A dozen bronze-tipped arrows in one hand and his bow in the other, Ahmen eyed the four empty chariots lined up before him. Despite the rugged terrain, he decided on the lightest one, the fastest. He pulled it out and stowed his bow and arrows in the box's containers. A groom arrived with horses, their legs still muddy from the day's march. Ahmen helped fasten their harnesses to the chariot's yoke, his fingers moving swift on the buckles. He stepped into the box and hastened to wrap the reins around his forearms. He looked around, the others were almost ready. He ordered them to fall in.

Outside of the relative calm of the nobles' enclosure, the Division of Amun was in chaos. Ahmen pushed his way through the encampment, slowed down by obstacles at every turn. Navigating around an ox-drawn wagon, he just missed two men carrying goats to the royal enclave for the sacrifices. He bit back a curse, catching the frustrated oaths of his men as they avoided their own pitfalls.

Picking his way through the camp, his horses sped up and slowed down until the tents finally began to thin out. He gave the horses their heads, letting them plunge past the last of the tents out onto the barren, windswept plateau. At its edge, he pulled up, searching for a way down. The slope was steep and strewn with rocks, terrain impossible for their chariots to traverse. Cantering ahead, he spotted a goat path. It would have to do.

Impatient, he waited at the plateau's base until the rest of the chariots arrived. Calling out the order to take the arrow formation, he surged ahead, plowing through the deep furrows of the muddy plain. As he drew near the forest, he narrowed his eyes, searching for his target. There. Between the trees. She stumbled. He veered toward her, wary, searching the sparse woods for others. Finding no one, he pressed on.

❃

Istara stumbled to a halt, panting. Black spots cascaded across her vision. Groping her way to a tree, she leaned against it, grateful for its solidity.

The pounding in her head became the thundering of hooves. She leaned out, clinging to the tree. Five Egyptian chariots, bristling with weapons, galloped toward her. Terrified, she pushed back from the tree and considered fleeing into the depths of the forest, where the chariots could not follow. An archer pulled an arrow from his quiver and fixed it to his bow. He drew its bowstring taut and aimed at her, his eyes cold. Istara froze.

One of the men, the one in front and riding alone, bellowed a command. On either side of him, the chariots came to a rough halt, black mud spattering around them. Another sharp word from their leader, and the man aiming at her lowered his bow. She watched the Egyptians, wary; their hostility promising death for the least provocation. She held herself still, and waited.

The one who had given the order to halt called out to her, his use of Akkadian basic, though sufficient.

"Come out. Hands before you."

She stretched her arms out, her hands turned palm-upward and looked up at him, uncertain. He nodded, impatient.

"Yes. Come."

Her arms extended, she struggled to clamber over a fallen tree, tearing her tunic on one of its branches. She left the woods, her sandals sinking into the cold mud of the plain.

The leader eased his horses ahead, his kohl-darkened eyes riveted on her as he drove his horses in a wide circle around her, inspecting her from all sides. She glanced at the others. Only one kept his attention fixed on her, the rest scanned the woods, alert, defensive.

One of the horses snapped at her. She cried out, shielding her face. The man said something in a low voice. The horses came to a standstill. He continued to watch her. The silence stretched. Hesitant, she lowered her arms. He narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

"Who you be?"

Cautious, she removed her veil. He looked at her, impassive. She sought courage.

"Lord of Egypt," she said, suddenly grateful for her years of training in international diplomacy, "I am able to speak your language. I am Istara, Princess of Kadesh, daughter of King Amunira. I carry an urgent message from the goddess Baalat for the Pharaoh of Egypt."

His brow quirked, though his mien remained implacable. After a heartbeat, he leaned his weight against the reins, backing his horses until they were at a safer distance from her.

"How is it you are able to speak Egyptian?" he asked, wary.

"I am the wife of Urhi-Teshub, the firstborn son of King Muwatallis," Istara answered, trying to keep the tremor of fear from her voice as his expression shifted from suspicion to utter disbelief. "I have learned several languages in preparation for my crowning as queen of Hatti."

His gaze drifted over her, impassive, lingering on the details of her gown, the opulence of her gold and gems. "Lady of Kadesh," he said, his mouth twisting with distaste, "your claim is absurd and offensive." When she said nothing, he leaned forward and said, "Unless you carry proof, you will cease with your lies and tell us who you truly are."

For a heartbeat, Istara found herself at a loss. She had believed her royal garments, jewels and her ability to speak Egyptian would be enough. Suddenly remembering her seal, she reached into the folds of her gown. The creak of arrows being drawn filled the air. She looked up at the men.

"Peace. I only wish to show your commander the evidence he seeks."

She unfolded her fingers palm upward and held her hand up to him, showing him the seal of the Princess of Kadesh, Hatti's queen-in-waiting. The man's eyes darkened, uncertain. She stepped toward him.

"My lord," she said, quiet, "I am the only child of Queen Azfara and King Amunira of Kadesh, once a hostage of King Muwatallis, later bound to his son to retain Hatti's power over Kadesh. Before my father left today to join the Hittite king, he bade me take shelter in the Temple of Baalat. While in her sanctuary, I received the great lady's command, demanding of me a task so terrible I confess I resisted. Yet though I have faced significant peril doing so, and expect my life will be forfeit before the day is over, I have obeyed. I swear this is the truth on my very soul. I beg you, take me to the pharaoh, and allow me to deliver my message."

