It was foolish to make deals with demons. But Yalira had hoped that King Andar of Tyr would not betray her as he did. Optimism, she learned, was wasted on monsters.
He let her people leave the deep chambers of the temple: a sad group with a single remaining temple guard, two elder priestesses, and a handful of acolytes. There had been others in the chamber. Two other temple guards had died from their wounds. An older acolyte had taken a dose of hemlock at the thought of starving to death behind the sealed doors. Andar let the survivors live, in his way.
Andar sent the temple guard to the war camp prison. He trusted the vow of silence the Antalis guards so reverently held. The elder priestesses, who had taught Yalira, raised her, would not forsake their devotion to truth. Not for a king, not for this monster that sought the world. Not even when their tongues were cut out. The display of casual violence was enough to frighten the girls from their oaths: the acolytes promised submission to the Tyran Empire and proclaimed Volys as their enemy. Tala seemed unable to speak, but nodded as Andar demanded her obedience. When Yalira argued that he violated the bargain, a single threat toward the small band of survivors silenced her.
And he claimed her life. Not as a sacrifice for Antalis, but as a wife. It was her promise that held her fast to the seat beside him as a reluctant bride only two days after the destruction. But he had promised their lives, and as the ax raised over the guard's neck, Yalira traded Andar's disobedience for her own.
"His life is mine."
Though she meant only her husband to hear, Andar's first lieutenant, her captor in the temple halls, hesitated. But without a command from Andar, the pause was brief. He raised the ax with a horrible familiarity, the weight easy in his practiced hands.
"Hold, Gallus." Andar's voice was quiet, even.
The silence in the broken hall was immediate and fragile and powerful: she, the High Priestess, was challenging the conqueror of the world.
"My wedding gift," Yalira added, her voice clear and cutting through the tension. She could not fight him as priestess, not in front of his company. They had no respect for a priestess of Antalis. "He's my wedding gift."
Andar's posture shifted next to her, a crouched lion, a coiled snake. His hand trailed behind the altar to imprison her wrist loosely within his grasp. It was the lightest of touches and yet it filled Yalira with a fear so powerful, she was not certain she stomach the challenge. But her courage was growing.
"A spirit so gentle, she would forgive even traitors!" He cajoled his men into laughing with him, his easy tone in direct opposition to those rough fingers tracing warnings into her skin, his lethal eyes fixed to hers. She forced herself to keep her gaze focused to that fiery, calculating stare. Andar had demanded her submission to the wedding, he had promised her the few remaining lives of her people. He may be a king, a warrior, a tyrant–but he was a man. A man who will not cower my spirit.
"Not so gentle," Yalira countered, keeping the cool, ethereal cadence of High Priestess. "He has betrayed Antalis, but I will name him my champion."
The chamber held its breath in anticipation. Andar's surprised laughter battered against her fear. It shifted the scales back into his favor. The veins of anxious energy that had stirred among his company returned to relaxed inebriation. Hands that had fluttered subconsciously towards weapons returned happily to their drinks.
"Brothers!" Andar roared. "The lion queen's champion will redeem his crimes honorably in the sand!"
Another chorus of hearty cheers. A muffled sob from one of the gilded temple acolytes at her left. Yalira kept her back straight, her chin high, but her heart pounded in her throat. Its pulse in her ears seemed to drown out everything except the unflinching silence of the temple guard. Stoic and solemn, he met her eyes with confused betrayal. Yalria had given him a chance to die standing but robbed him of the honor defending her temple.
The immediate guilt was like swallowing mud. A strong High Priestess would take comfort, joy even, in knowing her guard died protecting her and the sanctity of her temple. A strong High Priestess was removed from mortal attachments. A strong High Priestess clearly saw the higher path. Yalira was the youngest anointed High Priestess, but she was not the strongest. Too enamored of the people, too tempted by emotion. She did not know his name, but he was one of hers and she would defend the last of Antalis.
Acknowledging his traitor status had not been an intended slight: it had been the only path she'd seen to save him. Yalira prayed he saw her sorrow, her desperate bid to save his life. Live and fight again, my brother, she begged silently.
But she would not draw another target into his skin by letting her attention linger. So Yalira forced herself to watch the other two men executed before her. She did not know their names or their stories, but she knew they had not sacked her city. She prayed that Eheia, goddess of the afterlife and the unknown, would guide their spirits home. Their deaths were unnecessary and brutal, but she even whispered thanks for the strength of Gallus' arms which had given the captives a swift death.
Their enemies dead, the company turned back to the revelry.
There was no time to recover, to fortify defenses before his attention was fully back to her. Yalira was certain, that from afar, he looked like a lover leaning in to whisper sweetness and honey into his new bride's ear. But his hand had never freed her wrist and the taut lines of his body fully implied the futility of escaping him. And yet his tone was surprisingly sensual, as was the feather-lightness of his imprisoning touch.
