Istara longed to see a sliver of sky. Crowding up along either side of Amka's narrow, muddy track, massive cedar trees soared upward, their thick boughs blocking out the light, a solid roof of deep green. For hours, Pre had marched through the forest's dripping gloom, pushing its way through the dank, claustrophobic wood. Again, she looked up, fighting the the feeling of being buried alive, desperate to see sky, longing to breathe clean, open air again.

Ahmen's chariot lurched past a wall of rock, water trickling down its face. He shifted his weight, guiding the horses with gentle commands across the muddy rivulet at its base, his eyes flicking back and forth, searching the dense undergrowth for movement.

More hours passed. Daylight faded. Istara's buttocks ached, and her back hurt. She longed to stand, to ease the cramps in her legs. The forest's gloom deepened. Fatigue crept over her, her tiny reserves abandoning her. She eyed the leather satchel tied to the side of the chariot, containing her food. No. She couldn't bear to eat in front of the others, not when everyone else was hungry. Ahmen had said no halts could be made in this forsaken place. Her stomach growled, loud. She pressed her fingers against it, ashamed. Ahmen glanced at her.

"Eat," he said, curt. "The surgeon ordered it."

"I can wait. We must be close by now."

"We are not," he muttered. "The mud has slowed our progress and sapped the men's strength. We have at least another two hours to go, and darkness is coming fast. Your prayers for our protection would not go amiss."

"Protection?" Istara repeated, struggling to comprehend what a division of five thousand could possibly fear. "From what?"

"On our way to Kadesh, Amun lost twelve men and seven horses," Ahmen answered, grunting as he steered the horses around a fallen log. "We learned the hard way the barbarian tribes infesting this forest are not afraid of our numbers. They wait until dusk, when the shadows are thickest, then they come, taking armor, weapons, horses." He scoffed. "Cowards."

Her hunger deserted her. She prayed, watching the deepening shadows, vigilant. At the thirteenth stanza of her prayer, ululations, fierce, chilling, pierced the forest's heavy quiet. Sounds of fighting broke out further down the vanguard. Fear, visceral, raw, clawed at her.

Ahmen yanked the horses to a halt. Shedding the reins, he pulled his bow from its holder. "On the floor," he ordered. "Do not make a sound."

Scrambling from her perch, she wedged herself into the space under the narrow bench, pressing her face to her knees, making herself as small as possible. The sound of running feet neared. Sethi shouted to Ahmen, a question. Ahmen answered, abrupt. Sethi ran on, his commands carrying over the ululations of the barbarians. Quaking with terror, she prayed. The ululations drew closer. The pounding of running feet, coming out of the darkness from the front of line, straight at them. She dug her fingers into her knees, the prayer forgotten. They were alone.

Ahmen's bow creaked as he took aim. He released, the bowstring smacked, loud, against the leather of his bracer. He fired, again and again. Still, they came. Her heart pounded, erratic, her chest so tight she couldn't breathe. She shrank against the box's side, hoping, praying the shadows would hide her.

A clatter. Ahmen's bow slid across the floor, no longer useful. A soft hiss, as his khopesh left its scabbard. The grunt and thrust of close combat. The barbarians were right behind her, the stink of their untanned skins making her gag. Ahmen cut his way through them, his blade thudding against their bodies, their anguished cries loud in her ears. Their blood splattered over her, hot, sharp, metallic.

The fighting stopped, abrupt, ending as quick as it began. She glanced up, desperate with hope. Ahmen's eyes darted back and forth. His chest lay slick with blood, and he panted, hard. He nodded at her. It was over. A flurry of untanned skins erupted from the undergrowth. A sickening thud. The chariot juddered. Ahmen crashed down beside her, unconscious. She stared at the blood pouring from his scalp, pooling underneath his head. No. Please. No.

Rough fingers tangled into her hair, hauling her out from under the bench. She struggled, crying out as her captor yanked her head back and inspected her, his breath hot and rank, stinking of rotten teeth. She retched, bile, burning hot, splattered down her front. He laughed, malicious, and wrenched her out of the chariot. Frantic, she screamed for help, stumbling after him into the darkness, her hair caught in his merciless grip. An explosion of pain mushroomed out from her jaw in sickening waves, blinding her. She screamed, agonized. He hit her again. Her legs gave out. Silence.

She came to hanging upside down over her captor's shoulder. Blood trickled from her mouth into her eyes. Apart from his heavy tread on the forest floor, silence surrounded her. So, this was how she would end: in the mud of Amka, at the hands of a savage. She wept, despairing. He stopped and tossed her face-first onto the ground. She slammed into the mud, her palm impaling on the jagged point of a fallen branch. She bellowed, howling in agony, pain ripping though her as she pulled her hand free, the sudden heat of her blood spreading over her cold fingers, startling.

