Oleander

VIII. Monsters (part two)

Lost in the glow of her success, it was not until Andar's callused fingers found the skin of her back that Yalira's mind sharpened. She flinched and stilled, a hare waiting to flee, a sparrow to take flight.

"May I ask a question?" Andar's words were soft as he removed his hand. The gentle tone reminded her of the star-speckled nights journeying to Semyra, the nights where he battled her dark moods with stories, humor, and self-deprecation. He meant to coax her into submission as he did his horse.

If beating a horse would make it more loyal, I would beat it to an inch of its life.

His words sprang forth in her memory, a shower of icy rain. Yalira steeled herself with the memory. It would always be strategy and games. Andar of Tyr used whatever means best suited his purpose. There was no room for her victory if she fell into complacent dreaming.

She bent her head slowly, narrowing her eyes.

"If the priestesses do not read, who inscribed the names of High Priestesses down your back?"

Meaningless ringing replaced thought. 

The screech of seabirds against heartbroken wailing. Songlike chanting drowned out by the clash of bronze against bronze, the weeping of dying men. The hiss of ether interwoven with stifled sobs, crying children. She opened her mouth to scream against it, but the taste of oleander was too thick against her tongue. 

Suffocating.

"Yalira!"

The weight of his solid gaze pulled her back to the hillside, silenced the cacophony in her head. Faint salt replaced the overwhelming flood of oleander and the sting of pain against her cheek was fainter still.

"You were lost," Andar explained unapologetically as she glanced at his hand, untangling the mystery. He had slapped her. Unvoiced, the question needing the action remained.

"That's never happened before," she murmured, placing the comforting warmth of her own hand to her cheek. Beneath her earthy fingers, tears had left streaks across her skin. Like after a fever, she was shivery and weak.

Like after the new moon.

The thought stilled her. Never had a High Priestess fallen into Antala's embrace so far from the darkness of the moonless night. To drift into trance—so far from Antalis, without the aid of ritual preparation—was impossible.

"Did I say anything?" Yalira asked hesitantly. She locked her eyes to Andar's, to watch for the smallest flicker of dishonesty. He had claimed the prophecies were twisted by clever tongues. It would be so easy for him to do so now. 

"No," he answered. Those golden eyes battled between curiosity and concern. Yalira saw the churning thoughts in his head—the careful calculation that always lurked underneath his handsome face shone through—but his words were truthful. His mouth tilted into a frown as he added, "It sounded like you were gasping. Like you were being strangled."

In the silence, another memory of his words called, as strong and unwanted as a shackle around her wrist.

I take care of what is mine.

The sharpness of his concern threatened to slide between her ribs. Though his tone burned with sincerity, Yalira knew that Andar of Tyr only feared he had stolen damaged property.

"I don't know what happened," she said, uprooting a blade of grass, desperate to find a task to occupy the nervous energy that assailed her.

His eyebrows rose, doubtful.

"I mean to say," Yalira corrected before he named her dishonest. "It should be impossible so far from Antalis."

"That was Antala's influence?"