The Wings of Ashtaroth

Bonus Chapter I: Oran

Oran: Mithtaen: Eq-Anout

It was the seventh day of the seventh month, when the season changed from summer to autumn and the village of Mithtaen in the southeast of eq-Anout released its children to the basins to prepare for the planting of the sapenta poppy. The air was cool and dry compared with only a week ago. Desert winds whipped desert sand into Mithtaen's sheltered alleys, where it remained till evening when the workers returned and swept the streets clean.

Any other year, Oran would have been preparing the basins. Any other year, he wouldn't have been alone and crouched on the roof of one of Mithaen's mudbrick houses. Any other year, he wouldn't be listening, ear primed for the sound of his mother's voice—or heq-Ashqen Ethezda's—while fear pricked every strand of hair on his arm.

It was the seventh day of the seventh month. It was the day the Sajit took a living son.

Oran's heart pounded in his chest, louder than the wind, louder than the cawing of the crows circling the rooftops.

If Ethezda caught him, Oran would be dead.

Stones crunched underfoot in the alley below.

It could be Ista or one of the other children. It could be Saftan Benshi. Benshi had never liked to look at Oran too hard, but he'd also never hated him the way a lot of the village did. Could he be safe?

Don't look.

Oran gripped the ledge, but he stopped short of peeking over the side.

He swallowed, blood clogging his throat from where Benshi's slave had struck him back at his house. Benshi was why Oran had run in the first place.

No one was safe.

He licked his lip, wincing as his tongue brushed the nick of loose skin from where the slave's ring had torn into him. Tears at his eyes, Oran scraped his tooth over the small puncture, pressing till the skin came free.

He stifled a whimper.

The crunch of footsteps broke the quiet. "It's a great honour."

Ethezda.

Oran pressed himself right up against the wall, crouched, knees pulled against his ribs. He squeezed his eyes closed and held his breath till his nostrils flared from the effort.

"We're going to find you. You're only making things worse for yourself."

He was making things worse. There was nowhere to run. The closest village was a day's travel by caravan, and it had been a year since Oran had made the trip with his father. If he tried to retrace the path he'd be just as lost in the desert as he would be if Ethezda took him.

"I have water." Ethezda's words were accompanied by the slosh of liquid. "You must be thirsty."

Oran opened his eyes, letting himself breathe out, staring at the sunbaked wall. Overhead, the sun blazed down angrily. His cheeks were dry as chalk, his mouth wetted only by blood.

If he did run, he would need water.

He pictured himself racing downstairs and out onto the street, grabbing dust from the road and tossing it in Ethezda's eyes to blind him, grabbing the water—

"Oran!" called his mother's voice, further off.

His name echoed through the village as one by one the villagers took up the call. Their voices throbbed in his ears, beating in time with his heart.

Ethezda's steps crunched ahead, retreating. "After what you've done, you should be grateful."

What Oran had done.