Wrapping the reins around his arms, Sethi watched Ahmen and Meresamun, realizing far too late she was the woman Ramesses had been seeking the year before. Though he suspected neither Meresamun or his men would say anything of their arrangement, his instincts prickled. Ramesses had been searching for her. Blue eyes. He cursed. How could he have forgotten? There would be trouble ahead for him, he was certain.

Meresamun laughed, a clear, melodious sound, its perfection defying the dismal reality of their surroundings. A nearby knot of soldiers turned. In a heartbeat, they were cheering, clapping, and laughing too. Sethi felt his lips quirk, caught by the contagion, though he suppressed his smile. He belonged to no part of this.

He called to his horses and drove past Ahmen's chariot. Istara had woken. He tilted his head in greeting, but she did not see him. A distant look filled her eyes as she listened to Meresamun's laughter, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. He drove on as she slipped back into the realm of dreams; her smile lingering on, a lodestone to his soul.

❃

An hour into the march, just past the wretched slope where Sethi had lost half his division, heavy clouds rolled in from the west and gathered in thick layers above Pre. Rain began to fall once more, increasing in intensity until it fell in blinding, punishing sheets. Cold and sharp, it pounded down on him, sluicing out of his chariot, slapping against the mud. He glanced back at his men, trudging, stoic, ankle-deep in the black mire, using their spears to keep their footing.

Angling his head against the downpour, he called encouragement to his struggling horses, giving them their heads as they strained against the heavy drag of the mud. To either side of him, Ahmen and Naram kept pace, their jaws clenched, grim. Within Naram's chariot, Meresamun stood pale and shivering, gripping the top of the chariot's box as it lurched from side to side through the road's muddy furrows. Blinking the water out of his eyes, Sethi caught a glimpse of Istara, weighed down by her drenched cloaks; her hair plastered to her head, her slight frame hanging pale and limp in the harness. Cursing the rain, he pushed on, longing with all his heart to be free of Hatti's hostile, accursed land.

Four hours after leaving Kadesh, at the time of day when Egyptians at home would be sitting down to their mid-morning meal, the vanguard of Pre reached the river's ford at Shabtuna. Sethi pulled his horses to a halt, grateful the rain had finally ceased. A cool wind rose, and the clouds parted, offering tantalizing glimpses of blue sky. Sethi eyed the river crossing, wary, its swollen waters strung with two half-submerged sets of ropes stretching from the near bank to its opposite, marking out the boundaries of the ford's shallows. He glanced at the sky, watching the clouds as they parted and gathered anew, caught in the strengthening breeze. Muttering a prayer for the rain to hold off until Pre was through, he turned to Naram and gave the orders to begin.

❃

Istara dreamed. Fractured memories bled into each other, disjointed and chaotic. A new dream began, vivid. She walked beside the moat of Kadesh, plucking flowers from its edge. From within the moat, a water lily beckoned. She stretched out to retrieve it. A rough push from behind by someone unseen. With a frightened cry, she tumbled into the moat, the weight of her gown and cloak dragging her down into its cold, dark depths. She struggled, sinking deeper into the inky darkness, helpless within the confines of her tangled cloak. Terror seized her. She screamed. Water, cold and brackish, poured into her mouth.

She woke, choking, submerged up to her neck in freezing water. The cloaks, wrapped tight around her, confined her. Panicking, she scrabbled within them, trying to tear them off. A man bellowed, but she could not make out the words, the roar of the rushing water deafening. A grip tightened on her, pinioning her legs and chest against a solid mass, hurting her. The one who had pushed her in to the moat, her mind cried, the one who was trying to drown her. She struggled to escape, throwing all her weight against her oppressor. He stumbled and she broke free, her cloaks billowing around her, tangling in her arms and legs, pulling her under the water. She surfaced, seeing the horrified faces of the soldiers as she tumbled away from their outstretched hands; realizing her grave mistake as her fingers slipped free of the ford's slimy rope. She flailed within her cloaks, struggling to stay afloat as the current caught her and swept her away.

She sped downstream, surges of brackish water plowing into her, buffeting her. Along the banks, soldiers raced ahead, stumbling over rocks, searching for a way to halt her progress. Caught in an eddy, she spun around. Sethi swam toward her with sharp, powerful strokes. He snatched at her cloak once, twice, the third time he caught its hem, yanking her to him. She went under. Water poured into her mouth. She surfaced, spluttering. Letting the current carry him, he barrelled down the river behind her, hauling on her cloak, closing the distance between them with agonizing slowness.

She kicked hard, pushing against the current, reaching out to him, straining to make her arms longer. His fingers touched hers, sliding over her hand, seeking her wrist. He clamped onto her and heaved. She collided into him. His arm came around her ribcage, pinning her against him.

