The waters of the Great River had receded after the floods earlier that year, leaving its banks lush and green, a sharp contrast to the drier vistas further north. The greenery continued as they retraced their route to the Canal, turning south towards Gokho Lake. Though summer was drawing steadily to a close, the sun remained bright as ever, cooler nights serving as the only proof of time’s passage. It began to rain again as well: a light misty spray that began every morning before dawn and dissipated by noon, leaving behind only the scent of growth.

Ashne dreamed often now, incoherent visions interspersed with whispered words and overwhelming heaviness that seized her chest and her throat, rendering her mute even in the landscapes of her heart. Once she dreamed of a voice singing, Let us follow the rivers past the vast seas to the roots of the sun; let us meet again in the silent valleys of the dark beyond. She woke aching with hollow, all-consuming listlessness, but afterward could not recall why or how or what she had seen or heard in her slumber.

The waters were choppier now, the currents stronger. She let matters of navigation and steering occupy her mind, unwilling or unable to dwell anything else.

Roughly one day north of the Lake, they moored, preparing to make the rest of the journey on foot. They soon ran into a party of local hunters, who complained of brigands running wild, ruffians raiding nearby settlements for food and women, and a steadily growing encampment at the lakeshore. “Has it come to war again?” they demanded, but Ashne could give them no straight answer, could only warn them to take care and arm themselves before they continued on their separate ways.

The closer they drew to their destination, the more her memories began to overwhelm her. But she remembered not those halcyon days with Zsaran and Kitzon and his little mare, and those final miserable hours of despair on the dark shores of the lake.

She remembered instead a distant summer. Before or after the fever, she could not recall. All the summers of her childhood seemed to meld into two distinct impressions: the months running wild with Zsaran, and the years playing at the queen’s feet before they entered her service.

They had been playing that day too. A blazing hot morning. The princess still young, her final soul not quite settled, her name not yet bestowed. The twins not yet in their lives, nor their master. Only Shranai and the queen and each other, and them still too young to have received the protective tattoos of adulthood, too young to comprehend the murmurs of war that surrounded them daily.

How hot it had been. Hotter than it was even now, so hot that the light trembled above the river, forcing her to shade her eyes as she searched for Zsaran’s silhouette.

Someone barreled into her from behind with a loud whoop, knocking them both into the ground. They laughed and laughed and Ashne gulped for air, struggled to right herself. The baked earth pressed against her sticky skin; a moist breeze ruffled through her hair.

“Zsaran,” she gasped. She could seem to form any other words. “Zsaran!”

At last the other girl relented, still laughing. “Gotcha this time!”

“That wasn’t fair,” she protested.

“Nope, it wasn’t,” Zsaran responded cheerfully. She flopped down on the ground beside Ashne, dangling her bare feet in the water. “It’s so hot,” she moaned.

“Shranai says it’ll cool off later this week.”

“Yeah? That’s what she always says.”

Ashne sat up, tucking her bent knees beneath her chin. She said, “I hope we don’t have to do anymore studying today.”

“Really? It’s not so bad.” Zsaran slowly mouthed the phrases of formal Dragon speech they had learned earlier, trying different voices for each word, savoring each individual syllable on her tongue. She finished off with a perfect imitation of their tutor, a wrinkled little old man from the north who always seemed as if he would collapse at the slightest breeze. Ashne giggled; Zsaran beamed.

“Don’t let him get to you,” she said. “He’s just some poor exile without any home to return to. That’s what the lady said, you know.”

But this answer had troubled Ashne too. “Does that mean he’s like us?”

Zsaran snorted. “What are you talking about? We’ve got a home now, haven’t we?” Then she sprang to her feet, eyes widening. “Whoa, what’s that?”

There was no time for Ashne to respond. The sun disappeared and water filled her ears.

Water. That was all she remembered of what happened next. Water, and shadows. Screams, not her own, as distant and garbled as the strange northern speech in her ears. Air, air. She needed air. All she could think of was air. But there was nothing but water and shadow. Her hand reached out for the sky, but found only a reflection. Her lungs heaved. Her throat squeezed shut. Bubbles, water, shadow.

A strong arm wrapped around her. Water, water. Surging upward downward everywhere. Her head broke through to the surface. To air at last, and color, and red-eyed Zsaran shouting nonsense at a disheveled, scowling Shranai, kicking and biting against the woman’s unyielding grasp.

