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“Then we should leave,” Ilyapa says.

He approaches us and embraces Memnon once more. “Congratulations, my son. There aren’t many things truly worth living for in this life, but a good woman is one of them.” He pulls away, patting him on the cheek. “Enjoy newly married life. And make me some grandchildren I can spoil next time we meet.”

Ilyapa releases Memnon, then comes over to me. “Dear daughter,” he says, taking my hand. He gives me a gentle smile, his gaze searching my own. “You have knowledgeable eyes, but they are not shrewd, not the way a queen’s must be. I lamentthat the next time I see you, they will look shrewd.” His smile tightens, turning bleak. “Power always exacts a cost. Always.”

With that unsettling line, he lets go of my hand and hugs me.

Conscienceless or not, Ilyapa gives me the sort of hug that Tamara does, one that makes me feel like I belong. Like I am family.

Giving my back a final pat, he releases me.

“Come, Eislyn,” he says, backing away. “It is time we left. Who knows what machinations await us back at our palace?”

Eislyn comes up to me, stepping in close. “I hope we can be friends,” she says. “I have counseled your husband’s family for many generations. It is my wish to see the mother of his future children well and happy.”

I nod and try for a smile, but the truth is, I don’t like her, and my intuition is telling me to watch her closely, that she is a slippery thing.

She turns from me and hugs Memnon, holding him for a touch too long. “You can ask anything of me,” she says softly, “anything at all, and I will give it to you. You understand?”

“I want nothing,” Memnon says, extricating himself.

“Nothing more, you mean,” she responds, touching her temple. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” She backs up, nodding to both of us. “Felicitations on your marriage.”

With that, she and Ilyapa leave, their footsteps retreating, the large double doors groaning first to open, then to close.

Once they’re gone, I feel the tension leave my body. Suddenly, I’m tired.

Tired and a little dejected.

“Is it true?” I ask. “That Sarmatian kings take many wives?”

I think of how Eislyn fawned over him. There are many more women back at our settlement who would do the same thing if given the chance.

Memnon’s nostrils flare and he grimaces, but after a moment, he reluctantly nods. “It’s true.”

“Haveyou ever considered multiple?—”

He laughs—laughs!—before I can even complete the thought.

“Why are you laughing?” I demand, my hurt rising.

“Because it ispreposterous.”

“It doesn’t sound like it is,” I say. “It sounds entirely”—unbearably—“normal.”

“Yes,” Memnon agrees, nodding, mirth still in his eyes. “Sarmatians are allowed multiple spouses, and many previous kings have done so. Those kings, however,wantedother wives. I do not. I never touched another woman before you, and I do not intend to—ever.”

For the first time since Eislyn spoke the words, I feel I can breathe again. Still, Memnon hasn’t been completely forthright with me. “Would you still feel the same if you lost your conscience?”

He rears back like I’ve hit him, but his eyes, his eyes look guilty. “What?” he says softly.

My earlier hurt rises, despite my best efforts to leave it back in Sarmatia. “Your father told me about the cost of your power.”

Memnon’s face falls, and he looks boyish and young. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, casting his eyes downward. “I meant to tell you, but I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” I say, searching what I can see of his features.

“I was afraid it would scare you off,” he admits, glancing back up at me.