Nefertari entered her residence, trapped inside the memory of her husband's brutal rejection, unable to escape his final, cold look of hatred. Tendrils of incense curled around her, the rich, earthy scent almost masking the accusing, metallic stink of blood--the lives of Egypt's men, sacrificed for her, soaked into the tent's walls; a constant reminder of the terrible cost she had forced others to pay so she could follow her husband to Kadesh.

A gust of wind lifted the blanket tacked over the rent made by Urhi-Teshub. Chill mountain air cut into her thin gown. She shivered. In the vestibule, movement. The material separating her residence from the vestibule lifted, quiet, discreet.

"My lady," Paser bowed, tight. He glanced over his shoulder, uneasy. "I vow I will do everything in my power to remedy this."

"There is nothing you can do," Nefertari answered, numb, her own words wounding her, cutting deep. "I am finished. Perhaps my husband will send me away--as Muwatallis did to his queen--stripping me of my wealth and titles. Banished. Forgotten."

"The gods would punish him," Paser muttered, though his expression betrayed tinges of uncertainty. "It is my fault for failing to defend you," he continued, dogged, miserable. "It is I who should be punished, not you. I will see to it. You shall not suffer for this."

"Lord Paser, you defended me well," Nefertari said, eyeing the blood-soaked walls of her residence. "Ramesses is right. My jealous, black heart has done this to me, my downfall is no one's fault but my own. An innocent woman came to aid us and I threw her out to die. While she was before me, I saw only his next conquest, whom my husband forced me to protect, to punish me for accompanying him on campaign. I could not bear it. I had to rid myself of her. I do not expect you to understand."

"If I were to love someone as you love him," Paser said, quiet, his eyes meeting hers, enigmatic, "I could not bear to see them with another, either."

His look unnerved her. She turned away. "How shall I go on without him?" she asked, ashamed of her weakness, the crack in her voice. "Who am I, if I am not his queen?"

"It shall be remedied. You must believe it," Paser insisted, firm. "The Princess of Kadesh did not die. We shall return to Egypt, and in time, other matters will arise to occupy the pharaoh. He will forget this. His anger will pass. Bear the return with grace. Do not let him see you in weakness. Remain strong."

She sank onto her chair. He knelt before her, worried, protective. His anguished look triggered a buried memory. It peeled open, layer by excruciating layer: the night of the battle, as her skin broiled in the heat of the encroaching fires, she had knelt in front of him, panting, the heated air almost impossible to breathe. He had pulled her head back to lay a dagger against her throat, his movements tender, gentle, at odds with the violence he was preparing to do to her. Through her terror, she glimpsed the tears in his eyes, his expression twisted by grief, his mouth opening to speak, just as the rain screamed out of the heavens, silencing him. "If I were to love someone as you love him, I could not bear to see them with another, either."

She caught her breath, suddenly seeing him with new eyes. Egypt's powerful vizier was a beautiful, elegant man, intelligent, honorable, courageous, an accomplished swordsman. Her heart stuttered, incredulous. She was the woman he loved.

Her thoughts skidded to a stop. Had he taken a woman he could never love as his wife and shackled himself to a lifetime of unhappiness just to please his queen? No. She wouldn't believe it. Unable to stop herself, she chanced the question.

"Why?"

Paser tilted his head, uncertain. "My lady?"

"Why support me as you do? You are Ramesses's vizier after all. You belong to him."

Shutters slammed closed over Paser's eyes. He looked away, saying nothing, the muscles in his jaw working, tense. Her suspicions sharpened.

"Lord Paser?" she demanded, tight, fearful.

"I must go." He rose, abrupt. "You should rest. We leave at first light."

He did not wait for her permission to depart. Avoiding her gaze, he backed three steps and turned away. In a heartbeat, he was gone.

