Paser rubbed the back of his fist across his mouth as he looked over the sleeping pair, wrapped in each other's arms. Ramesses could not hear of this, no one could. He turned to Sethi's men waiting behind him, their eyes fixed on their feet.

"You were right to come to me. This, whatever this might be, never happened. Leave me."

He waited until they were gone, and their footsteps had retreated to a safe distance before prodding Sethi with his foot. Sethi's eyes snapped opened.

"Lord Paser," he rumbled.

"Your men are good men," Paser said. "When they found you thus, they sent for me. No one else knows."

Sethi hauled himself up and leaned on his elbow, wincing. He rubbed his jaw and scalp, the rasp of his stubble loud in the confined space. He looked rough, tired.

"What do you mean . . . found me thus?"

A soft moan interrupted them. Istara rolled onto her back. Her face turned upward, her lips parted, soft, and inviting. Paser waited, watching Sethi as he gazed at her, his expression shifting in subtle turns from disbelief to deepening interest.

Paser cleared his throat. "Do you know who this woman is?"

Without taking his eyes from her, Sethi answered, low. "I do not."

Paser leaned back, his immediate fears alleviated, though new ones were springing up to replace them as Sethi lowered his hand to brush a stray tendril of hair from her cheek, the act tender, private, reverent. Alarmed, Paser cleared his throat, louder this time. Sethi met Paser's warning look.

"She tended your injuries," Paser said, sharp. "The pharaoh has had me searching for you--for her--all night."

Sethi's eyes darkened, unreadable. He gazed at her once more, his fingers still on her cheek. "I would know who she is."

"You would do better to concern yourself with preparing Pre for its departure," Paser snapped, reaching down to wake her.

Sethi caught Paser's wrist, stopping him, jerking him back. "Tell me."

Paser stared at Sethi's hand, stunned by the commander's breach of protocol. The Vizier of Upper Egypt was untouchable, by law. A heartbeat passed, tense. Sethi let go, murmuring an apology, saying he was not himself. Terse, Paser nodded. Sethi looked back at Istara, uncertainty flickering over his harsh features.

Unwilling to satisfy his curiosity after his gross behavior, Paser chose to give the commander an oblique answer. "She is the key to our survival, and our safe return home."

Sethi's brow furrowed. "She is a hostage?"

"Yes, and no," Paser replied as he pulled the blanket back. Their legs were tangled together, their hips touched, intimate. Jealousy, hot, sudden, and bitter welled up. Sethi had never loved any woman, he only took courtesans, and for years Paser had felt a quiet solidarity with Sethi, knowing he was not alone in his loveless existence. But this was different. He could sense Sethi's nascent territoriality, the change in him, leaving Paser alone to his fate. He turned on him, resentful.

"Do not make this mistake again," he said, sour. "Find another woman to satisfy your needs. This one cannot be touched. She is a gift from Re and belongs to Egypt--to Ramesses himself."

His expression taut, Sethi shifted on the pallet, pulling his legs free. Impatient, Paser pushed between them and shook Istara's shoulders, willing her to wake. Claustrophobia closed in on him. He needed to leave, to get away.

Istara stirred, sleepy. He hoisted her up and glanced down at Sethi, alone once more, as he always was, as he always would be. Satisfaction poured through him.

"This evening, you are to dine with us in the command tent. The pharaoh wishes to see you before he departs."

His gaze still on Istara, Sethi remained silent. Paser shifted her weight on his shoulder. "Then, until tonight, Commander."

❃

Sethi watched them go, trying to remember what had passed since he left the pharaoh's tent, but there was nothing, only darkness. Anything could have happened. He looked down at the thin linen cloth covering his groin. He had done it before, taken courtesans while full of drink, without remembering; though they told him of it after, as they held their pretty hands out, waiting for his gold. He pulled his member free and examined it. It was smooth and dry. He tucked it back within its bindings, relieved. He had not touched her.

His hand brushed against something within the folds of the blanket. He pulled it out. A silver armband worked in great detail, the craftsmanship worthy of Nefertari herself. He stared at it, as a faint memory flickered, fading away before it coalesced. The woman had told him her name. He clutched the armband, as though to pull the memory from it. Nothing.

