They had met Kitzon of Pra on a bright blue morning, weeks after Magistrate Tham turned them away and they slipped past the borders into Krengsra. There had long been rumors that the young prince and his retainers had sought refuge with one of the nobles of Sra after their escape from the fall of Kasa, much as old King Ghuproh’s cousins had in their exile years before. Zsaran, in the weeks prior to their departure, had compiled a list of possible candidates, lords who had enough wealth and influence to harbor such risky political refugees, but not so much that such an act would draw attention from either King Sra or King Khosian. The list was likely incomplete; though the ties of the riverlands were far closer with Krengsra than with the Dragon states, the dynamics of the Sra court were convoluted and intimidating even to those born and raised within that vast kingdom. What precious information the queen and king of Awat possessed came from rare official visits, and from months-old news brought back by spies or defectors.

Spring unfurled into glorious summer. After some surveillance, they had confirmed two of the proposed lords innocent or at least ignorant of the matter. But now, as they entered the domains of a third, they found themselves surrounded by a small group of armed men.

Deserters, as it later turned out. They had been in the employ of the very lord Ashne and Zsaran were preparing to investigate, until neighboring lords imposed trade restrictions that had caused a food shortage among the civilians. The soldiers, disgusted, had chosen to flee.

But the lord had sent men in pursuit, dogging their every step. Now, desperate, they had turned to banditry.

All of this they had learned later.

At the time, it had seemed to Ashne nothing but another failure on her part.

“I’m sorry,” she had muttered under her breath. It had been her watch, her responsibility to watch for enemies. But she had not expected opponents of this sort. And in a single moment of carelessness —

“Don’t worry,” Zsaran had replied with a light, easy smile, and stepped forward, blade drawn.

And in that moment all had become clear.

Like a dream the fight proceeded. A heavenly dance. Movements smooth, unbroken, precise. Zsaran’s steady presence at her back. The wind in her face. Shenkes and Lhepkes cutting and slicing in perfect harmony. Not even the earth itself could bind them, and the Great River glittered beyond them in a jeweled path to the edge of the skies.

“The waves are calm tonight,” sang Zsaran, though the sun laughed with her, rising high upon its flaming wings. “Mother tiger stalks within the whispering rushes. Little calf, little calf, don’t look back. Little calf, little calf, in the clouds your doom is etched —”

Hoofbeats. Zsaran’s head tilted. Ashne whirled around, heart in throat.

“‘— where now shall you hunt, where now shall you flee?’ said the bullfrog to the dolphin.” A man’s voice. Deep, throaty, curiously accented.

Horse and rider, garbed in a bright tunic, an oddly curved blade grasped within his outstretched arm.

Another enemy? But the men they fought cried out in fear and anger upon spotting the newcomer.

Zsaran continued to sing even as her blade sliced a path through their attackers. “Past the mulberry trees, past the washerwomen wading in the shallows, into the depths of the earth where the great swords lie in slumber!”

The strange man wheeled his horse past the edge of the crowd, cutting men down before him like heavy stalks at harvest. As Zsaran finished her verse, her eyes met the stranger’s. Ashne, following Zsaran’s cue, danced away from slashing blades and watched, fascinated and uneasy, as the stranger threw his head back and laughed before responding in turn.

“Harsh beats the oars upon the green paths! But as the hawk must fly, so must I swim. The way is long, the way is lonely. Let us toast our journey with wine and with blood!”

Zsaran grinned. Ashne did not.

He could not be a child of the Turtle. Yet he understood their tongue. Their songs.

And in that moment she knew. Must have known. He was no man to be underestimated, this stranger offering his alliance through laughter and verse...

Thus did their first meeting come to pass: two maidens from the southern rivers, and a single warrior from the western tribes — the former following the water trails, the latter hired to chase down deserters upon his speedy red mare.

Three hunters crossing paths beneath the ineffable vast brilliance of the sky.

* * *

By the next morning, Braksya’s fever had dispersed. Along with his memories, it seemed, for which Ashne was thankful.

He insisted (hiding a little sniffle) that he was well enough to continue on, and so they launched their boat down the river again, even more subdued than usual. Ashne refused to let him row, and in turn, he refused to speak.

