Page 35

On the final day of wedding celebrations, I’m startled from sleep by a sharp slap on the ass.

“Wake up, daughter, we have ritual business to attend to.”

I blink awake, trying to sort myself out. I’m in Memnon’s tent— our tent—the space large and brimming with wedding gifts. Somewhere in sleep, I kicked off the blankets. I grab for them now, intent to burrow beneath them and return to my dim dreams.

Only, the linens are snatched from my grip.

“Roxilana, get up.” Tamara’s stern voice cuts through the sleepy haze of my mind, and I startle.

I sit up before my mind has a chance to second-guess it. Absently, my hand reaches for Memnon, but the warm body splayed out at my side is Ferox’s, and my husband is nowhere in sight.

“He’s been called away on kingly business. He will be back later. Now, up .”

As Tamara speaks, Katiari enters the tent, moving over to one of the chests in the room rather than greeting me.

I frown as I push myself out of bed. Near me, Ferox stretches, then curls back up on the blankets, uninterested in what’s happening around him.

Both Tamara and Katiari are already dressed in short kurtas and trousers, though judging by the dimness of the room, the sun hasn’t fully risen yet.

“What’s going on?” I say, my gaze moving from mother to daughter.

Katiari pulls a pair of trousers and a lightweight kurta out of the chest and tosses them to me.

“Get dressed,” Tamara commands, backing away, as imperious as ever. “The kurta is optional.”

“I brought wine,” Katiari adds helpfully. She holds up a jug I didn’t notice before.

My gaze moves from her to Tamara. “What do you mean, ‘the kurta is optional’?” I say, lifting the garment from the bed. “What sort of ritual business is this?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Tamara says ominously.

I eye her as I begin to dress, only a little self-conscious that they’re seeing my body. They already got an eyeful on my wedding day.

Once I finish dressing and move to pull on my boots, Katiari crosses over to me and extends the jug of wine. “You really should drink.”

I give her a perplexed look, even as I take the jug.

What sort of ritual might I need wine for?

I unstopper it and hesitate for the barest of moments before I tip a little into my mouth. When I taste the heady, undiluted wine, I wince.

Tamara grabs my diadem from where it rests on a nearby side table, fitting the thing on top of my mess of hair.

“There,” she says, her fingers trailing lovingly down my cheeks. “Now you are ready.” She backs away. “Come, dear daughters,” she says, making her way to the tent’s entrance. “The day is getting started without us.”

I lean over to Ferox and place a ward on him so he can safely wander through camp and the wilds beyond. And then, following Tamara and Katiari, I slip from the tent.

Outside, dawn is just beginning to blush, yet already, the air holds a promise of heat as we begin to walk.

I lean into Katiari. “From sister to sister, will you tell me what is going on?”

Her gaze darts around me to her mother. “She would have my head,” Katiari whispers.

She steps in a little closer and takes my hand, squeezing it lightly.

“But all will be well. That, I can swear on.” She takes the jug from me and swallows a mouthful before passing it back.

“Drink up, Roxi. Today is the final day of celebrations.”

I drink my share of wine as we wind our way through camp, the alcohol sitting like a fist in my stomach as we pass by the smoking remains of last night’s fires and the occasional passed-out reveler.

At last, we arrive at a large, indiscriminate tent. Tamara pulls the flap of it aside, and the first thing I notice is the smell. Thick, cloying incense fills the space with its pungent aroma.

A moment later, I notice the many women congregated inside. Nearly every age is represented, from young girls to withered crones, and unlike the sleeping revelers outside this tent, they are quiet alert. When they see us, they dip their heads.

I swallow. I’m still unused to the casual reverence I’m given, especially when I don’t have Memnon at my side to ease the shock of it.

At the center of the tent, a few pillows have been tossed onto the carpeted floor.

Next to them are several bone needles, a cosmetic bottle, and the incense burner.

A woman with curly, dark brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose kneels near these, and Tamara and Katiari lead me to her.

The woman clasps my hand. “Lovely to see you, my queen. Come, sit. The women of your new clan have been eager for this moment.” She leads me from my mother- and sister-in-law and down to the pillows, where I stiffly sit.

Around me, someone begins a chant, and the other women in the tent join in, the sound filling the air just as much as the burning incense is.

Tamara turns and addresses the room. “Today, we honor my new daughter, our queen.”

The chant grows louder, and I sway a little where I’m seated, the smell of the incense making me lightheaded.

Tamara continues. “She will bear the clan mark of the royal family to acknowledge her status and lineage.”

Bear the mark?

“A dragon to symbolize her marriage to our king, Memnon the Indomitable, leader of the dragon clan,” she says.

My gaze drops to the bone needles and the cosmetic jar in front of me and understanding washes through me.

Oh gods. I’m getting tattooed.

This was the secret kept from me until now, when I’m surrounded by kinswomen. I glare up at where Tamara stands because I can do nothing else. I know very little about being queen, but even I can figure out that protesting now would earn me only ire from the women who are to be my family.

It’s an impossible position she’s put me in, and she must know it too.

“Please lie back,” says my tattooist, as she settles herself in front of me and preps the bone needles.

I do so, though I’m beginning to tremble. I feel exposed, lying before a room of women who will watch as someone pierces my skin again and again. And the only person who feels truly safe to me has been called away on kingly duties.

