That evening, as Istara walked through the rose garden, taking in the warm, sweet scent of the climbing roses, clinging, tenacious, to their wooden trellises, Weremkhet approached, immaculate in his pleated kilt, gold cuffs and collar, holding a sealed scroll on a silver tray. He bowed and offered it to her. She took it, not troubling to inspect the seal, certain it was a summons from Nefertari wishing to know of the events of the day. Weremkhet backed away, leaving Istara alone to continue her walk.

In no hurry to open the queen's message, Istara bent to inhale the scent of a rose, its perfume rich, warm, still smelling of sunshine. She wondered where Sethi was, if he was thinking of her as much as she found herself thinking of him--if he missed her as much as she missed him.

From within the inner courtyard, soft laughter filtered through the palms--Edarru, free of her duties, played with her infant son, Nesu--her one true delight. Istara tightened her hold on the scroll, envious. Edarru, at least, still possessed a connection to Sethi through their son. Her thoughts drifted back to her interview with Tanu-Hepa, seeing once more her surrogate mother's stricken look as she backed away, desperate to distance herself from the terrible truth: Urhi-Teshub loved her more than she had ever credited him. He had been willing to die for her, had committed the greatest crime a person could commit: treason. He should have died for what he had done. She wondered anew how he had escaped his father's wrath. The gods must have protected him. And now, he was the king of an empire, his power immutable, a god.

Old feelings and loyalties crept in, hesitant, tendrils from the distant past, awakening memories long-banished: of the month-long journey to Kadesh after Urhi-Teshub lost his right to the throne; his private smile for her as he roasted a hare for their dinner, the firelight enhancing the cut of his jaw, the sensual turn of his mouth; waking in the night to feel the heat and solid muscle of his body, taut under his leather tunic and kilt, behind hers, protective, his blanket over her. Once, deep in the night, she had turned to find his eyes on her, watching her, the flecks of gold within his dark green ones catching in the firelight, the message in them clear, his longing to make her his, plain.

She closed her eyes, willing the images away. They fled, only to be replaced by another: her husband's tender look as he brushed the hair from her face--black smoke drifting overhead in thick, bilious clouds, ripe with the stench of the dead--his battle-bruised fingers gentle against her cheek. His promise to protect her, to see her safe to Babylon. His fall as he succumbed to the violence against him outside the queen of Egypt's tent, the final word he cried out as he fell, desperate, anguished. Istara.

Her legs weakened. She stumbled to a bench and sank onto it, trembling. He loved her, as much as Sethi. Seeking to distract herself from her thoughts, she broke the queen's seal, and opened the message. She looked down. Her heart juddered.

My love,

She stared at the Nesite symbols, unable to breathe, the bold strokes of Urhi-Teshub's handwriting familiar, visceral. Time vanished. Silence surrounded her. Her gaze moved, treacherous, to the next line, his voice awakening within her mind, strong, resonant, regal, speaking as though he sat beside her, the warmth of his body radiating from him.

With all my heart, forgive me. I have failed you. I did not protect you at Kadesh. In my haste to capture the Queen of Egypt, seeking to glorify myself, I put you at risk, and now the price I must pay is to live without you by my side. How many times have I relived that night? A thousand, thousand times. Each time, instead of the foolish decision I made, I imagine myself fighting my way out of the camp, carrying you away in my chariot to safety. How different everything would have been had I done so. I might have missed the battle, but I could have returned the following day, with the rest of the army, and led Hatti to victory, liberating my father and uncle, possibly even reclaiming my right to the throne. But I didn't. I chose the shortest path to glory, my vanity and ambition leading to this--losing you to Egypt.

I do not yet know the truth of your situation, though I suspect you are not free, despite the pharaoh's claim to the contrary. It is my greatest hope once Tanu-Hepa arrives, the pharaoh will no longer feel the desire to continue to withhold you from me. But if the pharaoh has spoken true and you have chosen to stay, I must accept the possibility there is another who has captured your heart.

Istara, my love, if you have fallen to another man, I cannot fault you, too much has passed between us. I am guilty of a hundred crimes against you, and to expect you to have continued to love me after all I have done. No. It is too much. I cannot. But I can ask you this: love him, but return to me. Be my queen, as you were destined. Hatti needs her high priestess. Your people are suffering, and your duty to them must prevail, even over matters of the heart. I will turn a blind eye to your affair if you wish to continue. Istara, my wife, bound to me in blood, if you are free, come to Hattusa. Take your place upon the throne so I might place the crown of Arinna upon your brow. Together, as one, we will restore peace to the empire, and bring prosperity and abundance once more to our devastated land.