"And what will you give me, Yalira?"
She hated her name on his tongue. When it was mocking endearments and slights at her title, it was easy to loathe him. But the soft intimacy of her name stirred a powerful pride within her: the name of a bastard girl caressed by the lips of a powerful king.
"I have given you everything, husband."
"Have you?"
"You're a man who owns the world. What more could you want?" Her question sounded hollow, bleak, even in her own ears. For this was a monster of fire, a creature who could never be satisfied until there was nothing left to consume.
"Immortality?"
For a moment, Yalira wondered if he was the most arrogant creature alive. But the hard calculating slant of his eyes had been replaced with lightheartedness. He was teasing her. Andar of Tyr was capable of teasing.
If he had not burned her city and murdered her people, Yalira might have tried to return the humor. But her heart was broken, her spirit angry. "Unfortunately, your army burned the food of immortality. Along with everything else."
To her fury, Andar let the venom of her words slide as if it were merely the pecking of a new wife; he shrugged off her anger as if it were simply a mild annoyance. As if he had not sacked her temple, as if he had not killed her people.
"Give me sons, priestess, and I will live forever."
The sharp promise that his seed with turn to ash before she bore him a son died in her throat: a rhythmic thumping rose from company. Fists against breasts, goblets against tables, sandals against the tile floor. It hammered into her bones, a death march.
The dark-skinned Gallus now stood before them, raising his drink and addressed the room.
"To your commander!" Two beats. "To your queen!" Two beats. "To the pack of lions she's sure to bear!" Beats turned into laughter. Goblets were drained.
Andar stood, gently pulling Yalira to her feet beside him. The laughter turned into ribald encouragement. His men roared in approval for the lioness. She could feel embarrassed heat flooding to her cheeks.
"How fetching," Andar purred, turning her face to his before capturing her mouth in a searing kiss.
It would have been easier if he looked like the monster within. But Andar was lovely to behold and the overwhelming heat of his mouth was no different. His lips were soft, insistent on hers. He so easily stole her breath. His hand twisting into her hair, Yalira could not hear the cheers of his men, could not think, could not fight him.
She could not say how long it lasted, only that when it did, the hazy light of the braziers had been replaced with cool starlight from the hall. Without the curious eyes and ears of his men, the chafe of his arm around her rankled her spirit.
"If you touch me, I will kill you," she promised quietly.
He smiled easily, as if her threat was expected. The weak light from the waxing crescent cast the strong angles and planes of Andar's face with an otherworldliness. A servant of Eheia, leading her to the underworld.
"Such hatred," he answered softly. "But I have already touched you."
His eyes found her swollen lips easily as they turned the corners, leading closer and closer to Yalira's chambers. Her stony silence seemed to amuse him.
"But fear not, priestess-wife. I will not defile you this night."
That promise, said at the threshold of her chambers, was remarkably honest. Yalira could taste the truth of it. That he meant it with such certainty stilled her tongue until the great doors were closed behind them.
The room had not been spared from the looting. Gone was the ancient gilded mirror, the bronze basins she had used for washing. The lounges where she had once meditated, once sat with Thais to discuss the subtleties of healing, had been taken or destroyed. The heavy fabric with its sheer underlay ripped from the walls, the inlaid gold pried from intricate mosaics. But someone had returned her bed and a pile of its lavish coverings.
"I don't understand," she murmured as he pulled one of the braziers closer to her bed.
The wicked half-smile he gave her sent shivers through her spine. His movements leonine in their easy grace.
"Tonight, I only want to look at you." He paused, his fingers finding the exposed skin of her back. "At this."
Andar circled her, pushed her hair over her shoulder, so that he could take in the long legacy of names marked into her skin. The priestesses who had lovingly sat and copied those names, rite after rite, would do so no longer.
"Yalira dao Eheia," their murderer breathed. Yalira, daughter of the unknown. "How does an unclaimed bastard girl join find herself with so many names?"
"The same way a monster finds himself ruler of the world, I imagine."
"Divinity?" Andar guessed, a finger tracing the names and leaving gooseflesh in its wake.
"Will."
"Is that what I have to look forward to? Years of your willfulness?"
Yalira thought about snapping that she'd slaughter him in his sleep long before the years could pass. But while the venom would taste sweet in her mouth for a moment, vengeance was not won in moments. But it was getting harder to keep her patience, her sharp tongue itched to draw blood.
Andar ignored her silence and found the names at her back again. "Did you know Thais dao Nadira prophesied my ascension? And before her, Althea dao Teran, my father's? Priestesses choosing kings for generations."
"We don't choose them."
"No?"
"We speak for Antala, who knows all things."
