Yalira started. The words transported her back to Antalis, back to that first night of traded barbs. She had been the one to suggest the game, to prove her power over him. Was that his goal now?

She smoothed away her surprise into a smile of her own. She had won that night. Andar was the one who fled. Victory short lived was still conquest.

Antala's presence had still been with her then. Oleander had burned bright against her tongue. Far from her temple, with lies burned into her bones, a haunting thread of doubt pulled at her chest.

"It's not a very fair game against a priestess," she murmured, perching at the end of his workspace. She returned the stylus to its scattered brethren. Yalira focused on keeping the aloof confidence of a High Priestess at her surface. She would not let doubt distract her.

"That didn't stop you last time." Andar matched her relaxed air. This was his arena, his world. If he realized that she had no oleander to chew, he did not mention it. She hated that he did not need to.

"I had more to prove then."

"And you don't now?"

The game had started.

"You made it clear that you don't see Antala's blessing on me."

Andar's mouth twisted. In the clean daylight, the curls of his golden hair softened the hard planes of his cheeks and jaw. His eyes glowed with the embers of passion, not fury. Mercurial and fluid, Yalira wondered if shifting between these forms exhausted him.

"That was unfair of me. I spoke in anger."

It was not an apology, but Yalira wondered if it was the closest Andar of Tyr could muster.

"Your abilities are uncanny," he added. "I enjoy watching you in the forum, your expressions toward the liars.

"I worried your eyes might roll out of your skull."

Determined to regain control of the game, to smother his attempts to soften her, Yalira ignored the teasing, the gentleness.

On the goddesses! She had just heard him discussing how to win her to his side!

"Do you tire of having so many false tongues around you?" The question was pointed. Its tip aimed at him.

"Immensely."

There was no flash of oleander, no divine proof of truth, but Yalira knew he answered honestly. Before, it would have annoyed her. Now, it was proof he had learned nothing from their first game. Invigorated, she pressed on. She would ensnare him in the game, in its rhythm. Just as in Antalis, Andar would try to use truth to win. His strategy was short-sighted. It was a training exercise for priestesses, a training exercise Yalira had mastered.

I only fight battles I know I will win.

The memory of his arrogance branded her with determination. You are not the only one who knows how to fight, her spirit answered in reply. And you did not win that first time.

"How did you know it was me in your rooms?"

"Salt and honey and oleander."

The answer gave her unexpected pause. She didn't like to imagine Andar knowing the details of her person. The sudden memory of spice and sweat flooded her senses, the scents that haunted her dreams. She did not like knowing the details of his person.

Yalira increased the speed of her questions and moved them further from herself. She would pull him into thoughtlessness.

"Do you always leave your workspace in such disarray?"

Andar laughed, "Another flaw of mine."

"Would you have killed Lyroc if Oristos had asked?"

"Of course."

"Why did he mention the Library of Antoch?"

Dark laughter. "To annoy me. It was a gift to Temis, rebuilding the library. My advisors see no purpose in free access to education. I disagree."

Yalira was not well-versed in philosophy, but access to knowledge for any free man was one of Temis's more popular tenants. The gods-given right to improve oneself. It sounded lovely, the way men spoke of it.

"Did you know I intent to share the healing knowledge of Antala?"

"Oristos mentioned it."

Curiosity flickered. Yalira had seen true devotion in Oristos's mismatched eyes. She wondered if Andar felt the same. Were monsters capable of returning that depth of loyalty?

"What is he to you?" she asked.

"My closest and most trusted friend."

Truth rang out like a bell. Andar's golden eyes met hers without flinching. In their sincerity, the ringing truth sang against her bones. She gritted her teeth and redirected her questions.

"Why does no one question his time spent with your wives?"

Yalira was naïve, but she was not so foolish to ignore the potential gossip of their unchaperoned time together. Oristos has mentioned the other queens enough times—their habits, their hobbies—to make Yalira realize that he had a role with all of them. He had mentioned that Andar allowed this behavior. 