For which she was also thankful.

The effort strained her more than she liked to admit, but she hid her exhaustion from him, pretending to herself that the old wound was nothing but a sash bound too tightly, that the sweat dampening her skin was nothing but a result of the fierce sun overhead. In the meantime she allowed the soreness of her limbs consume her, wipe away all other thought. After all, he, too, must have been unwell for days before, and spoken nothing of it. He, too, must understand at some level their need for haste.

Past the junction of the Canal and the Great River, Ashne found evidence of a large encampment, little more than a day old at her guess.

The bandits and Matron’s men. Despite multiple delays, they had caught up.

She was about to leave the site and continue down the river when she spotted a figure lying in the shadow of a tree some distance away. A dead body, she thought at first, but then the figure stirred, and her breath hitched.

A straggler? But no, something was strange about this man.

Braksya, who had been gathering herbs or leavings or whatever else he kept in his basket, appeared at her side with a questioning glance, having evidently spotted the man as well.

The man, in turn, seemed to have seen them.

“Help!”

Ashne approached slowly, wary of a potential trap.

“Please, help!”

The voice was dry, cracked. She could not immediately identify the accent as that of Khonua or that of Awat.

But then, as she drew closer, she recognized him.

A bandit. The same one who had accosted her drunkenly at the magistrate’s residence back in Tham. His legs were bound together, which explained his awkward posture.

And his hands had been chopped off, the stubs seared shut at the wrist.

“Help! Please, take pity!”

She quickened her pace, not quite breaking into a run, hand placed firmly on the hilt of her sword.

The bandit’s desperate pleas turned into fear as recognition dawned on his face.

“Spare me!” he cried, switching to mix of Turtle speech and awkwardly accented Court tongue. “Please... I don’t have anything to do with Chief and them anymore! I were just following orders! I —”

Ashne slowed to a stop before him. “What happened?”

The bandit shook his head and moaned. “I shoulda left with Rahm. Thought he were a damn coward at first. But that were before...”

“Before?” said Braksya, startling her. She had not noticed him catch up with her.

“Gods above. Chief were scary pissed when he learned he were gone. That were why I didn’t dare follow. Though gods know I wanted to. I shoulda. I shoulda!”

Braksya let out a sigh of exasperation. “Naturally. Anyone would be angry if his right-hand man abandoned him right at the most critical moment in his plans.”

“Nah. You got it all wrong. It weren’t just that, see. Rahm were more than just the Chief’s right-hand man. Chief trusted ol’ Rahm like a brother. Not anywhere close in age, but they’ve been running together for years. As long as I been with them. Even Lady Inhai liked the guy, and that crazy bitch’s near impossible to please!”

Ashne spoke quietly. “Why did he leave?”

“He were always a bit of a loner. A quiet fella. Creepy, almost. But he always seen things no one else did. He musta figured out what were going to happen —”

“What did he figure out?”

“Well,” the bandit began, looking away nervously. “It were after that mercenary fellow caught up, y’see. Along with that princess of yours.”

Ashne’s heart skipped a beat. “The princess — she’s still alive?” she said, falling back to their native tongue.

The bandit frowned at her, and explained in kind, “Well, yeah, of course. Couldn’t risk killing a royal, not with our situation as it was.”

Just as Braksya had asserted.

As if on cue, Braksya prompted, “The mercenary?”

The man paled. Did not respond for some time. “Him on that blood-red mare. Things hadn’t been going too great anyway. Not since Chief and that stuffy old Matron and their huge falling out. Now I think of it, it been then that Rahm must have started planning his getaway. Anyway, when the mercenary arrived, he talked to both Chief and the Matron and they musta come up with some sort of compromise, because next we knew they were all laughing and joking around together like old friends. Well, not Matron. Don’t think that ol’ biddy’s got a speck of humor in her. But after that, we thought everything all right again. Even the nobles quit their grumblin’.

