“Crown-baster will be forgotten. Annals will crumble like so many sweetmeats.”
Tirdad nodded. “You’d know, I suppose. The heir apparent doesn’t seem all that cozy with the nobility, so maybe it’s for the best that I avoided that confrontation. Anyway, he sent Chobin out east. Seems Hrom turned our alliance with the Turks against us, so the goat-fucker is off to defend that front.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Tirdad ran his fingers through his hair, feeling awkward and cursing himself for not bathing while he had the opportunity. “I feel gritty,” he said.
Shkarag’s hood canted, and she shifted beneath her cloak. “Gulf’s there all ready to swallow you up something fierce.” She canted further. “Like some, like some šo-horny king off doing heroics, fucking dragons and slaying women, because some fussy princess from Hayk wants trials. But he’s got this lake, this waterfall, this offspring from another fussy one, and he’s šo-horny, too. So it’s patricide, then.” She paused to adjust in her saddle, which she rode backwards. “Sounds like a catchphrase. But you’re looking at your boots thinking I won’t go on as the scabbard to an offspring, so you trot your horse into the Gulf and that’s that.”
“The Gulf’s too salty for a bath,” said Tirdad.
A cant. “Oh.”
Tirdad felt a bit less awkward after her rambling. As one-sided as it was, it was casual and conversational. “I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you,” he said. “About our, uh, voyage. When our minds were crossed.”
“. . .”
Tirdad exhaled in an attempt to stave off anxiety. “What was that? It was if everyone wanted to roll me in a carpet and send a cavalcade over me. But it was . . . more than that. More involved. I recall you describing something along those lines. And there were all these . . .” He tried to reach for the description, and it took him a moment to grasp what it was he had experienced. “I could see these threads between what were previously unrelated events, all converging on me, and there were these cluttered ideas.” Tirdad was convinced there had been more, but what remained was lost to him. He turned in the saddle to face her. The awkward feeling was coming on again. “Was that . . . was that what you endure every day?”
Shkarag cocked her head away, though he could tell even with her hood and scarf that she was trained on him. “Maybe,” she probably confirmed.
“How?”
“. . .”
“It would’ve driven me mad, Shkarag.” He couldn’t hide his astonishment. “How? How could you possibly live like that?”
“. . .”
Tirdad watched her for a time, waiting for a change in body language, but she only rode in her stuffed silence. “I respect you for it,” he said at length.
“. . .” She angled so he could see her eyes, inscrutable as ever, and lifted a hand from beneath her heavy cloak to form a claw by her head. “Have only known this. So that’s just as the crow flies. Only the šo-damned—” She focused on something beyond him. Her lips parted, and for a moment he mistook the trumpeting that blared as pouring from between her lips. When she closed them and the trumpeting persisted, he turned to see what had caught her attention.
Tirdad squinted against the midday sun. Even low as it was on the winter ecliptic, the Gulf lent it a summer glare. In the distance, surrounded by tussocks, there emerged a face that was wider than a face had any business being. If he wanted to make out the details, he’d have to venture closer, but it seemed human. It trumpeted.
“Strange song,” mused Tirdad. Shkarag’s only response was the creaking of leather. She’d brought her horse closer to his and now had his reins in a vice. “What is it?” he asked.
“Not human. Not div.” She angled slightly, gaze still locked on the faraway face. “I think.”
“It sure looks human from here,” he said, remembering her less than stellar vision. “Should we investigate?”
The reins creaked. “. . .”
“Shkarag?”
“Our fates are sealed,” she said. “Misery is the currency, the šo-minted coin of the universe. Stamped right there on the obverse.” Her stare darted to his, flickering and intense. “Don’t ride gentle into its purse.”
“What do you suggest we do, then?”
“Rage.”
“I’m not sure what—”
“Rage and bristle and . . .” She trailed off, and though patently uncertain about it, released the reins. “Rage at the road ahead,” she finished, then veered her horse away.
Tirdad expelled a sigh—a sure sign of his resignation—but primed his hand on the ram’s head pommel all the same. “You’re right. We shouldn’t swap saddles midstream.”
