Istara opened her eyes. She pushed herself up from the pallet, disoriented, her head swimming. A blanket slipped down to her waist. Close by, a brazier gave off a feeble amount of heat, its fuel almost extinguished. A bench. Rugs. Lamps. A linen hanging, unadorned, split the tent's interior in two. She leaned forward, reaching out to push aside the hanging. A wave of nausea rippled through her. She held still, waiting. Another wave, stronger this time--

She scrambled from the pallet, making it to the basin just in time. Shivering, she sank back onto her heels and wiped the tears from her eyes. Her fingers came away smeared with kohl. She stared at the black smudges, staining her fingertips, confused. When had she put on cosmetics? Her bloodstained gown was gone too, replaced by a white one, its edges embroidered in silver thread. She cleaned her fingers before touching the material, woven so fine, it must have come from the queen's wardrobe.

Her foot cramped. She shifted her position, noticing she still wore her sandals. Pulling them off, she rubbed her feet against the rug, letting its stiff weave massage them. Why would she have gone to sleep in her sandals? She gazed into the glowing embers of the brazier, trying to recall the last thing she could remember: the injured man in the tent, the one from her visions. She had spent hours tending him, had fallen asleep after, exhausted. Then . . . nothing, only darkness.

She eyed the basin, the vomit almost black, its sourness offset by a sickly-sweet tang. Opium. If she could smell it over her vomit, she had been given a very strong dose. She had learned during her studies when high enough doses of opium were used on a patient, events during the drugging could be forgotten, sometimes permanently. Anything could have happened. A dark thought crossed her mind. She pulled up her gown. No blood. Relief shuddered through her. But if not to violate her, why had the Egyptians drugged her? For what purpose--

A draft of cold air. The lamps' flames danced. She turned. A soldier moved toward her. Alarmed, she rose to her feet. He pulled the linen hanging aside and stepped through.

It was him, the man she had spent the night sewing back together, but no longer was he the broken, fevered patient: he stood before her, charismatic, powerful, larger than even Urhi-Teshub, smelling of sex. He had removed most of his bandages, exposing his raw, sutured flesh to the open air, a soldier's trick to force his wounds to heal faster. His sudden presence filled the space, overwhelming her. He bowed, keeping his eyes averted from her, his gaze moving to the dirtied basin, then away from it, to the brazier.

"You are unwell," he said, his voice deep, commanding, strong. "Shall I send for a surgeon?"

Taken aback by his transformation, she looked over his injuries wondering how could he have recovered so fast. It had only been last night when she had tended to him. Unless . . .

"How long have I been drugged?" she asked, quiet.

Startled by her question, his eyes met hers. A spark, hot and intense flared between them. She caught her breath as a memory, visceral, poured into her. He had held her against his body, warming her, his lips had brushed her forehead, tender--

He blinked, turning his attention once more to the brazier. "I did not realize you had been drugged," he said, low, "although that would explain your odd behavior in the pharaoh's tent."

Istara's thoughts tumbled to a halt. "I was in the pharaoh's tent? When?"

The soldier's brow lifted. "It must have been a powerful sedation if you cannot remember last night."

"Last night? I don't understand--" she floundered, desperate to find solid ground. She tried a different approach. "When did I tend your injuries?"

His brow quirked, though whether it was from irritation or surprise, she couldn't tell. "The night before last," he answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "You were taken from my side early yesterday morning, while still half-asleep."

She stared at him, stunned. A day. Gone. Last night, she had been in the pharaoh's tent, drugged, wearing one of the queen's gowns. She couldn't stop herself. She had to know.

"Has Ramesses taken me to his bed?"

His gaze hardened on the brazier. "Not yet."

Frightened, she took a step toward him. "What do you mean, 'not yet'?"

He moved away from her, keeping his distance. "Last night the pharaoh gave you tidings of your father," he said, not answering her question. "Do you remember?"

"No," she whispered, a finger of dread touching her spine.

He remained silent a long while, the muscles in his jaw clenching. "In the midst of battle," he finally said, heavy, "the King of Kadesh joined our allies from Amurru. He took down a great many of Muwatallis's men before he was surrounded."