Air. Air, sweet and heady.

“Child, can you hear me?” murmured her savior.

Ashne twisted back, her weakened limbs floating motionless upon the river’s surface.

“My lady!” she whispered in dismay, before her chest shuddered into another round of coughs. Water filled her mouth; she spit it out.

“Shh, shh,” said the queen. Her dark hair trailed behind her in the water like a silken veil, and her face, usually rouged, glistened white in the sun. Brilliant layers of color fluttered on the shore where her outer robes had been scattered in a heap. “It’s all right now. You are safe.”

“Ashne!” cried Zsaran from the shore. Again and again she called her name.

The queen smiled. Raised a slender bare arm in acknowledgement, then began to tow Ashne back toward land. Toward safety.

Zsaran wrenched free at last from Shranai’s hold and rushed over, pulling Ashne into a fierce tangled embrace. Shranai crossed her arms and watched on with a look of disapproval; the queen laughed, her voice high and clear and lovely. Beads of water trickled down from her unmarked skin, her soaked underclothes, darkening the earth where they fell.

“Oh, my dear child,” said the queen, wringing out her hair. “Do you not know how to swim? I should have realized sooner.”

Ashne shook her head.

“Why, I shall have to teach you myself, then!”

Ashne shook her head again. Tears scorched her cheeks, but she could not say a word.

“Whoever heard of a Turtle child who feared the water?” muttered Shranai.

“Come, now, Shranai. These things must be learned. One mustn’t approach the gods with the arrogance of an ignorant trespasser.”

Shranai harrumphed, and Zsaran beamed up at the queen, chattering away about everything but for whatever she had seen in the river before Ashne’s fall.

She remembered little else of what transpired afterward. It was a memory that had filled her at times with shame, and at times with pride. But now, she wondered only what might have transpired, had she been taken by the waters that day. If she had sunk to the bottom of the river, drifting away to the other world. Would Zsaran have followed her, as they had long ago sworn? Who then would the queen have chosen to save?

Meaningless to wonder, now. But in those brief wisps of the past she could pretend that she had only dreamed of that night of starflowers. That somewhere, upon some distant sunlit plain, Zsaran ran and laughed and sang without a care in the world and would soon find her way home once more.

That her souls did not wander, bereft of memory, lost among the dark waves.

* * *

They arrived at the lake before dawn. From their vantage point atop the hills, it looked just as Ashne remembered it, shrouded in mist, stretching beyond the horizon like the vast sea, the shadow of mountains reflected in the distant skies. If she squinted she thought she could imagine the burnt traces of Kasa shimmering there in the shadows like an empty turtle’s shell.

But according to the hunters, it was not to Kasa the men had gathered. Not by those beautiful, desolate ruins to the west, but to the ragged, swampy eastern shores.

And sure enough, there the encampment lay in plain view. Dark figures ambled about, dousing the remnants of the night fires.

There were fewer tents than she had expected. In fact, she estimated not more than seventy men present, if even that many. Barely the population of a small village, nor any match for the number of servants and guards employed at the palace: certainly no army.

But still more men than had been afforded the false prince.

Upon closer observation, she noted that the bandits were now in the minority. By their dress and bearing, most of the others were former officials or warriors of Khonua. Perhaps more bandits had fled in the wake of Rahm’s departure and the Tiger’s supposed feasting. Of all men, the loyalty of bandits amounted to the least.

Aside from those minor details, all the tents were the same. None seemed to be heavily guarded in particular. (Such audacity!) Ashne could not see the princess anywhere, nor could she even begin to guess at where the girl was being held.

“We have to get closer,” she said to Braksya, who was scanning the camp himself, though what he was looking for she did not know and did not care to ask.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

Once they descended the hills, they would be spotted. There was a slight growth of forest behind the encampment and along the shore beyond, but no cover between the camp and their current location.

“We need a distraction.”

He grinned. “Ask and I shall provide,” he said with a little mock bow.

She did not smile back. “Nothing too outrageous. We don’t need to rouse their suspicions any more than we must.”

“What little faith you possess!” he replied, already rooting through his basket for materials. After a moment, his face lit up in glee. With a cheerful wave, he began to clamber down the slope.

The sun had not moved more than a sliver when suddenly a cloud of thick, dark smoke began to rise from one of the tents. The camp immediately roused to life, scrambling about and shouting (she assumed) for water. Ashne wasted no time in making her way down, noting in the meantime that the requested buckets of water actually seemed to momentarily worsen the smoke.