The king paused and considered Yalira with a contemplative frown. Though she stared back into the churning gold, she could not read the expression.

"I won't betray his confidence."

The love for his father, his devotion to his people, his friendship with Oristos... Andar did not waver from these constants. Instead of humanizing the monster, it soured him in Yalira's eyes. His education, his charisma, his loyalty. She hated that he was a monster when he possessed the best qualities of man. The fire of it licked at her caution, made her reckless.

"Does he betray my confidence?"

"Yes."

Though she expected it, though she had known the extent of Oristos's loyalty, the answer still burned, a swallowed ember. Yalira had promised herself that she understood the duality of his friendship. The slow path of the molten betrayal charred her throat, arrested her breath. Even with the practice Andar's world had afforded her, it took all her strength to keep the bright pain from blooming.

"Who else spies on me for your gain?" Yalira continued, her voice a fraction hoarse. She pretended that she was asking a patient, observing the answers from a safe distance. It made it easier to twist away from the strange tightness in her chest. Of course he had people watching her, reporting to him. He was too awful to do anything less.

Andar watched silently, a wary predator, as if she would dissolve into tears. Though her eyes burned, she held his gaze. Yalira refused to crumble in this condescending expectation. She had delivered his monstrosity into the world and lied, she would keep the truth of betrayal from her face.

When it was clear that she would not fall prey to emotion, he continued, "Your servants report to me. Valen complains of you, but she's not one of my spies."

Yalira lamented the loss of oleander. His teasing inflection, the casual tone flirted with deception. An omission, maybe. But what isn't he saying?

She was not brave enough to ask about Rishi's loyalty.

"Do you enjoy what they tell you?"

He stilled. The question surprised him. Yalira saw it as plain as the sunrise. All of these others had been expected, but this offhanded stab caught him beneath his armor.

"No."

Her heart hammered. Had someone seen her with the disfigured child? Had she misunderstood his whispered words with Oristos?

"Why's that?" Her voice was small.

"You seem unhappy here."

Pain and fear flashed into irritation. It was a true statement: she was not happy in Semyra. Even less happy that he was trying to use it to his advantage.

He cannot even let me own my unhappiness. In Tyr, everything is Andar's.

Her annoyance burned through the last threads of patience.

"Why Anatalis? It's strategic location to Volys cannot be the only reason."

Andar raised an eyebrow. As if he tired of this question, he looked to the ceiling. In the same tone that Thais used when Yalira asked disrespectful questions, that Oristos used when her attention wandered, Andar countered with a question of his own.

"Why do you seek a truth that will destroy you?"

"Answer my question first, Andar," Yalira answered, her tongue sharp over his name. His lips parted, bronze eyes meet hers. The vibration between them, that pulling gravity, returned.

"Humor me," he breathed. His strong fingers found their way to cover hers.

Snatching her hand away, she snarled, "There is no truth that would destroy me."

His smile seemed separate from the rest of his face. His eyes once again burned with that vengeful promise. Only this time, Yalira did not fear for her life.

As if he read that stubbornness for knowledge, Andar stood. With his easy grace, he retrieved the chest to place before her. That it crushed his parchment, his letters and ledgers, did not seem to matter. She waited for him to address the clever knot that locked away the truth.

Andar considered it a moment, a puzzle, and then drew a blade to cut through it.

"The records of Antalis," he said, sheathing his sword. "Do with them what you will."

Yalira ignored the vein of disgust that colored his words, ignored his swift departure. She blamed it on an inability to lose, man's stubborn pride. There were more important pieces at play.

Hands shaking, Yalira dipped her fingers into the chest, to brush away the dust that obscured the leather-bound cover. Beneath her skin, she traced each pressed letter. They were the first ones she had learned, the ones etched into the dirt, the ones that gave her power.

Yalira.

A/N

What secrets will be found?