Page 57

“You have done well for yourself, Memnon,” Eislyn says, gazing around at his war room when I come striding in.

The space is painted an appropriate bloody red, and on the nearby shelf are several of Memnon’s skull cups—very macabre, very somber, and very much appreciated by the creepy fairy appraising them.

As soon as Memnon sees me, I feel a rush of joy and relief down our bond. Eislyn simply looks annoyed.

He comes over to me and gives me a deep kiss. When he pulls away, he touches my hair. “You still have snow on you.”

“Yes, well, it grew cold after you left.”

Behind him, a throat clears.

My eyes flick to Eislyn. Already she’s traded her Moche robes for a Sarmatian kurta and breeches.

“You are in a predicament,” Eislyn announces. The flickering candlelight makes her features glow, and I’m reminded all over again that she is not of this earth.

She lays her hand on the table that dominates the room. Seared onto its surface is a map of the known world, with Gaul to the west, Germania to the north, Sarmatia to the east of here, and Anatolia, the Levant, and Egypt to the south.

“I imagine Rome will soon learn of your conquest here in Panticapaeum, if they have not already.” Her fingers drum against the wood. “They will not allow it to go unchallenged.”

I stare at Eislyn, fascinated—and unnerved—by how much she appears to know about Roman ethos when she’s lived so far from it all these years.

“I imagine there are already Roman troops speckled throughout your lands?”

Memnon gives a sharp nod, his eyes narrowed as he listens raptly to her.

“Rome will fight you until you are stopped or they are destroyed,” Eislyn says with an authority not even I could muster.

“We Sarmatians welcome battle, especially with Rome,” Memnon says. His grief now is but a dull, niggling ache, almost entirely eclipsed by the possibility of war.

Eislyn rounds the table. “You were not born to simply stop your enemies in battle,” she says, her eyes fixed on Memnon. “You were born to end empires .”

Memnon stares at her like she’s speaking to his soul, and the hairs along my arms rise.

“But you cannot do it alone,” she adds.

Memnon leans his fists on the table. “Then how do you propose I do such a thing?” he asks, his gaze roving over the map.

“How many bands of nomadic tribes are there beyond your borders?"

“Countless,” Memnon says, his eyes moving over the map like he can see them all.

I draw in a deep breath. Eislyn has not even been here a full day, and already she’s strategizing not just battle plans but empire building.

“What if these tribes followed you ?” she asks.

Memnon shakes his head, his dark hair rustling beneath his crown. “They have their own rulers. They will not want another.”

“ Convince them,” Eislyn says, adding offhandedly, “through any means.”

She’s speaking of Memnon using his power to lift knowledge and alter minds.

“Beyond it being astoundingly immoral,” I say, “neither Memnon nor I can say how long these spells he places on people’s minds will hold.”

Eislyn eyes me challengingly. “Immoral?” she questions. “Is altering a mind any more immoral than gutting an opponent on the battlefield?” She makes a dismissive noise in the back of her throat, like that is that.

“As for the spells themselves,” Eislyn says, “If they can hold long enough for your fellow horse lords to taste a victory, then it will work.”

“You think one victory against our common enemy will be enough for them to genuinely ally themselves with us?” Memnon appears skeptical, though his eyes seem to caress the map.

“I do,” Eislyn says.

I cannot believe we are listening to this. And I cannot believe Memnon is halfway convinced by it.

“This is no small thing, what you suggest,” he says, glancing up at her.

She leans forward, her eyes fastened to him. “Imagine being known as the king who united the steppe lands,” she breathes. “The king who conquered Rome itself. You could do it.” Her voice is honeyed venom. “You possess the power to squash these menaces like gnats.”

Through our bond, I feel Eislyn’s words squirming into all the crevices of Memnon’s mind. Sarmatians are warriors; conquering is in their blood. To amass the greatest force the steppe has ever seen and claim a victory against the greatest power of our time…it would mean eternal glory.

And then, Eislyn goes for the killing blow: “Imagine Queen Roxilana ruling the people who once ruled her.”

Memnon’s eyes begin to glow, his power sifting out of him.