She met Braksya at the foot of the hill, looking very satisfied with himself. More than usual, anyway.

She said, noting that his little snake was basking on his arm again, “Were you spotted?”

“Of course not,” he replied indignantly.

She ignored him and broke out into a run. Slipped into the sparse growth of trees, crouching low, darting from trunk to trunk, the strange pungent scent of smoke growing ever stronger. At last, as close to the camp as she dared, she sank behind a tangle of reeds and shrubbery to catch her breath.

Moments later, Braksya plopped down beside her. She eyed him, then shifted over to make room and pulled a few more branches over to serve as extra cover.

And just in time, as the smoke finally began to dissipate.

“I thought I told you not to go overboard,” she said.

He grinned again. “It worked, didn’t it?”

That, she had to concede. Still, both bandits and officials alike now looked sweaty and on edge. Whether that was entirely Braksya’s fault, or if he had merely exacerbated the situation, she could not be sure. Nor could she predict whether the mood of the camp would work in their favor or against.

“Do you enjoy doing this kind of thing, or are you really just that much of an idiot?”

“What kind of thing?” he asked innocently, and in the back of her mind she remembered, They call me Braksya the Mad.

She did not have the heart or the energy to remain angry at him. Instead, she turned from him and scanned the camp once more from their new vantage point. She soon located Chief Tuanwat, sprawled by one of the doused campfires, laughing heartily with a few of his men — the only cheerful figures she could see in the entire camp. Nor was his sister Inhai anywhere to be seen, which was worrisome, though Ashne had not sensed any other lurking presences nearby. Still, she would have to be careful.

Moments later, Matron and the prince emerged from a tent near the center of the encampment, the boy scowling and red-faced, Matron frowning slightly but otherwise impassive. Both in Dragon robes rather than southern tunics. They seemed to have been arguing — indeed, must have been so engrossed in their own affairs that they had not noticed the brief panic over the smoke.

Still she could not find the princess, or any hints as to her whereabouts. One of the other central tents was most likely, but the lack of guards troubled her even now.

Ashne bit her lip. Had she been wrong all this time after all? No. She couldn’t possibly be. Perhaps the princess was being held elsewhere. Or perhaps she was already —

A faint whinny sounded in the distance.

Ashne froze, suddenly cold with dread despite the unrelenting sun.

She raised herself. Forced herself to look.

From the northeastern hills galloped a rider upon a blood-red mare.

“It’s him,” she whispered.

At the edge of the camp, the rider dismounted and hailed the pair of bandits who had been standing guard through all the ruckus caused by Braksya’s smoke. One scampered off to find Tuanwat, while the other took the horse and led it away. The rider glanced around, his gaze sweeping past Ashne and Braksya’s hiding spot.

Ashne realized she was trembling.

It was Kitzon. It was him after all, looking the same as ever. The ragged scar. The gold hoops in his ears. The ends of his hair sectioned and wrapped in caps of leather and bone. The two braids framing his face. Even the hint of stubble on his chin.

He was no ghost. She had not simply imagined him that night. That night, and all the nights after...

Despite knowing what the truth must be, she had not quite believed it. Not until now.

She clutched at her own arms, willing them to steady.

He was alive. Alive and well, despite the mortal wound she had bestowed upon him that distant bloody night on these very same shores.

But then, the wound he had given her had not sent her into the other world either.

Only the boy had died that night. The false heir and his false servants.

And now Zsaran.

Zsaran, who should have lived.

With a brief satisfied smirk, Kitzon strolled to the edge of the lake and looked out. Not long after, Matron and the prince made their way to the shore without speaking, stopping a few paces away from him.

At Ashne’s side, Braksya stirred.

“He’s not the one I’m looking for,” he murmured.

Ashne could not tell if he were disappointed.

“Then go,” she said. “Your life will be in danger if you are found.”

He crossed his arms. “I’m not leaving until I get my scabbard back.”

She gave him a look. “Your scabbard,” she repeated.

“I won it, fair and square. Now it is mine by right.”

It had not been Magistrate Tham’s to lose, but she did not bother arguing with him.

All this time, only to find he had been chasing nothing but an illusion. But perhaps the failure meant nothing to him.

Nothing ever seemed to mean anything to him.

