Page 67

I’ve been sick.

Sick for many, many days.

Too sick to ride, sometimes too sick to even preside over our people. So sick that not even Memnon’s magic can curb my symptoms for long.

I’ve resorted to lingering in my study, either corresponding with our allies, studying Aramaic and Demotic, or writing notes in Sarmatian to pass to Memnon later. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at transliterating the language.

I’m working on one such note right now, Ferox at my feet, when the nausea I’ve been fighting all morning rises rapidly.

It’s not even a conscious choice to leave my seat. One moment I’m sitting, the next I’m striding out the portiere and then the rear doors of the palace, Ferox trailing behind me.

I barely make it out to the rocky knoll behind it when I kneel and retch. Again and again, the little food I managed to eat earlier splatters amongst the grass.

I’m breathing raggedly when Ferox comes up to me, brushing his cheek against my arm.

“It’s all right,” I say hoarsely. “I’m okay.”

My stomach spasms out of deep-rooted hunger, and I draw in an uneven breath. Now that I feel marginally better, I’m ravenous, but I don’t trust my stomach enough to eat any food.

I hang my head, ignoring the dock workers in the distance and the closer palace guards whose eyes linger on me beneath the summer sun.

Little witch, are you sick again?

Before I can answer, Memnon continues, Where are you? Let me ease your pain.

I lift my hand, my magic slipping out of my palm and dissolving all signs of my sickness.

Stay. I’m fine, I promise.

Right now, Memnon is in the throne room, doing kingly business that I should be participating in. The last thing I want is to take him away from that too, especially when a sense of unrest is sweeping through our people—nomadic and sedentary alike.

I push myself to my haunches, my hand dropping absently to my sensitive stomach. I haven’t really given much thought to the cause until now, when it’s stretched on far longer than sicknesses normally do.

My fingers drum along the skin of my belly, and suddenly, a thought comes to me, a thought so preposterous, it stops me entirely.

There was one other time when I was sick for this long.

But then I was…was?—

No, that would be impossible. It’s been years, after all.

I glance down, my fingers absently tracing designs, wisps of my magic curling out from beneath my touch.

I cannot fully shake the terrifying, wonderful thought.

Could I be…pregnant?

“Hide my form,” I whisper. The enchantment goes up quickly. Once it’s in place, I cup one of my breasts, grimacing when the light touch causes a throb of pain. How had I not noticed this?

And my monthly bleeds…when was the last one?

I cannot remember.

My heart is pounding loudly, so loudly. But just as swiftly, joy overtakes surprise.

I never thought this would happen again.

But, gods, I think I am pregnant.

Should I tell him? I think as I sit in the raucous dining hall. I might be wrong…

Tell me what? Memnon asks down our bond, one of his arms draped over my chairback, his attention seemingly focused on the Alanic queen across from us, whom we’re hosting for the next several days.

Stop listening in on my thoughts, I say. Besides, who says I was even referring to you?

Now Memnon does look away from his dinner guest. Grabbing my lower jaw, he presses a fierce kiss to my lips.

He grins against my mouth. You’re a godsdamned liar and we both know it. There is no one else. Just me. And that secret is mine .

I narrow my eyes on him even as I begin to smile. I think I’ll wait to share the thought after all.

I can feel his mirth down our bond, and as he pulls away from me, his eyes are on my lips. I cannot wait to hear you divulge it when my face is buried between your legs later.

My cheeks heat, and I can feel the stares we’re drawing as Memnon continues to hold my face in his hand like I am the only one in the dining room, but of course, it isn’t just us.

Besides the Alanic queen and her retinue, Zosines, Sattion, Rakas, and Borena, the female warrior who lies as often as she swings her sword, are here.

And then, of course, there’s Eislyn, who watches me and Memnon with far too much interest, though as usual, her face reveals nothing.

“When are we going to return to the steppe lands?” Rakas asks, interrupting the moment. “Our people grow restless. We were meant to travel and fight. We are doing neither.”

The room falls uncomfortably silent, people shifting in their seats. It’s one thing to utter such a sentiment, but voicing these thoughts in front of guests directly undermines Memnon.

Memnon drops his hand from my chin, turning to face the Sarmatian. Rakas and many of the other warriors tense, anticipating Memnon’s retaliation.

My husband leans forward in his seat, his scale-mail armor shivering with the movement. Raka’s eyes are wide; he darts a quick look at Zosines.

