NINE

| ZANNANZA |

In this exotic, sumptuous palace, it feels a lifetime ago I stood in my father’s shadowy apartment and learned of the request of an enemy queen to send one of his sons to become the next Pharaoh and save her royal line from usurpers.

Our worlds could not be more different. In Hatti, we are practical, our stone palaces built solid to endure the biting cold of harsh winters, and our men rough and battle-scarred from spending most of their time on campaign. But in Egypt, life is another thing altogether, spent in luxury with an attention to beauty and detail I would have not imagined in all my days. I feel as if I have left the land of mortals and arrived in the land of the gods.

And before me, the glittering goddess who will be mine.

She is authentic to the last heartbeat of our ruse. I cannot admire her more. This is a woman worthy to be my match. I breathe my thanks to Teshub as the doors close behind me. Together we have achieved the impossible.

| ANKHESENAMUN |

The satchel lands on the floor with a soft thump. He crosses the reception room, his stride steady and confident, no longer the merchant but a prince. He comes to a stop just behind me. The heat of his body radiates against my back, and I catch the faint, clean scent of natron soap. I wait in delicious anticipation, knowing he will touch me, even though it is forbidden by death, and that his touch will herald a new era of peace and unity. No more wars, we will trade, learn, and prosper. And all of it will be built on love.

| ZANNANZA |

I breathe in the scent of her, an intoxicating mix of warm earth, the sky after a storm, and almond blossoms. The top of her crown crests the height of my chin and under the embellishment of her heavy gown, gemmed collar and belt, this lone queen exudes the fragility of a newborn foal.

My heart hungers for her. I know I already love her. A woman I have never touched. We have been chosen by the gods. Our union will change the course of history.

I have waited long enough. I reach out to her.

| ANKHESENAMUN |

His fingertips brush against the side of my neck, across the gems upon my shoulder, and down the length of my arm. His touch is light, exquisite, nothing like the northern warrior I expected. Want floods me.

“Look at me,” he murmurs into my ear as he catches my hand and pulls me to face him.

I do not resist. I turn and lift my chin.

His dark, unreadable eyes move from mine to explore the curves and hollows of my face. He reaches up and traces the outline of my lips with his thumb, and I cannot bear it, I close my eyes, filled with longing to feel his lips against mine, to close the final distance between us.

He grasps my face in his hands, the strength in his grip undeniable, yet his gentleness as he holds me steady promises the safety I have longed for. I wait, my senses clinging to this heartbeat, memorizing each of our ragged breaths, the callouses of his palms against my cheeks, the whisper of my gown against his kilt.

His lips brush mine. A taste, nothing more, but it unlocks a door within me I didn’t know I possessed. A memory floods me, one I could never have had, of another world, strange, beautiful, and exotic beyond my wildest imaginings. I stand upon a terrace in the sky, wearing armor the color of polished silver. Beneath me, under a solid floor that is as clear as a garden pool, a vast city burns, its towering structures scorched by a fire so hot it burns a molten blue.

The stride of another approaches. I turn. A warrior, clad in a complex construction of black metal fitted precisely over his powerful body tosses aside weapons I am unable to comprehend or describe. He strides toward me, but I feel no fear. Instead, I am filled with longing. He removes the covering from his head and sets it aside. He turns, and his gaze penetrates me. I know him. This glorious, powerful warrior with eyes of silver and the blackest of hair held back by a metallic band that beats with a life of its own, silver, and black, with overlapping lines of cerulean light pulsing along its length.

“My love,” he breathes. “We have won the day.”

And then, he kisses me.

I fall into him, answer him with a passion I did not know any could possess and taste blood.

A laugh. I open my eyes. Zannanza stands before me in the moonlight, rubbing his fist against his bleeding lip.

“You are much more than I hoped for.” He says with a dark smile. A shimmer of silver slides over his eyes and in the light of the flickering torches, I see him again, the warrior who kissed me above a burning city, not wearing the tunic of a merchant but clad in black armor. I wonder if I have lost my senses, and my mind has left me as it left my father.

I take a step back, reach for the support of the terrace wall. I miss and stumble.

He catches me. I cannot look at him. I am afraid of who I will see.

“My queen?”

