Oleander

XIV. Warnings (part three)

Some knowledge could not be voiced, for to speak it would be to give it power. Arm tucked into Andar's, Yalira let silence dominate their return to the high city. Lost in his own thoughts, smiling at the ghosts of his victories, he let her.

On their journey from Antalis, Cato had mentioned his unknown father.

A common enough story for the son of a whore, he had said with his easy smile.

It was only now that Yalira recognized it as the same smile Andar sometimes wore. That ghost of laughter in the garden, the indulgence towards her snappish moods on the road to Semyra. It was the open expression he wore among his men.

The warriors had gossiped that Cato's father likely came from polished, high-born nobility—only the wealthiest of men could afford to spend a night with the famous Phryne. Andar would have been young, barely out of boyhood himself.

Unwavering, addictive truth pulled in her chest, burned in her blood, sang with the certainty that Cato was Andar's son. A breathing, bodied threat to an empire that stood without a successor.

Cato di Phyrne—di Eheia, son of the unknown—bastard heir to all of Tyr.

It was not unheard of, wealthy men sending their young sons to prostitutes. How had Andar described his father? A hard king who wanted to prepare his son for his destiny? Would that sort of destiny include having him deflowered?

Next to her, radiating heat and vigor, owner of nine wives, Andar burned like the sun. Yalira couldn't picture him as anything other than the conquering, battle-worn tyrant-king. If there was a time that a harsh father sent a weak-willed boy between the legs of a prostitute in hope of making him a man, Yalira did not see evidence of it now.

Curiosity gnawed at her tongue.

"I heard I rumor that one of your men had a famous courtesan for a mother—does Semyra honor the daughters of Olia?"

The daughters of Olia, her priestesses, provided their bodies in exchange for closeness with the goddess. A connection to spirit and life, music and joy. In the temple-city Olaris, these girls were trained to become the earthly tether for their goddess. Just as pilgrims journeyed to Antalis for truth and healing, men and women traveled across the world to taste of the flesh of their goddess.

Yalira once imagined that those priestesses in Olaris sacrificed for their patroness just as she did for hers. Sisters connected by the devotion they shared. It was only in Semyra, dripping in acid truths and veiled in sweet falsehoods, that Yalira wondered if that devotion was little more than embracing denial, a happy temptation to look away from the bonds of their servitude.

"Not with the fervor of Olaris, I imagine," Andar answered. "But there are women who claim to serve the goddess when they trade their bodies for coin."

She listened to his tone, eager to discern some opinion, some hint. Only blandness and disinterest followed his words—golden eyes still glazed with the memory of the training ring, still busy acknowledging the waves and calls of his people.

"Why do you ask?"

Andar might be tempered over with carefully placed softness, but his laughter, his attention, was won in snappish cleverness.

"I thought I might ask their rates," Yalira said, her voice both airy and wry. "If I am to trade my body, I want to be certain I'm receiving fair compensation."

In barking laughter, Andar pulled her closer to his side to press his lips to her hair. It was a deception: a ploy to bring vicious whisper near, while from a distance, was crafted newlywed bliss.