Oleander

XX. Blind (part one)

With the loss of the records, Yalira had little to move into Andar's chambers. What she did have—dresses, shawls, and baubles—Andar watched her collect with wary eyes. She could feel each of his breaths on her shoulder, each muscle twitch as he expected some new threat lurking in her closets. It'd have felt foolish if it were not for the serpent's corpse that Oristos removed from the floor.

The walk to his side of the palace, carrying possessions that held no attachment, was quiet and starlit. A break from the stubborn, storm-cast gloom.

"If I stay," Yalira said. "I need to know the truth."

Oristos hadn't been wrong. Andar's public favor placed her in a vulnerable position. And Yalira hadn't been wrong, either. She had few allies left in the city. She swallowed. Yalira would never again submit to a goddess, never fall into the comfortable prison of tradition, but she knew her strengths. Truth the mightiest of them.

"I've never lied to you, Yalira."

There was no flash of oleander, no choking ash against her tongue, but Yalira could hear the steadiness of his voice. Andar's attention was anchored to her, his golden eyes sincere and direct. Yalira did not have the whispers of power from Antala to guide her, but she still recognized the human signs of deception and Andar did not wear them.

"But neither have you been entirely true."

He smiled faintly at that.

"We are equals in that regard."

Even tucked in the cool blanket of night, Yalira felt warmth rise to her cheeks. A novice in deceit she'd started, but Andar only knew the barest fraction of her liar's tongue. He'd teased at her sarcasm, her reluctance to answer him directly. Andar had not realized she'd spun the deepest of treacheries. How could he? She was something that should not exist: a truth priestess who could deceive.

They passed the carved entry to his rooms. The smell of ink and parchment tickled at her nose.

"Shall we trade truths, then?" Yalira asked. Her words lacked the goading of their previous games. She did not want trivialities; she wanted everything.

Bronze eyes narrowed, Andar read her clearly. He nodded and gestured to the benches before the fresh-tended hearth, the fortified wine set before it. Yalira inhaled deeply, to steady herself, and placed her pile of belongings on the cushioned edge before sitting. Andar smiled, a touch rueful, as he sat across from her and poured their glasses. She felt the shift, too. The truth liked to change the course of perception, and their new balance was already precarious.

"Why do I feel I'll need something stronger for this game?" he asked, leaning to hand her glass.

Careful to avoid touching his skin, Yalira accepted the drink. She brought it to her lips, playing for time as she bullied her reluctance into submission.

"Because I've committed acts no High Priestess should be capable of," she said, meeting his gaze above the dark wine.

"And what are those acts?"

His tone was mild, but his brows lowered slightly, shading his golden eyes so that she could not see into him. Though he was languid across the lines of the bench, leaning his head against his hand, the taut readiness that lived in each of his sinews hummed.

"Lie. Doubt." She forced herself to hold his gaze. She expected to shock him. "Kill."

But he surprised her. His eyes remained hard, but his lips curved as if he enjoyed a private jest. "I think you're hardly the first, Yalira."

The flintiness of his words sent a fissure of irritation through her, a strange shuddering anticipation. "What do you know, Andar?"

But he would only meet her halfway. "Give me your confession, sweet priestess,"