The hours passed slowly now through a mire of heat and silence. Though it was cooler on the water, the sun beat down upon them without mercy, and even the breeze weighed heavy and hesitant upon their skin. Ashne tied back her sleeves, longing for the ease of a southern tunic, wondering how Braksya managed to stand the stifling oppressiveness of his own robes.

Meanwhile, they took turns rowing, each keeping to their own half of the boat, allowing the other what little privacy could be maintained in such a small space. When night fell, they moored their boat in a patch of reeds and hid themselves beneath a tent of mesh to keep out the insects before drifting to sleep, lulled by the lapping waves.

This time, the old fears did not disturb her.

In the mornings she practiced with her sword, slowly adjusting her movements to compensate for her old wound. Sometimes he watched; more often than not, he continued to snore. A few times she noticed the tip of a snake’s tongue flickering out from within his sleeves, as if testing the air, but it seemed otherwise content to remain in hiding, and she too learned to ignore its presence.

Aside from brief breaks to eat and stretch their legs and seek evidence of the bandits’ passage or barter with local farmers, they stopped ashore only once, for Braksya to brew a batch of bitter moon tea. By then the cramps had been troubling her for at least two days, but she had mistaken them for the ghost pains of her injury until the blood came. Braksya had taken one look at her face and laughed and laughed until she shoved him into the water, cheeks burning. Her blood had not come for months. Was it any wonder that its arrival now came as a surprise?

The incident seemed to ease something between them.

“Have you always been like this?” Braksya asked from his end of the boat, later that afternoon, laughter in his eyes and his voice, though his face was straight and solemn as can be. “Even as a child?”

“Like what?” muttered Ashne, shifting her hold on the oar.

“Like —” He gestured about, palms spread wide, long fingers curved, as if grasping for words in the air. His clothes had mostly dried by then, but his shock of white hair framed his face in a bright wild tangle. Ashne would have thought him drunk if she had not already secretly checked his basket for any stashes of alcohol he might have picked up back at the village.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His only response was, “What a serious little girl you must have been!”

“Is that so wrong?”

“No, no. I can just imagine it.”

“Zsaran and I,” she began, then hesitated. “We had no time to play around like the other children.”

“This Zsaran of yours seems nothing like you, however.”

“She isn’t,” Ashne agreed. “She...”

“Never mind her. Surely you have had some moments of joy and leisure in your short life.”

“I suppose,” she said doubtfully, listening to the distant cries of waterbirds, the occasional splash of glimmering fish leaping through the air. Her life before she met Zsaran was mostly a haze of hunger. Cold. Bone-deep fear, sharp at first, but over time dulled to an ever-present ache. Even after meeting Zsaran there had been many times when they had gone hungry, or shivered helplessly in the damp winter chills. But the fear... the fear had left her.

When had it departed, that bitter constant companion of childhood? Was it when the queen found them, plucked them from their miserable lives? Or earlier yet?

She remembered Woodcutter Mountain.

“Tell me at least about your other sworn sisters,” Braksya was saying. “I have heard much of the infamous Swordmaidens of Wat, but I rather suspect it is all a load of nonsense. How did you all come to be in the queen’s service anyway?”

“Well, Old Shranai... We call her old, but in truth she is of an age with the lady. They grew up together as children, I’ve been told.”

“Hmm.”

“And then there is Zsaran and me. The lady found us while on a tour of the southern villages.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Found?”

“We were caught stealing.”

“Ah,” he said, and there was no pity in his eyes, no judgment. Only simple curiosity.

“The twins are the youngest of us.”

“The refugees from Enh.”

“Yes.” She was surprised he remembered. “They do not have many memories of their homeland. They were very young when they fled.” After a moment she added, “And you? Have you been wandering for very long, or do you still have fond memories of Enh?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

Ashne glared at him until at last he doubled over, wheezing, rocking the boat dangerously. She hurriedly steadied them.

When he caught his breath again, he said, “So, five of you in all. Some of the tales would have you numbered at one hundred!”

“We are of more worth than even a hundred warriors.”

He laughed again. “I can well believe it.”

