Chapter 49 #3
I release the power I was coaxing up to the surface. I won’t need to contain anyone when Memnon’s power is already doing it.
I chew the inside of my cheek, staring out at that magic. Anything could be happening inside the castle right now. Memnon could’ve already found Eislyn; he could’ve stopped her.
Things could have also gone horribly wrong. There’s no way of knowing.
But I do know that if I don’t do anything to stop Memnon and the rampage his power might go on, people will die—and gruesomely.
The stronger the magic we cast, the less we can control who that magic touches, he told me months ago. Fields would be strewn with entire armies, and I would sit there on my steed, untouched.
I glance at Nero. “Stay here,” I command.
I push away from the tree then, and without a backward glance, I dash toward the entrance. I skirt around puddles of blood and fallen fighters.
Supernaturals are running toward me, but even as they flee, arms of Memnon’s magic lash out at them. His power first wraps around their torsos, and they have a single moment to scream before the rest of his magic flows over them, muffling the sound.
Even the winged beings aren’t safe from Memnon’s magic. I watch as one fairy leaps into the air, and she’s so close to freedom when that iridescent power rushes at her. She lets out a yelp as it winds around her midsection, and then she’s dragged back down.
I stare in abject horror at it all, my attention only drawn away when, from the corner of my eye, I notice a dark shadow. I glance over to see my familiar loping next to me.
“Nero,” I admonish. “You were supposed to stay back where it’s safe.”
I trust Memnon’s magic not to hurt me, but even my familiar could be at risk of his power’s volatile wrath.
The panther responds by moving in closer.
Crap, for better or worse, he’s coming with me.
“Stay close,” I tell him. An order he actually seems to listen to.
Ahead of me plumes of that deep blue magic build on one another, and it looks for all the world like gathering thunderclouds.
Another arm of that power snakes out, barreling straight for me. I only have a moment to brace before it engulfs me and Nero.
Inside it, it’s a maelstrom, the indigo swathes of it lit up by flashes of electricity. Each bright burst illuminates the shadowy, screaming forms of writhing supernaturals, each one succumbing to whatever dark spell Memnon has placed upon them.
And yet for me, his power has always felt like peace. Home.
I wind my way between Memnon’s captives, Nero at my side as I search for my husband. While I do so, his magic appears to darken, and I wonder whether the Bargainer’s own shadowy power is somehow to blame.
I could call on my own power to clear a path through Memnon’s magic to find him, and I’m nearly certain it would work, but instead, I choose to close my eyes and focus on our connection.
I can feel him across the span of it like a heartbeat, ever so close to my own.
No matter the time, the place or world, our spirits call out for one another.
Focusing on his life force, I follow that thread of connection between us, the one our thoughts pass across, and I move through the magic-choked halls of the Flora palace.
Nero sticks closely to my side, and despite the continued screams around us, both my familiar and I walk with immunity through the soup of Memnon’s power.
I can’t tell how deep into the castle I’ve gone, or how many terrifying sounds I hear—bones cracking, blood dripping, flesh squelching—when I finally catch sight of the sorcerer’s familiar silhouette.
I take in his profile—his shoulder-length hair, which flutters in the wake of his own magic, his glowing amber eyes that illuminate the deep scar that runs from cheekbone to jaw.
His lightly curved nose and sensual lips.
The panther tattoo that claws up his neck, and that body that’s been built for ending lives but has held me so gently.
Memnon is a terrible, mighty force, so much so that even now it’s hard to comprehend that he has found himself at the mercy of first Eislyn and now myself.
The fairy herself is nowhere in sight—not a great sign—nor is the Bargainer for that matter.
“Memnon!” I call out to him.
He falters, then turns to face me.
“My queen.” His deep voice resonates.
I search his features, desperate to figure out what happened in here and whether Eislyn has been stopped.
“Pull your power back,” I command.
He stares at me, and despite our connection, his mind is a swirling mystery. Only possessiveness and an all-consuming fury rule him as far as I can tell.
I sense, however, that he is trying.
Several moments pass. I wait for the indigo magic around us to clear. Instead, it continues to darken.
This command has to work. Memnon vowed his will to me.
And yet, this isn’t his will, is it? His mind isn’t wholly his own. It’s been given over to something else.
Or maybe it is working, but so slowly that it is functionally useless.