“What are they waiting for?” she whispered instead, more to herself than to him. For indeed, after the earlier commotion, the entire encampment seemed to have settled down once more. Waiting for something, for someone, some sort of sign or signal or acknowledgment before they proceeded with their long-anticipated retrieval of Hazsam.

By the campfire, Tuanwat yawned and stretched. His men squatted down, no longer joking. A handful of officials drifted toward the shore, keeping a respectful distance from the three figures already waiting there. Matron stared straight ahead from her position at the edge of the lake, calm and unmoving. The prince fidgeted at her side, but voiced no complaint. Even Kitzon seemed content to do nothing, despite the look of impatience on his face that had replaced his earlier smirk and the barely restrained energy rippling through his unmoving form.

He had always been impatient. Always the first to rush into battle, the first to dispense with the niceties in a verbal negotiation.

He had not been the one to attack first that night. Had instead attempted to flee like a coward, while she chased after, knowing that it was the least she could do for Zsaran, who had refused to join them in the completion of their year-long mission. It was the least she could do in apology, the least Ashne could do to spare her this pain. She had disposed of the boy already; his body lay cooling on the shores behind her. How much more difficult could this meddling traitor be?

That night, for once, she had been the one to strike first.

But he had been the first to draw blood.

With cold and beautiful Hazsam: thirsting, hungering, consuming...

Through sheer luck rather than skill had she managed to land the returning blow. He had been too arrogant, heady with victory, confident in his own power. Before he realized what was happening, before he had a chance to withdraw, she had lifted her blade and run it through him with the last of her strength, grieving in Zsaran’s place, comforted in the knowledge that in this, at least, she had not failed.

She had watched him fall, watched him dying even as she too slipped away to the dark realm.

But she had not seen him dead.

It was not unheard of for men to recover from wounds thought mortal, or even to reawaken from a temporary death.

It did not matter how he had survived. Only that he had.

“For that, perhaps?” said Braksya, and it was a moment before Ashne realized he was answering her previous question.

She looked over at where he indicated. A trio of bandits emerged from the tent beside the Matron’s, dragging a fourth figure between them.

The princess.

* * *

She started, about to rush out of the foliage and straight into the middle of the gathering, but remembered herself in time.

Braksya whispered, suddenly serious, “Your princess?”

She nodded. Swallowed.

The girl looked bedraggled, but otherwise unhurt. Even so, Ashne, who had been expecting the worst, found no relief or consolation in that observation.

Had the girl always been so thin? So pale? Her hair hung loose upon her back in lank, coarse strands.

And she was dressed in the white robes of a sacrifice.

Ashne was struck by a sudden, horrible suspicion about the truth behind the rumors from the capital and its environs. Ages ago now, it seemed.

Those missing children. The dead buffalo. The unrest in Tham, the sickness in the fishing village, the bandit’s talk of devouring. Even the various failed summons Braksya had suspected. Did it all come down to this, after all? It was an outrageous thought. Almost preposterous. And yet —

One cannot receive without first giving.

And yet had not the Matron claimed that the scabbard would suffice? Was Tuanwat truly a man who could laugh so freely with his men one moment, and coldly throw away their lives in the next?

Unless neither of them knew. Unless neither of them understood the truth.

Kitzon —

Braksya suddenly stood.

She rose to follow him, but he turned back with a quick shake of his head.

“Stay here,” he hissed.

“What — ?”

“I need you to cover for me,” he said. “In case something goes wrong.”

It was the first time, she realized, that he had expressed or indicated anything other than absolute certainty in his mad schemes. That, more than Hazsam’s scabbard, more than the threat of the Tiger, more than Kitzon’s presence, frightened her.

She did not fear death. But if she should fail here, after all that had transpired, after everything...

He flashed her a quick grin, then began to creep away.

His show of confidence was no reassurance.

Still, she held her position, watching as Kitzon shifted from stillness into motion, striding over to meet the bandits and the princess. He threw his head back and laughed, his voice carrying to her on the wind, warm and liquid-smooth. But Ashne was too far away to tell if the princess or her captors spoke in turn. She tensed, cursing the distance. Her fingers found their way to the hilt of her sword. Clenched it, then unclenched. Capricious and inferior as this blade was, she had no faith that she could cut the princess free in time even were she close enough to make the attempt, much less escape with the girl from all their pursuers.

But she was wrong to blame the sword, when the fault in truth lay with its wielder.

