The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 17: Renegades: Section III: Qwella

Qwella: The Temple of Qalita: Qemassen

"Heq-Ashqat." Dansila fell to her knees in one dramatic swoop. Her plain acolyte's robes bunched beneath her on the newly polished floor of Qwella's private audience chamber. She looked like bird perched atop a mound of soil.

Or something fouler.

"Dansila et-Afqat," Qwella acknowledged, lips pinched to stifle a chuckle.

The gold of Qwella's bench-like chair—a finer throne even than the king's—eddied like waves in the reflection in front of Dansila. Tongues of jade and gold flared from the chair's back, each carved with intricate, twisting patterns and letters in the long-dead Sand Tongue.

It had belonged to Samelqo before her, though he'd rarely used it. He'd kept it tucked away in the great hall of Tanata's temple, and since Samelqo had been very much a king's man, he'd rather neglected his first post.

Qwella would show no such disregard. Qalita had done more for her than the Semassenqa ever had, and she would honour her goddess for as long as Qalita wished it.

The sound of cloth rubbing against stone drew Qwella's attention to where Eshant leaned against the wall with her arms folded against her chest. She was watching Dansila with a forlorn expression, when a sneeze forced her to bend at the waist.

Slaves upon slaves and wealth upon wealth had been gifted to Qalita since Qwella's ascension, and every moment of every day bonded hands waxed and polished and tended. What had once been Tanata's was now Qalita's. A woman's woman now reined in Qemassen.

Qwella's distant expression peered back at her from the reflections on the floor and she shook her head to clear her thoughts. Her heavy red headdress listed left, and one of the two Ashqata who flanked her—Qira and Melat—hurried to right it.

"You may stand, Dansila." Qwella couldn't help but feel a sliver of satisfaction at Dansila's new-found humility.

Dansila swept to her feet and took an effortless step back. Her studied style was near flawless in its execution, but Qwella had been schooled as a princess, and she could see past the feigned ease. A few months ago, Qwella might not have noticed the subtle imperfections in Dansila's dress and manner, but now Qwella's eyes were opened, and Dansila was made of straw.

"I came to ask your blessing, Sese, and to see that you are well," Dansila began. "As ever, I am in your service, and I would offer up what little skill I have to work in the tunnels with the rest of your chosen."

Qwella's chosen were all stronger, larger Ashenqa—mostly men from other temples. Eshant had been made overseer of the women involved in the excavation, while Tumno, a former architect in service to Adonen, had been put in charge of the building and planning elements of the scheme. There was still hope, of course, that none of this effort would be necessary. The Lora might never reach this far south, and if they did, Hima's navy would surely make short work of paltry northern warships.

All the same, a rush of pride filled her chest to bursting. She wouldn't have ever thought herself a warrior, but she felt one now.

She felt brave, and all because of Eshant and the goddess whom they both served. Eshant had made Qwella a warrior.

She smiled over at where Eshant was still waiting, but Eshant's gloom didn't wane. Lately a sullenness had taken root in her. Ever since they'd seen the goddess together in the tunnels, Eshant withered while Qwella waxed full.

It couldn't possibly be jealousy that Qwella had been chosen, yet what other explanation was there? Perhaps Eshant was only jealous that Qwella was so preoccupied with temple business. They hardly had time to hold each other.