Safe once more within Hatti's camp, Urhi-Teshub rubbed the back of his fist across his mouth, contemplating the woman standing before him. He considered killing her. His hand drifted to his dagger. No. He would not add regicide to his list of crimes this day. He pulled a chair over and took a seat. He didn't offer her one.

"You move fast," he said, taking in her glittering finery, the wealth of gold layered upon on her arms and neck, "to take your brother's throne before his death has been confirmed."

"I am a diviner," Rhoha shrugged, returning Urhi-Teshub's look, untroubled. "The augurs have shown his fall. By taking the throne, I have done my duty, nothing more. However, there is one difficulty I now face. Kadesh has no king."

"And?" Urhi-Teshub snapped, goaded by her sudden silence.

She lowered her eyes, her lashes sweeping against her cheeks. "My lord prince," she said, soft, sly, "you already have an heir, all he needs now is his father and his inheritance."

Urhi-Teshub pushed from his seat, a wave of anger washing over him. "I have a wife."

She held up her hand. The lamplight flickered over the kinks and twists of her fingers, highlighting the distended knots of her knuckles, deformed and ugly. "I confess there is another matter which brings me to you--it is about Istara."

He glared at her. "Do not dirty her name with your mouth."

Rhoha turned, the material of her gown rustling as she took a seat. "As you wish," she smiled, smoothing out the folds of her gown. She glanced up, her smile fading. "Your wife is a traitor, she went to Ramesses before the battle, to warn him. Today the augurs were clear, her life has been ended by the pharaoh's own hand."

Urhi-Teshub felt his mouth go dry. No. It couldn't be. "When?"

"When what?"

He grated the words out. "When did Ramesses . . . send her to the gods?"

She blinked, perplexed. "When she went to him." Misunderstanding his silence, she went to him, her fingertips moving up his arm to his shoulder, gentle, caressing. "You are overcome," she murmured. "It must be a terrible thing to learn your wife betrayed you. But you should be thankful, though the news is distressing, it is a good omen. The gods are protecting you. She was not fit to be your queen. She never was."

Urhi-Teshub scoffed at the parallel between her words and her twisted fingers. Jerking away from her touch, he bore down on her. "But, it seems, with divine convenience, you are."

"Of course," she said, her expression showing genuine surprise. "The gods have willed it. Together we will make a powerful alliance." Her gaze slid to his pallet. "We can seal our vows tonight."

"Do you ever stop?" he roared, flinging her aside, his long-suppressed rage for what she had done escalating, hot, virulent. "Istara is a hostage to Egypt, and very much alive."

Rhoha stumbled against a stool. She turned, a flash of anger flared in her eyes, sharp, dangerous. "Whether you accept it or not," she said, straightening her gown, "the augurs have shown the future. I will be your consort, ruling by your side. Why must you be such a stubborn fool and cling to the past? Istara is gone. Forever."

Her barbed words tore at him. Grabbing an empty pitcher, he hurled it across the tent. It smashed against a support pole, its jagged shards scattering, thudding against the skirts of her gown. "Enough! Return to your throne, and may it be a lonely one. You will never have what you want from me. Istara will be returned to me, and she will be my queen, regardless of your black augurs and divinations."

Rhoha stood, unmoving, stubborn. He pulled his dagger free and lunged at her. "You will get out, you scheming, murderous whore, or it will be my blade on your throat and to the Under Realm with the consequences."

Her eyes dark, she backed away. Outside, the creak of chariot wheels and the soft thud of hooves against wet earth. Her escort departed. He turned away, trembling with anger, Rhoha's prophetic words burrowing into him, barbed and sinister. Tormented by his powerlessness, he cried out to the gods, offering them anything they wished if only they would protect Istara and keep her safe. A thin silence suffused the tent; his shallow, ragged breaths loud in his ears. Laying his blade across the back of his arm, he opened his flesh, grunting at the pain. He shoved the dagger up high, an offering, the blade's edge glistening black-red in the lamplight.

"My blood for hers," he whispered to the gods. The silence stretched, taut. He cut himself again, deeper this time. "My life for hers," he said, louder, watching his blood slide down his raised arm. His skin prickled. He looked up at the tent's ceiling, sensing a presence, unseen, watching him. He held his breath, unwilling to break the spell. The gods were listening after all.

❃

Cocooned within the golden warmth of her apartment in Kadesh, Rhoha looked down at the babe in her arms, her heart soft and filled with love. She kissed her son's sleeping face and inhaled his sweet scent, milk and honey.

