The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 19: Massenqa: Section V: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: Nowhere: Qemassen

In a tunnel as hazy as dream, the path before Ashtaroth meandered downwards as though into Molot's heart. Acrid smoke cobwebbed and curled across his path, reaching out ghostly fingers that caressed his shoulders and chest and left his skin prickling with cold.

Ashtaroth had used to think he knew everything about his city. He'd known her secrets, known her dreams, known her worries. He'd walked all her alleys and backroads, explored her passages and markets. Now, somewhere between waking and sleeping, he understood that he'd not just been wrong, but drastically, uncomprehendingly wrong.

When the sky turns red. When the earth begins to shake.

Lilit's words drifted to him on clouds of sleep.

Or was he asleep?

He had been, of that he was certain. He'd been dreaming he was sitting at his desk, composing a story for his little nephews. He'd heard birdsong, and he'd turned to see what kind of bird it was, and when he'd turned he'd seen the sun, bright as Qemassen's phoenix, burning red and fierce.

And then darkness, and Ashtaroth was here.

But where was here?

Here was smoke and shadow. Here was nothing and no one.

Ashtaroth's skin shivered with the touch of ghostly hands, but Lilit was nowhere to be seen and Ashtaroth was alone.

Where was he? How had he come here?

He turned.

Behind him, an impenetrable blackness cut off a path that looked as though it should wind uphill. The darkness was so opaque that staring at it made his eyes ache.

"Hello?" Ashtaroth asked.

A baby's cry scattered the cloudy air, as though the sound had frightened the ghosts dancing inside the smoke.

Ashtaroth looked left and right, up and down, but there was no sign of the source of the sound. All that greeted him was plain rock wall on every side.

The baby laughed.

It was so hard to tell its direction, but with nowhere else to go, Ashtaroth started downhill. Lilit had told Ashtaroth to go to the maze on Tarefsa Tithmeseti when the sky was red. Wherever this was, it must lead there.

Some magic, Lilit's magic, had brought him here.

He'd thought this last meeting might go the way of so many others. They'd greet each other with wariness and teasing. She'd try to goad him to anger, and he would deny her what she wanted.

But on their last visit, Ashtaroth had promised what she wanted. He was hers now.

Every barefoot step onto the rocky, dusty tunnel floor should have stabbed through him, but he felt nothing more than a gentle tickle against his skin. He didn't walk so much as drift, as though he, and not all this, were the dream.

And always trailing him, the sound of the baby.

As Ashtaroth walked, plain walls gave way to faded paintings of Qemassen's heroes, kings, and queens. Elibat, Shalem, Yehawellon—all the names from his childish scrolls. Stories he'd poured over again and again, or else lingered in the Eghri to hear.

Something metallic glistened along the tunnel and Ashtaroth drifted toward it.

A door.

A relief of Adonen was carved into its surface, only instead of the bland face of a statue it had been carved to resemble Aurelius.