The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 1: Slaves: Section I: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: Qemassen: The House of Many Purposes

How soon the afternoon came on.

Already the nib of Ashtaroth's reed pen was dull. Already the ink blotted instead of flowing freely as he pressed pen to papyrus. Already the hour grew late and the funeral drew near.

The world is filled with detritus and despair, Ashtaroth scribbled from his spot on one of the simple benches lining the basement of the House of Many Purposes. The tools of darkness—

No. Ashtaroth crossed out tools. In the empty room, with no one there to speak, the scritch-scratch of reed against papyrus was the only sound. Lamplight flickered across the cool stone room and the scroll he'd unrolled on the lectern in his lap.

The instruments of darkness tell us truths, to betray us in deepest consequence. As we languish in our inevitable mortality—

"As we languish in our inevitable mortality. As we languish in our inevitable mortality. As we languish . . . ." Ashtaroth tapped his reed pen against his chin, contemplating the trajectory of his poem.

Maybe it would work better if it rhymed.

Ashtaroth brushed back his hair with ink-stained fingers and felt liquid smear his cheek. He pulled several strands away from his face—black had seeped into his prematurely white hair. Gods, he was clumsy. It was a good thing he'd hidden down here, away from the palace, so he wouldn't have to attend his brother-in-law's funeral. The last thing he needed was to show up covered in ink. Samelqo would've had yet another thing to scold him for.

He reached for one of the cotton rags he'd placed beside him for correcting mistakes and squeezed his chin-length curls between its folds. Inky water dribbled down his fingers and pooled on the plain stone floor.

The world is filled with detritus and despair, as smoke and shadows fill the air, and mortality grasps us with—

"Its hair?" Ashtaroth wrinkled his nose. Was his rhyme a show of great skill and craftsmanship? Was it an offense to the great poet Ciqa himself, whose very feet had graced these same lower quarters of the city? Crown prince Ashtaroth eq-Eshmunen found himself torn; the gap between greatness and obsolescence was a slim one indeed.

On the wall across from him, the lamplight cast shadows like long claws.

Yes. Yes, that was it. The finishing touch.

And mortality grasps us with claws laid bare.

Ashtaroth scratched his signature below the poem, then leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, exhausted by his labours. Was this what it felt like to rest after a hard day's work in the lower city—tending a stall, stomping sheets at the fuller's, mending the city drains? The words he had set down on these humble scrolls would one day resound in the ears of the Massenqa as hallowed verses. He'd long been schooled that it did not do simply to rule Qemassen. Ashtaroth must embody Qemassen—his whims were the city's needs (or was it the other way around?), his failures the city's failures. When he succeeded, the city must succeed, and when he was led astray, the city suffered. Today he may have run from his duties at the palace, but all in service to Qemassen's greatness.

Samelqo would understand why Ashtaroth had been compelled to set aside the work he'd been assigned. After seeing his brilliance, Samelqo would instruct the palace's foremost scribes to make copies, and Ashtaroth's art would be distributed amongst the people, a monument in metre.

From the main floor, above Ashtaroth, he heard three sets of footsteps, trailed by muffled voices that became more intelligible as they descended the enclosed staircase. Qorban's booming voice was unmistakable, as was the subject of conversation—the new ship, a quinquireme, that Ashtaroth's eldest sister had given Qorban command of.