He turned to the riverbank, where a crowd followed, waving their arms, shouting encouragement. With slow, purposeful strokes--his legs kicking hard--he towed her across the churning river. She prayed, wishing with all her heart she had learned how to swim. Her toes skimmed the silt bottom of the riverbed. She pushed against it, and little by little the river's depth lessened, the silt giving way to smooth pebbles.

He found his feet and stood, waist deep, swaying in the pull of the current. He hauled her up, his grip so tight she cried out. Soldiers pushed into the rushing water, staggering, holding their hands out to them. Panting, Sethi waded toward the soldiers. Hands grabbed hold of her, pulling her away from him. His crushing hold loosened, uncertain at first, then at his men's shouted reassurances, it slid away.

The soldiers slogged to the shore, hauling her between them, the current's grip lessening with each cumbersome step. They sloshed out of the waters and dragged her up onto the sodden bank.

Her legs gave out. She fell on all fours, coughing up river water, her fingers digging into the mud. Her chest aching and her throat burning, she clutched at the cold ground, reeling with gratitude. Meresamun burst through the knot of men, her face stricken, taut with fear. Whispering incoherent prayers of gratitude, she pulled at the tangled ties of Istara's cloaks and peeled them away. They slapped down against the mud, sharp, loud. Someone brought a dry blanket. Istara clutched at it, shivering, catching the glint of tears in Meresamun's eyes.

A skin of wine arrived. She sipped, enduring its burn against the rawness of her throat. As the wine warmed her, she became aware of the crowd surrounding her, the multitude of faces filled with concern. She searched for Sethi. A short distance away, he knelt on one knee, panting hard, his head hanging, naked but for a soaking loincloth.

He lifted his head, and his eyes locked on hers, dark and dangerous, silencing her gratitude. Pushing himself to his feet, he reached out to the soldier holding his kilt, belt, and weapons. He dressed, giving orders as he worked. Checking his blades, he dropped them into their scabbards and strode back to the distant crossing, rigid, furious. He didn't look back.

❃

The gods had heard his prayer. The rain held off until an hour after the rearguard crossed the river, then it arrived with sudden ferocity; pounding down onto Pre as though angry at having been forced to wait. Bending his head against the driving rain, Sethi led his division along the rocky, barren plateau between the mountains. The river surged alongside them, its raging waters snatching trees and boulders from its banks, carrying them away as though they were no more than twigs and pebbles.

He cut a look at Istara, drenched and huddling in her soaking blanket, standing beside Ahmen, her hands wrapped tight around the box's edge. She had refused the harness, insisting she could manage the last half of the march without it, rejecting even Meresamun's pleas to take what rest she could. He scoffed at Istara's foolishness, fueling his anger against her for what she had done at the ford, welcoming the heat of his indignation--anything to distance himself from her.

The downpour eased. In the distance, the blackened scars of a multitude of fire pits spread across the plateau; Amun's camp from the night before. Muttering a prayer of thanks to Horus, he shouted to Naram to prepare for the order to halt. The order went down the line. From the depths of Pre, ragged cheers rose. His men pressed on, their steps quickening, eager for the miserable day to end.

❃

In the damp warmth of his command tent, Sethi set aside the day's reports from his captains. He yawned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. An image flashed: Istara sinking under the river's waters. He ignored it and finished his wine. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he began to tidy the reports. The image came again, visceral. His hands stopped their work. Once more he saw Istara disappearing under the dark, cold waters. He cursed and slammed his fist against the table. He had been irresponsible.

Distracted, he poured himself another brimming cup. His decision to go after her had been driven by his fear of losing her, of her sinking under the waters, never to return. But at what risk? He was already exhausted by the time he caught her; had brought her to the shore by will alone. He looked down. His cup was empty. He had tasted nothing.

Still holding the empty cup in his hands, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and stared into the glowing fuel of the brazier. If he had drowned, Egypt would have lost its commander. His grip tightened on the cup as shame coursed through him. He had let fear control him. He would not make the same mistake again. Others had been willing to go after her, better swimmers than he, yet he had called them off, not trusting anyone but himself to save her. He left the table and shed his kilt and loincloth. Someone entered. He turned.

Her color deepening, Istara averted her eyes. He picked up his kilt, eyeing her as he tied it back around his hips, noting the dark shadows around her eyes, the sheen of perspiration on her face and neck, the faint tremble in her hands. Signs of fever.

"You are ill," he said, abrupt, willing her to leave. "Return to your tent. I will send for Ity."

"I will not keep you, Commander," she answered, her gaze flicking to his pallet, then away. "I came to thank you for what you did today, with all my heart."

He turned to add more fuel to the brazier, though it didn't need it. "I did what was required to protect you as commanded by the pharaoh," he said, tight. "There is no need to thank me."

He glanced at her. She looked down. Humiliation emanated from her. Shame sliced through him. He poured her some wine and held it out to her. Her eyes met his. He turned away.

"Commander. Please look at me."

