They gave up on the watch upon returning to camp. Foolish, perhaps, but none of them were in a state to do otherwise. And yet Ashne could not sleep. It was not the pain that kept her awake — nothing but eerie fading scratches remained of the earlier encounter, and the older ache had soothed along with her nerves. She was fortunate that the wound had not opened again. The physicians had warned her, murmuring vaguely about miracles and blessings and infections and other things she did not understand. Nor did she care, so long as she was alive, and well enough to protect herself and do her duty.

Instead of the pain, all that occupied her mind was this new conundrum that had presented itself before her.

As she lay in the darkness, she fingered her sash, where she had tied and wrapped away the jade comb. It was no guarantee that the ornament had belonged to the princess. The chariot... Perhaps it had been some noblewoman of Krengsra. A different kidnapped lady, or perhaps a runaway. And yet the deliberate way the silk had been torn surely could not be without meaning.

Ashne tried then to recall what the princess had been wearing, that final day in the capital, while in the queen’s chambers. What she had been wearing when the Tiger took her. But she found that she could not remember.

Again and again her thoughts ran into walls of questions she preferred not to ask, questions she could not answer, useless, foolish questions that had little to do with her mission and were best left uncontemplated, until at last morning dawned, and they continued on their way.

In the meantime, Phas was silent, his expression darker than usual. From the shadows under his eyes, Ashne guessed that he had not slept well either. None of them had, it seemed, but for the apothecary, who hummed a cheerful little melody as he walked.

“What do you think?” Ashne said, unable to withstand the contortions of her thoughts any longer. She drew closer to Phas, distancing herself from the apothecary. “Was it the work of that sorcerer? Or the spirits themselves? Do you think they...”

The muscles in his jaw tightened, and she wondered if she had made a mistake to approach him. But at last he said, “I cannot question what my own eyes have witnessed.”

She hesitated before continuing. “They have not interfered with mortal matters in many generations. Not for a thousand years, at least.”

“Are you so certain? Even I have heard the tales of... the so-called Ghost Tiger.”

She stiffened, but remembered herself in time and managed to disguise the sudden movement as a yawn. “The Tiger was said to be particularly powerful. Unique among others of its kind. And bound to the Prince of Light.”

He turned to look at her, his eyes alight with an odd, intense gleam. “You believe the stories, then. That the Prince summoned that beast to do his bidding. That it mourned him upon his death, and welcomed his soul into its own essence. That their combined spirits have been biding their time, waiting to wreak vengeance upon the Prince’s old enemies.”

“I had heard only of its mourning,” said Ashne, aware of her heart beginning to race once more. “Countless witnessed its vigil. I do not doubt those tales. But even so, it has been more than twenty years. It has never been seen again.”

The gleam left his eyes. He sighed. “I don’t know what to think of this. I imagine Master Braksya might have some inkling of what exactly transpired last night, but I doubt he will be forthcoming.”

Disappointed, Ashne said, “I wouldn’t count on him knowing anything. It seems to me he merely enjoys the pretense.”

“I suppose you are right,” replied Phas, clearly still preoccupied. After a moment, he said, “If the spirits truly exist — if they have truly returned — what could they possibly be after?”

He seemed to be addressing himself more than Ashne, and so she did not reply.

After all, it was a question she herself had no answers for.

* * *

No more incidents troubled them after that, and they were able to make good time. The Slez glimmered as they approached, silvery and calm. At the crossing, Ashne looked across to the opposite bank, the water whispering old dark fears to her heart.

She made the mistake then of looking down. Ripples distorted her reflection, playing with light and shadow against her face and the depths beyond. The longer she stared, the gentler the waves seemed to become, seductive and playful as the fish that glinted beneath their surface. A waving tangle of rivergrass sifted mud and dust from the flow of water. A dark mass flitted into sight, and then away again. The water swelled with its passing.

She breathed in slowly, fighting a surge of queasiness, and tugged the kammrae forward, following Phas and the apothecary to where the ferryman awaited.

The ferryman arose from the shade of the tree where he had been napping. His eyes opened wide at their bedraggled state, but he did not question them as Phas paid for their passage. Out of fear, Ashne thought.

Perhaps he thought they were bandits. They certainly looked the part.

