Page 37

I’m terrified. Terrified out of my wits.

I sit on my claw-footed throne, Ferox at my feet and Memnon at my side, trying not to tremble like a leaf.

I squeeze the armrests tightly as I stare out at the crowd gathered in the great tent.

None of Tamara’s preparation has diminished my nerves.

I regret wearing the stola I donned earlier.

At the time, I didn’t know I would be presiding over these people; I simply wanted to wear a garment that felt familiar.

Now, however, seated in this chair and staring out at a sea of Sarmatian faces, the stola only seems to illuminate the fact that I am not one of them and do not belong on their throne, ready to cast judgment.

A makeshift aisle has formed down the center of the tent, and it is here that people wishing to speak to Memnon—and me—line up.

A light summer rain patters against the tent’s roof as the first people approach us. A barrel-chested man with a frizzy, brown beard walks up alongside a lanky boy. Both walk with their chins held high, and there is a visible level of pride in the man’s eyes.

When they are only six paces or so from us, the man stops and bows, his son following suit.

“Your majesties,” the man says, straightening, “I’d like to request my son join in the next battle.”

I startle at his words, my eyes moving to the boy. The youth might be thirteen, though certainly no older than fourteen. He still has peach fuzz on his upper lip.

Memnon leans forward in his seat, his leathers groaning with the action. He nods to the man, then turns his attention to the son. “What is your name?” he asks, leaning a forearm on his knee.

“Kasais, my king,” the boy says, his eyes flicking to Memnon, then darting quickly away.

“Kasais,” Memnon repeats. “A strong name.” He continues to study the boy. “And how are you with a spear, Kasais?”

“Decent,” the boy answers, “though I am much better with a bow.”

“The finest shot for his age,” his father interjects.

“The finest?” Memnon says, peering at the man and raising his brows. “That is high praise, but then”—his scrutiny returns to his son—“that comes from your father, who clearly adores you. How would you say your mounted shot is?”

“Good,” Kasais replies. “Though I’m better at firing a forward-mounted shot than a Parthian one.”

Memnon nods. “Yes, well, shooting backward on horseback is a difficult skill to acquire, which is why few besides our people can do it at all.”

My husband settles back into his throne and watches Kasais. “Are you ready for battle?”

“Aye,” the boy says, nodding.

“You have prepared your mind and body for the act of killing—and potentially dying yourself?”

Kasais lifts his chin and clenches his jaw. “Aye.”

Memnon smiles. “Good. Very good.” He nods. “Then I give you my blessing. You will ride with your father and all the rest of my warriors in the next battle. May the gods bless you and protect you.”

Kasais grins broadly, and his father’s eyes water. Both bow, then leave the tent.

After they leave, I exhale. I have seen many boy soldiers—Rome is full of them—but this was still hard to bear witness to. And I know it’s Memnon’s people’s way, but all I can remember right now were those times I felt Memnon’s pain down our bond. He’d been young as well. Too young, in my opinion.

But though I am queen, I am a foreign woman and a stranger to these people. I doubt my protests would mean anything at this point. So I swallow down my unease and watch as a pregnant woman with long, braided hair walks up to our thrones.

She stops and bows, and when she straightens, her eyes move to me, her other hand going to her stomach. “I humbly request that my queen says a prayer to the gods that I might deliver my child safely.”

My hands tighten on the throne; I hadn’t expected to be directly addressed so soon.

After a moment, I clear my throat. “Of course,” I say. “I would be happy to pray for the safe delivery of your child.”

She bows again, then leaves.

And so it goes. There are some disputes between neighbors, a few more blessings and prayers, and then, there’s Zosines.

When he first enters the tent, I assume it’s as a guard coming to flank Memnon. But then I notice the woman walking behind him. She’s lithe, her deep brown hair worn loose at her back, her skin a rich honey color.

“Permission to marry Leimeie, Phandarazous’s widow,” Zosines says.

I cannot smother my sharp inhalation, the sound drawing the eyes of many in the room.

Zosines already has a wife, Mada, one who is set to give birth any day now. By all accounts, Zosines adores her, and after meeting Mada on my wedding day, I understand his praise; she is a lovely human.

So why is she not enough?

Memnon arches an eyebrow. “Another wife, my brother? Are you, who spoke so fondly of Mada during our travels, already so eager to turn your affection toward another?” he says, echoing my thoughts.

“Mada brings me much joy still,” Zosines says, his words overly stilted and formal. “This is no reflection on her worth as a wife. She is good to me in all ways.”

“And yet you request another,” Memnon says. Some of the other men in the room shift a little, as though uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

“I am a warrior,” Zosines says, taking a step forward. “It is within my right to take more than one wife.”

Outside, the rain pelts harder against the tent, as though even it has thoughts on the matter.

“But it is not just any woman you are asking for, is it?” Memnon raises his brows, his face stern and his voice hard. “Phandarazous has not been dead for a season. Hardly enough time to grieve his loss.”

“This is what he would’ve wanted,” Zosines insists.

“Is it?” Memnon ponders. “And I wonder if you would make such a request of my wife, should I die.”

The room quiets, the sound of rain particularly loud as tension fills the space. Zosines is careful to look only at Memnon when he answers, “I imagine you and our queen would enter the afterlife together.”

I glance sharply at Memnon, uncertain what Zosines means by that. But Memnon’s attention is wholly focused on his blood brother.

“Mmm.” Memnon makes an assenting noise. His eyes slide to Leimeie. “What are your thoughts on this?”

