The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 13: Captives: Section I: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: The Throne Room: Qemassen

Eshmunen's death itched but didn't ache. It seemed a rotten way to feel, and Ashtaroth's stomach tightened to a stone-hard knot at such filial negligence. He hadn't known his father, not really, and now he never would.

The Massenqa court was a beehive, and Dashel had kicked it. The Semassenqa buzzed to and fro, openly ignoring their proscribed places at the far end of the throne room, openly gossiping about Eshmunen's murder and the heq-Ashqen's disappearance as though Ashtaroth weren't sitting before them with ears to hear.

He shrunk back as far in his chair as he possibly could, sick in his stomach, and his feet, and his heart. He hadn't even drunk any wine today. He'd been careful. He should have learned by now that disease didn't respect fairness.

All across the white walls, barely visible lines wormed in Ashtaroth's vision. They seemed to zigzag across the painted plaster, in the direction of the windows behind the Semassenqa. They looked like tiny geometric serpents.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was grief that worsened his illness, only grief. He wasn't hallucinating.

His father was dead. Eshmunen was dead. The king was dead. And exactly when Ashtaroth had need of him, Samelqo had vanished.

In Samelqo and Eshmunen's absence, the rest of the Semassenqa had grown bold. Perhaps it was the sight of Qanmi, one of their own, sitting tall in King Eshmunen's seat with Ashtaroth and Hima to either side of him. In accordance with tradition, Qanmi acted the regent until Ashtaroth's formal coronation.

Ashtaroth's, or Aurelius's.

The echoing throne room walls refracted the court's cynical whispers. A mere week after Eshmunen's death, Semassenqa gossiped that Samelqo, Ashtaroth, or Hima must have been co-conspirators in his murder. Others spoke of curses beneath their breath, that the gods voiced their displeasure with Qemassen the same as they had twenty years ago when Samelqo had burned Ashtara.

There were signs that couldn't be ignored: reports of earthquakes in the villages along the coast, tales of dead fish washing ashore, and stories claiming the very waters bubbled in primordial anger. There was Lilit. There was Lorar's recent campaign into Feislanda territory—not an encroachment any longer, so much as a concerted attack. The Lora weren't on the defensive any longer. It suggested, as even Ashtaroth was able to see, the start of a real war between Qemassen and Lorar.

Ashtaroth clenched his fingers around the hard stone arm of his throne and stole a glance at Hima. He was lucky she stood with him. On his own, Ashtaroth would've been adrift. He'd never fought a war. Not even his father had fought a real war.

Qanmi nodded his head discreetly at the head scribe, Cheti eq-Horeb, and Cheti nipped forward from where he'd been loitering beside Hima's throne.

"Silence! Silence in the hall of kings!" Cheti bellowed. The rumble of chatter faded quickly.

There were no kings here, so how could it be a hall of kings?

Qanmi sat straight and authoritative in Eshmunen's chair. His braids were looped in elaborate rodetes that covered his ears, fastened with gold pins and threaded with jewelled ribbon. His dangling gold earrings hung over his collarbone, framed by a linen stole. He looked more the king than Ashtaroth's father ever had. Perhaps Ashtaroth should abdicate in his favour. It would put to rest the question of whether Ashtaroth or Aurelius would wear Abaal's crown.

Bree and Eaflied stood off to the side of the Semassenqa, half-hidden by the shadows of the mezzanine. Eaflied leaned in and whispered in her daughter's ear. Since the Djana's death in the Eghri, Bree had grown withdrawn. Maybe it was shame at her revealed infidelity that created the creeping cold that wafted from her. Bree and her mother must be frightened.