Phas questioned the man quietly as he rowed them across, seeking news of the border, but the man avoided eye contact, answering only in brief, gruff sentences. Though untattooed, from his speech and dress he was clearly a southerner. Ashne briefly considered the possibility that language served as the primary barrier in their communication. Phas did not seem fluent in the southern dialects, despite his stint in the court of Khonua. And the apothecary was an anomaly no matter where they went. But when she lifted her hat and addressed the ferryman in their shared tongue, his only response was to spit out into the water, pretending he had not heard her.

Another man of Khonua, then, rather than of Awat. Or was it her attire that caused his scorn?

A trifling matter. She would not dwell on such things. Instead, she settled down and tilted her head back to watch the passing clouds.

* * *

The gates of Tham had already opened for the day when they arrived. Clumps of travelers dispersed and trickled down the lane toward the entrance, where a handful of tattooed soldiers stood on guard, accompanied by a plump Dragon official busily recording each passerby’s name, occupation, and origins on a pile of bamboo slips. Though they had managed to wash out most of the blood from their clothing, they received more than a few glances as they mingled into the crowd. Still, Ashne did not expect much trouble. So close to the border, stranger personages were a common enough sight that they did not stand out, and Tham was a city of soldiers. A bit of grime was hardly unusual. The Speaker-Consort’s emblem in her pack would be sufficient to serve as her pass, though she was uncertain whether it were safe or wise to reveal it in the presence of her companions and the other travelers.

She was still fretting — needlessly, for Phas, at least, had no doubt long ago guessed who she served based on the evidence of her mount and skills — when her decision was made for her. Beside her, Phas stiffened, and she saw that Braksya had begun to walk away from the line, back in the direction they had come from.

Despite herself, Ashne called out. “Master Apothecary.”

“I appear to have forgotten something quite important,” he called back. Then he stopped. “Would you perhaps care for a special ointment of mine, by the way? It would do that injury of yours some good, I believe. And for you, only half price!”

That amused scathing tone of his that she remembered from their first meeting had returned.

“Thank you,” she replied, in as chilly a manner as she could manage. “But I decline.”

He shrugged and sauntered on along his way as if he had not even offered in the first place. Ashne glanced back at the soldiers on guard, but if they had noticed, they gave no indication of it.

Then she turned to Phas, who was still staring at the apothecary’s retreating figure.

“Excuse me,” he murmured. “There is something I must confirm.”

He too broke away from the crowd, striding away at a swift pace, not quite running.

Another woman might have followed them. Might have wondered at the strangeness of their behavior. But whatever they were up to now had nothing to do with her or her mission, so Ashne dismissed the incident from her mind entirely, accepting their abrupt departure as a suitable parting of ways. Part of her had long expected such a development, for a meeting as odd as theirs had been could surely only end in much the same manner. And she could not deny that their leaving made a great many things easier for her.

Meanwhile, the crowd crept forward.

By the time she reached the front of the line, the record-keeper had begun to string together his third set of names. She reached for her pack as a pair of soldiers stepped forward.

Then she stopped. Looked up with an alacrity that startled even herself. The soldiers pointed their blades at her, faces grim. Behind her, a murmur rippled across the crowd.

Though her fingers itched for her own blade, she held her arms visibly still at her side.

“What is the meaning of this?” she said in a low voice, utilizing official Court speech though these men were of the riverlands. Even as she spoke she was struck by a sudden irrational fear that the king’s men had caught up to her after all. That the queen’s promises had failed her, that soldiers of Tham had been alerted to the incident at the capital, and were on the lookout for her. That Zsaran —

But the men ignored her, whether because they did not understand her or because they chose not to, she could not know. The one on the right glanced at the record-keeper.

“Hey, Pig,” he said in the Turtle tongue. “How many is this now?”

To Ashne’s surprise, the official bristled and responded in kind. “Fourth.”

She had judged his origins too quickly.

“Think we’ve finally hit the bull’s-eye with this one?”

“How should I know? Ask the Magistrate yourself, why don’t you.”

Still in Turtle dialect, but with a pronounced accent she did not immediately recognize. She readjusted her assumptions again. Switched to her native tongue.

“I am here on official business from the lady consort.”

The guard who had spoken eyed her suspiciously. “Have you any proof?”

She tugged her mount forward and began to reach for the emblem, but was stopped by the insistent press of a blade against her neck.

“And how do I know you’re not just some common thief, eh?”

“I must speak with the Magistrate.”

“Aye, and I’m sure he’s just dying to speak with you. Poor rat’s far too busy for the likes of you these days.”

