Page 59

He laughs, then slides lower down my body, so he can nip my ass. “Good.”

After a moment, he sighs and drapes himself against my backside. “Are you ready to meet our future allies?”

“Also no.”

But disobedient or not, I’m loyal to a fault. So I go anyway.

Of course, Memnon decides to start with the Dacians.

I nearly groan as we step off the ley line only to recognize the sharp peaks of the Carpathian Mountains in the distance. My husband must be hungering for a fight.

The two of us leave the odd, circular sanctuary we came through and head deeper into the settlement around us.

The Dacian city looks nothing like Panticapaeum or our tented settlement. The fortress city is protected on all sides by massive walls made out of tree trunks, and the houses are fashioned almost entirely from conifer trees.

We head down a muddy pathway, past Dacians who give us tense, scrutinizing looks, to the palace proper at the center of the city, where the king undoubtedly is.

I glance at Memnon briefly, just long enough to meet his eyes and notice the orangish edge of the ward I placed on him earlier.

Why begin with this nation? We have been enemies for years.

If I can convince them to join us, then I can convince anyone.

Fair enough.

Memnon makes quick work of the guardsmen, and this is Panticapaeum all over again—the soldiers my soul mate quickly renders useless, the spells used to open and shut what should be impenetrable doors, and the easy walk inside the palace.

The only difference is that this time, Memnon’s magic beckons forth a Dacian guard. Using his more insidious power, Memnon places his hands on the guard’s head and lets his indigo magic slip into the man’s nose and mouth.

Whatever spell he places on the man, it takes hold within mere moments. The guard pulls away and leads us forward, into the mostly empty throne room.

And like Panticapaeum, Dacia’s king, Rubobostes, sits in here on his carved seat, a golden circlet inlaid with rubies on his head, eating mutton off the bone and laughing at something a nearby man has said.

Grease coats his cheeks, and a bit of gristle hangs in his long, ginger beard.

He wipes his hand on the kurta covering his barrel chest.

As soon as Rubobostes sees us behind his guard, his mirth dies away. He tosses his piece of mutton aside, sitting up straighter, his expression morphing into annoyance, then anger as he takes in Memnon’s crown, then my own.

“What is this?” His voice booms. “How did either of you get into my city?”

“My king,” the guard in front of us announces, “these are the rulers of Sarma?—”

“Bloody gods, I know who they are,” he says. “But why are these villains in my city walls, in my fucking palace, when you should’ve gutted them on sight? You should be mounting their heads on pikes at this very moment!”

The guard stutters to a stop, and he shifts his weight uncertainly.

Memnon steps around him, approaching the raised dais, and I follow.

“Fierce Rubobostes,” Memnon begins. “We have come to you with a proposition: ally yourselves with our nation, and together we will defeat our mighty and common foe, Rome.”

The Dacian king laughs. “ Ally ?” He leans forward, his wooden chair creaking. “Lions do not ally with swine .”

“And yet we lions do so like pork that we thought we might proposition you anyway,” Memnon says.

Rubobostes’s pale cheeks turn blotchy and red.

Do you have to goad him? I say, biting back a laugh. I thought we were trying to win his support.

I can’t seem to help myself.

“Seize them!” Rubobostes thunders.

Immediately, the guards in the room that Memnon hasn’t bewitched close in on us, grabbing both me and him by the arms.

This is going really well , I say.

Flattered you think so , Memnon responds.

The Dacian king’s eyes narrow on Memnon. “ Years I have waited to exact my revenge on you for my father’s and brother’s and nephew’s deaths. I will carve out your entrails and ruin your wife in front of your dying carcass.”

Those are the wrong words to say.

They always are.

Memnon’s power explodes out of him, lifting his hair and blowing back the guards holding us captive. His power coils around the other individuals in the room, pinning them in place. They’re lucky he doesn’t attempt more.

My soul mate’s eyes glow as he stalks up to Rubobostes, who is trying and failing to rise from his throne. Only I can see the indigo magic that pins him in place, bands of it roped around his arms and thighs.

Memnon rounds the back of Rubobostes’s throne, and withdrawing his dagger, he presses the edge of the blade to the Dacian’s throat. “I already dethroned one king this year. You think it would be hard to remove you, old man?”

