“Makes sense,” Ashtadukht replied.
“Damn right it does. But here’s the deal. That . . . thing, it ain’t me. It’s a remnant of what I was. I’m a spoon now. More and more, I began identifying with the spoon rather than my body. And here I am. Fully turned.
“Go on,” she bade the spoon.
“That’s the whole scoop. It’s pleasant being looked after. Not causing anyone trouble. Lounging, you know? Body wants me back is all. Some damn beast I was, huh? As you well know, it’ll stick around as long as my phylactery is intact. And if it possesses me for too long, well, this whole spoon gig is up the spout.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“Here’s the deal. That old man’s a stuff—a stuff I’m right fond of, but a stuff. And he’s got no heirs to hand me to. Don’t think he has a mind to admit he’s too washed up to safeguard this spoon. My body will be back. So I was thinking . . .”
Ashtadukht sighed. “We’ll see.”
She shoved the spoon into her tunic and pulled thoughtfully on her sleeve. “It’s rancid, isn’t it? Haven’t had one stink this bad in a while. Let’s get out of here.”
Getting back turned out to be far tougher than getting there. They had left a trail of twine, but sections had somehow become tangled here and there. Eventually, they reached the cavern, then the chambers where Farrobay waited. Ashtadukht had asked Tirdad to check on Waray: that she had star-reckoner business to discuss with the man and needed to be left alone.
So it was that he discovered Waray and the camels, mostly unharmed. She was nursing a gnarly collection of bruises on her left forearm. She’d tap it, wince, and tap it again.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Šo-smarts,” Waray grumbled. She canted her head. “Got me all chilly, too.”
Tirdad ambled over. He squatted and picked up his bow case, which had been discarded by her side and was bereft of arrows. “Where are they?” he asked, indicating the empty quiver.
Waray cocked one ear toward the desert and tapped her forearm thoughtfully. “The great beyond,” she said at length. “Somewhere. Don’t know why they won’t listen. Such fickle things.”
“Tell me about it,” Tirdad said with a sigh. He left to grab a few of the spare arrows he’d hidden in advance of just such an occasion and returned to find the half-div still tapping her mottled bruises. Sometimes she would wince, sometimes she wouldn’t.
“I don’t know if I should,” Waray said.
“Should what?”
“Tell you about it. You’ll be pissy, I think. Thought I’d hit—” She gestured at nothing in particular. “That. Šo-fickle.”
Tirdad frowned. She’d been trying in earnest. He’d suffered those same bruises when he had first begun to learn archery. He took her by the arm and effortlessly lifted her to her feet. “You are holding the bow wrong,” he said.
She pursed her lips and shot him the sort of look you’d give a person who’d just informed you that your legs had run off. Waray buzzed deliberatively then trotted off to retrieve the bow, which she’d flung in an exasperated fit some time earlier. She flexed her fingers around it as she strolled back, going through a sequence of unwieldy grips.
“Seems wrong,” she agreed. “All wrong.”
“Not that,” said Tirdad. “Hold it like you would when you prime a shot.”
Waray lifted the bow.
He walked around her and gently turned her elbow out. “Your arm wants to extend one way—it is natural. But that puts your forearm in line with the string. You are offering it up. Train yourself to keep your elbow out, and in doing so your forearm will be turned away. It also encourages better overall posture.”
Waray trained her gaze on her elbow. She turned it in and out experimentally. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Feels scandalous. Unnatural. Not encouraging.”
“You get used to it with time. Here.” He handed her an arrow. “Try it with your elbow out. And never dry fire my bow. Always have an arrow nocked.”
Waray looked quizzically at Tirdad, mouthing something he couldn’t make out. She accepted the arrow with some trepidation, as if it were a trap or a trick, and blew on its fletching.
“You’re a liar,” she said, and though her inflection wasn’t at all right, something about the sentence was clearly interrogatory.
“Just try it.”
“Hmm.” She drew her lips taut, leered warily at the arrow, then nocked it. Tirdad was impressed by the apparent ease with which she drew his bow: it was a heavy draw, even for him. Waray angled out her elbow and loosed the arrow. It didn’t fly straight or majestically. The best anyone could have said was that it didn’t hit her in the face.
