Oleander

X. Messages (part two)

Yalira's thoughts pushed and pulled with the strange implication of the query. The tone, the careful inflection—it breathed with a side of Oristos she had not seen. The thought settled uncomfortably in her stomach. Was this another monster behind a mask?

Gentle in voice, measured in manner, Yalira answered, "I find Andar to be unexpected in most ways."

Oristos frowned. His tilted disappointment tugged at her chest. The emotion struck her as absurd. Heart warred against head. Rishi's warnings echoed.

But their burgeoning friendship had already sprouted into empathy.

Though she told herself it was an attempt to garner information, Yalira spoke again to ease the unintended slight. Another kindness. "I suppose he must trust you very much."

The frown faded with a derisive bark of laughter. A strange gleam of self-loathing tore across Oristos's face. He turned, as if ashamed.

"He does trust me. We've been together since we were boys. I am the closest thing he has to a friend."

Yalira wondered if Oristos's companionship was born of obligation or manipulation. Though the man had all the cleverness of an orator, a progressive thinker, Oristos's softness seemed foreign in Semyra. Did he also have to lock away kindness? Did he now regret his bond to Andar?

Yalira knew their friendship was new, fragile. Andar of Tyr had intended to gift her with literacy, not an ally within his stronghold. Her mind balanced the scales: could her friendship with Oristos ever outweigh his devotion to her enemy?

The contemplative silence did not appear to register with her tutor, Andar's closest companion, for he was caught in his own thoughts.

An echo of shrieking joy rose from the gardens. Curiosity pulled her to the balcony—the sound of children in the high city of Semyra was not something Yalira had experienced. The sheer happiness of it soothed the healing wounds on her heart. Leaning against one of the carved columns, she waited.

Between the bushes below, a toddler, bright in the summer sun, raced after a bronze ball in his waddling gait.

A faint smile pulled at her lips. Yalira asked, "Who is that child?"

Without joining her to look, Oristos answered, "Dezma's nephew. He'd be the heir of Kythis, if Andar hadn't taken control of the city."

Kythis has joined Tyr reluctantly. The sovereign city-state could only fight for so long against their neighboring empire. Andar's acquisition was bloodless: a bride bought peace.

As if ready for Yalira's next question, Oristos continued, "Andar lets Dezma visit her family each summer, in exchange for her nephew's presence here."

A hostage. Yalira wasn't surprised to learn that she wasn't the only captive in Semyra.

Another happy scream echoed. And then a ring of laughter in reply. A deep wave of honest mirth she had not expected to hear again. Golden hair flashing in the daylight, Andar of Tyr chased the tiny child. With a mighty roar, the warrior king swept the squealing boy into his shoulders. So full of lightness, Andar's smile rivaled the sun.

"Distracted by something?"

The loud, drawling question carried to the gardens below. Andar turned, from the distance, looking up as if to find who had spoken. To Oristos's obvious amusement, Yalira stepped back to hide in the swathe of the column's shadow. The glimmer of mischievous humor, the implication that her interest was anything other than detached curiosity, pushed her towards snappish annoyance.

"It's not every day you see a tyrant play games with a political rival."

"He's a surprising man, isn't he? You only just said as much."

Yalira grunted, her dark eyes focused on boy and king. The curly haired toddler laughed and babbled, perfectly content in Andar's arms. There were those who said that truth lived within children. Clearly this one was defective.

In a sigh, Oristos continued, "Andar has a fondness for children. It would be better for him to kill the boy and set his own ally on the seat of Kythis."

The uncomfortable, unflinching truth of his statement made the hair on Yalira's arms shudder.

Perhaps Oristos is not so kind, then.

Despite the warmth of the day, she rubbed at the bare skin. Stillborns and murdered children. She was tired of the suffocating layer of death that pervaded this empire of bones.

"His fondness," Yalira said. "Is this his desire for an heir overflowing into misplaced affection?"

Oristos snorted derisively. "Each broken child, each stillborn, makes Andar more and more desperate for a son.

Would you rather I accept the death of another child without grief?

In a blinding instant, Andar's words echoed like thunder. The anger and fear she had fallen to within his chambers clouded her mind, obscured the truth. She had been so focused on his predator's grace, his overwhelming presence, that she had not heard his words.

The hushed voices that mentioned Xaisha's child, Sasha's strangely resigned acceptance of the monstrous child. Yalira's breath stopped in her chest with the realization.

Sasha's baby was not the first.

Heart pounding, Yalira poured through known causes of malformed babes. Sickness and starvation could mutate unborn children, that much was discussed in healing communities. But surely Andar's wives, spoiled and secured behind ivory walls, would not fall to such common misfortune. Surgeons and physicians tended their needs, servants and slaves prepared delicacies in excess.

Was it divine disfavor? Yalira still refused to believe that the goddesses, responsible for mortals and their lives, would punish Andar in this disturbing fashion. Even Vehena, patroness of war and justice, did not demand sacrifice. But if child after child was born inhuman, surely something had to be amiss with the queens?

Or with Andar.

Watching Oristos with careful eyes, Yalira was not certain if the information was foolishly spoken or a product of a new trust in her. His mismatched gaze was too focused on the garden below to read. As if distracted, a soft smile in the lines of his lips, he continued.

"But no. The brutal Andar of Tyr has a disturbing predilection for the weak and defenseless."

If she had not been so consumed with the new thread of mystery, Yalira might have made a point to roll her eyes. Andar of Tyr, despite his self-proclaimed status as Antalis's savior, was no admirable defender, no hero. The priestesses of Antalis were weak, defenseless, and he'd slaughtered most of them, hadn't he? A softness towards children did not erase the vicious savagery he had shown.

Secret records inside hidden chests. Mercurial men. Monstrous children. How had a life devoted to truth and healing—light and life—devolved into darkness and intrigue?

"You look troubled, Yalira."

"I suppose I'm tired."

Eyes gentle as twilight, Oristos took her hand. He seemed to understand perfectly that she was tired in spirit, tired of Semyra. His fingers were cool against hers.

"If you were Rishi, I'd suggest we find an excuse to spend Andar's gold. If you were Edyt, I'd escort you to the training fields." His smile was sweetness and sympathy. "But instead, why don't we go visit your priestesses?

"Do you know the preferred pastimes of all the wives?"

His laughter tickled the corners of Yalira's mouth. Oristos did not wear a mask. In that heartbeat, Yalira realized that he was her friend just as he was Andar's. He was a spy for the man just as certainly as he was the influence that tempered Andar's nature. One of his feet on both sides, Oristos's loyalty was split.

Yalira decided she did not care.

"Yes," she said suddenly. "I would enjoy that."

A/N

It's a short scene -- stay tuned for an early reveal of the final part of the chapter :)