Page 81

ROXILANA, 18 YEARS OLD

54 AD, Northern Sarmatia, near the Borysthenes River

The daysof celebration run into one another. Singing and dancing begin midmorning, and kumiss and wine flow from sunrise to well after sunset. People pass out in the streets of the settlement and wake only to begin celebrating again the next day.

But then, on the fourth day of festivities, something changes.

A distant commotion beyond the walls of the tented dining hall drags my gaze from the line of guests waiting to meet me and Memnon. Moments later, Tamara enters the large space and briskly approaches us, the adornments on her large headdress tinkling.

She steps in front of the young couple greeting us and leans in close. “Memnon, your father is here.”

I glance sharply at Tamara, but my mother-in-law’s expression gives nothing else away—no joy, no anger, nothing at all to indicate how she might feel about Memnon’s father joining us. I myself am reeling from this revelation. I rememberthe stories of Ilyapa, King of the Moche, and his ability to travel here. Even knowing this, I hadn’t expected to meet him so soon after arriving.

Memnon rises, his eyes fixed to the entrance of the tent as a group of armed Sarmatian warriors enter, two civilians in their midst. They approach our throne, scattering the line of waiting guests in the process.

Once they stop and the warriors move aside, I finally lay eyes on Ilyapa, the man who gave Memnon his magic. He’s tall and willowy, and beneath his hammered gold crown, his straight hair falls to his shoulders, the dark strands threaded through with silver. His skin is pale brown in color, but it lacks the sun-deepened hue that Memnon’s carries, as though this man spends most of his time inside. And though he must be older, his skin shows only the first signs of wrinkles.

Memnon steps forward and eagerly embraces him.

“My son, my wonderful son,” Ilyapa murmurs. He speaks in fluent Sarmatian, but there’s some haze to the words that makes me think magic is at play.

Ilyapa eventually steps back to hold Memnon at arm’s length. Though Memnon’s father might be tall, his son is taller still.

“I swear you have gotten bigger since I saw you last,” Ilyapa says.

“Ithasbeen several seasons,” Memnon says.

His father smiles at him and pats him on the cheek. “Too long,” he says with fondness. He brings Memnon in close then, and kisses him on one cheek, then the other.

I can feel my husband’s pleasure and the pride brimming from him.

Memnon steps back from his father and turns to his left. “Eislyn.” He dips his head. “As ever, it is a pleasure to see you.”

Only then do I realize there’s awomanat Ilyapa’s side—Eislyn, Memnon called her. Once I fix my gaze on her, I cannot look away.

She is unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. Her hair is pale and bright, so bright, like spun sunlight, and from between the shimmering locks, I can make out the odd, pointed tips of her ears. And though her eyes are blue like mine and her skin is similarly pale, there is some element to her that I lack, like comparing glass to clay. Eislyn is delicate and lustrous, and…I am not. Not like her anyway.

She doesn’t see me. In fact, she doesn’t seem to seeanyonesave for my husband. Him, she openly stares at even once he returns his attention to his father. The look has my heart racing and my stomach twisting.

I don’t like it, I realize. It’s not simply a covetous look—I’ve seen a few of those since I arrived here—it’s the certainty in Eislyn’s eyes that she could capture Memnon’s interest if she wanted to and that she just might.

“Memnon, I heard fortuitous news,” his father says, following his gaze. “Tell me the spirits whisper the truth.”

Again, Memnon’s pride brims over. “Father,” he says, turning back to Ilyapa. “I’d like you to meet my wife and queen.” He steps aside, gesturing to me. “This is Roxilana.”

Memnon’s father assesses me with dark, inquisitive eyes. “So you are the woman the gods have bound to my son,” he says. His voice raises the hairs on my arm. I cannot say why.

Hesitantly, I rise from my seat. “I am.”

He steps forward, past Memnon, studying my features. “I hear you have magic.”

Next to him, Eislyn’s attention has finally shifted to me. Her expression is placid, but her eyes are as sharp as her strange beauty.

“I do,” I say softly, coming to Memnon’s side.

“Mmm,” Ilyapa murmurs, still taking me in. “Very good, very good.”

He glances around at the warriors and the gathering crowd, his eyes lingering longer than necessary on Tamara, who stands off to the side, her features neutral. “For now, however, I would like to give you both your wedding gift—should you be brave enough to accept it.”