“There’s recorded in the annals of our history a turbulent relationship with a nearby nation,” Ashtadukht went on, afraid she’d lose her nerve if she waited any longer. “Centuries ago, that nation was ruled by a man who was accused of terrible vices, and above all else, fraternizing with divs. Namely, half-div sisters.”
Waray stared at nothing.
“The account doesn’t go into much detail, but they were his personal guard, and accused of being much more.”
Those faraway, desperately empty windows gained substance, took on miserable form. Ashtadukht pressed on.
“One of the sisters was a superb archer. The other, a fearsome force with an axe. On the day he was overthrown, those sisters defended him valiantly.”
Waray had started to rock back and forth. Her head shook at an angle. “Isn’t true,” she mumbled. “Isn’t true.” She cast around wildly, patently searching for an escape. She sunk her nails into Ashtadukht’s thigh.
“The one named Waray, the one with the bow, died alongside the king. The other ran for her life. They never did catch her.”
Waray blew out a shivering moan. She palmed her head and uneasily dragged her fingernails over its scales. “Mistaken. Must be someone else.”
“Waray. Frankly, you’re awful with the bow.”
“Out of practice.”
“You’re a worse shot than someone who’s never touched a bow in their life.”
“That’s šo-rude.”
“When you held that axe on the other hand . . . you had me in awe. You were brilliant.”
“Not so.” Waray’s gaze flashed in and out of focus repeatedly, as if she sought and were being repulsed by her inner refuge, or it’d been washed away by the force of another person spelling out the truth she’d avoided for the last few centuries. “Not so,” she mumbled.
Ashtadukht slid an arm around her back. She pulled Waray in. “You can’t run from this forever. Take it from me. It’s all just . . . a sad ruse.”
Waray tore her crestfallen stare from her knees, which she’d been silently admonishing for their part in her retreat, and hauled it up to come eye-to-eye with Ashtadukht. While she said nothing, her stare pled. The years of heartache and bitterness leaked from the dark place where she’d locked them away, gushing through cracks like the hull of a rapidly failing ship. This was manifested in the many creases that knotted her face. It might not have seemed like much, but Waray did not have a very pliable wall. She had a solid wall. Durable. Meant to stand, not bend. And she was doing her utmost to make it bend.
She silently pled.
“Your family is dead, Waray. I’m sorry. I truly am. This . . . this search you’re undertaking, it has no real goal. It’s a lie. A terrible lie.” She ran her hand in gentle circles over Waray’s back. “You’re not your sister. She fought bravely so that you could survive. You’re Shkarag. You’re you. And that’s absolutely fine.”
The half-div shook. She sunk her nails into her scalp. Ashtadukht frowned. She did not like where this was headed. Shkarag looked ready to snap—worse, to break. She extracted a packet of powder from her tunic and emptied it into a vessel of wine. “Drink it all,” she instructed, pressing the rim to the half-div’s lips. “It’ll help.”
Shkarag did as she was told, swallowing great gulps.
“I added a drug,” Ashtadukht explained. “A drug I belonged to for a time.” She nodded to herself; that was the correct way of putting it. “Grew my own here. It’s yours if you want it. If it has any effect on you, anyway. My estate, too. You can rest here. Or you can travel with us. Whatever makes you happy. We’re your friends, Shkarag, and we’re here for you. You don’t need to pretend anymore.”
The half-div drooped. Slackened.
Ashtadukht’s initial assumption was that the drug had taken sudden and potent effect. She’d been generous with the dosage, but not this generous. Then, still slack in her arms, Waray buzzed a soul-sundering whine the likes of which no one singly human or div could have vocalized. It capitulated; at the same time it seethed. The hull had buckled.
Shkarag looked up, limply murderous. “You did this. You just . . . you just stepped all over my memories.”
“That isn’t it at all. I only wanted—”
Those deceptively slackened muscles tensed and Shkarag’s hands were instantly clamped around Ashtadukht’s throat. They clamped so tightly and in such earnest that neither blood nor breath made it through—as if she wanted to wring the head off at the neck.
