SUPERLONG chapter ahoy!

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The boy was not hurt, as she had assessed. But he shook and burned with fever, and during the brief moments that he was conscious, could barely swallow the water Braksya ladled to his mouth. The rest of the time, Braksya carried the child on his back while Ashne carried his basket for him as they hurried their way east.

Ashne found herself shamed that she had ever considered leaving the child behind. Relieved, indeed, that Braksya had held his ground, that she had not rashly continued south, intent only on achieving her own goals. And yet with every step they took in the wrong direction, her heart grew heavier.

The hours wore on. The forests grew sparser. The sun shone bright and harsh overhead, not a cloud to be seen.

Two days later, the boy’s fever broke. Another day later, he had recovered enough strength to begin walking on his own for stretches at a time, though he remained mute.

They began to pass by rows of flooded fields; Braksya waved merrily at the toiling farmers and their buffalo.

At last, on the afternoon of the fourth day, they reached a village built in a similar manner to the exiles’ village, only the houses this time were interspersed with waterways crisscrossing through several smaller fields before joining with a small river whose name Ashne did not know. Ashne stopped to ask one of the farmers in the fields for directions, and learned that they were not far now from the boy’s home.

News of their arrival spread quickly. As they approached the small hut at the banks of the river, a woman not so much older than Ashne herself rushed forward.

“How can I ever thank you?” she cried as Braksya nudged the child forward. She swept her son into a tight embrace. “My poor boy! Oh, whatever happened to you? You were gone for so long this time!”

The boy murmured something inaudible in response.

Curiously, the woman was tattooed. Perhaps it was her husband who came from the court, or maybe she or both were from Krengsra. But Ashne did not have a chance to dwell on the matter, for Braksya chose that moment to clear his throat and hold out a packet of herbs.

“Continue brewing him this medicine every morning for five days. By then, his health will have been completely restored.”

The woman’s eyes widened upon hearing his usage of Court tongue. “There must be some way I can repay you,” she said awkwardly, switching over. She accepted the packet with lowered eyes. Beneath her tattoos, Ashne detected a slight blush.

“We are headed to Kasa,” said Ashne, in their native dialect. “We will be in need of supplies; I have little worth bartering with me at the moment, but will be sure to compensate you when I can.”

“But of course!” exclaimed the woman with clear relief. She patted the boy’s head; he darted inside after one final swift glance at Braksya and Ashne. “Anything for the kind strangers who saved my son!”

“Also...” Ashne hesitated, knowing the enormity of her request. “Is it possible for us to borrow a boat? We mean to take the Canal south.”

The late King Pashrai had ordered the construction of the Ghan Canal in his preparations to attack Zhae. Those efforts had obviously long since been abandoned, though the Canal itself had been completed. It was poorly maintained now.

But it remained the quickest route south to Gokho Lake and the old capital at Kasa. Navigating the Canal might not make up for lost time, but it would ensure that further delays would be kept to a minimum.

Unfortunately but not unexpectedly, the woman’s face fell. “I am sorry, but...”

“I understand,” Ashne said quickly. “I do not wish to impose on you overmuch.”

“No, no. It’s just, you see... it is not for me to decide.”

“May I speak to your husband, then?”

The woman blushed again. “Ah, you mistake me. It is our village chief who tells us when to send out the boats, and when to keep them moored.”

Ashne dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Will you take us to your chief?”

“Well...” The woman’s frown grew deeper, but at last she said, “Very well. I will take you to seek audience with her.”

“What’s going on?” whispered Braksya in Ashne’s ear, loudly enough that the woman looked up with a start. She offered them a brief, nervous smile, before turning, indicating that they should follow her.

Ashne glared at him before replying, “We are going to see the village chief.”

“Whatever for?”

“To ask if she might lend us a boat.”

“Ohh.” He dragged out the syllable as if preparing to launch into a dirge or some other ridiculous song of lament.

But instead, he fell silent again as they made their way down the riverbank.

* * *

They came to a stop at a cluster of huts some distance away from the riverbank. The boy’s mother led them straight to the largest one, at the center of the cluster, and bid them to wait while she climbed up and entered before them.

It was not long before she bustled back out with a smile.

“Chief was in the middle of a ceremony to appease the spirits, it seems. But she consents to see you. Come along, she’s waiting!”

The village chief sat cross-legged upon a reed mat in the center of the room. She was older than Ashne but not quite so old as Shranai and the queen, and a feathered headdress of five colors crowned her head. As Ashne and Braksya entered and paid their respects, she looked up to regard them. Upon her chest, a necklace of red coral shifted, clicking against a string of cracked cowries.

Ashne cleared her throat. “Honored Chieftain.”

“Let us dispense with the formalities,” said the chief. “Paramun has informed me of the great debt she owes you. Speak. What is it that you would request of us?”

The chief’s eyes were wide and gentle as a child’s, her voice slow and measured. But Ashne found her expression difficult to read, her posture neither intimidated nor intimidating.

“We have traveled some way,” Ashne said, “and must travel yet further south. A boat... A boat might ease our journey.”

There was a long pause before the chief responded.

“These boats are our livelihood. Without them, what should we do if the crops were to fail? Or if the Speaker’s soldiers should come demanding tribute? Or enemies come rowing up the river? No. These boats are as essential to us as each man or woman’s own souls. We cannot spare a single one.” The chief tilted her head, gaze flitting briefly to Braksya before settling back on Ashne. “Especially to a pair of strangers — even if you did rescue one of our own.”

“There must be some way we can compensate you. We wish only to borrow one for a few weeks’ time. I promise to return as soon as possible.”

“A promise is of great value indeed. I honor and appreciate your offer. But even the most sacred of vows cannot replace what is absent, or has been lost.”

“I have...” Ashne hesitated, considering her options. Drew out the jade comb, handed it over. Princess’s sign or not, it held no further use for her. “It is not much, but...”

Beside her, Braksya craned his neck to get a better view, his curiosity suddenly aroused.

“True jade. Quality craftsmanship. A precious treasure, and not without power,” responded the chief in the meantime, running bony, sun-darkened fingers over the comb’s teeth. Then she handed it back. “But a trinket. One that provides neither food nor safety for my people.”

