Page 203 of Bedeviled

“Come, Selene,” Memnon says, “let’s find you a steed fit for a queen.”

I give him a peculiar look, one he ignores as he leads me and Nero off the path and around the side of the mountain.

Maybe I’m an unimaginative soul, but this feels like an odd place for a bunch of horses to be hanging out.

It turns out, it isn’t.

Memnon walks around the mountain until we’re just out of sight of the entryway. There, tethered to several trees, is a group of horses wearing fae bridles and saddles.

I draw my brows together as my eyes sweep over them all.

“Some of the fae I encountered were mounted,” Memnon explains.

“So you took their horses and hid them all?” I say skeptically.

“My queen, do you not remember?” he says in Sarmatian, turning back to me, that damn twinkle still in his eyes, the very one that makes my stomach flip. “Where we come from, horses are currency.”

My heart beats fast. Where we come from. The past, Sarmatia. Whatever his definition is of our origin, we are together in it, just as we are this moment and all the moments that stretch out from this one.

Memnon’s expression turns molten. “Always, est amage. Pes udugab vesamasusa.”

I am yours forever.

“Xu pes vaksamapus,” I respond.

And I am yours.

I turn my attention back to the horses, who watch us calmly. Not even Nero’s presence seems to make them skittish.

Under a few bobbing fairy lights, they all appear unnaturally white. I thought I had seen pale horses before, but not like this. They are the white of freshly fallen snow, with shadows that limn them in hues of violet and lavender.

Memnon runs a hand down the neck of one. “Have you ever seen such striking creatures?” he says.

I shake my head. “Never.” They’re truly Otherworldly.

“Let’s hope they ride as beautifully as they present. The gods know many squander a steed’s ability for their features.” A mistake that the warring, horse-riding Sarmatians did not take for granted.

“Which will you ride?” Memnon asks as I approach the beasts.

“I don’t know,” I say. “You choose for me.”

He moves between the horses swiftly, assessing them. I can feel the seconds bleeding away, each one moving Eislyn closer to that throne.

“This one,” he announces, bringing forth a steed that, to me, looks no different from the others.

He strokes a hand down its neck and whispers against its face. “Take care. You will hold the most precious life in your saddle.”

The sorcerer brings the horse to me. It’s muscle memory, mounting the fae steed. The saddle and stirrups are different from the Sarmatian trappings my mind is used to, but my body seems to adjust just fine to them.

Memnon’s eyes heat as they linger on me.

“What?” I say softly.

He gives his head a shake. “Just remembering—and committing this moment to memory.”

With that Memnon hands me the steed’s reins, then goes to free another horse. In a single fluid movement, he swings himself into the saddle.

He sighs happily, a grin spreading across his face. “It has been millennia since I’ve ridden a horse. I don’t know how I could have gone so long without this.”