A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1)

by Darrell Drake

  Ashtadukht very carefully placed the drinking horn back where it belonged, as if she could no longer be trusted with the apparatus.

  “I strive for his justice with every passing day.”

  The King of Kings nodded, evidently satisfied with the response. “Yes, well, I appreciate your coming all this way on such short notice, and in a time of war no less. I need a star-reckoner I can trust with a matter of delicacy.”

  “I’m honoured. I truly am. But you’ve three star-reckoners in your retinue if memory serves.”

  “Your memory is strong as ever, but this is a complicated matter. Star-reckoners are not known for being gentle with divs, and you are rather notorious for your more forgiving touch.”

  Ashtadukht leaned in, certain to commit every word of the exchange to memory. A personal request from this man was not to be taken lightly. The King of Kings went on. “The wife of the Lazic king has been bedridden by a foul illness. Physicians have done what they could, which frankly, is absolutely nothing. There is talk of her being a div, or at least victim to a div, due to the strange nature of her affliction.

  “I believe it to be a baseless rumour spread by people without answers. Even so, I must entertain all possibilities. I cannot trust the heavy-handedness of most star-reckoners where the queen of Lazica is concerned, so I have called on you. Our support in this would go a long way toward securing the alliance with Gubaz, and it is the right thing to do besides. Go to Nokalakevi, and see that you give her respect befitting a queen.

  “Now, while you have that to untangle, I have Hrom to deal with. Let us pray your lot is less troublesome than mine. Be well, star-reckoner.”

  Ashtadukht prostrated and recited the reverential, “May you live forever.” She stood with some complaint from her knees, and upon leaving, was sure to remain facing the King of Kings until she exited the pavilion.

  She and Tirdad were given swift, well-rested horses and departed for Nokalakevi post-haste. They pushed their steeds tirelessly through several nights until reaching the city, where they were practically pulled off their saddles by a very distraught steward.

  “Your seal, your seal! Quickly! You must be the one we’ve been waiting for,” he yammered, reaching out expectantly.

  Ashtadukht dismounted gracelessly, using one hand to steady herself while the other fished in her tunic for the seal. The steward gave it a perfunctory glance before grabbing the reins of her horse and leading them through the gates.

  “She is not well, not well at all,” he rambled. “You should have come sooner. Everyone should have come sooner. I made it perfectly clear she needed special attention. All this diplomacy, and for what?”

  Ashtadukht held an iron grip on her saddle. Her body was numb, her head throbbed, and everything was awash with nausea. Tirdad walked beside her, but she refused to request his assistance. “Just get us to your queen. I came as quickly as I could once I understood the severity of her condition.”

  “What is he saying?” asked Tirdad.

  “Nothing important. He’s just frightened for the queen.”

  They were escorted through a rear entrance, and eventually to the royal chambers, where a somber hush clung to the air.

  The stench hit first—a vaguely familiar stink that Ashtadukht couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it only worsened her nausea.

  “She has been alone for days,” explained the steward. “The smell inside is unbearable, and most are wary of whatever it is that has befouled her. I check in regularly, but not much else.” He stopped outside the door to the queen’s chambers, obviously not keen on entering. “Even the priest has left.”

  “If I can do anything for her, I will,” Ashtadukht assured him. She inclined her head toward Tirdad. “My guardian will watch the door. If you’d like to get some rest, you may.”

  The steward shook his head. “You are considerate, but I’d rather remain here if it’s all the same to you. The worry keeps the sleep at bay. We’re all very worried about her. Afraid, yes, but worried, too.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Ashtadukht.

  She moved to enter, but Tirdad caught her by the arm. “You look unwell,” he whispered. “You should have a quick rest first. We have been riding hard for days.”

  Ashtadukht turned a scowl on her cousin. “I’ll be the one to decide whether or not I need to rest. I didn’t ride all this way for a nap.”

  Tirdad answered her scowl with a measured stare before backing down. “I will be here if you need me.”

  “Thank you, Tirdad. Keep the good steward company, won’t you? And try not to worry yourselves sick.”