“If you die,” Shkarag rattled to herself. “If the šo-stomping chum dies . . . maybe.” She bore down on the star-reckoner, applying all her strength to her grip.
Ashtadukht tried to fight back: first by tugging futilely at the half-div’s wrists, then by scratching at her forearms. By time she thought to move on to more drastic measures, the fight in her had positively dissipated. Her senses slowed to a crawl; she couldn’t think.
“I’ll make it, I’ll make it right. I’ll forget and then.” Shkarag tilted her head. “I’ll forget. I’ll—” She tilted with her head this time. Her grip relented. She tottered, swaying her attention to and fro while inhaling too-calm tastes of air. She looked pissed at how much trouble she was having trying to be pissed. She opened her mouth and fell off the divan.
Ashtadukht collapsed into a pillow and wheezed. Still seized by panic, she fought frantically to swallow all the air she’d been denied. When she’d finally recovered, she sat up, gingerly rubbing her throat. It’d be swathed in bruises come morning, no doubt.
She peered remorsefully at Shkarag, who was lying amidst a clutter of broken eggs and destroyed nests. The half-div absently lolled her head to one side, then eased it clumsily to the other. She buzzed off and on, thoroughly numbed.
“Sorry,” said Ashtadukht, once again finding hindsight to be anything but agreeable. She lowered herself to her knees and began tidying up the mess. “Such a shame you ruined so many of your eggs,” she spoke softly, aware that the half-div most likely wouldn’t register anything she said. “And your nests are all out of order.”
She ordered them into groups of three—those that weren’t directly beneath Shkarag—and resented the fact that she was without question doing it wrong.
“I never intended to step on your memories, or to make light of them,” she explained, busying herself with the nests. “I just . . . I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I saw myself in you.” She sighed and shook her head. “Tried to correct in you what I can’t in me.”
She gave up on the nests. They only frustrated her. Shkarag had not cared to impart whatever wayward rules she had used to organize them. Ashtadukht retrieved a second packet from her tunic. She leered at it gloomily, and surrendered.
With due caution, she unfolded the sides one by one until the contents were fully and tantalizingly undressed, like some diseased yet irresistible vamp beckoning her to come hither. She forewent the wine, tilting her head back and pouring it directly into her mouth. She grimaced; she’d never gotten used to the abysmal taste. She swallowed with some trouble.
Ashtadukht climbed back onto the divan, already drowsy, to get comfortable for what would follow. And what followed was glorious forgetfulness.
• • • • •
Ashtadukht squinted; her eyes watered ceaselessly. She sorely missed her hat, wherever it’d disappeared to. The headache she now endured had been dogging her for the last several days—a sort of diurnal reminder that she’d never truly be hale. And the sun was doing its damnedest to make things worse. This all compounded with the ache that’d spread throughout her bones after an especially earnest redoubling of her condition. Not to mention the lingering pining she experienced for the drug; it’s amazing how little it takes.
In short, she was having one of those weeks. If the legs happened to spontaneously detach from her horse, she wouldn’t be all that surprised.
Nevertheless, she did her utmost to mask how utterly miserable she felt. Tirdad had become unbearably overprotective si
nce walking in on her and Shkarag lying around like unstrung marionettes. He’d even chastised her. Her! As if he were her father! Thinking about how mortified she’d felt at the time made her angry. You don’t do that to a person when they’re coming out of a drug-induced trance. Or at all, preferably. And never to her.
“Are you feeling okay?” asked Tirdad, bringing his horse alongside hers. “You look like you could use a rest.”
“I could do without the daylight,” she replied. “But I’ll manage.”
“We should set up camp,” he said, drawing to a stop and looking around. “I am sure we can find a favourable clearing nearby. Maybe some shade.”
Ashtadukht continued forward, giving her exasperation an outlet through which to escape by kneading her sleeve. “I’ll manage.”
