Astarte's Wrath (Kythan Guardians 0.50)
My head snaps to Habi rushing into the chamber. His bare chest heaves, gleaming with sweat. “Pharaoh,” he says, his brows pinched, blazing blue eyes wide. “The queen has returned!”
Xarion’s chair scrapes the floor as he bounds to his feet. “Where?”
Habi inhales deeply. “Cleopatra’s ship has been spotted from Pharos. She entering the breakwaters now.”
At that, every person—human and guardian—leaves behind their dealings and rushes to the terrace. I grip the railing, staring past the swaying date palms at the quinqueremes entering the royal harbor. Their sails have been lowered, their once-glossy hulls dulled and battle worn. I pinpoint the queen’s emblem on the lead ship.
My heart thunders in my chest. I don’t see Cleopatra sitting atop in the cabin.
Turning to examine Xarion’s wary expression, I feel the need to reach out to him—take his hand and comfort him. Just until we see her feet touch land. Instead, I grip the hilt of my khopesh, saying a quick prayer that our queen lives.
That she has brought back the victory.
“Octavian’s ships do not trail hers,” Habi informs us, breaking the tense silence.
“Yes,” Xarion replies. “That’s a good sign.” He turns to Habi, squares his shoulders. “Regardless, summon a legion of guardians to surround the harbor. Place another two at each gate of the city.”
Habi bows. “Yes, Pharaoh.”
Phoenix joins us on the terrace, his guardian uniform disheveled. I twist my lips closed. Lunia has been searching for him the entire day. She’s been made to look after the twins and little Delphus during Phoenix’s unannounced hiatus. Lately, his neglectful behavior is extreme. Even for him. And since the queen has returned, we must be on at all times to guard the royals. At least until we know Octavian has been defeated for good.
He sidles up beside me, a smug smile tugging his full lips. “What did I miss?” he whispers.
“Oh, only the queen’s return.” I shrug. “Nothing of importance.”
Ignoring my chiding, Phoenix lifts his head toward the harbor. “Finally.” He turns to leave.
I latch on to his solid arm. “Where are you going?’
His red eyes flare, and I lower my hand, startled. But they quickly soften, and he takes my hand. “I’m sorry. We’ve been under such strain since she went to war. Forgive me if I feel the need to immediately celebrate.” A devious smile warms his face.
Shaking my head, I laugh. “At least ask Lunia first before your gorge yourself on beer and girls.” I eye him. “She needs a rest.”
He winks. “Fine idea.” Then he’s taking off through the chamber.
When I return my gaze to the harbor, the docking servants are roping the queen’s ship. My chest loosens, and I feel Xarion’s gaze on me. I meet it with one wish crowning my heart.
That the end of the war—the end of Octavian—means we’re free to find a way to be together.
I kneel on one knee in the throne room, anxiously awaiting the report from Cleopatra and Antonius.
Two towering golden thrones laden with jewels and ivory sit upon a dais. A statue of the goddess Isis rises from behind Cleopatra’s chair, her wings spread out over the throne, sanctioning her pharaoh’s seat of power. The goddess’s headdress bears the blood-red solar disk between two horns. Brightly colored tapestries drape the granite walls, the sea breeze causing them to flap as it cools the many gathered bodies. Sweat beads along my brow, runs down my back.
Once the queen and her husband were given time to rest from their journey, the dynamic couple called a debriefing meeting. Xarion has personally tended to his mother and stepfather since they entered the palace. I’ve waited patiently to hear the details of Actium, knowing Xarion has gotten them firsthand. I need to see his face to discern what the outcome is. Whether or not the war has ended.
My nerves wage their own battle as I fight to stay in my Kythan form when the queen and Antonius enter.
The room falls silent. Even the air is calm and respectful. Cleopatra elegantly glides across the dais, the sheer white fabric of her dress flowing behind her. Her smooth black hair shines from beneath her headdress, the same horn-encircled sun of Isis. Its shimmering length sways against her shoulders, reflecting the candlelight.
Iras and Charmain, Cleopatra’s handmaidens, take their place behind their queen as she’s seated. For a moment, my heart constricts. My mother was once one of the queen’s handmaidens, and I miss her presence here. But the fact the queen has not replaced my mother, keeping two guardians instead of three, lightens my Ba. Cleopatra loved my mother, and I agree with her sentiment: she was irreplaceable.
The queen’s dark eyes stare out over her council and guardians. Kohl rims them deeply, fanning out into a point near her temples. Her favorite piece of jewelry, the golden asp, circles her upper arm, and the bangles on her wrists clank; the only sound in the hushed room. She lifts her head high, as if she’s not just returned from a grueling battle.
She is the embodiment of Isis. The goddess made flesh.
I can feel every breath in the chamber being stolen as her presence fills the throne room.
As her husband removes his sword from his leather-strapped armor to seat himself in the throne next to her’s, my eyes trail the many bruises and scrapes marring his face, arms, and legs. Antonius shows signs of exertion, though he is every bit as regal and power-commanding as his queen.