Quiet sounds broke into Istara's awareness. She sat up, her head aching. On the other side of the hanging, Meresamun sank onto her pallet, huddled into herself and wept, quiet.

"Meresamun?" Istara pushed aside the linen hanging.

"Forgive me," Meresamun answered, brushing the tears from her eyes, "I have disturbed your sleep."

"Are you hurt?" Istara asked, moving closer.

"No." A tear escaped.

"Yet you come back from a night spent in the commander's tent grieving," Istara said, eyeing Meresamun, disbelieving. "I can end this. He has no right to take you. You are my companion, not his."

"He has the right," Meresamun whispered, looking at her feet. "I agreed to this arrangement before I became your companion. It is my own heart which causes my suffering, not the actions of the commander."

"Why?" Istara demanded. "You had the armbands. There is no reason for you to become his concubine, unless--" a stab of jealousy lanced into her, irrational, "--you wished to share his pallet?"

"The armbands were stolen while I slept," Meresamun pleaded. "I am not a paid follower. Telling stories is the only way I can eat. After the battle, no one wanted to hear them. I was starving. He gave me food."

Istara huffed. What was it with Sethi and food? "And what of Lord Ahmen?" she pressed, relentless, even as Meresamun flinched. "How could you lie with another when you claim your heart belongs to him?"

"I beg you," Meresamun cried out, anguished, "do not remind me of it. My burden of shame is great enough as it is."

Istara relented, silenced by Meresamun's stricken look. Her headache worsening, she sank onto the pallet. The noise of the breaking camp drew nearer: men shouted, horses whinnied, poles and ropes thudded onto the backs of carts. Each noise felt like a blow to her head. She rubbed her temples, seeking to ease the pain. It didn't help.

"When I am with the commander," Meresamun murmured, running her fingers along the faint pleats of her gown, seeking to bring them back together, "I cannot help but relive my time with Ahmen. It is why I grieve."

"And yet you left Ahmen before he woke," Istara pointed out, irritable, "when you could have remained."

Meresamun's gaze turned inward. "We like to believe we have some measure of control over who we love," she said, soft, resigned. "But the heart goes where it will, and once it chooses we have no choice but to follow or stay away from the one it is crying out for."

Close by, a deafening crash, followed by a colorful string of oaths. Istara winced, pressing her fingers to her brow as Meresamun continued, "Should I have stayed with Ahmen, everything I have endured so far would have been for nothing. I must stay true to my path and return to Babylon, unless--"

Istara ceased massaging her temples. She waited. The silence stretched, taut. Even the camp fell quiet, as though it too waited for Meresamun to finish. Her companion shook her head. "I am selfish," she said, glancing at Istara, "speaking of this when you have much greater burdens to bear."

For a heartbeat, the pain in Istara's head subsided. Freed of its grip, her resentment and irritation melted away. She knew nothing of Meresamun's life; she should not judge. She squeezed her companion's hand, her thoughts drifting back to Meresamun's philosophy of the heart. A fresh onslaught of pain tore through her skull, sharp as a dagger's blade.

"Why does Sethi use you in my place?" she blurted, reckless, in its wake.

Meresamun's eyes widened. "I . . . "

The pain worsened. Istara stumbled back to her pallet. Memories overlapped and tangled: Sethi's dagger at her throat, his blade biting into her skin. His arms around her, warming her, his lips against her brow, tender. His back to her, telling her his orders are to protect her, nothing more. Another stab of pain. The images scattered. She lay down. Meresamun leaned over, her blue eyes filled with concern. Istara waved her away. It was only a headache.

Sleep called. Exhausted, Istara answered.

❃

Ahmen kicked out the remains of his campfire. Pre-dawn darkness closed in on him, claustrophobic. He could delay no longer. He stepped into his chariot and called to his horses, steering them across the plateau to Pre's breaking camp, the tension in his jaw increasing as he neared the fulfillment of his humiliation.

He turned the horses into the camp, ignoring the astonished stares of Pre's soldiers. Deep in the night, staring into the embers of his campfire he had resigned himself to his demotion. In Pi-Ramesses, he would have his answers. Until then, whatever he had to face, he was determined to face with dignity.

He pulled up outside the command tent and approached the soldiers standing guard. Their eyes widening in recognition, they pressed their fists to their chests. He caught them exchanging a cautious look as one of them disappeared into the tent.

Resting his hands on his weapons' hilts, Ahmen waited, aloof, disregarding the curious looks of the nearby soldiers dismantling the camp. The guard reappeared and held the tent's flap open. Ahmen ducked in. Sethi stood at a table, alone, sorting through a pile of maps. He selected one and considered it. After several heartbeats, he set it aside and looked at Ahmen, his expression unreadable.

