Oleander

VIII. Monsters (part four)

**As a warning, this chapter contains descriptions of childbirth.**

The ebb and flow of screaming gave way to the slap of sandaled feet against marble, to a servant's cry at her chambers.

"Is it Sasha?" Yalira asked, drawing the curtain back. Only the cries of childbirth thundered in desperation, echoed in longing. Like divine healing, motherhood mirrored that sacred trade of blood and pain for life.

The frantic woman, Sasha's handmaiden, nodded, wisps of hair escaping her tight braid. "She did not want you to come, priestess! But now I fear it is too late!"

The sharp, fearful truth of her aura stung at Yalira's senses.

"Lead the way," Yalira answered, retrieving the small kit of herbs she had prepared.

It had been an absentminded habit to arrange the neat bundles of healing herbs and over preparedness to return to the high city with them in her lap. As Sasha's cries burned holes into Yalira's empathy, the priestess thanked Antala for the security of habit and precaution.

Countless births, countless babes, and yet Yalira's spirit shuddered with fear at the sight of Sasha's chambers. Thick tapestries blotted out the night sky and helped the roaring fire smother the summer breeze. Heavy incense clouded the air. Servants cowered, helpless.

Beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows, a white-bearded surgeon glowered at the sweat-soaked queen.

"Don't waste your breath!" he snapped. As he moved to cut again, the silver bite of his surgeon's instruments flashed red in the fire's glow. He paused. The furrowed expression grew darker as the room's attention fell to Yalira, as a breath of hope rose in the stifling room.

"We don't need a priestess!" he shouted gruffly. Soaked in blood, drenched in sweat, he muttered vicious curses as Yalira cast aside her silver trimmed veil. With an air of ingrained self-importance, lined with his last thread of control, he added, "You cannot pray to turn the course of a breech child. I will cut it out."

Sasha howled again. Ignoring the man, and the tortured moans, Yalira turned to the nearest servant.

"I need you to fetch boiled water and fresh linen, can you do that for me?" She spoke clearly, calmly. At the woman's hesitant nod, Yalira added, firm, "Tell me, yes or no."

"Yes, High Priestess," she answered, her voice strong. Resolve replaced the worried shadow of her eyes.

Slowly, steadily, Yalira moved toward the sobbing queen. To control the energy of the room, she kept her face smooth, her pace unaffected. In this world, she was the healer, and this was another woman who needed her help. Yalira kneeled to place her hand on Sasha's arm.

"I know you did not want me here, Sasha," she said, meeting the woman's terrified blue eyes. The queen screamed again, agony and exhaustion twisting her features. It was not fair to ask Sasha to consent when she was in pain and scared, but time would not pause for a better moment. As the contraction died, Yalira pleaded, "Let me help you."

The queen whimpered, tears leaking from her eyes. "Please. Please. Please."

At the tiny voice, the ancient surgeon stood tall, in fury. He bellowed, "Get out! I will not have a priestess chanting spells over my patient! This is no place for a woman!"

For all his sincere, indignant pride, she scoffed at the ridiculous statement. Standing to meet his eye, drawing her chin up, Yalira cast him with the deep, haughty stare of a high priestess.

"This is the place for women," she intoned, gesturing toward Sasha, toward the trembling crowd behind her. "If you do not wish to see spells, then I suggest you leave."