"And?" Istara breathed, her heart tight.

"The King of Kadesh has fallen," he said, his eyes locked on the dying flames of the brazier, "and with the greatest honor."

She sank to her knees, numb, disbelieving. She caught him watching her. He looked away.

"How--" She couldn't finish the question.

"May Horus forgive me," he said, his mouth twisting with distaste, "they took his head."

She choked. It was unthinkable. Beheading a king was forbidden. She looked up at the soldier, mute, seeking consolation. He turned away.

"I have brought a companion for you," he said, pushing aside the linen hanging, "I will send her in."

Istara rose, dismayed. "How can you walk away after bearing such news--are you heartless?"

"I have brought a woman to console you," he answered, taut, keeping his back to her. "Do not expect anything more from me." He reached out for the tent's flap.

She took hold of his arm, stopping him. Under her fingers, she felt his muscles tense. "I spent a long night by your side tending your injuries and fever," she said, grief making her words tight. "Now in my time of need, you refuse me the merest scrap of consolation. You have not even told me your name or title."

"Sethi," he replied, abrupt, "Commander of Egypt's Army, the King's Treasurer and Commander of Pre. And as to your attention during my hour of need, I wish to Horus it had not been your needle on my flesh. I wish it had been anyone but you."

Dismayed, she released him. "You are a cruel man, Commander, to wound me when I am already suffering. Am I so offensive to you?"

"My orders are to protect you," he said, harsh, "and I will do so, to my death. But do not ask more of me than this. I will only disappoint you."

Pushing back the flap, he ducked out into the morning air, leaving her alone. Numb, she returned to her pallet. Fragments of a murmured conversation, low and urgent drifted through the tent's thin walls. A woman entered and waited on the other side of the opaque linen. Istara ignored her.

"Princess Istara," the woman said, hesitant, "I am honored to have been chosen as your companion."

Istara lifted her head. That voice. No. It couldn't be. "Meresamun?" she called, her heart cracking, slivered with hope.

Meresamun pushed past the linen. "By Hathor's horns!" she exclaimed, incredulous. "You are the Princess of Kadesh?"

Istara reached out to her. "My father has fallen," she choked, realizing that by saying the words, she had made it real. Her father was gone. Forever.

Tears spilled free, hot and fat. Meresamun came to her, catching her in her embrace. She stroked her hair, hushing her. Istara clung to her, devastation sweeping through her as she grieved for her father, for her ruined marriage, and for Anash, who had never woken up. She had obeyed Baalat all her life, and in return, she had lost everything. Even if she had saved thousands, nothing had been left for her. Nothing. She was alone.

❃

Outside, Sethi stared at his feet as Istara's weeping and the soft sounds of Meresamun's reassurances carried out to him. Guilt sliced through him. Perhaps he had been too harsh with her. She had lost her father, after all. Meresamun offered Istara wine, to calm her. Istara drank and fell quiet. He left. She was best in Meresamun's care. He was a soldier, not a nurse, and yet, his heart ached to go to Istara, to hold her, to ease her pain--but he could not, he could never touch her again. He had to forget about her.

He ducked back into his command tent. It reeked of sex. He broke off a piece of sandalwood incense and crumbled it over the brazier's glowing fuel. Leaning against the table, he waited for it to ignite, trying to ignore the rumpled blankets on his pallet. He had slept little, taking Meresamun two times more, and each time, at his release, the memory of Istara sleeping in his arms returned.

He sank onto his chair, his attention drifting to a pile of reports. He sorted through them. An old order from Ramesses slipped free, regarding an increase in daily rations. He stared at the impression of the king's cartouche. Ramesses was omnipresent. Sooner or later, he knew everything.

He set it aside. He would not risk everything he had worked for just because he had been dreaming of a woman who could never be his. It was madness. The gods had been cruel to him, but the game they had played for the last thirteen years was over now--unless they wished for him to die.

