Oleander

XI. Dark Crescent (part four)

Breath caught in her ribs, Yalira withdrew her hand as if the chest held serpents. Alone in Andar's chambers, no one would see her investigate something that should not exist. Trying to ignore the implications of the dusty tomes, she swallowed and removed each one.

Thais dao Nadira

Althea dao Terani

Xanthe dao Kassandre

Persipone dao Daphni

Natila dao Antari

Each leather cover bore name after name. The same names fading from her spine. The High Priestesses of Antalis. Her legacy.

Other chests had to have been stolen from Antalis. Did they contain the record of more priestesses? More names that were once inked into her skin? More words that should not be written?

Could I have misunderstood?

The question rang with childish hope, even in her own head. How many lessons had cried the importance of their oral traditions? How many elders had warned the dangers of recording Antala's wisdom? Script and ink, chisels and letters, this was the domain of men. A goddess would not seek to be bound to the mortal realm, forever imprisoned by man's hand.

The wild hammer of her heartbeat drowned out the world. Even with tangible evidence before her, Yalira barely believed their existence. A secret record, kept by the life of each priestess. With the covers closed—secrets hidden—Yalira could pretend that they were only the accounts of outsiders.

That wish also burned with a tenuous naivety that she knew would not bear the weight of truth.

Braver than she felt, Yalira untied the cover that screamed her name.

Inked by a careful hand, each pressed sheet of vellum gleamed in its perfect preservation.

Ends of beginnings, beginnings of ends! Pray to the winds! Or else drown in the ashes.

Her first words gifted by Antala, screamed beneath the mountain. Saved. Recorded. 

The horrible proof ripped the breath from her lungs. With a gentleness that raged against her screaming thoughts, Yalira closed the leather cover. Beneath her fingers rested the proof that someone in Antalis recorded the prophecies. Bright as blood, Antala's words on the page burned, undeniable.

Molten iron seared into her spirit. These records, blasphemous as they were, could not live in Andar's palace. They could not stay in Andar's rooms. This was no home for a goddess's wisdom.

Determined with the whisperings of a plan, Yalira stood and pulled the chest into her arms. Foremost, she would remove these records from Andar's possession. They needed to be sheltered, secured. There was danger in prophecy, in those who knew its words.

Forcing her breaths even, her arms strong, Yalira began the journey to her rooms. The shadows cast by the burning afternoon sun stretched before her, clawing fingers. Semyra was no place for these secret words—there were too many who might twist divine words into new meanings. In a world of schemers and liars and thieves, the tendrils of what might pass might wrap themselves around throats.

And in those tendrils, Yalira wondered if a strategy might be found.

I will take the chests to the altar.

Their secrets would be safer in a place where Antala watched. That was the path. Yet, her spirit had burned and burned to find the rumored secrets.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tonight, I search for truth.

The thought calmed the fluttering of her heart, the taut bonds around her ribs. The chest and its contents weighed less in her arms. The promise of knowing gave her feet wings.