It had been worth a try, at least. Even so, she hesitated again as she reached at last for the reed-and-gold emblem tucked in her waist sash. The queen’s sign guaranteed food and safe harbor for all who carried it, just as the king’s own emblem did for those who bore his mark. But even now there were villages along the great rivers who did not acknowledge the sovereignty of Khosian and Marnua. If this woman reacted similarly to the way the guards in Tham had — or, as was not unlikely, with even more suspicion and hostility — Ashne worried that things might come to blows.

But the chief’s face did not so much as twitch when she unveiled the emblem.

“Another of the Speaker-Consort’s servants, I see. I should have guessed.”

Ashne’s heart raced. “Another? You mean —”

“Yes,” said the chief dismissively. “You missed each other by just a day. She left early yesterday morning. Didn’t stay long.”

Zsaran. She was safe. As promised, she had made it out of the bandits’ den alive. She must have stolen a kammrae before her escape from the capital, to have made it here before them after their parting in the mountains. But why had she come this way?

“Did she leave a message?”

“No. Only said she was on some secret mission or other, and ordered me not to mention her presence or identity to anyone else.”

“I see,” she murmured, puzzling over this new development. “Then...”

“I am sorry. Speaker-Consort’s servant or no, I cannot help you.”

And Ashne could not bring herself to demand more from them. But without a boat, they would be forced to make their way south on foot, through the marshlands. They would never catch up with Zsaran at that rate, much less with Matron and the bandits.

And Zsaran surely was waiting for her.

And yet bargaining and negotiation had never counted among her skills.

She knew enough, at least, to recognize a lost cause. Bowing her head, she rose to leave.

“However,” the chief said then, raising a hand to halt her, expression still unchanging. “Our village has been suffering from a strange plague since the beginning of summer. At first we thought it was the swamp fever, for the initial symptoms were quite similar. My people have been calling it the sleeping sickness, for its victims, in the end, fall into a deep slumber and never wake up.”

“A sleeping sickness?” They came and went, these odd plagues, especially during the wet season. Ashne could not see why the chief chose to bring up the topic now.

As if sensing Ashne’s confusion, the chief continued. “It does not seem to have spread since the first rash of incidents, and only one or two have passed on. But it has caused much panic regardless. If you can cure those who have taken ill and call back the souls of those who dream, then perhaps I may consider some form of recompense.”

“If we can —” Ashne almost rose again before quickly composing herself. She wondered how the woman had determined Braksya’s occupation from sight alone. Unless it were only a coincidence, a challenge concocted deliberately to turn away meddling strangers. But going to such lengths was surely unnecessary.

“Allow me to consult with my companion,” she said at last.

The chief nodded.

When she turned, she saw that Braksya had dozed off. Annoyed, she pinched his arm.

He blinked awake with a slight yelp and a lopsided grin that made her suspect he had only been feigning sleep.

“You are an apothecary, are you not?” she muttered.

“Hm?”

She took that as a yes. “And you do know something of plagues and internal sicknesses?”

“But of course.”

“Really?”

He beamed. “I would never lie to one such as you, Miss Ashne.”

There he went again, pronouncing her name in that odd way of his. And speaking more loudly than propriety dictated, especially when she could not be certain whether or not the chief understood the Dragon tongue.

But she was not one of his elders. His behavior was none of her responsibility. So instead, she asked, “Have you ever heard of a disease like this?” and proceeded to outline the symptoms the chief had described.

“A disease that claims its victims in slumber rather than death? I can’t say I have. Why?”

“She asks for our services in exchange for the boat.” A small lie, but she supposed it would make no difference to him, either way.

“Oh?” he said. “I suppose I can give it a try.”

“Are you sure?” she demanded, despite her undeniable relief at his apparent cooperation. “If you end up worsening their condition...”

He shrugged. “Is it better to be dead or forever asleep, I wonder?”

That was probably all the reassurance she would get. “How long will it take you?”

“A day, maybe two. It depends on how serious the illness actually is and how many victims it has thus far claimed.”

Another two days lost, for naught but the mere possibility of getting a boat.

But then, Zsaran had chosen to pass by this place, though it did not lie on the route to Kasa. Zsaran must have had her reasons. Even if she had not stayed long, perhaps her coming itself had been intended as a message to Ashne.

Wishful thinking, she knew. But perhaps another day would do no harm. And if Braksya were successful, surely this chief could not be so unreasonable as to deny them this boon.

She turned back to the chief.

“We shall see what we can do.”

* * *

As they left the chief’s hut, Braksya said, “Let me take a look at that comb.”

Though surprised by the request, Ashne handed it over without a word.

“This isn’t yours,” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“It’s none of your business,” she snapped, but regretted her words as soon as they left her mouth.

He waited.

“That night, by the river. After the attack.”

For a moment he seemed confused. Then he said, “Ah. Before Tham.”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“Why?”

“There are traces of power on it.”

“What?” Not without power. Was this, then, what the chief had meant by those words? And if so, did that mean the woman was versed in the sorcerous arts as well?

An involuntary shudder ran down Ashne’s back.

“I am not surprised you did not sense it,” Braksya was saying. “You couldn’t even sense the power lingering in your own wound, after all. Still, I am surprised you held on to this for so long.”

“I... I thought it might have been the princess’s.”

He made another noncommittal noise, then said, “Come, little one. What do you think?”

Ashne watched with nervous curiosity as the little white snake materialized under his sleeve and slithered out, winding itself slowly around the comb, tongue darting in and out of its mouth. After some time, it unwrapped itself from the jade and circled lazily about Braksya’s wrist instead, head swaying in the air.

“What... is it saying?” Ashne asked.

“Whose comb it was, I cannot tell you. But this certainly explains what happened.” He hummed a little phrase of music she did not recognize and tucked back his sleeve. The snake settled down along his bared forearm as if sunning itself.

“What happened?” she repeated, annoyed.