“Then, one night soon after, it showed up again. That great white beast. The one those yellow-bellied nobles thought for sure it were the Ghost Tiger from all those years ago. The Prince of Light come again to save their pathetic asses from the big mess they got themselves into.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. “Well, they were wrong. The tiger weren’t come to save them, but to — to —” His last words fell to a hoarse whisper. “To devour them.”

Ashne drew in a sharp breath. “To devour them — but —”

“Maybe devourin’s not quite the right word, m’lady.” He hesitated. “The first one — my friend. They offered him up as a sacrifice, only we didn’t know, then. That he was to be a sacrifice, I mean. There were just a few of us on watch that night.”

“They?”

“I dunno. I dunno. We were just standing around, trying to keep each other awake, y’see. Then someone gave a shout, I forget who it were, I suppose it don’t matter. Looked up and there it were, out of nowhere, it seemed. The beast itself, just standing there. Watching. Waiting.

“I tried to call for help. But I couldn’t hardly even breathe. Or even budge at all. That’s when my friend... All of a sudden, see, he started to move forward. Like some sorta doll. Walked straight into the beast’s jaws, he did.” He gulped. “Tried to look away, I tried and tried, but...”

His tale hardly seemed believable. And yet as described, the man’s strange behavior struck a familiar chord. The girl from Tham. The bandit on the magistrate’s roof, and the other, still earlier.

The power to control. To rule over another’s body and souls. Even in the old tales, such power was unthinkable, simply impossible for all but the gods themselves.

Or a very old and mighty spirit. Like the Tiger.

Ashne recalled the vast enormity of the Tiger’s presence. The paralysis.

But the Tiger had not attempted to compel her to action. Her heart was still her own.

“It been that sorcerer,” the man was saying. “It gotta be. That one no one dare talk about in Tham, the one who called the bugs up from their sleep. He musta followed us all the way here.”

Braksya raised an eyebrow. “Was it not the mercenary who commanded the beast?”

Ashne stilled. Forced herself not to flinch.

“Were he? There were a few of us who did wonder, the timing being suspect and all... but the man were always sleeping when it happened. Chief even barged into his tent one night just to check. And the funny thing, you see, Chief yelled at him and damn near throttled him in his sleep, just to be sure. But he weren’t even pissed. Just laughed it all off. Said we musta dreamed, musta eaten something or smoked something funny.”

Kitzon. Kitzon had been no sorcerer, when they last ran together. Even Phas had said his employer was not the one the rumors spoke of.

Yet the bandit Rahm must have believed it was so, else he would not have fled.

Unless she were mistaken after all. Unless she had merely conjured him back to life in her mind on that night.

If that had truly been Kitzon, he would not have hesitated to overtake her will.

Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he sent her to her death, as he had sent so many others? As he had sent...

It could be none other than him.

“And worst of it were,” the bandit continued, “no one ever saw it but us, so’s Matron and her men were sure we were lying. We nothing but damn thieves anyway, how could we understand the glory of the Prince anyway and how dare we besmirch his name so, see?”

The man broke down into uneven sobs. He raised his arms to his face, but the sight of his lost hands only upset him further. Ashne exchanged a glance with Braksya, who seemed to be regarding the whole scene with a mixture of pity and amusement.

His indifference angered her, but left her no less certain as to how to proceed.

At last, she crouched down beside the bandit.

“Was it the Matron who ordered this done to you?” she said softly, in their own tongue.

He nodded. “I tried to run away.” He took a deep breath, hiccupped. “But they caught me. Called me a liar and a coward. Said I deserved a thief’s punishment.”

“Your chief didn’t defend you?”

“He tried. But they said they had to make an example of me. Make sure no one else got the bright idea to flee.”

Ashne let out the breath she had been holding. “Look,” she said. “It’s not much, but we have some extra food. Enough for you to make it to the nearest village. But you’ll have to go on your own.”

The bandit’s eyes widened. “You mean to hunt them down. Even knowing what they are, what they’ve done?”

Braksya gave a little cough as Ashne cut the rope binding the bandit’s legs and helped him to his feet. She refused to turn. The bandit continued to shake his head in disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I have to go. I must guarantee our princess’s safety.”

“But...”

