Oleander

XI. Dark Crescent (part one)

Leaving the new altar left Yalira in a bitter mood. She could appreciate that it had been an uncomfortable journey home for poor Oristos, forced to endure her angry silence. Despite his attempts to cajole her, to entreat her into a sunnier disposition, Yalira had glowered from her pillowed seat.

Her bitter mood, fed on a diet of nightmares and poor sleep, grew stronger the following morning. Oristos canceled their reading lesson and Rishi declined her invitation for a shared breakfast. Trapped in her own sour company, pacing in her chambers, Yalira heard Tala's words echo in her ears. Hideous and biting, their barbed edge prodded Yalira deeper and deeper into an indignant, lonely fury. An ocean crested with the occasional wave of doubt.

What if truth was not the right path? What if the cost was too high?

The questions had plagued her through the night, even in the distorted memories and fears that imprisoned her dreams.

Yalira ached for the serene presence of her predecessor, for Thais dao Nadira, who calmly accepted all things. Thais who knew the world's answers and spoke with Antala's wisdom, who never faltered under her title as High Priestess.

Thais dao Nadira, who was not always kind, who would not have let Antalis fall to Andar of Tyr. She would have seen it. She would have known.

Why had Antala not warned them?

Bitterness threatened to pool at her eyes. Precaution and strategy faded against the assault of anger and indignation and guilt.

With the heel of her hand, Yalira rubbed at her eyes, furious, before painting them with kohl. Hungry for a fight, Yalira decorated her face, smoothed the creases from her dress, as if it were armor. Draped in comfortable routine, the vestiges of Antalis, Yalira told her reflection that her path was true.

She ignored the flicker of guilt and doubt hidden behind her shadowed eyes.

"No!"

The urgent whisper carried from the hall, ringing through Yalira's chambers. Her rooms, though overlooking the minor gardens, were the furthest from Andar's and closest to the atrium, along the main circuit of the palace. Yalira had grown used to the commotion that wafted into her rooms as easily as did sunlight.

This voice differed from the usual chatter. A single word, so quiet and angry. Angry—and frightened.

"I said won't do it!"

"Don't pretend you've grown a backbone, Alleta. You'll do this or—"

Yalira inched closer to the doorway, bare feet near silent against the floor.

"No—stop—"

Yalira couldn't make out the words, only a low murmuring and then a pained cry.

Heart pounding in her ears, Yalira froze.

Who would abuse a queen? Her mind raced through potential enemies. Enemies of queens. Enemies of Orvalle.

Before Yalira might remind herself that she was no longer kind, she moved to confront the assaulter.

Sunlight filtered in from the open ceiling, illuminating sparks of dust motes in the air. Besides the company of her echoing breaths, the hall was empty.

Yalira turned, desperate to find a trace of the queen from Orvalle.

"Something wrong, priestess?"

For all her beauty, Valen of Prynia spoke with a dripping disdain that cast her loveliness into sneering sharpness. Not even her sandalwood and jasmine perfume softened the hard edge to the trill of bird-like voice.