"Do you hear Antala's words? Or is the High Priestess just the mouthpiece?"
Yalira bristled. "We are the vessels for the goddess."
"So, no. You speak madness and it is translated."
"How can you believe it was madness when Antala told of your own ascension?"
He made a skeptical sound from behind her. The hands fell from her skin and Yalira was surprised how quickly the warmth faded from her.
"I believe an herb-addled girl sputters nonsense and a clever hand records double meanings and easy likelihoods."
The indignant fury that bubbled in Yalira's throat was near suffocating.
"I am not an herb-addled girl!"
"Where is the proof?"
"What of Thais the Blessed raising the dead? Clear-sighted Natila dao Antari forewarning the great fires of Volys?"
"They call you Yalira the Loved and you're making it difficult to understand why. Perhaps you priestesses hire excellent singers to cry your greatness." Andar smiled with a disbelieving wryness that only stoked the coals of her anger. The priestess turned from him, searching for the collection bronze bottles that normally sat on her window. The surviving few lay dented on the floor, but the one she sought remained intact.
"I can prove it, Andar of Tyr," she countered, dipping long fingers into the narrow neck to draw out leaves of oleander. "A game of truths and lies."
He laughed again, unfastening the stays of his armor. With clinical interest, Yalira noted the scars that adorned his sun-touched skin. Perhaps the whispers that Andar rode into battle with his men were not exaggerated. The warrior king sat onto her bed and looked at her expectantly. Even without the armor, his frame was formidable. She was not sure if it was his size or his bearing that filled the bed, that filled her chambers.
Yalira perched carefully at the edge of the wool-stuffed mattress, tucking a barefoot beneath her and smoothing the pleated folds of her dress absentmindedly. She focused her dark gaze on the eyes that seemed to shine amber in the low light. His hand shot to her wrist to stop her slipping two of the oleander leaves into her mouth.
"I would hate for my new bride to poison herself on wedding night."
A peal of ringing laughter escaped her. The clear, light sound of it seemed to startle and stir him. Of course, he thinks a reluctant bride would seek escape in the most final of ways.
"Here I thought you were too arrogant to think a woman would ever dare leave you," she drawled, eyes still aglow with dark irony. "Fret not, my life has much more value to me than yours, dear husband."
His shocked incredulity gave her the opportunity to bend her head towards her captive fingers and pull a leaf into her mouth with her teeth. The thought of washing out her mouth seemed to cross his mind, but Yalira's bold confidence stilled him. Andar had paraded her through his world, hostage of a conqueror, new bride of a powerful king. Yalira wondered if he felt nervous to be pulled into hers, mere mortal to a High Priestess.
The bitter shock of oleander across her tongue nearly brought tears to her eyes. Memories flooded her, not of divine influence, but of the aching heartbreak that threatened to overcome her. Was it truly only nights ago she had stood in this room, the world as it always was?
"Yalira?"
It was the first time she had heard him sound uncertain. It gave her strength. Why it mattered that she prove the power of Antala, Yalira was not sure. She told herself it was more than personal pride; Andar of Tyr had destroyed the temple, he should at least know the extent of its loss. He deserved to know the tiniest taste of helplessness.
"Your truths and lies, King Andar."
"Why the herbs?" He plucked the remaining leaf from her fingers, smelling it.
"Human nature has a way of clouding Antala's influence. The oleander makes it easier to accept her guidance. Your truths and lies." She omitted adding that she wanted to take no chances with him: his easy familiarity with manipulating conversations made it difficult to read him consistently.
"Could I eat this and see truth?"
Yalira exhaled slowly, failing to stifle her exasperation. His imperious tone vexed her. First he mocks the legitimacy of Antalis, a haughty king. Then he demands to know its secrets, an impatient child.
"It takes training to accept the goddess. You would make yourself quite ill, though by all means, try it and see for yourself."
She waited, foot a slow pendulum over the edge of the carved stone frame. Despite his doubtful nature, or perhaps, despite his anxieties in submitting to her, Andar held her stare unflinchingly. The warrior lounged on her bed, propping himself on a forearm, twisting the oleander leaf in clever fingers. Not even the sumptuous blankets of ivory and indigo could soften the predatory lines of his posture.
"What should I tell you, priestess? What trinket of knowledge would satisfy you?"
The lull of the goddess fluttered in her chest. For the first time since the rite, her spirit felt lighter, like that of a true priestess. Antala would not forsake her. This husband sorely underestimated her and the goddess she served.
"Why did you destroy Antalis?"
Again, that wry half-smile. "There's not an answer that would please you."
Truth.
"What do you think would please me?"
"If you were any of my other wives, jewels and attention, I imagine. But I think you're something more than that."
Half-truth.
