Page 25

It’s a hot, cloudy day when we pass an innocuous stone set to the side of the road.

It’s not as massive as some of the Roman markers that dot these roads, nor is it carved or inscribed with precise Latin letters that speak of things I cannot read.

The only detail that sets this large rock apart from any other is the red, familiar-looking dragon painted onto it.

My husband rides up to the stone and, after pressing a kiss to his fingers, slaps its surface. One by one, the others do this as well, until only I remain.

Tentatively, I steer my horse to the large rock and, reaching out, trail my fingers over the brilliant-red body of the dragon. I realize then why the image looks so familiar. Memnon has an identical one tattooed onto his chest; I traced it with my finger just last night.

My eyes rise to Memnon.

“Welcome home, my queen,” my husband murmurs, his eyes heated.

We’ve officially entered Sarmatia.

Memnon’s kingdom is not what I imagined it to be.

There are few paved roads here and fewer buildings still. The world around us is a flat expanse of grassland as far as the eye can see, and it has been that way in the days since we entered Sarmatian territory.

It seems unlikely that the great Sarmatian civilization that haunts Roman nightmares could amass in such a desolate place, and yet?—

“There it is!” Rakas shouts, cutting through our late-afternoon silence.

I close my fist, snuffing out the magic I was playing with, and glance around while the men stir in their saddles. Their eyes sharpen as they gaze into the distance, and they seem to fully come alive then.

Itaxes whistles. Zosines lets out a whoop. Even Sattion flashes a rare smile. And Memnon, beloved Memnon, is bursting with excitement. It feels warm, like undiluted wine in my veins, obscuring my own churning emotions.

It takes me several moments to see the squat, peaked structures marring the sharp line of the horizon. Once I do, I know what it must mean, even before Memnon’s words brush my mind.

We’ve made it, Roxi. We finally made it home.

I touch my cheek self-consciously. I’ve used magic daily to clean my body of sweat and grime, to braid and upsweep my unruly hair, to mend and whiten my travel-worn wedding dress and polish my sandals.

Still, no amount of magic can fully hide the fact that my tunic has thinned and my sandals are scuffed and my body hasn’t been immersed in water in many, many weeks.

Beyond my physical appearance, there are deeper issues I’ve ignored until now.

Namely, that I am nothing more than a tailor’s assistant.

That I neither read nor write. I’m a poor shot with an arrow, and I can only passably ride a horse.

I have never been placed in a position of power and would not know the first thing about ruling.

I am unfit to be the wife of the Sarmatian king, and soon all his people will know.

What terrible thoughts poison your mind , Memnon says.

Many outsiders marry Sarmatian nobility.

This has always been our way. No one balks at this, just as no one will balk at you, he reassures me.

But I also do not think you see yourself as my people will see you—radiantly beautiful, the kind of beauty that makes men’s knees weak.

And ferocious, with your tamed panther. And then there is your magic and the wild, wonderful things they will see you do with it.

No, Roxilana, I am certain my people will be just as enamored with you as I am.

I don’t know what to say to such an overwhelming compliment. But I clutch at his faith in me.

Memnon whistles then, the sound bringing the group to a stop.

“Men,” he calls out, “get your armor on and whatever else you wish to wear before our people.” Memnon turns to me. “Forgive me, little witch.”

I look at him quizzically as he hops off his steed and reaches into a saddlebag. “Forgive you for what?” I say.

I swear, if he tells me something awful, like that he is actually already married, I will throw myself off this horse as dramatically as possible.

He turns, and in his hand, something glints. “I had wedding presents for you,” he explains, coming over to my horse.

Wedding presents? I stare down at him, still braced for bad news when he takes my hand and slides a ring onto it.

“I meant to give you this back in Rome,” he says as I stare down at the golden band fitted with a polished carnelian stone. “But I got a little distracted, and once I remembered, the timing never seemed right.”

Emotion clogs my throat. Finally, I laugh, though it sounds more like a sob. My relief is great, but even it is being eclipsed by this unexpected sweetness.

My hand trembles as he takes it, then tries the ring on each finger, not stopping until he finds it fits perfectly on my middle one. “I have heard that the Romans spouses wear these.”

I nod. “They do,” I say, finding my voice. My eyes meet his. “It is too lovely.”

He shakes his head. “Not too lovely. Not when you are the one wearing it.” He grins. “And thank the gods you like it because I have a whole matching set.”

