No time to berate herself for being a fool. She wondered if it had been Braksya who betrayed her. Just as Kitzon had. Then she wondered if it had been the young chief.

Their packs lay scattered on the ground, save for Braksya’s basket, which was nowhere to be seen.

Both sword and scabbard were missing.

She searched the rest of the house, her entire being welling with a frightening calm, and could not tell if she were relieved or furious when she discovered the young chief sprawled on the floor in the back, no longer breathing, body still warm.

No sign of blood or injury.

She ran out. Barged into the neighboring huts.

All dead.

For all his peculiar proclivities and frustrating word games, she had not thought him capable of such a deed. Not with his medicines and admonishments and the undeniable though brief glimpse of gentleness in his eyes as he saved that child Dantu from the vines in the storm.

She never had asked him what deal he had struck with Matron and the bandits. She had thought it no longer important, relegated him as a minor threat even the likes of her could handle. But in the end, he was a madman. Who knew what he was capable of?

He could not have gone far. But which direction?

She ran.

Only to hear a frail voice calling out, “Wait!”

She whirled around, and had barely enough sense remaining not to draw her blade.

An old woman, face lined with wrinkles and tattoos alike. She leaned panting against a wall, hands grasping for a hold. Ashne went to her, steadied the woman’s light, trembling frame.

“Wait here. I’ll send for help.”

The old lady shook her head. “No need.”

“The other villagers —”

“There is nothing you can do, child.”

Her fists clenched. “I must. It was I who brought him here. Brought this upon you —”

“You speak of the young man who traveled with you? He departed hours ago. Soon after you left for the palace.”

A cold breeze stirred. “Then — who?”

“Not who,” said the woman. “But what.”

The Tiger. Had they been followed back north after all, despite everything that had transpired?

But the woman laid a gnarled hand upon her arm and shook her head again, as if she had read Ashne’s mind. “Not something you can fight. An entire swarm.”

“What do you mean?”

“’Tis the Night of Ghosts, child. The one night in which the realms draw near. We should have done well to remember it. But now it is too late.”

As a girl she had heard the tales. Heeded the warnings of elders. Taking care to remain indoors on that single night teetering on the brink between summer and fall. Then she had grown older, and no longer feared.

She had lost track of the days.

“The princess,” she said. “The girl who was with me. Is she safe?”

And for a third time the woman shook her head. “You don’t understand. You must understand. You must know... She...”

Convulsions seized the woman. Ashne lost her grip; the woman collapsed like a rag doll.

Moments later, the old woman stilled.

Ashne rose. Looked away.

So he had gone. It was just like him. Leaving on a whim, without even a word of goodbye.

He could not have done this.

She thought back to the fishing village. The symptoms of the sleeping sickness, though not immediately fatal, had not been dissimilar. He had not explained what ailed them then, but she still remembered how grave he looked.

And then how calculating.

But she had to be reasonable. She had to give him credit. No matter how insane his behavior at times, he did not act for no reason. And this deed, he could not have ever committed. Certainly he had desired sword and scabbard, had indeed admitted as much to her. And yet there had been plenty of chances for him to escape with the set before now. Chances he had not taken. Perhaps he had not deemed it the right time.

Already he must be far away.

She must assume that he had taken sword and scabbard. But he would not have harmed the princess, would not have massacred these people.

Or perhaps she was just desperate to believe in him. To trust him, despite all his omissions and half-truths, despite all the times he had already — not betrayed her, exactly, for the concept of betrayal implied an preexisting alliance, and if there was anything she was certain of now, it was that he and she had never been allies, even temporarily — but taken advantage of her.

He had never pretended to be anything other than what he was.

A madman. A simple apothecary. One with hidden motives. Cold-hearted, but also not deliberately cruel.

But what was the alternative?

She was tired of ghosts and spirits. Of all the threads that tangled her limbs, binding her in place, unable to act, unable to think.

But even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw a red glow light up the horizon to the north.

A great blaze, dancing on the peak of the sacred mountain.

A signal fire, as of old.

* * *

She ran because she had no other choice. As she passed the walls of the capital she heard the alarm bells in the distance, saw the soldiers amassing before the gates like ants pouring out from a crushed sand hill. No matter how quickly they moved, they would not be in time.

Whom the fire signaled, she did not know. She did not need to know.

But she knew the princess must be involved, and despite everything, her duty remained.

She ran and she ran and for the first time in weeks, her old injury protested, screaming at her, tearing at her flesh. She had thought it healed, after that day by the lake of gods and kings.

But no. Apparently power lingered there yet. Power she did not comprehend, did not want to comprehend, did not need to comprehend.

Braksya must have noticed. Because the power lingered, so too had he lingered at her side, like an annoying mosquito.

Or perhaps the power had left after all. The power that had bound her rent flesh together, and her fleeing souls to her mortal body, propelling her on through life though she should have died long ago. And now that it had left, death would come at last.

By the time she reached the base of the mountain, she was certain the end was near. Still, she pressed on.

Then she heard voices. Slowed.

“We are too late.”

“Nah. This is perfect. Even better than I’d expected.”

Kitzon. There could be no doubt about it. It was Kitzon after all, he who could have never given up so easily, for whom surrender was an unfamiliar concept.

She listened for more as she pressed closer, but the wind began to blow in the opposite direction, and she could catch only brief strains of the conversation.

“— before us. The king’s men —”

“Forget about them. It won’t matter once we —”

“What of — Mistress Bha—”

“— ol’ biddy can take of herself.”