She watched its errant trajectory with apparent interest, lips parted—but only just. Moonlight bathed her scaled head in a creamy glow that accentuated the otherwise subtle flecks of gold. Her stare beamed intently on its target, passionate and uninhibited.
In that moment of quiet triumph she was stunning. The human in her seemed to push back the div enough that Tirdad could appreciate her better half. He caught himself admiring her and cleared his throat.
“Well, better posture,” he said. “Not good but better.”
“Didn’t lash me,” Waray observed. She tilted her head to examine her forearm before turning her scrutiny on Tirdad. In doing so, she ruined the favourable profile, and it seemed once again that the scales along her hairline were the vanguard of a force that laid siege to the flesh of her face. “This is šo-mysterious. It’s occult archery. How’d you know?”
She pursed her lips and canted the other way. “You’re too pinecone-arsed for occult, I think. Did you gander from a bush?” She leaned in and canted more. “Were they dancing around the moon firing arrows? That’s clever.”
“I was trained by a master archer,” Tirdad crossly replied, taking a step back to put some space between them. He was still unsettled by the way he’d viewed her mere moments before. “He taught me. He was stern. Severe, too. But his lessons stuck.”
“Like an arrow in your gut,” Waray remarked. She peered around. “Maybe. Need more of those.” She grimaced and patted her abdomen. “Not in the gut. Had one deep. Hurts.”
“Go search for the arrows you shot if you want more,” said Tirdad. “There are thirty-one out there, and I would like some back.”
Waray scratched her bruises. “No.”
“What?”
“No.” She said it firmly, almost angrily, but he could see the fear with which she avoided looking into the night.
“Fine. Grab the torch and we will search together.”
Waray gave a measured nod and trotted over to pluck the torch from its sconce. They were at it for nearly an hour before Ashtadukht emerged from the tunnel.
She was surprised to find the camels left alone, but a quick look around and a tuned ear alerted her to a meager light in the distance and the bickering that accompanied it. She adjusted her tunic, then her cloak to line up with its new hang; she hated when her layers were misaligned. One of her plaits had come undone on the way out, so she tucked that away. She shifted her thighs uncomfortably and took a greedy draught of honey wine from the bottle she carried.
“Now what’re they up to?” she pondered aloud, basking in the afterglow of her annual ritual.
Ashtadukht strode their way, not entirely sure-footed in doing so. “What’s going on?” she called.
“Oh, thank Ohrmazd you are back,” said Tirdad, swelling with relief. “You deal with her.”
“He’s a šo-craven man,” Waray hissed.
“Do not,” Tirdad warned.
“Only asked why he hasn’t plowed you yet,” Waray went on, and he took a threatening step forward, which drew another hiss. “The namby-pamby wants to.”
“I swear,” growled Tirdad. He reached for his sword. “You will not besmirch me in front of her.”
Waray gripped an arrow menacingly and pushed the torch his way.
“He called me a whore.”
“Figured you would take it as a compliment.”
“I’ve only ever been plowed by one man!” Waray half snarled. The half that followed the snarl dove into the territory of a simmering hum. She backed down and her ire sloughed away. A grin pressed into her cheeks—one more than the other—accompanied by a smoky giggle. She spoke, but her mind was in the past.
“Thought you’d want him to mount you. Hands choking your waist. Mouth is full of dirt and grass and urg.” She tilted her head and released a buzzing shiver. “He’s slapping against you twice. Slap, slap. First his hips, then his—”
“Enough,” interrupted Tirdad.
Waray grasped her abdomen. “The thrusts. Šo-reaching and šo-fiery inside. Šo-hard, too. Like you’re a stake or he’s a stake or . . .” Her grin deepened. “Driven.”
Ashtadukht took another gulp of wine. “Finished?”
“So many times,” hummed Waray, still reliving past sensations.
Ashtadukht offered her bottle to Tirdad. “Have a drink,” she said. “Farrobay sends his regards. Good stuff.”
