The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Sixteen

They had met Kitzon of Pra on a bright blue morning, weeks after Magistrate Tham turned them away and they slipped past the borders into Krengsra. There had long been rumors that the young prince and his retainers had sought refuge with one of the nobles of Sra after their escape from the fall of Kasa, much as old King Ghuproh’s cousins had in their exile years before. Zsaran, in the weeks prior to their departure, had compiled a list of possible candidates, lords who had enough wealth and influence to harbor such risky political refugees, but not so much that such an act would draw attention from either King Sra or King Khosian. The list was likely incomplete; though the ties of the riverlands were far closer with Krengsra than with the Dragon states, the dynamics of the Sra court were convoluted and intimidating even to those born and raised within that vast kingdom. What precious information the queen and king of Awat possessed came from rare official visits, and from months-old news brought back by spies or defectors.

Spring unfurled into glorious summer. After some surveillance, they had confirmed two of the proposed lords innocent or at least ignorant of the matter. But now, as they entered the domains of a third, they found themselves surrounded by a small group of armed men.

Deserters, as it later turned out. They had been in the employ of the very lord Ashne and Zsaran were preparing to investigate, until neighboring lords imposed trade restrictions that had caused a food shortage among the civilians. The soldiers, disgusted, had chosen to flee.

But the lord had sent men in pursuit, dogging their every step. Now, desperate, they had turned to banditry.

All of this they had learned later.

At the time, it had seemed to Ashne nothing but another failure on her part.

“I’m sorry,” she had muttered under her breath. It had been her watch, her responsibility to watch for enemies. But she had not expected opponents of this sort. And in a single moment of carelessness —

“Don’t worry,” Zsaran had replied with a light, easy smile, and stepped forward, blade drawn.

And in that moment all had become clear.

Like a dream the fight proceeded. A heavenly dance. Movements smooth, unbroken, precise. Zsaran’s steady presence at her back. The wind in her face. Shenkes and Lhepkes cutting and slicing in perfect harmony. Not even the earth itself could bind them, and the Great River glittered beyond them in a jeweled path to the edge of the skies.

“The waves are calm tonight,” sang Zsaran, though the sun laughed with her, rising high upon its flaming wings. “Mother tiger stalks within the whispering rushes. Little calf, little calf, don’t look back. Little calf, little calf, in the clouds your doom is etched —”

Hoofbeats. Zsaran’s head tilted. Ashne whirled around, heart in throat.

“‘— where now shall you hunt, where now shall you flee?’ said the bullfrog to the dolphin.” A man’s voice. Deep, throaty, curiously accented.

Horse and rider, garbed in a bright tunic, an oddly curved blade grasped within his outstretched arm.

Another enemy? But the men they fought cried out in fear and anger upon spotting the newcomer.

Zsaran continued to sing even as her blade sliced a path through their attackers. “Past the mulberry trees, past the washerwomen wading in the shallows, into the depths of the earth where the great swords lie in slumber!”

The strange man wheeled his horse past the edge of the crowd, cutting men down before him like heavy stalks at harvest. As Zsaran finished her verse, her eyes met the stranger’s. Ashne, following Zsaran’s cue, danced away from slashing blades and watched, fascinated and uneasy, as the stranger threw his head back and laughed before responding in turn.