Rubobostes stares at me with blatant loathing in his eyes. To come within the fortified walls of his city and enter his palace and threaten him with death while he sits on his throne—there is no greater insult.

“How dare you come into my home as a guest and try to strike me down,” he growls.

“Are we guests now?” Memnon says.

The king manages to spit. “I will dance over your rotting corpse?—”

Memnon drags the blade across Rubobostes’s throat, blood arcing through the air and splattering on the carpeted floor.

The room’s remaining occupants shout and writhe against the bindings of Memnon’s magic as the aging king slumps forward, then slides off his throne and onto the ground, his circlet toppling off him as his blood soaks into the woven carpet beneath him.

Memnon comes around the throne, his eyes still glowing as his gaze sweeps over the room. “Anyone else wish to challenge me?” His magic deepens his voice, raising the hairs along my arm.

The room is quiet; even the shouts have fallen to silence.

“Who is next in line to the throne?” Memnon demands.

No one speaks.

“ Answer me ,” Memnon commands.

“Dapyx,” says the man Rubobostes was laughing with when we entered the throne room. He’s somber now.

“Get him,” Memnon commands.

His power releases the guards in the room, and once freed, several of them rush out to search for the heir to the Dacian throne.

We wait only a short, tense span of time before a broad, heavyset man who bears a striking resemblance to Rubobostes strides into the great room. Immediately, his eyes drop to the dead king.

“What is the meaning of this?” he bellows, alarmed. His voice has the same booming resonance as the former king’s. His gaze rises to Memnon, who still holds a bloody dagger. “What have you done?”

“I’ve made you king,” Memnon says, pointing that dagger, “so long as you don’t squander it.”

Dapyx’s lips curl in, and I’m all but sure he’s forcing himself not to spew insults at Memnon, whose eyes are still glowing.

“Swear allegiance to me, and vow your commitment to fight against Rome,” Memnon says, stepping forward through the blood spatter.

Dapyx’s hand twitches toward his own sheathed blade. “And if I don’t?”

“I’m sure there are others who will be happy to if it means leading your people.”

Dapyx stares at Memnon for several moments, his hand moving closer and closer to the hilt of his weapon. He eyes the Dacian guards, who seem to be debating what to do themselves.

Memnon’s magic snakes through the room again, wrapping itself around the guardsmen. This time, it enters their mouths and noses, and one by one, they collapse.

Dapyx’s eyes flick from one fallen guard to the next.

“I have spoken this more than once before, but perhaps it bears repeating: I am Memnon the Indomitable, Sorcerer King of Sarmatians. I have power beyond your imaginings, and I will use it to dispose of my enemies.”

The glow in Memnon’s eyes dims, and his hair, which had lifted a little, resettles. “I do not want to harm you. I wish to ally our great nations.”

Dapyx’s eyes are fixed to the fallen king, presumably his father. “You have already harmed me.”

Memnon takes him in for several moments, then strides forward through the pool of Rubobostes’s blood, adjusting his grip on his blade.

Dapyx staggers back, lifting his hands to placate my husband. “Wait, wait—I will swear your oath,” he bites out.

Memnon halts, then eventually inclines his head. Cautiously, the stout warrior approaches him. Dapyx clenches his jaw, then kneels before my husband. “Tell me the words, and I will swear them.”

“Swear that you will remain loyal to me and our peoples all the days of your life.”

“I swear I will remain loyal to you and our peoples all the days of my life.”

“And you will fight against Roman invaders and defend our peoples from any other outside threats that seek to destroy us.”

“I will fight against Rome and defend our peoples from all other threats until my last breath.”

Memnon reaches out a hand, and I hear Dapyx’s sharp inhalation when Rubobostes’s bloody circlet rises from the floor seemingly of its own accord, the blood burning away as it floats into Memnon’s hand.

My husband sets it on Dapyx’s head, the man startling at the touch.

I understand why when Memnon’s hands linger there on the Dacian’s temples, blue magic seeping out from them.

It enters the man’s mouth, and I’m certain he must be using his powers to alter the man’s mind—likely to ensure Dapyx remains loyal even after we leave.

Memnon releases the Dacian’s face. “Welcome, brother, to our confederation.”