“Who are you?” I whisper, my gaze locked on his sandals, willing them to stay as they are, to not see that strange sheath of black metal encase him again.

“I—” he begins, then says nothing for several beats. “Who do you see?” he asks.

“I saw you, but not you.” I answer, desperate to not be mad. To understand.

He waits. Demands nothing. Tendrils of his curiosity touch me.

“I was someone else,” I cut a look up at him, to gauge his response.

He nods. “As was I.”

I blink. “You saw it too?”

“I saw it. Felt it.”

“Like a memory?”

Another nod.

“So . . . I have not gone mad?”

He laughs once more, and the tension slides away, like a bad dream evaporating in the light of a clean, new day. “If you are,” he says, “then I am too. I doubt we have both lost our minds at the same time.”

“What did you see?”

He describes her, her silver armor, the clear floor, the strange, burning city. His weapons.

I share my version, the metallic band encircling his brow, shot with pulsing cerulean beams of light. The kiss.

“With a first kiss like that,” he smiles, and the harsh, sun-darkened planes of his face soften. He lifts an eyebrow and cuts a look up to the stars. “We’ve been blessed by the gods.”

I long to trace my fingers against his jaw and cheekbones, to memorize him by touch. Silence falls between us. He takes my hand, runs his thumb over my gold-tipped fingers. The torchlight catches against their luster. He tilts my fingers, one at a time so the reflected flames slide from one fingertip to another, as though my fingertips contain the power of fire. The effect is mesmerizing. I wonder why I never thought to do the same.

“My father is the Storm God, Teshub,” he says, so low I must strain to catch his words before the night breeze snatches them away. “The King of Hatti confirmed it before I left.” He meets my eyes. His smile, a distant memory. “It is why he sent me.”

“You are the son of a god.” I breathe. I cannot believe my good fortune.

He nods. “Teshub is the king of the gods.”

“And your mother?” I cannot help myself. I must know all.

“She was the Tawananna, Queen Henti,” his eyes move over the golden glow of my city. Below, in my garden, the warble of a nightbird, the splash of a fish in the lotus pool. “My father wed the most beautiful woman in all the empire,” he continues, his gaze far-off, as though he can see clear across my empire to his, “though she had not a single drop of royal blood in her body.”

“But she must have a father?” I press. “A warrior, or perhaps a merchant of means?”

Zanannza lifts his brow as he considers his answer and my heart tumbles anew, drawn like a moth to a flame. He is truly the son of a god. His charisma strikes me, a power that radiates from his ka.

“He found her alone and unconscious in the sanctuary of ruined temple to Ishara with not a scrap of clothing on her body.”

I blink. “A victim of warring tribes?”

He pulls his gaze from the horizon and lets it rest on mine; the obliqueness of his look awakens a tingle of anticipation in me. He is the son of a god, and his mother—

“She must have known how she ended in such a dire situation,” I persist. “Or perhaps those in the area knew?”

His look hardens. “My father conquered all of Hatti singlehandedly. While on campaign, he stopped to make sacrifices in the temple ruins. He found my mother there—the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—her body warm despite the frozen air of the northern mountains, where none but the wild rams lived. There were no nearby towns.”

“And?”

“And she had no memory of her life before the heartbeat he shook her awake, in rude health, clad only in her dark hair.”

I take a step back. “Then, is your mother,” I breathe, taking in the wonder of him anew, “also not one of us?”

“The King of Hatti is a warrior to his core,” he says, though no pride gilds in his words. “He usurped the throne from his brother. For a long time, I was never sure if his tale of how he met my mother was true, or a way for him to vindicate his usurping, by creating a legend where his queen was sent to him by the gods.”

“Ah,” I say, gratified by this explanation. “He would not be the first king to do so.”

Zanannza gestures to a nearby divan. We sit. He lifts the golden pitcher set upon the low table to pour us each a cup of wine.

I stay his hand with a touch of my gold-capped fingers. “Wait,” I say, “I will send for a servant to taste it first.”

“There is no need,” he says and sips against my cry of warning.

“My lord prince, I fear you have made a grievous error.” I cannot believe after all we have endured, I could lose him here, now, over a cup of tainted wine. Anger circles me. “How could you—” I begin, furious at the tears blurring my vision. I swipe them away, staining my gold-capped fingers with smears of kohl.