“Imagine giving that to her,” Eislyn continues. “Your father—gods rest his soul—would want all that for you, his beloved, favorite child.”

The room is quiet for a long moment.

Finally, I break the silence. “Have you eaten bad bread?” I say softly. “What you’re proposing is death on a mass scale. We might as well throw our warriors onto pyres right now.”

Gods know I hold no love for the Roman army. But the cost for conquering the entire Empire is far too great. There will be so many victims—warriors and widows and orphans. And every conflict, every battle, would put Memnon in harm’s way.

But my husband is still staring at her like she’s unlocked some hidden room within his mind. It’s an unholy look.

“If I were to convince these other nomadic nations,” Memnon says, “that would take months of travel.”

Eislyn’s eyes are bright. “Not if you use ley lines.”

Memnon is called away then, but I linger in the war room with Eislyn and the looming specter of our prior conversation.

I stare at the tabletop map, the tallow candles making the lines of it flicker and dance, but I’m not really seeing it.

“I hope you appreciate the lengths Memnon has gone to for you,” Eislyn says, breaking the silence.

I glance up slowly, my eyebrows rising. “Is that right?” I force my voice to stay even. “Should I thank you as well, for this dangerous, obscene plan?”

Now that Memnon’s gone, the mask the fairy wears finally falls away. Her eyes are clever, but her face is cold.

It’s almost a relief to witness her true nature. No more false airs between us.

“You can thank me for the plan, but I am speaking of this palace.”

I press my lips together, waiting for her to get to her point. I’m sure she has one. I’m equally sure she means to wound me with it.

When I don’t respond, she sighs. “Do you really have no idea what I speak of?”

I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “I’m cold and wet and would really like to change, so if you could?—”

“The real reason Memnon acquired this palace wasn’t for fame or glory, it was for you.”

I already knew this, but Eislyn shouldn’t have. That she has been privy to this knowledge is a shock to me. Did Memnon tell her this?

Just how much has Memnon confided in this fairy?

Eislyn laughs when she sees my face, misinterpreting my surprise at her being briefed as instead my ignorance of Memnon’s plotting.

“You don’t believe Memnon schemes, even when it comes to you?” she says. “He overthrew the last king for you—and for your legacy.” Her gaze drops meaningfully to my stomach.

I was following Eislyn’s logic until that last part.

“Think about it,” she continues. “Constant riding and traveling can be hard on women’s bodies.”

I stiffen as a prickling sort of awareness creeps up my spine. Legacy. Pregnancy.

“Perhaps this nomadism is why you haven’t produced a child in all these years.”

The air seems to leave my lungs. I reach for the back of a nearby chair, bracing myself on it, not wanting to believe her, even as what she said sinks into me.

I don’t think Memnon confided in this fairy after all. This doesn’t sound like an explanation he’d voice. And yet, didn’t Memnon first speak of palaces after touching my stomach wistfully?

The thought has me flinching.

“I’m sure an heir is important,” Eislyn continues. “So important that the lack of one could cause unrest among your people.”

“There already is an heir,” I finally say, my voice hoarse.

“Katiari, you mean?” Eislyn raises her brows. “Because she seems to enjoy a man’s touch enough to produce an heir of her own,” she says sardonically.

Katiari’s sexual preferences are something she keeps private. But I know, as apparently Eislyn does, that my sister does not enjoy a man’s touch.

“What a predicament,” Eislyn whispers, her voice hypnotic.

I force myself to not glance down at my flat stomach. Sex and spells haven’t helped me. Hoping hasn’t helped me.

“What will happen to your people if you do not produce an heir?” she asks.

I remain silent.

“Your people will get nervous,” she adds. “All nations want security.”

I give her a skeptical look. “Then why thrust them into a hopeless war against Rome?”

“Hopeless?” She scoffs. “Do you really have that little faith in your husband? Because I don’t.”

I narrow my eyes at her, watching her like she’s a serpent waiting to strike. I can practically taste this fairy’s desire to come between me and Memnon.

“It is not war that I worry about,” she continues. “It is Memnon’s lineage.”

Of course it’s his lineage she cares about. She’s been cultivating it for generations.

