The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 5: Mazna: Section III: Qwella

Qwella: Qemassen: Qalita's Temple

The only light in this part of Qalita's temple was that of the dying brazier Qwella was struggling to tend, and the glow from Eshant's lantern as Qwella's fellow acolyte scrubbed the floor. The small square room was sequestered within the labyrinth at the centre of the heiqal, its purpose as opaque as the blackness that clung to its corners.

Qwella shoveled the ash collected in the base of the brazier so she could sweep it to the edge and clean the bottom, but it kept tumbling back into the middle and choking the flame. What had been a healthy fire had shrunk to the size of the pomegranates embossed on the brazier's sides.

Qwella sucked her lip as she drew a smaller pile of ash toward the curved edge.

Concentrate. Concentrate. If she moved slowly, agonizingly slowly, she just might be able to do this. Then she could build the fire up again.

How had her slaves made this look so effortless?

From the corridor to Qwella's left someone giggled. She tensed, an image of Dansila and her followers materializing before her eyes. When she looked though, it was only two strangers. Qwella kept her hand steady as she spied on them from her spot on the floor.

Two women clasped hands, one of them pushing the other backwards against the wall. Was she going to hit her?

Qwella tensed, but then the woman doing the pushing leaned forward and planted a kiss on the other's cheek. The second woman leaned into it, arching her back against the wall, brushing her cheek against the first woman's face. Their lips found each other's, their hands slipping from each other's fingers and around their waists, beneath their robes, toward—

The pile of ash collected by Qwella's brush whumphed onto what remained of the fire, smothering it.

"Ah!" Qwella gasped as darkness enveloped her.

The two women in the hall hastened away, their sandals whispering against the stones.

Across the hall, Eshant snickered, not for the first time since she and Qwella had begun the evening chores. Qwella pursed her lips. Eshant might have rescued Qwella from Dansila's taunting, but that didn't make her a friend.

The pit of Qwella's stomach churned as she turned to watch Eshant, who crouched in the opposite corner. No, she wasn't a friend, but she was . . . something. Seeing Eshant in the riad had inspired Qwella to join the temple in the first place, and she'd been gentle and kind as she'd instructed Qwella.

But what did Qwella know of her? How much of herself had Eshant shared? Nothing.

Qwella rubbed her sore, tired eyes, exhausted by the endless parade of menial tasks Daana had saddled her with. Qwella had come here because she'd thought she belonged here, because she'd thought to find sisterhood, because Qalita was the goddess of secrets and Qwella had hoped to be indoctrinated in her sacred mysteries.

She hadn't come to clean wine stains, breathe dust, or cake ash beneath her fingernails as she busied herself with duties fit for slaves.

And where was her sisterhood? The other women—save Dansila—were kind enough, but all they did was gossip about this or that Ashqat, their worries and concerns worded in a coded shorthand she lacked the vocabulary for, their jokes dependent on familiarity with the convoluted history of the aforementioned gossip. Qwella had never been as social as she should have at the palace, but at least she'd understood what people were saying.

She dumped the shovel and brush into the brazier, letting them clatter against the brass, and marched to the opposite corner of the room, where Eshant was scrubbing.