The debauchery and the answers she'd hope to find in it were delayed. A lonely shadow fluttered in her room. A shadow with mismatched eyes.

Her anger at Oristos—at his betrayal—faded the moment she returned his searching gaze. He pulled her hands to inspect them.

"Oh good. You're not bleeding."

His sardonic inflection rolled over her like heady wine, cloying and warm. The wound still stung, but in the face of his earnest smile, Yalira could not fault him. In a world where she had only just deceived her sisters, that barest breath of friendship sang with nectar and honey.

"I escaped my priestesses unscathed," she answered with the same lilt, brandishing her unmarked forearms. Yalira knew the man well enough: a hint of humor would distract him from looking too closely at the unsteadiness and self-loathing that lurked beneath her skin. "Andar overestimated the forces required to overthrow my temple. Should I mention the unnecessary expense in the next forum meeting?"

Oristos snorted. "I imagine Lyroc—"

"—son of Lyroc—"

He rolled his mismatched eyes and pressed her lips shut with a finger.

"Quiet, you—he would choke on his tongue if faced with a woman who had the mental capacity to consider finances and military expenditure."

"So I should mention it then?"

Their easy banter was a salve, his closeness comforting. It did not vibrate with the energy that pulsed between her and Andar, but the bond was as familiar as moonlight.

"You're distracting me!" he cried, pulling her toward a carefully laid dress spread across her coverlet.

"What's this?"

"You can't come as yourself. That defeats the entire purpose of a masked party."

"You didn't say it was a masked party."

He clicked his tongue as if he were certain he had mentioned it. "Rishi picked it out for you. I was only supposed to make sure you dressed up."

Yalira fingered a length of the bright fabric, its smoothness cool and slippery against her skin. Each edge bore fringed feathers that reminded her of a thousand dark eyes. In the waning light of day, the blues and greens glowed. It shamed even the most elaborate of her ceremonial garments.

"Thank you." The reply was habit, without thought.

"I'm sorry, you know," Oristos breathed. "Andar told me you overheard our conversation, that you two spoke."

That I know you're loyal to him first. That you doubt my worth. Unspoken words between them.

"It doesn't matter, Oristos," Yalira answered, both truth and lie. "I am happy to own whatever friendship you can offer me."

She tried not to take pleasure in the conflict behind his blue and brown eyes.

"I'd give you more if I could."

As he turned to leave, Yalira reached for his hand.

"Does he own everything in Semyra? Must he own all of you?"

His pause was stuttered by half a laugh.

"When we were young, I imagined we were two halves of the same spirit." Oristos shrugged, shared a smile that bore no joy. "But boys grow up, eventually."

The servants who replaced his company did not replace the conversation. They pulled her into the peafowl dress, twisted her hair with gold and silver, and left Yalira to consider his words.

The chains of devotion and obedience, it seemed, were not only held by goddesses.

"Yalira!"

Her name rang above the melody of lyre and reed pipes, the musical roar of discussion. Rishi trilled from an easy lounge, bathed in the attention of admirers. The high-born of Semyra clustered around her, their postures greedy for her approval. With a casual wave, the queen dismissed them and rose to greet Yalira affectionately.

"You look very lost, dear one," she breathed in Yalira's ear, intertwining their arms. "But only if I look closely."

In the wildness of the celebration, Yalira did feel lost. The full moons of her life had been spent in solemn worship. The music had been chanting song, the guests the sick and dying. The scar on her arm, once a measure of her pride, pulsed in the room's firelight. The feathered mask across her eyes, a shield in an unknown land.

Rishi, however, was at ease in the crowd. She wore no mask but had detailed gold and crimson scales around her eyebrows. The paint matched the linked golden discs and links and bells of her dress, the dark garnets and bright wire woven into her braided wig.

The confidence and warmth Rishi radiated almost erased the fact that their last conversation had been one of death and warnings. Of shadows and unkindness.

Fitting, Yalira mused. That I am so charmed by a serpent.

Rishi's costume sang as she reached for a pair of clay cups for them. Instead of wine, a thick bitter sweetness met Yalira's lips. Her puckered face made Rishi laugh.

"Oristos lost a bet to me, so I chose the libations," she explained. "This is heket, fermented barely. It's all we drink in Lytvia. Do be careful, though—heket tends to sneak up on you."

"What was your bet?" Yalira asked, sipping more slowly.

"Oh, nothing important. We frequently wager on Andar's moods."

Curiosity piqued, tone incredulous, Yalira pressed, "How could that possibly be entertaining for you?"

Rishi's laugh rang with a gaiety more delightful and entrancing than the luxuries she wore on her arms. It drew helpless, pleading eyes to her. She glowed, burning in her element.

"Because I always win." She smiled widely, lips stained with crimson tint.

"Remind me not to make wagers with you."

"Cleverer than Oristos by far!" Rishi proclaimed, knocking their cups together. "Come, I have people I want you to meet."

