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I’m still terrible at riding horses, but I have more than enough resolve to make up for it. I pull on the reins and turn the beast back around toward the cyclone of magic.

From behind me, Zosines curses. “Roxilana…fuck—wait!”

No. I’ve already waited eighteen long years for Memnon. I’m not going to abandon him now to Roman forces and the whims of his power. My magic rushes out of me, forming a wall at my back and blocking Zosines’s path.

“Roxilana!” Zosines shouts.

I press my legs into my mare’s flanks. “Come on, girl,” I whisper, threading magic into my words. “Run as fast as you can.”

We charge back down the path. Behind me, I hear Zosines curse again, though his voice is soon lost in the cacophony of screams.

Even with my own spell ushering my mare on, I sense an increasing tension in her that slows her movements the closer we get to Memnon. I don’t blame the creature; the shrieks are horrifying.

Ahead of us, the storm cloud of Memnon’s magic rolls and flashes. The outstretched arm of it snakes down the path, reaching for me as I approach it.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a furred flash of shadow bounding up alongside me.

Ferox.

I’d assumed my panther was still safely sitting in the cart.

My heart hammers in my chest. “You don’t have to come with me,” I tell him.

I have no idea whether he can understand my words, so I slip down our bond to try to convey the sentiment. I hold the feeling within my awareness, but it’s absolutely pointless because, once I’m inside the panther’s head, I feel his own steadfast conviction that he will remain by my side even in danger. That we are a unit.

I slide back into my own head, a lump of tenderness lodging in my throat. I press one hand to my horse, and the other I outstretch for Ferox. I don’t know if Memnon’s magic will affect either of these animals, but I will not let them race into that magical vortex without my protection.

“Neither blade nor magic shall injure you.” I push my power out, and the soft orange plumes of my power wrap around the beasts, thinning out until I can only see the slight sheen of it against their bodies.

Mere moments later, Memnon’s magic is upon us, and we’re swept into that magical maelstrom.

Flickering blue smoke surrounds us on all sides. In here, the screams are more muffled, but I swear I can taste the edge of their agony. Or perhaps that’s simply Memnon’s magic I’m tasting.

That volatile power caresses my skin and invades my mouth and nostrils, slipping down my throat with each breath I take. I have seen it knock out grown men and make others dance like puppets, but Memnon’s magic is entirely different with me. Supple and soft, it flows over me, running itself through my hair and down my skin like fingers.

It’s a battle, steering my horse onward. She jerks her head back as her steps slow, fighting the magical compulsion that spurs her on. I assume she cannot see Memnon’s power as I can, but on some deep, instinctual level, she must sense it. Gradually, however, I draw her toward the section of the magical storm that seems to flicker the brightest and most frequent.

That’s how we find Memnon.

First, I see the rump of his horse, then my husband’s back. His hair blows in the breeze of his magic, lifted off his shoulders as though it could float away. My husband sits rigidly still in his saddle.

“Memnon?” I call to him.

His body doesn’t so much as flinch. Now my mare rears up, her front hooves pawing at the air, and I nearly slide off my saddle. As soon as her front legs hit the ground, I swing a leg over the saddle and dismount.

I have no sooner landed than my horse turns and gallops back down the path, the flashing blue magic swallowing up her form.

Only Ferox remains, the panther moving in close to my side as we cautiously approach Memnon and his horse.

Memnon?

My queen,Memnon’s voice whispers in my head.

He still sounds different. Alarmingly so. And neither he nor his horse are moving, both rooted in place by some sort of bewitchment he’s cast on them both. I step up to the horse, the golden bits of his bridle gleaming under the brief bursts of light.

Through the thick soup of Memnon’s magic, I can still hear the roar of screams. I quake at what might be happening to those soldiers, what’s so awful even Memnon’s own men fled from it.

I approach the side of Memnon’s saddle, and before I can talk myself out of it, I hoist myself onto the seat, facing backward, toward my husband. Only then do I glimpse Memnon’s full face.