Kitzon turned, heading back to his previous waiting spot at the shore. The bandits followed him, dragging the princess behind them.

They had made no move to hurt the girl yet. But such a grand sacrifice could not be so carelessly initiated.

No matter what Braksya had said, she could not stay.

The encampment was beginning to empty, as more men headed to the shores. Ashne rose from the bushes and darted forward, taking cover in the shadow of the closest tent. At the shore, Matron and the prince stepped forward, Matron with a ceremonial dagger in her hand. She handed it to Kitzon.

Who accepted it, then turned and grabbed the princess’s arm, wrenching her away from the bandits.

Ashne bit back a gasp. Forced herself not to panic and reveal herself, though her heart screamed that it was too late, already too late.

Kitzon slashed, the movement almost too fast to see. For a moment Ashne’s vision blanked. When her head focused again, she saw that the princess was still alive, still standing. Crimson bloomed on her fluttering white sleeve.

Ashne trembled. Collected herself. Continued forward.

Kitzon held the princess’s arm out over the water, letting her blood drip into the depths of the lake. Beside them, the Matron drew Hazsam’s scabbard from her robes and handed it to her charge.

The prince stretched out his arms, clasped the scabbard in both hands. He took one look at Matron, then at Kitzon and the princess. He set his shoulders back and turned to face the lake. Another heartbeat passed. The murmur of the gathered men faded to silence.

The prince stepped into the waters before him.

As Ashne slipped from tent to tent, eyes trained upon the scene unfolding at the lake’s edge, she remembered.

It had been late afternoon, pale and cold with twilight’s approach.

I cannot do this deed, Zsaran had said. I cannot kill this child.

Then stay, Ashne had whispered. Stay, and I will do it.

But perhaps even then it had already been too late.

The wind snapped through the hills. Flocks of birds winged into the darkening sky, scattering like leaves. Further beyond, an unnatural cloud of light expanded above the surface of the lake.

The spirits have returned. They’ve breached the gap, Kitzon exclaimed. The boy must be near!

There had been no time to ask him what he’d meant. Time enough only to chase after, running at his heels, sword drawn and at the ready.

Few warriors remained in the boy’s train by then: too-old veterans who should have long ago retired, too-young novices who clutched their weapons with little more skill than they wielded their oars. Easily dispatched, soon forgotten.

And then the boy himself, waiting at the lake’s edge. Alone. Face pale and wan, Hazsam sheathed and cradled in his stick-thin arms...

But it was not night now. The wind had died some time ago and had not since restarted; the sun blazed high overhead, and the prince’s face was red and glistening with sweat. As he raised the scabbard above his head, his sleeves tumbled down, revealing strong, fleshy arms.

The surface of the lake seemed unnaturally still, but for the soft ripples spreading outward from the prince as he waded deeper and deeper. Soon the water had reached his neck, yet still he did not stop, though his arms shook and his eyes could no longer disguise his fright.

When the water had reached his chin, he froze in place, robes floating behind him like a long, iridescent tail.

“What’s the matter, your highness?” cried the Matron. “Go on!”

“I-I can’t!” the boy called back, not daring even to turn.

“You must!”

The boy shuddered visibly. But after a moment, he continued. Step after step. The water reached his chin. Then his lips. His nose. His eyes. And at last, closed around his head entirely.

Moments later, the scabbard sank out of sight as well. Bandits and officials alike watched on, tense with unvoiced anticipation. Kitzon smiled, leaning forward with barely suppressed eagerness, hand still gripped around the princess’s wrist. Matron’s lips thinned in a straight line. Tuanwat merely looked curious.

The wind rose again, forming waves on the surface of the lake, whipping at the onlookers’ hair and clothes.

Ashne crept forward, unnoticed and unheeded by all.

Then a tremor rumbled through the ground. Ashne steadied herself in time. A few of the Matron’s people were caught off guard and stumbled into each other. One or two were knocked down.

But all eyes were trained upon the lake. Where the prince had walked, the waters parted into two swells that rose higher and higher until they formed two streaming walls.

Between the walls of foam and water stood the boy, drenched and gasping, scabbard clasped to his chest once more instead of raised overhead.

From the dark waters before him emerged a giant beaked snout. Ashne glimpsed a pair of dark, unfathomable eyes. Then the snout rose into the air, stretching out from a gnarled gray neck. The jaws snapped open.

