Istara opened her eyes. Shadows from the flame of a single lamp danced across the vestibule's ceiling. Hampered by her bound wrists, she leaned on her elbows and pushed herself up, her fingers brushing against the place where she had vomited. She recoiled, shuddering and looked down. The ruined rug had been taken away. A new one lay in its place, just as beautiful. She stared at it, incredulous, marveling at the priorities of the Egyptians.

Leaning against the support pole, she winced as a sharp pain lanced through her left calf. Lifting aside her tattered gown, she ran her fingers over the clean linen bindings, feeling the bumps of the sutures where they held the flesh of her calf together in neat row, catching the sweet scent of honey. She lifted an eyebrow, impressed, they had granted her an expensive antiseptic.

A sudden clamor startled her. Horses bellowed and men shrieked as battle commands rang out, sharp, insistent. The wind shifted and the noise faded. She shivered, it had been so clear, as though they were right outside.

An elegant man, dressed in gleaming leather armor ducked into the vestibule. Two khopeshes hung from his belt, one at each hip. She recognized him, the one who had sent for a surgeon.

"Princess Istara," he said, inclining his head, "you return to us, and just in time. The surgeon informed me you were given a strong dose of willow bark tincture to halt the blood fever. Are you feeling stronger now?"

"I am," she answered, quiet. She gestured at the linens wrapped tight around her leg. "Thank you, Lord--?"

"Ah yes, forgive me," he replied, pressing his palm against his chest. "Paser, Vizier of Upper Egypt, son of Neb-netjeru, Prophet of Amun. I was with the pharaoh when he saw you. It was I who relayed his command for you to be brought to him. It seems you have told the truth."

He took hold of her bound wrists, bringing her to her feet with ease. She looked at him, impressed. He was strong, his fine looks deceived.

"I would have preferred to meet you under less difficult circumstances," he said, stepping back.

"And I, you," Istara answered. "Your kindness will not be forgotten."

The wind shifted once more, carrying the cries of the dying; sharp, jagged, bloody. Paser's gaze slid to the exit, distracted. "The pharaoh has commanded me to move you within for the duration of the battle--" he stopped to listen to a round of shouted orders cutting through the noise, his expression tightening, "--to be kept under the protection of the queen's guards."

Without waiting for her reply, he pushed aside the linen hanging separating the vestibule from the queen's private residence. Istara followed him, one foot bare, and limping. She came to a stop, stunned. The luxury of the queen's tent far surpassed the pharaoh's. Thick, colorful rugs covered the ground in soft layers. A variety of gold-inlaid stools and several piles of tasseled cushions surrounded two bronze braziers, the heated air above the glowing fuel shimmered, distorting the gleaming tables lining the tent's walls, their surfaces arrayed with golden pitchers, cups, and platters. Hung between the tent's support poles, oil lamps burned a smokeless oil, filling the space with clear, warm light. At the rear, an embroidered linen hanging hung before a real bed, the wooden frame paneled in gold, its thick mattress heaped with cushions and woven blankets dyed a deep indigo. Beside the bed, a table held a bronze mirror in a stand, surrounded by an assortment of alabaster bottles and jars, a gilded brush and comb, hair ornaments and earrings. Gowns and jewelry spilled out of baskets on the rugs. From another smaller brazier by the bed, languorous trails of sandalwood incense curled away, lazy and sinuous.

Seated upon a gold and lapis lazuli inlaid chair, Egypt's first queen eyed Istara, impassive. She sipped from a golden cup, her gaze drifting over Istara, listening, disdainful, as Paser delivered Ramesses's command.

She set aside her cup and folded her hands together on her lap, the jewels on her rings glinting in the lamplight. A long, taut silence stretched, punctuated by the distant cries of the dying. "We are the pharaoh's humble servant," she finally said, cutting a look at Istara, cold. "It is our duty and honor to obey. Princess Istara may wait by the entrance. The two who guard without shall be her protectors. The rest are dedicated to us, their queen. Should we die because we lack two of our guardsmen, this shall not be Princess Istara's responsibility but our own lord's who has decided this shall be so."

Nefertari's eyes left Istara's. None of the rigors of traveling seemed to have taken their toll on the queen's smooth, flawless complexion. Her long hair had been woven into hundreds of small braids, the ends of which were held together with golden cylinders. She wore a close fitting golden crown fashioned in the form of a vulture, its wings enveloping either side of her head, protective. Her eyes and brows had been elegantly kohled in black, and her eyelids, accented by long, black lashes, glimmered with a dusting of golden powder.

Paser leaned over. "You are not Hatti's queen yet," he said, low. "Please lower your eyes in Her Majesty's presence."

Istara looked down, though the intimidating image of Egypt's first queen remained. A gesture from Paser and a guard brought a stool. Grateful, Istara sank onto it.

"Return to your men," Nefertari said, rising to her feet with a crisp rustle of expensive material. "And may Re go with you."

"Your Majesty," Paser bowed, his fist against his chest, "my life is yours."

