The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 1: Slaves: Section II: Dashel

 Dashel: Qemassen: Molot's Gardens

Dashel stared down at the blue lotus blossom clutched in his fingers. It had been given to him by a young priestess when the parade of mourners had reached the gardens. Like the other priestesses of Qalita, the Ashqat had been paid to wail, and tear her hair, and beat her breast as though Sabeq eq-Sabaal had meant anything to her besides a few copper teqla for a new dress.

Each of the guests, from servants like Dashel to King Eshmunen himself, carried one of the aromatic flowers. Its leaves were sky-blue spearheads, its firm green stalk light in his hand—a reminder of the child he'd been all those years ago at another Massenqa funeral. The night they'd burned Queen Moniqa, the sky had been overcast with rainclouds. Tonight was clear.

Clear, but for the shadow of Molot's statue, looming above the gardens like a storm ready to break. Dashel tilted his head upward, but he couldn't stand to stare too long at those great gold hands. He tore his gaze away, watching Sabeq's pyre instead. The sight of a man burning was grotesque, but this time it was also safe. A scorpion or a snake bite had done for the eldest of Sabaal's sons, as rumour had it. A matter of poor luck, not poor choices.

At least Dashel hadn't condemned Sabeq to death as he had the princess who'd burned in Molot's palms.

He coughed as a whiff of the pyre's acrid smoke stung his nose, then covered his face with the back of his hand. The last thing he wanted was to breathe in bits of charred Sabeq.

Closer to the body, Sabeq's younger brother Qanmi stood beside Titrit, her husband Qorban, and the royal family. Qwella was leaning against her older sister Himalit and sobbing. The flickering flames lit her pretty white stola so she looked like a ghostly star.

Himalit was crying too, but Dashel had watched her dab an onion beneath her eyes before coming—no worry she'd grown soft overnight. Hima's two young sons clutched her skirts in their hands and rubbed their own eyes. Dashel winced. Trust Hima to give them the same treatment.

Qwella's sobs though, those looked real. Dashel clutched the lotus stalk a little tighter. Sabeq had been a money-pinching dullard, but Qwella was precious to Dashel.

"Sese," someone said from behind Dashel's back. Not his lover, Thanos. Certainly not Dashel's father, Yeremi, nor Prince Ashtaroth. He turned.

He grinned, immediately stretching his arms out and drawing Aurelius into a warm embrace. Dashel felt his beard brush the prince's clean-shaven cheek. It had been months since they'd last seen each other. Too long. He broke away reluctantly, patting the prince on the arm. "Aurelius."

The prince lifted a finger to his lips. He was hooded, clothes plain. "If I can get away with it, I'd rather not have to pretend I liked him." Aurelius smiled as though to himself, the way he always did, even when it seemed he should be angry or upset. "Or have to spend my first evening home entertaining barbs from the high priest of vipers."

Dashel followed the prince's gaze to where Samelqo eq-Milqar presided over the burning, the priest's aged hands folded in his lap as he sat tall and proud. Despite his posture, everything about him was bent. Dashel gripped the lotus stem tighter. "It's only for tonight. They'll put Samelqo back in his box once they've lowered Sabeq's ashes into his."

Aurelius sighed, and Dashel turned. Darkness brewed in Aurelius's brown eyes as he rolled his neck and shoulders. He was tired, of course he was. He must have come straight from the docks. "How is my sister taking it?"

Dashel swallowed. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Qwella yet, but he had eyes to see. "She's been brave." He paused, not wanting to bring bad news. "Your father's already seeking a new husband for her."