He catches my fingers in his and wipes them clean with the hem of his tunic. “Do not shed any tears for me, Queen of Egypt. I am the son of a god. If it is poisoned, I will know soon enough if it’s not safe for you. There is no need to send an innocent person to their death.”

“But how can you know?” I am undone. I may be a queen, but I am as mortal as my subjects. All of us fear death equally. I cannot take my eyes from him, as I envision what will soon come—of how Benut died in my arms, drowning in foul-smelling bile.

“Because before my mother vanished, she summoned me to her apartments and confided the truth of what happened that day in the ruined temple of Ishara.”

“Vanished? I understood from my mother that Hatti’s queen had been banished to Alashiya so your father could make a marriage alliance with the daughter of the King of Babylon.”

He scoffs and takes another sip of wine which distresses me anew, though this time I refuse to allow myself to react.

“Another tale from my father. He sent a concubine of his in her stead, veiled, so none would know she was not Henti. No,” he continues, cradling the cup of wine in his hands, his eyes once more upon the stars, “my mother left us, to return to the ruined temple in the mountains from whence she came. Marduk came to her in a dream, bade her return to him. The night she departed, she told me she was born Isitu, daughter of a priestess of Ishtar—” he cuts a look to me, “and the god Marduk, from the empire that gave rise to Babylon, more than two thousand years ago.”

“But how—” I shake my head. “It is impossible. How could she not age in all that time if she was born mortal?”

“She did not age, but there is a reason” he says. “She was sent to our time by Marduk, by stepping naked through a doorway of light hidden far below the great Etemen’anki zigguratu. She woke a heartbeat later to find my father wrapping his cloak around her. When he asked who she was, she did as Marduk willed, confessing she remembered nothing of her previous life.”

“Why would she be sent to your father? Who is Marduk to your people?”

A shrug. “He is not one of our gods. Though it is intriguing that my father is now allied with Babylon through marriage, where Marduk is still their god.”

I eye the half-empty cup in his hand. He catches my glance. “The wine is not tainted,” he says. “If it were I would have purged myself by now.”

He hands my cup to me and lifts his in a silent toast.

We drink, and though I am tingling with curiosity, I wait. My god-prince from Hatti sets his cup down, rests his elbows on his thighs, hardened by a multitude of campaigns and darkened by Aten’s light, and folds his fingers together. The emblem of his merchant’s ring a mockery to his true existence.

“How old were you when your mother returned to her time?”

“Twelve,” he answers and drinks deep. The cords of his neck ripple as he does. He turns, catches me watching him.

A sudden heat high upon my cheeks betrays me. I look away, but it is too late. The ghost of his smile haunts me. I have pleased him which pleases me. My blush deepens.

“Though I was beloved by my mother, I was never close to my father,” Zanannza continues. He rises, strides to the edge of the terrace and leans on his elbows against its ledge to gaze up at the stars. The muscles in his arms flex against his weight and I wonder how it will be to feel his powerful bulk over me, our bodies pressed together in the act of love. My brother-husband Tutankhamun was not a warrior, nor was he strong, though his mind was sharp, and he could make me laugh. But this, this longing to run my fingers over every carved hollow and cleft of my god-prince, this carnal need, I have never felt such a thing before. I take a deeper sip of wine to hide my burning cheeks in the basin of my cup. To hide my quiet smile.

“It wasn’t until he summoned me to be sent to you that the whole of it came together. He was jealous of my lineage, the grandson of Marduk, and the son of Teshub, my mother able to transcend time and distance. Not one drop of his blood flowed through me.” He laughs, though it is mirthless. “For the first twelve years of my life, I believed he never looked at me was because I was his fourth son, and of little value to him while my elder brothers lived and fought.” He crosses his legs, one over the other, a lion at ease. His casualness in my presence speaks volumes. This is a man of confidence, of certainty, of such sureness of mind that once more I am overcome with gratitude to Aten for his gift of this husband-king to me. He will be the Pharaoh my empire desperately needs. He will rout out the vermin, and the jackal Ay will find himself put back in his place, though I would not grieve to see him stripped of his titles. It is over. At last.

I lift my gaze from his legs, as well-formed and as those of my own royal horses and meet his eyes again.