In the past, commands were never enough to bring my Memnon back from this state. There was only ever one thing that did it.
I step up to him now and touch his cheek. “Est xsaya, you are destroying friends as well as foes. Remember who you are.”
He turns those glowing, distant eyes on me. “I know who I am.”
I can hear the words in his head. Conqueror. Warlord. King. Soul mate. All this modernity, it cloaks deep truths: we were once warriors. Rulers. We made hard choices then. We must make them again now, even if it means absolute destruction.
My throat tightens as I stare at Memnon, who can’t be stopped. Who won’t be stopped.
Our surroundings are almost pitch-black, and now I’m positive this is the Bargainer’s shadows pressing inward. And it becomes profoundly clear: either I stop Memnon, or he will.
My mind flashes to the small grimoire the high priestess gave me, the one that may or may not have gone up in flames earlier this evening.
“If you are so certain about who you are, then let me tell you about who I am,” I say gently, as though we have all the time in the world and he’s in the state of mind to listen.
“I am the girl who first spoke to you in tongues when you only knew Sarmatian. I am the one you learned Latin for, just so you might know my thoughts. You remember that, right? Even though right now, your mind isn’t all your own, I trust you do,” I say.
“You learned my secrets,” I continue, forcing myself to ignore how the screams are beginning to quiet or how deep the shadows have become, “and my pain.
You gave me my first true name—Roxilana, because it meant ‘blessed one’ in your tongue, and you thought it was fitting.
You were in my mind when my magic Awoke, and I was in your mind when yours Awoke as well.
“You and I stared at the same stars for years, though we were nations apart, wishing that one day we’d be together.”
Though his eyes have that disconcerting hollowness to them, Memnon seems to be listening raptly.
“You crossed all that distance to find me,” I say, “and you brought me back to your people—our people. You crowned me queen.”
My throat tightens as that grimoire flashes in my mind again.
“We fought in battles together, lost children together, we have endured betrayals and death and ageless sleep for one another, all so we could be in this moment. For you and I are like those stars we gazed at—eternal. And I will save you now, just as I did long ago, just as you have saved me many, many times, Memnon. Because that is what we do. We save each other.”
I drop my hand from his cheek and back up. Memnon still watches me, and I’d say he was fascinated by my words if I didn’t feel the hold that all that rage has on him.
I used to believe all magic came at a price.
That the cost of that magic, for me at least, was my memories, just as the cost of that power, for a sorcerer, was their conscience.
But it turns out, it’s all more complicated than that.
There may be a cost to power, but my memory loss—that was simply a curse.
What if sorcery, too, was just a curse? An elaborate one that is passed down from parent to child, but a curse all the same?
What if beneath every sorcerer was just another mage or witch, and the terrible tithe that increased their power at the expense of their conscience could be lifted? What if Memnon’s entire life he was under a curse, just as his father was and his ancestors before that?
Because if that’s true, and I now have reason to believe it is, then he does not have to lose his conscience to his power after all.
Because curses can be broken.
I draw on the words in that grimoire now, the ones I meticulously memorized.
“From earth our flesh was formed,” I begin. “To dust our bones be ground. What magic once forged shall thus remain bound.”
My magic churns inside me as it gathers.
“Blood of my blood, soul of my soul, two halves together again make whole. I invoketh my power as thy soul’s mate, to repay a tithe and alter thy fate.
I remember the battlefields, the bloody, contorted bodies. And I don’t need to remember the glow of Memnon’s eyes or the breeze in his hair. I can see it before me.
“The power thy claimed, through fire shall burn.”
Flames rush out around us, alighting on his magic. I hear more screams, but these sound surprised more than they do agonized. And when the fire passes over me, I feel nothing but a touch of warmth.
Memnon’s form stiffens when he finally realizes what I intend.
“No,” he pleads—or perhaps it’s the magic in him that is pleading with me.
Yes. I will not allow this curse to consume my soul mate whole until there is nothing left.
I gaze back at him, my voice unwavering.
“What was once taken, I demand returned—”
“Selene.” Now I’m sure it’s the monster not the man speaking. Wanting me to let it live and thrive. But even though it knows I’m trying to destroy it, it doesn’t move a hand against me.
Every bit of me loves you, he told me long ago. Even the wretched parts.