“Someone tried to summon that spirit into this comb.” He offered her a one-sided shrug. “Something went wrong. Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Jade is normally a purifier,” he said. “Those very same properties allow it to serve as a most excellent conduit — for certain purposes, that is. It freely channels light essence while repelling or transforming shadow essence.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, though her old master had taught her — taught them all — something of the channeling of internal energy through their own bodies. But such energy was part of their lifestreams, inherent to their very souls, their very existence. Mountains and rivers, swords and trees: these too had souls, she knew. But a single rock, a fallen blossom, unsmelted metal: these were cold and lifeless things. One could not bind souls or spirits to such.

He continued, handing back the comb, “Now, the energies have been mixed. Corrupted, I suppose you could say. Light and shadow intermingling.” He paused, looking thoughtful, then added, “Though corruption implies an evil influence, which is not necessarily the case here. ’Tis harmless, now, in fact. There are several possible explanations for such an occurrence, but the most obvious is a botched summoning.”

Ashne said, slowly, “Is that why that spirit was so angry?”

“Wouldn’t you be upset if someone woke you from a thousand-year slumber and tried to bind you to a comb?”

“Not really,” she responded automatically, her thoughts elsewhere.

A woman. A woman’s accessory. The bandit in Tham had feared a woman. Back at the mountain hideout she had thought it must be the Matron, but now that she had time to truly consider the possibility, it seemed an uneasy fit, neither more nor less believable than her theory, still earlier, that it was the bandit woman Inhai.

The village chief? But no, Ashne could hardly go around suspecting every other woman she encountered on this journey. It would be an unproductive endeavor, and sorceress or not, a young village chief could not possibly be connected to political intrigues leagues away from the river and her people.

In the meantime, Braksya laughed. “No,” he said. “You’re more the type who would be upset that you had slept so long without anyone telling you, aren’t you?”

“What was it summoned for?” she asked then, ignoring him.

“The usual, I suppose. Death, destruction. A simple display of power.”

But that did not answer the question of why.

She frowned, then drew out the glass pendant about her neck and held it up. In the rosy hues of sunset, its blue tint darkened to the shade of lapis lazuli.

“What about this?” she asked. “Did you sense anything from this?”

“I would have mentioned it if I had,” he replied, which Ashne did not believe at all. “A curious object indeed, but no, I feel nothing. Pretty as it is.”

“And the bird? Those vines? Were they summoned as well? Or did they wake on their own?” After a pause, she continued, “Have you ever —”

“Summoned a spirit? Whyever for? My little one is more than enough for me.” With a wide grin, he reached over to stroke the snake’s head. “As for your other questions, I wish I knew!”

Before she could ask anything else, she found that they had reached the boy’s residence once more. They were greeted this time by another woman, who introduced herself as a half-sister of the boy’s mother and welcomed them inside.

That night, the boy’s mother and aunt served them a warrior’s feast. Freshly sliced sweetfish from the river accompanied with crisp cucumber and starched noodles; a lightly vinegared broth of mudfish, bamboo, and mushrooms; even a small platter of boiled duck spiced with ginger. The women offered Braksya slice after slice of the sweetfish; he slipped them all to Ashne when he thought no one else was paying attention, but slurped down the broth heartily enough. Ashne herself had little appetite after weeks of quotidian fare on the road and in the sickbed. Still, she ate what she could, uncomfortably cognizant of the honor and respect their hosts were affording them, and how little she deserved it.

Before long, the boy was sent to bring out the wine. The women took turns pouring and chattering away while the boy sat hunched quietly at the side, looking very much like he wished he was elsewhere. Unfortunately for him, it was another while yet before his caretakers noticed him yawning, and sent him off to bed.

“There is one thing I must ask,” announced Braksya as soon as the boy had parted. “But where is the child’s father?”

The boy’s mother looked down at her lap, cheeks pinking again, but refused to speak. The aunt looked from her sister to Braksya, then back again, confused. Ashne reluctantly translated what he had said, adding a quick apology for his rudeness.

“Oh, that,” grumbled the aunt. “Some no-good Dragon fellow. He went home years ago.”

“He promised to come back for me,” said the mother. “Something must have happened to him on the way.”

“Been saying that for years, she has. If you ask me, he already had more than enough wives back home to want to put up with another one!”

“We exchanged the binding troths,” insisted the mother.

“As if a Dragon could even sing them properly! I’d sooner believe you pledged yourself to a monkey.”

“I taught him the verses myself! His accent was perfect!”

Braksya watched this exchange with some amusement before turning to Ashne. “What are they saying?”

“One of your people,” she muttered.

He chuckled and said, more loudly, over the women’s squabbling, “And did he have any peculiar habits to speak of?”

The mother turned back to him. “Of course not!” she said in indignant but quite competent Court speech. “He was a shy young man, yes, but not — not at all strange. The loveliest gentleman I have ever met! And so kind! Nothing like our men! Always so loud and rude!”

“There she goes, praising that useless dog to the ends of the earth again, I bet,” said the aunt to Ashne. “I can tell. She always gets that look.”

The mother said, “You don’t happen to — I mean, well. I don’t suppose you were sent by him, perhaps?”

“Alas, but I am afraid not.”

“Oh.” She wiped suddenly at her eyes. “I suppose not.”

The aunt patted her back.

“He must have been very handsome, to catch your eye,” said Braksya then.

“Oh —” The mother blushed again. “No. Actually. Not at all. Not nearly so handsome as you, good sir.”

The aunt raised an eyebrow, having understood that part, at least.

Flustered, the mother continued, “He was a soft one. I mean — a little flesh on him — came from a wealthy clan, you see. And so pale. Always looked rather unwell. That’s how we first met, you know —”

Braksya looked strangely disappointed as the woman launched into a rambling story about her lover and how their relationship had come about. But soon enough it was time to turn in for the night themselves, and Ashne thought little more of it, head spinning with wine and guilt as she sank into the deepest slumber she had experienced in weeks.

* * *

Braksya set off on his rounds as soon as dawn broke the next morning. Ashne accompanied him as a translator.

Their first patient was a young farmer, one of the last to have caught ill. Their hostesses had kindly suggested they pay this young man a visit first, for not only was his abode the nearest, he was the only victim who had not yet fallen into the unwakeable slumber.

