The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Twelve

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.