Inside, Hazsam glowed.

The prince bowed once. Twice. Thrice. Reached out with pale trembling arms and plucked the blade from the turtle’s jaws.

A single pure note reverberated through the air, then faded, so swift and illusory Ashne was sure she must have imagined it.

Then an intense throbbing pain tore through her entire being, circling the wound in her side, then running up her back to her head and down to her toes. Pain, pain, pain. Nothing but pain. Everywhere, nowhere, then everywhere again. Head dancing and swimming. All seemed to dim or grow hazy around her. She bit down on her lip, straining against the confines of her own body. If only she could fly away, free as a bird...

No. She couldn’t. She mustn’t forget herself.

She forced her gaze back forward. Before her eyes, the turtle’s jaws snapped shut. Drew back into the depths of the lake. The watery walls began to collapse. The prince scrambled backwards, then turned and fled for the shore, sword in one hand, scabbard in the other.

But even as the waves crashed and churned, a sudden angry roar echoed from the hills.

The Tiger came bounding forth, paws skimming across the violent waters. It landed right in the boy’s path, snarling, tail curled.

Confused shouts arose, some calling for old King Ghuproh, others begging for mercy. The boy cowered, trapped between the waves and the beast.

Kitzon was laughing. He had released the princess, who now stood alone, one hand grasping her bleeding arm, face empty of the fear and bewilderment that consumed all the others around her.

It was Ashne’s chance. She ran, pushing herself through the haze, through the pain.

The Tiger struck. A blinding light filled the scene. When the light faded again, Ashne saw a faint, glowing figure standing between the Tiger and the boy. A nude, eyeless woman, colorless hair streaming all around her to cover the boy and herself. Only a single strand of hair coiled on the ground, tethered to the fallen scabbard.

From the Matron, Ashne heard a gasp, audible even over the cries of the crowd. “My lady?”

The pain in her side spiked. A single moment of clarity: so the power of the scabbard lay not in its association with the blade after all. But in this pale specter, this lost and wandering soul, bound to the mortal planes, to this cold and lifeless vessel.

Ashne remembered, suddenly, Braksya’s supposed deal with the bandits. His wild theories.

No. It no longer mattered.

The princess was here. Right before her eyes.

Pain forgotten, or perhaps lessening at last, Ashne lunged forward and cut down the nearest bandits, who were still too stunned to act. At the shoreline, the waves crashed against the shield of hair, then receded. The Tiger snarled, then swiped angrily at the ghost-woman. But though the woman sank to her knees, still her shield held.

“Matron!” screamed the boy, sheer terror in his gaze. “Help — please —”

The woman turned, hair still streaming, and wrapped her arms around him.

But the Matron did not budge. She stared on blankly, face pale, hands clutched uselessly at her breast. The Tiger roared again, sending reverberations through the air, across the water, deep into the very earth itself. Not a single person seemed able to move as the Tiger paced round and round, seeking a way past the ghost woman’s shimmering embrace.

Not a single person but for Kitzon. Who strode forward, face set in cold determination, curved sword drawn and at the ready.

Only then did the old Matron stir, shoving past frantic officials, past the water’s edge, running to reach her charge’s side with the swiftness of a woman half her age. Chief Tuanwat shouted for his men.

Too late. Kitzon swung down. His sword passed through the ghost-woman, unaffected by her barrier.

Blood. The woman faded. Water from the lake swept forth into the emptied space. The Tiger roared a third time, and snatched the fallen boy into its jaws with a sickening crunch.

“Attack, you blithering fools! Go get that piece of scum!”

Tuanwat’s voice. But most of the bandits began to turn and flee instead, along with the various gathered officials. The Matron’s white head bobbed against the flow. Ashne continued to slice through the fray, trying to reach the princess, who was now trapped somewhere in the frenzy, and nowhere in sight. At the shoreline, Tuanwat and Kitzon engaged in furious battle. The Tiger, too, sprang forth, dark blood dripping from its jaws, staining its white fur. As men scattered and screamed, the great beast began to trample and rip apart bodies as if they were little more than dolls stuffed with grain.

Ashne let men flee past her, striking only at those who struck at her first. A man with crazed eyes charged at her, blade drawn, but suddenly collapsed before he could reach her, not a single sign of blood or injury to be seen. Ashne leaped over his fallen body, no longer questioning or hesitating, and blocked another incoming strike with her sword. The blow jolted her arm, numbing her wrist elbow.