She looked up, catching Kadesh's commander, staring at her, hostile.

"I do not like repeating myself," she said. "The King of Hatti commands it."

Hasurna held her gaze. "Lord Urhi-Teshub has sent me no such command."

"Shall I arrest your wife and sons," she asked, soft, her gaze falling once more to her son, "and keep them below in the cold and dark until you have done as you are bid? Or would you prefer to join them in death, conspirators against Hatti?"

Hasurna looked away. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

She smiled. "I thought not."

Laying her son in his gilded cot, she tucked his little woolen blankets around him. His rosebud mouth moved as he slept. Her heart melted. She looked up, continuing, "There can be no mistakes, no chance for this to be traced back to Kadesh. The ambush must have all the appearances of a barbarian raid. You will find the traitor, and kill her."

A heartbeat passed, two. She waited. He lowered his chin a fraction. His eyes, cold, never left hers. "By your command," he said, tight, "and may Baalat forgive you."

His footsteps retreated. Rhoha scoffed at his words, turning to admire her reflection in the bronze mirror. She smiled at herself, reveling in her knowledge, discovered in the depths of her darkest, costliest incantations. The gods had no power over men anymore, which meant plenty for the taking, from the fools who still believed.

❃

Paser ducked into the command tent and pressed his fist against his chest, eyeing the dim, deserted space, lit by the light of a single shuttered lamp. There was a creak of wood as Ramesses left his chair. He did not come forward. Instead, he lingered, silent, behind the table, his face hidden in shadow.

"Your Majesty," Paser approached him, wary, "I came as soon as I received your message." When Ramesses remained silent, Paser cleared his throat. "My lord, Amun is almost ready to depart."

Ramesses nodded, distracted, occupying himself with pushing a piece of papyrus back and forth across the table. "We will leave on time," he muttered. He lowered his voice. "I have need of your counsel. There is a matter troubling me."

"My lord?"

The papyrus shifted several times more before the pharaoh continued. "Last night, Sethi's reaction to Istara's arrival was unexpected." Ramesses eyed Paser. "I know you saw it too." He fell silent, brooding once more. He pushed the papyrus away and continued, his voice so low, Paser had to strain to hear him. "I dreamed something last night, something I cannot forget and am unable to explain. I walked in a city unlike any I have ever seen, more beautiful than I can describe. A great roar rent the sky and a flying barque with outstretched wings like a falcon swept down from the heavens, shining, golden. It came to rest on an enormous platform, hissing, black smoke pouring out from under its wings. A door opened and from within Sethi, but not Sethi emerged, followed by Istara, but not Istara." He swallowed and pushed at the papyrus once more. He stopped. "I do not know what it means, but it has unnerved me, the likenesses they shared. You are the closest I have to a soothsayer. Tell me: my dream, is it a warning? Can I trust him--my own commander--with Istara?"

Paser felt the blood drain from his face. Fear clutched at him. He could not, would not, allow himself to be caught up in this, whatever it was. Ramesses lifted his head, waiting for an answer. Paser blinked, floundering for a beat, before hastening to the refuge of facts.

"My lord," he said, striving to keep his voice calm, "if your wish is to see Istara safe to Pi-Ramesses, then there is no other place for her but Pre, under Sethi's protection. Ptah's division is carrying the burden of the wounded, and Amun is dedicated to your protection. Unless--would you rather send her to Byblos with Bentesina?"

Ramesses shook his head, terse. "No. Not Byblos. I need her with our men." He moved back to his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "May Horus forgive me, but I am not certain I can trust Sethi. That dream. It plagues me. He touched her face, as a lover would."

Paser shoved the memory of the previous morning away, of Sethi and Istara tangled together on Sethi's pallet, Sethi's fingers caressing her cheek. "Shall I arrange for someone to watch him?" he asked, taut, longing to distance himself from the matter.

Ramesses considered. "No," he finally answered. "I will not order one of my men to spy on Egypt's commander when the only evidence I have against him is a dream and his sudden need for wine when Istara arrived."

Paser searched his mind, desperate to escape the jaws of Ramesses's unwitting trap. A thought struck him. "You could send Lord Ahmen to Pre, with the command to carry Istara in his chariot. Give him no other orders. Once back in Pi-Ramesses, meet with him. From Ahmen, you will know the truth."

