Ashtadukht held back a groan. Coming back to reality wrung her out because she’d left it to begin with. Leaving reality never really seemed to sit well with reality. “Could you tell me again later?”
“We will be within the city later.”
“That’s fine.”
Tirdad grunted, discretely removing the calipers; much like the recurring pinecones, he wasn’t at all sure how they’d gotten there to begin with. “I will not say a word to anyone,” he said. “You need not worry.”
She rubbed her eyes. “About what?”
He gave her a pained look.
“Oh. I don’t imagine you would. Wouldn’t want to besmirch our family’s good name, would we?”
His pained look took on the trappings of genuine hurt. “Do you honestly think so little of me?”
“It’s true, isn’t it? I see it. You’re ashamed.”
“Of course not!” Tirdad shouted, exploding to his feet in doing so. A vein bulged and created a ridge up his brow where it disappeared into his piceous hairline.
All Ashtadukht could think about—which wasn’t much, all things considered—was that neither her father nor her husband had at any point towered over her so fumingly. Although they had most certainly fumed.
It must’ve occurred to him that their lodgings weren’t especially private, because when his broad chest next deflated his voice had softened considerably. “I am not ashamed.”
He placed his hands on his hips and paced the tent. “I would never force you to be my wife,” he said, clearly with more waiting to be unravelled.
Ashtadukht followed his pacing, thinking that he’d be hard pressed to force her.
He chuckled dryly. “Probably could not force you to begin with. But that is beside the point. You should know that I would welcome it.”
She figured he’d just gotten as close to a confession as he ever would. She kept her mouth shut. Sometimes you have to know when to say nothing, especially if you’re exclusively pining after your first, albeit dead, love. That her mind was still half rimmed in the clouds probably had something to do with it, too.
More remained to be unravelled. “And, well, I am sick of you second-guessing my intentions. I have endured much in your company without protest. I do not expect you to feel the same, but—” He ceased his pacing and turned on her. “But you could at least acknowledge it. I would never betray you. We are not just family; we are friends.”
He stalked over, still fuming, and somewhere in the recently-trashed corridors of her mind Ashtadukht thought he might actually hit her. She lifted an arm defensively without really thinking about it. This triggered an uncanny feeling that the entire scenario was wrong. It all felt . . . domestic. And below her.
She shakily put her feet beneath her and stretched a palm toward Tirdad, who had halted in bewilderment the moment she lifted her arm to stave off an incoming blow, and now edged forward in an attempt to help her up. This had to stop.
“I’m a star-reckoner,” she said proudly, lifting her chin as she did. “I—” She rocked onto her heels. Tirdad stepped forward, brow furrowed with concern, and extended his arms in case she fell. “I don’t need you to respect me.”
“Respect you? Is that all this is about?” He closed the gap between them and embraced her tightly. “My respect for you is not so fragile, cousin. If anything I respect you now more than ever. In learning of your weaknesses it only makes where you are today all the more admirable. Not to mention the fact that, well . . .”
“That father’s dead,” Ashtadukht finished. She pushed Tirdad away. “Don’t do that ever again. Ever.”
He grinned gloomily and spread his arms. “Never.”
“Father’s dead,” she repeated, doing what she could to straighten herself into a posture that better suited how in control she did not feel.
It only just came to her that she stood at the core of what had been her father’s legacy, and some of her more memorable time with him. Her mother had died giving birth to her, which naturally meant he’d remarried. But he’d been adamant about her tagging along for his operations.
Later, she would ponder what exactly that meant; he hadn’t done the same for his other daughters. Perhaps it was because she was the last thing his first wife had given him, grief aside.
At present, she found that all the bivouac’s multifarious sounds and smells came to her like fractions of her childhood resurfacing. Old leather, too obstinate to be drowned out by incense, reminded her of her father leaning over the war table, his hairy hands gripping its sides, while he levelled a pensive scowl on its contents. Bubbling gruel came to mind. Most soldiers didn’t feel strongly about the taste either way. But her father had told her it was good for her; that it’d make her strong. That had been enough to convince her tongue it tasted positively delicious. And the sights! She’d gawked enough for a lifetime: from the escarpments of Hayk to the vastness of the Gulf to verdant fields rife with the scent of roses.