I await you, my princess, my only love.

Come to me.

Her fingers trembling, Istara set the letter onto the bench, and stared, unseeing at the elegant symbols, made by the hand of the man who had broken her heart not once, but twice. Silenced feelings awakened, stirring, the memory of his scent returning, his presence engulfing her, filling her with nostalgia. Soap, leather, horses.

She scanned the letter, her fingers trailing over the clean lines. He had not commanded her to return. He had asked. His deferral burdening her far more than any royal command.

Five months stretched before her. Five long, arduous months without Sethi. Her husband had made his case well, appealing to her sense of duty, acknowledging his guilt and his many failings, even accepting she might love another. She traced her finger over the scar on her palm, reliving the memory of his blade against it, his eyes on hers, reassuring, even as the dagger's edge sliced across her soft flesh; its bite hot, stinging, aching. She had not cried out, had shown bravery and courage, as befitted a queen, though the pain had been greater than any she had felt before.

She turned her palm toward her lap, folding her fingers over the indelible mark, ashamed. Tanu-Hepa hadn't told Istara anything new. It was no secret Hatti was in crisis. Istara had long known famine stalked the land and civil war brewed; kingdom standing against kingdom, sudden, bitter enemies--blood already being shed.

Over private dinners, she had watched Sethi's guests nod to themselves whenever the subject of Hatti's travails came up, satisfaction oozing from them. Others thanked the gods, lowering their eyes, modest, murmuring their gratitude for the pantheon's retribution against Hatti, their quiet words haunting her: Long may they pay for Kadesh.

Though she understood the Egyptians, she had never been able to bring herself to indulge in their vindication. Muwatallis might have paid for his crimes with his life, but his brutal legacy lived on, his decision to equip forty thousand men to ambush Ramesses at Kadesh had depleted the empire's dwindling stores, and now, Hatti's people starved, most of them innocent victims, widowed women and their unprotected children.

She rose, agitated, rubbing her palms against her gown, wishing with all her heart Sethi had not yet left Pi-Ramesses--desperate to talk with him, to seek his counsel. Until Urhi-Teshub had sent Tanu-Hepa, Istara had been able to justify her resistance, but with the regent queen's arrival, Urhi-Teshub's letter and Sethi's absence, the truth came into focus, clear, unequivocal, damning. Five agonizing months stretched before her, her responsibility enormous, suffocating.

The memory of the years she had spent preparing to become Hatti's queen returned--the complex rituals required of the High Priestess of Arinna; the daily offerings of food and incense; the hymns she was required to sing. She had left Arinna's sanctuary abandoned, had dishonored the goddess, so she could live with the man she loved. Her selfishness condemned her. Her people were dying of hunger while she lived in opulent luxury. Virulent torrents of shame coursed through her, her conscience tearing free from its bindings, demanding, strident, to know how many more would die before she did what duty required of her.

Istara rolled her hands into fists, fighting to contain her thoughts. They continued, washing over her, released from their captivity, damning, reviling, accusing. She half-turned, desperate to escape her inner condemnation, thinking to write Sethi a letter, to explain her departure. He would understand; a man of duty. No. She halted in her steps; she had promised to wait. Urhi-Teshub's letter caught her eye, her heart trembling anew at his final words. I await you, my princess, my only love.

Within the arbor's enclosure, she paced, agitated, trapped. How could she go on, caught like a fish in a net, unable to move forward or back? What was she to do until Sethi returned? How was she to find peace? From within the villa, she could hear Edarru singing to her babe, her voice sweet, melodic, filled with love. Bitterness slammed into Istara. Was her whole life to be distilled down to nothing more than the events of the last ten months? Was Sethi's sacrifice to mean so little? How could she go on, a queen of an empire, living without him, alone, left with nothing but the fading memory of his touch?

Her chest tight, Istara glanced at the stars, catching sight of Arinna's crown emerging from the dusky canopy, glittering, cold and white. She closed her eyes, blocking out the sight--even the heavens condemned her. Loneliness for Sethi clawed at her. She sank down onto the bench. A rustle of parchment. Her heart aching, she looked down. 

Come to me.