Alone in the rooftop garden of the palace, Istara watched the last of the Egyptian army march into Labwi Wood. They left the meadow a hardened, dusty wasteland blackened by the scars of hundreds of fire pits. She had loved that meadow. Every summer it hummed with fat bees and butterflies kissing the riot of wildflowers. She used to go down and watch them. Now, it was ruined.

She thought of all the friends she had lost, her father's old dog, who was too old to hunt, but often came to sleep beside her bed, and Mada, with her beautiful litter of kittens. Who could kill kittens, and eat them? A tear slipped free as Istara thought of Kuma. She had loved her pony so much. And now all of them were dead, and for what?

For a dull stone stela to be put up within the palace square, forever claiming Kadesh as a vassal of Pharaoh Seti, Blessed of Re. It was just a rock. Why did they all have to go hungry and eat their friends, for a rock? None of it made sense. Whenever she brought it up, those around her changed the subject; even her Aunt Rhoha, who wasn't afraid of anything, or anyone.

One good thing happened, though. The Egyptians had left provisions, bags of grain, and corn-probably stolen, Istara had heard someone mutter-and they had been respectful, even if she couldn't understand anything they were saying. So, now, just like before they came, the smell of roasting meat and baking bread filled the palace kitchens, and from the farms, food poured into the city.

A week passed. A caravan of horse traders arrived. Istara's mother came to her, smiling, saying someone was waiting for her in the stables. Istara ran as fast as she could to the stable yard. There, in Kuma's empty stall, a new white pony whickered, her muzzle soft as down. Istara named her Saharu, and promised her no one would ever eat her so long as she lived. But this time, just in case, Istara decided not to love her pony quite as much.

Two more weeks passed, and summer reached its height. Apart from the desolation of the meadow, the memory of the Egyptian siege began to fade. Istara realized she was happy again, just as her mother promised they would be.

❃

Four days later, as Istara dozed in the shade of an almond tree during the hottest part of a broiling afternoon, the sound of horns echoed across the walls of the city, just like the ones she had heard in the spring. She sat up, alarmed. Horns were bad. Already, gardeners, servants, and guards crowded along the terrace wall, shading their eyes against the glare of the sun, murmuring, fearful.

Her heart pounding, she pushed her way through, trying to see. The wind gusted, hot and dry, making the purple flags on the walls snap and buckle, sharp against the quiet air. The horns blasted again. She caught a glimpse of movement, far to the north, beyond the cedar wood.

Rising on her toes, she squinted into the distance, her hair billowing around her, catching in the wind. Impatient, she gathered it together and twisted it into a rope. There, a gleam. Her attention snapped back to the north. She searched the heat haze. Was that the faint pounding of drumbeats?

Her eyes burning, she waited, begrudging even the need to blink. The horizon shimmered, a liquid wall of silver, shifting, moving, deceiving. Something dark coalesced within the viscous surface. From its depths, four black horses, peacock plumes atop their bridles, stepped through as though arriving from the immortal realm. Behind them, standing proud in his chariot, the reins wrapped around his powerful arms, a man emerged with the bearing of a god, his golden armor gleaming white in the burning light. On his back he wore a sword, its massive hilt rising above his shoulder. The chariots of two more men appeared, one man almost the same age, the other much younger. And behind them, from out of the impossible wall of nothing, a host of thousands followed, lines upon lines of chariots, streaming onto the northern plain.

Muwatallis, the King of Hatti, had finally arrived.