It wasn’t all wonders, though. The flapping of their tent brought to mind late nights when, peering anxiously at the ripples in the fabric, she’d worry divs were up to no good—that they’d eventually find the entrance. There was the often insufferable whim of nature to endure. Sometimes, if she listened hard enough, she could hear the distress of clashing armies in the distance. Her father had been good about keeping her out of harm’s way, but some experiences were unavoidable in his line of work.
The disadvantages of coming off a high weren’t lost on recollection; those moments felt all too recent.
Battling the call of the last of two packets she’d smuggled from her estate, she eased herself out of that forest of remembrance. Too deep, she knew, and she’d belong to it. She trailed her fingers over the creases of the outermost memory. He’d been good to her. Much more than that. But she no longer had the luxury of locking herself away with oblivion.
“It’d be wrong to disgrace him in front of his peers,” she pondered aloud, hoping she hadn’t already crossed that bridge. “I’ll see the general myself.” Ashtadukht noted Tirdad’s doubting expression. “I’ll see the general shortly,” she prudently revised.
“You are a good daughter,” he said. “Not the slightest bit perfect, but good. Decent. He would understand.”
Never had a potentially backhanded compliment been such a relief. She could have sworn there appeared at one corner of his lips the slightest hint of a smirk—if he were the type to smirk. Any self-respecting man either smiled or did not smile at all. Never smirked. There entered his carriage a relaxed lean, so subtle you’d think he’d been infiltrated, that often accompanied such remarks.
All that came as a relief because it almost felt as if the last few months hadn’t happened. “We’re missing Shkarag,” Ashtadukht dolefully observed. “She kept us busy. Kept us in line as much as we did her.”
“Yeah.”
• • • • •
Having redressed her earlier non-appearance by recounting some of her father’s military career—chiefly through well-received anecdotes—Ashtadukht felt her confidence once again taking root. What a little wine, nostalgic old men, and a campfire could do for the spirit.
Her father’s death weighed heavily on her, but it did not cripple her as it could have. She had purpose, keen and delineated by orders; just what she needed. Her request to meet by night had received a positive reception by both sides—much to her surprise. She chalked it up to her stories and the general’s favourable disposition, though she had no explanation for the other side.
“Not the most tenable city to hunker down in,” Tirdad said, his military mind sizing up Weh-Andiok-Shabuhr from afar while referencing the maps he’d seen. “Sure, it has history behind it, but the fortification is wanting. Single wall, moat, not much else. It is by no means untenable, but not a location I would want to launch a rebellion from.”
“Do you intend to launch a rebellion anytime soon?” Ashtadukht scathingly asked without really thinking about the reason b
ehind it.
“No,” he grumbled, looking down his nose with contempt at the very idea of it. “I would not even entertain the thought.”
Ashtadukht leaned over the neck of her horse and squinted. The city had a diffuse glow by night. She’d been trained there, educated in the ways of a star-reckoner and other eldritch crafts. But it all seemed so temporally removed. As if she were looking at a portrait of someone else’s past.
“It’s sufficiently irrigated,” she said, drawing upon her time there. “There’s a stream along the west wall. I remember swimming in it, once. And he’ll have the support of the prisoners he’s pardoned—not that he has that authority to begin with. Perhaps the coreligionists there. But you’re right: I can think of a dozen locations better suited to the heart of a rebellion. Maybe something kept him here. Perhaps the throne simply reacted too decisively for him to iron out his plans.”
“Well, we still need to subdue the revolt. Do not get ahead of yourself.”
“I honestly don’t think I’m going to do much in the way of convincing. The other star-reckoners had no luck, and I’m not at all versed in negotiation.”
