Page 24

Memnon’s power erupts out of him, the force of it throwing the commander and the closest of his soldiers back before it swallows them up. Within the blue smoke, I hear a scream. Then another.

Behind me, Itaxes, Rakas, and Sattion are rapidly securing their weapons and turning their steeds around. Ferox hunkers low in the wooden cart, his ears flattened back.

Zosines maneuvers his horse to my side and grabs my reins from me. Without a word, he steers our horses back down the path we came.

“What are you doing?” I shout to be heard over the growing number of screams as we retreat down the path.

“Getting us away from Memnon before we die!” he shouts.

“Die?” I echo.

Behind me, Memnon thunders to the Romans, “You think me a barbarian?” He laughs, the haunting sound carrying on the wind. “ I will give you barbarous. ”

I glance over my shoulder in time to see a second wave of power explode from my husband, and in the thick soup of it, the screams multiply.

“There are many things you don’t yet know about our king. His power is one of them.”

But I do know his power.

I think.

I glance over my shoulder again, where I should be able to see his lone figure. Instead, all I see are waves of Memnon’s magic swirling around like a vortex. Lightning streaks through the plumes of it. As I watch, a section of the swirling mass expands in our direction.

It should seem ominous, but it’s not fear I feel.

Memnon…

You are safe, my queen, he says. Even down our bond, his voice sounds different, off .

I face forward as Zosines drives us down the path.

“Release my horse’s reins,” I command.

Zosines sets his jaw, ignoring me.

“Zosines—”

“No, my queen, I won’t. It’s too dangerous.”

I glance back over my shoulder. Across our bond, all I feel is his wrathful power.

There’s no time to argue with the warrior.

My magic funnels down my arm and into my palm. With a thought alone, I release it. The orange ropes of my magic jerk the reins from Zosines’s hand and into my own.

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.

His eyes glow , as though they are lit from behind, looking like amber and flame. And yet for all their illumination, they don’t seem to see anything at all. His jaw is clenched, his face like stone.

What has happened to my husband?

As though he heard the thought, those eyes drop to mine. The being staring out through them is unrecognizable.

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of who this version of Memnon is and how familiar I can be with him.

Around us, the screams begin to die off, fading away like wisps of smoke. Not much time left for those souls.

With featherlight fingertips, I touch Memnon’s cheek. Memnon, whatever is happening, please, fight it.

Memnon continues to stare blankly at me.

Please , I beg.

You’re safe , he insists, misunderstanding my motives.

I trace his scar. But nobody else is.

The silence between us is loud.

I rack my mind, trying to think of a way to stop him, when my gaze drops to Memnon’s mouth.

If he cannot be persuaded, maybe he can at least be distracted.

I swallow, unsure if this will work. But the screams are weakening, and time is running out. Making a hasty decision, I lean forward and press a kiss to Memnon’s mouth.

For several breaths, his lips are unyielding against mine.

Then his hands move to my arms, and he squeezes them softly, a shudder working its way through him. Finally, his mouth moves against mine, tentative and perhaps a little perplexed.

The pained shrieks die off, and with a sigh, Memnon ends the kiss.

His eyes are closed, and for several inhalations, he remains that way, his hands still gripping my upper arms. When he finally opens them, they’re back to their normal hue.

Memnon reaches a hand out, his knuckles stroking my cheek while his brows pinch together.

I stare at him warily. He looks like my Memnon once more, but I…I don’t know.

His eyes lift over my shoulder as his magic clears, and my skin prickles at the deep silence. I turn in the saddle, following his gaze.

I wish I hadn’t.

Where once there was a mighty army, now all that’s left are bloody, mangled bodies. Blood oozes from their eyes, their ears, their noses and mouths. Their bellies are split open, their innards bursting forth like overripe fruit.

Memnon killed them all.

“I…am not like you.”

Memnon admits this quietly over the last remaining embers of our dying campfire.

His men have all retired for the night, their meals largely uneaten. I would’ve assumed vanquishing a foe would be cause for celebration, but like me, Memnon’s men seem largely unnerved by the Romans’ grisly deaths. Perhaps because that was no ordinary battle—it was a massacre.

I sit cross-legged next to him, Ferox’s head in my lap, stroking his dark fur. Like me, my panther was unharmed by Memnon’s magic.

“I was planning on telling you.” I see his throat work. He stares at the fire. “My magic is not like yours—not entirely.”

My hand stills on Ferox. I already know Memnon can alter minds, and I remember seeing his glowing eyes once before. Even what I saw today wasn’t unprecedented. The Roman arena had been a bloodbath as well. It doesn’t make what I witnessed earlier any less frightening.

“You are a witch,” he says. “You have magic, and you can use words and writing and ingredients to heighten the power you were born with. But me…” He pauses to grab the wooden canteen of wine we’ve passed around all evening and takes a swig of it, like he needs a little extra courage for what he’s about to say.

“My kind—my father’s kind—we are called sorcerers,” Memnon says, setting the wine aside.

Sorcerers . I’ve heard that term used before. I assumed it was another word for witch , though there has always been a certain darkness to the former term.

“If I use too much of my power,” Memnon continues, “it can take over, like it did today, and…my magic is bloodthirsty.” A charred log pops in the silence, and my flesh puckers.

He searches the dying flames. “My men were right earlier. I gave them the order to stay away,” he says, harkening back to a previous conversation this evening.

“Why did none of you follow her?” Memnon demands.

“My king,” Itaxes beseeches, “you ordered us to retreat anytime you use your magic. You swore that lingering would mean certain death.”

“Then die a warrior!” Memnon roars. “Better that than a coward, to let my bride chase after me.”

Now Memnon says, “Had they tried to get you, they would have died the same way the Romans did. It has happened before.”

“What happened today has happened before?” I echo, aghast. How could I have been so close to Memnon all these years yet still know so little about him?

“Because I didn’t want you to know,” he confesses.

He won’t look at me. This whole conversation has been pried from his mouth.

“I’ve killed my own men before. I cannot explain it or atone for it.

My power takes on a life of its own, and through me, it has done godless things.

” He swallows, his eyes finally rising to mine.

“And you…you ran right into it.” Memnon’s voice breaks, and his eyes shine too bright.

“I am sorry, Roxi,” he says, his voice hoarse, “so sorry.”

I nod, searching his face. “Your magic didn’t hurt me.” Or Ferox, for that matter.

He gives me a sad smile. “It is incapable of doing such a thing. Every bit of me loves you. Even the wretched parts.”

It’s quiet between us, with only the fire’s final crackles filling the air.

“So which is it?” I finally murmur. “Are you kind and gentle or ferocious and violent?”

Memnon searches my face. “I’m all of it,” he admits sorrowfully. The weight of that confession looks heavy. “And I am sorry for it.” He bows his head. “But all of me—all my power, all that you love and fear about me—I lay it at your feet. It is yours.”