Page 52

After my last experience on the ley line, I know I should stay away from it.

But I cannot help but notice the magical doorway the next time I visit my child’s grave.

The sight of it makes me feel something other than grief—something that connects me to my child.

It feels like a beginning to an ending and an escape all at once.

And so when I feel the pull to approach it—then enter it—again, I give into temptation and return to the ley line.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Even once we pack up camp and move sites, I take to finding the closest portal I can, and then I enter it, sometimes with Memnon but mostly without him.

Each time, I ask to go to the Khuno River Palace or to my child’s gravesite or else to return home.

It becomes easy to travel along the ley line, now that I understand it simply wants something in return for its help.

Sometimes I give it a lock of hair. Sometimes I sing it a song.

Sometimes I present it with a coin or small bauble from a faraway place.

I’ve come to find that it likes unusual things, human things.

It’s an exercise in creativity, making sure I have something to offer the unearthly magic for both the travel to and from my destination.

The magical road can be fickle, moody even. More than once, it’s rejected my gift and I’ve had to come up with another. But when it works…when it works, I get to travel to places that are far beyond my normal reach.

And the more I go to the river palace, the more comfortable I get in that strange and beautiful place. I take to bringing my wax tablet and stylus with me, as well as the scrolls I’m studying. So far, I’ve learned Latin and a little Greek, and I’m ever eager to know more.

And when I’m not studying, I find myself working on my magic, usually by adding spells to the property—wards to keep the world out or enchantments to make eyes wander and curious trespassers turn away from this piece of land.

It is likely not needed—there are plenty of spells cloaking this palace—but none of them are mine . So I add my own like lace, usually at the beginning and end of my time here.

Today, after placing an enchantment on the back of the property, where a pool sits nestled amongst those marble trees, I settle myself in the dining room. My scrolls are already spread out and my wax tablet awaits.

I’ve just poured myself a glass of wine and begun to look over my work when I hear the bronze doors groan open.

Memnon? I call out across our bond.

Gods, your voice does things to me , he says. Are you back from the river palace already?

I smother a smile. Are you still at camp? I ask.

Yes. And if you’re here, you could save me from my mother and these crotchety advisors right now.

I hear the soft tread of footfalls on the marble floors.

Someone’s here, at the palace , I tell Memnon

What? The teasing tone bleeds out of his voice. Who?

I glance toward the entrance, unable to see the intruder.

I don’t know.

Ready your magic and strike first , he says. I’m coming.

My power floods down my arms, gathering in my palms as the intruder enters the room.

Striding in, draped in clothes as fine as they are foreign, is the fae woman I met during my wedding celebration, Ilyapa’s advisor.

Eislyn , my mind whispers.

Eislyn? Memnon echoes, clearly eavesdropping on my thoughts. What is she doing there?

I guess I’m about to find out.

She stops short when she sees me, and though she is hard to read, I think I have startled her.

“Hello, young queen,” she says, composing herself. “I wasn’t expecting you or your husband to be here.” Her gaze flicks to the doorway beyond me, clearly looking for Memnon.

“I wasn’t expecting you, either.” And I cannot help but notice she strode into this palace as though it were her own.

Eislyn lifts her brows briefly, as though acknowledging my point. “Memnon is here?” she asks, her gaze drifting again.

“He’s on his way.”

Eislyn’s brows pinch, just a little. “You came alone?”

My skin pricks at her scrutiny.

“How?” she asks, removing her cloak and tossing it over one of the nearby chairs. Again, as though it were her own.

“Same way you did, I imagine,” I say.

She tilts her head, stepping a little closer to me like she cannot help herself. “Memnon taught you?” She raises her eyebrows. “That is bold of him to let his precious wife navigate those lines on her own.”

I bristle at her words before remembering that this is what this woman does; she lays out words like they are hunting traps.

“I taught myself.” I don’t bother explaining that I actually understand very little about the ley lines themselves, nor do I have any sort of mastery over them. Just…baubles to trade.

