The Dukes of Odwego finds Astra (secret necromancer, former nun, and displaced librarian of Qordashi) drifting ever farther from the only life she knew and deeper into a world she never expected to see. The powerful, winding Hoshikwazu river leads her, her injured best friend Traz, and the ever-enigmatic Xavai to a city that glitters with wealth but reeks of corruption. Within its walls, sour magic whispers, alliances shift like silt, and every kindness hides a price. To save the people she loves, Astra must rely on her wits, her courage, and maybe, maybe, a little necromancy.
Previously: Traz woke up to some big changes...
Astra woke up at third bell, too well trained after a lifetime of rising at such a wretched hour to sleep later if she was not exhausted. She checked on Traz and Xavai, who both remained asleep. Xavai had taken the second bed in the room and rustled when she entered, obviously alert enough to rouse if Traz needed help. She waved him off and went out to catch an early food cart, buying some boiled eggs and roasted nuts for all of them to eat for breakfast.
Her mind was too lost on waiting for fifth bell, when she would be escorted to the castle to start the translations, to pay much attention to anything else. She left food for the men on the table in the front room and went to sit in the courtyard, eating her share and simply watching the dawn climb over the roofs of the buildings. She took time to sit properly in the crosswinds position on the bench and complete a recitation of the correct full Prayer of the Four Winds, and then moved on to The Forgiveness of Bu, which was an even longer prayer cycle, although mostly filled with repeated stanzas.
Finally, a set of four guards entered the courtyard and she stood up, stomping blood back into her feet. Xavai had appeared at the door when the commotion started, and gave Astra an encouraging, if guarded, smile. She took a deep breath and let the guard surround her as if she was wearing a lodestone before they escorted her out.
The dukes’ palace was settled a few blocks east of the town square, naturally enough, and was not quite as big as Astra had assumed when she had seen it looming over the other buildings. It was designed in a classical southern Bashili style, boxy with tall doors and deeply slanted roofs and gables. Walking up to it, she could not even see clearly the heavy wooden beams that marked the roof peaks. The front of it was a huge door that was more akin to a gate set in the front-facing wall, which led through the entry hall to the expected courtyard. Where the inn’s courtyard was efficient and used to grow food as much as it was a place of repose, the courtyard of the castle was majestic and elaborate, covered in blooming vines and small waterways and elaborately carved stepping stones.
She did not have much of a chance to enjoy it as she was marched through and into the interior of the building, then through a series of short hallways and stairwells, all going down. She knew she was at the basement level, at least, when the guards moved to the side and stood stoically by the open doors of a room. Astra stopped as well but one of the guards motioned her through.
They did not follow.
The room was less a library and more a museum, but there was a long rack of books, old books, along one wall. Just looking at them made her fingers itch to explore, but she knew better. Scattered around the room were cabinets and shelves and chests of drawers, and it was all lit by two bright moonstones sitting in bronze lattice-work chalices on the lone table in the center. Magic hummed throughout the room. It was impossible not to know it was there, but it was woven of several different types of powers intermingling. At least, Astra thought with relief, there were not any death beds in the room.
Next to the table was Sir Khossa, the magistrate. He pointed wordlessly at two codex books on the table. They had plain wooden slats for covers, and the spines were stitched. The wood looked like bamboo, which was odd for Doonrag books, at least the few Astra had seen before, both in her own library and in others’. She thought it was very likely they had been rebound at some point when they changed hands. She walked over to the table for a closer look.
“You will translate them into Deshilli, not Kwa,” the magistrate said, hands dropping to clasp behind him.
“You assume I know Deshilli well enough to translate?” Astra stepped back.
“I do. It is a common enough language among scholars.”
Astra waited, but that was all he said. Finally, she nodded. He pointed at a box on the table, which was sitting next to a pile of large, very thin and fine vellum squares. “Ink and fountain pens are for you to use. You will work until tenth bell.”
It meant she would leave in the middle of the afternoon, returning to Traz and Xavai well before dusk. She nodded. “Thank you.”
He waved a hand at her in dismissal and walked out.
She sat down and set up her vellum, ink, and pens. They were incredibly high quality pens, no less than what she had seen used by superiors back at Qordashi, with finely honed bronze nibs, ivory holders and cork grips. Hesitantly, she made some practice strokes on a piece of vellum and marveled at the quality of the ink as well. There was a pure, innocent pleasure in writing with such excellent tools that she missed dearly and tried hard not to think about why.
After a cursory inspection, she determined that the books themselves were standard Doonrag philosophy treatises, common enough to those with a classical education, although she was not familiar with those specific ones. No author was indicated, but they were written in High Doonrag style, which was more like poetry than prose. Getting to the heart of a translation would be a challenge, even for her. She realized with a sinking feeling that she would need her magic to do justice to the work.
Only Naboch had known the extent of Astra’s abilities with languages, and the reason why. It was a skill that was tied to necromancy, which Astra had thought odd until Naboch explained it one time. Necromancers could talk to the dead, but the dead could be anyone, from any place, and any time. Being able to quickly understand their words had given great power to the necromancers of old. Unfortunately, they had used the ancient magic they unlocked to destroy kingdoms and create dragons from ice and rock. Or so the pagan myths went. Naboch, a true follower of the four winds, dismissed those tales out of hand, but conceded that Astra’s uncanny ability to learn a language quickly and flawlessly was tied to the magic of the dead. They had hoped that extensive practice would funnel her magic out of her, at some point, but it never happened.
Sighing, she settled in to read the text through before trying to parse out a translation. After a full bell’s time spent deep in a very esoteric analysis of the metaphysics of human shadows (as cast by the sun, by the moon, on water, on rock, on sand…) she looked up to rest her eyes and noticed something about the vault she had missed when she walked in: things were missing.
It was not obvious, but to her trained eye, it was clear. There were gaps between books that were just a little too wide, and there were spaces on the shelves that suggested they were empty as opposed to artfully arranged.
The guard was still standing by the open door, but his back was to her, so she quietly got up to look around, and she was confident that she was right. The vault was missing at least a tenth of the full collection. She could have assumed that maybe the dukes simply did not collect much and had not filled the shelves to begin with, but there were a few places where dust had sat around boxes or items, untouched despite the items being gone. Items that were clearly precious treasures sat openly next to blank spaces where something like it used to rest.
Astra’s magic, locked down and unpredictable at the best of times, could sense that some of those missing pieces had to have been powerful in their own right, to leave such ghostly traces behind. The further back in the vault she went, the more she saw was missing, but it was also very dark with no more moonstones to light the nooks and crannies. She returned to the work desk, thoughtful, and wondering why the dukes would have a reputation as ruthless hoarders and collectors if they had so little to show for it? Or did they even know their collection was dissipating under their own noses?
Next: Myths and Legends
Thank you for reading! 🎊 I’d love your comments and feedback! ☕
Find KimBoo: Notes • Bluesky • Tumblr • Facebook • House of York