The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 13: Captives: Section IV: Vivaen

Vivaen: The Eghri eq-Shalem: Qemassen

Vivaen would never have set foot inside the Eghri eq-Shalem again if it had been left up to her.

The stage the Semassenqa sat upon was the same one from which she'd watched Aurelius crumple to the ground, his back a bloody sheet. The ground below, empty of slaves and ringed with platforms upon which the public bickered over the best view, was the same ground. The elephants were different, of course—four of them, each with a long metal chain that draped like a second tail from its back onto the sand. They called to each other, trumpets playful, which was at odds both with their hulking appearance and the duty that awaited them. Would they realize, when Dashel was brought out, that it was the death of one they knew for which they'd been carted downhill?

Vivaen partitioned off her dark thoughts, as though by thinking—well, not thinking—about Aurelius's injuries or Dashel's sentence, she would become as cold inside as she looked on the outside. But the partition was thin, and terror lapped, always, like the tide against a hull.

Eaflied shifted beside Vivaen as though her arse had fallen asleep. Her mass of wild blond hair was bound atop her head in a Massenqa fashion that didn't suit her, but at least she'd dressed accordingly.

As soon as Vivaen had been able to she'd shed the stifling trappings of her culture. Her skin had finally begun to tan, her robes and dresses layers of sheer colour.

Her clothes were particularly fine today. It was most important that one be dressed appropriately to watch a man torn to pieces by animals.

If she could forget that she'd liked Dashel, forget what he meant to Aurelius, then she could keep command of her emotions and not risk revealing herself to the Semassenqa.

To Himalit, bitch-queen of Qemassen.

The former heq-Damirat was behind Vivaen on a higher rise, face painted to match Aurelius's skin tone, hair disguised. It must appear to the rabble below that Aurelius was here. The prince must be seen to condemn his father's murderer.

What Dashel had or hadn't done was largely beyond Vivaen. He wasn't a hard man to read. If he was the rebel king, he certainly hadn't worn it on his face. Yet he had confessed, and that confession weighed heavy on her. How much could he have been responsible for?

At night, Vivaen still returned to the wall in Molot's garden, where Zioban had held her captive and murdered Djana and Thanos. She dreamed of sounds mostly: the crack of Aurelius's bones beneath Zioban's weight; the screech of Zioban's sword against the stone as he'd dragged it slowly behind the captives; that garbled, scratchy voice as Zioban had laid Vivaen's sins bare for the city; and most of all, Djana and Thanos's screams.

So much for partitioning her dark thoughts.

Whatever bargain Dashel had made with the woman—yes, the woman—who'd stood on that wall with the captives the night of the feast, it had gone drastically wrong. Dashel's love for Aurelius was as plain as his face was honest. Might he have acted out of jealousy? It didn't seem possible. Maybe his confession had been won of torture.

She could believe Dashel rash enough to kill Eshmunen in order to win Aurelius a throne. Had he thought murdering Eshmunen would endear him to the prince? What a fool, running in, reckless and suicidal.

Vivaen tried to keep that at the head of her thoughts as the fanciful pretense of civility continued: Cheti trotted out to declare Dashel's crimes, instruments played as though to deafen the audience first.

Aurelius didn't condemn Dashel. Vivaen knew that without having to speak to him.

Eaflied reached for Bree's hand, and Vivaen the urchin moved it out of the way. She would not make a scene this time. She wouldn't reach for Aurelius's tiger, still tucked inside the folds of her gown. She could feel Hima's eyes on her, burning a hole through Bree's elaborate finery to Vivaen's secrets beneath.