  Entering that room was like walking into the fetid gullet of the Stinking Spirit himself. Ashtadukht swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, wiped the tears from her eyes, and pressed on. She knelt bedside, where a host of offerings had been amassed.

  The queen was younger than Ashtadukht expected—not much older than she was—though her condition made it difficult to tell. She was pale as alabaster, with thick brown veins that profaned her face and hands.

  “Another mountebank come to apply your sham cures?” asked the queen. “My steward is a gullible, desperate man.”

  Ashtadukht frowned and fought off a deep breath. She had hoped to find the woman sleeping. “No sham cures, Your Highness. I’m a star-reckoner sent by the King of Kings of Iran.”

  “A star-reckoner? Am I a div now? Have you come to put me out of my misery?”

  “Nothing so dramatic or murderous. I’d like to help if possible.”

  The queen squinted and reached out a hand. “Oh, you are death come for me. I can feel it. You are death.”

  Ashtadukht gently took hold of the queen’s hand. “I’m not—what?”

  The moment she applied pressure to the skin it cracked, and beneath, the flesh was a sickly yellow-brown. Then the identity of the smell hit her: rotten eggs. “No, no, no! Tirdad! Tirdad!”

  He rushed in, sword brandished. His eyes flashed around the room. “Where? Where are they?”

  “What’s going on?” asked the steward.

  “We must hurry,” urged Ashtadukht. “There’s a cursed hen’s egg buried at one of the gates. Gather anyone you can find to search. Look for freshly disturbed earth.” She knocked Tirdad’s sword out of the way and dashed between the two.

  “Hurry!” she called over her shoulder, as she turned into a causeway that was in fact a terrace. Her compromised faculties realized this too late, and Ashtadukht blundered into the night with all the grace of a tumbling chicken.

  Fortunately, her fall was cushioned by a hay bale. Unfortunately, it was a rat-infested hay bale. She crawled out, kicking at the vermin that were anything but pleased to have their home so violently disturbed, and managed to escape with only a bite to her ankle.

  “Accursed, good-for-nothing rodents,” spat Ashtadukht as she limped from the stable and headed toward the only gate she knew of: the one she and Tirdad had been escorted through upon arrival.

  “Damned idiots,” she went on with her cursing. “Damned fingernail-swallowing idiots.” She crawled in and around the gate, giving the dirt and cobblestone a thorough inspection. “Can’t be satisfied with half of creation trying to kill you—never that! You have to find the worst ways of killing one another.”

  After a thorough and unsuccessful search, Ashtadukht struggled to her feet and tried to judge where another entrance might be. She’d decided to follow the wall when Tirdad came running over.

  “Ashtadukht! There you are. I may have found something. This way.” He took her by the arm and hurried her off, which ultimately had him carrying her after several falls.

  “Put me down!” she demanded. “I can walk just fine!”

  Tirdad sighed, but did as she asked. “You yourself said we must hurry. Or is your pride more important than this woman’s life?”

  Ashtadukht started to run, and would have fallen on her face if she hadn’t caught herself on her cousin. She blew out an irritated groan. “Be
ar me there.”

  Tirdad did as she bade him, hefting her like the light, sickly mass she was. “I do not enjoy this,” he said. “I would rather you prove me wrong.”

  “Don’t gloat,” said Ashtadukht as he bore her across a courtyard. “I can usually manage on my own, but these last few days have been especially . . .”

  “Trying,” finished Tirdad.

  Ashtadukht furrowed her brow and looked up at him. “Cousin?”

  “I am not as dense as you think I am. Your father could have given your guardianship to any man if he wanted only brawn.” He deposited her in the corner of the courtyard they’d just crossed, where a small, vine-covered gate sat ajar. “I happened to spot it while sweeping the area, and thought it would be a good place to hide something.” He pointed at the ground. “There.”

  Ashtadukht immediately began digging at the spot where the dirt had very clearly been disturbed. Her focus came and went, and she fought the enervating force of fatigue until she found what she was looking for: a rotting hen’s egg with a spell that spiralled its sunken shell.

