City of Tarhuntassa, Autumn - Reign of Muwatallis, Year 19

Alone in her apartment, Istara gazed at her reflection in Tanu-Hepa's full-length bronze mirror, loaned to her for this day. Istara, Princess of Kadesh, was no longer only bound, but wed. She gazed down at the wide golden band around her right forearm, fastened in place by Urhi-Teshub, matching the larger one she had placed on his arm. She touched her lips, recalling the barest heartbeat his lips brushed against hers as they sealed their vows.

And now, the celebrations complete, the time had come for her to prepare for his arrival. She ran her fingers over her heavy gown, glittering with gems and tinkling with tiny rectangles of gold and silver, a tremor of anticipation rippling through her. He could not forsake her, not tonight, of all nights, when all eyes were upon them.

A knock at her door made her turn. The wife of the Gal Gestin entered, carrying Urhi-Teshub's wedding gift across her arms, a beautiful linen shift from Egypt, the hem and cuffs embroidered in golden thread. Istara touched its soft material. Long had she wished for something from Egypt, but she could never afford anything the traders offered. She held up the shift, examining its workmanship. It was beautiful. An expensive gift, worth at least the price of two fine horses.

Her attendants helped her out of her gown. She stepped into the bath, letting them attend her, readying her for her husband, scenting her skin with jasmine oil. They left, indulgent smiles playing on their lips. Istara lifted up her wedding gift, hope trembling in her breast. Perhaps in the last two months Urhi-Teshub had changed his mind, else why would he have given her such an intimate and extravagant present?

Before the bronze mirror, she put it on, watching it fall, accentuating the slight curve of her hips and breasts. She ran her fingers over the material, so fine it was almost transparent. She shivered. Her husband had chosen a sensuous gift.

She closed her eyes, imagining how it would be to be with him. Sometimes, she dreamed of him coming to her bed, his strong body lowering over hers, naked as he took her in his arms, kissing her face and mouth, murmuring words of love before entering her and becoming one with her. Those nights, she would wake, her body in an agony of arousal. With a whispered prayer to Baalat for forgiveness, she would touch herself and finish with a sigh what her heart began.

Taking up her best robe, she tied its sash closed, her fingers trembling despite knowing Urhi-Teshub would be forced to celebrate long into the night before coming to her. Pacing through her many rooms, Istara waited in a delicious state of anticipation; just to have him here, to be alone, together. She was determined to change his mind, and tonight would be her chance. She just needed to talk with him, to spend time with him, to prove to him she was no longer a little girl. She settled on a divan on her balcony, sipping her wine, listening to the drunken songs, blushing at the lewd phrases. Each time she heard footfalls approaching through the gardens, she hastened to the doors of her apartment. She knew her guards were watching her, pleased for her fortune. She tried not to look at them, to let them see her excitement.

The night wore on. The noise of the celebrations dwindled to the occasional shout from a drunken noble passing through the gardens. Silence descended, thick and claustrophobic. The palace slept, while she, the bride, remained alone, and awake.

Waiting by the brazier in the outer reception room, clutching her cup of wine, she watched the door, willing it to open; straining to hear his footsteps, uncertainty stalking her. She paced the rug, tracing and retracing her steps until the night guards passed outside, calling the hour.

She sank onto a divan. It was almost morning; he should have come to her hours ago. Her heart aching, she retreated to her sleeping room, glimpsing the sympathetic expressions of her guardsmen without. Her throat tight with unshed tears, she brought the door closed, quiet.

She slipped out of her robe and lay it across the gilded lid of the chest at the end of her bed. Smoothing down the material, she sensed her thoughts fragmenting, sliding into darkness. Moving to the mirror, she gazed at her hollow reflection, at her eyes, wide, haunted. Stifling a sob, she began the work meant for Urhi-Teshub of plucking the flower blossoms from her hair; dropping them one by one into the silver bowl on her dressing table, to be offered up to Arinna in the morning for the goddess's blessing.

Pulling her ivory comb through her thick hair with slow, deliberate strokes, she combed each tress until her arm ached. Putting the comb back, she stood before her dressing table, staring at it, her eyes unseeing, trying to think of something else she could do to occupy herself, but there was nothing.

Turning to the empty bed, strewn with sprigs of autumn flowers and fragrant herbs--now wilting--she brushed them aside with gentle movements, refusing to think of what might have been.

She sat on the edge of the bed, lonely, grief stalking her. Clenching her hands into fists, she suppressed her feelings, refusing to cry. He would still come. He could not shame her like this, by refusing to go to her on their wedding night. She could not, would not, believe he could do such a thing to her. Cocooned in luxury, raw with hope, she passed the time inventing stories to explain his absence, desperate to keep the awful truth at bay. She waited until all but one lamp had extinguished, before she accepted her fate, and yielded to the agony of her heart.

As the first tendrils of sunlight filtered between the hangings of her bed, Istara closed her eyes, gritty from crying, and succumbed to exhaustion. When she woke, she found Tanu-Hepa seated on the divan. She came to Istara, sorrowful, and took her hand, saying Urhi-Teshub had left Tarhuntassa at dawn to return to the north, in direct disobedience to the king.

Istara watched the queen's fingers stroking the back of her hand, feeling nothing. Urhi-Teshub's rejection was complete. By now, everyone would know, down to the lowliest stable hand, the crown prince did not want his wife, their next queen.

Clawing at the shift he had given her she tore it away and cast it onto the floor, ruined. Tanu-Hepa gathered her into her arms, and rocked her, stroking her hair, whispering soft reassurances. Numb, Istara stared at the ashes in the brazier. She could deny the truth no longer. Ever since the day she was taken, she had never been anything more than a token, her sole purpose to be used by kings to consolidate their power. Her meaningless, empty life stretched out before her. She closed her eyes, and gave in to her despair.