Oleander

IX. Unknown (part three)

Blood scrubbed from her fingers, draped in fresh garments, Yalira forged her will with that cold fire of defeat. Her firm resolve had spared innocent suffering. Only firmer resolve would see Sasha through the dawn. Only deceit would protect their lives. Resolve and deceit and trust.

Trust in Rishi.

Standing before Andar's unguarded chambers, the silence seemed accusatory.

With a fortifying breath, she called, "Andar?"

"Enter."

A splinter pierced Yalira's chest, burrowing into her heart. Even without looking into his predator's eyes, she heard the feather's touch of hope in his voice. Sasha's screams had echoed through his palace and not even Andar of Tyr had escaped them. Rishi had mentioned his worry, his impatience.

Yalira stepped forward, past the last threshold of the hall's safety, and into his domain.

A part of her expected Andar of Tyr to live and sleep and plot inside a monster's lair. She had imagined dark chambers, decorated with opulent trinkets from his conquests. She expected the head of every beast he'd ever slaughter mounted on his walls, a tribute to death and destruction.

Instead of a tomb, Yalira walked into a library. Clean lines of polished wood and marble, chests and scrolls and pressed papyrus littering every surface. The casual disarray surprised her. He was meticulous with his road supplies and tack, his routines of camp, and the care of his warhorse. The ink-stained mess breathed an air of scholarly pursuit rather than that of a fastidious warmonger.

Though his crimson banners accented the room, fresh white linen dominated. Braziers were lit, as was the hearth Andar stood before, and the swathes of golden light cast his features into sharpness. He lacked armor—clad in a draped mantle, skin littered with scars—but its absence highlighted his sinewy grace, his coiled energy.

Yalira hesitated. It was not the first time she had imparted unwelcome news as a healer, not the first time a child did not survive its journey into the world. Yet, Yalira felt like a novice, untrained and speechless.

"Is Sasha well?" he asked.

The last time she had seen the queen, lost to the depths of the strange tonic, felt like a lifetime ago.

"Physically, yes." Yalira kept her voice as soft as the breeze that whispered at Andar's favorite hill, as calm as the water across the far horizon.

Andar's expressionless face threatened to twitch into a storm. For a moment, Yalira thought he might accuse her of cruel coyness, but he read past the forced calm that spoke more than words—he knew. He did not appear surprised. The flashes of rage and sorrow and guilt were so bright in their intensity, so tumultuous in his eyes, Yalira might have missed them if she were not pulled into their bronze depths.

"The child—"

But he did not finish the question. Though his voice did not waiver, Andar of Tyr could not speak the words. Yalira sensed the battle of his curiosity—the desire to know clashed against the fear of the answer. It screamed with such vulnerable human sentiment that the shock of it spurred her forward, raising a hand towards him to comfort, to heal.

Another kindness.

She froze as his eyes narrowed. Ingrained into her muscles, that fleeting gesture of empathy died in his expression. Incredulity, fury, sorrow. Hatred.

A lion, a serpent, a beast. Monsters did not need comfort.

And I am no longer kind.

"It did not survive," she said, answering his unspoken fears in a raw voice.