Within the embers of the brazier, several flames flickered. The incense ignited. Long, languorous smoke trails curled away, cleansing the tent of the night's carnality. He watched the trails, thinking of nothing. The image of Istara, sleeping in his arms returned. He cursed and shoved the memory aside. Picking up his reed brush, he occupied himself with the work of preparing his division for the long march home. He paused, his gaze straying back to his unmade pallet. At least he had Meresamun. He hoped she would stay with him until Pi-Ramesses. He decided to offer her a fortune if she would.

❃

Meresamun brushed the hair from Istara's face, noting the dark shadows surrounding Istara's eyes, closed in fitful sleep. Once the initial shock had taken its toll, Istara had withdrawn into the privacy of her thoughts, suffering through long stages of weeping and silence. She had eaten nothing the whole day. All Meresamun could do was sit with her, and wait.

She added more fuel to the brazier, hoping a night's sleep would help. Tomorrow would be a better day. Once they began to march, Istara would have other things to think of. It was no good sitting in a tent, dwelling on the past.

Weary, Meresamun pushed aside the linen hanging and sank onto her pallet. As she untied her sandals, one of the guards called to her in a low voice, relaying Sethi's request to join him. She slumped, gazing at her pallet with longing.

"He requests my attendance, or he orders it?" she asked, quiet.

The guard shifted, the movement betrayed by a soft creak of leather. "My lady, he has requested it, but unless you are unwell, it would not be wise to refuse him. Do you wish me to say you are unwell?"

She closed her eyes. Even if she did not suffer at his hands, it would be another sleepless night when all she longed for was oblivion. She retied her sandals and got up.

"No, I shall go. Take me to him."

❃

Sethi set aside the last of his captain's reports just as Meresamun ducked into his tent. He rose and poured her some wine.

"How is she?" he asked as he held it out to her.

Meresamun took the wine and sipped. Her gaze roamed the tent, lingering on the untidy piles of papyri on his table, the unmade pallet, his half-finished dinner.

"She is grieving hard," she said. "She won't eat anything."

Sethi eyed Meresamun, noticing the droop of her shoulders. She looked as tired as he felt. He lifted his platter and held it out to her. "I saved you some roasted hare."

"Roasted meat?" Her brow lifted. "It is good to be the commander."

Pushing the maps and reports aside, he made space for her at the table. She sank down and pulled the meat apart, her fingers working, delicate, glistening with grease.

"It has been a long time since I have had roast meat," she said as she paused to take a sip of wine.

He leaned against the tent's support pole, crossing his arms over his chest. "How long?" he asked, hoping to ease open the closed door to her life.

She shrugged and carried on eating. He left her alone, resigned to her secrecy, occupying himself with poking at the brazier's fuel, stirring it back to life. She set aside the empty platter and wiped her fingers on his napkin. He poured them both more wine.

"Stay the night with me?" he asked as he handed her the wine.

"You are the commander." Her fingers moved to the ties of her gown.

He reached over and stopped her. "You are tired, as am I. My heart is--just comfort me. Let me hold you while we sleep."

"You have also lost the one you love?" she asked, soft, her eyes meeting his, haunted.

"It would be better to say I am in the midst of losing her." Unthinking, he glanced toward Istara's tent. Meresamun's eyes widened. "I--" He stopped, at a loss how to remedy it. He turned away, cursing.

"Let us sleep," she murmured, touching his arm. "All will be forgotten in the morning."

His heart flooding with gratitude, he pulled off his belt. His kilt fell into a heap, he kicked it aside, watching as she untied her sandals and washed her feet, her gentle domesticity soothing him. She blew out the lamps, apart from one. He shuttered it as she shed her gown and came to him, seeking his warmth, pressing herself against him, shivering. Pulling the blanket over her, he chafed her arm, warming her. She settled against his shoulder. Within a heartbeat, she was asleep. He closed his eyes and followed her.

He dreamed again of Istara, only this time, it was different. They sailed high above the land, flying in a vast, strange barque, the floor of it clear, yet solid. Beneath them, a massive battle raged, and hundreds of large, flying birds made of metal, darted and swooped, fire coming from their wings. Their barque flew over a beautiful city, unlike anything he could have imagined, its towering white structures soaring up into the sky. The metal birds rained fire down on them; the city erupting into a firestorm, the parks and gardens incinerated, gone in a heartbeat. Istara cried out, anguished. His own heart ached, more than it ever had before. He took her to the bed, set upon the clear floor, and as the world burned beneath them, he made love to her, fierce and desperate, his final act, before he knew they too, would fall.

