Rhakotis is where the majority of the Egyptian citizens live. Where the Kythan live. Though I spend most of my time in the palace, even have my own quarters, I prefer to reside here when I can. As my mother was one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, I grew up in the palace. But being here keeps me grounded, reminds me that I don’t belong across the harbor.
I’m still fuming over Xarion’s arrogance when I push through my creaky, wooden door. He’s never been one to let his station go to his head, but being raised as he has, it’s impossible for vanity not to seep through. And stubbornness.
It’s like he forgets I didn’t choose this profession. I’m not his guardian by choice. I’m a slave, like any other slave working in the palace. Though I’d have gladly, willingly devoted my life to him, I was born into servitude. Not chosen.
Ripping the tattered tunic from my body, I fling it to the floor. Then think better, and pick it up and toss it into the dim embers of my fire pit. They spark at once, blazing into a crackling flame. The garment is ruined. No reason to try and salvage the thread. It’s soaked through with blood and dirt. Sweat and grime.
I walk to my basin and pour the hard-earned, filtered water from the Cisterns into the copper tub. I rag myself clean, mentally cursing myself for allowing Xarion to rile me so that I didn’t think to use the washroom in my palace chamber. A deep soak would’ve been heavenly.
When I’m as clean as possible, I ransack my room, searching for the dress Lunia gave me yesterday. I find it tucked away between my armor and the half-finished glass vase I’ve been working on for Selene and Helios—Xarion’s younger, twin siblings.
A pang hits my chest, but I fight it back. I’m a hypocrite.
I lecture Xarion, and even Phoenix and Lunia, about our duties; our stations. But I still see the queen’s children as my friends and my family. I wish I didn’t. Especially since Xarion will be required to take a wife soon. When this war with Octavian is through—and it will be, by gods—he’ll be suited and wed.
And none of Xarion’s cousins are good enough for him. Two are far too young, and the others are spoiled and weak-minded; nothing like the queen’s immediate family.
“Isis,” I whisper. “Stop me from driving myself mad.” It’s the farthest thing I should be concerned with.
“All decent? Not that I care if you’re not.” Phoenix’s voice sounds through my door. Then he’s cracking it open.
“No—” I shout. “I’m not. Get out.” I grab up my red dress—so deeply dyed it resembles blood—and tuck it under my arms, covering myself. But only just.
Phoenix’s deep voice booms with laughter. It makes me smile despite myself. “Nothing I haven’t seen before—Oh, wow.” He halts in the doorway. His eyes brighten, their glowing red irises flame. “Maybe there is some new stuff I haven’t seen.”
“Out, Phoenix. O
r I’ll sick Lunia on you.” I pull my dress up farther and glare.
He laughs again and shuts my door. “I’ll turn around.” He does so, and I scowl at his sculpted back.
Phoenix bears resemblance to the wall paintings and tapestries more than any Kythan I know. A full Narcolym, he’s all hard muscle and smooth, alabaster skin. Named after the fire bird of the sun god Ra who is reborn from its own ashes, Phoenix is just as beautiful, and his personality just as colorful.
The women adore him.
Luckily, I’ve known him forever, and have seen him play in mud and eat his own snot. I’m not swayed as easily by his practiced charms.
“I’m clothed,” I say, and Phoenix turns around to admire my saffron linen gown. The front of the skirt stops above my knees, while the back pools around my ankles. The loosely crossed top is clasped together over one shoulder by a golden lotus fibula.
“I should say so.” He slinks up to me and winks. “Lunia did well. You almost look like a lady.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, as I’m used to it, I worry my lip with my finger. Even if I hadn’t promised Xarion not to speak of the occurrence in the desert, I’m bound to it by his command. But I still want to know Phoenix’s thoughts on the greater matter. “Have you heard?”
He nods, his dark hair grazes his bare shoulders. “Next time there’s a threat, you can sit for the brats, and I’ll lay waste to those disappearing banshees.”
“Your charges are not brats,” I say. “And it was no easy feat, Phoenix. I’ve never faced anything like these Leymak. We didn’t win, just escaped.” I look away, to the sand just beyond the high walls of the city.
“What you did, with the barrier,” Phoenix says, and I look at him, “that was something. Thank the gods you’re all right”—his lips curl into a slick smile—“and that you learned from the best.” He flexes his biceps, and I laugh.
“Yes, I thought to myself, ‘how does Phoenix escape his mistresses after a busy night?’ And boom! The idea hit me like a glass wall.” I smile.
He scowls playfully. “Your virgin is showing.”
I toss a weak bolt of Charge his way and he ignites his forearm and deflects it, chuckling. “Pig,” I say.
Phoenix may make light of the situation, but I can see beneath his confident air that he was truly worried. But the fact that he’s able to joke means he doesn’t believe the Leymak are a true threat. It’s what I needed to hear from him. If there was any cause to be alarmed, he’d be hatching a grand escape plan for our masters. It’s just how his mind works.
I turn toward my table and skim my fingers over the cedar box that holds jewelry I rarely have reason to wear. My mother’s heirlooms. “Let me finish dressing, then we can go together to escort Xarion to the procession.”