Ignoring her cries for mercy, he flipped her over, shoving her gown up to her waist, his eyes dark, expectant. His filthy fingers closed around her throat, holding her down as he fumbled under his skins and pulled his member free. She felt it probing against her, the ripe stink of it bringing fresh tears to her eyes.He bent over and licked her mouth, his tongue furred and foul. She retched again. Caught in his vicious grip she gagged on her bile, choking, fighting to breathe.

Maddened by pain and fear, she groped in the mud. Her fingers closed on a rock. She yanked it free and smashed it against the side of his head. He reeled back, roaring, furious, swinging his fist into the air.

"You are Takde's slave now," he spat, a gobbet of saliva trailing from his mouth. "Mine."

Her heart folded. The slave of a barbarian. A fate worse than death. Praying his blow would kill her, she closed her eyes, waiting. A dull thud. Takde juddered. Warmth spread across her torso.

The bloody point of a spear protruded from his chest. His jaw slack, he toppled forward, carrying the spear straight to her heart. Panicking, she pushed against him, struggling to resist his enormous weight. She had no strength left. The spear pressed against her ribs, the pain exquisite. Sobbing, she cried out to Baalat. The pressure eased. Takde's weight slid away. He slumped over onto the ground beside her. She scrambled to her knees and stared at the dead man. Baalat had saved her. She gibbered, scrabbling in the mud to escape. Strong hands took hold of her. She screamed, kicking her legs, thrashing, frantic. A voice, familiar, rough, pierced her terror.

"Istara, are you aware?"

"Sethi?" she cried, ragged, incredulous, relief shuddering through her. "How--"

"Your screams carried well, thank Horus" he answered, terse, as he sawed off a length of his kilt. He tied it around her injured hand, so tight, it hurt. Kicking Takde onto his belly, he pulled the spear out with a grunt. Shaking off the gore, he looked around, wary, his eyes cold in the pale moonlight. "It is dangerous out here. We need to get back."

He offered her his hand. She took it, and crept down the slope after him, shivering, trembling, weak. Sethi had come after her, alone, just like in the river, once again risking his life for hers. He tightened his grip, possessive, protective, and led her into the darkness.

❃

Halfway back, Istara succumbed to shock. Sethi caught her as she fell. Cradling her against him, he shoved his way through the undergrowth toward the flickering light of Pre's torches. Shouting for Ity, he pushed his way to his chariot. The surgeon came running, a flaming torch held aloft in his hand. He stumbled to halt, blanching at Istara's ravaged state. He turned her hand over, eyeing the blood-soaked linen, his expression grim.

"She has lost much blood," he said, reproachful. "There is only so much I can do. I fear she will not survive after all she has suffered."

"Not all of the blood is hers," Sethi retorted. "She will survive. You will see to it. Do what you can now, and the rest when we make camp. She rides the rest of the way with me, in the harness. What of Lord Ahmen-om-onet?"

"A blow to the head," Ity replied, peering, bleak, at the blood leaking from the gouge in her chest. "He has returned with his senses, thank Hathor."

"Good. Ride with him. I would have you close by, should the princess's condition change."

Sethi set Istara down inside his chariot, watching Ity as he knelt in the mud and emptied his satchel onto its floor. The surgeon took up a stone vial and poured a large dose of tincture into his palm. Dabbing his finger into it, he rubbed the inky liquid against her gums. He looked up at Sethi.

"She could wake at any time," he said, brusque. "This will numb her pain as I work."

Sethi nodded, though a wave of fear rippled through him. Istara lay like one already dead, pale and still. Meresamun appeared from the shadows, her face tight with worry. With a cry, she dropped to her knees beside Ity, murmuring her willingness to assist. Ahmen arrived a heartbeat later, a bloody gash across his scalp. He took in Istara's pitiable state, his expression grim.

"Commander," he said, pressing his fist to his bloodied chest, "The pharaoh will know of my failure to protect her."

Sethi swatted away Ahmen's words. "I should not have left you alone. The fault is mine."

Further down the line, someone called Ahmen's name, urgent. He turned. "I must go back," he said, "they are searching the dead." He looked back at Istara. "She refused to eat any of her rations. I suspect she did not for the sake of the rest of us."

Sethi folded his arms across his chest. Stubborn woman. Without nourishment, her meager reserves would have been exhausted just from riding in the chariot. Ity peeled back the soaking linens around her hand. Fresh blood slid out from the gaping hole in her palm. He turned her hand over; the jagged exit wound still contained sharp splinters of wood. Ity muttered a particularly foul oath. Her color blanching, Meresamun handed him a waterskin. He sloshed its contents over Istara's wound, rinsing away the worst of the mud and blood, complaining about the lack of light. Meresamun brought the torch nearer. Under its flickering light, he began the painstaking work of sewing up Istara's hand.

