Oleander

XX. Blind (part four)

It was Gallus, however, who continued to trail her steps for the rest of the afternoon and into the charred ruins of the poorer districts of Semyra. In her usual habit of avoiding the slums, Rishi voiced no interest in surveying the damage and the pledged birth of progress.

See to your flock without me, she'd teased. But her refusal was not unkind: it'd included an invitation for evening wine to fill the hours before Andar returned to collect his ninth queen. Though Yalira no longer blushed each time Rishi reminded her of Andar's attentions, the frequent innuendo left her mouth dry and her thoughts on edge.

It was basest of selfishness to chase that physical intimacy, to surrender to that toxic gravity. Yalira saw her mirrored discomfort in Andar's face, each nightfall. Despite his obsession for an heir, Andar came to her, for her. She read it in the pull of his bones, as it echoed in the marrow of hers. Orbiting stars, neither could escape their circuit. No matter how discomforting the realization.

"You are troubled." The interruption cut through the tangled knots in her mind. Gallus did not remove his gaze from scanning the streets they passed. His dark eyes were narrowed in the effort. A wary appraisal of the emptiness in search for waiting threat. In the wake of destruction, it annoyed Yalira.

She patted Shadow's neck, a temporary loan from Andar—another promise of protection—and deflected. "I only worry our plan will be met with counter efforts."

"As you say, my queen." His voice was skeptical. Or at least, that is how Yalira read it. Unflinchingly upright atop his own mount, a sleek bay mare, Gallus gave no insight beyond his usual respectful nod. Now that they had left the lofty confines of the palace and the dangerous unknown threatened, her steady guard had no humor for her.

She had set their path to the eastern edge of the slums, far from the altar that stood as a grim tomb to her priestesses. Andar might have promised some small flame of hope, but Yalira feared the charred skeleton of that once cheerful place would smother it to dust. It was better, she reasoned, not to challenge that soft dream. Not yet.

A sentiment shared by the fire's survivors.

Most of the slums had taken to sheltering in crude camps they'd constructed in the former markets: the only places large enough to house them. Though many of their apartments and storefronts had not collapsed, there was a certain comfort in residing together. Children's voices echoed from the winding mazes of tents. Colorful tarps blocked out the soot streaked remains of their home. Like Yalira, they too seemed to avoid the reminders of what they had lost.

In that effort, it was unfortunate that their crowded conditions, the crumbling infrastructure, that sickness spread with new fury. The purging illness still whispered and lurked, new cases clustering at the encampments. But with so many, so close, common respiratory and seasonal ailments returned with ugly vengeance. Dealing with the epidemic, with the hands of her priestesses, had been difficult enough. Now her daily trips, solemn and solitary, were met with fevers and coughs, emesis and diarrhea alike.

Today, however, Yalira was surprised to see a flurry of activity outside the edge of the marketplace. Flanked by guards, Alleta of Orvalle stood at the center of a crowd. Tied into layers of linens, she did not look the part of queen, but the circlet tucked into her springy curls revealed her identity. Stony-faced noble-women remained behind her, each holding wrapped baskets or bundles of blankets and each wearing fractured faces as discomfort chiseled away poise.

"Queen Alleta!" Yalira's voice, rang out, and recognized by the people, thinned the crowd to create a twisted path. Gallus protested wordlessly as Yalira pulled her shawl around her shoulders and slid from Shadow's back to meet the other queen.