Waset, Late Winter. Reign of Ramesses, Year 6

Istara stretched, letting the warmth of the mid-afternoon winter sun ease the tension in her shoulders. Leaning back from her embroidery frame, she rubbed her neck, her muscles stiff from remaining in the same position for so long. Above, the palms surrounding the inner courtyard rustled, their fronds rippling in a light breeze, speckling the whitewashed limestone pillars and lotus pool in layers of sunlight and shadow.

A flock of birds flitted across the rooftops of the villa. One of the servants hanging out fresh washed linens went after them, complaining of their messes, chasing them, sending the green and yellow birds hurtling off into the vastness of the blue sky, chittering, indignant. Istara smiled at the outraged expression on the servant's face when she discovered one of the linens had been dirtied. With a muffled oath, she yanked the sheet from the line and stormed away to wash it again.

A sheen of pleasure slid through Istara, contentment filling her. After everything she had suffered, finally, her life had come to a place of peace, her greatest dramas nothing more than this--a dirtied linen and an unhappy servant. It was bliss. No longer did she fear for her future, no longer was she a token in a man's game; her path fixed now, certain, the decree made by Ramesses himself. She belonged to Sethi, commander of the Egyptian army, the man she loved, who loved her. The man who had sacrificed everything for her. Everything.

Glancing back down at her work, she ran her fingers over the embroidered design: a repeating series of blue lotuses and pairs of swans. Her fingers slowed. Perhaps there was one thing which dampened her happiness--the knowledge they only had these fleeting days together, days which felt as if they passed far too fast.

Almost seven months had already flown away since that awful, terrible day she had been forced to watch Sethi fall to Ramesses's khopesh. The day Sethi rose again from the ruins of his own blood, whole and unharmed, the light of Horus within him.

Seven months, and still her womb did not stir with life, despite Sethi warming her bed every night. She had consulted several midwives, though as an accomplished surgeon she feared she might already know the answer. The midwives had examined her, all of them shaking their heads, confounded. Nothing was amiss. Though none wished to say it, the question was left out there, hanging, unsaid. Perhaps Sethi, the man she had since learned had slept with many beautiful courtesans, and had spent his youth in brothels with Ramesses and Ahmen, who had not sired even a single babe--

"You are hard to find," a deep voice murmured from behind her.

She turned, a memory from her childhood replaying in her mind, unbidden. Once, long ago, Urhi-Teshub had said those very same words to her, on her ninth year day, her delight at seeing him sending her rushing into his open arms. Uncomfortable, she pushed the memory aside, resenting its intrusion. Those days were in the past. They belonged to another time, another life. A life she wanted to forget.

Sethi stood silhouetted in a shaft of brilliant, golden sunlight. Lifting her hand, she shaded her eyes against the glare, watching as he navigated the maze of garden beds and joined her by the bench, his warm scent of myrrh and cinnamon washing over her, his pleated kilt whispering against his legs as he sat.

"Perhaps your villa is too large, and we should move to a smaller one," Istara teased, knowing how pleased he was with the gift the queen had given him for his valor at Kadesh. A smile played at the corners of Sethi's lips, though he didn't reply. Instead, he reached over and took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his to taste her lips, a soft greeting, filled with the promise of much more, later. He pulled back and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her face.

"I heard Ahmen and Meresamun arrived this morning on one of the barges from Pi-Ramesses," he said, kissing her brow. "They are just in time for tomorrow's feast." He settled back beside her, gesturing for a servant to bring refreshment.

"I will be happy to see Meresamun again," Istara said, waving away the platter of sweetbread the servant offered. She turned to continue her stitches. "Since the march ended, I have missed her companionship. I had hoped she would call on me during the month before we departed for Waset for the winter. I would have liked to hear about her new life as Ahmen's wife." She tugged the needle, pulling the thread through, steady and smooth. She paused and glanced at Sethi. "You did make sure our wedding gifts were delivered?"

"I did," Sethi said as the servant backed away, "Weremkhet said he had been forced to leave the gifts with the guard."

"How unusual," Istara murmured, lifting her shoulders to ease the dull ache in them. "Perhaps she had asked not to be disturbed."

"I have failed you, haven't I?" Sethi asked as he bit into a piece of honey-sweetened bread, catching the crumbs in his upturned hand. "I should have arranged for you to have companions. A woman needs company, and out here in the midst of the fields and date groves, the only company I have left you with are servants."

"I have not minded my privacy," Istara said as she worked, careful to follow the stencilled dots of the inked design. "For now, I can do without companions," she paused and looked up, "though, perhaps a dog?"

"A dog?" Sethi repeated, blinking. "It is more usual keep cats, but if you would like to have a dog, one will be found for you." He cleared his throat and looked out over the gardens, soaked in color, drenched with the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. "Have you a preference?"

"Yes, a young one," she answered, poking the needle down into the material, "and a breed which will not grow too big."

Sethi nodded, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he brushed crumbs from his fingers and away from his kilt. Istara eyed him wondering if he might divulge what had amused him, but he remained silent, content to sit beside her as she worked, leaning his back against the trunk of a date palm, his arms crossed over his chest.

On the roof, the servant returned with the sheet, fresh washed, and hung it out once more, tugging at the corners, straightening it, her movements jerky with impatience. Istara suppressed a smile.

"Do you ever miss it?" Sethi murmured, breaching the walls of her amusement.

Her fingers stilled. "Miss what?"

"Your home, your lands, your customs, your people." He hesitated, brushing once more at his kilt, though it was clean. He glanced up, catching her eye. "Your husband."

"Why would you ask such a thing?" Istara breathed, her chest constricting. Since the fateful day Horus had intervened, they had never spoken again of Urhi-Teshub or of the difficulty Sethi faced living with a woman he could never marry. A woman married to another. To his enemy.

"I met with the pharaoh today," Sethi said, cautious, "Muwatallis has gone to the gods. Two months ago, Urhi-Teshub was crowned Mursili III, King of Hatti."