“There you are,” he says. Another hint of a dark smile. “Perhaps my tale is dull?”

“It is not,” I answer, and give him a brazen look I did not know I had within me to possess. “I was thanking Aten for sending you to me.”

“And here I was thanking my father,” his admiration of me is open, and I feel my cheeks blaze anew. “To think I will be able to walk by your side every day of my life. My father would be envious. Again.” He smiles, dazzles me in a fresh flash of brilliance before his expression darkens. He pushes away from the wall and returns to his cup of wine, though he does not sit. “But let us speak our minds,” he says, after he takes a long drink. “Now that I am here, what have you planned? I have twelve of my father’s Mesedi with me, powerful warriors, but not enough to go to war for you.”

I nod. I had, of course, prepared for this. “We must be wed. Tonight.”

“I am ready,” he answers.

This is the part I have been dreading. The part where the loss of Benut will strike hardest.

“To seal your right to the throne, we must have the king’s ring,” I say, “Once that is upon your finger, none can challenge you. Not even Ay.”

He notes my hesitation. “You do not have it.”

I shake my head. “I know where it is. My maid has hidden it well—it is why Ay has not been able to seize the throne from me while I live.”

“And if you were to go to the gods?”

“He would have a new ring made and none would know that the true ring, the one worn by the pharaohs of my forefathers throughout the ages still lies buried under a rock in a cave outside the city.”

“And you tell me this because . . .”

“Benut is gone. Poisoned by food meant for me.” The burn of tears strikes my eyes anew. I brush them away. Now is not the time to grieve. Later, when all is done. She will be honored as she deserves.

“Tell me where the ring is hidden, and I will send my men to retrieve it.”

“They will need to be armed,” I say.

“For?”

“It is a lion’s den.”

He erupts in a deep throated laugh filled with delight, and his joy fills me with pleasure. I had feared he would fly into a rage, but no, this son of Teshub relishes the challenge. Of course, a lion would not intimidate him.

“There is nothing I love more than a lion hunt,” he says. “Consider it done.”

He laughs anew, savoring our ruse. “I would have loved to meet your maid. What courage she must have possessed.”

I smile. “Benut was prudent. Her brother had told her of the lion’s den, and that he had been watching its movements, for it roamed close to his farm. He knew when it went to hunt, and when it would return to rest. She went when it was hunting, of course.”

The smile on his lips vanishes. “The lion could have returned while she was there. She risked her life for you.”

“She risked her life for Egypt.” I set down my wine and stand. “For I am Egypt.”

He takes my hand and kneels before me, my god-husband-to-be. “And I am your servant.”

He cannot stay. It is impossible to believe Ay’s spies will not have informed him Zanannza has been here far longer than he should, but I am prepared to claim I wished to learn what news he had of other lands. I eye my god-prince from the disarray of my bed, where the love we made was both nothing like and far more than I expected. I did not know a woman could feel the things he made me feel and am grateful he had the sense to muffle my cries with his kiss, otherwise I might have alerted the entire palace to our act.

Though I have just caught my breath, and my skin still gleams with a sheen of perspiration, I long for him to do those things to me again. He is a proficient lover, my new husband, and a ripple of jealousy slides through me as I watch him pull his merchant’s tunic over the hardened planes of his muscled chest, marked by the whitened lines and puckers of more than a dozen battle scars. I imagine those other women who have shared a bed with him. I envy their pleasure, their intimacy and wish it had been only mine from the beginning. He comes back to me, pulling his hair back into its leather thong, and settling his empty merchant’s pack across his shoulder, for I have taken all his purple cloth and opals—his wedding gift to me.

“Tomorrow I will return to your throne room with a slain lion.” His teeth are white and even through his smile. He twines his fingers with mine and tilts his head to the arrangement of divans and low tables littered with my discarded gown, belt, crown, and jewels. “Your apartment lacks a proper rug for us to . . . lie on.”

I smile, contentment filling me as he kisses each of my fingertips, no longer covered in their golden caps. “Until then, guard yourself with care my queen.”

And then, he is gone, and I am alone once more.

EIGHT

| ZANNANZA |

She is indomitable, this fragile-looking, elegant creature, who eyes me with a cold disdain only the greatest of queens can master, as rare a woman as I have ever seen.

