Page 32

The days of 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 remember the 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.

“It has been 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 a woman at 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 see anyone save 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.”

“Brave enough?” I echo, perplexed.

I glance at Memnon, who appears neither surprised nor confused but rather…grim. What gift could possibly make a battle-scarred king look so apprehensive?

“Yes, daughter, brave enough,” Ilyapa says, recapturing my attention. He leans in close. “For you see, you will have to travel to my kingdom to enjoy it.”

Your father is joking, right? I ask Memnon as he, myself, Ilyapa, and Eislyn head through camp, toward the entrance of the settlement.

Memnon’s expression is still unnervingly somber, his mouth turned down slightly at the corners. I do not think so.

I stare at Memnon, thrown by his answer. What does that mean?

“Let me speak to my new daughter,” Ilyapa interrupts. “Eislyn, lead Memnon to the ley line.”

Ley line?

Eislyn is only too happy to step in close to my husband and draw him away from my side.

Meanwhile, Memnon’s father moves in and tucks my hand into his. “How are you taking to married life?”

“It is wonderful.”

I can feel his eyes on me. “And my son? Does he treat you well?”

I turn to look at Ilyapa and say earnestly, “He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

A smile touches Ilyapa’s lips, though it quickly dims. “And his magic—you are okay with it?”

My brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Even as I say it, I see the slaughtered Romans and the dead gladiators. I see Nero with his panicked eyes and his pleading face. It’s like a cloud covering the sun, this remembering.

Ilyapa tilts his head, his gold disc earrings catching the light as he assesses me again. “I cannot tell whether you are lying or simply do not know.”

“Do not know what?”

Ilyapa studies me a bit longer. “Memnon comes from a blighted lineage, dear daughter.”

“He has told me he’s a sorcerer,” I say. “I’ve seen what his power can do.”

Ilyapa nods. “Has he told you about what it costs him?”

My brows draw together in confusion.

“Ah, he hasn’t.” Ilyapa leans in conspiratorially. “The way he looks at you, I am not surprised. I wouldn’t have either, had I found my soul mate. I would’ve waited until she was inescapably mine.”

A chill runs down my spine at the possession in his words, and I think I am fortunate to be bound to a man like Memnon and not his father.

“But you should know: In our lineage, a sorcerer’s power comes at a price. The more we use it, the more it eats away at our conscience until there is nothing left of it.”

That chill amplifies, spreading through me. “What?” I say softly. This must be the joke, one I do not fully understand. Memnon has never mentioned this, and after all the other revelations we’ve had, he would’ve, right?

“Memnon will…lose his conscience?” Because the man will not stop using his magic. That would be an impossible request for either of us.

Ilyapa studies me. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

That’s essentially a yes. I study Memnon’s back, trying to not let his father’s words burrow under my skin. “Has this happened to you?” I ask, turning to look at Ilyapa again. “Have you lost your conscience?”

“Nearly all of it, dear daughter.”

I raise my eyebrows, my heart beginning to race. “But the way you embraced Memnon…” I protest. Surely that cannot be faked?

“I am proud of my son and committed to my legacy,” he says, “but I kiss cheeks and embrace family and feel only a spark of fondness where once fires raged. I long to get back what time and power have taken from me,” he admits, “but it is beyond even my reach.” He stares after his son.

“Perhaps I am wrong about Memnon’s fate,” he continues.

“You and he are bound by forces larger than any of us, and the gods love to be unpredictable.”

I taste bile as I gaze at my husband’s back. I had not anticipated losing the best parts of him piece by piece over the ensuing years. A conscienceless Memnon would be terrifying.

My attention drifts from him to Eislyn. The woman now lays her hand on my husband’s arm and leans into him in a way that is far too familiar, even if he sidesteps the touch a moment later. My unease spills over from future maladies to more immediate ones.

“Who is she?” I ask, gut churning.

“Eislyn?” Ilyapa says as we exit the settlement and head onto the open steppe land. “She’s interesting, is she not?”

“Mmm.” I nod. It’s the best response I can muster.

“She comes from a realm beyond land and sky,” Ilyapa says conversationally. “She is older than even the trees. She refers to herself as a fairy and her kind, the fae.”

She sounds disturbingly like a goddess.

Ilyapa notices the shrewd way I watch her. “You’re smart to keep an eye on her. She is clever and very beguiling.”

“Has she beguiled you ?”

He laughs. “Oh yes. Me and the rest of my line,” he says, his gaze flicking back to Memnon.

That bit of news is a blade to my heart, one I can barely breathe around.

“Your husband has kept her at arm’s length,” he adds. “His half brothers, however …”

I raise my eyes. “Memnon has brothers?” I assumed Katiari was his only sibling.

“ Three ,” Ilyapa clarifies. “And they would do well to not meet your husband. Some of my sons have more power and less heart than others.”

I peer at Ilyapa, questions bubbling to the surface.