He was, however, delirious: barely conscious of his surroundings and no longer in control of his limbs. Soon after Braksya began his examinations, his patient broke into violent convulsions, unsettling Ashne more than she cared to admit. But it then happened a second time, a third time, and she found that she had already begun to grasp a strategy to handling the young man while Braksya poked and prodded and looked very grave indeed.

When he had finished, he took aside the young man’s anxious wife, who had been watching the proceedings. As he spoke to the woman — a potter from Krengsra who understood enough of the Dragon tongue that Ashne’s aid was not needed — he began to dig out unrecognizable materials from the depths of his basket. Ashne continued her vigil at the sickbed, noting with some relief that the man did not seem permanently damaged by Braksya’s handling, and indeed even seemed to be more relaxed than he had been when they first arrived.

As if on cue, Braksya returned from his brief consultation, expression oddly calculating, a paring knife in one hand and several bulbous rootstalks in his other. The wife, in the meantime, began to busy about with whatever task he had set her to.

“Did you figure something out?” Ashne asked.

He seemed in a generous mood, for he replied, “Apparently he told his wife he’d been stung by a wasp out in the fields. Soon after that, the fever came.”

“Wasp poison?”

“Does not generally render such symptoms even in the most sensitive of patients.”

That was, unfortunately, the extent of his generosity. He squatted down, pulled back his sleeves (the snake was nowhere to be seen), and spread out a clean mat of woven hemp, then immersed himself in peeling strips of flaky matter from the rootstalks he held.

“And you think he can be cured?” Ashne pressed on, undeterred.

“Hm.”

She resigned herself to watching him at his work. His fingers were surprisingly nimble, long and pale as they were. Elegant, even. Not the rough, sun-darkened hands of a Turtle tribesman, who was born with an oar in one hand and a sword in the other.

When he had accumulated a small pile of shavings, he looked up. “Is it ready?” he called back to the wife.

The wife joined them silently with two small bowls of water, one warm and one steaming, and a freshly cut stalk of green onion, all upon a larger platter.

“Thank you,” said Braksya, and rooted around in his basket again, this time resurfacing with a worn wooden grinder and a stirring stick. He began to hum as he worked; Ashne blinked, thinking she saw his little white snake nestled in the fold of his robes, watching the proceedings with a curious glint in its eyes. When she looked again, it was no longer there, and she decided she must have been mistaken.

Soon enough, Braksya’s workspace was cleared of all but the two bowls on the platter. In the first was a thin, murky paste; in the other soaked the white bulb of the scallion.

“Help me,” he said, picking up the first bowl and nodding at the sick man.

The wife rose and lifted her husband into a sitting position, then steadied his head.

Without another word, Braksya lifted the man’s chin and poured the contents of the bowl into his mouth.

The man spluttered and almost began to thrash again, but Ashne pinned down his legs just in time. The rest of the mixture slid down his throat without further incident.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then the man’s face turned somewhat green and he vomited right into the platter Braksya had conveniently placed before him during that brief space of time after administering the medicine.

The wife gasped, but to her credit, continued to hold her husband steady as he heaved three or four more times. Ashne caught a glimpse of what resembled pale, miniature droppings speckled against the rest of the contents of the platter. She swiftly looked away.

Braksya stooped down and picked up the still-steaming scallion decoction. This time he handed it over to the wife.

After some time, all fell silent but for short wheezing gasps.

And then a hoarse voice muttered, “What... What happened to me?”

Braksya grinned.

* * *

The rest of the day proceeded in much the same manner, though with varying success. Of those taken by the sleeping sickness, three awakened to their own bewilderment and to the joy of their families. But five others could not be woken no matter what remedies Braksya attempted.

Even so, those three successes — four, including the first young man — cemented his reputation among the other villagers. A few dropped by for advice on their various ills or aches; others begged him to check in on ailing friends or relatives, plying them with food and cooled fruit drinks. By the end of the hour of the horse, they had even acquired a crowd of curious children who followed them eagerly from hut to hut.

Braksya seemed to take it all in stride.

“Yours is not the sleeping sickness,” he reassured one elderly woman as he measured out ground apricot seed for her cough. The woman understood not a single word, but patted his arm and grinned toothily at him in response.

To a girl with scraped knees, he offered a soothing balm and a ridiculous face that had the child giggling and gasping for breath, all pain forgotten in an instant.

For the first time Ashne understood that he truly was a medicine peddler with extensive knowledge in his chosen profession, and not just some quack or pretender who had fancied his little tricks and performances persuasive enough to sway the uncivilized folk of the south.

She wondered what Zsaran would say when she told her how mistaken she had been about this man. Better not to mention it, she decided.

Soon after that, their audience of children was shooed away by a huddle of annoyed aunties, finished with their day’s chores. Said aunties then proceeded to drag Braksya and Ashne to yet another cluster of huts, happily gossiping all the while.

“Strange things afoot lately!”

“What kind of things?” asked Ashne, as Braksya tilted his head, bemused, then strode ahead.

“Well, there’s been this sleeping sickness, of course... Terrible thing. It’s put such a great strain on us all, but Chief is the one who’s suffered most. She’s done all she can, but...”

“That’s why we’re so grateful to you and your friend, see.”

“Indeed, indeed. Especially after Paramun’s little brat...”

One of the other women swatted at the speaker. “Shh! Don’t speak of that. It’s ill luck.”

“The fish have been scarce this year, too. There have always been lean years, but...”

“And that’s not all,” interrupted another woman. “Just the other day I saw a kammrae in the woods! Can you believe it? One of the sacred ones themselves!”

Ashne noted the comment with interest. Wild kammrae did exist, but given Zsaran’s recent presence in these parts, she thought it more likely that the sighting was no coincidence.

“Suppose it can’t be helped that the spirits are restless of late. With that Speaker and his faithless Consort, how could it be otherwise?”

Ashne stiffened. “Faithless?”

If they knew who she was, they would not dare speak so freely about the lady thus.

“Aye,” said the woman who looked to be the eldest. “Bore the Speaker a single daughter, but no fine sons nor any other child. Only one explanation for that!”

“The gods marked her unworthy,” said the youngest.