He gave it a doubtful glance before acquiescing. “I suppose it is Nowruz after all. Would be wrong not to.” He came over and took a swallow. “Not tainted I hope.”
“It’s my third bottle. If it’s tainted I’ve some inhuman constitution.” She pulled another from her tunic and began nursing the rim.
“Do not overdo it,” Tirdad said before taking another draught. “Good stuff,” he agreed.
Ashtadukht nudged him with her elbow and motioned to Waray, who was blissfully elsewhere. “Looks like she’d offer no argument if you made a move.”
It took a moment for her remark to sink in and when it did, Tirdad choked on his wine. It was bad enough that her wanton description had undeniably roused his attention; now he found himself hazarding his cousin’s suggestion. He knew what waited beneath those cloaks; he could still summon the image.
And that image had scales. Half-div. Tirdad cleared his throat and reeled himself in thanks to the reminder. “Not amusing.”
The skeptical look she gave him clearly conveyed how unconvincing his denial was. He might not indulge in his fantasies, but they were nevertheless his. “You aren’t fooling me,” she said. “I’m sure you’re throbbing under those layers.”
Tirdad stared at her, slack-jawed.
She reached up and tapped his chin. “I’m only giving you a hard time. Besides, I’m sure you’d rather have me.”
He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “I do not think you should be drinking. Ever.” He reached for her bottle, but she snatched it away.
“I’ll drink as I please,” she said with a firm edge.
“You will regret it,” Tirdad replied, though he knew well enough not to press the issue, or any issue, when she used that tone. He decided it’d be best, especially for him, if the conversation veered elsewhere. “So what was it that you and Farrobay discussed? Did he know anything about that other div?”
Ashtadukht shook her head, both in response and to try and find some clarity in its muddiness. “Mainly debriefing. He trusted me with the spoon for safe keeping. I’m not really sure what to make of that imposter.”
She frowned. She did not like being unsure about divs. It was her job to be sure. Her purpose. She thought she had been thinking this, but it turns out her mouth had been moving without her accord.
A draught of wine helped her embarrassment go down easier.
“It happens,” Tirdad consoled. “We cannot be perfect, much as we might like to be or think we are.”
“Happens,” Waray muttered, evidently coming out of her trance.
“Hmm.” Ashtadukht narrowed her eyes at the half-div. The imposter had mentioned something about her. A warning. She trudged through the swamp of her thoughts, searching for that particular recollection amid the misty muck. A putrid bubble popped nearby and it came to her. “Waray,” she asked, “who is your father?”
Waray tilted her head. “Eshm.”
“Could you repeat that?” asked Tirdad, as a person does when they have heard something perfectly fine but disbelief convinces them otherwise. There were divs, then there was Eshm. Even divs gave him a wide berth.
“Eshm. It’s chilly. I want a fire.”
“Well, that is just fucking grand,” said Tirdad. He threw his hands in the air and with them his wine bottle. “Fucking Eshm. Really.”
Ashtadukht couldn’t fault his reaction. She probably should have reacted similarly, but intoxication had tempered the impact. “Eshm,” she muttered. “The Bloody Club and The Murderous Spear. Div of wrath, violence, brutality, drunken—” She cleared her throat. “So inclined to discord that he’ll foster it in his own kind if men can’t be swayed. He emboldens man to commit every evil. That Eshm?”
Waray sunk away. “Maybe.” She cast over her shoulder and chewed her lip.
“Do we kill her?” asked Tirdad. “We have to, right?” He had his sword brandished, though undecidedly.
“Don’t,” Ashtadukht replied, somewhat uncertain herself. She deliberated Waray. The half-div was crouched, her panicked gaze darting between the two of them, and would have surely fled already if her fear of venturing into the night alone weren’t holding that compulsion at bay.
“It explains her disposition,” Ashtadukht said at length. “Even diluted, his influence must be overwhelmingly strong. Tell me something, Waray. How often do you want to murder us?”
Waray’s eyes glowed as ominously as a blood moon. “Never,” she muttered, canting her head.
“Waray. Tell me.”
“Never.”