He left. The guards moved, quiet and efficient, rearranging the tent for the queen's defense. Istara huddled on her stool, her leg aching, shivering when the fires in the braziers were extinguished and cold air seeped inward. No one looked at her or addressed her. It was as though she did not even exist.

The wind rose, carrying the escalating sounds of battle, the agonized screams of butchered men and horses rent the air, tearing into her. Trembling, Istara closed her eyes, and prayed.

❃

Thick twilight shrouded the plateau as the last arrow left the Egyptian lines. At a gesture from Ramesses, Ahmen slid down onto the slope and crouched behind a fallen chariot. Around him, nothing moved. Further down, a horse cried out in pain. Wood snapped. Someone sobbed.

Beyond the carnage, repeated crumps, as chariots collided. Whips cracked, horses screamed, men shouted. Cautious, Ahmen looked around. Spread across the entire width of the slope from the edge of the plateau until nearly one-third of the way down--the furthest reach of their arrows--lay the bodies of hundreds of Hittites. He divided the area into equal sections and counted the empty chariots within one section. Calculating the totals, he clambered back up over the edge, joining the group of commanders surrounding the pharaoh. Ramesses nodded at Ahmen.

"Your report," he said, terse.

"My lord," Ahmen answered, "you have sent almost two and half thousand Hittites to the gods."

"Which leaves more than seven thousand alive," Ramesses muttered, bleak, looking across the darkening plateau, "and without our archers, Amun numbers only four thousand." His gaze moved to the darkness beyond the slope of the plateau. "Sethi, I do not accept you have fallen. It is time. Amun needs you now." He waited, scanning the horizon, as though expecting Pre to arrive. Ramesses looked back at his men. "Re will not abandon us. Prepare for hand to hand combat. They will soon reorganize to meet us on foot. Once again, they will find us ready and waiting. Time is short, send out the orders. We will prevail."

His fist against his chest, Ahmen turned away, a wave of fatigue washing over him. What if Pre was gone, and they were alone? Ahmen hoped he would die with honor, defending Egypt to his last breath.

A thought crossed his mind. Perhaps Meresamun was already there, in the afterlife, waiting for him. He closed his eyes, willing it not to be so, willing her to be alive, and safe. He would fight to his last breath so he could continue to search for her, yet he suspected as the shadows closed around him, he would never see the light of another day again.

❃

Urhi-Teshub gritted his teeth. By the time he would arrive, there would be nothing left to accomplish. Nothing but the spoils of war, and there was no honor in the raping of women or the looting of baubles.

He cursed, frustrated once more by the maneuverings of his father. Behind him, the three lines of chariots allocated to him carrying a paltry twelve hundred men, straggled to keep up. The river had risen during the fording of the earlier lines and by the time his men were able to cross, the fast-moving, high waters had made their crossing exhausting and time-consuming. It was impossible to ignore the plight of the horses, stumbling as they slogged through the muddy fields. He bit back another curse.

In the distance, the roar of thousands rose and fell on the wind. He searched the horizon, frustrated by the darkling light until he glimpsed the crush of chariots milling at the base of the slope. He scoffed, bitter. His uncle and cousin had died for nothing. The pharaoh had not been fooled after all.

He shouted new orders to his driver. His horses veered away from the slope and cut across the plain, past Kadesh's walls. Behind, his men peeled away from their intended path, thundering through the mud behind him.

He grasped the shoulder of his driver and pointed at the exposed limestone of the goat track, faint in the gloaming light. He would show Hatti who should be king. Unlike his father, he knew how to defeat the pharaoh. He would capture his queen.

❃

The noise of hundreds of chariots thundering across the plateau from the north filled Paser's ears. He cursed. The Hittites were coming at Egypt from both sides now. Faint cries of terror filled the air as the Hittite chariots slammed into the northern edge of the camp. Shouting orders down the line, Paser pulled his men inwards, tightening the circle, abandoning the outer reaches of the camp to the Hittites.

He listened. Ten, no, twelve war chariots crashed inwards, their destruction unrelenting as they pushed their way toward the center of the camp. Further out, screams of terror and pleas for mercy pierced the darkness. The raping of the camp women had already begun, he cursed the foulest oath he knew. He needed more men, five hundred to protect a camp made for six thousand was madness. Forcing himself to ignore the women's cries, he gave the order to fall back.

❃

A woman's scream, sudden, desperate, raked Istara's ears. Another followed soon after, then another, and another, until dozens of cries rent the air. She glanced at Nefertari. The queen exuded calm. She gazed, impassive, into the middle distance, her fingers resting, light against the gemmed hilt of a sheathed dagger.

Their eyes met. Her heart pounding, Istara dropped her gaze back to her bound wrists. It could not be. She must have imagined what she had seen. She looked up again. The queen, rigid with hostility, still stared at Istara, her fingers tightening, slow, around the dagger's hilt, her look menacing, meaningful, and riven with hate.