He cursed, frustrated. He had been dreaming of a woman he had believed he would never find, a woman he had begun to think was not even real. Yet here, in the midst of Egypt's ruins, he had wakened to find her beside him, as though he had brought her to life, just by wishing for it. He scoffed, his mouth twisting downward, sneering at his fanciful thoughts. She was real enough if she belonged to Ramesses, and Sethi knew he was no conjurer.

But--he turned the armband over in his hand, examining it, as though hoping for a clue--why would he dream of a woman, and search for her for all these years, only for her to be snatched away by the only man who could gainsay him? He slammed his fist against the pallet. How could he go to court and see her there, as out of reach as Nefertari? He caught himself. He could not think of this now. There was too much work to be done. He would think about it, later.

He rose, feeling the tugs of dozens of sutures. He looked himself over, assessing his injuries, impressed. The Hittites had done a fair work on him, but he had been well tended. He would heal. Ignoring the dull aches spreading across his body, he picked up a fresh kilt and wrapped it around his hips. Collecting his cleaned weapons, he inspected them before sliding them into their scabbards. As they settled into place, he grunted, appreciating their reassuring heft against his hips.

Pushing out into the cold, bright morning, he savored the welcome sight of Re-Atum's golden barque ascending the eastern horizon into a clear, blue sky. The smell of baking bread assailed his nostrils, and his stomach cried out, reminding him it had been two days since he had last eaten. He turned toward the cook tents, his thoughts prioritizing around food, his men, and the preparations for Pre's return.

He patted his pouch, feeling the shape of the woman's armband within. He would keep it safe until he could return it to the pharaoh. If he was fortunate, he would never see her again. The gods had played him a cruel game, but now, it was time to move on. Just like his injuries, one day his heart would heal. He thought of Edarru, waiting for him in Pi-Ramesses. She, at least, would be happy.

❃

Locked within the immortal realm, Baalat leaned over the vision pool, breathless. She had had to hurry, to buy herself what little time she could before Horus--fast becoming suspicious--would come looking for her. She stared at the pool, willing it to wake. Hurry. Hurry. She had watched as Istara faced Sethi's accusations, then his dagger. Baalat had not known about his dreams. She had asked the vision pool for the name of the god who had intervened. Its reply unnerved her. Silence. Sethi's destiny was being controlled from beyond even the realm of immortals. Baalat shivered. The Creator God.

The pool's silvered surface shimmered, tormenting her with its languid progress. The mortal realm coalesced, its blurred images firming, taking shape. There. Sethi walking across the camp, greeting his men, his hand drifting to the pouch on his belt, patting it.

A tug, hard, insistent. She followed it. Her view lifted, crossing the ruined plain, flying over the walls of Kadesh, toward the palace grounds. It stopped and spiraled down to the temple, piercing the roof of the sanctuary.

Surrounded by a thick haze of opium incense, Rhoha looked up and regarded Baalat's statue. She tilted her head in mocking deference, her lips twisting into an arrogant smile. She turned and flung the doors open. A draft of air rushed in. With a flourish of her gown, she descended the stairs into the temple.

Baalat gazed at her golden image, alone, and forgotten. Curls of incense drifted past her shimmering form, drawn toward the open door. From the distance, the cries of dozens, then hundreds of voices spread across the city, echoing down the empty corridors of the temple, tumbling, loud into her image's prison, The King is dead! Long live Queen Rhoha!

Horus's footsteps quick, determined, anxious, moved down the corridor. Baalat pulled away from the pool. The cries of Kadesh's people faded.

She turned, guilty, as Horus entered the Hall of Visions, his expression betraying his fear and uncertainty. She went to him, her hands held out, letting him draw her against him, his powerful arms enclosing her, fierce. He knew. He understood something bigger than them was happening and he couldn't stop it. He kissed her, his mouth possessive, unyielding. Sweeping her up, he carried her back to their bed, and made her his own, over and over, until she shuddered with ecstasy.

She woke, naked. Horus was still holding her, lost in the realm of dreams. She looked up at the gleaming white ceiling above their bed, watching the golden patterns change and shift. Fractals, a gift from Thoth. He had said they represented the mystery of their existence. She used to watch them for days, entranced. Now, she could only think of Istara, and Sethi, and of her own fate, fast approaching.