The trumpet-like call grew more and more distant, until at last the calls of crickets and nightjars prevailed. Over the following days they left the open air of the coast for the oak-forested sinks of the adjoining mountains, careful to choose a course that was kind to their mounts. The further they pressed, the worse the chill, until they were each bundled in their saddles.
With each day that passed the trumpeting returned. Oftentimes, Tirdad would spot the face peeking from a far-off copse or tussock. Truth be told, it terrified him. The more he saw it, the more he understood it wasn’t human. He could have sworn its mouth opened from ear to ear when baying.
The sole reason he managed to sleep at all was thanks to Shkarag. She never mentioned it, but she was always awake come dawn, and slept more often than not in her saddle. This arrangement made for a dour trip. And having no one to talk to, Tirdad instead occupied his mind with increasingly outlandish ideas about the face, its origin, and its motivation. Chief among those thoughts was the literal mystery behind it: what was the face attached to, if anything?
The trumpeting went nearly unabated, but while traversing a wide trough of pastureland sparse with almond trees and scattered with wildflowers, the face had nothing from which to emerge. This afforded the pair a much-needed respite.
On one such morning, brisk and gloomy beneath a cover of clouds, Shkarag stirred. Tirdad trained a curious stare her way as she adjusted her cloak and pulled down her hood. She stared back.
“You should rest,” he said.
“. . .”
“You look exhausted.”
“Šo-damned brass misplaced its wind, and . . .” Her stare flicked away to scour the creases of a stone outcropping where it parted the otherwise verdant hill. “Miss this.”
“Yeah,” said Tirdad. “It’s been, what, seven months now? I’ve grown accustomed to your company, to our shared silence.”
“. . .”
Tirdad urged his steed closer to hers. “Shkarag,” he asked, “have you heard the saying, ‘Don’t nourish a viper in one’s bosom’?”
That got her attention. “Maybe,” she said, leering.
“Well, I’ve been told as much many times. But just now—” A smile honest with contentment brightened his features. “Just now I was thinking it’d be great if a certain viper nourished mine in her bosom.”
Shkarag’s leer softened, and mirth overthrew the exhaustion in her eyes. “Jokes are still flat as the constant where you’ve got this, this—” She tilted her head, face screwed up in thought. “As a mural.”
Tirdad grinned, gleaning no small amount of satisfaction from her insult. “Flat as ever,” he said. “Much like your humming.”
With Shkarag’s humming to guide them, and with the trumpeting gone, they navigated sea-green hills like swells rocky with froth. Many such swells passed beneath them before Tirdad gave voice to something that had been nagging him.
“Shkarag,” he said.
She ceased her crooning. “. . .”
“Don’t bare your fangs.”
“. . .” She opened her mouth, but stopped at that.
Tirdad averted his gaze, focusing instead on the wool of her cloak where it described the ankle of her boot. “I woke up expecting Ashta to be alive.” Shkarag hissed, which further anchored his stare. “I often do,” h
e admitted. That elicited another hiss. Tirdad sighed, finding refuge in the ram’s head pommel. He didn’t fault Shkarag for her jealousy, or whatever bad blood had led to the half-div throwing herself into a drunken duel. “I tell you not to hurt you, but to be honest with you, and because if anyone would understand, it’s you. It hurts, Shkarag. Every time. Like I’m in the estate with her all over again. Like I’m killing her all over again. When will her memory let me go?”
Tirdad hadn’t really expected a response, much less a favourable one, but Shkarag refrained from another hiss. Instead, she sidled her mount over and, after draining a wineskin, straddled his horse so that they were facing. As blank as her countenance was, Tirdad wasn’t sure what to make of her until she pulled him into a hug that smelled of rotten eggs.
“Never,” she said.
• • • • •
Some mornings later, after passing out of the range and into the arid, sun-baked region over which Ray stood guard, a sudden bloodlust roused Tirdad. He rolled over, wiping the sand from his eyes and blinking at the image of Shkarag, sun on her back and standing over him. She seethed. Her axes were in either hand, brandished by her sides.
