Istara went to the door. Sethi's guard opened the panel over the grill. A short conversation ensued. The guard sent for Weremkhet. Another brief conversation. Meresamun crept to the door, her eyes wide, wary.

"Ahmen went too far," she continued, low. "Even though he vows things will be different now, I can't go back." Her eyes skidded to Istara's, frightened, desperate. "I won't." 

Istara took Meresamun's hand. "You are my guest now. I won't let him take you," she said, though she wasn't certain if Ahmen became determined, she could stop him.

Weremkhet approached, his expression taut. "My lady," he said, bowing low, "the pharaoh has sent men with his guards. I cannot refuse them entry. Out of courtesy I have been permitted to give you time to prepare yourself."

"What do you mean?" Istara demanded, alarmed, fear clawing into her, sudden, nauseating. Guards from the palace never boded well. The last time it happened, Sethi was summoned for his execution. "Prepare myself for what? Is Sethi--"

Before Weremkhet could reply, the gate's door creaked open. Flanked between two palace guards, Ahmen strode in. Meresamun let out a strangled cry and shrank into the shadows. Behind Ahmen, an arrogant, dark-haired man sauntered in, his bearing reeking of strength and power. He eyed Sethi's elegant courtyard, disdainful, dressed in a style Istara had never seen before, and behind him--

"No," Istara breathed. She staggered against the door frame, clung to it.

Dressed in worn leather armor, his dark hair tied back in a leather thong, a warrior stepped through the gate, the contours of his muscled body betraying a lifetime spent in war. He came to a standstill, his green eyes capturing her from across the courtyard. Held by the intensity of his look, she felt the heat of his longing--his desire to go to her despite finding her in another man's house.

She swayed, lost in the onslaught of his sudden, powerful, charismatic presence--a deluge of long-buried memories pouring through her. From another life, another time, another world he had come to her. The improbability of him in Sethi's villa slammed into her. Two worlds collided, becoming one. 

"My lady," Weremkhet floundered, seeking to maintain decorum before the pharaoh's men. "Compose yourself, I beg you."

Istara blinked. Her husband, Mursili III, King of Hatti, a god among men, still stood by the gate. Waiting. Watching. He took a step forward. When she shrank back against the door, he stopped, his hands clenching into fists, restraining himself. Giving her time. Within the shadows, Meresamun wept, soft. Her misery washed over Istara, a dark, storm-swept sea.

Ahmen murmured to the pharaoh's guards. They nodded and stepped back. He came to Istara and bowed, immaculate, elegant.

"My lady," he said, crisp, formal, his gaze moving to the shadows behind Istara, tension oozing from him, "I come on behalf of Pharaoh Ramesses, Blessed of Re. Your husband, Mursili III, the true King of Hatti wishes to see you."

"The true king?" Istara repeated, taken aback by Ahmen's odd phrase, thinking of Urhi-Teshub's letter, delivered by Tanu-Hepa--the one she had never read again, buried deep in a cupboard, hidden under her least favorite gowns.

Ahmen did not answer, instead, his dark eyes continued to search the shadows. Silence permeated the room, taut with dread. He stepped back and rejoined the guards who waited by the gate in the blistering heat of the sun, their bodies bristling with weapons. Ahmen tilted his chin at Urhi-Teshub.

His eyes holding hers, Urhi-Teshub moved along the palm-lined path, patches of sunlight and shadow passing over his face and shoulders, highlighting the changes in him. New lines furrowed his brow, and fresh creases deepened the corners of his eyes. His features had hardened, granting him a fiercer, intimidating mien. Power radiated from him, reminding Istara of the pillar in Tarhuntassa, its golden panels catching the brilliance of the sun, a beacon of strength and authority, reassuring, stable. Enduring. He came to a stop several paces from her, his chest rising and falling, straining the ties of his salt-stained leather tunic, its shoulders faded by the intensity of the desert sun. Her heart pounded, guilt slamming into her as he regarded her without judgment; catching the private whisper of gentleness under his harsh exterior.

"The Egyptian style suits you," he said, letting go of her eyes for a heartbeat to take in the details of her pale green gown, the expense of her shoulder collar, beaded with cylinders of lapis and gold, and the gold cuffs adorning her wrists and upper arms. "He treats you well?" he asked.

Istara nodded, unable to trust herself to speak, his quiet steadiness so unlike the man she remembered--passionate, and at times, when justified, angered. She waited for his outrage, for him to treat her as a man would treat a straying wife, but he remained silent, content to regard her, his calm presence reaching out to her from across the chasm of his crimes. Her thoughts strayed back to his letter, realizing, sickened, he had meant what he said--he would accept her love for another. At the time she believed his words an affectation, poetic, meant to sway her heart. But he had spoken the truth. What man, especially a king, would offer such a--

Her fingers cramped. She let go of the doorframe, stumbling a little. He caught her elbow, steadying her. The familiar touch of his skin against hers delved into her, warm, intimate. She pulled back, slow, so he no longer touched her.

