Summer. Reign of Ramesses II, Year 5 / Reign of Muwatallis, Year 21

From the distance, a blast of horns sounded, breaching the quiet calm of Istara's afternoon meal. She lowered her eating knife, listening. The horns sounded again. Her skin prickled. A long buried memory returned, vivid. She knew that sound. Thirteen years ago, at seven, she had heard it the first time-when the armies of Egypt arrived and her people starved.

She pulled the terrace's wooden doors open. Damp afternoon air rushed in. She shivered. Reaching for a cloak, she wrapped it around herself as another sounding of horns came, louder, closer.

The sky hung low and oppressive, its dark clouds reflecting in the puddles on her apartment's terrace. Summer had not come, nor even spring. Instead, an unnatural cold stalked the land as incessant, heavy rains fell, cold, sharp, relentless.

She had heard the whispers. Kadesh was being punished for Rhoha's return as high priestess. Two months ago, her aunt had arrived at the palace with Urhi-Teshub's infant son Hartapu in her arms. Surrounded by Muwatallis's soldiers, she flaunted the King of Hatti's protection, reveling in Amunira's powerlessness over her. But the months she had lived in Tarhuntassa had changed her; a strange, sudden illness had left her beautiful hands misshapen, her fingers twisted. Some murmured her disfigurement was her punishment for what she had done to Istara through Urhi-Teshub.

Despite her illness and her pregnancy, Rhoha had lost no time in Tarhuntassa. She trained in the dark arts, devoting her time to seeking augurs and omens, becoming so adept at seeing the future, she gained the favor and trust of the King of Hatti. Now, with his protection, none dared challenge her, not even Urhi-Teshub, though it was said he had refused to see his son.

Istara closed her eyes, forcing away the nascent thoughts of her husband. After he left for Babylon, it had taken half a year for her body to heal. Two months more had brought her strength back, though the ache in her heart remained. A month after Rhoha returned, Anash lay down in her basket and went to sleep. She never woke up. She was old at eleven, and had had a good life, but Istara was inconsolable.

With Anash's companionship gone, Istara felt alone, vulnerable. And as Rhoha paraded her son through the corridors, behaving as though she was Urhi-Teshub's wife already, Istara accepted with the loss of Anash her last remaining connection to her husband was gone. He had sent her a letter the day after Anash died, from his camp across the river. She burned it, unopened, like all the others. His letters had regained her trust once. Never again.

A heavy pounding erupted at her door. She jumped, startled. Hasurna, Kadesh's commander entered in full battle armor. He bowed.

"My lady, the king wishes to see you before he departs."

❃

Huddled against the wall of the roof garden, Istara watched, wary, as Rhoha circled the king, sprinkling chicken blood onto his weapons and armor, murmuring low incantations. A biting wind gusted down from the mountains, making the tassels of Rhoha's tunic flap into the bowl, splattering blood over her robe. With a deft movement, she warded the evil.

Istara turned away, shivering within the folds of her cloak. At the far side of the Plain of Kadesh, the pharaoh's golden chariot began its ascent up the southern slope of the wide plateau at the base of the mountain range. The Egyptian column, five chariots abreast, stretched away behind him for almost an iter to where it emerged from Labwi Wood. As Ramesses's white horses--their legs stained black with mud--made the long climb up the slope, the line lengthened. Soldiers continued to emerge from the forest's edge, endless. Istara watched, fascinated, morbid, knowing what was to come.

Her father joined her, his gaze moving past the Egyptians to the distant mountains, where, beyond their girth, the kingdoms of Amurru lay. A hiss of metal as he sheathed his weapons, followed by the quiet creak of leather as he leaned his weight against their hilts. She looked up at him. He nodded toward the plateau.

"This clash has been going on for almost two hundred years. But tonight, unless the gods intervene, Egypt will fall to Hatti once and for all. Muwatallis has laid his plans well, down to the last detail." His gaze slid to Rhoha, his expression cold. "To think he can control me so much, I cannot even punish my own sister for what she did to you. Instead, she watches me, sending messages to him, while parading that bastard son of hers though my palace as though you do not even exist. By Baalat's crown, it is a nightmare."

He fell silent, brooding, lost to his thoughts.

Istara touched his hand. "I will go to Baalat," she whispered, glancing at the lengthening column of Egyptians, "and beg her to intervene before it is too late. While there is still time, justice may yet be done."

