The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Seventeen

The waters of the Great River had receded after the floods earlier that year, leaving its banks lush and green, a sharp contrast to the drier vistas further north. The greenery continued as they retraced their route to the Canal, turning south towards Gokho Lake. Though summer was drawing steadily to a close, the sun remained bright as ever, cooler nights serving as the only proof of time’s passage. It began to rain again as well: a light misty spray that began every morning before dawn and dissipated by noon, leaving behind only the scent of growth.

Ashne dreamed often now, incoherent visions interspersed with whispered words and overwhelming heaviness that seized her chest and her throat, rendering her mute even in the landscapes of her heart. Once she dreamed of a voice singing, Let us follow the rivers past the vast seas to the roots of the sun; let us meet again in the silent valleys of the dark beyond. She woke aching with hollow, all-consuming listlessness, but afterward could not recall why or how or what she had seen or heard in her slumber.

The waters were choppier now, the currents stronger. She let matters of navigation and steering occupy her mind, unwilling or unable to dwell anything else.

Roughly one day north of the Lake, they moored, preparing to make the rest of the journey on foot. They soon ran into a party of local hunters, who complained of brigands running wild, ruffians raiding nearby settlements for food and women, and a steadily growing encampment at the lakeshore. “Has it come to war again?” they demanded, but Ashne could give them no straight answer, could only warn them to take care and arm themselves before they continued on their separate ways.

The closer they drew to their destination, the more her memories began to overwhelm her. But she remembered not those halcyon days with Zsaran and Kitzon and his little mare, and those final miserable hours of despair on the dark shores of the lake.

She remembered instead a distant summer. Before or after the fever, she could not recall. All the summers of her childhood seemed to meld into two distinct impressions: the months running wild with Zsaran, and the years playing at the queen’s feet before they entered her service.

They had been playing that day too. A blazing hot morning. The princess still young, her final soul not quite settled, her name not yet bestowed. The twins not yet in their lives, nor their master. Only Shranai and the queen and each other, and them still too young to have received the protective tattoos of adulthood, too young to comprehend the murmurs of war that surrounded them daily.

How hot it had been. Hotter than it was even now, so hot that the light trembled above the river, forcing her to shade her eyes as she searched for Zsaran’s silhouette.

Someone barreled into her from behind with a loud whoop, knocking them both into the ground. They laughed and laughed and Ashne gulped for air, struggled to right herself. The baked earth pressed against her sticky skin; a moist breeze ruffled through her hair.

“Zsaran,” she gasped. She could seem to form any other words. “Zsaran!”

At last the other girl relented, still laughing. “Gotcha this time!”

“That wasn’t fair,” she protested.

“Nope, it wasn’t,” Zsaran responded cheerfully. She flopped down on the ground beside Ashne, dangling her bare feet in the water. “It’s so hot,” she moaned.

“Shranai says it’ll cool off later this week.”

“Yeah? That’s what she always says.”

Ashne sat up, tucking her bent knees beneath her chin. She said, “I hope we don’t have to do anymore studying today.”

“Really? It’s not so bad.” Zsaran slowly mouthed the phrases of formal Dragon speech they had learned earlier, trying different voices for each word, savoring each individual syllable on her tongue. She finished off with a perfect imitation of their tutor, a wrinkled little old man from the north who always seemed as if he would collapse at the slightest breeze. Ashne giggled; Zsaran beamed.