"Am I so unwelcome here?" he asked, soft, a hint of sadness tingeing his words as he let her go. When she didn't answer, he glanced at the other man, who leaned against one of the palms, eyeing its fronds shimmering in the river's breeze. Despite his casual pose, an aura of impatience emanated from him.

"Istara," Urhi-Teshub said, low. She caught her breath, her name on his lips igniting feelings she had believed long-dead. "My throne has been usurped by Hattusilis. He turned my men against me for using Hatti's resources to liberate Nerik."

His words, said so soft, breached the walls of her crumbling defenses.

"You have won Nerik," she breathed, repeating the name of the hallowed, hidden city, sheltered deep within a range of mountains--the city she had spent eleven years waiting for him to liberate. Pride slammed into her, tears pricking her eyes as new emotions inundated her, unleashing a torrent of pent-up hopes and dreams, longings she had once nurtured--plans she had made for another life, another path--forever lost. "I knew you would," she whispered, noticing too late his hand had gone back to her elbow.

He tugged her toward him, gentle. She stepped closer, catching the scent of him: the warmth of his leather armor, heated by the sun, the bitter tang of natron soap still clinging to his skin, and something else, replacing the once-familiar smell of horses--a sweet, raw, earthy, musky scent--cyprinum perfume, its complexity an accurate reflection of the restrained, matured man standing before her. She leaned closer, letting the pleasant, masculine smell of him wash over her.

"Istara," he murmured, his voice taut. His eyes caught hers, holding her captive. "I have heard you died and returned to life."

"I have," she admitted, quiet. "I came back. For him."

A shear of anguish sliced across his face. He suppressed it a beat later, extinguished it the next. "I am glad you did," he said, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly against her flesh. "So long as you live and are safe."

In the uncertain quiet following Urhi-Teshub's words, the man leaning against the palm tree pushed himself free and cleared his throat, loud and meaningful, letting everyone know his patience had expired.

"Who is that rude man?" Istara asked.

"It's a long story," Urhi-Teshub answered, "one I would like to be able to share with you, but for now, perhaps it is best to say he is a relation of someone the pharaoh believes you know."

"Me?" she asked, taken aback. "I doubt that. Who could I possibly know the pharaoh doesn't know?"

"Have you made any sudden friends--" Urhi-Teshub began, glancing at the other man, facing them, his arms crossed over his chest, drumming his fingertips against his bicep, "--with people without any connections in Egypt, in particular people," he cleared his throat, uncomfortable, "who have come into your life since your return from death?"

Istara blinked, Iltu's enigmatic words replayed, ominous: There is more I have to say, but it can wait. The fragmented pieces of her deepest, hidden suspicions broke free of their restraints and drew together, inexorable, forming into a whole; terrible, awful, unreal. "How--" she faltered, unable to finish.

"Could I know such a thing?" Urhi-Teshub asked. He nodded at the other man. "Because he's one of them, and just as you are connected to Baalat--" he lowered his voice, catching her eyes, "--I am connected to him."

"I--" Istara quailed. Her husband had died and returned, just like she and Sethi had done, reprieved by the light of a god. Her worst fears collided with her hopes. The gods had not spared Sethi and Istara for love, but for something else, something more. Something unknown. She blinked, a new thought rising up, silencing all the others. If Seru was Horus, it meant-- "No." Her legs quivered. Urhi-Teshub's grip tightened. He led her, stumbling, to a stone bench, and helped her sit in the shade of a date palm. The other man approached, casual, eyeing her, curious.

"I take it you have told her who I am?" he asked, his voice smooth, resonant, his accent regal.

"Not yet," Urhi-Teshub answered, tight. "If you could just--"

"Teshub. Storm God," his companion interrupted. "I need to see my sister, Baalat, who is bound to you. I must know if Horus still lives."

"No," Istara breathed, stunned. Teshub, one of the greatest gods of Hatti, watched her from eyes as mortal as Iltu's. "No, please. No."

Urhi-Teshub's hands met her shoulders, supporting her as she sank against him, grief clawing at her, threatening to tear her to shreds. Horus was gone. Sethi.

A quiet creak of leather as her husband knelt before her. "Istara?" he asked, low, worried.

The waves of a violent, black sea washed over her, bleak, relentless. No. She would feel it if Sethi were gone. She would know. She clung, desperate, to her last hope, like a bee to a storm-tossed flower.

"Baalat is within," she whispered, thinking of Iltu waiting on the divan; of her final, prescient words. There is more I have to say. She rose. "Follow me."