The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Nineteen

No time to berate herself for being a fool. She wondered if it had been Braksya who betrayed her. Just as Kitzon had. Then she wondered if it had been the young chief.

Their packs lay scattered on the ground, save for Braksya’s basket, which was nowhere to be seen.

Both sword and scabbard were missing.

She searched the rest of the house, her entire being welling with a frightening calm, and could not tell if she were relieved or furious when she discovered the young chief sprawled on the floor in the back, no longer breathing, body still warm.

No sign of blood or injury.

She ran out. Barged into the neighboring huts.

All dead.

For all his peculiar proclivities and frustrating word games, she had not thought him capable of such a deed. Not with his medicines and admonishments and the undeniable though brief glimpse of gentleness in his eyes as he saved that child Dantu from the vines in the storm.

She never had asked him what deal he had struck with Matron and the bandits. She had thought it no longer important, relegated him as a minor threat even the likes of her could handle. But in the end, he was a madman. Who knew what he was capable of?

He could not have gone far. But which direction?

She ran.

Only to hear a frail voice calling out, “Wait!”

She whirled around, and had barely enough sense remaining not to draw her blade.

An old woman, face lined with wrinkles and tattoos alike. She leaned panting against a wall, hands grasping for a hold. Ashne went to her, steadied the woman’s light, trembling frame.

“Wait here. I’ll send for help.”

The old lady shook her head. “No need.”

“The other villagers —”

“There is nothing you can do, child.”

Her fists clenched. “I must. It was I who brought him here. Brought this upon you —”

“You speak of the young man who traveled with you? He departed hours ago. Soon after you left for the palace.”

A cold breeze stirred. “Then — who?”

“Not who,” said the woman. “But what.”

The Tiger. Had they been followed back north after all, despite everything that had transpired?

But the woman laid a gnarled hand upon her arm and shook her head again, as if she had read Ashne’s mind. “Not something you can fight. An entire swarm.”

“What do you mean?”

“’Tis the Night of Ghosts, child. The one night in which the realms draw near. We should have done well to remember it. But now it is too late.”

As a girl she had heard the tales. Heeded the warnings of elders. Taking care to remain indoors on that single night teetering on the brink between summer and fall. Then she had grown older, and no longer feared.

She had lost track of the days.

“The princess,” she said. “The girl who was with me. Is she safe?”

And for a third time the woman shook her head. “You don’t understand. You must understand. You must know... She...”

Convulsions seized the woman. Ashne lost her grip; the woman collapsed like a rag doll.