The others nodded. “That, or someone’s been brewing womb-salting tea.”

“No good can come of her acting like a common river daughter rather than a lady befitting her stature. Was she not Chosen?”

“Aye, no matter how many the troth-songs she pledged in her youth, once she was Chosen, did it not become her duty to keep the bloodlines pure?”

“No, no, that’s the thing. My mother said she wasn’t. ’Twas the Speaker who chose her, she said.”

“That’s as I heard myself. Supposedly our Speaker raised her himself when he took the reeds, consulting neither gods nor spirits.”

“Nor even his lady mother!”

The women clucked their disapproval.

“And now I hear the poor princess is to be trothed to the Dragons!”

The eldest woman shook her head. “Nothing good can come of a Dragon-Turtle match. Just look what happened to poor Paramun.” She turned, quickly adding, “Ah, no offense meant to the good physician, of course.”

Ashne did not bother correcting them regarding Braksya’s profession.

The young one chuckled. “He seems a good enough man, at least. Strange, though.”

“Like the Earth Minister. A good, sensible man, that one, foreign though he is. He has always been fair to the tribes. He has never once forgotten us.”

“Aye. If the Earth Minister believes it best for the princess to be wed, then perhaps it is so...”

“So says our Lady Chief as well.”

One of the women giggled. “Ah, poor Chief is always in such a terrible mood after the Minister sends word!”

So news of the negotiations with the Court had spread so far already, even to this little fishing village. The realization made Ashne anxious, renewed her doubt over her choices through the past week.

But by this point they had reached the next patient’s abode, talk had turned to family histories and domestic affairs, and Ashne lost her chance to pursue the matter further.

* * *

Not until late that night did they complete their rounds. Ashne turned in immediately after a simple supper provided by their hosts, intending to seek out the village chief immediately the next morning while Braksya saw to any remaining patients.

But to her surprise, when she woke, she was informed that the chief was already waiting outside to speak with her in private.

The chief was dressed simply this morning, no longer in ceremonial regalia. She indicated for Ashne to follow her, and for some time they strolled in silence through the mists still clinging to the soft earth.

At the entrance of the bamboo grove beyond the last of the huts, the chief suddenly stopped and turned to face a cluster of bushes. The sound of rustling reached Ashne’s ears. She reached for her sword, but the chief raised her hand in a halting gesture.

Ashne stilled, but did not move her fingers away.

From the bushes emerged a sleek firecat, its fur blazing red-gold, ears pricked and tipped with black, eyes glowing with intent, forehead striped with the sign of the river.

The chief squatted down. After a disdainful but wary glance at Ashne, the firecat approached, nudging at the chief’s outstretched hand in greeting.

Then it vanished.

Ashne stared, recalling once more the chief’s words on the first day. Not without power. “You’re...”

“You are not surprised.”

“A little,” she admitted after a moment.

The chief stood. Looked her in the eye. “Even among the tribes, few remain who still harbor faith in the ancient arts.”

“The ancient arts were lost,” said Ashne. Then she shook her head. “Or so I believed.”

“As many of us believe.”

“But this was... not my first time.”

The chief nodded idly. “Your friend.”

“You knew?”

“Of course,” said the chief, and began to walk away again, this time heading back towards the walkways marking the edge of the village. The firecat flickered back into view, glaring briefly at Ashne before padding after its master.

Ashne followed.

“That boy,” she said, as several disparate details that had been flitting about her awareness began to pull together into sharp relief. “That was not the first time he disappeared...”

She grasped for words to continue, but none came, and the thoughts coalescing in her mind scattered once more. Nor did she receive any reply, save for the whispering breeze and the creaking of the walkways as they passed. Though the day was still young, it was already growing uncomfortably warm.

A few late-rising men, still preparing their boats by the riverbank, called out greetings, which the chief acknowledged with a slight inclination of her head. None of them seemed surprised to see the cat.

At last they reached the chief’s residence. Upon entering, the chief unfolded a mat, pinned it down with weights. Then she poured out a bowl of pale wine and knelt gracefully at the far end of the mat. The cat curled up beside her; she looked up and beckoned Ashne to join her.

Ashne knelt and accepted the proffered bowl. Took a sip. Handed it back.

The chief took a sip in turn before setting the bowl down between them.

She said then, “May I see your arm?”

An unexpected request, to say the least. But what could be the harm? Ashne stretched out her left arm; the chief leaned forward and pushed up her sleeve.

“As I thought,” said the chief, long fingers brushing lightly against Ashne’s skin, tracing the inked lines from her elbow to her wrist. “This is an old pattern. One of the paired designs. I did not think it was in use anymore.” The woman drew back and considered her. “Who held the ceremonies for you? The Speaker-Consort, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Ashne, though in truth she did not recall much of the event. But who else could have inducted them into adulthood, but for Shranai and the lady?

The chief stroked her cat. “She must be a harsh mistress, that Speaker-Consort of yours. Sending a woman like that on such a fruitless mission.”

Confused, Ashne said, “Harsh? Not at all. Where the Lord Speaker is just, the Lady Consort is merciful.”

A woman like that? A woman like what? Was Zsaran not well after all?

“Mercy can be harsh in its own way,” replied the chief.

“Perhaps,” said Ashne, finding herself troubled that the lady’s reputation was so tarnished here. The women of the village, and now even the chief herself... She collected herself. “But the lady is wise. She does not act for no reason. And our mission is of great importance to the future of our people.”

“Our people, you say?” The chief’s manner remained placid, despite the hidden edge in her words. “Yes, I suppose we are all as one, now.”

She fell silent. Ashne shifted uneasily, waiting.

At last, the chief said, “I thought I should tell you this. I noticed it the moment you arrived, but could not be certain of what I saw. But your souls — your souls are no longer aligned. Your lifestreams are distorted by some wilder energy. There is a block in the flow.” She paused significantly. “One strong enough to be disrupting even the barriers I set around this village.”

“What?” whispered Ashne. “But what does that mean?”

“I am sorry. I have no experience with such matters.”