“Waray. Remember what I am, remember I’m a star-reckoner, and answer the question truthfully.”
The half-div dragged one hand over her head. “Maybe. Maybe right now. Maybe always.”
Ashtadukht frowned. She’d experienced the pull of Waray’s lineage firsthand. That ponderous morning in Amol made much more sense now. It must be maddening to constantly be at odds with an ingrained yearning. Waray was always fighting it: that was made unmistakably evident by the fact that she hadn’t cut their throats in their sleep. She sure had plenty of opportunities. But it did raise the question of whether she could hold it at bay indefinitely, or whether the half-div was fighting a battle of attrition.
“How many people have you killed?”
Waray shrugged.
Ashtadukht sighed. Her head was fuzzy, and it inhibited her effectively defusing the situation. She wouldn’t have drunk so much if she’d known she was going to have this conversation, or any serious conversation with Waray for that matter. “How often?”
“Not often. I just . . . I think it. I want it. I want it.” Waray took a step forward; her breathing intensified. “Don’t like to think about it. Makes me want it more. Can imagine ripping your limbs from your . . .” She very slowly angled her head toward Tirdad, and her posture grew more confident. The grin that emerged was one Ashtadukht had only seen in the illusion. A grin she’d hoped she’d never see again.
Then it was gone. Waray dropped her torch and began hurriedly rummaging through her sack. She extracted a pair of eggs and stuffed them into her mouth, shell and all. They crunched, and she moaned elatedly.
“Eshm,” Tirdad said significantly to Ashtadukht. “Eshm.”
“I know.”
Tirdad leaned in and whispered, “We are talking about the div whose evil is so great we view Dahag’s tyranny as a boon simply because Eshm would have ruled if he had not.”
“I know.”
Ashtadukht watched Waray. She was almost frantically stuffing her face with more and more eggs. It was a wonder she’d managed to transport so many without them cracking.
“Waray,” she called.
The half-div looked up. She seemed to have been sedated.
“Your father. Do you serve him? What about the div we killed? Was she your sister?”
Waray swallowed, wincing as she did. “Father doesn
’t approve.”
“Of what?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
Waray hissed irritably.
Ashtadukht rubbed her temple and took a draught of wine. “And the div we encountered . . .” She tried to wave the rest of the thought out, and eventually succeeded. “The scaled one.”
“Always bullied us,” Waray answered. “With knives and things. Glad the stupid broom sweeper’s dead. Still hurt. She was our sister for a šo-long time.”
“Are you not searching for them?” asked Tirdad.
“No.”
“But they are your family.”
“No.” Waray shovelled another egg into her mouth, and while it drew another contented moan, she was growing sick of the whole affair.
“Run me through if you’re going to run me through,” she said rancorously, fangs bared at Ashtadukht. “Or try. Maybe. I’m very chilly.”
Tirdad was the first to relent. He sheathed his sword and reached for Ashtadukht’s wine, with which she reluctantly parted, and finished it off. He addressed Ashtadukht.
“The way I see it is that we cannot blame her for her kin. I do not like it. I do not like it in the slightest. But she is . . . well, she is a friend. A bit of an imp, but a friend. And she has done us no harm. I could no more cut her down than I could you, cousin.”
He inclined his head toward Waray. “I apologize. When I hear that div’s name I cannot help but be afraid. I could have gone on completely oblivious to your lineage and never questioned it. You are you. That is enough for me. As long as you keep that part of you under control.”
“Maybe,” Waray agreed, or didn’t.
Ashtadukht couldn’t hide her astonishment. Here she was racking her brain for—well, she was blundering around in there pretty ineffectively, but she was doing so in an earnest effort to find some mutually beneficial compromise. When here comes Tirdad being weirdly rational in the face of a hostile div. She liked to think it was because she’d rubbed off on him.
“While this isn’t his decision to make, I agree.” Ashtadukht nodded mentally. She was the star-reckoner here, and they needed to be reminded of that. “You’re all right by me, Waray. Just run it by me if you’re having trouble with, uh, all of that.” She gestured vaguely. “That.”
A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1) Page 14