To her right, our mutual enemy hovers over her shoulder like a vulture, waiting to pick the last of the flesh from her bones, as sinewy as an ancient jackal, and his presence as dangerous. His eyes meet mine and I glimpse the sudden suspicion that flares in his. I lower my gaze to the smooth travertine floor, the color of the desert at sunset, and feign what I hope is humility. It does not come easy, being the son of a god. My queen is far the better player of this game. Even so, the harshness of her vizier’s gaze lightens incrementally against me, so perhaps I am a good pretender after all.

At the foot of the steps to her throne, I ease into a bow, as deep as those I once gave my father. I wait for her permission to rise and cannot fail to appreciate that she forces me to wait.

I sense the weight of Ay’s gaze slide toward my men at the back of the hall. I know they will play their parts well, for they are Mesedi, and not only elite warriors but educated and intelligent men worthy of being in the continual presence of Hatti’s king. I leave them to manage Ay’s attention and wait for Ankhesenamun to lead the dance for I am among lions here, and she the gazelle who’s evaded their jaws for far too long.

“You may rise,” she intones, as dry as a priest leading the harvest rites. “And present your wares.”

I straighten and half-turn to gesture for my men to join me. We have practiced this many times and could do it while blind drunk, even so, I feel a tremor of madness at what I am about to do. I push it away to focus on the part I must play, each word rehearsed and every movement orchestrated, a spectacle worthy of a royal audience.

“Great Queen of Egypt, Lady of the Light of Aten,” I begin, “it is my deepest honor to present to your royal court these treasures of rare provenance from lands as far distant as Babylon.”

A collective sigh ripples through the assembly as my men unfurl their leather satchels and unwrap the choicest of our wares and set them out with small flourishes on the thick piece of indigo-dyed cloth I purchased from the most expensive merchant in Amarna.

My father has not stinted on furnishing me with items that would please a queen. But he is no fool, his raid of Hatti’s treasury is more than worth the throne of Egypt. For him, the price would be inconsequential. As I point to various pieces and describe their history, the wares spread out, and the nobility hold their breaths, each eyeing the piece they want with open hunger. Even Ay’s gaze has at last slid down to the array of glittering gold jewels, gemmed goblets, ivory-inlaid cedarwood cosmetics boxes, a belt filigreed with silver, the rarest of metals from the furthest reaches to the north, where the lands have names none can pronounce. His eyes linger on an exquisite dagger in its gold-inlaid sheath from the sea kingdom of Alashiya, a gift to my father from her king to seal a twenty-year-old peace treaty. Of course, Ay would want that one, the avaricious bastard, the most precious and rare of all pieces, a dagger possessed not by one but two kings.

I steal a look at Ankhesenamun to take a measure of her mood, as any merchant would, and clasp my hands together in front of my chest, in the manner of all humble and hopeful merchants waiting to feel the weight of gold in their pouch.

Her gaze drifts over the wares, and her lack of impression pleases me. She has prepared for this, too. I am certain of it.

“My lord merchant,” she says, though her eyes remain on my goods as though I am not even worth her attention. “We would know what you carry upon your own shoulder?”

I pretend to be flustered and make a show of apology for forgetting myself as I kneel and unpack my own satchel saying only the most precious items stay with me.

There is a tangible ripening of tension in the hall as the nobles lean in, eager to be the first to see what I have. I begin with the purple cloth, and unfurl it across my arms, an ample bolt that makes up the most of my burden.

She lifts an eyebrow as I expected she would. Purple cloth is extraordinarily rare and more precious than gold. A murmur of exhilaration runs through the crowd, purple is fit only for royalty, and it is possible many of them are in the presence of such a rare treasure for the first time in their lives.

Ankhesenamun waits, still as a statue, expectant, for no decent merchant has only one item of great value to present a royal buyer. I lay the bolt down on the indigo cloth with great reverence and lift out the final treasure from my satchel.

“My queen,” I say, moving a step closer for her to see as I untie the straps of a leather pouch and pour out a dozen perfect opals into my upturned palm, five of them as big as my thumb.

“Opals,” she breathes, and at last, a smile fleets across her beautiful lips. “My lord vizier, you will bring them here.”