Tamara settles herself behind me, Katiari at her side.

My mother-in-law leans forward and squeezes my shoulder. “It is a sign of strength to make no sound,” she breathes as the tattooist begins to heat a bone needle over the flame of the incense burner.

“Damn you,” I say softly to her.

She smiles and gives my arm a squeeze. “That’s my daughter. Already the fire of my clan heats your blood.”

The room is still chanting, the notes of it pricking at my skin.

The tattooist leans over and opens the wrapped collar of my top, exposing a breast and the smooth skin above it. I lock my jaw to keep from gasping. Embarrassment burns my cheeks as the room stares on.

The tattooist grabs a bone needle whose tip is coated with charcoal and moves it over my heart.

At the first prick, I suck in a sharp breath. The needle digs into my skin, depositing the pigment into my flesh. I grind my teeth together, tears welling in my eyes as it’s wiggled about. It hurts far more than a small needle has any right to. At least it doesn’t hurt as much as a lashing.

When the needle is removed, blood wells from the wound, but Tamara is there with a small cloth, curtly wiping it away. The bone needle reenters my skin a moment later, and gods but that hurts.

In and out, the needle works, moving over my skin. The pain is sometimes sharp and sometimes throbbing but always constant. Now I understand the alcohol.

“Katiari, do you still have the wine?” I ask.

Rather than answering, my sister-in-law scoots closer to me and presses the jug to my lips. I drink greedily, eager to numb the pain as much as I can.

Perhaps it works, or perhaps it’s that pungent incense that clouds my mind, but I swear the longer I lie there, enduring the tattooist’s needle, the more the pain drifts away—and half my mind along with it.

It’s a good thing too because the time stretches on forever, an eternity of dulled pain and bloodletting.

And as it goes, the women of my clan continue to chant songs of gods and battles, and though none of them—not even Tamara—have magic, I cannot deny that their voices stir up something my own power reacts to.

I begin to hum with them, my magic lazily weaving through the tent until the pain itself becomes its own sort of background hum?—

“ What is the meaning of this? ” Memnon’s voice thunders through the tent.

I jerk against the bone needle piercing my skin. The tattooist hastily removes it, and the singing stops.

Through the haze of the burning incense, I see Memnon’s murky form stride forward. I push myself up to my forearms, the rest of my top spreading open.

His eyes first land on my face before they drop to my chest. At first, I think he might be staring at my exposed breasts, until I feel a line of blood slip down my skin. His eyes begin to glow as he kneels next to me.

With those unnerving eyes, he peers down again at my skin. Then, pressing a gentle hand to it, I feel his magic flow out of him and sink into my flesh. My tattoo itches for several seconds before the pain fades away entirely.

“I’m sorry, my queen,” Memnon says, his eyes dimming back to their normal hue. “I didn’t know. I swear it to you.”

I touch his face. “I know,” I say hoarsely.

His finger traces over the nearly completed tattoo. Through the haze of alcohol and that peculiar incense, I note that the design is…beautiful.

Gently, Memnon takes my kurta and covers me back up. Then his gaze lifts over my shoulder to his mother, and his eyes begin to glow again.

“You had no right,” he accuses, his magic deepening his voice.

His mother stares at him for several moments.

“Everyone, out,” Tamara finally commands.

Women and girls hurry out, their eyes wide and their heads bowed.

I’m sorry , Memnon says again down our bond, his voice still that unnatural timbre.

I do not resent what your mother did , I tell him. Merely how she did it.

Once the tent is empty of all but me, Memnon, and his immediate family, Tamara rises from the ground, lifting her chin imperiously.

“I had every right to do what I did. Your wife is one of us now. You know as well as I do, she must bear our markings, just as all other high-ranking family members do.”

Memnon’s nostrils flare, but slowly his magic ebbs away. Once he seems to have it under control, he turns to his sister, who still sits behind me.

“Katiari, go to my tent, find the most exquisite Roman garments you can, and bring one back here.”

“Memnon—” his mother protests, while his sister silently retreats from the tent.

“I am your king,” he bites out, his eyes blazing. “Mother or not, you will address me as such.”

Tamara looks taken aback but only for a moment. Then I see a spark of admiration in her. Power acknowledging power.

“ My king ,” Tamara begins again, “the entire point of today was to make your wife one of us. If she wears Roman garments, you will undo all my efforts.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “ Your efforts. Not Roxi’s. Not mine. Katiari will bring the outfit here, and our queen will choose what she wants to wear. Just as, from this moment forward, she will choose whether she wants to bear the ink of our people.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Tamara says hotly.

“Then she won’t.”

Tamara scoffs. “You will be challenged for this,” she says, drawing me into this.

Despite the alcohol and the incense, this conversation is sobering me quickly. “If my critics are foolish, then yes, I will be,” I say.

Again, that look of speculative appreciation comes over his mother.

Eventually, she dips her head. “Very well. I have spoken my bit. I will take my leave.” She dips her head and strides out of the tent.

Only she pauses, right at the tent flap.

Tamara glances over her shoulder, her gaze meeting mine.

“Congratulations, daughter. You now wear the mark of our family. Welcome to the clan of the dragon.”