“You said it yourself, didn’t you? She’s still alive. They can’t afford to kill her. At least, not yet. And if that’s the case...” She trailed off. Gathered herself. “There’s a hamlet three days north, on the opposite bank. Come. We’ll ferry you across.”

But his face blanched. “They’ll never take me in, knowing what I am. They’ll turn me in to the Speaker’s men! And even if they don’t, like this, I can’t, I can’t — I’m no more than another useless mouth to feed. I can’t even feed myself!” He began to tear up again. “Maybe I’d be better off dead. You’ve got a sword, haven’t you? You don’t owe me nothing. But still, please. Don’t leave me to this — this half life, this worm’s life. Grant me a warrior’s death, at least!”

It was true. She had given little to no thought of the consequences. Still, she said quietly, “Have you so little will to live?”

“Would you, in my shoes?”

To that, she had no response.

At her shoulder, Braksya coughed again and said, “Well, have you two come to a decision yet, or are you planning to stand around like this all day?”

She knew what he must be thinking. What they both must be thinking.

You would kill an innocent child, but not an irredeemable ruffian such as this?

That was the kind of woman she was. Had always been.

Unlike Zsaran.

“I cannot help you further,” she said, addressing the bandit, then paused, reaching for the queen’s insignia at her waist. “The Speaker is harsh, but just. I am sure he will judge the loss of your hands punishment enough for your crimes.”

All that remained now, she thought idly, was the glass pendant that had served as proof of the princess’s survival, warm and smooth on her chest. But from that she would not part. Could not part. Not yet.

Without another word, she leaned over and secured the insignia on the bandit’s sash, knowing well the risk she took.

But where the trail led her now, no sign or emblem would aid.

* * *

That night, she dreamed.

In the wild is a dead doe...

The man’s singing breaks off at the sound of crunching footsteps, loud and deliberate.

“When are you going to stop singing that stupid song?” But there is no rancor in the woman’s voice. Perhaps even the slightest hint of amusement.

“It’s a funny song, don’t you think?”

“It was.”

“So you admit it, then.”

“I never said it wasn’t funny. Just stupid.”

A low, rumbling chuckle. “There’s no helping it. Those damn northerners are all the same. So very serious. Especially when it comes to matters of... bedding.”

He receives a very unladylike snort in response. “And I suppose your people do not take it seriously at all? Do you not barter brides with each other? Or steal each other’s wives?”

“We do. We’re just more frank about it.”

She laughs.

“I wish I could go with you,” says the woman after some time has passed. “See your homeland with my own eyes.”

Silence looms between them like the long shadows of a bonfire.

“Then come with me,” says the man. Abrupt. Urgent. “I’ll take you. We’ll go, together.”

The woman’s face is a blur, but the shock is more than apparent in her bearing.

“But Ashne...”

“She can come along too, of course! Why, aren’t we practically family by now?”

“Kitzon...” A warning note in her voice.

“I’m serious,” he says softly. “Think about it, Zsaran. What use does your Lady Consort have of you, now that the war is over? Have you not repaid your debt to her many times over by now? How many years has it been, again? Ten? Twelve?”

“Thirteen. Almost fourteen.”

“Fourteen years is a long time. How many more years do you intend to toil away in her service? Another decade? Two? By then you will be an old woman. Past your prime. And for what? Do you really wish to sacrifice your entire life for a woman who couldn’t care less whether you live or die tomorrow, so long as you do her bidding today?”

“I know. I know, Kitzon, I know. Do you think I haven’t — considered all this before myself? Do you have any idea — how many times I’ve thought of — just leaving. Running away from it all. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

“Because of her,” he says flatly.

“She is — She is more than a friend. More than a sister to me, Kitzon. You must understand this.”

“I do understand.” He hesitates. “I meant what I said, Zsaran. She can come with us. Imagine — Just the three of us, like this. Forever.”

“You don’t understand. Ashne — the lady is everything to her. She knows nothing but this life. She —”

“Don’t you think you’re being overprotective? She is a grown woman, not some foolish child!”

“How dare you —” the woman begins, rising from her seat, but then she shakes her head, slumps back down, all the anger draining from her in an instant. “I know that. Of course I know.”

