The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 10: Monsters: Section II: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: The Eghri eq-Shalem: Qemassen

As Ashtaroth carved a path through the Massenqa filling the Eghri eq-Shalem, he smiled beneath the plain funeral mask he'd chosen for tonight's celebration. Titrit and Qorban struggled to keep up, but he had no intention of slowing, even for his friends. It was the first night of the Feast of Ashtet, the first night of his own wedding ceremony, and thanks to the exorcism, he was finally free of Lilit. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to be wild and free and happy.

He grasped the talisman Samelqo had made for him that hung about his neck: apotropaic scribblings in goat's blood, written onto a tiny fragment of parchment that had been curled into a miniature scroll and sealed with glue. It smelled foul, like copper and something acrid he couldn't place, and its leather strap was filthy from days soaking up his sweat.

But Samelqo had promised Ashtaroth would be safe while he wore it. He mustn't take it off, even when he bathed.

He gave it a squeeze in thanks.

"Ashtaroth!" Titrit squeaked from behind him.

Qorban laughed, but whatever he called out afterwards was swallowed by a rising cheer from a cluster of revellers to their left.

Qemassen was a cataclysm of sound. Men and women had danced in the streets all the way downhill, whooping, and screeching, and singing, and loving. Great cartloads of bread, fish, and bouza had been wheeled into the Eghri eq-Shalem and the smaller markets for city-wide feasting, and all of it in the name of Ashtaroth and Bree's marriage. Massenqa crowded the carts, dressed in their finest clothes, wearing masks of their own that were painted with the faces of kings both real and imagined.

A dark blue sky overlooked the festivities, its night-eyes shining clearly, the stars finding twins in the myriad lights of the controlled fires that filled the Eghri. Tonight, every Massenqen was Ashtaroth and every Massenqat his bride, and as members of the royal family they dined like Semassenqa, like Ashtet and Adonen reborn.

The world had gone upside down and inside out. It should be frightening, but safely contained within the parameters of the festival, it was beautiful.

Ashtaroth wandered the square as one of many, every face he passed disguised by a mask or face-paint. Some of the women had gone to great trouble with their costumes, using scraps of fur to mimic Feislanda dress.

A woman stumbled into Ashtaroth's path, drunk and laughing. Her hair was braided through with yellow hyacinths, and a smear of white chalk discoloured her face.

Lilit.

Ashtaroth jumped backwards. A shudder passed over his skin like a cloud over the sun, but stroking the talisman calmed him. The woman was only dressed as Ashtet—it was the goddess's festival after all, and the streets were filled with her Ashenqa. Ashenqa, and women trying to look like Bree.

Ashtaroth scanned the crowd for the real Bree, but it was hopeless. His heart fluttered at every glimpse of silky black hair, or peek of pale skin, but none of the revellers were her. Besides, he'd agreed not to see Bree tonight. Samelqo had instructed him to keep his distance from her for now, lest Lilit grow jealous and curse their bed.