Shaken, Nefertari looked down at her hands. Paser was in love with her. In the midst of her misery, a thought struck her hard. Her selfish stunt to meet Meresamun had sentenced her own sister to a lifetime of unrequited love. When she had last met Imtes, her sister's complexion had been pale, her eyes dull. Nefertari had teased her, assuming her sister's appearance was the result of sleepless nights spent in the act of love. Shame tore into her. How could she have been so blind to her sister's torment? Perhaps Paser had never touched Imtes. What if her sister spent her days walking through his villa, alone and unloved, enduring the mirror image of Nefertari's unhappy life--and she had done this to her, her own sister?

Nefertari cried out, guilt slamming into her, the enormity of her error overwhelming her. She clenched her fists, enduring her brutal awakening as other, lesser crimes revealed themselves, one by one. In everything her assumptions had been based on what she wanted to believe. For years, she had treated those around her like playthings, wielding her power without a thought, her blinkered vision causing lasting harm to others. Drifting within the memories of the countless acts she had perpetrated over the years, she wondered if she could ever overcome the damage she had done, not just to Imtes and Paser, but to everyone who had had the misfortune to cross her self-centered, oblivious path.

She gazed at the crown in her lap, unable to remember when she had taken it off; her fingers occupied with tracing the outline of the crown's golden feathers, one at a time. She had far to go, to repair the damage she had done, but she would try, until the end of her days, she would try.

She set aside her crown and went to her bed. Pulling the blankets back, she climbed in, still wearing her finery. Her thoughts drifted back to Ramesses. Her heart clenched, a fresh spear of grief impaling her. Broken, defeated, alone, she wept.

❃

Sethi neared the campfires of Amun's whores, certain he was wasting his time. With so many women dead, whores were much harder to come by. There had been none left in either Pre's or Seth's camps. He shoved past a row of tents and looked around. Three women, all of them ugly, sat hunched in the mud, their hands stretched toward a low fire.

They looked up, one of them murmured his title, a greedy look in her eye. They gathered around him, smiling, opening their gowns, letting him see their bodies, unwashed and rank with the stink of their recent fornications. He paused, repulsed by them, turning to make the long walk to the camp of Ptah, when he caught sight of another whore, sitting alone, half-hidden by the shadows, perched on a fallen tent pole. She looked cleaner than the others, her figure called to him, full, ripe, inviting. He felt his groin stir. He went to her and took her hand, ignoring the outraged protests of the others, pulling her into the deeper shadows between two tents. His need for release suddenly blinded him, urging him on, reckless. Between his fingers, her gown's ties came apart. Her breasts spilled out, full, perfect, her nipples taut in the cold air. He groaned, and took one into his mouth, working with one hand to free himself from under his kilt. Grabbing hold of her buttocks, he pulled her closer to lift her up onto him. Pain slammed into his jaw.

He pulled back, catching her wrist before she could hit him again, squeezing tight. She cried out, furious, and kicked his shin. He grunted, ignoring the pain and yanked her closer, catching a glimpse of her face in the faint light. His hold loosened. The woman was far too beautiful to be a soldier's whore. She pulled free and stumbled away, clutching at the material of her gown, drawing it back over herself, her breathing ragged.

He eyed her as she worked. "You are no camp whore, are you?"

She shook her head, her fingers trembling as she fastened the ties of her gown.

He cursed, struggling to field his anger and escalating frustration, his member betraying him, still throbbing with need. "Yet you were with the whores," he said, sharper than he meant to.

She didn't answer. He rubbed his hand over his scalp, letting his gaze move over her. She was extraordinary, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. What was a woman like her doing in a war camp and amongst whores?

"What's your name?" he asked, tight, tucking his unwilling member back into the bindings of his loincloth.

"Meresamun," she answered, quiet, her eyes on the muddy ground.

He paused. Her name sounded familiar. He couldn't place it. He scoffed. What did it matter? It wasn't important. "Forgive me," he muttered. "I was mistaken. I will take you back to your fire." When she didn't move, he hesitated, realization striking him hard. "You have lost your man to the Hittites," he said, quiet, watching as she twisted her fingers together, confirming his suspicion. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, guilt slicing through him. "Was I your first?"

She met his look, abrupt. Tears glistened in her eyes.