She could not tell whether or not he was still mocking her. She said instead, “Were your parents medicine-sellers as well?”

“Were your parents Swordmaidens?” He lifted his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Sworn sisters... You must be very close.”

“I — I suppose.”

“You are not always so serious with them, at least, then?”

“I...” She sighed. “The twins and I used to play little games. Zsaran hadn’t the patience for it; the twins would always complain that she was cheating, being unfair —”

“Oh? What kind of games?”

“One of us would hide. The other two would compete to see who found her first.”

“And I suppose you were always the winner.”

“Well, yes. Mostly. I fared less well when I was the one hiding.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grinned. “So? Did they claim that you were cheating?”

“No, of course not. I never cheat. They did start trying all kinds of tricks, though. Pretending to be each other. Switching their hiding places while the other distracted me. But I caught on to them soon enough.” She paused, frowning at the memory. “And when I told them to stop resorting to such foolery if they had any intention of improving their skills, they ran off crying to Zsaran.”

He was trying to keep from laughing again, she realized. And failing miserably, if the shaking of his shoulders was any indication.

She sighed again, allowed herself a small smile. “So you see, life has been like this for me. For as long as I remember.”

“For as long as you remember,” he repeated. His shoulders stilled and he looked up, studying her so intently that her smile froze and she turned away, gaze settling on the rippling liquid gold of the waves. The skies seemed set aflame, the rounded mountains wreathed in soft hazy light.

“They are not bad memories,” he said then, though she did not know whether he addressed her, or spoke to himself.

“No,” she said. “They are not.”

Their shadows lengthened, stretching thin across the open waters.

* * *

She was plagued the next morning with an unsettling itch or unease. A vague sense of being followed, she clarified to herself some hours later — not being hunted, exactly, but as if someone watched their every move. It could not be the king’s men, caught up to her after nearly a month; she had long ago left behind those worries, and at any rate she could sense no hostility from their silent observer, no particular urgency. As if whoever or whatever it was were simply content to wait, at least for the moment.

She ignored it, or tried to. Braksya did not seem to notice, or if he did, it did not bother him. His apathy should have reassured her, but instead it transformed what should have only been a minor concern into a new morass of worry and self-doubt. He did not respond to things as a normal man might; indeed, seemed almost to take pride in and even deliberately exaggerate his own peculiarities.

Whatever his small kindnesses, she could not trust him, even now.

She should be a fool to. He himself had said as much.

When they stopped that evening, she stepped ashore. Without a word to him, she wandered off, exploring the surrounding marshland and verdant forests, ducking beneath low branches, picking her way over bulging roots and loose soil. But aside from insects and birds and the brief glimpse of a tusked water deer, she found no other signs of life.

She thought idly of spirits. But spirits, at least, would have roused Braksya’s interest. And the unexplained pressure or presence she felt from this observer had none of the strange unfathomable essence of the other world.

Wondering if she had been only imagining things after all, she began to head back to the boat.

Only to be startled by the sucking sound of wet footsteps approaching from behind her, slow and deliberate.

She turned to see none other the bandit Rahm. Riding on a kammrae, much to her surprise — the very same one she had begun her journey with, and regretted leaving behind at Tham.

The creature raised its head and stared at her, sniffing at the wind, clearly recognizing its previous rider.

“What are you doing here?” Ashne demanded, hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sword, though he made no move to reach for his.

“That sorcerer’s formed an alliance with the heir,” he said simply.

The sorcerer. Phas’s employer.

“Wait,” Ashne called out as he nudged the kammrae north. “Why are you telling me this?”

He stopped. Tilted his head.

“Don’t trust ’em.”

And with that, he was gone.

* * *

That night she recalled, with abrupt and unsettling clarity, the day she and Zsaran had left. More than a year ago now — the land bursting in color after that first long winter. The pale blush of hydrangea, the bright fields of narcissus, the sweet fragrance of the lone surviving citron tree they had brought north to cultivate in the royal gardens. And the mountains. The mountains! Not the rich deep greens of home, but no longer dull and desolate.

