The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 12: Freemen: Section I: Eshmunen

Eshmunen: Qemassen: The Palace

It was a quiet and peaceful night. Too peaceful, too quiet, for the dark dealings Eshmunen had been tasked with.

His bedchamber was filled with slaves—six of them standing still as statues around the room, heads bowed. A seventh knelt on the floor before the edge of Eshmunen's bed, washing the king's feet and humming an unfamiliar lullaby. Her brown hair, threaded with yellow ribbon, seemed to blend into her light brown skin. He might have asked her to stop—he certainly hadn't commanded her to hum—but the sound was oddly beautiful.

Water from the slave's cloth dripped onto Eshmunen's foot, sending a shiver through him. The water slid between his toes, soft like ghostly fingers, or what Eshmunen thought a lover's fingers must feel like. Moniqa had never touched him so gently. No one had. No one would.

There'd been a girl once, when Eshmunen had been younger than Ashtaroth was now. Tirzah had been the daughter of a prominent Ashqen of Abaal, and when she'd come of age, she'd been brought to the palace to dance before King Isir's court.

Oh how her feet had spun upon the floor!

He could still envision her: her arms bent in subtle, elegant poses; her curves swaying and twirling with the rattle of the sistrum and the beat of the drum; her mouth smiling and nervous as she'd been introduced to the crown prince. She'd batted her thick black lashes in shyness, and the belled and beaded lattice of a dress that had revealed and disguised her beauty had chimed at the quake of her shoulders.

He'd wanted to touch her, but nervousness had stopped the pair of them, so over many moons they had talked instead. She'd told him about the doves she kept in her home on the upper slope of the Talefa hill, and he'd meekly confided his fantasies of a life in which he was not the crown prince, but a baker selling sweet delicacies in the Eghri eq-Shalem. He had told her he wasn't really a boy at all, but a woman, and his parents only had to pretend he was a boy because they needed someone to be king. Most incredibly, she had believed him.

They'd laughed—done everything but touch. Then, one day, when he'd girded himself enough to ask her for a kiss, his father had given her to the old heq-Damiran. Months later, she'd been initiated into the temple of Ashtet, round with child.

Eshmunen had never seen her again, and since thinking of her hurt too much, he'd wondered instead on what had become of her doves. Had her father tended them for her? Had she been allowed to bring them to Ashtet's temple? Perhaps they had been granted the freedom that was denied their mistress.

Everything Eshmunen had loved belonged to his father.

Samelqo had comforted Eshmunen that he was destined a much grander bride—a princess not of temples, but nations. Eventually, Moniqa had come, Samelqo's promise fulfilled. She, too, had been wonderful, but unlike Tirzah, she had loathed him.

Eshmunen slouched for a moment, but Samelqo's voice cracked like a whip inside his heart, telling him to straighten, that it wasn't a king's duty to relax. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, and as he corrected his posture, his gaze found the small votive statue of King Isir that sat upon its small altar across from his bed. The small dish in front of it was empty, as it had been since shortly after Isir's death. Eshmunen had sacrificed to his father's divine spirit only twice, out of obligation.

Four years ago, Eshmunen had commanded his slaves to cover the statue with a dark cloth so that his father couldn't watch him while he slept, but these new slaves Qanmi had supplied must have removed the protective slip of fabric.

Firelight caught the curved, limestone edges of Isir's curled black-stained beard, and the sharp lines of his tall, gold-banded crown. The votive didn't look anything like Isir, except in the broadest of terms. Eshmunen's father had been bearded, tall, and muscular just like the statue, but its gaping eyes and passive face didn't suit him. The votive captured none of Isir's ferocity.