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“That sounds like something only a terrible teacher would say,” I insist.

He laughs again, and I’m suddenly greedy for that laugh. I want to capture it, bottle it up so I can listen to it at whim. Since I can do no such thing, I think I’ll have to settle for giving him a reason to laugh every day.

“Maybe,” he agrees. His eyes drop to my lips, and he turns serious.

“Why are you staring at my lips like that?” I say softly.

“Can you not hear my screaming thoughts?” Memnon says. “I very much want to kiss you.”

I run a hand over his cheek, which is still smooth despite the fact that his facial hair has had a whole day to begin to grow back. I think he might intentionally be keeping it short for me.

“We still haven’t made camp,” I say.

“Fuck camp,” Memnon murmurs.

“That also sounds like something a terrible teacher would say.”

Memnon smiles, but then his expression turns serious once more. Slowly, he lets my body slide through his arms until the two of us are face-to-face.

An ache grows in me as the moment drags on, and my face heats again. He really is beautiful.

Memnon leans in, and at last, his lips meet mine. A shiver races through me at the contact, and I can feel my magic sifting out of my palms as my mouth moves against his.

He lowers me to the ground, and the kiss goes on and on and on. I cannot get enough of the way his body seems to wrap around mine.

“Ehy!” one of Memnon’s men calls out as he stomps back into camp. “You two lovers going to make out until the sun rises, or are you going to help us finish setting up the damn camp?”

I grin as I break off the kiss. “Naughty teacher,” I say breathlessly, “kissing your pupil.”

Memnon’s eyes are heated as he stares at me, and for once, there’s no quippy response. He flicks a hand, and the fire lights itself and piles of wooden poles and folded felt lain out a little ways off now build themselves into tents.

“You happy now?” Memnon calls out to his man.

“Show-off,” his comrade mutters.

Memnon steps away from me and holds out his hand. “There are two final spells I do want to show you.”

He leads me around the newly erected tents, toward the edge of our campsite. We only stop once we’ve passed the tents and draw near an olive tree.

Memnon turns his attention to the land around us. “You wanted to learn about wards.”

A thrill runs through me.Thisis the knowledge I’ve yearned for. But as my eyes sweep over our campsite again, I growskeptical. “You’re going to ward this whole place?” That seems far too vast an expanse of space for either of our powers to cover.

But even as I think it, Memnon raises his hands and begins to speak—no,incant—in Sarmatian. “A roof to cover us and a wall to encircle us.” Memnon’s magic pours out of him, swarming between our tents. “Form an impenetrable barrier that our enemies may not pass through.”

The indigo smoke rushes around camp, filling the space, then thinning out until it shapes itself into a semitransparent dome as delicate as insect wings. The deep blue color drains away from the phantom structure, leaving behind lines and lines of what look to be text that float in midair.

I walk up to this…ward, studying the way the strange writing glints in the waning light. Reaching out, I touch one such letter. It shivers a little under my touch, and I can sense the warmth and brightness of Memnon through it.

Is this real writing?I ask.

If it is, I cannot read it, Memnon says.It’s simply the signature my magic leaves behind.

I’m still touching the ward, and now I push my hand through it, then my arm. Finally, I step across it entirely, curious what it feels like. But like Memnon’s ward in Rome, this one doesn’thavea feel to it beyond that very subtle warmth.

“So if I were an enemy,” I say, turning around to get another look at the ward, “I would not be able to cross this?”

Memnon shakes his head. “No. Tomorrow, I will have you help me create the ward?—”