The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 6: Visitors: Section IV: Uta

Uta: Qemassen: The Palace

When the Lora came—in many months, in years—Zioban was going to help them take the city, and Uta would have to kill Samelqo. Either that, or let a stranger take his life. For all that she was angry with him though, the notion was as painful as if Zioban had struck her.

Mere hours had passed since Uta had fled to the tunnels in search of comfort after the disappointment of her wedding night. So much had changed.

Pale daylight spilled across the stairwell to Samelqo's tower by the time Uta made it to the top. With every step, the young light seared away another layer of her indecision.

She wasn't one of the Semassenqa, and she never could be. Her marriage to Samelqo was a sham, as was the friendship she'd convinced herself they shared. The Semassenqa had to die, Zioban was right. And Samelqo was one of the Semassenqa.

Rounding the bend of the spiral stairs brought Samelqo's guards into view. Uta started to nod to each of them, but froze instead.

They weren't palace guards, but Yirada officers.

Her first instinct was to back away, but she caught herself. If they were here for her, if they'd somehow tracked her movements and knew about Zioban, running would do nothing but prove her guilt.

Uta swallowed her fear, held her head high just as a Semassenqat would, and strode toward her rooms. Samelqo's raised voice, muffled through the door, was like a metal spike hammered into her back. A woman's voice joined Samelqo's.

One of the officers swept up her sword, blocking Uta's path. Uta stepped backwards and scanned the officer's face. Was she a foreigner? She had the high cheekbones and sloping nose of the peoples from the far north. The vague and untraceable foreignness in Uta's own face sometimes moved her fellow outsiders to treat her with more friendliness, but the woman's gaze was hard and unyielding.

"What's the meaning of this?" Uta let some of the imperiousness of the Semassenqa leak into her voice. Too late, she realized how dirty she was from the tunnels, how stained the fine stola Samelqo had given her.

Her haughtiness didn't seem to have an effect. The Yirada officers exchanged a glance, faces stony. "The heq-Ashqen is to be arrested," said the woman.

Uta clenched her hands. "Arrested? On what grounds? Whose authority?"

"Are you one of his slaves?" asked the man to her left.

Why was that relevant? What had happened that Eshmunen had turned on the heq-Ashqen? Worry flooded her where earlier she'd felt only bitterness at her husband's lack of affection. She swallowed. The worry meant nothing. She could still kill him when the time came. It simply wasn't time for that now was all.

The woman yelling at Samelqo must have passed nearer the doors, for her words rang clear. "All palace slaves are to be questioned. I find it suspicious that you wouldn't agree. Or do you have some latent love for them? Does slaves' blood flow in the veins of the great Samelqo eq-Milqar?"

It was Himalit et-Moniqa, the heq-Damirat. This was about Princes Hiram and Reshith.

"Are you one of his slaves?" the female officer pressed.

Uta returned her gaze to the officer. "I'm his wife. I demand entry."

Samelqo was shouting too now—a fine competition: the powers behind Eshmunen's throne raking each other's flesh with words.

The male officer rapped his knuckles against the door, keeping his attention on Uta. "Sese, we have a woman here claiming to be the heq-Ashqen's wife." He made a show of assessing her torn hem, her ruffled hair. "Looks like Qelebet corner trash to me."