“So eager to die, Rakas?” Memnon says.

Rakas swallows delicately.

Memnon must see it too, his gaze flicking over the man. “I thought not. But you want battle? Travel?” Memnon says. “You will get both.”

My husband’s eyes sweep over the dining hall, over our visitors, over Eislyn, Zosines, and the rest of the warriors who make up his inner circle.

Settling deeper into his seat, Memnon says to the room, “The god-kings of old were the most feared men of all this land.” Murmurs of assent. “Rome has forgotten this truth—the world has forgotten it. But we haven’t. We horse riders were borne from the blood of gods and forged in their fires.”

The room collectively seems to sit straighter, the reminder of their ancestors calling to some ancient nobility in them. The Alanic queen watches Memnon, captivated.

“We were bred for bloodshed,” Memnon says.

“That of our enemies and that of our own. And we have let men who do not know the icy song of our winds nor the ancient names of our rivers command these lands—the lands of our forebearers. The lands of our children. Our land. So we took it from them. And now they come to take it back.”

Memnon shakes his head. “You would never give your house to your enemy. And so, we will not relinquish these lands to Rome—nor will we let them hold on to the ones to the west of us. Nor the south, and certainly not to the north and east.”

It doesn’t seem to matter that Memnon’s hair and beard have been shorn, nor that there is a cruel and unsettling fervor in his eyes.

There is something mesmerizing about his intensity, something that makes these warriors linger on his words.

Maybe it’s that Memnon is echoing their deepest beliefs, the ones they’ve never voiced.

Maybe it’s the promise of bloodshed and glory he seems to be building up to. Or maybe he’s simply a great orator.

Whatever it is, the room laps up his words like a cat with cream.

“You want fighting? You want movement?” Memnon says again, his gaze returning to Rakas.

“Soon, all our gathered forces will come together, and we won’t simply banish the Romans—we will ride on Rome, wiping out each and every one of their godsforsaken strongholds, and we won’t stop until all of the empire is ours! ”

The room roars, and down the table, Eislyn smiles.

The dining hall is full of excited, almost violent chatter as dinner is served. Memnon’s words have worked their way into the bloodstreams of the men and women here, and the room fills with palpable energy. Even I’m buzzing with anticipation, despite the fact that my stomach is in knots.

I thought perhaps he’d reconsider conquering Rome after I confessed my desire for peace. Foolish of me to hope.

Little witch? Memnon says uncertainly, peering over at me.

I shake my head. What am I to say that I haven’t already?

From the kitchen, servants carry out roast mutton, stuffed cabbage rolls, and loaves of bread.

As soon as I smell the mutton and cabbage, my stomach turns over.

The normally savory aromas are now pungent, fetid.

Even the bread smells too yeasty. If I try any of it, I know with absolute certainty it won’t stay down, especially when my nerves have already twisted up my stomach.

The thought of retching in front of all these guests is horrifying.

I stand abruptly and stride for the door. I should’ve missed this dinner as Katiari and Tamara have.

Across our bond, I sense Memnon’s alarm.

Is it the sickness again? he asks.

Yes . I almost tell him the full, suspected truth then and there.

But the smell of mutton is getting worse with each passing moment, and I need to leave now .

Memnon’s magic snakes over to me and enters my nostrils. Immediately, the nausea abates, though the scents in the room are no less sickening. Still, my shoulders relax.

Go rest , Memnon says. I’ll wrap this up and bring you some honeyed milk and bread.

Despite my hurt feelings, I can’t seem to stop the small smile. Damn that man and his thoughtfulness.

I glance over my shoulder at him, sharing a lingering look with the Sarmatian king.

One that’s interrupted when Zosines calls out, “Where are you going?”

My gaze flicks to Memnon’s blood brother.

“Since when are my wife’s movements your business?” Though Memnon’s tone is mild, his earlier hostility edges the words.

Again, the room quiets.

Zosines drops his eyes and dips his head. “My apologies, my king,” he says.

“ Queen ,” Memnon corrects him, and the room seems to go quieter still. “The slight was against her. She’s whom the apology is owed to.”

“I’m sorry, my queen,” Zosines says, his gaze reluctantly returning to mine. A muscle in his jaw tics. “Good night—sleep well.” As he speaks, some emotion flashes in his dark eyes, one that prickles the back of my neck.

But I’m sure it’s nothing.

“Good night,” I say to the room. And then I leave.