"What do you mean we're not going to rejoin the company?"

The thought of spending the next days solely with King Andar of Tyr was unwelcome at the least. In polite company, Yalira would refer to it as loathsome. But there was no polite company to be had, and thusly his presence was grotesque.

"I couldn't tell them you ran, Yalira."

"Are you afraid it would diminish their fear of you?" She sneered.

A day spent trapped between his brutish horse and his brutish body had worn Yalira to a petty temper she hadn't realized she possessed. Everything he said offended her, everything he did grated against her nerves.

Even more annoyingly, her return to a thorny disposition seemed to please him. Every sharp word was met with a smile, every twisted grimace with a laugh. His attitude matched that of a troublesome, bullying flirt.

"They like you. I don't want them to stop liking you."

Most annoyingly, he continued to use truth to surprise her. Andar dropped truths of his character in charming childhood anecdotes. He joked about his flaws, poked at hers lightly. He suggested his new scar would make him more fearsome, he threw his head back and laughed when she offered to do the other side. She could not decide if he was dangerously unstable or if her sullen behavior truly pleased him.

"Why?" She hated the petulant lilt of her voice, as if she were a child.

Yalira felt him shrug behind her, his non-committal laughter. His monstrosity of a horse huffed, an annoyed sigh, as if the beast shared her irritation with Andar's ambivalence. Trapped facing forward, unable to look deep into his eyes, she could only attempt to discern his tone. When he did not speak, only the silent, fluid language of gestures remained. And when she could also not fully see his body language, Yalira was blind to any truths. Even as an unknown temple child, a bastard left on the steps, she had always possessed an uncanny power to know truth. The helpless blindness fanned a desperation to regain control.

"Trade me a truth, King of Tyr." If he was in a mood to be forthcoming, perhaps she could use it to her advantage.

"What would you know, Yalira?"

"Why Antalis?"

She could feel him stiffen behind her. Again! That fluid shift from jovial to wary. No matter the mood or situation, Andar possessed that ability to adapt. He was water from the stream, in a vase, in a cup: no matter how she tried, Yalira could not discern his true shape.

"Surely you've read the prophecies of your predecessors?"

Though he had skirted the question a second time, Yalira could not voice her displeasure. His knowing, arrogant tone—complete in its inaccuracy—distracted her from the inquiry.

"Surely you know the prophecies are not recorded," she mocked. "The truth of Antala is spoken, passed by lips alone."

A moment of uncomfortable silence was broken by a gentle clearing of his throat. For one heartbeat, Yalira could have sworn he was trying to be gentle with her. The cloying sweetness of a lie meant to soothe seemed to hover between them. She pushed away the foolish thought. It was the hopeful wishing of a prisoner to see kindness in her captor's manner.

"Yalira," he began softly. "The written record—"

"There is no record!" She insisted with a growing trace of desperation. He is a liar, a beast, a tyrant. But there were no clues from Antala, just the sincerity of his tone.

Yalira did not wait for him to try to fool her further. "The priestesses of Antala cannot read, trickster King. Who would scribe these words?"

"I could show you, if you'd like. The record is a part of the spoils returning to Semyra."

It would have been easier if he kept his arrogance, his mockery. The soft insistence, the hesitancy to spare her feelings, it rang of truthfulness. He had moved his hand from the reigns to place it over hers.

Pulling her hand away as if his was ice, she hissed, "You believe your words but they cannot be true. You are mistaken."

"For you, I'll hope for it."

That he did not continue the argument, that he conceded to her, did not bring the trill of victory in her chest. More so, Yalira was suddenly very aware that she was exhausted, dirty, and uncomfortable. Her legs ached after her flight across the mountainside. The mud had dried and cracked—it itched and flaked from her skin. She could feel the bruises on her hips and shoulders where she had struck the unforgiving earth during their scuffle.

The strangeness of trying to find sleep in the arms of a man, in the confines of her enemy, became less so as her limbs and eyes grew heavier. She had already spent so many hours fighting sleep, determined to remain alert in his presence.

"Trade me a truth, Yalira." His voice seemed as far away as the setting sun.

"A High Priestess does not lie."

Another slight pause. Yalira wondered if he was counting the omissions, the subtle deceptions for which she was guilty. There was no hesitation in her response, but she was counting them herself. As they traveled further from Volys, further from justice, further from redemption, Yalira vaguely wondered what punishment Antala had waiting for her.

"Would you like to learn to read?"

Antala's words are known by her priestesses. We are the record. Again, Thais' words rose quickly in her mind. Despite the unwavering servitude expected by the truth goddess, disobedience lived near her surface these days and Yalira felt it course close to her heart. There was pride in the station of High Priestess, being chosen had been a gift she had not known she was allowed to want. Yet, the traditions, the way, it robbed as much as it had given her. Antala's chosen, her life was not her own.

