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

by Darrell Drake

  Alongside that realization came a harsh clanging like an orchard of bronze pots in a storm. It drowned out everything else.

  “I’ve missed it,” she said remorsefully. “I can’t believe I’ve missed it.”

  Tirdad, who had been going on about a nearby farm where he’d found work, gripped her shoulder. “Cousin? Is something wrong?”

  Ashtadukht clenched her fists. She was devastated, but she refused to let loss consume her again—even surrounded as she was by the broken home that exemplified it. Even though she knew exactly where her drugs were stashed. She caught herself reaching for them mentally and immediately shut it out. She refused to fall so completely ever again.

  “It’s nothing,” she said after having pulled herself together. “It’s just that I missed the anniversary.”

  “Oh,” said Tirdad with a frown. He awkwardly diverted his gaze.

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Ashtadukht had the bad luck to recall some of the mortifying things she’d said in the delirium of her earlier trauma. She emitted a low, drawn out groan and palmed her face with both hands.

  “Cousin?”

  “I’ve remembered something dreadful.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  Ashtadukht chuckled bitterly. “I’d rather wrestle a bag of cats.”

  “Well, if you change your mind. How are you feeling? Physically I mean. Should I help you back to your room?”

  “My head aches and sunlight burns, but I’d rather not go back to that room. I’ll lie here a while longer.”

  Tirdad moved to ease her to the flagstone. “If you wish, but do not push yourself. You are not alone in this.”

  Ashtadukht rolled her head to one side and a discarded egg shell came into focus. “Waray’s still around,” she stated.

  “She is.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t think any of this comes as more of a surprise.”

  “Did you think I would throw her out?”

  “Honestly?”

  Tirdad grunted. “I cannot count the times I have considered giving her the boot,” he conceded almost light-heartedly. “We had some serious rows.”

  He sighed and lay beside her, which took several attempts and many grumbles to rid the space of stones. “Very serious rows. But she means well . . . her human half, at least. And it is nice to know there is someone here while I am away. Even if she is dragging you into the courtyard.”

  “She says it’s stuffy inside, or something like it.”

  “Too many pillows?”

  “That.”

  They lay there for another bout of silence before Tirdad cleared his throat. “I suppose I will be picking up the sword again before long.”

  “Would you rather not?”

  “This is pleasant enough. Quiet. Simple. What do you think?”

  “I’m a star-reckoner. That’s who I am.”

  “You are still young. You can—”

  Ashtadukht gave a slight shake of her head. “No. I endured what we may as well call torture to deserve this title. I won’t give it up. I . . . I’ve Gushnasp to think of, too. And I’m the only one who gives divs a chance. The others always reckon first, ask questions later.”

  Tirdad nodded to himself. She had always been stubborn in, as far as he was concerned, the best of ways. “But why?” he asked. “Why give them a chance after what they did to your brother?”

  “I wouldn’t be alive today were it not for a div. Far be it from me to kill every div I come across and potentially rob someone else of that kindness.”

  “And the one that killed him? What will you do when you come face to face with that beast?”

  “That wicked div is beyond salvation,” she growled. “That—” Against her will, she pictured her husband’s face. His expression was both terrified and bewildered. He was gasping soundlessly and futilely for air. The corruption spread up his neck like a coat of living tar. She had panicked at the time, but now she only watched, mournfully aware of her powerlessness.

  This place would never again be a home.

  VI

  As soon as Ashtadukht could confidently walk and ride, the cohorts were once again off in pursuit of divs.

  She had picked up the first wide-brimmed hat she came across—somewhat regrettably as it stunk of sweat, which is more of an issue when the sweat is not your own. Better that than watery eyes, she figured. Direct sunlight still proved too much for her sensitive vision, and she was beginning to wonder whether she’d been permanently damaged. Star-reckoning was not without its perils.

  Ashtadukht had taken a liking to tipping its brim, which she secretly thought was incredibly dandy. No one seemed to get it, but that didn’t stop her from hoping it’d catch on someday.

