The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 6: Visitors: Section I: Ashtaroth

Ashtaroth: The Palace: Qemassen

A drop of water slid down Ashtaroth's forehead, waking him from what could have been years of sleep. He was lying down, and something soft and damp—a cloth?—had been laid on his brow. The air stunk of the pungent bloom of burning mint and thyme that he'd come to associate with his illness. The medicinal incense was meant to heal, but the rich, flavoured air only made his gorge rise.

Ashtaroth tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was chalk-dry. He'd died. He'd been trampled in the Eghri, and now his desiccated corpse had been laid out upon its bier, ready for burning. The mint and thyme wasn't one of Qirani's medicines, but perfumed smoke to conceal a cloying putrefaction.

He clenched his jaw to contain the sob breaking like a wave against his teeth.

Only once it had passed did he notice that his bed was soft against his back.

His bed. He was alive.

The warm purple of his ceiling embraced him as he opened his eyes.

How had he got to his room? He'd been in the Eghri eq-Shalem with Hiram and Reshith. They'd been listening to those actors tell the story of Sarah and Ashmodai, and then—

Ashtaroth tried to swallow, but his throat was as brittle as charred wood. The smell of mint and thyme was like the stink of burning flesh and wood from his nightmare.

It had been a nightmare, hadn't it?

Lilit had appeared and he'd chased her. He'd found her body lying in the sand, ringed by yellow petals, her face beaten in. The statue of Ashtet's mare had chased him across the Eghri and he'd fallen to the ground.

But the earth had been so hard beneath him, hard like his bladder felt now—so full it seemed to press against his flesh. He peeled himself from his sweat-soaked sheets, and a wave of dizziness spun his chamber round and round in his vision.

Ashtaroth forced himself to stand, groaning. The wet cloth slipped from his forehead and squelched against the floor. "Safot? My chamber pot!"

The slave failed to materialize.

Where was he? Where were any of Ashtaroth's slaves? They'd disappeared as though they'd melted into the smoke.

The need to relieve himself was too great to await assistance, and Ashtaroth fell to his knees, hauling out the brass pan. Piss drummed against the pot's sides as words drifted to him from the hallway outside the door to his chambers.

"He's awake!" came an unfamiliar voice, a young man's voice.

"Then let me see him," said Hima, wroth. "Or did you forget whose coin lines your commander's purse?"

The young man's answer was muffled.

"I don't care what Qirani said," Hima snapped. "I'm a princess of Qemassen, and Ashtaroth eq-Eshmunen is my brother. What's your name?"

Ashtaroth tensed. Qirani eq-Maleq had been to see him—well, that should have been obvious from the incense. Had Ashtaroth's infirmity been the cause of his dream?

"T-tess," said the man. Ashtaroth didn't recognize the name, which meant he couldn't be one of the palace guards, and slaves didn't have commanders.

If Hima were coming in, Ashtaroth couldn't be seen like this, dirty and relieving himself. He prodded his sloshing bedpan back beneath his bed and looked around for something clean to wear, before spying a fresh robe folded atop one of the chests containing his clothes. He grabbed it, and a yellow blossom fell out of a fold in the garment.