“You taught yourself,” Eislyn echoes disbelievingly. Her eyes sweep over me again, reassessing.

“What are you doing here?” I ask pointedly. When we were gifted this house, no one mentioned that Eislyn might continue to access it as well.

“I’m the one who places the spells that keep this palace intact. Surely you’ve seen them?”

At her admission, I relax just a touch and nod.

“Besides.” She takes a few steps, her hand trailing along a nearby carved column. “I helped build this palace, believe it or not.”

I try not to let my surprise show. I should’ve pieced it together, given that she is fae and the construction of this palace is otherworldly.

I understand then what she isn’t saying—that though this place has been gifted to me, I am more a guest than she is. But if she meant to make me feel unwelcome, she failed. I have always moved through life as a guest in strange lands. It is all I’ve known.

Eislyn studies me. “I see the Sarmatian ways have left their mark on you,” she says, “and in more ways than one.” Her gaze drops to the tattoo on my arm that my tunic exposes.

“Do you want something?” I ask, settling myself farther into my seat. My magic is coiled tight in my palms, and I have to will it back.

I suppose I should be putting on airs, welcoming this beloved family advisor into a house that’s practically hers, but I am far too unnerved to fall back on any sort of social etiquette.

Eislyn clucks her tongue, then smiles almost fondly at me. “I’m glad steppe life has given you bite. It would’ve made everything so much less satisfying if you were meek.”

I would bet my crown this woman has driven people mad with her barbed tongue.

She comes over to the table where I sit with my scroll and wax tablet and leans over my shoulder. “Studying, are we?” she asks, lifting one unrolled parchment. “And where is your husband?”

“The same place your manners are, I suppose.” I take a drink from my goblet.

She raises her eyebrows, then gives a disbelieving laugh, presumably at my audacity.

Eislyn leans closer, her mouth hovering near my ear. “I would watch how you act around me,” she breathes. “I enjoy breaking humans the same way Sarmatians enjoy breaking wild horses.”

I rear back a little so I can stare at her speculatively. This is where I’m supposed to be afraid. A year ago, I might have been. Since then, however, I have seen too much and lost too much. No, my battle-battered heart will not be cowed by this fairy.

She meets my gaze, and I think, for the first time, we really see each other.

“You would break even Memnon?” I ask softly, remembering her fondness for my husband.

She stares back at me, seeming to weigh my words. Eventually, Eislyn makes a noise at the back of her throat, one that might be agreement or dissent—it’s hard to tell.

“Is that a request?”

Of course it isn’t, but it’s interesting that her mind went there.

“Last time I saw you two,” Eislyn continues, “your husband couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.” She glances around, as though to emphasize his absence. “But then, I suppose it’s only natural for ardor to cool over time.”

She pulls out the chair next to me and sits down, like we’re about to have a long, honest-to-gods conversation.

“Tell me, has he taken other wives yet?”

My muscles clench, and I try not to make a fist.

“Why?” I ask, my attention moving from her pointed ears to the red fabric of her outfit. “Are you interested in the position?” Much as her obvious fixation with Memnon boils my blood, I am not intimidated by her the way I was the last time we spoke.

She drums her fingers on the table. “I am an advisor to kings. I care little for the lives of their consorts.”

“Mmm,” I say noncommittedly. “You’re awfully curious about me for someone who cares little for consorts.”

Eislyn flashes me a soft look, almost as though she’s commiserating. “It is only that Sarmatians do have such a great thirst for sex, more than most foreign women can keep up with.”

Why am I listening to this? She seeks to worm her way under my skin. That doesn’t mean I have to let her. I don’t have to listen to her at all.

So while she prattles on, I turn my attention back to my tablet.

Under my breath, I sound out the Sarmatian word for horse , trying to place the appropriate letters to the sounds.

Eislyn must notice she’s lost my attention, for she eventually grows quiet.

I take another drink of my wine. “You can keep going. Your voice is very lovely.”