"You're trying to flatter me, husband. You think jewels and attention would please me greatly."
If he was surprised at her contradiction, his face did not falter, though the white of his smile flashed briefly in true amusement. She meant to chastise his disdain, to humiliate him, and yet, this butcher king was enjoying it. Her caustic demeanor only seemed to encourage his playfulness, the barbs of her dry honesty drawing him in.
"Shall we trade truths once more, fireheart?" He traced the tiny stem of the leaf across her forearm, feather-light. "Tell me what I could give. Only name it and it is yours."
Justice, her heart screamed. But his play at simpering flattery, dishonest and grandiose, grated. It was deception, not only in words, but in his intent. Yalira let herself fall further into his gaze, seeking. Andar had been careful with his word choice, casual in his tone: he was playing a deeper game, layers on layers.
"A lie," she murmured. "Do you find yourself strategizing every conversation?"
At that, Andar of Tyr laughed, pure and full. His honest, carefree laughter echoed through her room like bells. His golden eyes two smouldering embers, her captor husband breathed, "I must take care, or else I'll find myself enchanted by you."
Truth.
"And I do," he added, before she could comment. "Find myself strategizing conversations. My tutors told me it is a terrible flaw. One of my many."
Truth.
"Did you execute them for rebuking you?" The sharp-tongued question slipped from her tongue before she could think better of it. It was easy to remember her temper when he dangled the lives of her survivors, but alone?
Another easy laugh. "I rewarded them. I value honest criticism, and the courage to share it. Though I admit I do not always improve myself from it. Another flaw."
Truths. Though he was giving her full truths, Yalira did not feel the joy she expected. The easy lilt of his honest self-deprecation, his growing familiarity with her: it was perversion for the murderer of Antalis to spin truth to his advantage. It brewed a poisonous hatred in her chest, coiling around her heart.
"Do you think you think you are a just king?" Her question was icy, her voice low.
The sudden shift in her tone made him hesitate, pausing the hand that had come dangerously close to to brushing her knee with oleander. The warrior frowned, considering her. "I think I am a man of strength and vision."
"That's not an answer."
"And what of your truths and lies?"
"A High Priestess does not lie."
"Does Yalira?"
The tense silence hung heavy over them. She shifted to stand, suddenly finding his closeness oppressive. Before Yalira could create a safe distance, his hand was around her wrist, an anchor. His eyes had returned to the names that curled down her spine.
His voice was low, dangerous. "In Tyr, tattoos are for traitors, prisoners, and slaves. Those who have fallen from civil society and must be known for it."
The warmth of his hand on her skin was distracting. Andar the Lion could display extraordinary gentleness, lightness of spirit. But like the lion, his velvet was lined with claws. Yalira could still feel the tenderness in her jaw, the pain in her knees. She focused on the pain. She focused on the tattooed slash over her temple guard's eye. She focused on the butchery of her temple and its city.
"I wonder which you are, Yalira."
The taste of oleander had faded from her lips, the veil of the goddess had lifted. And still Yalira clearly saw the truth of the peril she faced. But the truth would not soften her. Though she had groveled to save her people, her pride reveled in challenging him. It would not cower without coercion.
"I am your wife, King Andar, does that not make you my master?"
She lowered her eyes to the calloused hand wrapped around her wrist, a slave's shackle. A moment of tense silence, her heart hammering in her ears, and then a low growl from the warrior king. He had no retort for her, just a furious glower before leaving her alone in her once resplendent chambers.
The thick tallow candles sank low in the brazier before she moved. She took the coverlet from the bed and draped it around her shoulders before walking to the balcony. The night was not particularly cold, but with the heat of righteous fury now spent, Yalira felt a chill sweep through her, a hollow and sharp longing for darkness.
Her fingers found the smooth stone railing, the rocky slopes of mountain quiet below her. The thin sliver of moon was weak, but its wavering light through the dark nighttime clouds reflected off the distant sea. Endure, she thought it whispered. A breeze floated lazily through the charred remains of the olive groves below and the last high priestess of Antalis sank to her knees and wept.
Author's Note:
I first was intrigued by Alexander the Great after a visit to the Acropolis museum in Athens. In a world where so many men (and their sculpted depictions) had long beards, Alexander was always clean-shaven with very flowy locks. In reading about his character, accounts suggest that Alexander was incredibly charismatic but balanced between rash impulse and calm logic. A student of Aristotle, Alexander was a lover of philosophy and a patron of the arts and sciences. Undefeated in battle, Alexander amassed his empire before the age of 30.
Andar's obsession with an immortal legacy is a facet of his character loosely based on Achilles in The Illiad: Achilles was forced to choose between life and glory--to live a loved life or to be remembered for all time. Interesting to think that the story of Achilles has lived on for centuries and centuries!