“Are not the marks of protection supposed to guard against such things?” She swallowed, but found herself unable to halt or hide her rising anxiety. “Against rogue spirits, against ghosts, against the wild?” The elders believed so, even if some of the younger warriors scoffed at such tales.

So too had Ashne believed. Had always believed, deep inside her heart, even as she believed the spirits were gone from this world, perhaps forever.

“The old patterns can only accomplish so much. Much like the barriers I erected, your protections have been disrupted.”

Disrupted. Braksya too had spoken of... corruption. Of energies intermingling.

“How can that be? How can I still be...”

“Still be alive, you ask, though your souls are unaligned?” The chief shook her head. “Again, I am sorry. But I would guess that the very essence that blocks your natural flows continues to bind them to your form.”

Her wound. It was the only answer.

“That is... Most unnatural.”

“Indeed.”

“I...” She bowed her head. “I apologize. For putting your village at risk.”

“No need. You are not the only troublemaker in these parts, and of late there have been many disturbances. Adjusting the barriers is tiring, but no harsh task. It is, after all, my duty.”

Ashne did not think she imagined the other woman’s emphasis on that final word.

“You mean, the boy...?”

“It is not for me to speak of Paramun’s son.”

Confusion sank still deeper into her bones. But she could not let these new revelations distract her from her original goals. “You... had no intention of lending us a boat from the start.”

“I cannot deny that you have aided us greatly.”

“The sleeping sickness — but he couldn’t, we didn’t...”

“You accomplished more than I expected,” said the chief. “And for that I must thank you.” She paused again. “It is no sickness of the body, but of the soul.”

Ashne started. A noise of realization died halfway in her throat.

“The boy,” she said again, roused to sudden resolution. “Back at the capital, I heard tales of children disappearing without a trace. Of buffalo dropping dead without a single hint of illness or injury. Do you mean to tell me that this sickness, that child, that none of this has any relationship to those rumors?”

The firecat hissed at her. The chief continued to stroke its back. Then she nudged the cat away and rose, heading toward the next room.

“Come. Let me show you something.”

Ashne clenched her fists, but followed.

There was little in the room, but for a simple pallet and a few boxes of carved wood, and a woven basket in the corner. Two windows shaded with frond covers on opposite walls let in the breeze, but little light.

Upon the floor lay no mat or hearth, but an elaborate, painted ring whose dizzying pattern seemed to shift and heave with every step Ashne took. One moment she saw a pile of squirming worms and snakes; the next, the wings of birds curling and threading through a feathery sea of clouds. The sight made her suddenly quite ill.

But the chief and her firecat ventured forth without hesitation, stopping right at the center of the ring. The chief held out a beckoning hand. Ashne took another step forward.

Only to fall to her knees, panting and sweating as if she had run for leagues upon leagues without stopping.

“What... have you done...?”

The chief’s only response was to wave at the firecat, who flickered out of sight. It reappeared moments later, carrying a shimmering knife between its teeth.

The chief bent down and plucked the knife from the cat. Ashne scrambled back and staggered to her feet, hand reaching for her sword.

“’Tis only a spirit knife,” said the chief. “And one not fully materialized in our world.”

That was no reassurance. A real knife, she could deal with. But something like this, she did not even know what it was capable of.

“Lay down your sword.”

Ashne did not move.

“Lay it down,” repeated the chief, more softly this time. Beside her, the firecat stared, yellow eyes unblinking.

Ashne had wanted answers. Perhaps now she would have them.

She dropped her sword.

The chief approached her, leaving the painted ring. She raised the knife, which looked perfectly ordinary aside from the slight glow that outlined its blade, and thrust forward.

Ashne’s head blanked. She felt nothing, not even pain. In her ears rumbled the beginnings of a wild storm. She had the impression of a great, ravenous maw opening from somewhere within her...

The chief cried out. Ashne blinked, startled. The firecat hissed at her from within the painted ring, hackles raised. The chief, too, had drawn back, clutching her wrist as if it had been burned.

The knife was nowhere to be seen. The old injury in Ashne’s side thrummed with invisible pressure, sending shivers down her spine.

“Such power,” murmured the chief. She looked Ashne in the eye. “Do you see now? Do you understand the nature of that which resides within you?”

Slowly, Ashne nodded. An answer, incomplete as it was, began to piece itself together in her mind.

Perhaps she had suspected all along.

She picked up her sword. For a moment, she imagined it snapping at her, and nearly dropped it again in shock. But when she looked at it a second time, the blade seemed to have lost its sheen.

She sheathed it and turned to leave.

“Ah. Before you go,” said the chief, once more collected and pleasant. “There is a path through the grove that shall guide you to the nearest trail south.”

“I thank you,” said Ashne.

“If you should ever pass by these parts again, do remember to visit.”

“I shall keep your words in mind,” she said then, frustrated, but unwilling to show it, and exited the hut without another word.

To her surprise, Braksya was already waiting outside, staring up at the sky with a look of utter boredom.

She turned on him immediately.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you explain — you said the fate of Hazsam was bound with mine. But not how.”

For a moment he stared. Then he laughed. “Don’t tell me you actually believed that tale I spun for you!”

“You —”

“Did you really think I would reveal anything of the truth with that lovely bandit woman listening at the door?”

“No,” she said. “Don’t try to deny it now. A piece of Hazsam’s soul resides within my own. That is what you were implying. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

“Oh? Is that what the chief told you?”

“Just tell me! Yes or no?”

He shrugged. “If that is what she told you, then perhaps it is so. I am sure she is far more versed in your beliefs than I.”

“She said that my souls are no longer aligned. That something is blocking the flow of my lifestreams. What else could it be?” When he did not respond, she continued, “You said the blade must have marked me. Now I see why. Only the power of one such as Hazsam could have done something like this.”

Still he said nothing.

At last, he chuckled. “Truly you are the most aggravating woman I have ever met.”

Just who was the aggravating one? But she did not give voice to her thought.

In all the time they had been acquainted, he had not yet offered her a single straightforward lie. Aside from his earliest claims of ignorance about the scabbard, and even that, she supposed could be interpreted as the truth at some stretch: it was not he who knew the scabbard’s whereabouts, but his snake.