Truly this blade was no replacement for her keen Shenkes. But with Lhepkes and its master lost, perhaps there was no difference.

The thought, brief as it as, wrenched her heart. But she had no chance to linger. Something buzzed at her ear. She flinched and turned. Caught a brief glimpse of a wasp, of all things, before it flitted away and disappeared.

“I have upheld my end of the bargain,” shouted a familiar voice. “Now it is time for you to uphold yours!”

Braksya. He and the Matron grappled at the shore, slipping in blood and water, struggling over the scabbard. The Matron, armed with a knife and eyes alit with terrifying determination, was gaining the advantage.

How Braksya had managed to make his way into the midst of all this bloodshed unnoticed, Ashne did not know.

More importantly to her, the princess too was stumbling towards them, arm still bleeding and face unnaturally pale, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

Ashne ran, feet thundering against the ground to the beat of her heart.

She wasn’t quite certain what happened next.

Both Braksya and the Matron tumbled to the ground. The scabbard flew from their grasp, soaring high into the air. Mere steps away, the princess crouched low, scrambling for something.

The scabbard hurtled back down. Ashne ducked, caught it with her free hand. When she looked again, the princess was standing again, staring in Ashne’s direction, Hazsam gleaming in her grasp.

Ashne thrust the scabbard into her sash. Lunged forward and grabbed the princess’s arm, pulling the girl to her side. Behind them, Braksya rose, shaking his head, still disoriented from his fall. Ashne shouted at him in her own tongue, forgetting that he did not understand. She did not wait for a response. Instead, turned and fled, dragging the princess behind her. But sure enough, he followed.

They ran and they ran, until at last they left the sounds of battle far behind them and passed the hills bordering the lake.

Only then did they stop.

High above the turtle lords’ lake, Ashne dropped to her knees. Through her sweat, she felt the solid weight of the glass pendant against her chest.

She bowed her head. “Your highness.”

“I knew you would come,” said the princess.

It was over, Ashne thought.

At last, it was all over.

* * *

By the shores of Lake Gokho knelt a lone woman. The lake blazed with sun and blood; she gazed out upon the rippling waters, her eyes seeking the distant ruins of the old capital. How beautiful the land remained, even now, after all of these years. How beautiful the beloved city of Lord Czesa and the Prince of Light, even in abandon and decay.

How many the years she had sacrificed.

“I have grown old, my lady,” she whispered. “And the gods have abandoned us, if ever they were our allies.”

Too old now to weep. Too old for despair.

Her old knees ached. Yet she did not stir, even at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind her.

She prayed her end would be swift. Painless. The gods owed her nothing, it was true, but surely they could grant her this one small wish.

“Matron.”

The treacherous mercenary’s voice. Proud even in defeat. How strange that she could not seem to conjure up any rage at him, even knowing what he had done.

Ah, Lady Naiwenh. Always so open and generous. Kind. Forgiving. But in failing the lady’s grandson, the Matron knew she had ventured beyond all forgiveness.

If only she had known. If only she had understood the scabbard’s true power, the lady’s true legacies, and not been seduced by the empty promises of the blade.

“Matron,” repeated the man, gruff and insistent and yet curiously gentle.

“Why do you hesitate?” she said. “I am but an old woman who has lost her life’s purpose. Here I am: alone, unarmed.” She stretched out her arms, gaze fixed still upon the lake of destiny.

“I do not wish to kill you.”

Unable to determine the tenor of his voice and weary of his games, she turned. He was not alone; the northern dog was with him, mere steps behind, posture tense, expression unhappy, though he carried his head with the arrogance of all men who believe themselves righteous. This, too, should have surprised her, but it did not. And petty as it was, she could not help but feel a measure of glee at his evident misery.

The mercenary, on the other hand, was difficult to read as ever. His scarred face seemed stern in the dying light, the set of his shoulders resigned. And yet his eyes glowed with a fierce determination she had not seen in many years. Not since the days of the Prince of Light, who would be king of all under heaven.

It was his eyes that convinced her to humor him.

“What do you want?”

To his credit, he wasted no words. “Join me.”

She laughed, her breath coming out in raspy wheezes. “Are you mad? You betrayed my cause, murdered my charge. And now you ask this useless, powerless old woman to join you?”

“Not useless,” he replied. “You are wise, Matron. And I have need of your advice. It would be a waste for you to die here.”