The more the men spoke, the more clearly Ashne began to understand the strangeness she had sensed since the start of the exchange.

These men were indeed from the riverlands — but not of her people. Former denizens of Khonua, perhaps mixed with western roots. For the record-keeper’s accent was that of Minister Muntong’s, only choppier, more defined, and it seemed to her obvious now too that the guard’s intonation was closer to the bandits she had encountered just earlier that week, though not quite the same, either.

But that in itself was unusual. Though it was true that Tham, as one of the major border fortifications, had more of a mixed population than the capital at Ranglhia, the majority of the soldiers stationed here were men of the marshes and the southern hills, not locals who might feel stronger loyalties to Krengsra or to defeated Khonua based on sheer proximity or familial ties.

Or so it had been the last time she had come riding here, with Zsaran at her side, just months after the capital moved north.

Much could change in the space of a year.

“Mayhap he speaks the truth,” said the other soldier, nodding at the kammrae behind her. “Look at that fine fellow he’s brought with him.”

“And like I said, what if he’s just some common thief?”

“You think it would be so easy to steal one of the king’s own herd?”

The guard grunted, but lowered his sword. “A daring thief, then.”

“You know the penalty for killing a royal envoy.”

“He has no proof of who he is, now, does he?”

“Actually,” said Ashne, raising her voice as much as she dared, “I do.” She drew out the Speaker-Consort’s insignia at last, dried reeds crackling beneath her fingers as the twined gold glinted in the light.

Something in the men’s faces changed. They looked at each other, then back at her.

“The Captain’s making his rounds,” said the quieter one, glancing nervously now at the record-keeper, who had begun waving past the rest of the waiting line and was evidently no longer paying attention to them.

“Bah,” said his companion. “Let’s take him in. Let the rat decide what to do with him.”

“But...”

“Better to wash our hands of this mess. The sooner the better, aye?”

To that, it seemed, the other guard had no protest. As they called for soldiers to replace them at the gates, and another man to lead her kammrae to the stables, Ashne let out the breath she had been holding. She worried too much over senseless details. Of course the king had not sent men after her. The queen kept her promises, and the king was not a man easily controlled by fleeting emotion. He would not risk news of the princess’s kidnapping reaching their enemies’ ears through too-hasty action.

Still, it was too soon, she knew, to relax.

* * *

Magistrate Tham was poring over records in his offices when Ashne arrived with her escorts and one of the servants who had greeted them at the door. He did not rise to greet her, but Ashne had not disarmed or removed her hat either, so she chose to ignore his breach of courtesy. The last time Ashne had met him, he had been equally difficult to deal with, if not more so. Even Zsaran had been forced to resort to physical threats to obtain his cooperation. Ashne could not help but smile at the memory, but quickly brought her expression back under control.

She hoped that her disguise this time would be sufficient, and that Zsaran was the only one he remembered.

But the magistrate did not even look up as he dismissed the guards and the servants from their presence, instead continuing to frown at his scrolls in silence. And despite the days on the road she had spent formulating strategies to approach him, she found that no words would come to her.

At last she said, reciting the formal phrasings of Court speech she had rehearsed in her head over and over again during the long stretches of travel when neither of her companions had been up for conversation, “I have come on behalf of the queen to investigate the recent rumors of a foreign sorcerer.”

Now he did set aside his scrolls.

“Her majesty again, eh?” muttered the magistrate, stroking at his beard. “Should I be glad she at least sent someone more respectable this time?”

For a moment she stared at him in disbelief.

“The sorcerer, sir, if you please,” she said when she had gathered her wits once more, hand straying to her sword before she remembered herself.

Fortunately, the magistrate did not seem to notice. “The sorcerer? Bah. Tell her meddling majesty that she shouldn’t bother. Nonsense and superstition, all of it.”

Ashne bit her tongue. “Still, I would know what you have to report.”

“If the man exists — and I am inclined to think he doesn’t — I would wager he is harmless.”

“What makes you so certain?”

The magistrate snorted. “If he truly had such powers as are rumored, why then does no one know a thing about him? Why has he not made a move? No man with talent and power as that could stay hidden for long!”

“Unless,” she murmured, “he wished to remain hidden for some reason.”

“Hmph. Such a man could only be an ambitionless fool. And a man without ambition is hardly any threat. Even a southerner like you should understand that.”

The trouble was, she did understand. And yet by kidnapping the princess — if he had kidnapped the princess — was that not itself a sign of ambition?

