She did not want to go. Out here the sun could wash over her. In her tent lurked only shadows that promised a lifetime of the same.
No, not a lifetime. A year, then they would be back in Susa. Xerxes would have his victory, and so he would no longer fear touching her. She would be his wife again, she
would feel the blood rush through her veins once more. She would awake from this stupor. She would feel. She would live.
What a vague hope. She sighed and looked in the direction of the voices. Just as likely, this drifting would create a vast sea between them. They would not be able to reach
each other, to touch each other. Love would be but a memory. So brief. So taunting.
Dear Lord, let it not be so.
His laugh rang out, and a moment later Xerxes emerged from behind a piece of wall a stade away. One thing, at least, had not changed. Her heart still galloped every time she
saw him. Love and hope still fought against the fog when he looked her way.
Like he did now. She imagined he smiled, though she could not tell from here. Perhaps he did not even know it was she—she probably appeared no more than a wisp atop the
wall. Still, he came her way, his strides lengthening until he drew away from his companions.
Yes, he smiled, and the gleam in his eye almost convinced her that life was as it should be. “How did I know, when I saw the lovely figure of a woman atop a dangerously
decrepit wall, that it would be you?”
Her lips curved in response to the tease in his voice. “You are a man of wisdom, my love.”
“And you a woman of predictable daring.” He stretched his arms up to grip her waist and swung her down to the ground.
She expected him to release her and step away, as he did when helping her from the wagon. But his arms came around her, and he pulled her close. His lips claimed hers—not
in the perfunctory kiss that had become normal, but hungrily, deeply.
Oh, how she wanted him back. To tangle in his arms, to lose herself in his kiss. How she wished he would whisk her away, ignoring all the men waiting for his advice. She
wanted her husband. She wanted Xerxes.
All he had given her since Sardis was the king.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead on hers like he used to do. “I have kept you confined to your wagon too long. I miss catching you on the brink of danger.”
“If this is my reward, I must find a few more walls to climb. Or perhaps I can swim across the Hellespont. Scale a mountain.”
He chuckled and kissed her again, then tucked her to his side and drew her along as he returned to his companions. “Are you enjoying Troy, my love?”
She hummed. They had been in the region for several days, moving slowly and listening each night to a portion of the famous Iliad. This morning Xerxes insisted they all
travel to the site of the citadel, so that he might see where Priam ruled. “It has certainly sparked my imagination.”
“I know. I keep looking out expecting to see Agamemnon’s forces on the beaches, their triremes moored behind them.”
She relished the feel of laughter tickling her throat. “I was thinking more of Helen. Do you think she loved Paris, or did she miss Menelaus?”
“What a girlish, romantic question.” He dug his fingers into her side, and she obliged him by squealing.
“Well, a decade-long war was fought over this woman—”
“Over the theft of her,” he corrected with a lopsided grin. “It could have as easily been over Odysseus’s faithful dog, had he been stolen.”
She let out the expected sound of protest and raised her chin. “Here I had been siding with Menelaus, thinking how sorely he must miss his wife, to go to such effort to get
her back. Perhaps I ought to cheer on Paris instead. He obviously loved her enough to steal her.”
“It need not be love that motivated him either—it could have been the desire to possess the most beautiful woman in the world.”
His grin said he jested, so she smiled back. But the fog crept close again.
“We shall hear the end this evening. Perhaps Homer will address the question of love for you, sweet one. Although if I recall, it is more about desecrating remains and the
choice between long life or a glorious death . . .”
The concerns of men. Kasia pinned her smile in place by sheer force of will and looked out over the ruins. “I look forward to the minstrel’s song. He is a talented
musician.”
“The best.” They paused beside a perfectly preserved well. Xerxes peered down into it. “And the story inspires a man to live tall and die proud.”
A soldier Kasia did not recognize stepped forward. “We ought to offer libations, my lord, to the heroes who fell here. The magi could prepare suitable sacrifices to honor
them.”
A shadow slithered through the fog. The arch of Xerxes’ brow looked far too amenable. “Not a bad idea. It would be a fitting end to the telling of the tale.”
“Xerxes.” She kept her voice low, but her heart thundered in her chest. “Will your god not be angry if you offer libations to the deities of the very people you march
against?”