  “No,” she whispered. “No.”

  “What?” asked Tirdad.

  “We’re too late.”

  “But surely there is something you can do?”

  Ashtadukht gave a grim shake of her head. “No. The curse has run its course. The queen rots same as this egg, and that’s that. We squandered too much time.”

  She slumped against the gate and stared past her cousin into the night sky, where the luminaries waged war. In that faraway theatre, Ahriman’s invasive planets encroached upon the heavenly domain of Ohrmazd, diverting to the wicked some of the power of the beneficent stars.

  As a star-reckoner, Ashtadukht had been instructed in the esoteric methods of finding her place in that battle on any given night. She was angry—at herself for failing, and at the person responsible for so insidious a curse. She grasped that anger, the clarity of it, and used it in her star-reckoning. Ashtadukht wasn’t particularly gifted at the craft. You might even say she was worse than being terrible at it: her reckoning was often unpredictable. That was why she tried to avoid using it. But rage so easily conquers reason.

  Her formerly dull eyes took on the sheen of the stars, and she began to murmur. “Saturn hangs in the Balance. Mars and Venus assail the Lion. Jupiter and Mercury fall upon the Bull out of sight—”

  “What are you trying to do?” asked Tirdad.

  “—Tishtar and Vega bide time. The Bear mauls nothing. Mex-i-gah and Sadwes are silent. The lot has been drawn.”

  She felt the residence of the Lion draw near, like reclining on a sun-kissed slab of stone, and the tetrahedron of fire began its celestial clatter. When it came to rest, she knew her lot had not been favoured. The gamble had failed. How disastrously it had failed would be revealed soon enough.

  Any fear Ashtadukht might have had concerning the outcome was tempered by experience and exhaustion. It was beyond her now; all she could do was wait. The starlight faded from her eyes, and the gossamer ring of swords tickled the furthest edges of her hearing. Energy coursed through her, fuelled by that faraway combat, then was gone as abruptly as it’d come. A blast of hot air swept over her and Ashtadukht knew it was done.

  “Give me a hand,” she said.

  Tirdad, who was looking past her with the sort of amazement reserved for miracles and great acts of nature, did not respond.

  “Cousin.”

  “You did this?” asked Tirdad, blinking. “Is this the way of a star-reckoner?” Remembering himself, he reached out to help her up.

  Ashtadukht accepted his hand and turned a frown on her handiwork: a perfectly straight tunnel that had been burned into the fortress. Its brightly glowing edges illuminated the way in and ended at a still-burning figure.

  “I beseeched the heavens to find the person responsible,” replied Ashtadukht.

  “And this is how the heavens answered?”

  “It isn’t what I aimed for.”

  “I had no idea it was so . . .” Tirdad trailed off and wrung his hands. “I do not like it.”

  “I know,” said Ashtadukht. “The duality of existence is manifest in the war of the luminaries. Calling to that conflict for answers is always risky.” She decided not to mention how it was far riskier for her than any other star-reckoner.

  “Is that person the culprit then?”

  “Yes. Of that I’m certain.”

  They entered the tunnel, careful to avoid the bright-hot areas of molten rock, and followed it into the fortress. There, the criminal who had cursed the queen lay still, a soft and continuous groan escaping his lips. He’d put the fire out, but not before suffering serious burns.

  “Is that the steward?” asked Tirdad.

  “I think so. It’s hard to tell.”

  The clamour of footsteps closed in, and the royal guard rushed into the room and surrounded them. “What is the meaning of this?” asked the man in charge. “Make a move and I’ll have you cut down where you stand.”

  Tirdad resisted the urge to shift his palm to the hilt of his sword. “I do not suppose he is praising us.”

  “Not quite,” replied Ashtadukht. Then to the officer: “I’ve exposed this man as a servant of the Opposer—a demon. More than that, he’s the fiend responsible for the curse on your righteous queen. In this, I’ve accomplished my task of rooting out the evil in your midst. Is this how you’d repay me?”

