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“Ah,” she finally says, “so it’s a secret. I do so love secrets. This one can be ours.”

It’snota secret. I’ve spoken long into the night with Memnon about this, just as I have so many other joys. Not that Eislyn needs to know such things.

I lean back in my seat and bring the wine to my lips again. “Mmm…” I murmur noncommittally.

The bronze doors groan then, and I don’t miss the flash of eagerness that flits across Eislyn’s face before she smooths it over.

I hear Memnon’s long strides before I see his form cross into the dining room. He’s wearing his circlet and one of his finer kurtas, the gold thread of it catching the light.

Unlike the last time Eislyn saw him, his beard has grown back, and his hair has lengthened.

“Memnon,” she says with genuine warmth. “What a wonderful, unexpected?—”

“Surprise,” he finishes. “Yes.” He takes an ominous step toward her. “It was a surprise when Roxilana told me you were here, in our palace, without our knowledge.”

His words come off as threatening, but Eislyn looks downright delighted.

“Did you come all this way to see me?” she asks, standing. She crosses the room and embraces him, laying a soft hand on his cheek. “You did not have to.”

A possessive sort of anger rises in me at her actions. She treats my husband the same way she treats this place—as though he is hers.

It’s all right, Memnon soothes.I shall handle this.

Memnon wraps a hand around Eislyn’s wrist and pries her hand from his cheek. “Is this palace ours, or is it not?”

“Of course it is yours,” she assures him, practically simpering under his gaze.

“Then you are never to come here again without receiving an invitation first.”

She raises her eyebrows, then casts me a pointed look, like I am at fault for his words. To be fair, I likely am. “But the wards that protect?—”

“We shall tend to the spells that guard this place, just as we have been—or have you not noticed my queen’s many, manywards and enchantments?” he accuses. “I assure you, you cannot miss them.”

Eislyn flicks a cursory gaze over the room. Slowly, she nods. “Very well. I misunderstood the situation, and I am sorry if I have offended either of you.”

I barely suppress my guffaw. She doesn’t give a horse’s ass if she offended me, I know that for sure. It’s only Memnon whose opinion she seems to care about.

Eislyn turns and grabs her cloak, her Moche garments rustling as she does so. “Take care, clever human,” she says to me. “We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure of it.”

She heads for the doorway, pausing only to give Memnon a final, meaningful look. “I will pass on your good tidings to your father. Keep yourself whole and healthy. You know where to find me if you ever need my aid.”

And then she’s gone, leaving nothing in her wake except for this deep, foreboding feeling I cannot shake.

PART THREE

CHAPTER 31

ROXILANA, 22 YEARS OLD

58 AD, Eastern Sarmatia, near the Tanais River

The howlof the wind nearly drowns out the screams and bellows of battle. My warhorse gallops hard as we ride toward the enemy.

I trust the creature enough to not bother holding the reins. Instead, I aim my nocked arrow at a rival warrior. It feels like flying, like when Memnon and I left Rome together and I first tasted freedom.

Over the years, I’ve gotten good at riding. And fighting. I no longer need magic to keep me mounted, help draw back the string of my bow, or even aim my arrow. Near-constant practice has helped me perfect the art.

I pull back my bowstring and shoot. The projectile hits the warrior, knocking him off his steed as I ride on.