"Yes."

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, the heavy weight of the sun on her skin, the absurdity of his body around hers. The word left her mouth before she could think of a lie, before she could wonder at the consequences of sharing such a hidden truth with Andar of Tyr.

"Then you will learn."

The protest died on her lips. Lying, by omission and passive action, had been a necessity. She could not yet lie to herself. Yalira dao Eheia wanted the knowledge of the world and it shamed her to the core. I am the same kind of monster as he. Never content, always searching, hungry. 

Sunlight touched the ragged peaks of the distant mountains. The hazy light of afternoon drifted into soft twilight. Another night with Andar of Tyr.

Yalira had sat awake and still beside the fire that first night, jerking awake each moment her head dropped in exhaustion. Andar had not commented nor had he mocked her. He had created her a rough camp bed, his a safe distance from hers. He slept, or watched from afar with those gleaming eyes that threatened to unravel her.

That he had two bed rolls had bothered her: was it confidence or preparedness? Did it matter?

He had already "forgiven" her actions. He had admired the extent of her trickery. He was calm as still water when she moved in the ways he expected. "It is understandable," he had said.

Yet, as he set camp for the second night, Yalira wondered why her thoughts seemed to orbit around understanding him. I want the truth, but the words felt shallow in her head. The truth was an ever changing plume of smoke when it came to Andar of Tyr.

The object of her thoughts built the camp with his usual brutal efficiency. Sparks seemed to spring from his fingertips, he coaxed a fire as if it were as easy as breathing. His keen eye had found a tiny stream, an outcropping of stone–luxuries for a camp, he'd promised. Moving water was clean. A wall to their backs would protect them from the wind and hide the light of their fire. These were not details she noticed, but rather the small things he explained as he worked.

"It's where I start with all of my men: survival. A strong man might win a battle, but a clever man wins wars."

Andar boiled water to brew tea. Not the restorative teas she had brewed for his men, but something fragrant and exotic. Yalira has spent her childhood breathing in incense and amber, and yet the steam wafting toward her was tempting beyond compare. For a moment, she thought to ask him why he carried such a precious thing on such a rugged journey. Her words remained unvoiced, for the tea had distracted her from his continued monologue.

"My father was well-known for his strength, but it was his shrewdness that built Tyr. He knew that hungry men would not march, but instead of hemorrhaging the capital for supplies, he taught them to forage and hunt. Even when Semyra could not afford to send the barest of rations, his men never starved."

Quiet pride rang a clear, unwavering note. Andar of Tyr loved his father.

The settling dusk did not threaten a chilly night, but the warmth of the rough hewn cup that he handed her felt like sunshine in her hands. She had not flinched away as their fingers brushed; too many hours surrounded by the man had desensitized her. As she sipped the tea– heavenly– she wondered if Andar had noticed.

"And so I have done the same. All of my men know the land. As my empire grows, so does our knowledge and our skill."

It was easier to pretend to drink tea for an extra moment of contemplation.

"What happened to your father? We heard news of his death," and your coronation, "but only that it was unexpected."

A flash of fury, a crash of thunder across his face.

"It was betrayal. A negotiated peace talk. Poison at the table." He seemed to struggle to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Why do you ask? Are you one of those who names me his murderer?"

Yalira was too surprised to deny it. That rumor had never reached Antalis. Her question was touched with sincere incredulity. "There are those who think you killed him?"

Andar smiled sardonically, but it did not soften the hard edge in his stare. He growled, "Andar of Tyr, 'butcher of men,' so eager for glory as to kill a father? I have committed great sins in exchange for a greater world–I suppose patricide is not so far a stretch."

Though his nonchalant mask held fast to his face, a current of pain coarsed beneath his words. Over the fire, his eyes amber in the glow, Yalira could see the truth as certain as moonlight.

"It bothers you that they say this."

He barked an incredulous laugh and stood to pace, spilling his tea in the motion. His reply was dripping with scorn. "What does a wolf care of the sheep who bleat?"

Sheep or no, Yalira thought. He cares very much. Though it felt as though she found a weakness, she could not turn the knife. His truth, that deep love and respect for his father, was the most honest thing Yalira had felt within him. She knew he was driving her further and further from her oaths of truthfulness: she refused to lie for the petty pleasure of hurting him.

"You did not kill him." The otherworldly certainty to her low whisper stopped his pacing. His mouth twisted as though he might challenge the statement, as if he wanted to push her back into the comfortable antagonism. But Yalira added, before he could speak, "A High Priestess does not lie and neither will Yalira."

Andar suddenly began a hurried search through the brush around the camp. A part of her wondered if the lack of complete hatred in her words broke him to madness. He swore viciously as branches cracked around him. The warrior king certainly looked mad as he returned to the fire, holding a thin branch triumphantly. Though she could not understand why, he glowed with the pleasure of success.