  Demonstrably, she tipped her hat at a messenger as he rode off.

  “What did he say?” asked Tirdad, who had watched the transaction from the caravansary where they were staying the night.

  Ashtadukht gave him a friendly smile. “We’re to see a man about a spoon.”

  Tirdad crossed his arms but entertained her. “Really now?”

  “Evidently, he’s someone of import who’s having spoon trouble. It’s an artifact or something.”

  “I guess we will have to get the scoop from the man himself then.”

  Ashtadukht groaned and gestured to the caravansary. “If you’ve time for bad puns you’ve time to fetch Waray.”

  Tirdad shrugged and spread his arms, obviously pleased with himself. “Yes, cousin.”

  She watched him retreat with an appreciative grin. He had made his dedication incontrovertibly clear in the months before. Ashtadukht was too burdened to fully grasp it when he first told her, but he was both a noble and a warrior who had willingly farmed—something below his caste and station—for six months for the sake of what he thought would most please her. She had promised she wouldn’t forget, and she meant to keep that promise.

  They left at dusk, as they had been since first setting out in order to allay her sensitivity to light.

  Ashtadukht wasn’t particularly happy about having a client. Star-reckoners were not typically mercenary, excepting the odd rogue. They were meant to serve the greater good. Ashtadukht had come to terms with the truth of things, but she didn’t have to like it.

  “This had better be one impressive spoon,” she complained. “Mighty impressive. Miraculous, even. I’m expecting miracles. Anything less and I’ll be severely slighted.”

  “I think you are already there,” said Tirdad mirthfully. “Why has it gotten you so riled up?”

  “Because!” she blustered. “Because. We’re meant to be above this.”

  “Because your šo-lofty stars are?” asked Waray through a mouthful of pomegranate. “Because they gleam?”

  Ashtadukht narrowed her eyes at the half-div. She was riding her mule backwards while Tirdad held the reins. “And what do you mean by that?”

  “Maybe,” Waray replied with a shrug. She took a bite and craned to look overhead. “Could be. Stars perch so haughtily. Have you asked them—” She choked and blew out a spray of pomegranate.

  “I warned you not to eat the spongy bits,” said Ashtadukht.

  “Too much trouble,” Waray managed to rasp during her hacking fit. “Šo-foul pomegranates,” she hissed. “Šo—”

  Tirdad firmly slapped her back. “She has a point,” he said. “If she has a point. It may very well be below you. But sometimes the right tool for the job is the tool you would not normally use.”

  “So I’m only a tool then?”

  “You know I did not mean that, cousin. Yet I suppose you are, same as me. We are tools in service to order.”

  Ashtadukht sighed crossly and turned her attention to the valley below, where she could just make out the uniform lines of a vineyard. “Fancy it up all you like. I’m not going to subscribe to it.”

  “Why not see what this man has to say before getting so worked up a
bout it?” reasoned Tirdad.

  “Šo-foulmegranates,” Waray finished with an infuriated wheeze. She threw it to the ground and cursed the spray of seeds. “You rot there, you šo-damned fruit. You rot. Let the crows peck and the worms worm and the ants carry.”

  “Do not waste our food,” Tirdad chided. “It does not grow on—well, do not waste it anyway.”

  The half-div canted her head and pricked up her ears then went on. “Let those crows and those worms and those ants spread your bastard children to the ends of the world where they too will rot.”

  Waray angled her head further. She smacked her lips and frowned, deliberating the mess as it grew farther and farther away. “I hear it,” she said. “Maybe.”

  “Hear what?” asked Ashtadukht, still absently watching the vineyard. There came the thump of boots as Waray dismounted and trotted away.

  Ashtadukht brought her mule about and picked the half-div out of the gloom, where she was on her knees by the discarded pomegranate and mumbling something over it.

  “You’re right,” said Ashtadukht.

  “Am I the only one not hearing anything?” asked Tirdad.