❃

In the wake of her words, an ominous silence fell. The horses fretted, uneasy. Ahmen looked at the others and tilted his head toward the woods. A terse shaking of heads. She was alone.

He caught the woman who called herself Istara gazing at the agate seal. She looked up. For the barest heartbeat he glimpsed her urgency and fear. Though she challenged everything he knew to be the correct order of things, he sensed she might be telling the truth.

"You must give up your weapons," he said, tight. "They will be held by Egypt until the pharaoh decides what will be done with you."

"I have no weapons."

"We must search you, regardless."

He waited while one of the men searched through her gown. She had told the truth. He nodded at the space in front of him.

"You will ride with me."

Skirting the reach of his horses' hooves, she clambered into the box beside him, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the edge.

"Lady of Kadesh, have you never learned to ride in a chariot?"

She shook her head. "Not one as small as this."

"Then," he said, "if you don't wish to fall out, you must stand in front of me between my arms and lean back against me as I drive. You may hold on to the box as well if it pleases you."

She eyed his bare chest, uneasy. "There must be another way."

He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. The pharaoh was waiting.

"Could I not stand in front of you and hold on to the reins as well, without touching you?" she asked.

He lifted an eyebrow. "You may try."

Before they were halfway across the plain, her hands began to slide along the reins. He felt a twinge of admiration for her. Her fingers would be on fire. She let go of the reins and lunged forward, catching hold of the front of the box. Dragging her arms over its edge, she anchored herself against it, hunched down into an awkward crouch.

They had almost reached the crest of the plateau when a hare burst out from under a bush and darted under the horses. The horses shied, bolting across the slope. The box climbed up onto a boulder, tilting to one side, careering to a steep angle. A sickening crack, followed by a snap, as one, then two of the opposite wheel's spokes succumbed to the box's weight. Splintering sounds rose up from beneath the box.

Ahmen threw his weight sideways, bringing the wheel back onto the ground, sending Istara pitching against him, scrabbling against the interior of the box, searching for a handhold. Within a heartbeat she would be out of the box, tumbling down the rocky slope. He sawed on the reins, his arms aching, fighting to stop the panicking horses.

Her hands slammed against his legs, her fingernails sliding over his flesh, tearing into him, seeking purchase. Gritting his teeth, he held firm, waiting, hoping. Her weight hit him. He swayed backward, grunting.

His knees and shoulders aching, he lay back on the reins. The horses scrambled onto the plateau and stumbled to a halt. Panting, he looked down at Istara, clinging to his calves, shaking. She had lost a sandal, and her foot bled. Across her calves and shins, a score of dirty gashes bled out, one of them deep enough to need sutures.

"You are injured."

She rose up, pale and trembling, taking her place in front of him once more. "It is of no matter now."

His admiration was genuine. She was courageous, this woman of Kadesh. He called to the subdued horses, easing them into a limping trot. His men caught up to him, concern on their faces. He sent them ahead, reassuring them the chariot would last long enough to get them to the royal enclosure.

"Lord of Egypt, perhaps you will allow me a name to remember you by?"

He noted the faintness of her voice. She was in great pain, he was certain.

"I am Ahmen-om-onet," he answered, "son of Wennefer, First Prophet of Amun. I am Pharaoh's Royal Charioteer and Chief of the Archers."

When she said nothing, he continued, "Even if you are who you claim to be, your kingdom betrayed Egypt's treaty and allied itself with Hatti, which makes you the pharaoh's enemy twice over. You had better pray whatever you have to tell him is of the greatest value for if it is not, your life will be taken from you--even if you are the future queen of Hatti."

They passed over a dip in the ground. She tightened her grip on the box. "What I have to say carries far more weight than even what my life would be worth as queen of Hatti."

He waited.

"I am prepared to go to the gods," she continued, low. "I only hope I am not too late." She paused to shift her weight, then said, "The men you found this morning were no deserters of the army but men of noble blood, allied to my husband in his fight for the throne. They were sent with false information to mislead the pharaoh. My lord, upon my life, the King of Hatti is riding with a host of thousands to your camp even as we speak."

Ahmen shook his head, pitying her. It was almost evening. Her information had to be wrong. No battle would ever commence at this hour, it was against the rules of engagement. But how could she know such things, a woman?

"Those men were tortured by amputation," he said, terse. "They died from their injuries. They would not have told us lies when they could have saved themselves with information like this."

She looked back at him, bleak. His instincts prickled. He slowed the horses. "Are you suggesting they lied even to their deaths?"

"Over a year ago," she answered, low, "their wives and children were made Muwatallis's hostages. Giving up their lives today was the only guarantee those men had to keep those they loved alive." A tear slipped down her face. "They were good men. They died with great honor."

Ahmen stared at her, astonished. Muwatallis had been planning this for a year? To hold women and children hostage for so long, just to ensure Ramesses was misinformed--her earlier words returned, seizing his full attention. Before my father left today to join the Hittite king, he bade me take shelter in the Temple of Baalat.

Realization gripped him, cold. Muwatallis had never intended to meet them in an honorable battle. It was always to be an ambush. His flesh crawling, Ahmen bellowed at the horses and shook the reins. Startled, the horses burst into a gallop.

As they raced across the plateau, Ahmen caught fragments of the woman's prayers drifting back to him, recited in her native tongue. Ever since he had lost Meresamun, he had never prayed again. He couldn't begin now. He hoped this woman's prayers were powerful enough to grant protection not just to her, but to Egypt--in this, her darkest hour.