Ramesses rubbed his hand over his jaw, his troubled look deepening. "Lord Ahmen fought well and with honor. He deserves to drive my chariot on the return home." Ramesses sank back into his chair and reached out to pull the papyrus nearer. "To send him away, demoting him without explanation will only humiliate him." He pressed his palms against his eyes. "I am exhausted. Perhaps I am overreacting; seeing things which are not there."

He looked up, hopeful, waiting for Paser to reprieve him. But Paser knew he could not stop now. If he diverted the pharaoh, and Ramesses later found out what Paser knew, Paser would be sent to the gods. He must protect himself. Let Ahmen bring Ramesses the truth.

"Your Highness, when have your instincts ever been proven false?" he asked, using his most compelling voice. "You sensed Muwatallis's trap, and where he was hiding his men. You kept Istara alive and heeded her warning. If you sense your commander is untrustworthy, you must find out the truth, no matter what the cost. Egypt's security depends upon it."

Ramesses poked at the papyrus again, his unhappiness obvious. Finally, he nodded. "Yes, you are right. It shall be done. But with all my heart, I hope I am wrong."

❃

"My Lord Ahmen, a message from Pharaoh, Blessed of Re."

Ahmen turned. A runner stood behind him, holding out a small scroll sealed with the impression of the pharaoh's cartouche. Taking it into the light of a burning torch, Ahmen broke the seal. He read the message and looked up, disbelieving.

"My lord," the runner broached, diffident, "the pharaoh commanded me to return with all haste. I was told to say your word would suffice."

Ahmen eyed the rows of chariots lined up, waiting to depart. He read the message a second time. There was no explanation, just the command. He would not join them.

"My lord?" the runner prodded, anxious, his dread of keeping the pharaoh waiting obvious.

Ahmen nodded, numb. "Tell Pharaoh I am his obedient servant."

The runner bolted away. Ahmen called for Dhet. The boy emerged from between the harnessed horses, his face shining with perspiration despite the chill in the pre-dawn air.

"All is ready for you, my lord," Dhet said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

His heart heavy, Ahmen knelt beside the boy. "I will not leave today," he said. "The pharaoh has commanded me to travel with the Division of Pre tomorrow."

Dhet paled. "I will stay with you."

"No." Ahmen squeezed the boy's shoulder. "You will stay with the pharaoh's horses, no one else knows or cares for them as well as you."

"But," Dhet protested, loyal, "there will be no one to look after your horses and chariot."

"Then I shall have to do the work myself."

The sound of horns filled the plateau. It was time. Dhet looked away, then back at Ahmen, his eyes huge. "I am afraid to travel alone. If not you, to whom shall I answer?"

"You will answer to your heart," Ahmen answered, his own aching at the boy's wretched look. "Do your work with honor, worship Re, observe Ma'at and before you know it, we will be back in Pi-Ramesses."

Dhet pressed his fist to his chest. "I will not fail you."

"You are a good Egyptian," Ahmen said, finding a smile for the boy. "Now, go. Re will watch over you."

He watched him go, worrying for him. Without his presence, he suspected the older grooms, jealous of Dhet's favored position, would make things hard for him.

Horns blared once more. Ahmen took up the reins of Ramesses's chariot and called to the horses. He knew there would be no further explanation. For the next thirty days, he would be left to wonder why Ramesses had chosen him instead of another to carry the Princess of Kadesh home.

He pulled up in front of the pharaoh's tent and left the chariot. His head bowed, he held up the reins, his heart pounding. Within his heart, he prayed, begging the gods to intervene. Please, let Ramesses have changed his mind.

Ramesses pushed out from the tent, his battle regalia gleaming in the torchlight. Ignoring Ahmen, he took the reins and called to the horses. With a creak of wood and leather, he departed, his chariot obscured by the sudden surge of followers rushing past to pack the contents of the pharaoh's tent.

Ahmen backed away; devastated. He caught Henufkhet's look, filled with pity. It was too much, he had to get away, to where he could not be seen and judged by those who were less than him. He sprinted back to the deserted ground where the stables had been, finding Dhet, loyal to the end, standing alone, holding the bridles of Ahmen's horses, yoked to a chariot, waiting.

Tears burning his eyes, Ahmen took the reins and choked out his thanks. Dhet patted the horses, telling them to take care of Ahmen. He backed away, and with a forlorn wave, he turned and ran, hurrying to catch up to the others. Ahmen tightened his grip on the reins and looked across the ruined, windswept plateau, despair filling him. He was alone. Disgraced. Bleak, he wondered how far Ramesses intended him to fall.