In the 28th summer of the latter king—he was not called "Cold" then—the retinue had become small; the mandarins who had once trailed like peacock feathers for half a mile down the Road of Birds now remained, for the most part, in Rassha, as did the masters of the Rigors Martial, who found the king excessively hard to instruct in a location he consistently denounced as haunted. These worthies were partially replaced by lamas (principally novices) and, at the behest of the more senior lamas, by a detachment of the Demon Guard and several hired brothers of the Green Morning; the mandarins, drunk on the thought of balmy summers in Rassha, did not question the requisition. The princes and princesses remained in Rassha as well, leaving the bright-walled nursery of the Summer Palace free to house the fighting men. The constants were the royal attendants, the kitchen staff, and the king and queens themselves—except for Queen Abhaya, who had refused to remand her youngest to a wet-nurse and thus was unlikely to conceive in any case.

Recall that this pilgrimage took place a century and more before the Daughters' War; the fighting-men were men, the kitchen staff  mainly women, and the younger among them keenly valued one another's company. The profusion of clerics, chaperonish by nature, only added zest to their mutual pursuit, and it was common as pebbles for five or six tiny fires to spring up of an evening, nestled among rocks or groves well off the path, attended by a rotating roster of young men and women concentrated on the evaluation and, when appropriate, seduction of their counterparts. It was to one such fire that an eager young Green Morning brother named Lin Ben arrived, his dark-adapted eye struggling to pick out grace and curvature against the sudden onslaught of flame-light, in the middle of a story:

"—The last man was a student of the Crane's Migration Step—like many of you here," the maid said with a macabre cast of voice, sweeping a wicked gaze over the gathered Green Morning brothers, "—and a swift study; and he learned from his friends' mistakes. He resolved to tire the challenger with leaps and evasions, then land the coup de grace when the foe could move no longer. He was a brilliant fencer, this one, perhaps the most promising of his generation—"

"What was his name?" called another of the brothers, Lin Aden—of a similar age to Lin Ben, but taller and broader-shouldered, with a beard to rival of any albino barbarian and a style, Bear in Winter, earned in combat. (They were not related; recall that it was the custom of the time for Green Morning brothers to take the Gardener name “Lin,” which means “forest.”) "If he was that promising, his name should be famous."

The maid pricked Lin Aden's gaze with her own, and Lin Ben saw in the firelight that her cheek had a faint discoloration, about the size and shape of a mouse with its tail coiled around its body. "His name was Lin Dawa, his style Cloudcutter—and this is the story of why his name rings hollow in your ears."

At this the maid waited, as if in expectation. Lin Aden waved an indulgent hand, but Lin Ben could see that his brother-in-arms was unsettled by the rejoinder. Ben himself shivered a bit—but only from the cold, of course.

"They faced each other," the maid continued, "Cloudcutter, slim and pale, with his straight sword that looked like a needle, and the Ravening Stripe a gnarled stump with butterfly swords that looked like rusted cleavers. The Stripe charged; Cloudcutter evaded him with a leap straight into the air, high enough to black out a lesser warrior. But when he came down, the Stripe was on him, hacking away. He leaped again, over the Stripe's head and behind him, but the Stripe turned snake-swift and blows rained down from the pitted swords before Cloudcutter's heels could touch the ground. It was an eerie sight and fine, Cloudcutter flitting through the air around the Stripe like a green moth around a black fire.

“But the moth's wings tire in time. And so it was with Cloudcutter and the Ravening Stripe."

Lin Ben's fists were clenched, his shoulders tight, waiting for the death blow—or, more likely as he saw it, a surge from Cloudcutter, or perhaps an interruption to the duel (whose cause he still did not know, though he was not much troubled by the not knowing), an opportunity to learn the Stripe's flaws and vanquish him another day. 

"And so it was," said the maid, "that Cloudcutter, like the seven brothers before him, fell humbled, his fine green coat rust-streaked by the blunt edges of the Stripe's butterfly swords.

"When the Stripe offered his rag-nailed hand to help Cloudcutter rise, he smiled a jumbled yellow smile and said to all his vanquished foes, 'Would you care to join me in a sweet meal?' The first seven humiliated warriors recalled the Stripe's insults to their kin and honor and declined with blood-dark physiognomy. But Cloudcutter, though the Stripe's words about his sister yet stung, swallowed his pride and accepted the invitation. Said the Ravening Stripe: 'It will be my pleasure. I shall see you in the morning.'"

Here the maid picked up a skin and took a dainty sip, her lips briefly stained with dark drops before she licked them clean. "Some hours later, not long after sunrise, Rinshen and Gyaltsen wandered back to camp, all unknowing of the Ravening Stripe's eight duels. But there was nothing in the camp but bloody bones." Some of the kitchen-maids gasped—mostly, it seemed, for the benefit of the Green Morning brothers near them, who moved protectively closer or bestowed comforting touches on hands and shoulders. Lin Aden's companion, a beauty named Shakti who carried trays for the younger queens, leaned into the circle of his arm; near them, a wiry brown girl rolled her eyes. "They searched frantically for survivors, but there were none, although the camp's wood and gold had been left untouched. The colonial authority was summoned, of course, and of course they blamed the massacre on the tigers that make men vanish in the north much as the mountain bats do in the south. But there were two things the provincial authority could not explain. 

