The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 12: Freemen: Section II: Qwella

Qwella: The Temple of Qalita: Qemassen

Daana et-Titrit, heq-Ashqat of the goddess Qalita, was dying.

This morning, an Ashqat had found her sprawled at the base of the steep steps that led to the debir, Daana's ancient bones no match for hard stone and unforgiving stairs.

Why she'd ventured downstairs alone was anyone's guess.

Qwella, Dansila, and several of the older Ashqata dabbed Daana's sallow flesh with wool cloths, mopping cold sweat from her skin as she lay naked upon her austere bed. It was no more than a board supported by six bricks, and when Dansila had tried to cover her with a blanket, Daana had slapped it away. According to the attending Ashqata, her dying pains put her in commune with the gods. If this was what commune with her goddess meant, Qwella hoped she never achieved it.

A low moan wriggled from the heq-Ashqat's lips as she stared sightlessly at the ceiling. She'd barely muttered a full word for hours now, and the wound on her head kept reopening and bleeding. Qwella had been warned off bandaging it or attempting to tend to the massive bruises that formed a map across her abdomen and legs.

The room stunk of qyphi, but no matter how many rolled balls of incense were heaped on the braziers in the corners of the room, the stench of urine drenched the air. They'd cleaned Daana off, but the heq-Ashqat had little to no control of herself.

Qwella did her best to breathe through her mouth.

Two more Ashqata shuffled inside the room, whispering a barely audible prayer in unison. Their words wound like invisible ribbon through the air, binding every sister through mellifluous song. It was a prayer of supplication and transformation, that Daana's souls might fly free as birds, given unto Qalita rather than Tanata.

Qwella stopped daubing Daana briefly so that she could watch them take position beside the braziers. As she did, Dansila stretched past Qwella and tossed her sweat-soaked towel into the bucket beside Daana's bed. Qwella wordlessly handed her a new one and side-by-side they gently smoothed their cloths over Daana's right arm and side. Of all the things to ease the tension between them, this one was impossible to celebrate.

Qwella replaced her own towel, trying to think of anything but death.

It wasn't just Daana's death that consumed her. With every shiver across Daana's skin, Qwella pictured Aurelius ailing from his injuries, Djana and Thanos murdered, even poor Shaqarbas's young wife dead by Ashtaroth's hand. Qwella hadn't been there for any of it. She couldn't be there for her family.

At least Qwella could be here for the heq-Ashqat. Daana had been kind to Qwella since the day she'd stepped inside the heiqal seeking shelter from Qanmi's grasping hands.

Besides, in her own way, Qwella was still there for her family. Thanks to Qwella, all trace that Qanmi might be Isir's son had burned to ash.

On her plank of a bed, Daana waved her head left and right, groaning.

"Can you see her?" Qira, one of the Ashqata, leaned forward, an urgency to her question. "Can you see our lady?"

Daana licked her lips, opening and closing her mouth like a fish washed up on the sand. She was staring straight up at the ceiling.

Dansila reached out a dainty hand and took Daana's in her own. She squeezed the old woman's fingers. "Don't speak, Sese. Don't speak. We know you're with blessed Qalita now."

Were those tears forming in Dansila's eyes? Maybe she wasn't as much of a bitch as Qwella had thought.

Every one of the women in the room had been called to Daana's side because she was a contender for the succession. Temple law required that the next heq-Ashqat must witness the passing of her forbearer in order to make contact with the underworld goddess.