The captive weeks in Semyra that had passed at a trickling pace roared with the vigor of fresh snow melt. Yalira had spent isolated hours tossing with the barbed companionship of her own thoughts—the sudden shift towards crowded company left her almost nostalgic for that fistful of days she'd lived unaccosted.

No longer could she sleep those patchy, fitful hours of the night and beyond the breath of dawn. Instead of reading lessons, her mornings were full of those who might ask her opinion on colors for cloth. Her trips to the new altar were delayed by grasping hands who begged her presence on walks, her thoughts on the most recent gossip. Curious citizens followed her journeys into the slums, begging her smile. In place of outings with Oristos and Rishi, her priestesses, a swarm of politician's wives and wealthy daughters descended upon her. The pages of Thais's history of Antalis, the record of prophecies, collected dust in their hiding places.

When Andar had broken their kiss at the full moon and announced their wedding to the room of drunken highborn, Yalira assumed his cry for the twenty-seventh day of Temia for masculine ignorance. Certainly Andar had created a grotesque version of nuptials within a single night, but the city-wide celebration he demanded for his final queen could not be done in but a few weeks.

Yalira, to her dismay, had guessed incorrectly. Whether due to the experience of eight previous weddings or perhaps due to Andar's arrogance in assuming the ninth would come swiftly, the planning fell together with disturbing efficiency. Though she was measured in all dimensions, pinned into gowns, and prodded with needles, Yalira was barely consulted for the rapidly evolving event—a pretty doll to be paraded alongside a beloved king.

"If you hate it so much," Rishi drawled over their hidden breakfast in the garden's quietest alcove. "Then why not play a more active role? I rather enjoyed planning my wedding."

Yalira scowled. "When you said I might change the world, you did not mention it would be so-so—"

"Full of bull's shit? Dominated by pandering sycophants? Dreadfully boring?"

For it was boring. That fire that burned away the doubt and fear, the guilt and treachery, had cooled in the face of inaction. Yalira's annoyed expression tempted the shadow of a humor on Rishi's features.

"Yalira, we are not men. We do not call for rebellion. We do not rush to battle."

"I would rather stand at the front line than slog through this miserable affair."

Her wide smile overflowed into laughter. "And what prowess with arms do you have, sweet priestess?"

Yalira threw a grape at the queen. It was petty and childish, but it made her feel better—and it distracted from her lack of a clever answer.

"You want to fight on a front?" Rishi teased. "Gain ground on Andar's front!"

Projectile grapes were not enough to express Yalira's dislike for this topic. One of Rishi's recent favorites, the subject of Andar and how his wives gained power.

"My prowess with the spear and shield would be better than fighting on that line," Yalira answered through a frown. She tucked a leg beneath her, fussing with the heavy layers of her skirts. The simple lines of her priestess's wardrobe were no longer appropriate, her servants had explained as they hauled in new skirts and gowns, shawls and adornments.

"You make it sound like it is a difficult thing," Rishi simpered.

"It is an impossible thing."

"You still hate him? Gods, Yalira! What are you going to do? Lie back, close your eyes, and think of Antala?" The queen stood, mixed exasperation and joy pulling at her face. Yalira shushed her, peering from behind their shadowed sanctuary for the pack of highborn wives and daughters that had taken to hunting her.

"Of course I still hate him," she hissed. "But that's not the problem right now. He's avoiding me."

"You embarrassed him, obviously. We all expected simple submission, and you somehow removed his choice in the matter." As if it were not only a score of days ago, Rishi smiled in fond reminiscence. "Neatly done, even if self-sabotaging.

"You must concede something to him."

Yalira grimaced, appetite souring at the thought. Morning sunlight poured into the garden and she still felt cold foreboding drip down her spine. What more could she surrender to a man who owned the world?

The answer came the day before the planned ceremonies, in the form of brown and blue eyes.

A flurry of activity followed Yalira throughout the palace in a whirlwind of dresses and screeching. Harpies disguised as servants and advisors, politicos and queens. Everyone in Semyra, it seemed, had last-minute thoughts for the wedding to come, and it was only her fleet-footed escape that kept them from devouring her.

"Yalira!" She flinched at her name, expecting another list of demands that did not need her opinion at all.

Oristos, wearing a sympathetic smile, stepped from the direction of the stables holding the reins of a massive, dour-looking horse. The sturdy creature huffed a labored sigh.

"Oristos," she greeted, glancing over her shoulder for the organized chaos that had become her shadow. The sounds of their footsteps in the gravel, their voices across the garden path cut off any conversation she might have started. Yalira begged instead. "Hide me?"

