The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 5: Mazna: Section II: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: Qemassen: The Palace

"I didn't know she'd be like that." Ashtaroth hadn't been able to stop smiling like an idiot since Bree et-Eaflied had taken his hands in hers yesterday afternoon. His fingers still tingled with the soft touch of her skin on his, his nose still itched with her smell.

Hima rolled her eyes. "Like what?" She lay back on the cushioned bench, staring at the painted ceiling of his chambers as Ashtaroth paced. "I think it's clear which parts of her appealed to you."

Why was Hima always so cynical? It couldn't be enough that Bree was betrothed to him, or that she was beautiful, or that he liked her. What was it he was missing?

Hima's criticism had poisoned him the way she'd intended and now his thoughts were drowned by anxious questions.

Ashtaroth stopped before the window and gazed out to sea, toward Tarefsa Tithmeseti. If he squinted, he could make out the tip of one of Tanata's stone wings. "What do you think she thinks about me? Do you think she liked me?"

"She vomited on you in front of the entire court."

Ashtaroth faced his sister. "Is that enough to damn a marriage? I think she liked me, there was something in the way she looked at me."

"Yes, like she was about to puke."

"As though we understood one another."

Hima said something in response, but Ashtaroth didn't catch it. He had no time for arguing such trivialities now. He hurried to the papyrus scrolls heaped on his desk, searching desperately for an empty sheet, scattering the used ones onto the floor. "Yes!" He snatched up his reed pen and ink, shoving aside the chaos atop his workspace as he took a seat, dashing down a line. No time for Samelqo's fine penmanship now—he was stirred by the passions of the moment.

Bree. Bree with hair as deep as the sea. Only Bree's hair was black, like night. Bree. Bree with hair black as night. The night rides through your hair, like a hunter.

"What are you doing?" Hima laughed, her footsteps approaching. "Hiram and Reshith are coming."

Ashtaroth had forgotten about his nephews. He laid the reed down as he finished scribbling off a line of verse. "I'm writing." He sighed. "I'll stop."

Hima leaned over his shoulder. "What is it?"

Ashtaroth groaned. "It's a poem. I thought I'd write her something to cheer her up." She hadn't left her rooms at all since . . . the incident. Qirani was tending her, and when Ashtaroth had seen his physician this morning he'd said Bree was doing well. Even so, Ashtaroth's heart ached for her in her distress.

Hima walked away without giving his work much of a glance. She'd never had an ear for poetry like he did. "She'll be queen of Qemassen one day. If she needs poetry to cheer herself up then perhaps she shouldn't be queen."

"None of that matters, not if she's scared and sick. I need to show her that this is her home now, that she's welcome amongst the Semassenqa." He had to make her happy, like she had him. Singlehandedly, she'd banished the hunger that hounded him.

"People like Bree are born for this," said Hima. "They don't need to be told these things, not if their parents have done their work. You've been betrothed since you were born; what more preparation does she need?"

"As much as I still do." Ashtaroth had been born for a lot of things, and it was like he understood none of them at all. He turned around, watching Hima poke at his scrolls and the many trinkets tucked against the shelves. "I'm supposed to do great things for our people, but I can't see how, no matter how hard I try to puzzle it out."