“We really should—”
“I’ll manage!” she snapped. “I don’t need you mollycoddling me. I’m not some invalid. I’d like to think I needn’t remind you of that. We’ve been summoned to Weh-Andiok-Shabuhr; we don’t have time to twiddle our thumbs every time we feel uncomfortable.”
“There is—”
“There’s a rebellion happening as we speak, cousin!”
Tirdad grew silent, and the lack of a response annoyed her more than most any rebuttal would have. Ashtadukht ground her sleeve between her fists.
Eventually, he regained his confidence—in speaking his mind, at least. “I know my worrying bothers you, but I do not mean it as an insult. I am not feeling my best either. We left Waray—” He grunted. “Shkarag with what? Drugs? After only a couple months of taking care of her, of teaching her how to grow and harvest them. It is like we taught her how to become perpetually empty and tossed her aside. And I know I have failed somewhere if you resorted to . . .” He didn’t look away, but he clearly had the urge. “You are unwell. I do not feel up to rising in the morning, much less repelling any rebellion. So I know it must be many times worse for you.”
Ashtadukht diverted her attention to the road ahead—well, the direction in which they travelled. It was scarcely a road. He was supremely disappointed in her; in himself, too. She could pick out his depression plain as day. A dismally overcast day, anyway.
“Shkarag chose to stay behind,” she said. “It was her choice. She doesn’t have it in her to fight anymore. You saw her.”
“And what if your drugs are to blame for that? She just lies there oblivious to her surroundings.”
“She takes the drugs because she doesn’t have it in her anymore, not the other way around,” Ashtadukht retorted. “And the obliviousness is what the drugs are for after all.”
“What kind of life is that?”
“It isn’t one. That’s the damned point. It isn’t one.”
While she avoided looking at him, she could feel the frown sag at the edges of his mouth. “That, dear cousin, is what worries me the most,” he said glumly. “To see the flame of someone so passionate snuffed out, turned into dying embers. And you . . .” He trailed off, but he didn’t have to say it.
“I’m on my way do my part in thwarting a rebellion led by a pretender to the throne,” Ashtadukht replied. “Like I’ve assured you countless times already, I’m not going to throw in the towel. If I were, I would’ve stayed back there with Shkarag, blissfully unaware.”
She closed her eyes. Describing it, even in such few words, only made the itch worse. She leaned back and rummaged through one of the sacks slung over her mount. The flap was already open, as she’d been snacking the entire trip. She grabbed a handful of shelled walnuts and began popping them into her mouth one after another.
“Besides,” she added, “I’m a star-reckoner.”
“Oh, of course. And here I had forgotten. That solves everything. Star-reckoners are infallible.”
Ashtadukht raised her eyebrows. He must genuinely be bothered if he’d been reduced to sarcasm. “I’m not an addict,” she said flatly.
“Not anymore?”
“Not anymore,” she reluctantly admitted, if uncertain of the truth to the words. “Happy?”
“Far from it,” Tirdad replied. “But thank you for being honest with me. That is all I ask of you.”
• • • • •
The trip to Weh-Andiok-Shabuhr was survived principally due to well-tended silence and a longstanding hardiness for the road. Neither cousin felt especially up to the task, but they weren’t about to back down either.
They came upon a military bivouac that had been established along the eastern bank of the river leading into the city, which was several farsangs off.
They entered after confirming that the banners flying atop pavilions bore insignias loyal to the throne. The cousins proceeded unchallenged into the camp—mainly due to Tirdad’s imposing size and their self-assured carriage. You didn’t get to be a noble without learning a little posture; it ran in your blood after all.
It wasn’t until they reached the officer’s area that they were met with anything resembling a challenge.
“Who are you, riding through the camp like you own the place?” asked a handsome man whose impressive frame rivalled Tirdad’s. His eyes were older, though. Wiser. And somewhat amused. “Pretty sure this is my camp.”
Ashtadukht gave him a tired smile. “We’d hoped it’d eventually get us to the men who actually run the place.”
“And here you are. Who might you be then?”
“Ashtadukht,” she said with a respectful nod, dismounting and fishing out her stamp seal. “One of the star-reckoners you requested.” She gestured to her cousin with her free hand. “And my guardian, Tirdad.”