“A waste!” she spat. “Do not think you can win me over with sweet words and flattery. Let me tell you what has been a waste —”

All these years. For a selfish little brat who was hardly even half the man his father and grandfather had been, nor even brave but foolish King Pashrai. Much less old King Ghuproh, the Prince of Light, the last worthy man of his line.

A boy playing at manhood. A child unworthy of the lady’s blood.

“You do not mourn your charge,” observed the mercenary.

She wiped the snarl from her face, forced her features back into the smooth mask of a lifelong servant. “My feelings matter not. He was my charge, my prince, my lady’s grandson. And you killed him.”

“What is it that you dream of, Matron?”

The question took her by surprise. “What?”

“You have lived a long, full life. In all these years, surely you have had hopes and dreams of your own. A vision of how the world should be. A reason to struggle on against the vagaries of fate.”

If only King Ghuproh had not died. If only King Pashrai had listened to the wisdom of old Czesa instead of falling for the petty tricks of Khosian and Marnua.

Then, perhaps Lady Naiwenh would not have...

“What have I left to live for now? All I have ever wished for shall never now come to pass. No thanks to you.”

“Are you so sure?” he said softly.

If the boy had lived, little would have changed. She could admit that to herself now, poised here at the brink between light and darkness, at the edge of the lake of immortals, the cold silent realm of the turtle lords. Even if this mercenary had not appeared in their lives, the boy would have been killed sooner or later, if not through his own caprice, then through a supporter who had suffered the last straw, or through the greed of common men. And even if by some fortunate chance he had survived long enough to win back his rightful throne, what kind of a kingdom would he have presided over?

Nothing but a mockery of the glorious reigns that had come before him.

In truth, it was she who was to blame. For protecting him so fiercely. For indulging his whims out of foolish sentimentality, when she should have stood firm. When she ought to have guided him not only in the ways of war and violence, but in the ways of rulership; not only in the ways of mortal men, but in the ways of the gods and the spirits who watched over them always.

Her shortsightedness was her failure. Her greatest mistake, her greatest regret.

As if reading her mind, the mercenary said, “Mistakes can be corrected. Failures can be redeemed.” He took a step forward, and suddenly it was as if she were a young girl cowering before old King Ghuproh once more, his very presence weighing down upon her, blinding her, stealing her breath away. “So long as we live on, there is always opportunity for change.”

She took a deep breath, struggling to control her expression without looking away. She would not give him that satisfaction.

“Alas, I am old. I am afraid I have little time left to right all the wrongs of the past.”

“Time enough to make a difference.” His voice rose as he spoke, brimming suddenly with barely restrained power. “Behold!”

He said something then, a word in some language she did not recognize, or perhaps a sound, a note, a single clear drop of water upon some endless, placid pool.

A great wind arose, whipping at her face, her clothes. She squinted into the wind, heart fluttering, fingers numb, aching legs trembling beneath her.

From the darkness beyond emerged a great white beast. It flew through the air in leaps and bounds before settling at the mercenary’s side with surprising grace.

It crouched down, licking its paws. Gazing at her with luminous dark eyes. Tail flicking protectively around the man at whose side it lay.

She had heard the rumors. Dismissed them.

Now, she understood.

“The Tiger has chosen you,” she whispered.

The man’s lips quirked upward in response. Go, he mouthed, laying a hand on the beast’s forehead.

With one last flick of the tail, the great cat turned and padded away, disappearing once more into the shadows.

The wind died.

The Matron released the breath she had been holding.

No one would ever replace the Prince of Light.

But this man — this man, it seemed, was something else entirely.

At last, she smirked. Rose unsteadily, pleased that he offered no help as she did so.

“Consider this old woman at your service, my lord.” She tried not to laugh at the scandalized look on the northern dog’s face. Did he truly expect her to bow and kiss his master’s feet as he himself no doubt would have in her place?

The man smiled down at her, but there was no condescension in his gaze. “Kitzon will suffice.”

She inclined her head. “Lord Kitzon.”

At that, he laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, unsettling in the stillness that had enveloped the shore since the Tiger’s departure, but not unpleasant.

She joined him, then, laughing and laughing as she had not in many years. And it was as if a great burden had lifted from her chest.

“And your name, Matron?”

She had not wept since the lady’s death; she would not weep now.

“Bhatan,” she said. “My name is Bhatan.”