Himalit: The Watchtower: Qemassen
Hima's everything ached, but the sun was shining on the Helit Sea. No rambling Ashqen was needed to explain to her the nature of the omen; the gods looked on her city with favour. The complaints of the body were nothing in the face of that, and she would make her body remember it.
Besides, when Adoran finally showed up for their meeting, she wasn't about to let him see her flinch.
To the creak of the leather brace strapped to her left leg, Hima labored to the window of the heq-Damirat's tower and surveyed the ocean beyond and the shipyard directly below. She stood on the highest floor of the watchtower, its circular chamber perfect for observing both the city and the harbour. At the centre of the room stood a smaller, cylindrical wall, which concealed the central stairway. An orange-tinted mural the colour of daybreak curved along the cylinder. Ships upon ships danced their battle-dance across its surface in a proud display of Qemassen's might. The mural had been commissioned by Hima's grandfather, King Isir, in honour of his victories in eq-Anout. Though the painting was intended to show an ancient battle between Elibat's conquerors and the tribal natives, the triremes and quadriremes had been copied from Isir's own fleet.
Her grandfather's victories cast a shadow over Hima's failures. The city had been saved, yes, but through none of her efforts. When the wave had come, they'd been losing. If she were to live up to the might of her grandfather, she had battles yet to win.
As Hima watched the water directly below her tower, a smaller trireme slid from one of the sluice gates. The ship melted into the modest traffic, curving around the tower on its voyage past the bustling dockyard out to the sea.
Her shipyard had fared comparatively well after the earthquake. The exterior docks had been flooded, of course, and repairs were ongoing, but while the stones elsewhere had crumbled beneath the waves, the damage to the yard had been superficial. The Qabira still stood watch atop Hima's tower; the sluicegates that circled it still opened and closed to allow newly built ships to plow furrows across the Helit's calm surface.
At a movement no bolder than a twitch, the brace keeping Hima's leg straight dug into her, its edges like a knife drawn slowly and shallowly around her skin. Her leg thrummed hot with pain.
It didn't matter that she was alone; the heq-Damirat was Qemassen's strength. She should stand tall and straight, for her city and for her sons. Aurelius had no bruises to complain about, yet he wallowed like a spoiled boy instead of the king they'd crowned him. One of the two of them must be strong.
Hima rested her palms on the stone window ledge in front of her, anchoring herself, willing the pain that radiated from her leg to flow out of her and into the tower. Let the Qabira shoulder her burden for her, so she could focus on her duties.
Qirani had warned Hima she would never walk straight again, but Hima had sought a second opinion from an Ashqen of Adonen. The Ashqen had promised not only that she'd walk again, but that she'd run. The brace was the price, one Qirani had argued vehemently against. He was an Anan though, and eq-Anout was an enemy. In the weeks to come, it may even be revealed he was one of the spies the Anata had no doubt employed to ferret information back home. How could any of them trust such a man?
Perhaps he was even one of Zioban's agents.
She was smart enough to recognize that Aurelius wasn't entirely wrong—not everyone was an enemy and not everyone could have been working with Zioban and the Lora. But Aurelius was also too quick to forget the torture they'd endured. Hima's sons had been snatched from the Eghri and permanently mutilated. She wouldn't forget that. She wasn't going to ignore the danger her family faced in favour of whores and sapenta.
