Page 185

All my rage coalesces into an unnamed curse, one I aim for that traitorous Sarmatian man. The pale orange magic that barrels toward him is threaded through with oily black stains. When it hits Rakas, it lifts him into the air, great plumes of orange smoke upwelling beneath him. Never have I made such a spell or committed such a feat as lifting a person into the air. This is fueled by rage and pain and my power’s own sentience.

The fighting slows, and people stop to stare as Rakas writhes above them, slashing his sword at thin air to try to break himself free.

The cursed magic still swarms around him, hugging close to his skin, and it’s only once it sinks into him that I clearly see his flesh begin to boil and bubble until, all at once, his body explodes, bits of cursed flesh raining down on the room. People shriek as the curse lands on them and burns their own flesh.

The Roman soldiers seem terrified. They signed up for war, not witchcraft. Some run, but most cast new, deadlier gazes on me.

That’s when the fighting begins in earnest.

I blow those nearest me back, then cast two more annihilation spells. Many, many bodies go flying.

Beneath my impassioned feelings, I feel the drain of my magic. It’s running out; it will run out. Rather soon, if I keep attacking as I am. It’s hard to care. Not when my cheeks are wet and a soul-deep ache has taken root inside me.

The moment the room recovers from its panic, a dozen arrows rain on me and Ferox. My panther yelps when one of them hits his flank, and I lash out, my magic slicing a whole row of soldiers.

The temple, I remind myself. I need to get there if I have any hope of reaching Memnon.

I raise my arms to the room. “Incinerate.”

Fire billows from my palms, streaming out at those closest to me. Soldiers catch fire, and smoke and the acrid smell of burning flesh fill the room.

I cannot think about those I’m leaving behind. It’s a bloodbath in the palace, and Memnon’s forces have either been slaughtered or co-opted by the enemy. Any hope of us winning this fight will come only once I have my husband at my side.

My arms shake as I carve a bloody path for myself and Ferox. My panther lunges at anyone who comes too close, ripping out throats and slashing legs. I feel the first true strain of my power. Sweat drips from my brow, and?—

I choke as an arrow lodges in my back, throwing me forward. Another hits me near the armpit.

The protective ward I cast must’ve disintegrated.

A soldier rushes me, sword swinging. I jump out of his way, but his blade slashes me across the abdomen.

I gasp, then rush out, “Impenetrable armor for my body.” The ward returns once more.

It’s too late, though. Blood seeps between my fingers and drips down my back, and there are dozens of soldiers closing in on me.

The temple, I remind myself again.Just need to get to the temple.

Closing my eyes, I draw on my pain and my blood, and then the blood of anyone nearby. My power reaches out, feeding on the suffering and building in my veins. Dazedly, I release it, only half noticing the people it rips apart.

The temple. The temple. It’s become a chant.

Ferox sticks close, and I can feel his inquisitive, worried gaze on me as I manage to pass through the double doors and leave the palace, my power blowing the enemy back many arm spans.

Several more arrows hit my body, though they bounce off my skin and clothes and clatter uselessly to the ground, leaving nothing behind except for ugly welts. Unlike the two other arrows I carry—those protrude out of me almost comically.

Outside the palace, the world is unnervingly silent, save for a few skirmishes and a couple of soldiers hauling away a chest of something or other. But the teeming scores of soldiers are following me out. It’s all I can do to cast my magic behind me, pushing them and their weapons back, back, back, even as the wordless spell drains my quickly depleting reserves of power.

Off to my left, I can see the shadowy silhouette of the abandoned temple. The priests who once maintained it never returned after our capture of the palace, and Memnon and I never tried to replace them with new holy servants. Sarmatian gods don’t dwell in temples, and I have no use for Roman ones.

I stagger to it, moving as fast as I dare and leaving a trail of blood in my wake. I need to heal my wounds, particularly my abdominal injury, but I cannot focus on more than keeping a magical shield up at my back, where it protects me and Ferox. Even now, I sense the soldiers battering against it, their shouts and footfalls far too close.

It feels like an agonizing eternity before I reach the temple steps. As soon as I’m inside, I hastily ward the threshold against intruders, the magical strings of my casting somewhat sloppy. My hand shakes, and my pain is distracting me. I add another layer to the ward, this one to block weapons from entering the space—it was a ward we forgot to place on the room of Tamara and Katiari, and Zosines and the other traitors found a way around it.

I spell the entrance just in time too. The first of the soldiers slams into the ward not a moment later. I jerk back at the sound, and my body sways a little. Ferox presses against my side, clearly trying to help me stabilize.

“Thank you,” I say softly, my fingers delving into his fur. One of my hands still clutches my midsection. “Mend the wound, heal the flesh,” I whisper.

Thick, syrupy magic spreads out beneath my palm, sinking into my skin. I hiss as it tugs on my injury, but already the pain is lessening as the wound repairs itself. I still have those two arrows protruding from my torso, but for now, I let them be.