The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Eighteen

The girl spoke little.

Ashne did not blame her. Could not blame her. Grown woman though she was, the princess had never truly stepped out of the confines of the palace walls for long. To have her first venture into the outside world be at the hands of ruffians and conspirators could not have been a pleasant experience.

And she had faced her situation bravely, uncomplaining, with the quick-thinking cleverness of both her parents. The mission was by all accounts a success: the princess was safe and sound, and both Hazsam and its scabbard lay securely in her possession, as was right and proper. Kitzon had failed; his allies had turned against him, scattered, no longer a threat.

Ashne thought she ought to comfort the girl, praise her somehow for acting as befit the High Speaker’s heir even under such dire circumstances. But the words lingered at the back of her throat, then died, a hollow, empty gesture even within the silent spaces of her heart.

It was not just the girl. Neither she nor Braksya spoke much, as they rowed back up the long treacherous waters of the Canal and trekked across the forests and yellowing hills beyond. After all the troubles that had plagued her journey southward, Ashne could not rest easy. Yet no further obstacles materialized. Spirits, bandits, villagers and soldiers alike — all lay tranquil as the last of summer faded to dank autumn and drew near to the season of harvest, but for the flocks of birds that filled the sky, chasing after the slowly diminishing light.

Some nights, she wondered if she were still dreaming after all, until dawn broke overhead, hazy-bright and cruel, and she picked herself off the ground to prepare for the day’s travel like she had countless mornings before. Like a lone swimmer against the rising tide, she pushed on, thinking only of her mission, her success lying just ahead, barely out of reach.

After crossing the rivers, Ashne veered away from Tham, heading directly north for the capital. They were little more than a week away from their destination — not far, indeed, from the forest of ghosts where her journey had truly begun — when Braksya finally deigned to address her once more.

“Come here.” There was a strange dark hint to his voice, ominous in its uncharacteristic solemnity. Or perhaps it was only her imagination, fueled by the weeks of silence.

At any rate, the princess was still sleeping, shivering slightly in the morning chill. Ashne refused to budge.

“What do you want?”

He reached for her arm, as if to pull her away regardless, but seemed to change his mind halfway.

“Take this,” he said instead, and reached for something at his waist before handing her a small pouch. She opened it to find it filled with a coarsely ground blue-black powder.

“Poison?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Dye.” When she stared at him blankly, he continued, “For your hair.”

“For my hair,” she repeated.

“You do not fear your king’s soldiers?”

“I have the princess. I have Hazsam.”

“And if they turn you in to the king, claiming credit for your deeds while denouncing you as traitor and criminal?”

“What would be the point?” she murmured, but accepted the dye and did not argue further.

The next day, they stopped by a small stream. Upon satisfying herself that the princess was well and Braksya on his best behavior, she wandered off on her own along the banks, pouch in hand.