Even now she could not be sure the man even existed.

It was dangerous to make assumptions on the basis of so little. Yet what little she did know could hardly be communicated to such a man as the magistrate. Like Phas, he was originally from Rha. Though he was certainly old enough, he had not been in the south long enough to remember the Ghost Tiger. Even if he had been, he had made it more than clear that he was not the type to put much stock in such tales.

Instead, she said, “Have you no reports of strange occurrences recently?”

“Strange? Depends on what you mean by strange.”

“On my way here I heard tales of bandits,” she said, carefully omitting mention of her own encounter. “At the capital, as well, there was much talk of dead buffalo and missing children.”

“Idle gossip and peasants’ nattering. The usual. What kind of bandit would be so foolish to kill livestock instead of stealing it?”

It was a curious response. It was not impossible that he had not heard of the buffalo. Few had spoken of those particular rumors since Ashne left the capital. And yet to deny the reports of bandit activity in the area, though the rumors dogged every traveler on the road, and even the guards were wary...

She swallowed, ignoring the itch in her hand.

“No attacks, then.”

“No.”

Not even a murmur of spirit activity. But then, reports of such had been few and in between for generations upon generations, usually little more than the vague mutterings of toothless, daft elders. Incidents like the Tiger’s appearance and the omens of Woodcutter Mountain notwithstanding.

“And I suppose you have not had any unusual visitors to the city in recent weeks. No highborn young women?” She quickly added, “Generals’ sons? Foreign ministers?”

“Aside from you?” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Aside from me.”

“If you’re still going on about that sorcerer of yours, I don’t know. Despite all the rumors, the sun hasn’t fallen, the earth hasn’t split apart, and nobody’s died of any mysterious illnesses. In fact, nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the last few months, and I would wager ten horses that nothing shall, for another hundred years at least!”

“Anyone at all unusual,” she insisted. “I ask now not about sorcery and things beyond our control. Just mortal men.”

The magistrate seemed to lose his patience at last. “How should I know? You can hardly expect me to keep track of every single individual who passes through these gates! Now, are you quite done yet? Tell your queen I am a busy man. Tell her to stop wasting my time on such fool’s errands.”

This time she did not bother disguising her movement toward her blade.

“She is your queen, now, as well.”

He glared back at her sullenly. She took a deep breath.

Regardless of her personal feelings, he was the best man for his position. Despite being a foreigner and having served under Khonua rule, Ashne could not deny that he knew his way around the intricacies of the city and could keep its populace under control — and it was important that this city be maintained, given its strategic location. The magistrate’s dislike of the southern “barbarians” at least made him predictable and ensured that he held no loyalty to the previous reign. And if he should harbor the slightest inkling of betrayal... the soldiers stationed here would show him no mercy.

Unless that too had changed in the space of a year.

But no. If the situation had changed, the king would have certainly acted. And he had not. One year ago Zsaran had relayed her reports to the queen, expressing her concerns over the man’s suitability to his position. If neither queen nor king had seen fit to act upon their information, then they must have their reasons.

As if on cue, a male servant entered, head bowed, arms raised in an obsequious gesture.

“My lord. The Captain of the Guard has arrived.”

Despite herself, she stiffened. She thought back again to the odd exchange the guards had held at the gate. The odd remark about hitting the bull’s-eye. The mention of the captain, who was on his rounds, presumably checking on the men stationed along the outer perimeters. That he had now come to report to the magistrate — in person, at a time like this — implied serious matters were at hand.

Perhaps it was news about her, she thought, her anxieties about Zsaran and the king rising to the surface again.

Or perhaps, more likely, there was trouble stirring along the border, as the chariot wreck implied.

“I am afraid I cannot help you further,” said the magistrate in a clipped tone.

“My thanks,” Ashne replied, dipping her head. “I will look further into the matter and relay this information to the queen.”

The magistrate grunted and waved her away.

Still painfully uncertain of her status, she complied, slipping off before he could change his mind and detain her.

How foolish her fears. And yet, and yet.

* * *

She spent the rest of the afternoon surreptitiously searching the inns and residential districts for any sign of the princess, unlikely as it was for the girl to be ensconced in such obvious locations. When she had run out of places to search, she began to visit the swordsmiths who had set up shop in the city, asking them to identify the nameless iron blade Zsaran had taken from the attackers at the capital. But none recognized or claimed the blade as their work. Or perhaps they were unwilling to.

