A cold, blue chamber. Sethi's heart, bleeding. An impossible portal. Her father, beckoning her to join him. Horus and Baalat, arguing. The light, burning her, blinding her.

Istara stirred. The crackle of burning fuel, the rich scent of frankincense. Sethi beside her, snoring, soft. She opened her eyes, cautious. The light did not hurt as much. She peered into the murk. Was that the outline of the table? And there, Sethi's chair?

Sethi turned onto his side. His hand went to her waist, pulling her to him, his grip strong, even in sleep. He settled her in his embrace. She let him. In his arms, she listened to his breathing, deep and even, and to the beating of his heart, steady and strong, somehow existing in two places at once: within him, and locked within a wooden cage, possessed by Horus. She pressed her palm against his chest, savoring the heavy thud of his heart, thinking of his sacrifice, made without her knowing. Without asking for anything in return.

Sethi's breathing changed, he stirred, waking. He touched her cheek, gentle, a caress. "Can you see me?"

Against his shoulder, Istara shook her head.

"Perhaps your sight will return in time," he murmured. "You have suffered much."

"I died," she said. "I should not be here at all."

Silence. She sensed he was waiting for her to continue, to explain. She couldn't, not yet. Pushing herself away from him, she sat up. The quiet stretched, thick, uncertain.

He cleared his throat. "It is going to be difficult to explain how you are alive and whole again. Ity declared you dead."

"Clearly, he was mistaken," she said, wry. When he said nothing, she continued, "In my eleventh year, my surrogate mother, the Queen of Hatti, fell into a deep sleep. Her heartbeats and breaths came so far apart, it seemed certain she was dead, but she was not. She returned, as I have. Tell him that."

Sethi made a sound of approval. "I will. However, your vanished injuries will be less easy to explain. Give me your hand. Not that one. The other one."

He wrapped the linens back around it, pulling them tight. A soft hiss, as he drew his dagger from its sheath. A quiet grunt. He took her hand again, and the warmth of his blood spread onto the linens. He moved to her legs and bound them with neat, precise movements.

"Will you tell me what happened while you were gone?" he asked, quiet, as he cleaned his dagger and slid it back into its sheath.

She drew her knees up to her chest. He deserved to know, after all he had done for her. "There was a chamber," she began, hesitant, "lit by blue flames. A man with a falcon's head met me--"

"Horus." Sethi breathed the name, reverent.

"Yes. An intimidating god," Istara remarked, thinking of Horus's powerful bearing, his baleful gaze. When Sethi remained silent, she continued, "A doorway opened in the air, an impossible thing, leading to another realm. Lady Baalat stepped through and invited me to join her there. Within were strange creatures, some I could recognize, parts of at least, the others . . . no, I don't know what they were."

He touched her hand. "And then?"

"I saw my father," she whispered, her heart clenching at the memory, "whole and strong. He beckoned to me. I longed to go to him. As I drew nearer to the door, I felt as though invisible bonds were coming free, releasing me from my body. It was a wonderful feeling. I became blurry, luminous, I was--"

"A doorway?" Sethi interrupted, perplexed. "Where was the Hall of Truth, the scales for weighing the feather against the heart?"

Istara shrugged. "Perhaps it is different for Egyptians. Although it was not what I expected either."

"But you did not pass through the doorway?"

"No."

A heartbeat of quiet. "Why not?" he asked, soft.

"Your heart bled," she said, blunt. "It called to me. It brought me back."

He said nothing.

"Why did you do it?" she demanded, harsh, suddenly angry and resentful. "Why would you do such a thing?"

Silence. Then, the rasp of his hand moving against his unshaven scalp. "I could not bear to lose you," he finally said, low. "It is something I am unable to explain--but there it is, it is what I have done. I regret nothing." His hand closed over hers. "I can no longer pretend I do not have deep feelings for you, not after this, when you know all. But you must understand we can never be. You are forbidden to me."

"You gave up your heart so I could belong to another man?" she asked, incredulous.

He scoffed, bitter. "When you say it like that--" he fell silent for a beat. "No. I gave up my heart for you, and only for you. You were dying. I needed you to live."

She pulled her hand out from under his. "War might have thrown us together, and I will not deny our attraction, but we know almost nothing of each other. Anyone looking from without would think your act insane."

He laughed, hollow. "Perhaps I am."

She sensed his hesitation. There was more. She held herself still, waiting.

"I have been dreaming of you," he continued, wary. "The same dream for thirteen years. All this time I have been waiting for you, searching for you. And now I have found you--"

She closed her eyes, the crushing weight of his confession and their complex, entwined destinies oppressive, suffocating her. "What . . . kind of dream?"

He took her hand again and kissed her palm, slow. She shivered.

"A vision, of a terrible battle, of fire, and you in the middle of it, in a ruined gown, wearing jewels, searching for me. To close the distance between us I must fight, hard, more than I have ever done, and just as I am about to reach you--" He kissed her palm again. "At least now, I know how I will die."

