Chapter 9 #2
That doesn’t stop him from releasing me to take a couple tentative steps in the direction of the tomb, his gaze seeking it out. He turns back to me, reaching for my hand. When I take his, he squeezes it hard.
I assumed Memnon was unflappable. I have seen him face down demons and armies. It’s strange to see him affected by this place.
Then again, this might’ve been the one time someone ever truly bested him. If I were used to being on top of the world, it would shake me too, going from conqueror to conquered.
The two of us, along with Nero, who has stayed obsessively close, approach the one section of property that remains untouched.
My heart beats heavily when I catch sight of the innocuous stone slab fitted into the ground. I don’t want to go down into that room again. Even the thought of it causes my stomach to churn.
That’s where I first lost him.
But there’s also this lurid curiosity to see that burial chamber again. To take it in once more with eyes that know and remember.
Memnon crouches next to the square stone flooring, his hair beginning to stir with his rising emotions.
He speaks in Mochica, the language of his father. I don’t understand the words, but it’s a spell of some sort. His magic spreads from his palm, the smoky tendrils of it slithering over the stone.
It begins to rain in earnest then, the drops dappling my hair and clothes before quickly intensifying.
Memnon’s power clears, and I draw in a fortifying breath, lifting my hand and pointing my palm at the slab.
“Izkas.” Open.
The stone groans as it rises from the ground, scraping against the surrounding flooring as it goes. It floats to the side, then lands with a heavy thud.
The darkened staircase looks like a maw ready to swallow us whole. For a moment, both Memnon and I stand there, unmoving. Nero is the one who ends up prowling forward.
“Nero!” I hiss after him, afraid of what spells Eislyn might’ve placed.
I slip my awareness down the connection I share with my familiar.
My ears twitch as nearby torches hiss to life. I cannot see any spells through Nero’s eyes but nothing about his form feels injured or distressed.
I withdraw back into my own mind in time to see Memnon head down after my panther.
I hesitate only a moment longer, then I, too, descend, half expecting the slab to slide back over us and trap us inside. When it fails to do so, I finally allow myself to relax just a little.
My eyes move to the walls, where the firelight flickers along the rows of Sarmatian text. I can see now what I hadn’t been able to before, either because I didn’t have the memories or the time to study them. The text is a mimicry of my own transcription of Sarmatian.
My fingers find the grooves of one of the word horse.
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.