It took a moment for her adrenaline to find and galvanize his, but once it did, Tirdad burst into action. He grasped the hilt of his sword where it lay by his bedding, and as he slid from beneath her, threw one arm to the side, which sent the scabbard flying. “What in the šo-fucking seven climes?” he growled, assuming a defensive posture alongside Shkarag, starling-black blade out in a flash. Her bloodlust washed over him full force now, pomegranate-tangy and emboldening. “Oh,” he said. “Well, fuck.”
Shkarag agreed with a hiss. Her fangs glistened in the corner of his eye.
Seven figures approached, each shimmering blood-red and lapis lazuli. Eshm sisters. Remembering his bow, Tirdad flipped his sword over and shoved it into the dirt. He withdrew to snatch up his recurve, stringing it with a practiced hand and returning to Shkarag’s side.
Tirdad nocked an arrow. He inhaled, lifted the bow, exhaled as he drew, then loosed what was clearly a warning shot. The Eshm sisters drew to a halt at that. After exchanging glances, one broke off to cover the remaining distance.
“Shot like that belongs to this one,” she said, inclining a grin toward Shkarag. “Makes fletching weep, mhm.”
“I remember you,” said Tirdad, bow ready, and palm itching for the sword. “You were cowering in the palace of the stork.”
“And you gave that star-reckoner something to think about, mhm.”
“That I did. Have you come looking to have your wit sharpened, too?” Tirdad felt as cocky as he sounded. His chest might as well have been puffed.
The Eshm sister simpered, hiss more prominent than Shkarag’s. “Colour me fucking surprised. Reek so strongly of her I could’ve mistaken you for Waray. That’s some bond you share.” She stowed her sword in her belt and locked her fingers behind her head. “Mess at the palace was nothing personal. Caught us mending and needing a release. Like rubbing one out but more fulfilling, mhm.”
Shkarag’s saw-on-wood breathing dominated the silence that followed. She was one misstep away from striking. He could feel it. Tirdad nocked another arrow, and pulled it to full draw. “What the fuck do you want with us?”
“Suppose that’s a fair question, mhm. Chased out the palace, in a bad way most of us, and found ourselves stalked by a beast. We’re many things, but hunted isn’t one of them. Now we’re hunting, mhm. Spotted the smoke from your fire, and here we are.” She shrugged. “I smell omelette. Domesticating our bloodline are you?”
“Don’t think that’s possible.”
“Probably not.” She shifted her weight and addressed Shkarag. “Mean you no harm, sis. Put it to rest. Beast caught wind of your scent, so it’s stalking you now, mhm. Figured a warning was in order. Had we wanted you dead, you’d have no recourse.” She flashed a smirk at Tirdad. “During the day anyhow.”
Though she lowered her axes and retracted her fangs, Shkarag’s harsh breathing persisted. “I’ll fry some šo-damned eggs if I fucking please,” she hissed.
“You’ve always been backwards and hard-headed—even for us. Like that about you, mhm.” The Eshm sister gestured at Shkarag’s girdle where it’d been discarded as if it were worthless. “But that’s going too far. Will wish you hadn’t made that.”
Shkarag backed down at that, which was enough to convince Tirdad to ease his draw. She holstered her axes and returned to the fire, hissing instead at the burned omelette. “Existing is, existing is all so many regrets, like some, like some baggage train and—” She dropped the pan in the fire to raise a claw by her head. “And the horses and donkeys and camels are all passing by and it’s just a šo-wretched string of things you wish you hadn’t done.” She snatched the pan from the flames and threw one of her deadpan stares at her sister. “Like squirrelling away with six of your underlings.”
The Eshm sister inclined her head. “. . . mhm.” She glanced over her shoulder at the others, straightening her half-destroyed mail. “We’d fare better together. Beast could be a trumpeting dragon for all I know. Suppose I should introduce myself.” She extended a hand. “Stahm’s the name.”
Tirdad’s disbelief was plain. Did she seriously expect him to agree to travelling together? “You what now? What are you—”
“Maybe,” Shkarag cut in.
“—poppy-addled?” Tirdad knotted his brow at the inflection she’d used: decided, and adamant about it.