That night, she slept in a cramped alley rather than risk being found herself. No soldiers came scouring the streets for her, and she woke with her wound protesting again and her head sore from restless dreams. Assured that she was no fugitive yet, her worries turned again momentarily to the chariot and the potential threat of war. Perhaps that was the line of questioning she should have pursued with the magistrate instead... but it was too late now to regret. The queen’s power could only carry her so far.

She had two choices remaining — the same two she had been plagued with from the start and could not seem to narrow down to one no matter how she tried: assume that the princess had been captured by foreign forces, or assume that she had been taken by Khonua loyalists. Even now the latter was more likely. The guards had seemed concerned only over bandits, not of imminent attack. And still in her dreams she seemed to see the Tiger, watching her from afar, eyes glowing in the darkness.

The Tiger was of the south. To that alone must she cling.

Thus she continued her investigations, unwilling yet to give up.

“If it’s a girl you’re looking for,” said one particularly chatty old man near the marketplace, “there’s one notorious group of ruffians around these parts that might interest you. One of them’s a wild young woman as vicious as any of those tattooed barbarians. Heard she’s their chief’s sister. Or was it his lover?”

“Sister, I think,” said his friend. “No man would dare be a lover of hers, not if he values his treasure.” He made a rude gesture. “Heard she’s worked up quite a collection over the years!”

Both men guffawed, slapping their thighs. But when it came to the sorcerer, they found themselves at a loss for words, and shook their heads, suddenly more interested in their starstone game.

The young lady she met a few streets later blushed at her and mumbled something about laundry. The matrons bustling by clucked disapprovingly, and eyed her suspiciously upon hearing her queries. Further encounters throughout the rest of the day proved little different.

At last one of the little boys playing by the temples replied that he had indeed seen a pretty lady pass by in a horse-drawn carriage. But no matter how much she questioned him, he could not seem to remember exactly when he had seen such a scene, and his description of the carriage so vague as to be useless. She doubted, at any rate, that any kidnapper would be so foolish as to parade his hostage down the streets in such a manner.

Perhaps she had made a grave misjudgment in coming here after all. The responses she had received puzzled her. More talk of bandits. Nothing at all of foreign affairs, which seemed odd to her in a place like Tham, even in times of peace. And though Phas had mentioned rumors of a sorcerer sighting, no one seemed willing to even discuss the subject.

As if they had all closed ranks against her, sensing that she was an outsider, no matter the clothes she wore.

And not a thing could be done about it. Polite inquiries had failed. Threat of violence would only worsen her chances.

She wondered if it was indeed her accent that gave her away, made people less willing to talk, though her hat shadowed her face well enough. Last she recalled, though the soldiers here were mostly of Awat, the civilian populace mostly consisted of Dragon refugees — and it was difficult to tell who was who, here, where all but a few had adopted Dragon ways.

Then again, when she had last been here, they had been quite willing to gossip and banter with Zsaran regardless. But of course, Zsaran had always had a way with people.

She and Kitzon had been the same in that regard.

It was no use dwelling on her failures, real or imagined. The sooner she moved on, the better. She at least knew now that the Tiger had not come here, nor had the sorcerer, whether or not he was related to her mission. (The apothecary, she thought idly, would have to continue his search elsewhere, wherever he had run off to.)

This excursion had been no complete waste of time. That she must believe.

She began heading toward the stables, intending to continue on her way before the city gates closed for the night.

Then she realized someone was following her.

Ashne quickened her pace, lowered the sloped brim of her hat. Even if all the talk of bandits were not unwarranted, a thief would have to be desperate to target her in such a place as this. The magistrate, then? Had he heard something from the capital after all?

At the next alley she passed, she changed directions and ducked back into the crowd. Leaving the crowded confines of the city now would be too risky. She could evade whoever it was for the moment, but mere evasion would not solve the problem unless it truly were some petty thief. Which Ashne doubted. That being the case, it would be far more useful to learn her stalker’s actual motive.
Zsaran, were she here, would no doubt set a trap. But Ashne possessed no such faith in her own abilities, especially with her persisting injury.