“You are the only female they have sent. That could make a difference.”
Ashtadukht curled her upper lip. She’d been detecting a hint of something in his tone and was beginning to suspect it amounted to contempt. “I’m not going to seduce anyone. Out of the question.”
She settled into a comfortable position lying on the neck of her horse. She’d been assigned one of the army’s mounts: a sturdy bay with a powerful stride, one of the fierce warhorses native to Iran and prized throughout the world. It was like having a domesticated hurricane between her legs.
She absently stroked its mane, gazing over the irrigated crops where they met and mingled with the rich valance of the night sky. This was all so exhausting.
She’d been a star-reckoner for half her life, and now she was beginning to question whether she had it in her anymore. Going on about making her father proud and avenging her brother was all well and good, but eventually she’d have to own up to those claims. As it was she just . . . wandered gainlessly until someone at the capital adjusted her course.
For the Truth, she’d tell herself; for Order. What was that but empty reassurances? She was an instrument, a means to an end—and even in that she was blunted. She was the instrument you’d eventually pull out of the drawer when all your effective tools were off being of use.
Ashtadukht did not tell herself this in so many words, or in words at all; that would have been too much. The truth of it persisted, though: in her world-weary quiet, in the nagging feeling that her cousin viewed her more and more as a letdown, and in the way she strove to replenish certain medicinal supplies by contacting the seedy types that always followed hot on the heels of war camps.
On top of all that, there were those stars, twinkling so brilliantly, fighting with such might—might that she’d experienced firsthand. Even now, gazing listlessly into their deceptively tranquil domain, she stood on the fringes of their conflicts. For a star-reckoner, those celestial battles were never too far off. Yet, close as they were, the luminaries had never really done anything to better her lot. Always the means to someone else’s end.
“The gate is opening,” said Tirdad. “Must be sending an envoy to—shit.”
Ashtadukht eased herself up. She took one look at the gate and began to calmly and quite wearily preen her tunic, pulling its wrinkles taut, adjusting a plait that’d drifted over her shoulder, then proceeding to knead the cuff of her left sleeve.
Their escort had closed ranks, but seemed primed to turn tail. This was not due to any lapse in bravery, but because someone should warn the bivouac that the rebel prince’s 30,000-man army was pouring out the gates.
“Go,” she said solidly, without a hint of fear. “Leave me and warn the others.” When they all looked at her incredulously, she dismissed them with a wave. “I’ll call to the stars. Buy you some time. Something fancy. I’m a star-reckoner, remember.”
“You heard her,” Tirdad added more effectively, levelling a menacing glare on the nearest of the group. “Make for the camp post-haste.”
His command had the intended effect, leaving the cousins two lone riders against a legion.
“Well, what star-reckoning are you going to use to turn an army?” he asked.
She stared straight ahead, into the rebel host, and said nothing.
“Well?”
Ashtadukht breathed in. Her lungs gave her a hard time of it, but ultimately acquiesced.
“Cousin . . .” He was catching on, and did not like what he saw in her expression. “What star-reckoning?”
She did briefly consider going out in a blaze of glory. She could have if the luminaries allowed it. But she didn’t have it in her.
“Cousin.”
She swallowed and trained her grim stare on the nearest soldier. Ashtadukht looked the part of a defeated old man wading one last time into the tide of a wine-dark sea. Then the legion parted around her like a brook around a boulder, hardly paying her any attention. She felt cheated.
Tirdad turned in his saddle, giving the passing troops a perplexed stare. “That was reckless,” he said while trying to work out what was happening. “Are you trying to get us killed?”
She gave him a gelid smile. “It worked.”
Tirdad opened his mouth, not at all convinced, but decided to let it be. Now was not the time, surrounded as they were by the rebel host.
The King of Kings’ eldest son passed on his elevated throne without paying them any heed. For a moment it seemed as if the full force would pass without challenge. That is, until a familiar face rode up and drew his horse to a halt before them.
