The Translator

Fiction | A Stelnove Saga story

Note: This is an introduction and setup to a new character and part of the world of my debut novel Of Constellations and Clockwork. This particular story does not have any of the characters from OCAC and is, generally, written in quite a different tone from the book.

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Lito Distelle, Speranza Peninsula, Cycle: Stelle, Year 990

The Nameless Woman has lost something.

It is more than her name and identity, she thinks. More than her past. There is something fundamentally…gone. Faith, perhaps?

But faith was stolen twenty years ago. No one has it anymore.

Photo credit: Alexandra Wendt

And yet she can’t help but think it is faith that has brought her this far. In what, she doesn’t know. Certainly not in the disgruntled clockmaker back in Selvascura who directed her here. Certainly not in her friend who lied to her.

Perhaps in the person she is looking for, though she does not know her. The Nameless Woman has the sense they share something in common: both stolen, both ripped away from who they were. The Oratory of Stars is supposedly where to begin in finding this other person. A strange name for a government, but Lito Distelle is one of the few regions that doesn’t follow the precedent of a council of a nobles governing the people. It’s rather secretive, in fact, how they organize themselves, and no one really knows what goes on at the Oratory of Stars.

Only that those who are called to serve at the Oratory never leave.

Except one.

The city of Zaffiro opens up before the Nameless Woman. The unique buildings are hard to miss with their stone so white it has an undertone of blue. The stone comes from the area, a large quarry that for centuries has given jobs to many people. The region is rich off of it. As the Nameless Woman walks the winding streets, she thinks about the Translator at the Oratory not so far away. According to legend, the Translator is immortal—but whether this is true, no one can say. She worked for the Oratory with their foreign relations and had been instrumental in establishing their power and wealth for the past three hundred years. She is brilliant. She should know the whole history of the world, in fact.

If that is true, then perhaps the Translator could tell the Nameless Woman who she was.

There is a market in the central piazza. The stands all have matching blue tents, and there is all manner of goods being sold here, from fruits, vegetables, and cheeses, to little figurines carved from the blue-white stone, to a man claiming to sell the stars themselves. It is this last one that gives the Nameless Woman pause. There had been something about a relic at one point…a star relic. Hazy in her memory, or what is left of it. She finds herself approaching the man, drawn toward him with an instinct she has learned to trust.

He beckons her over. His hands are clasped oddly on his stand: one atop the other with the fingers curled in and interlocked. He has a dark complexion and his hair is already in white tufts, though he doesn’t seem that old. There are little black velvet bags stacked around his stand, all embroidered with gold thread representing constellations. The Nameless Woman isn’t sure she wants to know what’s really inside.

“How can I help you?” He pushes one of the bags toward her.

The Nameless Woman ignores the gesture and pulls down the hood of her mantello. “I’m looking for someone.” She steps closer, lowers her voice. “Have you ever heard of the Translator?”

The man’s face falls. “Do not look for her.” His eyes flick over her shoulder, and she resists the urge to check if someone is actually behind her.

“Why not?”

He frowns. “They put her away, a couple decades ago.”

“Put her away where?” The Nameless Woman’s heart begins to sink.

“The Constellation Cavern, of course.” This is said as if the Nameless Woman should know what it is, and indeed, a prickling at the back of her mind tells her she does—or had known, in her past life.

“And…where is that?” the Nameless Woman asks.

He peers at her as if seeing her for the first time. His dark eyes have little flecks of light in them. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, I…I came from Selvascura.”

He stares at her a moment longer. “I think you’re from farther away than that place.”

Everything goes quiet suddenly. The Nameless Woman looks around. Everyone has frozen. The sky is white, and the starkest color is in the blue tents and the reflected blue in the stone around them.

She blinks, and in a breath the piazza comes rushing back to life.

“…in the mountains.”

She turns to the man. “I’m sorry, what?”

The man’s frown deepens. “The Constellation Cavern is midway up the Star-Studded Mountain. There’s an easy path to follow. But I’d advise against it. That’s her resting place. No one here dares go.”

“She’s not alive then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

The Nameless Woman begins to get frustrated. “What am I supposed to do then? I must meet her. It’s important.” Because otherwise how will I find out who I am?

The man once again stares at her in that way that seems to show he sees her clearer than she sees herself. He again pushes one of the pouches toward her.

“Take this then. For free. You will know how to use it when the time comes.”

#

The Nameless Woman steels herself before continuing up the mountain. The trousers she’s donned for the journey are already dirty. She left her horse where it would be safe and continues on foot now. The chilly late winter air tickles her neck, but the weather is milder here than in Selvascura.

The cavern is impossible to miss, as the guide had said, a large crevice that opens up not far off the main path. She enters it hesitantly. The rushing air that had filled her ears stops, and everything feels oddly still. A creeping sense of familiarity crawls up her spine, but like every other such instance, she fails to situate this place within her memory.

But she has been here before. Surely?

A scratching sound comes, like nails on stone or…a quill on parchment.

All those lies you told. You aren’t supposed to lie. The whispers are fierce, filling her head.

Within this cavern is a little domed structure, a perfect miniature representation of the temples of old. Except it isn’t a temple. It is an exquisite mausoleum. There is no door to it, just a rectangular frame where a door should be. The Nameless Woman approaches this carefully. It is dark, only a few shafts of daylight making their way in. She starts to step inside, but some instinct makes her look down, and she stumbles back.

There are symbols written in black on the threshold. Terribly ancient symbols…evil symbols.

How does she know? How does she know what the symbols mean?

The Nameless Woman pulls the pouch out of the bag at her side and opens it for the first time. There is something hard at the bottom, otherwise glittering dust fills it. The stars themselves, apparently. She isn’t sure if she believes it—but she doesn’t believe in much at the moment. Something to do with the whispering lies poking at her memory. All the same, she upends some of the pouch’s contents over the symbols, then takes another quick step back. A hissing sound issues from the stone, as if it is burning, and smoke wafts up. The Nameless Woman waits for it to pass, and once it does, the symbols are gone.

Does she believe now?

Maybe.

She steps over the threshold, stale, cold air tickling her. A glass coffin is within, taking up almost the whole space. Inside is a young woman—a…sleeping young woman?

No, she doesn’t appear to be sleeping. But she can’t be dead because her body is so perfectly preserved, and she has apparently been here for two decades. She is quite pretty. She has wavy caramel-colored hair elegantly splayed around her shoulders. The Nameless Woman looks at her, curious, wondering why she too pricks at familiarity.

The Nameless Woman remembers that there is something else in the pouch and reaches for it. She pulls out a small handheld mirror and stares at the back for a long moment, at the filigree designs. For some reason, she is afraid to turn it over. Finally, she closes her eyes, rotates her wrist, and then sees.

A reflection of a wavy-haired woman stares back at her. The same little scar by one eye, the same long, delicate fingers. The same.

The Translator’s hands are folded against her chest, clutching something—a quill. And hanging over her chest is a livery collar with a representation of a white bird in flight.

A collar for an Ambizioso noble family.

The Nameless Woman has the strong sense she needs to get her out. It is a tug at her, a sense of panic, as if she is the one trapped and not this other nameless person who too has lost her identity and purpose. She can’t breathe; she gasps.

She feels around the edges of the coffin until she finds the latches. With great difficulty due to its weight, she manages to pry the lid up enough to slide it off. It hits the floor with a clang.

The Translator’s eyes snap open. Dark green eyes fixate on the Nameless Woman.

“Run,” she says.