A weak protest died on her lips as he snatched the tea from her hands and poured it into the dirt. He smeared the mud into a smooth plane before the fire and used the small branch to scratch a series of lines into it.

                                                            Y A L I R A

"This is your name. Ya-leer-a." He lingered on each syllable as he pointed.

She crouched low, knees in the dirt, fingers reaching to trace the lines reverently. Such simple shapes, and yet, they held such powerful secrets. Those blessed by Antala were touched by power, capable of great deeds in her name. But this? A knowledge that was not a submission. No one could take it from her.

"May I try?" she whispered.

Andar handed her the branch so that she could hesitantly copy the lines. Hers were not as clean or as straight or as sure. The image seared into her brain: she owned the knowledge of her name. The sudden forbiddenness of the act struck like lightning. Yalira dropped the branch as if it burned her.

"Why teach me?" The thought that he meant to corrupt her in all ways dominated her mind. Perhaps he thought if she was completely ruined, she would not be allowed to return to Antalis.

There was no secret malevolence in his face, no evil triumph.

"I take care of what is mine."

The masculine arrogance chafed, but Yalira could not deny the veracity of his intention. She could only notice that he did not fully answer her question. Adopting the expression of an expectant elder priestess, Yalira raised her eyebrows. It was the face the elders wore when the acolytes skirted the truth to avoid confessing to mischief. She knew she looked ridiculous: a frazzled, mud-covered priestess silently waiting for a childish king to reveal the rest of a secret.

"You asked for the full moon to decide our year together. To convince me that you are more valuable as a high priestess." He shrugged. "I am doing the same: to convince you that you are more valuable as my wife."

With wry understanding, Yalira supposed she hated herself more than she was irritated with him. She had agreed to his blood promise, thinking it would be a small challenge to convince him. She hated that he saw into her so clearly, so easily tempted her with secret desires.

"Why not just beat me into submission?" The question had been burning in her head since their first meeting. He had struck her for disobedience. And yet for every challenge since, Andar of Tyr had played her game. His physical presence intimidated her, but Yalira could not say that she feared violence against her.

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

Again, his comfort with brutality as a tool sent a shiver of revulsion through her. How calloused a heart would need be to view violence so casually.

Yalira gestured at the warhorse that lazily swatted flies with his tail. "If you did not beat him, why does he obey? Did you teach him to read?"

That hint of irony found its way to her tone. Yalira had bested him in wits, with wry truthfulness. She knew he could not help himself when she set such tempting bait. Andar's eyes crinkled with his smile.

"Shadow? Do they not tell our story in Antalis?"

"Only that Andar the boy was the only soul brave enough to tame the wild beast."

"Shadow was a gift to my father. A wild stallion of the Horde! A weapon in his own right! He reared and kicked and bit at anyone or thing who came close." The fondness warmed his words. "He had such spirit! I couldn't help but envy my father. So when my father decided to kill him rather than let the wild thing terrorize the stables, I asked if I could try to tame him."

He reminisced fondly as he traced a new set of lines below hers. H-O-R-S-E.

Curiosity in the story temporarily dampened her hunger for words. "Why did you want to try?"

"He was so beautiful and proud. So wild. It felt wasteful to kill him. Horse," he added, pointing at the new lines.

"What did your father think?"

"Oh he was furious with me for asking in the forum, before his advisors. He granted me permission with the understanding that I would have to slaughter the beast if I failed."

"He sounds like a hard man," Yalira murmured. Her lessons had been challenging but her mentors were always kind in their own ways.

"A hard king who wanted to prepare his son for a hard destiny."

Andar paused to add more lines to the earth. S-E-C-R-E-T.

"But I knew a see-cret," he continued, gesturing at the lines. "I knew how to tame him. You see, all of those who had tried approached with the sun burning bright. They cast large shadows before them. Shadow wasn't rearing and fighting from distemper, but from fear. So I tamed him at night. Once he trusted me, he was gentle as a lamb. I conquered his demons–no beating could have done that."

"The story casts your character in a different light, King of Tyr."

"Weaker?" he smiled self-deprecatingly.

"Clever, patient."

Andar grunted as if embarrassed. It had not been intended as a compliment, but that these words were as close to a compliment as Yalira was capable? When her answers were not expected, he could not keep his control from faltering. He coughed and scratched another set of lines into the earth.

"What does it say?" Yalira asked, recognizing some of the letters from her own name.

Andar pointed as he explained, "This one makes the sound of night. This one, the sound of day. The rest you've seen."

Her tongue felt heavy and clumsy in her mouth as she tried to find their sounds. She whispered each piece, stacking them together and repeating until finally they fell into place. Her eyes met his.

"An-dar," she breathed.

She was suddenly aware of how close he sat, the heat of his body radiating between them. His eyes were dark, intent on her lips.