Magic slips out of my palms, coiling around my wrists as I fail to keep my emotions in check. “My womb is none of your business.”

“On the contrary, as queen, your womb is your entire nation’s business, whether you like it or not.” Her expression softens. “I’m trying to give you political advice because you are queen. How you feel about it is entirely up to you.”

I burn with the need to ask Eislyn about her womb. She seems to have done just fine without words like legacy and heir being thrown around.

Instead, I lean my hip against the war table. “I assume there’s advice for me buried somewhere in the discussion?” I scrutinize her. Finally, I say, “What is it? Do you have some miraculous fae potion that will help me get pregnant?”

I’m not sure whether I’m angry or simply upset, only that my emotions are threatening to spill out my eyes, and Eislyn is the last person I’d allow to see that. So I force it all away.

“You would trust a potion I brewed?” she asks, genuinely surprised.

No, of course I wouldn’t.

After a moment, she says, “Unfortunately, my solution isn’t so convenient.”

I wait for her to continue because I know she has a solution, and with every passing breath, I’m more and more certain I’m going to hate it.

She glances down at the map. “Sarmatian men are known to take many wives.”

My insides curdle at the familiar direction of her words.

“For the sake of your people, Memnon needs to provide them with an heir. Either by you…or by another.”

There it is. The truth she’s gilded in logic and strategy. She wants Memnon to take another wife.

For a moment, I have to fight back the sickness of this entire conversation. Several different responses flit through my head before clarity comes over me.

“My,” I say, my voice breathless with emotion, “not here even a day and you’re already trying to replace me with another.”

Eislyn gives me what I think is supposed to be a compassionate look. She’s far too scheming to quite pull it off.

“I’m not trying to replace you,” she admonishes softly. “No one could do that. You mean far too much to our king.”

Oh, it’s our king now. How quickly Eislyn shifts alliances.

“We would merely be invoking the time-honored tradition?—”

“Ask him,” I interrupt, my magic now streaming out of my hands. “Ask Memnon if that’s what he wants.”

I watch her, physically restraining myself from lunging at her.

Eislyn’s expression doesn’t precisely change, and yet I see my answer right there on her features.

“ You already have ,” I realize. I can’t help it, I laugh. “You devious bitch.” The pieces come together. “You asked him, and he turned your proposal down. So now you thought you might appeal to my—what? My sense of queenly duty?”

Eislyn doesn’t say anything, just lifts her chin.

I bite back the words I want to say. Instead, I settle deeper against the table, crossing my arms. “So who would you recommend?” I ask conversationally.

“Which Sarmatian woman would you think best suited for the task of fucking my soul mate?” The discussion is twisting my belly, and my vision is beginning to go red.

Wisely, Eislyn keeps quiet, but then, I don’t need to hear her answer. I already know.

“Or perhaps the woman won’t be Sarmatian. Perhaps she won’t even be human.”

Eislyn’s stare gives away nothing.

“ You could be his second wife—how convenient would that be? To advise him during the day, then sleep with him at night.”

Her jaw clenches, but I can guarantee this conversation isn’t cutting her up nearly as much as it’s shredding me to pieces.

“Or maybe,” I continue, “if you were okay with sharing for a little while, you’d line up a human wife or two first. You would then be his third or fourth wife—a shame to have to share his attention with so many others.

But it wouldn’t matter in the end, would it?

I’m guessing that one by one, the other wives would either die or be cast aside until only you remained. ”

It’s quiet for several inhalations, and only the soft hiss of flames eating their wicks interrupts that silence.

Eislyn finally smirks at me. “Amazing what fantastical tales you can come up with in your spare time.”

I smirk back at her, though my eyes are deadly. “You have gravely misjudged me, fairy. I am not nearly so benevolent a queen that I would open my marriage out of some sense of duty.”

I step in close, my magic twisting around me. “I hear that fairies live an astoundingly long time,” I say. “I also hear that, despite their longevity, they can be killed just as swiftly as the rest of us mortals.”

My smile falls away. “If you try to come between me and my husband again, I will bury my blade so deeply down your throat, you’ll be shitting it out.”

I tap the tabletop map a final time. “Good luck with battle plans.”

And then I leave the war room.