  The officer scratched his beard and peered up through the tunnel. “Be that as it may, you have only your word. And you are unknown to me. A foreigner no less.”

  Ashtadukht pointed back the way she’d come. “Have one of your men check outside the breach. There’s an egg inscribed with the very spell that’s killing your queen. When I discovered the truth, the demon must’ve sensed it and summoned the fires of Hell.”

  “And burned himself?”

  “I’m trained in the ways of demons. His spell was turned back on him. Destroyed by his own treachery.”

  After a moment’s consideration, the officer nodded to one of the guards. “Go fetch the egg.”

  “Be very careful with it,” warned Ashtadukht. “It’s quite literally your queen’s body.”

  “Wait!” shouted the officer.

  The guard halted mid-step and looked back to his superior. “Sir?”

  “Might be safer if she takes care of this,” said the officer, with a nod to Ashtadukht. “But I will supervise.”

  “Wise decision,” replied Ashtadukht. With some assistance from Tirdad, she led the others back to the egg. “See?” she said, kneeling to very carefully cup it in her hands.

  “This?” asked the officer. His tone had grown more respectful, even awed. “This is our queen?”

  “In a sense, yes. I must get it to her.”

  “What wicked sorcery. To be honest, I always thought the steward was up to no good. Forever second-guessing my security measures. My men will make his final hours very unpleasant. In the meantime, let us get that to Her Majesty.”

  Ashtadukht nodded, and cradled the egg as if the slightest drop would spell disaster for the queen. “Help me, Tirdad.”

  Her cousin wrapped an arm around her back, and they proceeded along a supremely cautious path. After veritably tip-toeing the entire way, they finally reached the royal quarters.

  “You have been causing quite the ruckus out there,” the queen greeted them upon entering. “What’s burning?”

  The officer stepped forward. “It is under control, Your Majesty. The foreigners have weeded out the demon among us.”

  “Have they now?” She levelled a doubtful stare on Ashtadukht. “Have you now, star-reckoner?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Hmm. What is that in your hands?”

  “An egg, Your Highness. The very same used to curse you.”

  “What a curious method of cursing.” She took a shallow, labored breath. “I would like to discuss this with the star-reckoner. Alone. Send an urgent call for my hus
band.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The officer bowed his head and departed.

  “Give us some time,” Ashtadukht said, and Tirdad obliged. She presented the egg to the queen, no longer worried about keeping up the ruse of its preciousness. “Your steward did this.”

  “My steward? You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  The queen sighed. “An unfortunate part of being in my position is that even your friends want you dead. It is the nature of things. Is he alive?”

  “Not for long.” Ashtadukht took a seat on the floor, and began to knead the cuff of her sleeve.

  “I would wager the same is true for me.”

  “I . . . well, yes.”

  “Nothing you can do?”

  Ashtadukht averted her gaze. “That’s correct, Your Majesty.”

  “I apologize for my conduct when we first met. Judging by your weariness, you exerted yourself greatly on my behalf.”

  “I wish it were enough to save you.”

  “You did me a boon by finding the one responsible, and in doing so preventing him from inflicting more harm. That is more than I can say for most who have stepped foot in this room.”

  The queen grew silent for a time, and remained so until Ashtadukht was beginning to nod off. “I expected it to be a quiet thing, to die. It has been so noisy. It was a pleasure to have met you . . .”

  “Ashtadukht.”

  “Ashtadukht. I would like to be alone now. Be well, and thank you.”

  III

  “It is good to have put that place behind us,” said Tirdad. “I did not like being the only one to not understand anything anyone said.”

  He took a bite of dried date and glanced at his cousin. Several days’ rest seemed to have reinvigorated her. She sat straight in her saddle, her plaits were kempt, her pallor had faded, her eyes shone, and most telling, her chin was slightly raised. “You look well today.”

  Ashtadukht, who had been revisiting the events of their mission in Lazica—namely her failure—extended her palm toward him. “Date. And I’m well most days. Moderation is the key.”