She stopped at a vendor to purchase some food. Fish paste wrapped in bamboo leaves, well-preserved from the spring. Soldiers’ fare. She sat down, chewing half-heartedly as she watched the passersby. Nothing seemed out of place or unusual but for the arrival of a group of traveling entertainers who danced and played down the streets, followed by a growing crowd of curious onlookers. Ashne followed their progress past her. From their patterned tunics and the women’s glittering headdresses, she guessed they were from one of the far southern tribes of Krengsra. So far from home... Refugees, perhaps. Though ostensibly at peace in recent years, Krengsra was always broiling with some internal unrest or other.

Then, through the ruckus, she heard a familiar voice.

“Sister!”

She stood. Saw the girl emerging from the crowds beyond.

“Nalum? What are you doing here?”

“I’m here too, sister!” said Jenhra, following close behind.

Perhaps the twins had been the ones shadowing her, thinking to surprise her. But a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye dispelled that theory.

Jenhra wrinkled her nose. “You look like you’ve been brawling with alligators.”

“Smell like it, too,” whispered Nalum, expression solemn but for the twinkle in her eye.

“Neither of you should be here,” said Ashne in Turtle dialect for only the second time that day, more brusquely than she had intended, though she was more relieved than she would like to admit to see them. Nalum’s arm seemed a bit stiffer than usual, but otherwise, they both seemed well despite the injuries they had sustained during the Tiger’s attack. The king’s wrath had not fallen upon them, at least. “Have you forgotten your duty?”

Jenhra pouted, but took the hint and switched to a quieter, bubbling mix of Awat and Court tongue. “Shranai is the Lady Consort’s guard. Our duty lies with the princess.”

Her sister nodded in agreement. “The Lady Consort is well-protected, sister. The king assigned an escort to her as well. Now there is no need for us at court.”

Ashne hesitated despite her growing unease. The twins’ help would not go unappreciated, and yet everything about the situation felt wrong. Had felt wrong, ever since the summons and her audience with the king and the queen and the diviner.

“Besides,” continued Nalum, “Sister Zsaran left a message for us to give to you.”

At that, Ashne frowned. Despite the twins’ cheerful demeanor, they were fidgeting, sneaking glances at each other.

“Zsaran,” she murmured, throat tightening. “Is she well?”

Both twins stilled.

“You see, the thing is...” Nalum began, suddenly very interested in the entertainers over Ashne’s shoulder.

“Sister Zsaran broke out of prison!” burst out Jenhra, who ducked her head as soon as the words left her mouth.

Her heart lurched. “What?”

“It was just two days after you left,” said Nalum. “The Lady Consort was unable to secure her release, so she must have decided to take matters into her own hands. We tried to stop her, but...”

Ashne took a deep breath. Exhaled slowly. “The king — the king must be furious.”

Jenhra, anxious to please, said, “Oh, he was. But the lady consort convinced him to spare her! And to grant you both full pardon once we return with the princess.”

If they returned with the princess, thought Ashne.

“So you see, we set off as soon as we could, so we could join you and give you the news.”

“I see,” she said, her fingers clenching around the hilt of her sword. She took a deep breath. “The message?”

“Um,” said Jenhra. “It was just some sort of song.”

Nalum looked again at her twin, then closed her eyes and recited rather than sang, “The waves are calm tonight. I follow the rivers past the vast seas to the roots of the sun. Let us meet again in the silent valleys of the four-note cuckoo.”

A coded verse, the first line as comforting and familiar as a lullaby, bringing back a rush of memories that Ashne quickly set aside. The twins, less acquainted with the intricacies and nuances of Turtle speech, remained happily unaware. Ashne untangled the lines in her head: Fear not. I go in search of the truth. I will take care of our enemies.

The truth.

Her thoughts turned immediately to their brief strange conversation in the capital. Zsaran must have been even more troubled than Ashne had thought. But still, why now? Why now, of all times?

Our enemies. But of course. She was mistaken. What Zsaran sought now must be the truth behind the princess’s kidnapping. The matter of the attackers’ identity had troubled her too, Ashne recalled. She relaxed. If Zsaran herself did not dwell any further on Kitzon’s lies, then why should she?

To the twins, she said, “You have my thanks.” She hesitated, then added in a lowered tone, “Has the Lord Speaker truly given up on his suspicions then? I did not think him so forgiving.” His actions had been strange from the start. All along she had half-expected him to send men chasing after her, despite all her rationalizations, despite her lack of importance in the greater picture. For though she believed in the queen’s promises, in the king’s promises she had much less faith. And she thought it particularly odd that his pride would allow him to let Zsaran escape without repercussions.