  “No. Who knows what she’s on about. You’re right about the mission. There could very well be more to it. I should be patient, level-headed.” She fussed with the cuff of her sleeve as she watched Waray circle the pomegranate, hands on head. “I guess I just feel like this is punishment for my disappearing. Like it’s meant to be demeaning.”

  “I think you are reading into it too much,” said Tirdad right before a yawn. These late nights were too much for him, and his routine refused to adjust. He gestured sleepily at Waray. “You will end up like that one if you keep this up.”

  Ashtadukht issued a low groan.

  “I hear it!” hissed Waray as she disappeared into the forest.

  “Great,” said Ashtadukht with another groan.

  “What?”

  She waved at the missing half-div. “What do you think?”

  “So? She is disposed to running off, or have you forgotten? She will find us.” Tirdad spurred his mules to continue along the mountain path. “She always does.”

  “Wait,” bade Ashtadukht. She eyed the spot where the half-div had entered. It wasn’t all that thickly wooded, but the mighty oaks cast sinister shadows. “Waray hissed.”

  “She sometimes does that.”

  “Only when she’s upset,” said Ashtadukht.

  “Seemed ready to come to blows with that pomegranate.”

  “I think it was directed at whatever she heard. I’ve a bad feeling.”

  Tirdad grunted. “Mmn.”

  “Is it so bad to be worried?”

  “I did not say anything, cousin.”

  Ashtadukht sighed. “Exactly. You don’t hold back. So why now?”

  Tirdad dismounted and tied his mules to a tree. “I could tell you how I think following Waray into the woods on a nearly moonless night should be what gives you a bad feeling, but what good would that do? You have already made your decision.”

  “I value your input,” replied Ashtadukht as she climbed out of her saddle. “Even if I don’t always act on it. Besides, without it you’d never have the chance to say I told you so.”

  “Excellent point. There are few things more gratifying than the way your skin crawls when I do.”

  Ashtadukht chortled and gave her mule a pat on the neck. “Yeah, yeah. Bring a torch, would you?”

  The flare of light that answered blinded her.

  “Tirdad!” she sharply objected. “Warn me!”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m serious. That really smarts.” She grimaced and wiped the tears from her eyes. “The afterimage is going to last for hours.”

  “I said sorry.” Tirdad sighed and held the torch so that she stood in his shadow. “Better?”

  Ashtadukht firmly grasped his arm and nodded. “Better. Lead me while I adjust.”

  “Blind leading the blind,” Tirdad replied as they breached the edge of the woods.

  Stretches of undergrowth separated trees like each had laid claim to its own patch of land, such that the sky was visible from most anywhere. Ashtadukht preferred it to the more packed arrangements found elsewhere, and not just owing to her role as a star-reckoner. A thick canopy felt suffocating; whereas these well-spaced boles were refreshing.

  “Any sign of her?” she asked.

  “Nothing as of yet. I would like to say she could not have gotten far, but she is like a cat.”

  Ashtadukht blinked hard, trying to erase the cloudy white apple that dominated her vision. “A cat?”

  “A cat,” Tirdad insisted. “I initially felt inclined to liken her to a snake for the obvious reasons. They are furtive yet vicious—”

  “Garden snake variety vicious?”

  “The snakes I would liken her to are anyway. But that does not explain her penchant for mischief, her elusiveness, or her unpredictable . . . faculties, for want of a better word.”

  “So a cat. I see you’ve given this some thought.”

  “Try being the only person between her and hurly burly for six months. You will give many things some thought, what she most reminds you of being on the brighter side of it.”

  Ashtadukht nodded. Not only was she against arguing—he alone had brooked the half-div, and far be it from her to tread on that, but his reasoning rang true. “I think you’d make a good couple,” she mused.

  Hitherto, Ashtadukht could have reasonably claimed guffawing was not something Tirdad did. Most people just didn’t have it in them to guffaw, or the right words had not made it into their lives at the right time. But his booming laughter defied expectation.