"Shall we trade? You ride, I stay?"

Before she could answer, he removed his cloak to drape around her shoulders. Ever closer, the chatter and squawking of her persistent flock grew louder as they spotted Yalira. Laughter was rich and full, Oristos heaved her onto the horse.

The questions she meant to ask burned away in her throat as Oristos slapped its flank and Yalira's world flew forward into color and sound. The mighty legs beneath her gained speed, thundering over cobblestone. Gardens became blurs of green and blue, the villas smears of ivory and clay against the sky.

As the horse huffed, momentum building in their descent towards the city, Yalira jerked at the reins. The beast bore no sign of slowing or that it even felt her frantic pull at the bit. A shout rose behind her from a mounted guard at the base of the high city but the words were lost in the wind.

The heavy roll of the horse's gait pounded into the congested streets, drilling its echo into Yalira's bones. She abandoned the useless reins, clinging to the coarse fibers of mane. Shrieks and curses whipped as the horse lurched and barreled. She attempted to call an apology, but her voice had curled into nothing.

Pitched and rolling, the world righted itself in striking clarity. A hand found the escaped reins. Soothing whispers sounded above the grumbling clatter of the street. Streaks and blotches became the marketplace and the faces within it.

"You might be worse at riding than Oristos," Andar's voice said.

Fear had left its wake of gooseflesh on her arms, but fresh dread prickled down her spine.

"It's alright!" He called to the crowd. Smiling. "Lost control of the horse!"

Yalira could not read what thoughts buzzed within the onlookers, but his presence controlled the energy. Even dressed in the colors of his guard, Andar of Tyr glowed from the saddle of a dusty dun mare. His skin, bronzed armor; his golden hair crown-bright.

Curiosity and annoyance waned, and the market returned to its routine. Their adored king had righted the chaos.

He did not turn his attention to her, but held her reins in a firm hand. Guiding their mounts back toward the palace, Andar had no eyes for his nearly ninth queen. Her mind reeled from the frenzied ride, but Yalira kept enough presence to feel his disinterest.

In the deep chambers of Antalis, when she had everything to lose, Yalira had traded her pride without thought. Now, with the world to gain, she found it hard to find the words.

"Thank you," Yalira murmured. Though she tried to keep her voice demure, grateful, that barbed edge of irritation crept into her words. "Please don't let me keep you from your own escape. I can return to my punishment unguided."

For the dim mantle, the dusty horse was just as much a disguise as Oristos's cloak around her shoulders. He could not hide his golden hair, his ease in the world, but Andar of Tyr bore all the evidence of an attempt to not be seen.

Her words twitched the corner of his mouth.

"Your punishment? When you demanded our marriage, I thought you'd want to be involved in its preparation."

The casual inflection, the subtle grin at his own cleverness, sparked an incredulous curiosity. Yalira had assumed the army of wedding planners, the hoard of women, grew from the event itself. She had not dreamed that Andar planted those vines to entangle her.

"I would rather you throw me into the sea than send me back to that insufferable henhouse."

Silence twisted into a smile and then into his laughter. Each working hand stilled, conversation paused. Yalira's lips tugged downwards in muted surprise. It was easy to remember that the people loved their king, but she had forgotten how attuned they were to Andar of Tyr. A tiny sun in the midst of their world, his presence infected them with luminous warmth.

Rishi had made it sound simple: win their affection and earn the seat of the empire. Their eyes followed him, hands reached for him. As Yalira watched their faces, she realized it would take more than poultices and prayers to pull their love from Andar.

As Yalira attempted to swallow her loathing and pride, Andar turned their horses and encouraged them into a quicker pace. Robbed of the reigns and prisoner to the bouncing gait, she desperately grasped for an anchor.

Even without the sound of his laughter, Yalira could feel Andar's amusement. High Priestess of Antalis, trapped on a miserable beast and slave to his whims.

"Where are you taking me?" she managed to ask.

"To the sea," Andar replied. His bronze eyes flashed with wicked purpose. "You mentioned wanting to be thrown in."

In the wake of her own laughter, bright and clear, Yalira caught the eyes that swept over her. None more important than the hawkish gaze fixed fast to her face. For in that moment she realized that the people's followed Andar and Andar's followed her. 

A/N

This is one of my favorite chapters--especially the next parts!--here we're coming down from the high of Yalira's Disney "I claim my own destiny" moment and into the reality of Tyr and the pieces at play. 

As we move from Yalira's naivety and into her moves as a player, has it felt too slow? Too forced? Let me know what you think.

The next part will be very long (as Andar wedding would be expected), but I promise more action and answers to come now that the pieces are all on the board!