Oleander

XIII. Ceremonies (part two)

A hazy dawn, rich with the memory of salt and sea and burning bronze, had filled her with serene resolve, a desire to bear the chaos of this monstrous wedding without flinching. It had seemed easy to promise, touched by that breathy morning glow.

The serenity and poise she meant to channel evaporated the moment grasping hands dragged her to the baths. Despite her protests to bathe herself, the proceedings were eerily similar to Valen's attempt to drown her those weeks ago. Scrubbed and perfumed, those fingers tugged combs across her scalp, lamenting at the wavy tangles.

In the brief pause to let her mass of dark hair dry, Rishi shooed away the army of handmaidens and high-born mothers to bring a breakfast of sweet cakes and wine.

You'll need it, she had promised before leaving, eager to bathe and dress herself for the event.

A bite and a mouthful of wine before the chaos returned, forcing her hair into long braids, twisting bronze wire through their circuits, and sewing them into place. Hands brushed powder across her cheeks, gold onto her eyelids, berry on her lip. Wrapped in layer after layer of ivory silks. The cool, smooth fabric against her skin could not save her from the rising heat of the summer day.

The screams of the cicadas, the growing anticipation from the city below, rose to her windows.

Longing blossomed in her chest for Antalis—the soft hands of her priestesses, the tutting perfectionism of the elders—and she forced it to that same secret place beneath her bed. All of Antalis, the good and bad, would remain safely tucked away until she was ready to revisit it.

But any nostalgia, any familiarity, that might have breathed itself into that room dissolved into mist the moment Yalira caught her reflection.

In the silver surface of the mirror, a priestess did not look back at her. Ivory, the color of healing, but in lavish cut and style. Its artful drape would never be found in Antala's temple. The legacy that had once decorated her spine had faded into copper skin. The hands once stained with dulcamara now only bore fragrance and bright gold. And yet, her dark eyes, rimmed with kohl, were deep with knowing.

Endure, they whispered.

The call sang with a strength and sorrow that threatened to muss hours of careful labor.

So like a bride! The servants laughed, dragging her away from the mirror.

We'll be late, they chided.

Hands that had grabbed and pulled now pushed her from her rooms and toward the words that would bind her to Andar of Tyr.

"I can escort her from here." Oristos stood against the doorway, his mismatched eyes solemn in the face of joyful tittering. The cheerful flock disappeared in his presence, leaving the pair in the spent chaos of the morning.

Dressed for ceremony, Yalira prickled with discomfort beneath her friend's brown and blue gaze. Bound in her gown, painted in gold, she was not the Yalira she knew. Oristos, draped in Temia's crimson, also seemed a stranger. And in the habit of new acquaintances, the awkwardness between held in brittle pauses.

"You look exquisite," he said. The whisper of his voice thundered in the empty room.

Yalira's fingers itched to tuck away a piece of hair, to smooth a wrinkle, to rub her face—but practiced patience burned her restlessness into the serenity she'd chased all morning.

"But you're missing something."

Under the heavy layers—the skirts she could barely walk in, the paint that covered her skin—Yalira couldn't imagine what might have been missed in her bridal costume. Her eyes flicked at Oristos in confusion, at his half-smile.