  She stood there, brow furrowed, and watched the man she’d come to define by his noble bearing and composure shatter that image. Tirdad had one hand up as if begging her to say no more, while half doubled over and doing his best to keep the torch steady. He must have laughed for a full five minutes before finally recovering.

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” said Ashtadukht.

  Tirdad sucked in a steadying breath and heaved it back out. “I have never in all my years heard anything so utterly absurd.”

  “I was only entertaining the idea.”

  “May as well make a wife of the conniving Whore, Jeh,” Tirdad replied after suppressing a lingering laugh.

  “Well, you’re the expert nonetheless. What now?”

  “I was never very good at finding her.”

  “Oh. Have you tried calling?”

  “Has not worked yet, but be my guest.”

  “Waray!” shouted Ashtadukht.

  To say the forest came to life would be misleading. That would generally denote a cacophony, and maybe a roving deer or two. Fluttering leaves, even. A bobbing bumblebee. Better to say the forest was reborn, as if the half-div’s name commanded some sorcerous power.

  Sure, there was gratuitous birdsong, which sounded unmistakably off—much like the rest of the forest. Things went downhill from there. For one, the leaves weren’t leaves so much as they were elaborate metalwork that gave you the vague idea that this is what a leaf would be if it grew beyond its station. And the wind that excited them moved and splashed like old milk, leaving yogurt deposits in its wake. While the trees generally did their utmost to encourage Ashtadukht to think of the word as she remembered it, they were gilded, misshapen and decked out in all the accoutrements of a house.

  It was dusk, or something that might have been dusk. A plaster of enormous, ruined eggshells streaked with purple and orange constituted a sky with more proximity than Ashtadukht thought a normal sky had any business having. Some of the more distant shells oozed rivulets the oily black of a starling’s plumage, which had an effect like slivers of encroaching midnight.

  A flock of oversized birds revelled in a clearing up ahead, all modestly yet fancifully clothed. They squawked and purled and trilled and cawed: not your everyday avian merrymaking due to its strangely human qualities—as if they wer
e humans wearing bird suits.

  A semi-transparent rainbow-smeared surface that seemed like it’d disappear if she thought about it in earnest stretched between Ashtadukht and the revellers.

  She scratched her head, took a tentative step forward, and the ground—well, what was beneath her—gave way subtly.

  “Is this your doing?” asked Tirdad. “It all looks painted on.”

  She turned a dumbfounded stare on him and slowly shook her head, still trying to adjust to the sudden shift in her surroundings. “This is beyond me in more ways than I can count.”

  “So? What is going on?”

  Ashtadukht checked behind her: rainbow and eggshells to the horizon. “Whatever this is, it isn’t natural.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “I mean there’s sorcery at work, and we’re in the thick of it.”

  Tirdad tested the ground with the toe of his boot. “Is this Waray’s doing?”

  “It does give you that impression, doesn’t it? She never struck me as proficient in magic, though.” Ashtadukht gathered her plaits over one shoulder and stroked them individually while deliberating the ruckus ahead. “This is dangerous,” she warned. “Deleterious.”

  Tirdad reached for his sword and was relieved to find it at his hip. “I am armed,” he said. “Not prepared, but armed.”

  “Let’s hope that means something here,” Ashtadukht replied as she started toward the revelry. Her every step sunk into the half-corporeal rainbow several inches, crunching all the while.

  “I suppose a surreptitious approach is out of the question,” observed Tirdad. “Reminds me of squashing bugs, only squishy and without the gunk.”

  “I’m trying not to think about it.”

  “Or a marsh.”

  Ashtadukht was about to snap at him when the revellers froze. Beaks agape, they all pivoted to face the cousins.

  “She comes!” cried a nightingale.

  “The One Most Slithered!” chirped a robin.

  “The Ides of the Scaled!” an owl ominously hooted.

  “A snake in the grass!” trumpeted a magpie.

  “We are sacrificed!” quacked a duck. “Ready the dakhmag! Prepare the ossuary!”