"There is no need," he said, terse. "I have told you what you may expect of me. I beg you, leave me and allow me my pallet. Your gratitude is noted."

"I have heard the talk outside my tent," she persisted, stepping closer to him. "You could have sent another to save me. Instead, it was you who risked your life, Commander."

"And I regret it with all my heart," he snapped. "If Horus had not protected me, Egypt would be without its commander this night. It was a foolish mistake. One I will not make again."

"At least now you look at me." She placed her cup on the table and turned to leave.

"So it is your intention to torment me?" he bellowed, following after her, his temper igniting. "I wonder, is this how the future Queen of Hatti amuses herself at court, by toying with the men sworn to protect her?"

"Toying?" she repeated, outraged, her color turning hectic. "You are the one--" she stopped, fighting for composure. "Commander Sethi, the men who protected me are men of honor, able to accept my gratitude with grace. If you represent what sort of manners await me in Egypt, then I wish you had left me to those waters today, rather than force me to follow you to an empire of brutes."

He roared at her insult, snatching her to him. "You dare call the Pharaoh of Egypt a brute," he ground out, bearing down on her, "when you are the daughter-in-law of that pig Muwatallis?"

Her eyes cold, she glared at him. "Yes. I dare."

She pushed her palms against his chest, seeking to free herself. Furious, he pulled her closer, trapping her arms against his chest. She lifted her chin, defiant, bringing her mouth so near to his, he could taste the wine on her breath.

"I command you to release me," she said, stiff.

He barked a laugh and pulled her tighter against him. She cried out, indignant, writhing, struggling to free herself. He tightened his grip, forcing her against him. Her body slid over him, arousing him. His member betrayed him, awakening, springing to life under the material of his kilt, unrestrained by a loincloth.

She collided with him and staggered to a halt. Her breathing slowed, turning ragged, matching his own. He held still, willing himself to resist even as his anger fled, the banked fire within him igniting, dangerous, aching, forbidden. She met his look. His member hardened. Caught in his arms, she closed her eyes, her lips parting, inviting, just as they had done the morning he had found her sleeping on his pallet. His chest tightened. She was here, in his arms, willing, the woman from within his dream--

The last of his restraint fled. He drank in the sight of her, knowing, accepting he would die for what he was about to do. He lowered his mouth to hers and tasted her. A sudden, intense sensation of having kissed her thousands of times before cascaded through him. How was it possible? She staggered in his embrace, moaning, feeling it too. He kissed her hard, possessing her, his fingers tangling in her hair. She answered him, fierce, hungry, clinging to him.

He pulled back, fighting for reason, holding her at arms' length. What was he doing? She belonged to Ramesses. He could not take her. He had already gone too far. Unwilling to let her go, he drew her back into his arms, murmuring they could not go on; she was forbidden to him. She huddled against him, shivering, drawing the heat from him. He turned her to the warmth of the brazier. She swayed, sagging in his grip. He touched her temple. It was freezing.

"You need medicine," he said, lowering her onto a stool. "I will send for my surgeon."

She nodded, reaching out to pour herself more wine, her hands trembling. He went to the tent's flap--her shallow, uneven breathing filling his ears--and called to his guards to hurry and find Ity. Behind him, a clatter, followed by a thud.

Alarmed, Sethi turned. Istara lay sprawled on the ground. Wine poured from the toppled pitcher on the table, staining the rug the color of blood. He fell to his knees, taking her head in his hands. Her eyes opened, glassy and unseeing, her pupils dilated.

Cursing, he grabbed his blanket and wrapped it around her. She convulsed, hard. Pulling her onto his lap, he pushed the hair from her face, bracing her against the spasms wracking her body. He knew she should have rested after the crossing. Why had she insisted on standing the rest of the way in the pouring rain after such an ordeal? Stubborn, stubborn woman; she had brought this on herself. She spasmed again, her fingers digging into his arms. She was so cold. She cried out, frightened, begging him not to leave her alone.

His heart clenched. Catching her up against him, he whispered, harsh. "I could never--"

She sagged, her body heating up until it broiled. He tore the blanket from her and lay her on his pallet. The front of her gown lay soaked in wine. Keeping his eyes averted, he pulled apart the ties and washed her as best he could, her skin as hot and dry as desert sand.

His guards came in, followed by Ity, his kilt tied on crooked. Ity knelt and examined Istara, muttering to himself over the severity of her fever and the need to break it. Pulling out several vials from his satchel, he mixed their tinctures together in a little silver dish. Holding up her head, he poured the foul-smelling concoction down her throat. He waited. Nothing happened. He sent for more blankets and swaddled her in them, drawing them tight. Within her bindings, she lay silent and still, her flesh burning. Unable to do anything more, Ity lay a dozen scarabs and ankhs over her torso, and began the long incantations for healing and protection.

The night passed, slow. Alone in the shadows, Sethi watched, waited, and prayed.