“But you are afraid. You fear that she will choose the lady over you.”

A heartbeat passes. She bursts into laughter, but there is no joy in her voice. “You poor fool. Is that what you think?”

“Am I wrong?”

“Idiot. It’s because of you...”

Everything blurs. For a moment Ashne sees them again: faceless, silhouetted against firelight, tall morphing shadows posed across a gaping, growing void.

Then everything shifts and a vision of Zsaran flashes before her eyes. Zsaran, as she had been in life. Bright, beautiful, furious, standing over a fallen body — hers, Ashne realizes with some shock.

Tears streaming down from wide dark eyes. Hair flying wild behind her, like a demon of vengeance. Of justice.

And Ashne lying there, bleeding out into the earth, blind and unseeing. Hair matted with sweat and crumbling darkness.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

But she knows it is no use. No matter how many times she whispers her apologies, Zsaran will never return. Never.

Never again.

* * *

She woke before dawn to the lilting, melancholy tune of a bamboo flute.

Braksya, she thought, and sat up.

He had stepped out onto the land, facing the river. A tall dark figure against the dull gray of morning.

She did not recognize the melody.

After a moment, she said, “About the sorcerer... I — I knew him.”

He paused. Lowered his flute. Turned. He had probably guessed as much already, and yet he listened to her now with his full attention, not speaking, expression solemn.

“He was...” she began, then hesitated. “The craziest man I’ve ever known.”

He had the nerve to look affronted at that.

“He was crazy, but he was also —” She struggled for the right words. “Convincing. If he said he would take over the world tomorrow, you believed him. And you would do anything in your power to help him achieve that goal.”

His eyes narrowed; his frown grew deeper. She looked away.

“He was a brilliant man. Charming. Skilled with the blade. An expert horseman. Fluent in more tongues than I can even name. He had been born into the western tribes, you see.”

“Ah,” said Braksya, his voice unusually sour. “One of those mercenary barbarians.”

“He was no barbarian. No more than you or I.” She trailed her fingers through the cold water at the edge of the boat. “It’s true that most men of the Court would have feared or scorned him, knowing his roots. But he had a way of putting people at ease. Even his most hated enemies.”

“Oh?”

“You may not believe me, but it’s the truth. Zsaran —” Something caught in her throat, but she pushed on. “Zsaran trusted him. Would have trusted him with her very life. As did I.”

“Her trust was rather misplaced, I see.”

“You don’t understand!” she said with sudden fervor, looking up. “She —”

The cool, sardonic look on his face robbed her of speech, filled her with fire. Once more she turned her head away. Collected herself.

“They were in love.”

“Really.”

This time, she could not seem to continue.

As if from far away, Braksya said, “If they were so deeply in love as you say, then why did he betray you? Why did he...”

“No. You’re right,” whispered Ashne. “It was all a lie from the start. He was just using us. It was Hazsam that he wanted, right from the beginning. He must have seen our quest as the perfect opportunity. And it was, for him. Until I killed him.”

“You didn’t do a very good job of it.”

She met his gaze. “No. I didn’t.”

“Still, I don’t see why he had to kill your sister. She wasn’t the one who tried to —” He made a slashing gesture across his throat.

“Does he even need a reason?” Her words lashed out like a whip. “Zsaran and I were in his way. He had no more use for us. Leaving us alive would do him more harm than good.”

“Then why did he and that tiger of his spare you?”

“He —” She hesitated. “He expects me to go after him. No, he knows I will. He must have some need of me yet.”

“He has your princess as well as the scabbard. Why should he then need you?”

Even Ashne could hear the unspoken words. You, of all people.

“Isn’t it as you said? Hazsam gave me this wound.” The pain had not troubled her in some time. Not since that night... Yet its mere presence weighed still on her heart and mind. “Its power lingers within me. He needs that power. His newfound allies need that power.”

To this, it seemed, he had no response.

At last, he sighed and said, “Why did you tell me all this?”

“This is the man you seek. I thought you should know.”

He turned as the first light of day began at last to seep above the horizon.

“I see,” he said, lifted the flute to his lips, and spoke no more.