I would never lie, he had earlier claimed (not to her, at least), and indeed, for all his evasiveness, he did not speak strictly in falsehoods.

There must be something else he was hiding, then. Not this, not the truth about her wound, or at least not entirely — but perhaps the deal he had earlier struck with Matron and the bandits.

He must be using her, just as he had been using them.

Well, that was fine. She too was using him to get to the princess.

Still, this unknown weakness of hers troubled her. If she understood it, she could perhaps counter it, or at least remember to cover for it when she next acted.

“Do you...” she began. “Do you truly believe Hazsam’s scabbard will be able to draw this power back out of me?”

He tilted his head at her, then looked away.

“Are you not afraid?” he asked. “If your souls are unaligned as you seem to think, it may very well be the sword’s power that keeps you alive even now.”

What did it matter to him?

Still, she gave the question some thought before responding.

“I do not fear death,” she whispered. “But for now, I must live. If this power is what keeps me alive... then I must accept it. It is only that I worry... it shall become a hindrance.”

More of one than it had already proved itself to be.

But Braksya said, “No matter what you believe, power is not so easily transferred. I do not see that you have cause to worry.”

She could not tell whether his words comforted her or merely increased her anxiety.

Whatever the case, she knew she would receive no further explanation.

* * *

They picked their way through the bamboo grove in silence, Ashne mulling over all that she had learned, and Braksya apparently lost in thought as well for once. As the growth of stalks turned sparser, the sounds of shouting caught her attention.

They were not the shouts of grown men. She exchanged a quick look with Braksya, then broke out into a run.

Not far away, she reached a clearing. A crowd of children had gathered — village children, from the looks of it. Their clothes were patched but bright, and their heads were closely cropped, but for one or two girls with straggly chin-length mops.

At the center of their ring crouched the boy she and Braksya had saved, hands clutched protectively over his head.

“Coward Dantu! Vanishing Dantu! Give me back my mother!” One of the girls tossed a stone at him.

“And my brother!” More stones followed, but the boy made not a sound.

“Hey!” shouted Ashne. “What are you all doing?”

The children looked and saw them. “They’re here!”

“The healer and his friend!”

“Let’s go!”

More whoops and shouts: the children scattered into the grove in all directions, fleeing, laughing. The first girl was the last to leave, spitting at Ashne’s feet before grinning cheekily and dancing away from Ashne’s startled grab.

Leaving only the boy crouched and trembling on the ground — reminding Ashne of the way he had reacted when attacked by the vines.

In only a few steps she had reached his side. Braksya was not far behind.

Ashne sank to her knees. “What happened? Why do they treat you like this?” she demanded.

Braksya knelt at his other side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

At last the boy raised his head, peering at her with wide dark eyes, surprisingly dry despite his ordeal.

“I was heading to my secret place.”

His voice was soft. His demeanor, that of a nervous rabbit. It was the first time she had heard the child speak; he had only whispered and gestured to Braksya before, never to her.

She frowned, not understanding. “Your secret place?”

The boy turned then to Braksya, who removed his hand and stood. So too did the boy rise, slowly brushing the dust from his robes. He looked back at Ashne. Took a few tentative steps forward, then stopped and looked at her again.

As if he wanted them to follow.

This time Ashne did not hesitate.

The boy led them back through the grove to the banks of a small but lively stream that must have branched from off from the main river nearby. There he stopped and turned, hesitant once more.

“Go on,” said Braksya.

The boy seemed to come to a decision. He closed his eyes. His arms rose slightly at his sides.

All around him, the bamboo and the river rushes seemed to lean close. Then they twisted and bent, opening a winding path through the mud to a small cave carved in a low mound ahead. As Ashne watched on, not certain if she were disturbed or awed or both, gnarly roots emerged from the earth, reaching for their legs.

“Stop that,” said the boy.

The roots froze midair. Crept back into the ground, chastised.

“You —” said Ashne.

“It’s okay,” the boy said quietly. “They like me. A little too much, I think.”

Braksya snorted.

Ashne continued to stare. “Are they... the ones that took you?”

The boy looked at his feet. “No,” he whispered. “But they aren’t the only ones.”

“They trust you,” said Braksya. “Consider yourself blessed.”

The boy looked back up. “Y... Yes, sir.”

They continued on with Ashne still bewildered, but unwilling to press further. She was beginning to think, however, that she had been unfair to the chief. For it was clear to her now that the woman was more aware than she had assumed. That this boy was no normal child...

Then the grasses and flowering vines draped over the entrance to the cave parted with a rustle, and Ashne saw what lay within.

A boat.

It was beautiful. Small: unlike the crewed fishing crafts back at the village, or the war boats Khosian and the Water General commanded. A swift scouting boat, Ashne would have guessed, but for its ornamentation. Lashed wooden planks curved up at prow and stern, forming into a slender river dragon’s head and tail respectively. On one side of the tail was painted a sun crow; on the other, a moon frog. Bright fish twined around turtles and birds along the edges of the outer planks. A few steps forward from the stern stood a pivot upon which was lashed a tall, worn oar.

A ceremonial boat, then.

The boy gave her a shy but proud smile. “This belonged to my uncle who went off to war.”

“Your uncle’s?”

He nodded. “He never came back. Like my father.” He hesitated, then added, “It’s mine now. I want you to have it.”

Ashne swallowed. Looked the child in the eye. “You’re certain?”

He nodded again. “Mother and auntie don’t know. And Lady Khobishne won’t mind.”

She understood, suddenly, why the chief had directed her this way.

“I... We are grateful.” In a rush she continued, “We’ll take good care of it. We’ll return it on our way back. I promise.”

This time, the boy shook his head. “I want you to have it,” he repeated.

“But...”

“I’ll make another one,” said the boy. “One of my own.”

He stood straight, chin tilted up, gaze steady and bright. A far cry from the cowering child he had been only moments earlier.

Ashne said softly, “Very well.”

The boy beamed, eyes crinkling. Then he stepped aside, watching anxiously as Ashne stepped on board and secured her pack, adjusting herself to the gentle rocking motion of the waves. Her stomach lurched briefly at the thought of what lurked beneath her feet, but she swiftly brushed those thoughts aside.

