Page 56

Despite seizing control of the palace of Panticapaeum, we don’t linger much within its walls. Instead, we ride out past the city proper to the tented settlement at its edges, where most Sarmatians have made camp.

There, we train and eat and preside and sometimes even sleep. It’s a strange situation, straddling two very different lifestyles, but as the days roll into weeks and the weeks roll into months, we fall into a routine.

Today, Memnon and I ride next to each other out on the training course, my gold earrings tinkling like bells with each hoofbeat.

The first true chill of winter has settled in, and the sharp wind would be cutting through my thick felt layers and numbing my fingers if Memnon hadn’t placed a spell on me to stave off the biting cold.

Only a few other Sarmatians have braved the elements to be out here, their forms speckling the flat expanse of land.

Flakes of snow drift down as I draw back my bowstring and sight my target, my steed galloping fast. I release the arrow, hearing it thump into the wood an instant after Memnon’s. Quickly, I grab another projectile, getting off a second shot that knocks Memnon’s askew before I pass the target.

Your skill is almost as good as mine , Memnon teases.

Almost? Check your eyes, oh mighty king , I say. Today is the day your student has surpassed you.

Memnon sidles up next to me, his gold circlet tamping down his long, dark hair, which spills over his shoulders.

Power really does look good on you , he says.

His eyes heat as he takes me in, and at the sight, my pulse begins to race.

That he can set me aflame with a single look speaks to his own commanding nature.

Power looks good on you too , I whisper down our bond.

Over Memnon’s shoulder, far in the distance, something catches my eye. A form appears seemingly out of thin air.

It takes only a few more inhalations for me to realize the figure is a woman. Prickles race down my skin as I sense her identity long before I see her pale hair.

Memnon, Eislyn is here.

Following my gaze, he looks over his shoulder.

Her presence feels like a bad omen, though I cannot say why. Perhaps it’s as simple as the fact that I don’t like her. Or maybe it’s that the several times she’s visited us at camp over the last few years, she has always come with Memnon’s father.

Never alone.

Memnon must either have the same misgivings or hear mine because he clicks his tongue and urges his horse into a gallop, riding like Pluto himself is at his heels.

I follow, caution climbing up my spine.

Ahead of me, Memnon swings off his horse and approaches Eislyn. The wind howls in my ear, drowning out the words they exchange. But then my husband’s legs fold.

Memnon! I swing off my horse and race to him. What’s wrong?

I fall to my knees at his side, my arm going around him. He straightens his torso, his face the picture of devastation when his eyes meet mine.

My father…is dead.

I pull him in close, and he grips me tightly to him as he begins to tremble. I stroke his hair, murmuring useless platitudes as he falls apart in my arms.

We stay like that for some time, as the first light snow of the season continues to fall around us and Eislyn looks on grimly.

Finally, Memnon pulls away. Drawing in a shuddering breath, he stands, wiping the wetness from his cheeks. “I want to see his body,” Memnon demands as I rise.

Eislyn gives her head a swift shake. “You know you cannot,” she says, not bothering to look at me.

“Damnit, Eislyn, he’s my father.” Memnon’s voice breaks. “I want to hold his hand, whisper a final prayer over him, and say goodbye.”

My throat closes up. The funerary rites he speaks of—they are not so different than what he did long ago for our child.

“There is a bloody feud happening in his palace as we speak,” Eislyn says sharply. “His heirs seek to eliminate each other so they alone can control his kingdom. What do you imagine they will do if they meet another of their father’s children?”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.” Her voice rises as she speaks. “I barely escaped intact, and I do not wish to go back and expose myself to power-hungry men who care only of themselves.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“You do not wish to go back?” I echo.

Only then does she glance at me, albeit briefly. “It was your father’s final wish that I might advise you,” she says, returning her attention to Memnon. “It is my wish as well.” There’s a level of intimacy in her voice that raises my hackles.

“ No .” I press all my queenly authority into the word.

Roxi.

Roxilana , I correct him. You might as well invoke my full name for this bloody business.

I see the corner of his mouth twitch at my feistiness.

To Eislyn he says, “My queen and I will discuss this matter privately. Until we come to a decision, you will remain with us as an honored guest and give us counsel.”

Memnon and I don’t speak of it privately. Not before Memnon takes poor, chilled Eislyn into the warmth of the palace. As for me, I cannot force myself to follow them back through our settlement, across Panticapaeum proper, and into our palace. Not when my emotions are so volatile.