The air between them seemed to vibrate. Yalira felt her heart pound madly in her chest. They were close enough that she could have counted his long eyelashes. They were close enough to share the same breaths. But the space between them held, the tension broke as he stood.

"We will continue tomorrow," he said evenly, smiling as he made his way to his bed beyond the fire.

The intrusive thought that he could have kissed her ricocheted. Yalira shook it from her head. She was glad he had not tried.

In the quiet stillness of the night, as sleep crept close, she idly wondered if it would have felt different, his lips on hers. Not in front of his rowdy men, but only the silent company of stars.

A night plagued by dreams. Not prophetic, but the tangled nightmares of a troubled mind. Dreams of fire and death, Antalis crumbling. Escaping into the tunnels. Breathing in the ether only to find it did not fill her being with darkness and oleander. Salt and spice.

That Yalira could not escape Andar, even in the quiet solitude of sleep, brewed a rotten disposition. Though he goaded and teased, she refused to let him break her icy silence. Their days riding turned to quiet stretches through the terrain, to grunted trivialities on the long stretches of road.

Too eager to resist, her only communication became that of their nightly reading lessons. Like a festering wound, Yalira's bad temper grew into impatience. To her surprise, the frustration was not aimed at Andar, but at herself. The teachings of Antala were not easy ones, but their mysteries were not as challenging as those of reading, of writing. The ancient language, the rites, the healing, the sacrifice–those had all been taught on a foundation built by years in the temple.

These letters, etched in sand?

Their secrets were tantalizingly close and yet she could not unlock them.

"What do you mean certain pairings make different sounds?" she asked, hating how she could almost hear the frustrated whine.

In the trend of this softer side he meant to tempt her with, Andar's patience seemed infinite.

"Just that, certain combinations change the sound."

"So why not just have a new letter? This is asinine."

He shrugged with an easy smile. "It could be the way I've explained it. I've never taught someone to read. When we arrive in Semyra, I'll ask Oristos to take over your lessons."

Though Yalira had promised herself to only participate in conversations regarding reading, the warm affection in Andar's voice piqued her interest.

"You teacher?" she asked, wiping the sandy slate clear.

"No. My lessons-mate, a friend. We studied under the scholar Temis together."

The name gave her pause. Temis was a name known throughout the continent, a philosopher. A man who studied in Dorith, lived among the people of the northern Horde, championed the library in Antoch, traveled as far as Yenith. Temis lamented the barbaric nature of man, advocated passionately for education as the hand to guide to ethics, politics, economy, rhetoric...

She thought to ask how a student of such a man grew into a tyrant. Wait. The thought came with a warm rush of intuition. Hers or Antala's she could not say.

"When will I meet Oristos?" she asked, instead.

"Tomorrow, or the day after. It'll likely take us a half day to reach Semyra."

So many days of stubborn silence had passed. Yalira felt ill, for her heart burned in self-loathing. In stubbornness and pride, she had spent near eight days punishing him with foul temper. He had spent their time tempting her with words and secrets. In their battle, he was winning more ground. Perhaps he won't want such a childish fool for a wife, she thought wryly.

The thought sent an indignant flicker through her chest. She had spent her time spewing poison, and he still played his game to win her affection. What did he want from this shackled matrimony? Was it just her status then? Was it shallow lust? The questions echoed in her head. Yalira had been so consumed with the why of Antalis' destruction, she had overlooked her own kidnapping. Why would Andar of Tyr want a High Priestess for a wife?

As he stoked the fire of their final camp, a shower of sparks and embers swirled about him. The thin wound she had inflicted bore the signs of healing without complication. It was a faint line in the glow of the fire, almost as if it had been a slip while shaving, a scratch from an overgrown branch. It was there only if she looked for it. 

His face was hard angles and sharp planes in the firelight. The shadows cast otherworldly contours: he was a servant of Carthas, God of all deaths and darkness.

Yalira could not always read the combination of monster and man, but she knew he considered his choices carefully. He was patient, among all his other flaws. Andar of Tyr was not the type of man to choose a final wife, the number full of divine symbolism, without a reason.

"Stop frowning and try again, Yalira. Write 'shadow.'"

Her dark eyes studied him, the man cloaked in darkness and secrets. He would not easily give her the answers. That much she had learned. Then I will find them in Semyra. Tomorrow, I will play the game as High Priestess, she promised. But for that night, she traced the letters into the earth. 

Author's Note

Bucephalus, Alexander's horse, is one of the most famous horses in antiquity. Andar tamed his horse much like Alexander did. In myth, it is said that the Pythia stated whoever could ride Bucephalus would be king of the world. 

Alexander's father, Phillip II, was also assassinated. Historians aren't quite sure who was responsible, though the man did have seven wives. Andar is the one with the many wives in this story—meet them in the next chapter.