm,” he said, neither confirming nor denying it.

He must be lying again. She had held both blade and scabbard, and felt nothing from the latter. Nothing but the still, deep chill of autumn.

If the truth were so easy as he claimed, the Prince of Light would have simply burned the scabbard and unleashed the power of the blade regardless. And Kitzon, Kitzon would have...

She did not know what Kitzon would have done.

And yet Braksya was clearly not the only one convinced of the scabbard’s value. The Matron, too, had seemed convinced it was the key to everything. Even if she was mistaken, even if they were both mistaken, Ashne could not simply ignore their fervent belief.

“Even so,” she said slowly. “What about you? What could you possibly want with such a thing? You hold no allegiance to Khonua. Or is it that you possess ambitions of your own?”

“It was the treasure sword Hazsam that caused that wound of yours, was it not?”

Silence.

At last she whispered hoarsely, “How did you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He did not wait for her reply. “How else to explain those unnatural lingering effects? The blade has marked you. It is what keeps you alive even as it feeds upon your flesh. Its fate is now bound with yours — although in what manner, I cannot yet say. If my theories are correct, then only its scabbard shall be capable of releasing you from this bond. Either way, it should be quite interesting to find out.”

Was this what had drawn his attention, then, that day in the capital, in the rain?

“You seriously cannot mean you have been holding on to that thing all this time, just so that — just for —”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said dismissively. “I am merely curious about precisely how this magic functions. There is so very little remaining of the ancient records, you know.”

Ashne bit back another angry remark. Tried to formulate a better question in her mind. But before she could speak again, a sudden kick rattled the door from outside.

“Quiet in there!” A woman’s voice. Low but sharp.

The chief’s sister.

A smile crept onto the apothecary — no, Braksya’s face. Ashne suppressed an involuntary shiver.

“Why, is that the lovely Inhai I hear?”

The reply was curt but vaguely amused. “That’s Lady Inhai to you, madman.”

“Oh, how cold you have become in your absence! And we were beginning to get along so well with each other. My heart is wounded.”

“I’ll be wounding more than your heart if you keep that up.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get in line for that,” said Braksya, chuckling at the glare Ashne shot him. “I am terribly popular, it seems.”

“As long as you know it.”

Then it fell silent again. Ashne wondered if the woman had left, or if she was still lurking outside, hoping to overhear some important detail from their conversation.

If so, she was out of luck. Ashne was in no mood for further talk. Her limbs were numb and sore, and in the darkness her exhaustion weighed on her. She found herself drifting off to sleep, reawakening with a start when her head tipped over, only to drift off almost immediately again.

She was not sure how much time had passed when she woke to find the light beginning to take on a softer, more uniform quality. She blinked, squinted. Swallowed to relieve the dryness of her mouth. At the other end of the room, Braksya was already awake, gazing in the direction of the window.

Even knowing that others might be listening, she could not resist saying, still feeling muddled from the restless night, “I still do not understand.”

He turned to look at her, and she found herself wondering if he had slept at all. With his hair sticking out all over the place, it was difficult to tell.

“Good morning,” he replied cheerfully. “What don’t you understand?”

“Why did you make that deal with the bandits, if what you desire is knowledge?“

“Oh, our lovely friends have agreed to aid me in a certain experiment,” he said loudly, but shook his head while he spoke.

In the next moment, the ropes around his wrist fell to the ground. He winked at Ashne, who could only gape stupidly at him as he waved his hands around, untied the rest of his binds, and stood, stretching.

He held a finger to his lips.

“It was a proposal I doubted the noble Phas and his mysterious employer would have agreed to. Needless to say, I am satisfied well enough with the bargain I have made.”

With a quick flick of his sleeve, Ashne felt her own binds loosen. She stood as well, rubbing the circulation back into her wrists, and saw, to her shock, a small white snake slithering across the floor.

Braksya smiled at her. He whispered a word she could not hear — no. Not a word, but a single primal syllable, familiar and virile in essence, yet without form. As if on cue, the snake wound itself round and round into a coil, then disappeared.

In its place appeared the scabbard.

“You —” said Ashne, fully awake now, but he strode up to her and clamped a hand over her mouth.

She shoved him away. He shrugged. Crouched down. The scabbard faded from view, replaced once more by the coiled snake, who slowly unwrapped itself and slithered up his outstretched arm, vanishing into his sleeves.

If she could not trust her eyes, then what could she trust?

She could not have imagined it. The delicately painted detail, shimmering gold and bright red upon a sheen of black lacquer, as if just dried, the color still holding strong despite the ages and the elements. In truth she had seen more elaborate scabbards before, slung at the hips of high and mighty ministers and lords, glittering with real gold and precious stones from distant lands. In comparison, this scabbard was lovely but hardly exceptional. Quite ordinary, indeed, save for the blade it had been wrought to hold.

He was right. Even after generations upon generations, none had ever sought to replace the scabbard with one finer, more suited to a sword of Hazsam’s stature. Never before had she given the matter further thought. A sword was a sword; a scabbard, little more than a tool, and one with far less worth than either oar or plough.

But now there were more pressing matters at hand.

“What is the meaning of this?” she whispered angrily. “What game are you playing?”

“Do you trust me?” he whispered back.

She stepped back. “No.”

Outside, a long wailing howl arose, sending chills down her spine.

The howl ebbed into a pitiful whine.

Something crashed into the walls.

Inhai’s voice rose above the sudden clamor of pounding footsteps, confirming that she had spent the night at their door. “What’s going on here?”

“We’re under attack, Lady!”

“What?”

Braksya grinned.