She shivered again, feeling the sudden burden of eternity pressing down on her. Her skin prickled, prescience enveloping her as she sensed distant destinies--glimpsing impossible cities, flying barques, wars, devastation, retreat, silence, renewal--the goddess's memories stirring within her. The significance of it incomprehensible, enormous, terrifying--

"You gave me your food once," she said, desperate to divert herself from her frightening thoughts. "I was starving. You gave me all of your rations."

"I doubt that," he murmured. "You were a princess in Kadesh. How could I ever--"

He fell silent. She could almost hear his thoughts organizing, the pieces falling together. "The sanctuary. You were that waif?"

She smiled, despite herself. "I was."

"I had my first dream that night." He shuddered. "But you were only a child. What madness is this?"

Istara reached out to still his hand, rubbing against his scalp again, agitated. "You are not alone in this. I had a vision too, of the night I spent sewing you back together after the battle. I now realize I spent most of my life learning to be a surgeon just so I could tend your injuries. A promise I made to Baalat, to save someone I loved."

She could feel him staring at her. "Who?" he asked.

"My surrogate mother, Tanu-Hepa, when she fell into the deep sleep," Istara admitted, quiet. "Baalat came to me in a dream and offered to save the queen if I learned to be a healer. I was desperate, so I agreed. Tanu-Hepa lived."

"So Baalat planned this--" he paused. Unease seeped from him. "How did you get back?" he asked, suspicious.

"Baalat returned me," Istara replied, her throat tightening as a fresh wave of guilt slammed into her. "She gave up her immortal light. All of it."

Sethi remained silent, brooding. "Horus tried to stop her," Istara blundered on, speaking without thinking, "I can sense her within me, her memories, her fears. When I die, she will die."

Sethi cried out, anguished, and lunged to his feet. He stumbled to the table. Items scattered, rolling away; thudding onto the rug. The sound of wine pouring, him drinking, noisy, gulping. He came back and put a cup in her hands. She sipped, grateful.

"I know our destinies are decided by the gods," he said, ragged, "but to be aware of them moving us toward a place of their choosing, it is oppressive." He shuddered. "I would do anything to feel as though my choices are my own again."

She looked up at him, though she could see nothing but shadows against the light. "For women," she said, unable to keep the reproach from her voice, "most of our choices are never our own."

"And that is a wrong I have long believed should be remedied," he said, terse. He took the empty cup from her and set it aside. "I came from nothing. No blood, no family, no wealth. I made my way as a street fighter, believing my abilities, determination, and decisions were my own. But now I wonder if my rise to power, my successes, even my sacrifice to save you--were they my choices at all? What if I am merely following a fixed path, already decided?"

"They were your choices," Istara insisted, troubled by the sudden uncertainty in his voice. "The gods may guide our way, but we choose our path. I could have decided not to learn the art of healing, could have refused to warn Ramesses. I chose those paths. Because I chose to return to you, Baalat will die. Despite knowing the cost, she still offered me the choice."

"I am just a soldier," Sethi finally said after a long, heavy silence, "a man of the present. I only know this--" he pulled her against him, embracing her, "--you are here, alive, the woman of my dreams." He let her go, abrupt. "A woman I can never have."

She thought she understood. "Because of Urhi-Teshub?"

He scoffed. "I would it was only that. No," he continued, his voice dark, "Ramesses intends to take you for himself."

"He cannot," she protested, rising to her feet, panicking, fear lancing into her, sharp, "Even if I have run away from him, I am still Urhi-Teshub's wife. Unless . . . has he--?" She couldn't finish the question. Perhaps Nefertari had killed him, after all.

"Your husband has not fallen," Sethi said, terse. "He has agreed to ensure Egypt's safe retreat, with your life cast as the bargaining chip. But even if he holds to his end, you will not be returned to him. Ramesses intends to claim you as compensation for Muwatallis's crimes. You will be the next Queen of Egypt, Ramesses's third wife. I will only be able to see you from a distance, if at all."

She staggered. Sethi caught her and pulled her back down beside him. She closed her eyes, Baalat's voice filling her mind. So I ask you: do you still wish to return, risking such uncertainty? Where you might be forced to endure a life you will not be able to escape, except through death? Baalat knew. Everything. Why did she let her return? Why would she give up her immortality if Istara's life was to be spent as Ramesses's unwilling queen? None of it made sense. Sethi stroked her hair, gentle.

"Istara?"

She lay on her back and stared into nothingness. A piece, moved once more. When would it end?

"How long until we arrive?" she asked, tight.

He lay down on his side, facing her. She could just make out his eyes, dark black with kohl.

"Twenty-five days," he answered, quiet.

"Then grant me those days," she whispered, angry, resentful, reckless. "Do not let me have returned for nothing."

He moved over her and touched his brow to hers, the caress of a lover. "I cannot know you. The risk is too great."

She reached up and touched his jaw. "Then love me without knowing me. Let us at least have this. Sethi--"

He didn't let her finish. His mouth covered hers, silencing her, his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her head, just as she had dreamed he would. She clung to him. He whispered her name, and she sighed. It was worth it, all of it. In his arms, she was complete.