He returns to his saddle bag and pulls out the rest of the jewelry as I stare at the carnelian ring, my heart beating fast.

It hadn’t fully felt real—eloping, leaving. But wearing this ring and preparing myself to meet Memnon’s people feels real.

I hop off my horse as Memnon brings forth a necklace and earrings and a bracelet. All of them are gold and embellished with carnelian stones. The necklace alone must have thirty of them, each one hanging like a teardrop. I have rarely seen such wealth, and now I will be the one wearing it.

If I had felt like an imposter before, it is nothing compared to now.

“Hush those thoughts,” Memnon admonishes, reaching around me to fasten the necklace around my neck. “You are a queen— my queen—and this jewelry honors that fact.”

Once it’s around my neck, my fingers brush against the metal and stones while Memnon, with a little help from his magic, fits the earrings through my lobes.

“When did you get all of this?” I ask.

“I have had these for many, many moons,” Memnon says.

I swallow as he takes my hand and places the gold-and-carnelian cuff onto my wrist.

“I always intended to come for you,” he says, meeting my eyes.

I rise to my tiptoes, then and kiss him. I love you.

And I love you , he says, stroking my cheek, the back of his hand rubbing against one of my earrings.

When he breaks away, he backs up, his eyes heating as he takes me in. “I like seeing you in my jewels,” he admits. His eyes flick to my head. “Would you like your veil?”

Because I am to ride into his city as his bride. Just like the Romans and their triumphs, this is a victorious parade. It would only be appropriate if I played the part of his foreign betrothed.

I smile at him. “Yes.”

Memnon smiles back at me, his eyes full of banked fire, while his magic pulls the stowed-away veil from the wagon Ferox currently lounges in.

It is wrinkled and a bit travelworn, but as it floats through the air, then settles on my head, Memnon’s magic mends and smooths it out.

He’s staring at me still.

“What?” I say.

“I’m going to try something, but you might hate it.”

Before I can form a response, Memnon’s magic lifts dozens of wildflowers from the grass around us.

A laugh escapes me as they come together and form a flower crown, then settle atop my head. I touch it, my heart feeling light as air and bright as the moon. “You couldn’t make me hate it if you tried,” I say.

He lifts his brows. “Oh, I seriously doubt that.” But he’s grinning; we both are. Memnon steps forward, his eyes nearly glowing.

Do you feel like an imposter now?

Yes , I answer without hesitation.

Surly thing , he says fondly, his gaze dropping to my lips again. Ride at my side so that I might proudly show you off to them all.

I’m nodding, even though the prospect is terrifying. I don’t think I’m capable of denying Memnon anything at this point.

Less than an hour later, the group of us is mounted once more, the men wearing their gleaming armor, Memnon his crown, and I my jewels, my orange veil blowing at my back.

Memnon looks like a god, his armor-clad body swaying in the saddle with every step his horse takes, the gold pieces of it flashing in the late-afternoon sunlight.

Some time ago, Memnon’s people caught sight of us, and now they’ve lined the road into the city.

Once they catch sight of their king, they begin to cheer wildly, the sound drowning out everything but my own panicked thoughts.

I can feel myself trembling, my muscles tightening with nerves, when Memnon’s indigo magic reaches me.

It slips into my mouth and down my throat.

For a moment, it tingles my flesh, and then I exhale, my nerves leaving me with my breath.

All will be well, little witch , he says, adoration tinging his words. I am right here with you. Always with you.

A wave of tenderness for this man comes over me as we ride on, and I think Sarmatia is blessed to have such a man as king.

Now that my own thoughts are unclouded, I slip into Ferox’s head, concerned for my panther. Like me, he is on edge as he stares at the gathered crowd of people from his seat in the creaky wagon. They point at us—at him—their eyes wide.

Ferox does not have the best association with large groups of people, not after what he endured. So when I return to my own head, I send my magic back to him, casting a wordless spell meant to soothe his nerves the way Memnon’s power soothed mine.

Several children dash out to us, a couple shouting to Sattion and Itaxes, the rest encircling Memnon’s horse.

My husband laughs, leaning over to tousle their hair. “Thank you for the warm welcome,” he murmurs.

The children glance shyly at me before moving on to greet the other soldiers.

“These are all your people?” I ask, staring at them.