❃

Deep in the night, Istara woke, parched. She poured herself wine and peered through the hanging at Meresamun's pallet. It was empty. Alarmed, Istara plunged barefoot out of the tent into the cold night air, the wet earth soaking into the hem of her gown. She turned around, disoriented. Dozens of tents spread away into the darkness, all of them identical. Two soldiers, her guards, came after her. Forbidden to touch her, they flanked her, uneasy. One stepped nearer.

"My lady, are you ill?" he asked.

"Where is Meresamun?" Istara demanded, searching the shadows, her gaze moving down the silent rows of tents.

Her guards glanced at each other, nervous. A sound broke through the night's quiet. She tilted her head, listening. It came again. The sound of a man in the act of love.

"You dare take her like a common whore?" she accused, outraged. "Meresamun is my companion and a free woman. Return her to me."

When they did not move, she pushed past them. "Then I shall liberate her myself. Your commander will know of this."

They ran in front of her, blocking her way. "You cannot!" one of the soldiers said, holding out his hands to stop her. "I beg you, cease. You have my oath she will be returned to you unharmed."

In the wake of his words, the sound came again, louder, clearer. She stared at the men, fear plain in their eyes. A memory burst free. Sethi had come to her the previous morning smelling of sex. No. It couldn't be. The man moaned again. She bolted toward the sound, her feelings, tangled and confused, goading her on, drawn to the sound of his lovemaking, a moth to a flame. Her guards followed, pleading for her to stop, their voices sharp with anxiety. She ignored them. She had to know the truth.

She ducked into the tent. The smell of sex overwhelmed her. Beside a shielded lamp, Sethi and Meresamun writhed in a passionate embrace, deep within the act of love, oblivious to her presence.

Mesmerized, she watched the commander's powerful body moving over Meresamun's supple one, her head cradled in his hands, his mouth on hers, hungry. Grinding his hips against hers, he pulled away from their kiss and stared at something only he could see. He held himself still, riding the brink of his release, groaning. Rocking his hips back, he whispered one word, dark with longing, tainted with need.

"Istara . . . "

She gaped at him, her knees weakening, as he plunged deep into Meresamun, sheltering her in his arms as she clung to him, riding out her own release.

Istara fled. Back on her pallet, her cushion clutched against her chest, she stared at the flames of the brazier. The one fleeting memory she had of Sethi returned. She was cold. He had held her and kissed her brow. In his arms, she had felt safe, secure, protected, cherished. She could remember nothing else, had convinced herself it had been a dream, but now, she was certain, something had passed between them. Something he hadn't forgotten.

It was a long time before she fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming disjointed dreams of Sethi mounting her, of his hands holding her head, his mouth on hers, of him saying her name. She woke, her body in an agony of need. Pushing aside the linen hanging, she eyed Meresamun's empty pallet. She lay back down, imagining Sethi holding Meresamun in his arms as he slept, just as he had once held her.

Fighting an irrational surge of jealousy, Istara stared at the tent's ceiling and searched her memories, picking through the events which had led her to this night. The siege against Kadesh. Sethi giving her his rations. Her life in Tarhuntassa. Tanu-Hepa's illness. Baalat's visit. Istara's promise to become a healer. The long years spent training. Her wedding. Urhi-Teshub's rejection. His betrayal. Her vision. Baalat's message. The journey to Egypt's camp. The battle--

She caught her breath as the individual events of her life coalesced. It was a path. All of it leading to Egypt's enigmatic commander.

Istara closed her eyes, her head beginning to ache. At every stage, through all those long years, Baalat had been there, guiding her to him. Yet now, when their paths had finally crossed, Sethi kept himself apart from her. Why? The night wore on. Istara tossed and turned, her heart crying out for answers. None came. The goddess was silent.