Ay bows with that form of obsequiousness only the most duplicitous of traitors possess. He eases himself from his position and steps down to me, oozing wealth, power, and privilege, his gold-embroidered linen kilt rustling under a thick gem-laden belt. He holds out his hand, his aged, crooked fingers heavy with rings, and his wrist encircled by a large, gemmed cuff. I carefully pour them into his palm, ensuring I do not touch him, an unspeakable offence.

He turns his back to me and bows as he presents the gems to Ankhesenamun, his wizened hand held before her like a dish to allow her to select the opal she wishes to inspect. She plucks one out with her gold-capped fingertips and lays it in her palm. For several long beats she rolls it back and forth, her gaze following the way the gem’s iridescence gives credence to the legend they are the solidified tears of the gods.

“Have the merchant bring to us the opals and the cloth,” she says, and rises. Ay bows low and the entire court sinks before her as she steps from the throne and moves to a concealed door that opens in the wall.

She steps through, the door closes, and a beat later I am surrounded by Amarna’s elite eager to offer me their wealth in exchange for Hatti’s most prized treasures, and all I can think of is soon we will be alone, together. At last.

| ANKHESENAMUN |

I stand alone in the reception room of my apartment, my fingers laced together and wait still as a statue for the doors to close behind me. They come to with a quiet thud, followed by the tap of my guards’ spears against the smooth stone of the corridor as they fall into position outside my door.

Ahead, the terrace opens out to a view of the city, basking in the warm glow of hundreds of lit braziers positioned along its avenues and plazas. We in Amarna live for the light, and when Aten departs each night, we relish the gift of his light through fire. I move into cool of the evening air, catch the trill of a nightingale in my private garden below. On one of the low tables by a divan, servants have left out a pitcher of wine and a platter of dates, sweet breads, and honey, none of which I intend to touch.

He will come soon. I am certain of it. His wares will be sold in less time than it takes to drink a cup of wine. Hatti will be made rich tonight by its enemy. The thought makes me smile. His ruse was executed to perfection. A shiver of anticipation ripples through me. I wonder if he will take my hand, hold me, kiss me.

The cool of metal touches my lips and I realize I have brought my gold-tipped fingertips to them, imagining his mouth on mine. The heat of a blush spreads across my cheeks. It is a remarkable thing we have done. An act so unimaginable even Ay has been blind to it. Aten has fulfilled his promise to me, he has sent to me a king for Egypt. A king I cannot wait to know, to love, to bear a son with.

There is one difficulty yet to overcome. A priest who will perform the wedding ceremony. But we have come this far, together we will manage the rest. He has his men after all. I need only send my seal with them. I do not wish to wait even one heartbeat longer than necessary, once we are wed, there will be nothing Ay can do. He must kneel to his Pharaoh.

“Ha!” I clap my hand over my mouth and look around the terrace, then down into my garden, fearful someone has heard me. But there is no one. None truly care about me anymore, all run to Ay, the true master of this house.

For now.

A tap against the door. He has arrived. At last. I deny myself the smile my lips long to know.

“Come,” I call, wishing with all my heart it were Benut who were there to answer the door, to relish our moment of triumph. But she is not. Ay has taken all from me. But not Zannanza, this dark, warrior son of Suppiluliuma, King of the Empire of Hatti. Ay shall not have him. He is mine.

The doors open. I look over my shoulder as this magnificent prince of another kingdom stands, flanked by my guards, bearing a convincing air of uncertainty, his white-knuckled grip on his satchel alerting the guards his fear to be in such a privileged place. I want to laugh at this parody of a merchant played by a powerful prince, instead I sigh, as if bored.

“My lady queen,” one of my guards announces, “the merchant you commanded to bring his wares to you begs permission to enter.”

“Ah?” I answer and look back out into the city, “I had forgotten about him.”

Silence falls. The guards wait unsure of my wish. A creak of leather as one of my guards shifts their weight.

“He may enter,” I say at last, and gesture for him to come to the terrace, my fingertips, clad in their gold, glint in the firelight.

The guards step back, and once more the doors come to with a respectful thud, the tap of the spears. Silence.

I wait.

I will not turn. I know he will come to me.

SEVEN

| ZANNANZA | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

We have found lodgings at an inn close to the city’s central plaza and within striking distance of the gates of the royal citadel. It is a very fine accommodation, used only by wealthy visitors.