Shkarag glanced up from tending the frying pan. This time, an impassive expression punctuated her will. She would brook no argument. “Maybe,” she said.
Tirdad expelled a sigh. He yanked his sword from the ground, noting that its obscene heartbeat was going wild. “Well,” he said while searching for the scabbard, “you heard the Queen of Queens here. Hope you like eggs.”
“Revolting,” said Stahm, smirking and with a thick hiss. “Would rather have mine fertilized, mhm. When you’re looking to do the honours just—”
An axe careened end over end by her head.
• • • • •
Tirdad moved his piece along the nard board, unable to find rhyme nor reason in Shkarag’s pieces. Knowing the celestial theatre, and the part the planets played in it, hers was a strategy true to form to the chaos at play there. He offered the board, which she exchanged for a flask of spirits. Tirdad took a swig. The distallate’s bite was all but numbed by now. “You’re—” He clutched the horn of his saddle to steady himself. “You’re always riding backward,” he observed.
“. . .” She focused on the board, eyes swaying from one declination to another. “Nothing worth, worth . . .” She canted, and leaned with it. “No horizons worth looking forward to.”
Tirdad grunted his disapproval. “You’ve been gloomy of late. Something on your mind?”
After a bout of deliberation, Shkarag flung the board. “Fuck!” she shouted in a shower of game pieces. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuuck!” With a final shout, she split off to brood by her lonesome.
Wearing a grimace, Tirdad meant to follow when Stahm pulled up alongside. “Best not to bring it up again,” she said, returning his grimace. “She can’t tell you, mhm. Just making it worse by doing your prying thing.”
Tirdad endeavoured to blink through his drunkenness, doing an awful job of it. “I don’t understand. Why?”
Stahm nodded to herself, smirking at some unspoken joke. She then set about gathering the game pieces while talking. “Probably think being half human dilutes the blood of our father. Can’t dilute our lineage, however—can only make it a trial to endure, to control. As the eldest I’m, I—” She looked away, and Tirdad saw in her what he’d seen in Shkarag all those years ago. She cleared her throat. “Was up to me to reform her, to stomp her into shape. Royally whiffed that one. Father still gets on me over it.”
“Why’re you telling me this?”
“Because Shkarag isn’t allowed to. Because . . .” She stoop
ed to pick up the last of the nard pieces. “Been many centuries since, and I haven’t had the opportunity to repay her.” Stahm straightened, dusting off the wooden board as she did. The stare she trained on him was tense, and when she finally spoke, it was clear in how she tiptoed over them that she’d chosen her words carefully. “She’d never willingly betray you. You’d do well to remember that. Don’t, and you’ll have me to deal with, and I’ve lived long enough to develop quite the imagination.” Stahm offered a grin wide enough to expose her fangs, then headed back to the the rest of her group. “We’ll do the rounds,” she called over her shoulder. “Still have a beast to track.”
Tirdad watched their departure with consternation. Back at Castle Dahag, he’d hoped to never see them again. Now, here he was travelling alongside seven and a half Eshm sisters.
“Wonder if this is how Ashta felt,” he mused. “Throwing in with divs after a life spent bringing them to heel. Turns out I’m just as backwards as they are.” He brought his horse alongside Shkarag’s, negotiating her meaningful quiet by occupying himself with the nard board. Occasionally, she’d hack at the air with the axe he’d given her.
Having finished, Tirdad balanced the board on his lap. The pieces weren’t situated exactly as before, but he figured they were close enough. He reached back to rummage through his saddlebag and retrieve a small wooden box. It housed a pair of eggs, off-white, splotched with what looked to be dried blood, and generously padded with fleece. Ostensibly, they belonged to an osprey. The merchant had assured him as much, for whatever that was worth. Tirdad did know they weren’t laid by kestrels. This was a powerful certainty—the utmost distinction.
“You all right?” he asked, offering the box.
Shkarag ceased mid-chop, axe trembling as if it yearned to lash out. She exhaled, charged as ever.
“Eggs,” he said, tilting the box. “I’m told they’re osprey. To be honest, they could be kestrel for all I know.”
“. . .” She eased the axe down.
An Ill-Fated Sky Page 33
