The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 11: Mercenaries: Section II: Vivaen

Vivaen: The Palace: Qemassen

Cold shot through Vivaen's feet as she padded from the warmth of her bed to the round bronze mirror leaning against her wall. The shuffle of Eaflied's footsteps in the adjoining chamber wasn't much of a lullaby, and her worries swarmed like flies.

Compared with the many days that made up the patchwork of Vivaen's life, seven days was nothing. Yet with every sunrise and each sunset that Ashtaroth avoided her rooms, a noose seemed to tighten around her neck. When she slept—which was hardly at all—the coarse threads of the rope's weave bit through her skin, real enough that when she woke—which was often—she ran to the mirror to check that no mark had been left behind. Some nights, half asleep, she swore the red burn of the rope's fibers was imprinted for an instant in her flesh, only for it to vanish when she stepped into the ring of light around the closest brazier.

She should have nothing to fear. Eaflied and Aurelius had fought on her behalf, and only Aurelius had been taken. Even that was a gift, after thinking him dead. Though what did it matter that he'd survived, if it was only so they could tear him to pieces in the Eghri?

Vivaen stared at the blurred reflection of her goose-like neck, probing for red scratches, as though if she picked at her skin long enough the scars would emerge from underneath. The only marks that materialized were the ones she made by pressing into her flesh. It was the perfect flesh of a Massenqa bride, not hers anymore, but Bree's. As Bree, Vivaen was more beautiful than she had ever been in Atlin. Rich meals and afternoons spent lounging about the palace were turning Bree soft where Vivaen was hard. The city and its Semassenqa had seeped inside of her.

A little softness wasn't a bad thing if she had to run—something to feed off as her funds depleted.

Vivaen started to slide her hands toward her belly.

Seven days to add to the ten that had passed since the week she'd expected to start bleeding. With Vivaen's bad luck, she might not be the only one feeding off that softness.

She lowered her hand and without tearing her gaze from the polished bronze, she grabbed a nearby scarf and covered the mirror.

Behind Vivaen, Eaflied's slippers slapped the floor.

Vivaen wrang her wrists like damp clothes. To stop herself from breaking her skin, she grabbed a bottle of rose oil from behind her and dabbed her wrists.

Seventeen days late. Ashtaroth hadn't touched her. How far would the mercy of Ashtaroth's family extend once Eaflied was bargaining for a bastard whelp and not just the two of them?

She sucked in a sharp breath and faced her mother and captor. "I have to get out of here. I have to leave."

Eaflied was clutching the same ceramic cup she'd been slurping from for what seemed like days, eyes red-rimmed, skin splotchy. She might as well have drunk the wine straight from the decanter. "Leave? You can't leave. I won't let you. You're a stupid, silly girl and everything that's come upon you has been your own fault. Was one prince not enough for you that you needed two?"

No one would have known about that, if it hadn't been for Zioban, and the slave attack could hardly be laid at her feet. Vivaen had done what she could to help—the Massenqa should be grateful just for that.

"I'm not your daughter," Vivaen said simply. "You can't blame me for this when you were there. You saw what they did to Djana! It could have been any of us."

Or could it? Vivaen had chewed over that suspicion every day since Djana's murder. Zioban had acted like he'd been making a random choice, but in the end he'd murdered the two ambassadors. The only thing Vivaen couldn't work out was why. If Qemassen lost Ajwata as an ally, it wouldn't benefit the slaves at all. They'd be slaughtered by the Lora the same as everyone else.