"Lord Ahmen-om-onet. Pre welcomes you."

"Lord Commander Sethi," Ahmen answered, reaching into his pouch, "I carry a command from the pharaoh. It affects both of us." He held it out.

Sethi took it and scanned the terse message. He blinked and read it a second time. After a brief, thick silence, he passed it back. "The Commander of Pre is honored to have the Lord Ahmen's assistance in this matter," he said, turning back to his map, brusque, efficient. "I will advise my men of the change in plans. You will drive on my right side, Naram will move to my left."

His fist to his chest, Ahmen acknowledged his orders, knowing nothing more would be said on the matter, not now, not ever.

In the distance, horns began to blow. Sethi gathered up the sheaves of papyri and stuffed them into a leather satchel. He slung it across his chest just as heavy raindrops began to slap against the tent's roof. He cast a dark look at the tent's ceiling.

"At least Pre will already be soaking wet before we must ford the river," he said with a bitter smile. "The Hittite gods are kind to us, are they not?"

He departed, leaving Ahmen, alone and unsmiling in the guttering light of a solitary lamp. He went to it and blew it out.

❃

Deafened by the roar of the pounding rain, Meresamun unlaced the ties of her cloak and lay it over Istara's shoulders. Pushing Istara's resisting hands down, she pointed at the tent's flap, mouthing the words: going out. Istara nodded, her eyes dull, and huddled deeper into the cloaks.

Meresamun pulled back the flap and peered into the dense, gray light, barely able to make out the shape of several chariots lined up, their torches smoking, extinguished by the rain. Taking a deep breath, she pushed out into the downpour. Fat, cold drops splattered against her, soaking through her gown, plastering her hair against her skull, pounding down on her so hard she could barely see. Wrapping her arms around herself, she bolted across the center of the camp, shivering, her sandals slipping in the mud, and burst into the command tent. It lay dark and deserted. She cried out, frustrated, and plunged back into the rain, darting between the chariots, searching amongst the chaos, calling Sethi's name until her throat hurt. In a little clearing, she came to a halt and turned around, clamping her teeth together to keep them from chattering.

There. A little distance away, a lone chariot stood ready and waiting. She pushed the rain from her eyes and glimpsed the shape of a man standing with his back to her, holding the horses by their bridles. Perhaps he would know where Sethi was. She began picking her way over to him when someone caught hold of her arm. She turned. Sethi towered over her, rain sluicing off him.

"I heard you calling--where is your cloak?" He drew her against him. She huddled against his warmth, letting him shield her from the rain. "What brings you out here into this? Is Istara--"

"She needs a surgeon," Meresamun interrupted, the rain running down her face, blinding her. "She has fallen ill."

He glanced in the direction of Istara's tent, blinking the rain from his eyes. He nodded. "I will send my surgeon. Go back and wait for him." He turned and strode across the mud to the man standing with his horses. "Lord Ahmen," he bellowed into the roar of the rain, "come with me. There is a change of plans."

Meresamun staggered. It couldn't be. Ahmen was with the pharaoh, a day's march ahead. He couldn't be here. It was impossible, unthinkable--she turned, her heart clenching so tight she couldn't breathe. His head lifted. He turned the horses, his movements precise, meticulous, even in the pouring rain. Ahmen. Her heart jolted back to life. Hesitant, she stepped forward, hoping, fearing, willing him to turn, just enough to see her standing there.

He glanced back, his gaze moving toward her. Sethi passed him, gesturing him forward. Ahmen tugged on the horses' bridles and followed after Sethi, disappearing into the torrential rain. She cried out, devastated, and sank to her knees. Cold mud seeped into her gown and clung to her legs. Strong hands hauled her up. A soldier peered down at her; asked if she needed help.

She pulled free of his grip and ran, unseeing, back to Istara's tent, stumbling over stacks of wet supplies, her heart spiraling into darkness. Ahmen had looked at her, she was certain of it. Even through the pouring rain, she had felt his eyes on her. But he had turned away. Her thoughts tumbled, chaotic. What if he had learned she was with Pre and had come for her, only to discover her huddled together with Sethi in the rain? Riven with self-loathing, she heaped curses onto herself. No matter what she did, she always did wrong.

Outside Istara's tent, she let the cold rain pummel her, feeling nothing. Despite all she had done to reconcile herself to the goddess, enduring months of suffering, hunger, fear, and uncertainty--waiting, hoping and praying for her absolution--Sekhmet was determined to make her suffer to the very end. A vengeful goddess, impossible to appease, she had sent Ahmen to Pre, to torment Meresamun. Despair overwhelmed her. It was over. Ahmen had found her, but he no longer wanted her. Her heart closed over, tight, raw, aching. The last of her hope died, leaving her empty, lost, adrift in deafening silence.