Her father scoffed, bitter. "Baalat abandoned us when my sister returned and dirtied the temple with her presence. No. It is far too late now to hope for divine aid." He turned to Istara, eyeing her. "If I fall, you will leave at once for Babylon. King Kadashman-Turgu has agreed to take you into his court until it is safe for you to return. Commander Hasurna has his orders, he will escort you there."

Istara pulled her cloak tighter against her torso, defensive. "Urhi-Teshub arranged this, didn't he?"

Her father looked at her, unapologetic. "He is only trying to protect you." He glanced at his sister again, his lips twisting with loathing. "You must know Rhoha intends Hatti's throne for herself. Had your guards not arrived in time that night--"

Bitterness filled Istara. "Rhoha has Hartapu, why can she not be satisfied with being the mother to Urhi-Teshub's first-born son?"

"I know her heart," her father answered, resigned. "She will not stop until she has what she believes is meant to be hers." Horns blared within the city. He glanced up. "I must depart. Will you do as I command should I fall today?"

Istara looked away, frustrated, angry, resentful. Again, she would be moved, a piece on a game board. Babylon was far. She might never come back. The horns blew again.

"I must leave. Give me your word."

She sighed, quiet, resigned. "You have my word."

He nodded, satisfied.

From within the folds of her cloak, she reached out to him. "I will pray for Baalat to protect you. Return safe, Father."

He took her hand and pressed it against his chest, his hardened leather armor unforgiving against her palm. "In these darks days I fear the gods have abandoned us. But my heart thanks you for your prayers." He let go of her hand. "Go. Take shelter in Baalat's sanctuary. May the goddess protect you just as she did when you were a child."

A sudden apprehension came over Istara. She took a step toward him. "Father--?"

He tilted his head toward the temple grounds, his eyes dark. "Go, and do not look back."

She bowed her head, her apprehension increasing. She turned, catching his gaze flickering over her, pride hardening his features. She left, her heart aching, and didn't look back.

❃

Alone within Baalat's sanctuary, Istara lit a stick of opium and inhaled its sweet, resinous, earthy scent. Against the cold flagstones, she prostrated herself, praying for the protection of her father and her people, her head becoming light as the incense permeated the enclosed space.

"Child, the battle will soon begin. Why are you still here?"

Istara came to her knees, peering at Baalat's golden face, astonished. She leaned closer, curious. A soft chuckle came from the shadows. Rhoha emerged, her gemmed necklaces glimmering in the flickering lamplight as she sank down and prostrated herself before Baalat.

"She doesn't talk," she said, nodding at the statue, "and she never will. She is just a thing made by men, used to control other men. The gods do talk, you just have to know how to listen." She pressed her palm to her chest, her beauty marred by her gnarled and twisted fingers. "When they do, they speak to us here, in our hearts."

Outraged, Istara stood up, trembling with anger. "Do not speak to me of the gods," she seethed. "You are an abomination with your worship of the black arts. How many innocent creatures have you caused to suffer, mutilating them to seek your filthy augurs?"

"What little things you care about," Rhoha smiled, unconcerned. "Those small lives are worthless, but the augurs they give are worth a fortune. Muwatallis has paid me well for the things he has learned. And, he has promised me more. Much, much more."

"Even if you send me to the gods," Istara spat, "Urhi-Teshub will never have you. He will never give you what you want. Ever."

Rhoha plucked at her gown, indifferent. "Except I have his son, and you have--" she glanced up, "--nothing."

Seething, Istara took a step closer to her aunt. "How arrogant you are. You do not even try to hide your ambitions. I loved him, but to you he is nothing more than a footstool to stand upon while you gorge yourself on your insatiable hunger for power."

"Perhaps," Rhoha admitted. "But for women of royal blood, love is a lie. There is only power. Urhi-Teshub will be mine, you will see. The augurs have shown it, over and over."

"And yet, I am still his wife."

Rhoha glanced up, sharp. "Who refuses all contact with him."

Istara crossed her arms. "Your brother and your king are about to face battle. Should you not be preparing the sacrifices instead of tormenting me?"

"I do not mean to torment you," her aunt murmured as she came to her feet, brushing at her gown. "I am just impatient when I know what is to come and must wait while others fumble their way to their destinies. I came to tell you of a prophecy, and of your part in it."

Istara lifted her brow, dubious.

"The augurs have shown what is to come if Muwatallis is not stopped today," Rhoha continued, meeting Istara's eyes, cautious. "Egypt will fall, never to rise again."

"How pleased you must be," Istara said, wishing her aunt would hurry up and leave. "Since it is the outcome Muwatallis wants."