He turned away, her grief piercing him. His gaze moved to the whores, cold and miserable in their thin, stained gowns, huddling together, seeking warmth from each other around their meager fire. "A whore's life is a hard one," he said, looking back at her. "I can offer you a much better one as my concubine." He stepped closer. "Perhaps you have heard of me. I am the Commander of Pre."

"I know who you are," she said, low. Her stomach growled, loud. She looked up at him, the shadows accentuating the hollows in her cheeks. "Forgive me. I have not eaten since the day of the battle."

He nodded. "Wait here."

He roused several men, scrounging together two biscuits and a dried date wrapped in a scrap of linen cloth. He returned and handed her the parcel. Though her hunger was apparent, she took her time eating, conserving what little he had found. He watched her, curious. Her manners were elegant and refined. He wondered who her husband had been.

Tucking the remains of the food back into the linen, Meresamun dusted the biscuit crumbs from her gown. She met his eyes. "Thank you."

Sethi took her hand, gentle this time. "If you accept my offer, you will want for nothing."

Her gaze fell back to the shrunken parcel in her hands. "I accept, but only until the road to Damas when I must go my own way."

He blinked, taken aback by her strange request. She would not survive long, traveling alone and unprotected to Damas. "Then be with me until the road to Damas," he said, troubled by her broken expression. "Please. There is no need to tremble so. Though it may have appeared thus earlier, I am no brute. I will not hurt you."

He brought her to his command tent, warm and snug from the brazier's heat and gave her food and wine. He sat beside her, drinking, waiting, patient, giving her time. She ate in silence, defensive, her eyes averted. Her hand trembled as she finished her wine. He poured her another. She drank deep, her cheeks flushing, her body relaxing.

He took the cup from her hand and set it aside. He pulled her to her feet. Gently he traced the outline of her jaw. She closed her eyes. He let her, pitying her, sensing she was seeing her lost husband in his stead. Catching her chin, he lowered his mouth to hers, his fingers once more opening the ties of her gown. The material fell away. He drank in the sight of her full breasts and hips, running his hands over them, his thumbs circling her nipples until they hardened. He knelt and tasted her. Hunger, hot, and aching, tugged at his member.

He pulled his kilt and loincloth away and took hold of her, lifting her onto him, ignoring the sharp pain of his bound injuries, the fresh seep of blood. He wanted to be deep inside her, to lose himself in her, to purge himself of Istara's hold. He plunged, hard, into Meresamun. She gasped, her thighs clamping onto him. He drove into her again, his hands hard on her buttocks. Her arms came around his neck. She clung to him, whispering, pleading to the gods for forgiveness. He kissed her, murmuring she had nothing to regret, swearing to protect her. She shifted her weight, her breasts sliding against him, sending a thrill of pleasure shuddering through him. He rotated his hips, groaning. She felt so good, so tight. With her, he would forget, she was a gift from the gods. He sped toward the brink of his release. It was too soon. It would not be enough. He would have to take her, again, and again. Anything to forget. To forget--

His member throbbed, and he staggered as he filled Meresamun with his seed. It wasn't enough. He lowered her to her feet and turned her around, to take her from behind. As he neared his release, an image seared through his mind, blinding him. Istara in his arms, asleep, her mouth turned up to his, inviting. He came, thinking only of her, emptiness filling him as he led Meresamun to his pallet and covered her with his blanket, granting her the respite of sleep. He lay awake, his heart betraying him, longing for Istara's warmth beside him.

Sleep evaded him. He stared, bleak, at the tent's ceiling, wondering what he must do to free himself of the woman in his dream, why the gods would torment him thus. Meresamun woke. Desperate, he took her again, this time as a lover would, patient, determined to bring her pleasure. She cried out, quaking from her release, sending him following soon after. Her pleasure soon turned to sorrow, and she wept, riven with guilt. He comforted her, though his own guilt rode him hard. When she slept again, he went naked to his chair to drink the rest of the wine, resolved to obliterate Istara from his thoughts, to drive her from his heart.

In the distance, a soldier called out the third hour. Sagging over the table, Sethi swallowed the last of the wine. He cursed the foulest oath he knew.

There could only be her. The golden cup crumpled in his fist.