She dips her head. “Zosines is a great warrior and a good man. Phandarazous’s last wish was for one of his friends to care for me.”

Quieter, Memnon says, “And is that what you wish?”

Zosines’s jaw tightens, and his eyes grow flinty while Leimeie glances up at Memnon. Her gaze touches his for a moment before she dips her head again and nods. “It is.”

Memnon’s expression turns thoughtful, and he looks at Zosines again. “Then, my friend, it is my great honor to approve of and bless this union.”

I startle at Memnon’s words as Zosines’s anger melts from his face. He shakes his head, then outright laughs, embracing his wife-to-be, his smile large.

“You had me worried there for a moment, brother,” he says to Memnon over his betrothed’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

My heart is thundering in my chest.

Zosines’s eyes briefly touch mine, and I swear they darken with some hidden emotion. It barely registers.

This isn’t right , I protest.

Roxi, if you are a warrior, you can claim however many spouses as you can hold on to , he says.

I remember that; of course I remember that. But I hate it as much as I hated seeing that boy walk in here asking to fight.

I do not like it. And I know I cannot immediately change these things, even with my position.

I know. But there are reasons for this practice.

I glance at Memnon, curious to know what those reasons could possibly be, when a hulking man wearing damp battle leathers, a sheathed axe, and a dagger stalks down the aisle, past the waiting line, right up to us.

The warriors that flank me and Memnon tense, several of them reaching for the hilts of their blades, but Memnon lifts a hand, halting them.

In front of us, rain drips from the warrior’s hair and skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

His bloodshot eyes are focused solely on Memnon.

He doesn’t bow before he begins to speak.

“You dare to sit there and pretend to rule—you, who let your aging mother rule in your stead while you spent months away.

You who have come back emasculated, your hair and beard cut like a prepubescent boy.

“It’s bad enough that you bring back a Roman bitch, but then you take her to wife and demand the rest of us call her queen.”

The man spits at me then, the glob of it landing less than an arm span from Ferox, whose tail flicks in response.

At my side, Memnon settles deeper into his throne, his posture almost irreverent. His eyes, however, are sharp as daggers as they narrow on the man. Down our bond, Memnon’s anger is rapidly expanding. I can feel it like an inferno in my chest.

“I won’t stand for it,” the warrior says.

“Is that a challenge?” Memnon asks, sounding bored. It’s an act. I can practically taste his rising bloodlust.

In response, the warrior withdraws his axe.

Memnon rises, then saunters forward as the warrior shifts his weight and adjusts his grip on his weapon. His power vibrates between us, barely leashed.

“You know, there’s a reason they call me Memnon the Indomitable,” he says softly. As he speaks, his magic reaches out and plucks the warrior’s axe from his hand, casting it aside as though he were swatting away a fly.

I forget to breathe, me and the rest of the room spellbound by this faceoff.

“The last people to speak ill of my wife were Roman soldiers and their centurion,” Memnon says, his voice far too calm. “All that’s left of them now are bones. Do you still wish to challenge me?”

I can feel how tightly wound his power is, how intensely he’s restraining it.

The warrior snarls, reaching for another sheathed blade and lunging for my husband.

I swallow a yelp as, rather than retreating from the attack, Memnon steps into it. Faster than I can follow, he draws his own dagger and, in one smooth stroke, shoves it through the warrior’s belly as the latter falls upon him.

The man slumps against Memnon, his breath coming out in choked rasps. Using whatever last reserves he has, he stabs Memnon in the side.

Now I do cry out, rising to my feet as fear floods my veins and power pours out of me. Through our bond, I can feel the throb of this wound, and I nearly clasp my side at the sensation. Memnon, however, appears unbothered.

My soul mate’s voice is clear and commanding when he says, “Disrespect me, and I will punish you. Disrespect your queen , and I will kill you.” He drags his dagger up the warrior’s belly, splitting him open. The man’s ruined intestines spill out with his blood.

Memnon shoves his opponent away, the man’s body hitting the ground with a wet thump. Then, almost as an afterthought, he pulls the blade from his side, tossing the weapon aside.

To the nearby warriors, Memnon says, “Drag his body to the fields and leave him unburied.”

I rush over to him then, nearly tripping over Ferox in my haste, while around us, people stare, stupefied.

I drop to my knees before Memnon and press my palm to his wound, my nausea rising as his blood seeps between my fingers. Immediately, heavy ropes of my magic sink into him.

“ Heal the flesh, mend the wound ,” I incant.

Beneath my hand, Memnon’s skin tugs together as it heals from the inside out.

Memnon places his own hand over mine. You’re trembling, little witch.

You were stabbed . There’s a note of hysteria to my words.

It happens from time to time , Memnon says lightly.

Though his body still holds some of his earlier tension, he’s looking at me with soft eyes.

I like you tending to me. Then, the mirth leaves his face.

Angry warriors think with their pride, and they are quick to act.

You and I must be quicker still. He dips his head to peer into my eyes. Do you understand me?

I do. He wants me to fight—and to be the aggressor if the situation calls for it.

I glance back down at his wound, wordlessly commanding my magic to clean away the blood on his skin and clothes. Pressing my lips together, I reluctantly nod.

Okay , I say down our bond, though it’s hard to even fathom the violence he’s suggesting. If it happens again, I will…try. The thought makes bile rise up my throat.

When, my queen , Memnon says grimly. When it happens again.