The man didn’t bother looking at the seal. He came straight in and embraced her as if she were his daughter. “By Ohrmazd,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“I . . .” Ashtadukht started confusedly. “I, uh . . .”
He let her go and took a step back. “Been too long. I remember when you were up to my knees. It is a real shame about your father. Even the plague could not take the fight out of him.”
“My father?” she asked, taken aback.
“An honorable man if I have ever seen one. If you need anything, you come to me—heck, anyone in the House. We all owe a great deal to his bravery and compassion.”
Ashtadukht stared at him. Her lips moved but nothing came out. When it rains, it pours.
Tirdad stepped forward knowingly. “Your words do our family an honour,” he said. “The trip has been a harsh one. Would you mind if we rest before briefing?”
“Oh, of course not. Rest all you like. I have drawn up some preliminary plans when you are ready. Just stepped out for a rest of my own.” He indicated a tent situated within the inner circle. “Yours,” he said. “If you would like some privacy.”
Tirdad shook the man’s hand and inclined his head. “Thank you. We will return shortly.” He put one arm around Ashtadukht and led her into their tent.
She sat on the carpet with deliberate, drawn out motions as if she had to send signals one by one to tell each individual muscle to do its part. Her mouth hung slightly agape. Her fingers wrestled with her sleeve. Thoughts whizzed by. She hadn’t even known. She hadn’t seen him in how long? Why had no one told her? Had he been so disappointed in her? She should have been there. Maybe she could have done something. Why not her?
She wanted dearly to scream. To lament like the widows you hear about in tales—pulling their hair and beating their chests. It occurred to her that she’d never actually seen someone doing that. But they sure did in the tales, and she felt as if she were in one.
She looked at Tirdad. The news had taken its toll on him, too. She’d rarely seen him so despondent, and never openly. Maybe she should have offered him some comforting words, but she had none to offer. And she needed to be alone.
“Please go,” she said, her voice quavering. Speaking felt so heavy; it felt irreverent.
“I would rather—”
“Please.”
“What should I tell them?�
�
“I don’t care.”
He gave her a hard, unwavering frown before going to one knee beside her. He placed his hand on her cheek, using his thumb to disperse the tear that, to her chagrin, had somehow snuck out unnoticed. He beheld her like a husband would. Exactly like it, actually: tenderly, reassuringly, devotedly. He did an impressive job of it for someone who had no experience in spousal expressions.
She looked away. She abhorred the thought.
“Please.”
His hand slid away, and when she was sure she was alone, she extracted a packet from her tunic. Her fingers trembled as they peeled apart the creases.
• • • • •
When she came to—which is to say when she regained enough lucidity to properly lash thoughts together—the hum of the bivouac sharpened. What had seemed like distant gibberish took on the form of shouted commands, supplies being unloaded and accounted for, and what sounded like a dog barking.
Closer still, the muffled silence of someone trying very hard not to make noise filled the tent. Ashtadukht sat up, and was welcomed by a mean throbbing behind her eyes.
“Ugh.”
She rubbed her temples and wheeled to face the laboured silence. Tirdad looked up from his pack, which he was organizing to make room for some newly acquired supplies.
She hated how he looked at her. Or how she believed he looked at her anyway. Like the respect he used to have for her was slowly and inexorably falling to disappointment.
“Are you finally finished—” He directed his attention to a nearby set of calipers, clearly without having a need for or interest in them. He grabbed them, found a place for them in his pack, and in doing so strengthened the lie that neither believed. “Are you finished sleeping?”
“Yes,” she replied at length, leering at him curiously.
“Good. I attended the briefing on your behalf. I told the generals you were feeling unwell but remain up to the task. You are one of three star-reckoners who will be sent as envoys to this rebellious prince. You will see to convincing him to relent, reconnaissance, and assisting with an invasion force if necessary. The fortifications are unimpressive, as you well know. You may be asked to use your star-reckoning as battery support.”
A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1) Page 20