The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 16: Generals: Section I: Aurelius

Aurelius: The Palace: Qemassen

A week after Aurelius's coronation, war had engulfed the Feislands from the Lora marches to the western coast. Now, two months later, war raged still. A hundred and fifty Massenqa ships packed bow to stern with soldiers had disembarked from Qemassen a month past—ten thousand Massenqa lives that might have ended, drowned in squalls or slit chin to gullet by Lora swords.

Yet as Aurelius sat in his council chambers with the voices of his advisors floating around him, all he could think of was the battle raging in Bree's chamber, the child coming two months too soon, and the pain she must be enduring.

He should be with her. He should be holding her. He would have been, had the Ashenqa of Tanata not physically barred him from the room. Aurelius had only let them treat her because the new heq-Ashqen of Tanata insisted his priests were the only ones with the healing knowledge to keep both Bree and the baby alive. Even Qirani had deferred to their expertise.

Tanata's ansate cross glowed in warm gold in the centre of the lapis war table. It was just another symbol, made powerful by those desperate to trust in it. Beautiful, rare, malleable metals had the stunning capacity to blind those who saw them. Craft something lovely enough and there was barely a man who could look past that sheen to the emptiness beneath. Gods and gold alike only meant something because men decided they had meaning.

How much easier life must seem to those who thought a little incense and prayer were enough to ward off evil.

Then again, believing hadn't done Ashtaroth any good, and Dashel's faith in Adonen hadn't stopped the elephants from pulling him—

Aurelius tapped his foot beneath the lapis war table, pretending all the souls of all the Massenqa in the world mattered as much to him as those of the two people fighting to survive inside Bree's locked rooms.

At least Eaflied was with her, though Aurelius would have welcomed the Feislanda queen's expertise on her homeland. Fritha wasn't near as pragmatic, nor as pleasant.

Even without her, the council room was full: Hima and Qwella to his left and right, Qanmi, Fritha, Fadil, Qorban, and Shaqarbas lining the sides of the table. Cheti stood taking notation on a wax tablet beside the door.

Titrit had also been allowed to attend. Qanmi had asked for her, but Aurelius was grateful to have the wisdom of an old friend as a resource he might plunder.

The advice of wise women and men was worth a thousand priestly prayers.

"How many men lost at Endsil?" Fadil scrutinized Fritha past his long nose. A sickly-sweet perfume wafted from the Anata ambassador, as though he bathed in anise.

Fritha bristled, addressing Aurelius rather than Fadil. "Eight-thousand, six hundred," he repeated grudgingly. They'd already had the news days earlier; Fadil was merely making a point. It was a point he made every meeting, again and again, and though the weight of Massenqa lives didn't hang about Aurelius's neck like an iron chain.

"We're losing the war," Fadil pointed out unnecessarily. "Or we will be losing it if we continue to haemorrhage men in the Feislands."

Aurelius clasped his hands on the table. The stone was cool to the touch. It was enough to help him swallow the distaste Fadil always dredged up in him.

He'd had a plan to crush the Lora between the strength of the Feislanda and Massenqa armies, one from the west, and their own pursuing from the south, but the Lora had been too quick to attack the Feislands, and the threat of Indas still loomed to the southwest of Qemassen.

"We haven't lost." Aurelius said, "but my father's failure to act has left us catching up with his mistakes. He should have been prepared for this. He knew it was only a matter of time before our peace ended. There should have been troops already in Atlin, ready for Ossa to make use of."