“It’s because of the delegates!” said Jenhra, unable to hide the sudden excitement in her tone.

Ashne frowned. “Delegates?”

“They arrived from the north on the same day Sister Zsaran fled,” Nalum explained. “Ambassadors from Zh— I mean, Tai.”

“To discuss the marriage alliance,” said Ashne, remembering now what Minister Muntong had told her before the attack. She wondered at the twins’ blithe, unquestioning acceptance of the matter. Had they never considered what would happen to them once their beloved princess was shipped away to a foreign land? But after all, they too, had come from the north. Likely they had assumed that they would be allowed to remain at the girl’s side.

“Yes, Sister,” said Nalum. “But after what happened to the princess, everyone’s been going frantic over how to keep things hushed up while they’re here.”

Jenhra giggled nervously, a look of relief on her face. “And how to keep them from killing each other.”

So that was why the king had shown his mercy. He was nothing if not practical, and he knew all too well that he could not afford to show any weakness before these foreign vultures. But his mercy would not last. Sooner or later, he would act against them, whether out of true conviction or simply to use them as scapegoats. To him there was no difference.

But that must be what Zsaran referred to. She was telling Ashne not to worry about her, not to concern herself over extraneous details as she was apt to. To concentrate on the task at hand, while she handled the underlying mysteries and machinations.

“All the more reason for you to return, then,” Ashne said at last, mulling over these new developments, still uneasy, but reassured and encouraged by Zsaran’s message. “I understand that you feel responsible for the princess. But it will be easier for me to move alone.”

She caught another flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. Whoever it was had shifted again, as if impatient or troubled by the delay.

It was not her life he was after. Something else...

“But we just barely managed to catch up to you,” protested Jenhra. “We thought you would be halfway to Kasa by now.”

“How could you be so certain I was headed to Kasa?”

“But they must be headed there, right? Back to Tiger Hill? Where else would they go, after all?”

“Sister Shranai told us to stop by Tham first, though, just to make sure,” added Nalum.

“With the four of us working together, we’ll get the princess back in no time!”

“And be home again before the Night of Ghosts. Bad luck, if we can’t find her before then.” Nalum shivered.

The Night of Ghosts. The night when the worlds drew near, and the third souls, the spirits of the dead, visited the mortal realm once more. It was ill luck just to speak of it.

Ashne shook her head again, beginning to grow impatient herself. The twins’ inexperience would hinder more than help. But how could she tell them that, when they were so eager to save their mistress?

First she had to take care of the one who was following her.

“I still think it best that you return to the capital,” she said. “However... there is one matter you can help me with.”

* * *

Ashne waited until the city bells tolled the turning of the hour before wandering into a narrow alley behind the central marketplace.

Fighting against all her instincts, she kept her hands visibly at her sides, away from her sword. Even as she heard the footsteps behind her quicken in approach.

Cold bronze at her neck.

Despite herself, she stiffened.

“Return the scabbard to us!”

Khonua dialect, but the content of the words shocked her more than the cadence. Ashne’s mind flickered instantly to the sacred sword Hazsam. The sword was lost. But its scabbard — had it not been lost as well? Searching her memories, she realized that she could not be certain. No one would have paid attention to such a detail, not when lives had been at stake. Yet even if the scabbard had not been lost, it was of little value, symbolic or otherwise, without the blade it sheathed.

Perhaps it was not Hazsam the man spoke of.

No time to consider it further. There was a brush of wind to her right. She ducked and whirled, reaching for her sword. Her attacker cursed.

Like a pair of sparrows, the twins flashed into view, swords glimmering in the warm glow of afternoon.

The twins had not trained quite so long as Ashne and Zsaran had with their master. But they more than made up for lack of skill in their agility and unsurpassed teamwork. Before Ashne could blink, her attacker had been knocked to his knees, weapon clattering to the ground, the girls flanking him on either side.

Ashne stepped forward and held her own blade to his throat.

“Who sent you?”

The man spat at her.

Ashne calmly wiped her face. “You mentioned a scabbard. What scabbard?”

“Don’t bother pretending, woman. We know you’re working with that madman! The dog admitted as much!”

“What is he saying, sister?” asked Jenhra, curious. Fluent as the twins were in Awat, they found the dialect of Khonua more difficult to follow.

Ashne shook her head, confusion growing. She said to their captive, “The madman was a stranger to me. I merely thought to protect one whom I assumed an innocent. But tell me now: what use do bandits have for a powerless scabbard?”

