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PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

ROXILANA, 7 YEARS OLD

43 AD, Cantium, Britannia

The screams wake me.

For a moment, I am sure I dreamed them. These sorts of screams belong to nightmares and nightmares alone. But the agonized sounds continue, and I become confused, unsure of whether I even am awake.

Fear gnaws at my bones as I lie in my bed and listen to them. The sounds are high-pitched, terrified,pained. The longer I draw in short, shallow breaths, the surer I become that this is real.

On either side of me, my older sister and younger brother sleep soundly, blithely unaware of whatever is happening outside the walls of our house.

Across the room, one of my parents stirs, then sits up. I stare at them in the darkness, too afraid to call out or run to them but yearning to be close.

The screams get louder and more numerous, and they’re now accompanied by the roar and crackle of fire.

“Wake up, get up,” my mother says. She must be the one awake. I can just make out her form leaning over my father. “Something’s happening.”

Outside, I hear the pound of footfalls and the heavy rustle of metal as people rush past our house. With every passing moment, the sounds grow louder, closer. There are shrieks and shouts and terrible, wet noises that scare me most of all. My siblings are stirring but then…then…

I hear the crackle and hiss of fire so much closer—first near our door and then, with awhoosh, upon our thatched roof.

A shout, then a scream—I think the sounds belong to my parents, but it’s too dark. I cannot see, cannot tell. I’m shaking, and my teeth are chattering. Something is very, very wrong; that much I understand.

One of my parents rushes to my bedside and begins to shake me and my siblings. My mother, I realize. I can just make out the gleaming whites of her eyes.

“Wake up, wake up!” she whispers, her voice frantic, hoarse. Behind her, smoke is billowing, backlit by the unholy, orange glow of the growing flames. The bundles of herbs that hang from our rafters catch fire, and I can smell their clashing fragrances in the thickening smoke.

My brother and sister finally wake, and they begin to shout in confusion and fear, and someone’s crying. Is it me? There’s a lot of smoke. It stings my eyes. Maybe Iamcrying.

My mother tugs at me and my siblings, shouting commands at us, but fear has dulled my senses. My older sister gets up first, crossing the room toward our front door—or where it should be. But the smoke is so thick, her form seems to disappear right into it.

“Up, now!” my mother commands, giving my arm a swift yank.

I stumble forward just as part of our thatched roof collapses. I scream, backing away from it. I can’t see my mother and brother, though I can hear them, and I still can’t see the door. I turn in a circle, and now I know I am crying. Where is my family? Where should I go?

Somewhere in the distance, my father shouts, but it cuts off sharply. Where is he? Is he calling to me?

On instinct, I move toward the noise, trying to wave away the smoke clogging my lungs and burning my eyes. My heart feels like it’s trying to escape my chest. I can hear the pounding of it, even over the roar of the flames.

Ba-bum-ba-bum-ba-bum.

More of the roof collapses, the burning thatch falling somewhere behind me. I scream, but it’s quickly eclipsed by my mother’s and brother’s screams.

I turn back for an instant, and all I see is fire—hungry, hazy fire.

“Mother!” My hoarse cry ends in a hacking cough. How will she find her way out?

Babumbabumbabum.

More screams.Theirscreams. Are they stuck? Hurt?

Pieces of burning thatch fall on my shoulders, and in my panic, I flee in the opposite direction.

The door materializes through the smoke, and I rush through it. I’ve barely crossed the threshold and tasted the crisp air when I trip over something large.