I loved Ilyapa, despite how brief our encounters were. He was a good if distant father, and he tried to do right by his son. And he was the only true father I ever knew.

More than my own grief, I feel Memnon’s. I should go to him. I should. It’s simply that I might throttle Eislyn if I do. Because surely where he is, so too is she. I’ve barely managed to stay civil with her during her few visits.

I cannot possibly reside under the same roof.

These thoughts spin around and around my head, and I linger out on the steppe, shooting arrows long after the other warriors retreat to the warmth of their tents and fires.

Little witch , he calls to me now, are you still outside?

I am.

Shall I come out and haul you back to the palace? he asks. I think he means to be teasing, but grief flattens his tone.

I bow my head and let out a rough exhale. I think it’s best that I’m alone right now , I say, even as the snow falls in thicker and more numerous flakes.

Across our bond, I feel his wounded hesitation. Why are you so against her? he finally asks.

I grimace. I have never needed to explain my reasoning to you before. Why must I now?

Because Eislyn has advised over five generations of rulers in my family, and she cares for us—she cares for me , Memnon says.

Oh, she definitely cares for you , I say bitterly. It takes a moment to realize that, in the heat of my emotions, I spoke in Latin, not Sarmatian.

I pinch my eyes shut and shake my head. We should not be having this conversation right now, when Memnon is still coming to terms with his father’s death. It’s cruel for me to make it about myself.

Is my queen jealous? Through the heavy weight of Memnon’s grief, I sense his smile.

I breathe through my nose. Yes. No use denying it.

There’s only ever been you for me , he says softly, his voice down our bond pebbling my skin. After a pause, he adds, Now, will you please come inside?

I will—eventually. I pull away from our connection before he can protest more.

Pressing my lips together, I shoot arrow after arrow into the wooden target, funneling my frustration and impotent anger into training. Memnon’s spell that once warmed me has long since worn away, but I prefer the bite of the cold.

Pulling out another arrow, I nock it, aim, then fire. It hits the target with a satisfying thump.

“Imagining that’s Eislyn’s head?” Tamara’s voice rings out behind me in this quiet, empty place.

I startle, lowering my bow and turning my horse around to face her where she sits astride her own steed.

“How long have you been there?” I ask.

“Long enough.” She assesses me, then adds, “You wear jealousy like a cloak, dear daughter. I thought you had learned by now not to let others see your vulnerabilities.”

I narrow my gaze, then turn back and face my target once more. My fingers are numb from the cold, making my movements while nocking another arrow slow and fumbling.

“Did Memnon send you?” I ask. It’s a loaded question; no matter what she responds, it will anger me.

“And clean up whatever mess he’s made between you two?” Tamara huffs out a laugh. “I think not.”

“Well, whatever your reasons, you didn’t need to come out here,” I say, aiming the arrow.

“I did , though,” she says.

I lower my bow and glance over at her again. “Don’t pretend she isn’t a threat.” Eislyn is an asp if I ever saw one.

“Oh, she is as threatening as they come,” Tamara agrees, somewhat appreciatively. “But Memnon would be a fool not to use her. You would be a fool not to use her.”

I scoff. “That is like asking me to cook with poison. I cannot use her, not when my intuition is screaming at me that she means me harm.”

Tamara studies me shrewdly as snow gathers on the pointed felt headdress she wears. “I shouldn’t tell you this, not when you know our people take multiple wives.”

I tense, bracing myself for whatever she’s about to say next, certain I won’t like it.

“I’ve seen the way that woman looks at my son,” she says.

“I know you have too. But Memnon has eyes for you and you alone, Roxilana. He has loved you since you both were children, and it is the sort of love that leaves no room for interlopers. Your connection was forged by the gods, and no one save the gods is strong enough to sever it. Set aside your personal worries?—”

I frown at her. “Do you think that’s what this is about? Female rivalry?” Of course Eislyn’s overtures toward Memnon grate at me, but my distrust of her is more than jealousy.

Which raises the question: “Why does she help Memnon’s lineage, anyway?”

“Does there need to be a reason beyond a thirst for power?” Tamara says.

“If it were power alone she wanted and she’s as brilliant as you say she is, then wouldn’t she be the queen?”

Tamara gives me a soft smile, like I’ve finally asked the right question.

“Why indeed?” She raises her eyebrows. “Now, my queen , I know you enjoy target practice, but there is a woman with questionable motives counseling your husband. I suggest it’s time you be a part of that conversation like the formidable ruler you are. ”