The man blanched, realizing his mistake.

“You and I have no quarrel,” continued Ashne, choosing not to press him further on the matter of the scabbard. There was only one possibility that seemed to make sense, and that was almost too serious to contemplate at the moment. She could not distract herself with such things, with the princess’s life at risk. “I have my orders to follow, and you have yours. The king has pledged to rid the land of vermin like you, but I do not answer to the king. I will let you go, if you answer me this. What do you know of the foreign sorcerer who is said to have been wandering through these parts recently?”

Whatever remaining bravado the bandit had maintained now disappeared entirely. He shook his head, eyes bright with panic. “Nothing. I know nothing.”

It was more of a response than any other she had received all day. And yet perhaps it meant nothing.

“The princess,” she said then. “What have you done with the princess?”

“Princess? I don’t know nothing about some princess. Please, you gotta believe me.”

Despite herself, she hesitated. There was no lie in his words.

But she had to be sure.

She reached for her sash, still holding her blade steady. Drew out the jade comb she had tucked away there. Nalum gasped; Jenhra watched on, confused. The bandit’s eyes widened.

“Do you recognize this?” said Ashne.

“I,” he began, then shook his head. “There was a woman.”

“Young? Old?”

Again he shook his head.

“Turtle or Dragon?”

“Couldn’t tell. She was, she was —” He shivered.

“She was what?”

For the third time he shook his head. “No, no, no,” he chanted, eyes glazing over.

Suddenly, he lunged. She froze. Two blades flickered forward, plunged into his back. He sank to the ground again, expression trapped in half-crazed disbelief.

Blood roared in her ears. The sky seemed to swim.

She sheathed her sword.

“Sister, what shall we do with the body?”

Ashne was already crouching down, rummaging through the man’s belongings, though her hands trembled and her breathing was uneven.

The twins had acted quickly — too quickly, perhaps. And yet what else could they have done?

How her instincts had dulled.

“Did you recognize that comb, Nalum?”

The girl hesitated. “I’m not sure. The princess had many such accessories.”

“But that night, she had already changed into her sleeping-robes!” protested Jenhra.

“Yes, but —”

Their voices drifted. Ashne stared at the items scattered in the dust before her.

The bandit’s sword had been brittle and cheap, likely a hastily forged blade from the last years of the war. In his pouch was a string of cowries, a woven reed charm, and a handful of knife-shaped coins from Tai and Rha.

And a dark bamboo flute.

The bastard admitted as much, she remembered, and suddenly understood.

The fool had gotten himself caught again. And for what? A scabbard he had no use for? Based on what the dead man had said, Ashne guessed that the bandits had laid claim on the scabbard — until the apothecary stole it from them in turn. Or was it the other way around, and they were attempting to steal it from the apothecary? Or, as she had been fearing, was it indeed the scabbard of Hazsam they sought, which they felt entitled to lay claim to as loyal men of Khonua?

She must assume it was Hazsam’s. No other scabbard could come close to possessing such value.

But no. Bandits cared little for politics, she reminded herself again. They cared little for anything that did not directly benefit them. And those men she had encountered on the way to Tham were far too disorganized to be anything but mere bandits.

The question, then, was how possession of a mere scabbard, heirloom or not, benefited anyone. Much less bandits. Or a mad apothecary who had evidently chosen to implicate her in his own affairs, despite his earlier reluctance to divulge anything of importance.

Did they think to establish a new king with nothing but a useless antique? Ridiculous.

Ashne was not a woman who angered easily, but the more she thought on the matter, the quicker her pulse raced. It had been a trying day. And now this! She gripped her sword, her knuckles turning white around the hilt. Then, as if on cue, her old injury twinged. She was unable to smooth away her expression in time.

Nalum, always sharper-eyed than her twin, said, “Are you hurt, sister?”

“I’m fine,” said Ashne through gritted teeth. “I’ll take care of the body. You two take a message back to the capital. Tell the lady that Hazsam’s scabbard has been found, though not Hazsam itself.” After a moment, she added, “And tell her the first deer of the season have been sighted.” She paused again, struggling to piece together an appropriate message. Finally, she said, “Their antlers are fine and tall. Hounds and wolves alike are on the prowl.”

The twins exchanged doubtful looks, but left as she had asked.

She was going to kill that damned apothecary. If the bandits hadn’t killed him first.