Sethi left Ity to his work. He turned to Naram, waiting to give him the vanguard's report. Thirty men injured. Twelve dead. Sethi cursed, sending messages down the line, telling his captains to take a defensive stance, praying there would be no more attacks. Ahmen approached.

"You might want to see this." He held out a dagger.

Sethi took it, turning it over in his hand, curious. He stopped and lifted it to the torchlight. The pommel bore the sigil of the House of Kadesh. He glanced at Ahmen, perplexed.

"The man who carried it," said Ahmen. "I know him."

Sethi waited. Below, Ity worked on, complaining, irritable. The horses shifted, and the chariot moved. Ity slapped his hand against the chariot's floor, bellowing with frustration.

"He was the Commander of Kadesh's army," Ahmen continued. "Hasurna. I brought him up from the plateau before the hyenas took him."

Sethi blinked. He handed the dagger back. "So it was a rescue attempt, using barbarians against the vanguard to draw us away from her. It seems the Prince of Hatti intends to attack us after all."

"I am not so certain," Ahmen answered, "if they were meant to rescue her, why did she end up like this? And, as one of them fell, I heard the cry, 'Protect Istara'. There was also this, tucked into Hasurna's belt, if you can read Akkadian."

"Just."

Ahmen handed a folded piece of papyrus to him. Sethi opened it and looked it over. It was an order to provide Hasurna with temple gold, in the name of Rhoha, Queen of Kadesh.

"Rhoha?" he asked, puzzled. "Who is she in all of this?"

Ahmen shrugged, taking back the note. "I have no idea."

"A question for Lord Paser then. Search all of the dead. Save anything which might interest him."

Ahmen pressed his fist to his chest and left. Deep in thought, Sethi turned his attention back to Istara, lying limp within the box, her ruined gown and awkward posture reminding him of a filthy, broken doll he had once found in the gutters of Pi-Ramesses. Ity tied off the linen bandage. Despite the sutures, blood continued to seep through the linens. He felt for her pulse. It took him a long time. He looked up, his mouth curving downward.

"Pray."

❃

The disk of Re-Atum's barque had just lifted from the horizon as the last of Pre's rearguard filed out of the forest onto the plain. From his position atop a low hillock, Sethi breathed a prayer of thanks. The worst of the march was behind them. On this side of Amka, they were in lands loyal to Egypt. There would be no more forests, just rolling grasslands, giving way to the desert. He breathed in, savoring the clear, clean air. Calling to his horses, he drove them down the hill and made his way through the camp, his thoughts returning to the woman in his tent, praying his sacrifice might protect her, for just a little longer.

The heat hit Sethi like a wall. Beside Istara's pallet, the brazier burned red hot. He knelt beside her, astonished by how small and frail she looked. She lay very still, her skin almost transparent, her breathing so faint, he wasn't sure she still lived. He touched her cheek. Her skin felt as cold as stone. Ity began to pack away his things. Sethi turned to him.

"You are giving up?"

Ity looked up at him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. "My lord, I am no sorcerer. There is nothing more I can do. She is nearing her end."

Blinking hard, Sethi took hold of her face and pressed his forehead against hers, the act of a lover. "Fight this," he whispered to her, willing her to hear him. "Come back."

Ity cleared his throat, uneasy. "Commander . . . ?"

Sethi pulled back, resentful, leaving Istara alone and vulnerable on her pallet. Ignoring Ity's disapproving look, Sethi tucked her hand into his.

She shuddered. Ity darted to her, listening for her heartbeat. He sat up, shaking his head, resigned. Her body flattened, her ka slipping free. Sethi choked, disbelieving. The gods were taking her after all.

❃

Istara woke inside a bleak, empty hall, the walls, floor, and ceiling constructed of massive ashlars of stone, the smallest of them at least twice her height. Ahead, torches flickered alight, their flames--a cold, pale blue--guided her to a corridor. Led by the light of the cerulean flames, she came to a wooden door. She pushed it open, and found another silent room, cast in the same cold blue light, empty save for a massive stone plinth rising out of the ashlar beneath. Atop it sat a crude wooden cage, its door closed.

She peered inside. A heart lay on the rough slats, beating still. Curious, she tugged on the cage's door, but it was locked. In the shadows, she sensed movement. She looked up, dread tingling through her. A man stepped toward her, taller than Sethi, his body lean and powerful, every muscle defined. On his chest, beautiful golden markings rotated and reformed into new patterns, endlessly. Around his hips, a resplendent kilt, and on his upper and lower arms, thick golden bands. He took another step and left the shadows. Istara gasped, stifling a cry. His was not the head of a human, but a falcon's. She gaped at him, horrified.

