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Rakas swallows delicately.

Memnon must see it too, his gaze flicking over the man. “I thought not. But you want battle? Travel?” Memnon says. “Youwillget both.”

My husband’s eyes sweep over the dining hall, over our visitors, over Eislyn, Zosines, and the rest of the warriors who make up his inner circle.

Settling deeper into his seat, Memnon says to the room, “The god-kings of old were the most feared men of all this land.” Murmurs of assent. “Rome has forgotten this truth—theworldhas forgotten it. But we haven’t. We horse riders were borne from the blood of gods and forged in their fires.”

The room collectively seems to sit straighter, the reminder of their ancestors calling to some ancient nobility in them. The Alanic queen watches Memnon, captivated.

“We were bred for bloodshed,” Memnon says. “That of our enemies and that of our own. And we have let men who do not know the icy song of our winds nor the ancient names of our rivers command these lands—the lands of our forebearers. The lands of our children.Ourland. So we took it from them. And now they come to take it back.”

Memnon shakes his head. “You would never give your house to your enemy. And so, we will not relinquish these lands to Rome—nor will we let them hold on to the ones to the west of us. Nor the south, and certainly not to the north and east.”

It doesn’t seem to matter that Memnon’s hair and beard have been shorn, nor that there is a cruel and unsettling fervor in his eyes. There is something mesmerizing about his intensity, something that makes these warriors linger on his words. Maybe it’s that Memnon is echoing their deepest beliefs, the ones they’ve never voiced. Maybe it’s the promise of bloodshed and glory he seems to be building up to. Or maybe he’s simply a great orator.

Whatever it is, the room laps up his words like a cat with cream.

“You want fighting? You want movement?” Memnon says again, his gaze returning to Rakas. “Soon, all our gathered forces will come together, and we won’t simplybanishthe Romans—we will rideonRome, wiping out each and every one of their godsforsaken strongholds, and we won’t stop until all of the empire is ours!”

The room roars, and down the table, Eislyn smiles.

The dining hall is full of excited, almost violent chatter as dinner is served. Memnon’s words have worked their way into the bloodstreams of the men and women here, and the room fills with palpable energy. Even I’m buzzing with anticipation, despite the fact that my stomach is in knots.

I thought perhaps he’d reconsider conquering Rome after I confessed my desire for peace. Foolish of me to hope.

Little witch?Memnon says uncertainly, peering over at me.

I shake my head. What am I to say that I haven’t already?

From the kitchen, servants carry out roast mutton, stuffed cabbage rolls, and loaves of bread.

As soon as I smell the mutton and cabbage, my stomach turns over. The normally savory aromas are now pungent, fetid. Even the bread smells too yeasty. If I try any of it, I know with absolute certainty it won’t stay down, especially when my nerves have already twisted up my stomach. The thought of retching in front of all these guests is horrifying.

I stand abruptly and stride for the door. I should’ve missed this dinner as Katiari and Tamara have.

Across our bond, I sense Memnon’s alarm.

Is it the sickness again?he asks.

Yes. I almost tell him the full, suspected truth then and there.

But the smell of mutton is getting worse with each passing moment, and I need to leavenow.

Memnon’s magic snakes over to me and enters my nostrils. Immediately, the nausea abates, though the scents in the room are no less sickening. Still, my shoulders relax.

Go rest, Memnon says.I’ll wrap this up and bring you some honeyed milk and bread.

Despite my hurt feelings, I can’t seem to stop the small smile. Damn that man and his thoughtfulness.

I glance over my shoulder at him, sharing a lingering look with the Sarmatian king.

One that’s interrupted when Zosines calls out, “Where are you going?”

My gaze flicks to Memnon’s blood brother.

“Since when are my wife’s movements your business?” Though Memnon’s tone is mild, his earlier hostility edges the words.

Again, the room quiets.