The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 2: Strangers: Section IV: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: A Tower, A Tunnel, A Dream

Only dream kissed so softly. Stones that would have been firm underfoot in the waking world were as light as Tanata's clouds against Ashtaroth's soles, and the air in the colossal hallway was fresh, despite the lack of sunlight or windows. Light emanated from further down the long corridor, illuminating a rounded room with murals decorating its walls. A figure stood frozen at the room's centre, so still it must be a statue, black and glossy as bitumen. The entire cavernous space was silent as midnight, but for the distant drip-drip of water.

Might he use it as imagery for his poems when he woke? Or perhaps that wouldn't be appropriate, for the dreams of princes meant more than those of ordinary men—more than that little Eru fortune teller's bones could ever have foreseen. And in truth, Ashtaroth was safe in his bed in the palace. Lilit's clumsy predictions had no place in the halls of kings, nor even their dreams.

Unpainted, grey ashlar stones made up the walls that towered to either side of him. They rose until they joined into an impossibly high arched ceiling, so distant he could barely make out its details. The stonework was like that of a tunnel, but it was impossible that so tall an edifice could lie buried underground.

Dizzy, Ashtaroth steadied himself against the wall. The stone was rough and real, speckled with lichen. Were dreams usually so detailed, or was it simply that he didn't remember the details upon waking?

Someone blew a gentle breath against his neck. "A true child of Qemassen," a girl's voice whispered at his ear.

Lilit's.

Ashtaroth swerved, but there was no one behind him, only darkness stretching into eternity, obscuring the sides of the hallway, as if the hall were a tunnel descending beneath the earth. A few years ago, Ashtaroth and his father had toured Qemassen's southernmost territories: the copper mines, the salt flats, and the villages that had sprouted up around them. The narrow, vertical mine shafts of the copper mines had been dark like this. A dark that promised to reach deeper still.

He squinted into the black. "Hello?"

A cold wind caressed his shoulders, and he clutched the thin fabric of his tunic tight around him. He turned back toward the rounded room, where the light promised warmth and safety. The obsidian statue stood menacing in the center of the room. Staring at it, the hair stood up on the back of Ashtaroth's neck. It was in the same place, wasn't it?

Lilit laughed behind him.

Ashtaroth jumped and ran toward the round room without looking back—

And found himself facing the blackened tunnel. He swerved, skin prickling, but both ends of the hallway now lay in darkness. The room had completely vanished.

"Witch of the Western Desert," said Lilit. "Prophet of the waterless sea."

It was like she was naming people—naming Ashtaroth. A true child of Qemassen. Outside the dream, he'd been called that many times, and yet, was he the true child Lilit spoke of? The child of Samelqo's prophecy, the child Ashtaroth's twin sister had burned for? He was the seventh child of Qemassen's sixteenth king. There could be no other.

His chest felt clammy, his throat dry. One day, Samelqo and Ashtaroth's father would die, and Ashtaroth would rule Qemassen alone. Not even Samelqo could live forever to steady Ashtaroth's hand, and when Ashtaroth was all alone, would he still belong on Qemassen's throne?

Of course he would.

"Lilit. Come out. I know you're there. This is just a dream. We can go somewhere warm and safe instead of . . . this." His voice echoed around him.