Something buzzed by her ear. A fly? A mosquito? Ashne forced herself to hold still.

Then, a softer, feminine voice sounded in her ears. “— you promised.”

The princess!

Ashne pushed aside the foliage blocking her view, wincing from another surge of pain.

She could see nothing but the girl’s back and the vague outline of a man beyond. The girl clutched something in her hands.

A sheathed sword.

Hazsam.

Kitzon reached out from the shadows and took sword and scabbard from her, smiling.

“Of course. Thank you, my dear. You have done well.”

Ashne’s legs moved through a haze of pain and red-hot anger.

“You!”

Kitzon looked up, braids swinging back. Too late, his hand reached for a sword — his old curved blade, rather than Hazsam. The moment cost him.

Her own blade swung down, for once straight and true.

Only to meet another.

“My apologies,” said Phas Tiuknin, stepping between her and Kitzon as the ring of metal faded into stillness. “But I cannot let you harm him.”

“I owe you one,” said Kitzon, mouth cracking into a grin. He clapped a hand to Phas’s shoulder, and in response, Phas moved away, sword still unsheathed, but no longer at the ready.

She stayed her position, fingers numb, arms stiff.

Kitzon regarded her for a moment. “Yo, Ashne. Been a while.” Then he chuckled, shaking his head. “What on earth did you do to your hair?”

“How dare you,” she whispered. It was all she could bring herself to say.

His face fell, scar tugging the corner of his lips into a grimace. But he did not reply.

Ashne could see the princess backing away, staring at them as if in disbelief. But she no longer cared.

To him, she said only, “Why?”

He took a deep breath, looked away. “Listen. It’s not what you think.”

“What am I supposed to think? We believed in you. Trusted you. You were just using us! Just as you’ve been using that girl!” She gestured towards the princess, who continued to watch them, unspeaking.

Now he did look her in the eye, expression frightening, not quite readable. Despite herself, she stepped back.

“Yes, I admit it. It was Hazsam I wanted all along. But I never meant to kill you. Hurt you. Only to keep you from pursuing me, from hindering me in my goals.” He grinned again, but his time the smile did not quite reach his eyes. “You damn well near got me that night, you know? Careless of me! In all my years as a merc, I’ve never been so afraid. So certain of the end.”

“You killed Zsaran.”

At those words, he turned to stone. “Zsaran... I never. I couldn’t have. Never. You must believe me.”

His tone was more defiant than pleading, and yet it was that very underlying urgency that frightened her most of all.

Her mouth grew dry. She swallowed, ignoring the sudden painful doubt throbbing in her chest. “If you didn’t, then who did?”

His face transformed abruptly into a violent mask of fury. “Who killed her, you ask?” he said, voice steadily rising. “Why, the very ones she trusted with her life. The very ones she would have sacrificed everything for — and did.”

How cold she felt, despite the fires of his rage and her own brief burst of anger. “What do you mean?” she said, so quietly she wasn’t sure he would hear her at first.

“It was your own beloved bitch of a queen that killed her! Don’t you see? Don’t you understand?”

She took another step back. “You — You lie.”

He stepped forward, refusing her the distance. Reached out and grabbed her blade, guiding it to his throat. “I speak the truth. And you know it.”

She panicked. Snatched her sword away. “Why should I believe you? You traitor! You —”

As he looked down at his bleeding hand, it seemed to her as if a mantle of indescribable grief draped over his shoulders, sinking into his very bones. He looked up. Opened his mouth to speak again.

An arrow whistled through the air.

The arrow, she thought, in that brief flash of a moment. It had been an arrow. Braksya had picked it up, disposed of it before she noticed or comprehended. She had thought — Phas, perhaps, or Kitzon himself, or even the bandit chief Tuanwat, but of course it could not be —

This time it was Phas who was too late to act. He turned, sword half raised, to the shadows. The princess cried out. Kitzon clutched at his shoulder, face twisted in pain.

From the shadows emerged a familiar figure.

“Stop right where you are,” said Old Shranai, bow readied for a second shot. “Or the next will find its mark.”

Kitzon straightened, looked at her with undisguised contempt.

Shranai’s arms held steady. “Hand over the princess.”

He snorted. “It’s not the girl you want, now, is it? But this?” With his free hand he held out Hazsam, sheathed yet beautiful as ever.

Behind him, the princess stepped forward, but Phas lunged past and grabbed her arm, angling her between his employer and their opponent. To Ashne’s surprise, the princess glared at him, but Phas held firm, keeping his eye on Shranai.

“My apologies,” he murmured once again. “Lord Kitzon’s orders.”

Shranai swore. Kitzon burst into a rumbling cascade of laughter. After a moment, his eyes met Ashne’s gaze.

As if on cue, she raised her sword, and he fell silent.

“Go, Tiuknin,” he said then through clenched teeth. “Hurry.”

With a grimace, he snapped the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder and tossed it aside.

Phas looked over at him. “My lord —”

“Go, you fool!”

Still he hesitated.

“What are you waiting for, girl?” Shranai snapped, as if noting Ashne’s presence for the first time. “Help me!”

All at once Phas pulled the princess away, dragging her toward the forest. Shranai loosed her second arrow. Ashne did not think, did not stop to breathe.

Her arm whipped out as if on its own accord.

The arrow dropped to the ground, cloven in two.

Her arm fell back to her side as she stood there, stunned. Phas and the princess were long gone. Kitzon turned to her, staring, clearly disbelieving and yet not quite surprised.

“Thank you,” he said at last, and fled into the darkness beyond.