The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 7: Traitors: Section V: Vivaen

Vivaen: The Palace: Qemassen

Days ago, when Vivaen had heard Aurelius's voice approaching Ashtaroth's chambers from the hallway, all she'd been able to think about was hurting him, cutting him for lying to her, making him seethe with envy at what she could take from him by kissing his brother's lips. Petty maybe, stupid certainly, but the raw hurt on Aurelius's face had at least satisfied her that her so-called sailor had felt something, however meagre, for his whore in the Feislands. It'd been worth it.

Well, it had seemed worth it. Now that she was away from both Ashtaroth and Aurelius, hemmed in by the soothing trickle of the fountains in the palace gardens and the shade of the lilacs, her worries flitted inside her chest: Aurelius was a prince and this was his home—surely he could hurt her worse than any damage she might do him? And Ashtaroth—what good was there in causing discord between he and his brother, turning herself into a prize for them to war over? When two merchants fought over a glass vase, inevitably it was the vase that broke, not the merchants. This wasn't some simple game of seduction to con sailors at Atlin's docks. Vivaen was in danger here—all the more so now that the palace slaves had decided to start stabbing people.

She raked her fingers through her long black hair, not a slow, calming movement, but anxiously, so that the strands accidentally knotted as she worked her hand through them.

That shifty merchant, Qanmi eq-Sabaal, had provided new slaves for everyone, and hers had brought her to the gardens to sit beneath the trees and do whatever it was women did in Qemassen to idle away their lives. The slaves hovered nearby, standing beneath a different stand of trees to protect themselves from the sun, gossiping as they braided each other's hair. Which of Shaqarbas's sons was the most handsome? Whom among the palace guards did they most want to squeeze between their thighs?

Not exactly that last thing. They weren't honest enough to voice something so lewd aloud.

Vivaen snorted and pulled her legs up onto the bench, scrunching her knees against her chest.

She shouldn't disparage the women. It was beyond beautiful under the lilacs, with birdsong to accompany her and the scents of countless blossoms filling her lungs. She only wished there was something to do; she wasn't used to sitting so often and for so long. There was always something to do in Atlin, even if it was only skulking about, as Queen Eaflied had frequently accused her of.

At least skulking had kept her thoughts from turning round and round, shredding her insides like a wheel ringed with spikes. Too much time off her feet let the darkness creep in.

She scuffed her sandal on the stone bench, accidentally catching the thin skirt of her flimsy Massenqa dress. The clothes were another thing entirely: lavish and expensive and graceful. In fact, everything in the palace was lavish, expensive, and graceful. She'd slipped more than a few trinkets from the palace rooms without thinking—though perhaps it was just as well. If her deception were revealed, she'd need coin to escape Eshmunen and Ashtaroth.

"Sese," said one of the slave women. "The crown prince is approaching." She'd bowed halfway to the ground.

Vivaen quickly slid her legs off the bench, sitting like a fancy person instead—or how she thought a fancy person should sit. She gripped her knees, forcing a smile as Ashtaroth approached from one of the tree-lined paths.

His strides were quick but clumsy, as though overexcited and at pains to disguise it.

Poor Ashtaroth. He was a grown man, yet all she saw when she looked at him was an overgrown child, inexperienced and naïve. He'd heaped gifts upon her, so many she wasn't sure where to keep them, and for every day since she'd kissed him he'd sent her a new poem, each more terrible than the last. The slaves would recite them to her, cooing over every word as though a skald's trained tongue had chosen each one. At least once she could read Massenqa letters, she'd be able to laugh at his verses in private.