Page 45 of Bedeviled

Iks

Written in Sarmatian, but with the Latin alphabet. I frown as I stare at it. I always wrote horse “ix.” It’s a close enough replacement. Eislyn had meant to impersonate me, and she did a decent enough job that, had everything gone according to plan, Memnon might never have noticed the deception.

I drop my hand from the wall as I step off the last of the stairs, following the curved hallway, my pulse picking up speed.

The room opens before me, and there it is. Memnon’s tomb, carved to look like the trunk of a tree, and Nero lounging before it. If Memnon had been buried by his people, they would’ve cut down a real tree, hollowed it out, and placed him inside. Instead, he got this.

The lid still lies smashed on the ground, along with scattered pieces of Memnon’s scale mail and the wispy remnants of his ancient clothes.

A violent chill rolls through me at the sight.

Memnon stands there, torch in hand, his hair stirring a little with his power, clearly on the precipice of his magic taking over. He wears a haunted expression as he stares into the sarcophagus where he once lay, not dead but not quite alive either, for two thousand years.

“I have memories from while I was in here.” His eyes flicker with the glow of his sorcery. “They felt like a dream I couldn’t escape. I knew something wasn’t right. There was someplace I was supposed to be, someone I was searching for—and who might be searching for me.”

My heart breaks. All that time he’d been trapped in his deadened body and mind, the years had rolled by. No one was coming for him.

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice hoarse. I did that to him. I hadn’t fathomed the toll my spell would exact on us.

His gaze snaps to mine. “You saved me, est amage, and you dare to apologize?” A muscle in his jaw ticks and his eyes flicker again. “You were a Sarmatian queen, one well acquainted with suffering. You showed me the memory and bared to me your mind at the time. I felt your resolve, and it was unflinching.” He takes a step closer to us. “So do not mock the sacrifices we made to get here by regretting them now.”

As he speaks, his voice deepens, his eyes brightening with that strange light as his power begins to swallow him.

“Memnon,” I say softly, “I regret your pain, not our sacrifices.”

He fixes those eyes of his on me. His expression says almost nothing, but rather than settling, his magic is thickening in the air around us.

“Memnon,” I say again, trying to suppress my own unease about his power taking over him. It doesn’t usually happen this often. “I am yours and you are mine—forever,” I say again. “Let go of your magic and come back to me.”

He continues to stare at me, and slowly, I begin to approach him. There could be any manner of spells set on this place, but if there are, I’ve missed them entirely.

I pass the broken lid, which still bears that ominous warning.

For the love of your gods, beware of me.

Memnon the Cursed

My soul mate tracks my movements, watching me like I’m prey.

My stomach quivers a little as I step fully into his space and take my husband’s face in my hands and, rising on tiptoes, press a kiss to his lips.

His arms come around me, his touch possessive as he pulls me in close.

I love you, my king, I say in Sarmatian, running my knuckles over his cheek. Come back to me.

Against my lips I feel Memnon’s shuddering inhalation.

His grip tightens on me for a moment, then he breaks off the kiss and leans his head against mine, his eyes dim once more.

“I am sorry,” he says, his voice weary. “So sorry. I don’t know why the magic keeps sinking into me.” He pulls me in close, hugging me fiercely, his lips brushing against my forehead.

I grip him just as tightly, my heart pounding fast. Memnon has never been fully able to control when his magic might consume him, but I cannot remember if it used to be this…finnicky. It seems, however, that the more his sorcery eats up his conscience, the more often it overtakes him like it had just now.

“It’s okay, Memnon,” I say, aware that he himself has a complicated relationship with this part of his power.

His eyes are hard as stone. “No, it’s not, not when it concerns you.”

“I’m fine,” I insist.