In the endless line of introductions, Rishi's whispered commentary, and the fuzziness that came from the heket, Yalira forgot that she had worried that the queen might betray her. Alight with warmth and laughter, there was no room for dark thoughts. Rishi never let their cups empty, pointed out each party-goer and the trail of gossip that followed them. Information flowed as quickly did the alcohol.

Indiscretions, adultery, the occasional odd perversion. Rishi draped herself in secrets. And yet, even with the buzzing in her head, Yalira knew these trinkets of gossip would not help buy her way out of Semyra. She needed something powerful, a currency to bribe Andar of Tyr. Or a weapon to dethrone him.

"Do the other queens come to these parties?" Yalira asked, sitting up on the lounge. She was eager to change the subject. Odessa nu Atlus and her unique approach to furthering her husband's political career would not free her from Semyra.

The queens are the key, Yalira's bones whispered. Andar's missing legacy.

Snatching a cluster of honied almonds from a passing tray, Rishi rolled her eyes before answering. "Valen makes a point of arriving late. She hates Oristos and imagines her obvious dismissal hurts him."

"And the others?"

"Well, I always attend. I love a good party." She laughed at Yalira's annoyed expression and wiggled her gold painted fingers to count off queens.

"Fine. Let's see. Alleta comes if she thinks Andar will be here. He rarely shows up—he hates seeing these sycophants in the forum, much less in the palace. Sasha used to attend before she rather spectacularly vomited all over Dezma. Poor lamb never recovered from the embarrassment. Xaisha maybe came once or twice. Edyt almost never misses a chance to drink. And well, Avalyn is over there in the corner."

Yalira followed the direction of Rishi's careless gesture. Dressed in shadows instead of a costume, Avalyn sat with a similarly unmasked crowd that passed a pipe between them. Even from across the room, a sliver of Yalira's mind noted their glazed eyes, their black pinprick centers. The stillness of Avalyn's body was so different that the flickering nervousness that usually held her.

"She lost her pregnancy last year," Rishi sighed, bored with gossip long passed. Yalira understood.

"Opium." Potent and powerful against pain, both physical and emotional. But dangerous, addictive.

"All of Andar's queens eventually find an escape." The whip of her voice was careless and callous. Rishi's attention was more focused on the entertainer who had diverted the audience from the musicians. This was another boring topic. Old gossip. Yalira pushed.

"Why?"

"It's an ugly world we live in, Yalira." Rishi's eyes did not leave the performer. She clapped her hands as he tipped a small bottle of grain alcohol into his mouth. "You either are consumed by it, or become ugly too."

"Then why not change it?"

The crowd shrieked as the performer blew a plume of fire. The bright flash reflected in Rishi's eyes. In the burning orange, her copper skin gleamed, the hard edges of her face softened.

"Ah, my sweet priestess. I thought we talked about kindness. I cannot protect you forever."

"Why?" It was foolish and desperate, childish and weak, but the question burned from her lips before Yalira could lock it away. "Why help me at all?"

The gold and ruby glittered from her braided wig as Rishi's wide smile turned into something small and thoughtful.

"You are my sister in spirit, Yalira. I recognized you the moment Andar dragged you to Semyra's steps."

"I don't understand." Of all the words Yalira expected, these were not any she might have guessed.

"And you won't. There are some things in this world beyond knowing. At least not until you're ready."

"That's a very annoying answer."

Rishi smirked over the rim of her cup before crumpling into laughter. "Divine truth is annoying, doesn't it?"

Before Yalira could think of a clever reply, a burst of gold, a ripple in the crowd, caught her eye. Braids askew, Rishi groaned.

"Oristos will be so boring now that Andar's here," she pouted. "Shall we greet him?"

Yalira thought that jumping from the balcony might be more enjoyable than speaking with the man who so casually ripped apart her identity. While her heart had calloused to the brutal conquering of her temple, she dreaded looking into those golden eyes and seeing the reflection of her fractured pain. Her expression must have reflected enough of her sentiment, for Rishi patted her cheek affectionately.

"I'll only be a moment. Get us fresh drinks?"

Straightening her wig, Rishi called to Andar and flitted away before Yalira could answer.

As the moon climbed, the room grew more crowded, the festivities more wild. The fire-breathing performer laughed recklessly, blowing flames just over the heads of his screaming admirers. The music had long been drowned out by shouted conversation. Heat rose from the strangers packed into the room. Hidden behind the feathered mask and the warm flush in her cheeks, Yalira felt invisible as she weaved a path towards the heket.

A cool hand caught hers.

"Priestess."

Yalira turned to meet brown eyes under a tawny mask. Dark, springy hair completed the lion's mane.

"Queen Alleta," Yalira greeted. She giggled at the clumsiness of her bow.

"Are you drunk?"

It had not been until standing that her head felt so heavy, her limbs so loose. Alleta's disapproving incredulity sparked a flicker of pride.

"The heket," Yalira answered in Rishi's lofty tone. "It tends to sneak up on you."

"It doesn't matter." Alleta tugged on her arm. "I'm here to warn you."

"Warn me?"

"Leave Semyra."

A/N:

Debauchery!