A thin man approached, clutching a surgeon's satchel against his chest. "My lady," he said, blinking the rain from his eyes, taking in her disheveled state, "I am Ity, Chief Surgeon to the Division of Pre. I have been sent by the commander to attend Lady Istara."

Numb, Meresamun led him inside. Istara lay curled on the bench, dozing. He shook her shoulder. "Lady Istara, can you hear me?" She did not respond. He turned to Meresamun. "What ails her?"

"Head pain," Meresamun answered, vague. He tilted his head, waiting for her to elaborate. "She has not eaten for some time," she offered. He continued to wait. She searched her memory for anything else she could tell him. "Lord Sethi mentioned she was drugged?"

He nodded, finally satisfied. "With opium?" he asked as he poked through his satchel. He looked up, impatient.

Meresamun shrugged, helpless. She didn't know.

He huffed, not troubling to hide his annoyance as he rummaged through his things. Pulling out a stone vial, he measured out a dose of opium and rubbed the dense liquid onto Istara's gums. "I suspect the pain is an artifact of the drugging," he said over the steady thrum of the rain. "Tell the commander what she needs is rest. A blind man can see she is exhausted." He stood up, eyeing Istara as her breathing deepened. "At least she will be free of pain for a while. When she wakes, she should feel better. If not, send for me, and I will see what I can do."

Meresamun knelt as he left, watching Istara's features soften as the opium took effect. Her thoughts turned back to Ahmen. Fresh tears filled her eyes as the downpour subsided, easing to a gentle patter. Sethi pushed under the flap, abrupt, startling her. Damp, cold air followed in his wake. Expressionless, he looked over Istara, slumped on the bench, swaddled in cloaks.

"Is she ready to be taken to the chariot?" he asked, terse.

Meresamun came to her feet, hurrying to wipe her tears away. "The princess will not be carried on a litter?"

"Not this close to Kadesh," Sethi replied. "We have devised a harness for her within the box. She will ride seated on its floor, fastened to the box's side."

"You would tether her in like a goat?" Meresamun asked, sudden dread clawing at her. "My lord, she is Hatti's queen-in-waiting. What of the river crossing? Her gods--"

"I know well enough who she is," Sethi cut her off, sharp. "It pleases me no more than you, but I am oath-bound to keep her alive. I pray her gods will forgive me for the crime I am about to commit." He knelt and gathered Istara into his arms. Meresamun followed him, fretting, distressed by his sacrilege.

Using his bulk to shelter Istara from the soft rain, he carried her to his chariot and settled her inside it. From out of the heavy mist, the faint outline of another soldier materialized beside the pair. He knelt and held Istara in place while Sethi tied the harness's leather straps around her torso and shoulders. Finished their work, they rose and clasped forearms. Sethi departed. The soldier stepped into the chariot and wrapped the reins around his arms, quick and efficient.

Meresamun stepped out of the tent, confused. Sethi had said he would carry Istara, would not burden another with the responsibility. She moved closer, struggling to see through the murk, only able to make out the shape of the soldier as he called to the horses, turning them in a tight circle. A sharp gust of cold wind lanced through her wet gown. She shivered as he drove toward her. The fog thinned. The soldier looked at her. Her heart juddered. Ahmen.

The horses came to a standstill. He stood motionless, staring at her, shocked. Clarity poured into her. Ahmen had come to Pre for Istara. Out of all the men who could have been chosen to carry her to Pi-Ramesses, the pharaoh had sent Ahmen. Who else but the goddess could have moved the pharaoh's mind to make such a choice? Hope exploded in her breast, blossoming, spiraling outward, her dark, bleak world brightening, filling with color. Her heart pounding, she waited, not even daring to breathe.

Ahmen's lips moved. She read her name on them. He tore at his arms. The reins fell away, thudding against the chariot, startling the horses. Never taking his eyes from her, he crossed the rest of the distance between them, staggering to a halt just out of her reach. He gazed at her, drinking in the sight of her.

"Meresamun," he breathed, his voice cracking with disbelief. "You live."

She cried out, shuddering with relief, holding her hands out to him. It was over. Ahmen had found her. She had atoned. He took hold of her, his mouth falling onto hers, devouring her, reclaiming her as his own. Tearing his lips from hers, he gazed down at her, intense, possessive. Tears burned in his eyes.

"Come back to me," he said, tight, "and swear never to leave me again."

"I swear it," Meresamun breathed, her legs weakening as he groaned and pulled her against him, fierce; kissing her brow, her face, her eyes. She clung to him and wept, crying out his name, her heart bursting with joy, even as he kissed her tears away.