Tilting his head, he fixed an unblinking eye on her, expressionless. His hand came to rest on the top of the cage. He spoke, his voice beautiful, deep, resonating. She stared at him. His beak did not move. Instead, his words filled her mind.

Istara, daughter of Amunira, I am Horus. You have arrived at the threshold of the immortal realm. Though your heart has traveled this far, your body still lingers in the mortal realm, and until it expires, you may not pass. As we wait for your body to give up its last breath, I shall tell you of a great and noble sacrifice.

The heart locked within this cage belongs to me, it was left here by a mortal man, in return for saving the life of a woman he loved. This was no small surrendering, but a terrible one, for without this heart, he cannot make the journey to his judgment or experience the immortal realm. No, when this man dies, he will cease to exist, returning to nothingness, becoming void. It is the rarest of sacrifices, one the gods have not seen in an eon. Istara, when you lay dying of fever four nights ago, Sethi gave up his eternal soul in return for your life.

Stunned, she gazed at the heart, beating in its cold, bare cage. Sethi's heart. She longed to touch it, to hold it against her own. His secret, hidden sacrifice. He loved her more than any man ever could. She trailed her fingers against the bars.

"And now," she whispered, stricken, "I am dying again."

Horus tilted his head to look at the heart, his movement aloof, detached.

He knew the risk he took, making such a sacrifice. There is no certainty in the mortal realm, though it is unfortunate for him to have yielded so little from such a great loss. Those of us in the immortal realm are not beyond feeling pity for him. It is why I have joined you here, while you wait. You should know what this man gave up for you; he deserves at least this much. Come, your last breath draws near. It is time for you to enter the immortal realm. Your goddess, my consort, awaits.

The air split, as though sliced by a blade. The rent shimmered, pulling apart, opening, stretching until the space was the height and width of a large door. On the other side, in a place of glittering radiance, stood Baalat, just as Istara remembered her from her dream as a child. Baalat stepped through the impossible doorway and joined them in the cold, blue chamber, stars of light cascading down the length of her gown in an endless stream. Her lips curved into a gentle smile. She lifted her hand to Istara.

Daughter of my heart, you are welcome to join me in the immortal realm, where your loved ones await.

Drawn by the goddess's enigmatic presence, Istara moved out from behind the plinth and walked toward the flattened, sundered space. She leaned forward, hesitant, and peered into it. Strange creatures progressed past the doorway, men with eagle's wings and heads; a creature with the body of a lion, the head of an ox and the tail of a scorpion. There were others too, even stranger beings, diminishing in size with distance.

Her father stepped into view, whole and strong, he smiled and beckoned to her to join him. Anash came and sat at his feet. Istara cried out, tears springing into her eyes. She stepped closer. Her mother arrived, her eyes warm and full of joy, holding out her hands to her daughter. Longing to join her family, Istara moved closer.

At the doorway's threshold, a cutting sensation flowed through her. She felt the weight of unseen bonds falling away, liberating her from a prison she had never realized caged her. The connection to her mortal life diminished. The solidness of her previous existence dissipated, sliding into nothingness. She looked down, the edges of her body smeared, lengthening, stretching, drawn to the glittering light of the immortal realm.

A tug, sudden and sharp pulled on her, so strong her body slid back into its shape, quivering, unstable, its edges blurring. Something clung to her, refusing to be cut away. She searched. There, a tendril. She grasped onto it and followed it. Behind her.

The pull from the doorway increased, insistent. She heard Baalat murmuring, pleading. What was she saying? Istara couldn't make out the words. Horus's voice rose, angry, sharp. Were they arguing? Hurry. Turn around.

Straining against the doorway's drag, Istara turned with agonizing slowness. Blood pumped from Sethi's heart and slid, blue-black, down the plinth toward her. She reached out to touch it. Horus shouted. Baalat cried out, begging him to stop. Horus's hands pressed against Istara's shoulders, shoving her toward the doorway. Istara closed her eyes, straining against his weight, her fingertips sweeping downward. She touched the blood. Sethi. A thousand memories washed over her, memories they had shared, and ones yet to come, going on through eternity. Her bonds returned, clamping over her, locking her back into the prison of mortality. The doorway wavered, its pull ceased.

She fell to her knees. Baalat came to her. Istara lifted up her fingers, stained with Sethi's blood.

"Take my heart," she breathed. "I must go back."

Baalat's fingers touched her forehead.

Darkness.