“Khonua has fallen. Pashrai is dead. Yet his young heir still lives — in hiding, in exile, it is said. My lord frets over this, though he speaks nothing of it. His heart has turned to other matters, and now that Wily Bahmre has fled, he consults in no one. Not Muntong. Not even me,” the queen had said just the week before. “The solution is clear. You, my Maidens, must go. Seek out the boy. Bring back the sword Hazsam.”

“Yes, my lady,” Ashne had murmured.

But Zsaran had said, “A boy? Surely he can be no threat to one so great as the Lord Speaker.”

“Even the greatest man may be felled, in the end. Was not Pashrai’s folly proof enough of this?”

“Pashrai chose the wrong opponent,” said Zsaran, teeth gleaming in a fierce grin.

Queen Marnua shook her head. “So the Lord Speaker may as well. Perhaps not now. Perhaps not even soon. But someday, someday...”

“You fear that this child will grow up someday and raise an army to reclaim his land, my lady? It is not possible. Kasa fell long ago. Khonua is lost. Our people are now as one. And they grow weary of war.”

The queen’s expression grew distant, perhaps even chilly. “You sound just like the king himself!” she remarked. Then she shook her head again. “No, child. It is not for him I fear. But for my daughter, who is a simple child, unsuited for war and plotting. Yet someday she will take the reeds. She must take the reeds. In the long years before then, who knows what will happen! Hearts weary of war may begin to thirst once more for blood. And I would not have her destroyed by old enemies who should have long been laid to rest.”

Zsaran bowed her head. “Then we will go, my lady. But, if I may ask, why Hazsam? How can you be so sure it lies in the boy’s possession?”

“Without it he is nothing,” replied the queen.

And with those words they were dismissed.

Later that night, as they began preparing for a long journey that would lead them who-knows-where and take them who-knows-how-long, Zsaran said, “So this is what we are come to. Hunting down children to maintain the peace.”

Ashne did not know how to respond, could not quite place the tone of her voice.

Zsaran sighed. “I don’t like this.”

“I do not either,” Ashne replied. “But it is only wise. King Pashrai thought himself the victor, his position secure. Twenty years later, he learned that he was wrong.”

“Many things may change in twenty years. Whether for better or worse is not certain.”

“Yes, but is it worth the risk?”

Zsaran did not reply immediately. “You’re right. But still, I don’t like it. To send us from her side at such a time, for a mission such as this...”

“Doesn’t it show how much trust she places in us? To grant us such an important mission.”

“Of course.” Suddenly she sheathed the sword she had been examining and turned to Ashne, eyes dark and solemn. “When we complete the mission — when we return — let’s go back south again. Pay another visit to Woodcutter Mountain.”

Startled, Ashne said, “Sure. But why?” After the ominous winds they had witnessed at the peak the previous year, she had grown wary of ever returning.

Zsaran offered her a small, secret smile. “No reason.” Then she said, “It’s not yet been twenty years, but it has been fifteen. Perhaps by the time we are back...”

And suddenly, Ashne knew. Remembered.

“Yes,” she said, smiling back. “When we return.”

The morning they were to leave, the queen announced her intentions to go on a hunt. After the long dark winter, the warriors itched for action, and according to Dragon custom, the dawning of the new year was best marked with sacrifices. The king had little interest in such sport, and so Queen Marnua would go in his stead, along with a train of their finest men. And, of course, her precious Swordmaidens.

The twins remained behind with the princess while Shranai readied the queen. Ashne remembered: she had never thought she would be so grateful for the coming of spring. Her first northern spring. The first spring of peace after years of bitter war.

The queen, sitting tall and proud upon a horse, surrounded by tattooed warriors on foot. Striking a foreign yet regal visage in her richly embroidered hunting robes, a fierce hawk perched upon her leather arm guard.

The capital cheering as their procession rode past.

Their parting of ways some distance from the city walls: Zsaran and Ashne west to the hill of the crooked pine, the queen and Shranai and the warriors north to the forested mountains beyond.

It was a memory Ashne had not given thought to in many months. And yet how vividly it arose in her mind now — the queen’s sad, knowing smile as she turned her horse away.

And the hawk, soaring higher and higher into the blue heavens until it was nothing more but a speck in the sun.