The Wings of Ashtaroth

Chapter 5: Mazna: Section III: Qwella

"You were laughing." Qwella faltered at Eshant's dimpled smile, an expression that found its way to her eyes.

"I'm sorry." Eshant laid down her damp cloth, still smiling. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Qwella drew herself up. "You shouldn't laugh."

"It really didn't mean anything. All the women who come here struggle at first. Especially since so many come from good houses. Didn't you know that?" Her tone was free of condescension, but Qwella was unimpressed. Why such niceness? It made Qwella feel rude when she hadn't meant to be.

"I did know that," said Qwella. "Why else would I have come?"

Eshant held up her hands. "I'm sorry. It was only a question."

"You know who I was, don't you?"

"You mean before you came here?" asked Eshant. "The woman from the palace, right? The one at the window? I saw you watching us the night we prayed for that merchant."

That merchant. The girl at the window. Was that all Qwella and Sabeq were to these people? Still, Qwella shivered, remembering the look Eshant had cast her from the riad, the feel of Eshant's fingers brushing her own when Eshant had handed back the torn dress Dansila had ruined.

"Qwella et-Moniqa," Qwella said, then bit her lip. She was Qwella et-Afqat now, so why did it matter so much that Eshant know the difference? That Qwella impress her?

"The king's Moniqa?" Eshant's already wide eyes widened. "You're the one who refused Qanmi eq-Sabaal."

Qwella nodded, blushing. Had news of her choice truly reached all the way down here? Perhaps Qwella had been the source of last week's gossip. Still, it was nice to have a proper conversation with someone.

The light from the lantern flickered across Eshant's brown hair, her warm skin. Her lips.

Qwella tore her gaze away. "Who were you? Really, I mean."

Eshant coughed, covering her mouth with her fist. She gestured vaguely at the open expanse of the hall, its dusty stone walls; the geometry of its patterned ceiling; and the triangular tiles interlocking beneath their feet.

It might have been frightening, should have been, yet Qwella felt only safety, a sense of earthy majesty. She was in Qalita's abode in earnest, however boring and ordinary the tasks she'd been set.

"It's the incense," Eshant explained. "It makes me cough. That and the dust; it just peels off the walls."

Qwella smiled politely. Peels probably wasn't the appropriate word.

"I'm not anyone really," Eshant continued. "A second daughter, unlikely to ever attract a husband. My father saw an opportunity and took it."

So Eshant had been sold to the temple. "What about your mother?

"She died." The words carried the neutrality of one who'd grown up motherless, who'd never met the woman, and might even blame her for the inconvenience of her death. Qwella had heard that indifference before, from Ashtaroth. It had frightened her, the realization that Moniqa, a name so full of meaning for the rest of them, could mean so little to him. She bent down, suddenly afraid to look Eshant in the eyes. She found the edges of the tile pattern with her finger, dragging her finger along the rim.

Eshant sat down beside her, dropping her cloth into the metal bucket with a splash.

"You must know all about my mother." Qwella's finger darted faster along the lines as she spoke, weaving in and out, recreating the shapes in front of her. They inevitably held some significance. Perhaps tomorrow someone would instruct her as to their meaning, but it was far more likely she'd be shown how to clear the gutters.