The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 4: Friends: Section I: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: The Throne Room: Qemassen

The court had been in session from morning till well into the afternoon, with no sign of an end to the petitions of the Semassenqa. Ashtaroth did his best to stay alert, but his stomach ached with hunger, and his mouth could have been the deep Sajit for the way his thirst turned it to a desert. He reached for the pitcher of water beside him, pouring a fresh cup, but he couldn't bring it to his lips for the sight of liquid reminded him of the cup of wine he'd drunk this morning and for which he was now paying. His physician had warned him to avoid wine and spirits, given his condition. Even a cup of watered-down wine made his head pound like after a feast day.

The light beaming in from the arched windows across the hall was nearly blinding, obscuring the heads of the furthest petitioners, and making a white sheet of the onyx floor. Something about the glare made a dark patch appear in his vision, one that seemed to move with the movement of his eyes, so that he could never escape it.

He turned away from the light, to Aurelius and Dashel. He wished he had their freedom—standing beneath the shade of the mezzanine, laughing and whispering, instead of being stuck on a hard throne next to his father and his sister Himalit, aching to piss and too self-conscious to ask that the petitions be paused.

The great lecher prince, Shaqarbas eq-Zotan, knelt before them, but even on his knees he was giant compared with those standing in the crowd behind him. Only the raised dais allowed for the illusion that the three rulers were taller.

Ashtaroth scanned the room, his heart briefly sinking at the size of the well-dressed crowd, their colourful, floor-length tunics; and their bracelets and rings of bronze, silver, and gold. Hopefully, they'd gotten through most of the petitioners, and the rest were merely onlookers—Samelqo's slave, Madaula, was certainly only present to scratch notes for the heq-Ashqen on her wax tablet.

He stopped on Qwella, dressed in a plainer stola than was usual. He'd almost missed her in the crowd with her head bowed, her arms covered by her palla.

To Ashtaroth's left King Eshmunen, Father, coughed and adjusted his position as though he'd been asleep and was only now waking. He pried his cheek from the fist he'd been leaning on, straightening, blinking.

Himalit sat rigid as the sandstone throne she occupied, a chair that had once seated Samelqo. And just as the court had once whispered that Samelqo was Qemassen's true king, some now said the same of Ashtaroth's eldest sister. She certainly stared down Shaqarbas like he was an ant.

"Another wife? Don't you already have three?" Himalit arched an eyebrow, skepticism dripping from every syllable.

Shaqarbas stumbled on his next words, an uncommon show of nervousness for one so outspoken. But then, Hima had that effect on people. "Ah, Sese, I do have three." Regaining his bluster, Shaqarbas rose from the floor and spread his arms wide in supplication, giving a half-bow. "But I'm a big man, with a big man's desires, and my desires tell me Lara will bear me more sons."

"Sons?" Hima's word was sharp as a sword's point. Ashtaroth winced, happy not to be on the receiving end of her blade.

"Sons, Sese," Shaqarbas repeated.

"And daughters will not do, I suppose?"

This time Shaqarbas kept his mouth shut.

"Some of our greatest leaders have been daughters, Prince. Our blessed founder, Queen Elibat, fled her home on Old Elu to escape the injustice of her male counterparts. They tried to give her throne to a man, so she decided to build a queendom of her own. Did you know that?"

Shaqarbas darted a look at King Eshmunen. "No, Sese. I was under the impression the good queen left due to the religious troubles, Sese."

He wasn't wrong—though Ashtaroth had heard both versions of the story. It was no surprise which of the two Hima preferred, and since Shaqarbas was an Indan prince, it was possible he didn't know the second.