The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Five

The apothecary was another man again over the next few days, aloof and abrupt and prone to holding conversations with his basket of herbs and medicines in the middle of the night. No amount of questioning or threatening seemed to shake him. Ashne, exasperated but convinced at last that he was only trying to make himself as troublesome as possible, gave up on making any sense of him and left him alone.

“What do you know of this foreign sorcerer?” she asked Phas instead, mulling over the little Minister Muntong had known or chosen to tell her and Zsaran. “Is he a Dragon man?”

“Much has been said of him, but no two things alike. Some say he is a barbarian from the far north; some say he was born from the western tribes. Still others claim he is no foreigner at all, but a native of the riverlands.”

“Then you do not think he comes from the Court.”

“No,” Phas admitted, face shuttered. “The men of the central domains put little stock in such superstition. It is difficult to believe one of such power could have originated there.”

“Do you not believe in the spirits?”

“Some still do. But not in the way the outlanders believe.”

Ashne, remembering the fog, stroked the head of her kammrae, who had been delegated to pack-bearing since the men traveled on foot. Her old wound had healed enough again that the walking was not so much of a strain, and on the main roads they would not lose so much time. She considered how to better broach the subject, but could think of nothing. “I meant you, personally.”

Phas hesitated. “I have lived in the south half an earth-branch cycle now, and witnessed many things I would not have thought possible back home in Rha.”

And that was all Ashne dared inquire of him, though he seemed honest enough. In this matter, at least, she did not so much distrust him as she did not wish to pry. Those who had been touched by the other world were often reluctant to share their experiences with others.

Like the ministers, she, too, remembered Woodcutter Mountain.

As a child she had set eyes on the mountain numerous times, though she had entered its domain but once. It was, despite its humble name, a mountain of kings, blue-green wilderness veiled in dainty white wisps, no place for a pair of nameless, ragged orphans. Even as an adult, she had returned there again only once.

In her memories she could still feel the heavy, damp air clinging to her skin; still see, as if from a distance, their small procession winding sluggishly up the verdant trail. Hear, as if right at her side, Zsaran’s bright laughter ringing clearly across the throng, despite the solemnity of the occasion. The capital had not yet then moved north beyond the river, but the kingdom of Khonua had fallen at last. The war that had endured for so many long years, since before they were even born, had finally come to an end.

The procession came to a halt at the foot of the old Speaker’s burial mound, where a great tomb had been carved into the mountaintop.

“Honored Father! Beloved Mother!” said King Khosian. “Rejoice! For Awat has prevailed, and justice is ours. Kasa has fallen, Khonua is destroyed, the tiger’s seed is no more. Our land lies unbroken, our people are now as one. And those of the Dragon Court shall yet learn to fear my name, as they once feared the Prince of Light.”

The king beckoned forth his servants.

“Tonight, we head north. I ask leave to take you with us. Your new resting place lies atop Whitespirit Mountain, overlooking our new capital. From there shall you, my honored parents, stand witness to the everlasting glory of Awat.”