Chapter 4 #4
The autumn air carries a sharp chill to it, especially now that the sun is lowering in the sky. I shiver, an action Memnon notices.
“Let the wind and the cold not touch us, but the warmth of a phantom fire breathe upon our skin,” he says in Sarmatian.
In an instant, the frigid air seems suffused with warmth. I flash him a grateful look.
Only a few short steps later, an amazing view of the ocean opens up, and it’s here that Memnon stops and lays out the blanket.
The nearby foliage rustles then, and Nero prowls out from between two bushes, rubbing against me and Memnon before flopping down on the freshly laid blanket.
“Wow,” I say.
Nero’s tail flops in response. It’s so obvious the big cat does not give a shit that he has taken the entire blanket for himself.
“Listen, great and fearsome creature, pride of my queen,” Memnon says, “I have no issue with sharing space with you. However, I will not hesitate to take my mate here before all the gods and my ancestors, with or without your—”
Memnon hasn’t even finished his filthy little speech when my panther is up and off the blanket, moving his lithe form back between the shrubs.
For a cat that licks his butt right in front of me, he can be surprisingly modest.
The sorcerer turns to me. “That worked better than intended.”
I glance at the champagne bottle and the glass flutes he brought with him, which now rest near the blanket.
“Is that why you brought me out here?” I ask. “Because you want to—” My voice catches before I force the next words out. “Consummate this under the stars?”
Something in his expression is playful. “I am forever hungry for you,” he admits, “but no, I did not bring you out here under the stars for that purpose.” The levity bleeds from his features. In a more hushed tone he admits, “There is one more set of vows I’d like to say.”
I hesitate.
He smiles ruefully at me. “Est amage, what more could you possibly be hesitant over? We are already married. There is no such thing as being more married than we already are.”
Knowing Memnon, there is.
He laughs, looking both devious and delighted. “Fine, you’re right. I would absolutely tie you tighter to me if I could get away with it, but truly, there is no ploy in this. This one is simply for us, if you’ll allow it.”
My curiosity eclipses the argument sitting on the tip of my tongue.
“Okay,” I agree. This is obviously a bad idea. Today I’m seemingly full of them.
He takes my hands in his and gives them a squeeze before he begins.
“From the gods that made me to the gods that take me, from this first breath to my last, I am yours,” he says in Sarmatian.
It hits me then like a lightning bolt what he intends. My eyes drop to the champagne and the wine flutes before returning to Memnon.
Our Sarmatian wedding vows—he means to re-create them in all their violent glory.
The air grows quiet in the wake of his words. It’s my turn to recite them. My stomach twists with nerves and perhaps a touch of sentimentality.
“From the gods that made me to the gods that take me, from this first breath to my last, I am yours,” I echo.
Memnon’s smile is blazingly bright—brighter even than when we spoke our Roman vows a short while ago. But perhaps that’s because pain laced those words.
More pain is coming, however.
As if to punctuate the thought, Memnon releases my hands to grab the champagne bottle.
Removing the foil capsule and the muselet, he pops the cork.
Amber liquid froths from the opening and spills over Memnon’s fingers as he dips down again and picks up one of the wine flutes.
He pours the bubbling liquid into a single glass, one he then passes to me.
Once his hands are free, Memnon shrugs off his suit jacket, setting it aside on the wild grass. I catch sight of the sheathed dagger he did in fact bring with him today.
He unbuttons one of his shirt cuffs, rolling a sleeve back to reveal the soft bronze expanse his forearm.
I remember what’s coming, and old dread rises with it.
Memnon unsheathes his dagger, the blade gleaming bright in the midafternoon light. He clenches his fist and drags the blade down his skin.
I’m not ready for how quickly the violence happens, nor how alarmingly fast his blood flows from the wound.
I fumble with the champagne flute as I bring it to Memnon’s forearm.
Some of the blood trickles into the glass, turning the light amber liquid into a darker, rust-colored hue.
A thread of my magic slips from my hand, lingering about his wound as though it wants to do something about it. But the wedding rite isn’t over.
I hand him the champagne flute and reach for his dagger, a sense of déjà vu—and a little dread—washing over me.
I’ll have to cut myself, just as he has.
He passes the weapon to me, his magic dissolving his blood from the blade. I take it from him, swallowing at the sight of the sharp edge. This dagger is one that he was buried with. It’s tasted the blood of many enemies. And now it will taste mine.
I take a steadying breath and bring the dagger to the skin of my inner arm. Before I can overthink it, I slice downward, across my forearm. The flesh parts sickeningly easily, and then a curtain of blood flows from the wound.
Immediately, Memnon is there with the glass, catching the crimson liquid, the champagne further darkening.
Brave woman, he murmurs across our bond, his gaze flicking to mine and holding my stare for a long moment.
The wedding ritual still isn’t over.
The sorcerer raises his bleeding arm before me, his palm open. I clasp his proffered hand, my wounded forearm pressed to his, our blood mingling. Our magic slips from our hands and our wounds, winding about our arms as though drawn forth by the pain.
Memnon raises the glass of bloody champagne between us.
“I drink of your essence and of mine,” he says in Sarmatian, his gaze unwavering. “Just as our blood is now one, so too are we.” He brings the champagne flute to his lips and takes a long, deep drink of the macabre liquid.
Once he’s finished, he hands it to me.
I ignore the throb of my wound and the warmth of our blood as it drips down our arms. “Pes vaksasava xu I’kapsasava pikabuwapgus azkupus.” I repeat the Sarmatian vow. “Daksasava sisapak dat di’nvusa muda, dak kup vakosgubpak.”
For a moment, I feel Memnon’s earlier words—that ghosts are our wedding guests. Because I swear, though it is only the two of us on this lonely hill, the past feels alive in this moment.
I raise the champagne flute to my mouth. Memnon drank roughly half of it, and I intend to swallow the rest, no matter how unappealing it tastes.
Casting Memnon a final look, I tip my head back and drain the glass, stifling a wince at the intense, coppery tang of it.
I toss the flute aside, the long grass catching it before it can break.
Do you remember the final line of the vows? Memnon says.
I shake my head. Those memories are so old and tattered the specifics of many of them are lost to me.
Memnon whispers it across our bond, the words drawing out goose bumps.
We say it together, he adds.
I grip his hand tighter, giving a nod. He gives my clasped hand a squeeze, and we speak as one.
“For good, for ill, and for always, my life is bound with yours.”
The instant the words are out of our mouths, our magic seems to ignite.
The blood between us hisses and steams, and a current runs between our flesh where our wounds press to one another. Our magic streams from it as well as our clasped hands, twisting together until orange blends with blue and it looks closer to a bruised purple color.
I bite my lip as our power burns its way up our arms, sizzling our blood and sinking into our flesh even as it heals our wounds. I can feel Memnon’s magic and mine mingling within me, traveling through my veins before it finally settles beneath my sternum.
The Sarmatian vows were laced with a spell.
My betrayed gaze flicks to Memnon, even as his grip tightens on me.
You lied, I tell him. This does bind us more tightly together.
He had said there was no ploy.
But the sorcerer shakes his head. “I had forgotten…truly.”
Memnon the strategist, who is always scheming. I don’t know that I believe him, no matter how earnestly he speaks and how truthful his emotions feel.
And now, despite how dulled my memories of my first life are, I do remember Memnon’s words the first time this happened.
Our flesh and our souls are fully joined to one another. Where one goes, the other must follow.
We were connected then, and it dragged us both into early graves.
And now, for better or for worse, our lives are once more bound.