“And here I was worried you wouldn’t make it,” Farrobay said with a mischievous, toothy grin. “A pleasure to have you with us, dearest Ashtadukht.”
“Don’t screw with me, you tortoise-sodomizing louse,” Ashtadukht growled. She knew with absolute certainty this was not the true Farrobay, and had not forgiven the events of their first encounter. “I’ll slice that shit-eating grin right off your face.”
Tirdad stayed her ire with a hand on her forearm, though he didn’t for a second believe that he’d stop her. He made the gesture for the sake of it, and out of habit. “Is this not Farrobay?” he asked.
“No.”
The div spread his arms and legs in a weird sort of mounted hooray. “See how certain she is? Already knows me so well, this succulent young thing.” He urged his horse closer, still toothsome as ever. “I will push your ankles behind your head and wreck you. You’ll beg like a pig, and you’ll love it.”
“Who’re you?” Ashtadukht asked, her face a mask of hatred.
The div drew himself up into a mockingly noble pose. “Vizier to the new—” He tilted his head. “Who am I kidding? This rebellion will fail. Miserably. But you may call me The Stinking Spirit. I like that one.”
Tirdad went pale.
Ashtadukht knotted her brow. “Surely you aren’t Ahriman.”
The div’s grin became a sly smile. He placed his index over his lips. When it seemed neither cousin had anything more to say, he waved them forward. “You’re coming with me,” he said with a snigger. “We’ll come together. Onward! To things that aren’t glory but will wear its guise all the same!”
The cousins reluctantly brought their horses about, with Ahriman drawing up beside Ashtadukht. “You’re so complaisant when I have an army behind me,” he remarked. “I don’t know that I like it. Proclivity for chaos and all. Hard to get around that.”
He reached over and placed his hand on Ashtadukht’s thigh, gliding his fingertips up and down her trouser seam. “Isn’t this nice? Reunited at last.”
She applied a white-knuckled grip to her sleeve. The fight in her roiled, returned to life in a fulmination of indignation and the thumping of her heart in her mouth. If this lecherous man was really Ahriman, she didn’t stand a chance. He was chaos,
evil, the Lie—everything that fought against the light of Ohrmazd. He’d assaulted the heavens! He had more dire epithets than she’d like to give any real thought to. She was not in awe of him, but she most certainly feared him.
“Where are we going?” she finally managed to ask. His hand had delved further, going so far as to brush the juncture of her thighs. She drew the line there, rebuffing his attempt by slapping his hand away. “Enough of that.”
Ahriman chortled. “That’s what I want. I want feisty. Thought you’d lost it. That happens, you know.”
“Where are we going?”
“The capital, presumably.” He administered her thigh once more, giving her a look that accused her of liking it. “I doubt we’ll make it that far.”
“You’ll be slaughtered,” she replied through gritted teeth.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m only here for the ride. And to prod when he needs to be prodded. Oh.” He peered around her. “I see your cousin over there, doing his best to act civilized, but where is the one who couldn’t give a shit about being civilized?”
“Gone.”
He shrugged. “She really can’t give a shit. Just can’t. A shame she left, but that one won’t be tamed so smoothly. Or at all.” Ahriman gave her thigh a squeeze. “Ashta—can I call you Ashta? Eh, you’re in no position to argue. So, Ashta. Why do you care where we’re marching? After what the King of Kings put you through? And all those star-reckoners? It’s their fault, isn’t it? By the Stinking Spirit you should welcome a rebellion—should join it, I’d think!”
“She’d never,” growled Tirdad. “And get your hand off her.”
Ahriman leaned over her lap to lock a rancorous glare on him. “While I’m admittedly impressed that you aren’t a eunuch after all, it’d do you well to appreciate your situation. That the only thing keeping me from calling someone over to run you through is my interest in this fine, fine woman. So be a good little boy and shut up.”
A Star-Reckoner's Lot (A Star-Reckoner's Legacy Book 1) Page 21