She stares at me with those unnerving eyes of hers. Watching, watching…

A sly smile spreads across her face. “Clever human. I have underestimated you.”

She turns her gaze to the wax tablet in front of me, dragging the thing over to her and forcing my attention her way once more. She makes another noise under her breath after she takes in the text. “What is this?”

“Latin,” I reply smoothly.

She gives her head a shake. “Latin letters, yes, but this is not the Latin language.”

“You know Latin?” I say, my brows lifting.

She casts me a patronizing glance. “Don’t act so surprised.

I have been alive for a long time.” Her attention returns to the tablet, and she traces the letters with her finger.

“ Horse ,” she sounds out slowly. It takes her another moment to realize the word she spoke is in the same language we’re conversing—Sarmatian.

“You’re transcribing Sarmatian words into text?” she asks.

I’m trying to. No one has ever attempted to write Memnon’s mother tongue down, so the process is a slow, tedious one.

But if I do successfully manage it, then Sarmatians will be able to learn to read and write in their own language.

Our histories could be written down, messages could be sent that our Roman enemies would not be able to read. The possibilities are vast.

“ Very clever human,” Eislyn repeats, and it sounds awfully close to praise. “Does Memnon know you’re doing this?”

If I am clever, this fairy is cunning. Far, far too cunning.

“I wasn’t aware Memnon needed to know, Eislyn,” I say. “Surely you don’t report every movement of yours to your king?”

“Ah,” she finally says, “so it’s a secret. I do so love secrets. This one can be ours.”

It’s not a secret. I’ve spoken long into the night with Memnon about this, just as I have so many other joys. Not that Eislyn needs to know such things.

I lean back in my seat and bring the wine to my lips again. “Mmm…” I murmur noncommittally.

The bronze doors groan then, and I don’t miss the flash of eagerness that flits across Eislyn’s face before she smooths it over.

I hear Memnon’s long strides before I see his form cross into the dining room. He’s wearing his circlet and one of his finer kurtas, the gold thread of it catching the light.

Unlike the last time Eislyn saw him, his beard has grown back, and his hair has lengthened.

“Memnon,” she says with genuine warmth. “What a wonderful, unexpected?—”

“Surprise,” he finishes. “Yes.” He takes an ominous step toward her. “It was a surprise when Roxilana told me you were here, in our palace, without our knowledge.”

His words come off as threatening, but Eislyn looks downright delighted.

“Did you come all this way to see me?” she asks, standing. She crosses the room and embraces him, laying a soft hand on his cheek. “You did not have to.”

A possessive sort of anger rises in me at her actions. She treats my husband the same way she treats this place—as though he is hers.

It’s all right , Memnon soothes. I shall handle this.

Memnon wraps a hand around Eislyn’s wrist and pries her hand from his cheek. “Is this palace ours, or is it not?”

“Of course it is yours,” she assures him, practically simpering under his gaze.

“Then you are never to come here again without receiving an invitation first.”

She raises her eyebrows, then casts me a pointed look, like I am at fault for his words. To be fair, I likely am. “But the wards that protect?—”

“We shall tend to the spells that guard this place, just as we have been—or have you not noticed my queen’s many, many wards and enchantments?” he accuses. “I assure you, you cannot miss them.”

Eislyn flicks a cursory gaze over the room. Slowly, she nods. “Very well. I misunderstood the situation, and I am sorry if I have offended either of you.”

I barely suppress my guffaw. She doesn’t give a horse’s ass if she offended me, I know that for sure. It’s only Memnon whose opinion she seems to care about.

Eislyn turns and grabs her cloak, her Moche garments rustling as she does so. “Take care, clever human,” she says to me. “We’ll meet again soon, I’m sure of it.”

She heads for the doorway, pausing only to give Memnon a final, meaningful look. “I will pass on your good tidings to your father. Keep yourself whole and healthy. You know where to find me if you ever need my aid.”

And then she’s gone, leaving nothing in her wake except for this deep, foreboding feeling I cannot shake.