The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Six

They gave up on the watch upon returning to camp. Foolish, perhaps, but none of them were in a state to do otherwise. And yet Ashne could not sleep. It was not the pain that kept her awake — nothing but eerie fading scratches remained of the earlier encounter, and the older ache had soothed along with her nerves. She was fortunate that the wound had not opened again. The physicians had warned her, murmuring vaguely about miracles and blessings and infections and other things she did not understand. Nor did she care, so long as she was alive, and well enough to protect herself and do her duty.

Instead of the pain, all that occupied her mind was this new conundrum that had presented itself before her.

As she lay in the darkness, she fingered her sash, where she had tied and wrapped away the jade comb. It was no guarantee that the ornament had belonged to the princess. The chariot... Perhaps it had been some noblewoman of Krengsra. A different kidnapped lady, or perhaps a runaway. And yet the deliberate way the silk had been torn surely could not be without meaning.

Ashne tried then to recall what the princess had been wearing, that final day in the capital, while in the queen’s chambers. What she had been wearing when the Tiger took her. But she found that she could not remember.

Again and again her thoughts ran into walls of questions she preferred not to ask, questions she could not answer, useless, foolish questions that had little to do with her mission and were best left uncontemplated, until at last morning dawned, and they continued on their way.

In the meantime, Phas was silent, his expression darker than usual. From the shadows under his eyes, Ashne guessed that he had not slept well either. None of them had, it seemed, but for the apothecary, who hummed a cheerful little melody as he walked.

“What do you think?” Ashne said, unable to withstand the contortions of her thoughts any longer. She drew closer to Phas, distancing herself from the apothecary. “Was it the work of that sorcerer? Or the spirits themselves? Do you think they...”

The muscles in his jaw tightened, and she wondered if she had made a mistake to approach him. But at last he said, “I cannot question what my own eyes have witnessed.”

She hesitated before continuing. “They have not interfered with mortal matters in many generations. Not for a thousand years, at least.”

“Are you so certain? Even I have heard the tales of... the so-called Ghost Tiger.”

She stiffened, but remembered herself in time and managed to disguise the sudden movement as a yawn. “The Tiger was said to be particularly powerful. Unique among others of its kind. And bound to the Prince of Light.”

He turned to look at her, his eyes alight with an odd, intense gleam. “You believe the stories, then. That the Prince summoned that beast to do his bidding. That it mourned him upon his death, and welcomed his soul into its own essence. That their combined spirits have been biding their time, waiting to wreak vengeance upon the Prince’s old enemies.”

“I had heard only of its mourning,” said Ashne, aware of her heart beginning to race once more. “Countless witnessed its vigil. I do not doubt those tales. But even so, it has been more than twenty years. It has never been seen again.”

The gleam left his eyes. He sighed. “I don’t know what to think of this. I imagine Master Braksya might have some inkling of what exactly transpired last night, but I doubt he will be forthcoming.”

Disappointed, Ashne said, “I wouldn’t count on him knowing anything. It seems to me he merely enjoys the pretense.”

“I suppose you are right,” replied Phas, clearly still preoccupied. After a moment, he said, “If the spirits truly exist — if they have truly returned — what could they possibly be after?”