"But he has not seen what I have," Rhoha persisted, a faint shudder whispering through her. "I have seen our future if he is successful, and it is dark indeed."

Istara uncrossed her arms. "Go on."

"I know well the people of Kadesh blame me for the cold and the unending rain," Rhoha muttered. "But I have learned it is the same all across Hatti, even to the gates of Ashur. The cold, the rain, and the failed harvests are just the beginning. There is much worse to come."

"There is nothing worse than famine," Istara retorted, crossing her arms again.

"There is. Total collapse across the empires," Rhoha said, warding herself against evil, uneasy. "Only the lands of Egypt will remain unscathed. But if Ramesses does not survive today's ambush, the empire of Egypt is destined to fall with him."

"And?" Istara prodded when her aunt fell silent.

"And the entire world will fall to anarchy and darkness."

Istara stared at her aunt, disbelieving.

"I have seen things I long to forget," Rhoha continued, apprehension shadowing her features. "For the next one hundred years plagues, famines, fires and powerful earthquakes will tear the kingdoms apart. The glittering island capital of Ahhiyawa will sink into the sea and disappear forever. For tens of years, there will be nothing but barbarism. I saw mothers kill and eat their own children, they--"

Istara held up her hand. "It is an annihilation, none could survive. But why are you telling me, what part could I possibly play in all of this?"

Rhoha licked her lips, nervous. "You must go to Ramesses and warn him of the ambush."

Istara stared at her aunt. "Are you insane? I will not do it. It would be my death sentence. You go and tell him."

Rhoha winced. "I cannot. After I witnessed the augurs, the goddess came to me in a vision, saying the messenger must be you. Ramesses will heed no other."

"I do not believe you," Istara said, cold. "Baalat would never speak to you. If you value your augurs so much, prove it, and take the risk upon yourself."

"I know you have no reason to trust me after all I have done to you," Rhoha admitted, glancing at the goddess's statue as though seeking her aid. "But there is more. Baalat granted me a vision, one she said I must tell you if you resisted. She said you would understand."

Istara scoffed and looked away.

"I saw you in a tent," Rhoha continued, dogged, "tending an Egyptian soldier, washing and sewing up his many injuries, aided by two more Egyptians. Though you were wearing gold and jewels on your arms, you were cold and trembled with hunger. Ah, yes, there was one more thing--your left calf was bandaged, a deep injury, sewn back together."

Istara's flesh tingled. She had told no one of her vision. She looked down at her fingers curling into fists. Her aunt waited, silent and uncertain. Istara looked at Baalat's image. Keeping her tone non-committal, she asked, "And does the goddess say how I should do such a thing?"

"Only this--you must go to Ramesses alone."

Istara reached for another stick of opium. "I will ask the goddess to confirm your words."

"There is no time," Rhoha said, harsh, slapping Istara's hand away from the offering table. "Do you recognize the vision, or not?"

Istara turned away, refusing to answer.

"Think of your people," Rhoha pressed, urgent. "If you do this, Kadesh will be the first to benefit from Egypt's protection--it is your duty."

Istara glared at her aunt, resentful. "I know well what my duties are, I need no lectures from one such as you."

Rhoha turned away. "I have done what I came here to do. I must go and attend the sacrifices." She paused at door. "You have one chance to change the course of history, to save the lives of thousands. I envy you. The power you hold in your hands today is enormous."

As the door closed behind Rhoha, Istara sank to her knees. Why would the goddess send her into the heart of the enemy's camp on the brink of battle? Why her and not someone else? A wave of nausea washed over her. How could she manage such a feat, a woman, alone? Istara rose, unsteady, the burden of responsibility bearing down on her, crushing, oppressive.

Outside the thick doors of the sanctuary, the horns of the Egyptians echoed once more, repeating across the plain. She thought once more of the vision, and of Rhoha's words. She had to decide, and quickly. She turned to the doors, dithering, uncertain. She would be a traitor, could never come back, would never see her father again--but what greater purpose could there be than to save her people? She stopped. Ramesses would kill her. She reached for the handle of the door. So be it. Her whole life had been nothing but loss. Kuma. Her mother. Her home. Tanu-Hepa. Anash. Her throne. Urhi-Teshub. She had always been a token on a game board, moved by men. No more. The goddess was granting Istara the chance to choose her own path, a chance of freedom. She pushed on the door, suppressing a wave of terror, and made her decision. Today she would change the destinies of kings and empires, and die a free woman.