As Braksya joined her with his basket and Ashne moved to unmoor the boat, the boy said, voice meek and uncertain again, “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

From the front of the boat, Braksya smiled. “Of course.”

Ashne’s fingers hesitated over the final knot. She looked up, one hand fumbling at her waist sash. At length, her grasp closed around the jade comb.

She had no more need of it. Braksya had declared it harmless. Perhaps the boy...

Without further hesitation, she pressed it into the boy’s hands.

“Keep it,” she said, “Give it to your mother, or your auntie.”

Then she loosed the final knot and shoved away from the bank.

* * *

“I have been meaning to ask,” Ashne began hesitantly, after they turned the bend and lost sight of the waving boy. “But what exactly are the extents of your... powers?”

Braksya turned, looking right into her eyes, as if seeking answers of his own in her gaze. She held his gaze, fighting the urge to flinch or look away.

“It is difficult to say,” he replied at last. “Even after years of experimentation, I continue to discover new abilities or limitations with every passing day.”

“That day we met — at the capital —”

“If you are wondering whether or not I could have halted that storm the other day, the answer is no. At most I might have delayed its coming by a few heartbeats. There was a greater power behind that storm — one that no spirit or human may transgress. The amount of influence I exert on the whims of the gods is minuscule, you see.”

“But you —”

“My little one aids me. She channels our energies; she is both source and culmination of our shared powers. In many ways, we are as one, though our souls are separate. We wander through life with one foot in the earthly realm and one foot in the other, except it is more like breathing. Do you understand? No, I suppose not. Still, even united as we are, we remain but a small thread in the vast nets of heaven.”

Even when ostensibly cooperating the man was insufferable. “And the boy...?”

“Another small thread, but nonetheless quite intriguing. It is the first time I have encountered any individual contracted with the rooted spirits, rather than a spirit of the bestial type.”

So he had saved the child not because of their shared background, but because of this.

“Like the Tiger.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps the sorcerer is contracted with it, or perhaps the Tiger acts of its own will. Now that would be an interesting turn, wouldn’t it?”

“Perhaps? Do you mean that it was summoned? Like the creature with the comb?”

“On the contrary. Unlike a contracted relationship, the connection created by a summons is easily sundered. I doubt a spirit of such power would have lingered here so long had it been summoned.”

She turned over the events of the past few weeks in her head. “What about... Tham?”

“Those ants, you mean? If someone summoned them, whoever it was must possess remarkable control. You might think such small, mindless creatures would be easy to command, but you would be quite mistaken. Most likely they were attracted by the recent disturbances.”

How certain he sounded, despite his earlier admissions of inexperience.

She hesitated again. Corrected the drifting course of their boat as they broke out from under the shade and a sluggish current into clear waters and bright afternoon. “There are many of you, then. Contracted sorcerers.”

At that, he laughed. “Heavens, no,” he said, as if it were quite obvious. And perhaps it was, for surely if there were more, the land would have long ago been plunged into chaos.

“As you would put it,” he was saying, “the spirits have only recently returned. Reawakened, I should say.”

Or broken past the self-erected barrier all the old stories spoke of. But all she said was, “Recently.”

“From a certain perspective, yes.”

She fell silent. Then she said, “Why would a spirit choose to...”

“Who knows? If it happens, it happens. One pays the price, and there is no going back.”

“I wonder,” she murmured, thinking of the tales of Nanue and Oxhead Thewe and Hero Wa and the other great miracle workers of yore, “if it were the same, in ancient times.”

“A mystery that shall perhaps never be solved!” he replied. Then, abruptly, he said, “So, have I answered you to your satisfaction? Now answer me this: why is the little prince heir to the throne of Khonua, when there are worthier men for the position?”

He had not, until then, shown a single whit of interest in the affairs of the riverlands. And yet it was a bizarre question to ask, and the timing of it odd.

“The throne is his by right of succession,” she replied.

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “I am aware of your peculiar rules of succession, and the boy’s claim is strong even under Court law, for Pashrai had no seed of his own, and his brothers and cousins are long dead or exiled. Even I know that.”

“Then I do not understand your confusion.”

“Confusion? Hardly. I merely question the viability of an insurrection centered around a child and his aging nurse.”

“They are the enemy. How can I know what they are thinking?” But it was true that she had doubted the motives behind the attack on the capital from the start. She had simply not thought to question the Matron’s firsthand explanation.

He sighed. “Well, I think it is silly.” He did not say what, exactly, he found silly.

She thought further back, to the bargaining between Magistrate Tham and the bandit chief Tuanwat. She said, slowly, “You don’t think Krengsra is behind this after all? They have been our allies for more than two decades now.”

“Allies only out of necessity. Do you truly think that mighty Sra would have bothered with humble Wat if it had not been for the pesky thorn in their side that was Nua? Now that Nua is no more, they have no more need for this alliance of yours.”

He was more aware of the situation than she had expected. It was for this very reason King Khosian sought acknowledgment as a hegemon of the Court among the High Lords of Tu, as Pashrai before him had as well, despite their fear and scorn. The lords of Sra too had once been counted among the Confederacy of Lords and paid tribute to the kings of Tu, until they severed ties with the Confederacy and declared themselves kings in their own right. But lands of Krengsra were vast, their people wealthy, their armies powerful enough to challenge the Court and all its High Lords combined.

Khonua had been strong, and Awat now still stronger. But for all their might, they were the equals only of a High Lord’s domain.

For the moment, at least.

“It is true that the boy’s grandmother hailed from Krengsra. But it was in Khonua that she was raised, and her son and his wife were both natives of the riverlands, as is the boy himself.”

“Indeed. But do you not have men of Sra high among your ranks? The illustrious Gna Czesa was one such; a few of your ministers are as well, last I heard.”

“Exiles or refugees, all of them.” And only Muntong remained now. Muntong, who was loyal to a fault, beloved by the people. Who had cast away his old life years before Ashne was born.

To this Braksya did not respond, but a thoughtful look spread across his face.

At last he stretched and sighed again.

“Well,” he said, “it’s none of my business, I suppose.”