“One, there was no sign of Cloudcutter's remains. Rather, there was a skeleton missing, and none of Cloudcutter's accoutrements were recovered either, including his graceful needle-sword. 

“And two—the bones were gnawed, to be sure. But the long bones were split as well, sucked dry of marrow—and split cleanly, each cut edged with a faint trace of orange-red, as though by a rusted blade. Which is doubly strange," said the maid over the resulting murmur, "for on the ribs of the dead were found small nicks, as though their breasts had been pierced by a weapon slim as a needle."

There was a brief silence, as befit a chilling tale, and much huddling close to the fire and to more companionable sources of warmth. Lin Ben tried not to stare at Lin Aden, who was closer to the maid Shakti than he had ever seen any man with any woman, but his eyes seemed to slide back to them unbidden. Lin Aden caught Ben's gaze and flashed him a brief smirk. 

"But Aditi," said the wiry girl, "you cannot expect us to be frightened overmuch by your pretty tale. By your admission, Rinshen and Gyaltsen were the only survivors, and they were absent for the eight duels. Who, then, could have recounted the Stripe’s victories?”

"The Thousand Arm Deity, for one," retorted Aditi, "or any other deity. Or the secretary of Perfect Judge Dorje, who records all earthly crimes for heavenly redress."

"None of them generous with their words in recent centuries,” said the wiry girl.

"True. But there are more who might have told it."

"Who?"

Aditi gave a small, smug smile, as though the wiry girl had tripped a well-placed snare. "Whatever the Ravening Stripe was," she said, "and whatever Cloudcutter became, they were both well-spoken in the tongues of men."

Another silence ensued—but an unquiet one, if the image can be forgiven, in which the brothers and scullions ruminated on the provenance of the words they had just heard. It was one thing, Lin Ben thought, to enjoy a tale of blood and horror, but rather another to enjoy a cannibal’s autobiography. To cleanse the taste from his mind, he walked around the fire and found the wiry girl. "That was a trenchant question," he said by way of introduction.

"Feh, it is all a farce," she said. "The wer-tiger yarn is a commodious form, but its spine is morality. The human hero may be clever or dull, upright or debased. In simpler variants, the tiger may succumb to the hero's cleverness or uprightness, or triumph over his stupidity or turpitude; or virtue and vice may be pitted against one another, and the tiger's victory or defeat used as comment on which is greater. Where is the morality here?”

"In the Green Morning," said Lin Ben, "we are accustomed to swapping tales of bloodcurdling deeds, committed at no provocation by parties unexpected. They are most diverting. But," he said, anticipating the girl's objection, "they serve a function, too, namely the admonition of vigilance for threat. A good lesson for all in the gallant fraternity."

The wiry scullion gave an exasperated sigh, but she did meet his eyes directly for the first time rather than haranguing the fire. "And easily enough encapsulated, it would appear, without recourse to yarning. The wer-tiger yarn is more than the repetition of a simple moral, it is a tradition of moral argument, with subtlety refined through the centuries. This laundress," and here she gestured at Aditi, who sat alone with a scrap of paper, writing in a flawless script, "has taken the monster and stripped him of that tradition, leaving only indiscriminate and inescapable horror. It comes, takes what it wants, and corrupts a good man all unwilling. What did Cloudcutter do to deserve such a fate?"

"Well," said Lin Ben, "I am no connoisseur of wer-tiger yarns, but note that the answer unspools tidily from the less ornate morality of my brothers' fireside bone-chillers. Cloudcutter deserved his fate because, rather than run like a sane man, he stooped to breakfast with a monster. Though, then again," mused Ben, "he was not eaten, and his fellow-travelers were. I suppose the question is whether his fate was worse or better."

“Another defect of this tale,” said the wiry scullion. “The hero’s comrades are meant to share his fate. That is part of the form—the wer-tiger undertakes eight duels and, if it wins all, secures the right to all flesh touched by the firelight.” She transfixed Ben with a gaze. "Presumably one who fights for a living is better equipped than a laundress to understand the gravity of this moral.”

"My name is Lin Ben," said Lin Ben. "May I ask yours?"

"Chesa," said the wiry scullion. "How are you styled?"

"I have not earned a style. Of the brothers here, only the Bear in Winter has." He indicated Lin Aden, whose cloak was now wrapped completely around the maid Shakti's body; not a hand was visible.

"Ha," said Chesa—just like that, a precisely articulated syllable with no particular laughter in it. "The Silver Boar, the Diamond Serpent, and the Jade Bat would take issue with your claim."

"Likewise all the other noble beasts wrought of precious minerals, no doubt," said Lin Ben. "It is not such a common form of style, you know; if the trend overtook the fraternity, there would be no telling any of us apart."

"Ha," Chesa said again, more warmly. She rose. "Well, good night."

"How can it be good," asked Lin Ben, "if it ends so soon?"

"I see your point," said Chesa, gathering her cloak. "Perhaps it would be more accurate if, tomorrow, I said 'good day.'"

Lin Ben blinked twice; before he could craft a reply, Chesa had melted into the shadows.