It is far better than what we had in Memphis, and cost less gold. I unroll my pack on the divan and spread out the dark blue tunic I brought with me to wear when I am summoned to the court. It is dusty and needs an airing. I give it to a servant to freshen, then leave for the bathing pool in the courtyard where I am told there will be a platter of delicacies and good wine.

As I ease into the heated warmth of the bath, unscented, at my request with anything other than natron soap, I let out a sigh of pleasure and sip the finest wine I have ever tasted in my life.

The summons to the queen’s court comes while I am still soaking in the bath. It is sooner than I expected. Word must travel fast in Amarna. I am pleased, but I am also unprepared. I would have had more time. The courtyard erupts in a flurry of activity as the innkeeper’s steward claps his hands and orders the servants in clipped Egyptian to prepare me for my audience with the queen.

There is a sense of awe that surrounds my preparation and I sense not many of their guests have been summoned to the presence of royalty. Even so, this is not Hattusa, where if you are summoned, you run. Here the protocol is different, time is different. Cleanliness appears to be even more important than obeying a summons.

I let them decide the pace. I am the guest after all, so I wait, patient, as they scrub me clean, dry me with soft linen towels, and apply unscented almond oil all over my body. My tunic is brought, and by Sharruma, they have worked a miracle on it, it smells as fresh as if it were just laundered.

Dressed, oiled, and clad in my soft tunic, I feel myself again. My hair is pulled back into a thong and tied into a bunch at the nape of my neck. A leather-embossed strap is placed around it to hold it in place. I was careful to adopt the style of a Levantine merchant. Nothing of what would remind anyone of Hatti has come with me. No, that went with the one who follows.

Everything I am wearing was bought in Byblos, the height of Levantine fashion. I detest it, but when a servant holds up the bronze mirror to show me their combined efforts, I admit I am pleased. They have done an admirable job transforming a Hittite prince into a wealthy merchant. I will make certain once I am pharaoh to bestow great favor upon this innkeeper.

There is nothing left for them to do. I take a final sip of the glorious wine and depart the pleasant evening birdsong of the courtyard to carry my wares to the Queen of Egypt. To the one who has become the light within the dark corridors of my heart.

The palace is another wonder. Its proof in its power to humble a prince of the greatest empire in the world. I traverse through soaring pillared halls gilt in white and gold, surrounded by utter beauty and symmetry. It is a home built for a god with pools, colonnades, gardens, and rooms soaked in inconceivable luxury. The wealth of gold in just one of the reception rooms could fund a year of war for my father’s vast army. It is almost unbearable how pristine everything feels. I have learned since my arrival Amarna was designed and built for the worship of one god only, the god Aten who is the light that gives life. I am not sure how I feel about worshiping only one god, and in my heart, I know I will continue to honor my father Teshub, whether the Egyptians accept it or not. I will never relinquish the gods of my home.

The servant leads me through enough courtyards and columned halls to have me thoroughly lost. Ankhesenamun’s palace is far vaster than my father’s in Hattusa, and although I am pleased to become the master of such a kingdom, and savor the thought of how much Mursili will envy me my good fortune, there is a part of me that rankles against this world of ease and wealth when in Hatti we have fought blood and tooth for every ingot of gold locked in our treasury.

Perhaps the gods do favor the Egyptians, as I was told while I reclined in the bath and my wine was poured. Or perhaps, some are granted a life of pleasure, while others must endure a life of war and brutality. Perhaps it is the will of the gods, and we are precisely where they wish us to be. And so, here I am, in a merchant’s garb, walking through the palace that will become mine, to kneel before the woman who will crown me pharaoh. The gods move in mysterious ways, but then, I was never destined for an ordinary life.

Ahead, massive double doors loom at the end of a torchlit corridor adrift with indigo silk panels hung between the gold-sheathed pillars. The scent of cedarwood impales me. My eyebrow lifts. It was difficult enough for me to travel here, but the thought of transporting the amount of wood it would take to construct these doors impresses me more than I care to admit. Everything about Amarna is a shock to me. Her wealth stuns me. I feel like a poor farmer walking the halls of a god.

I am led through the open doors into a hall packed with a glittering array of nobles gathered in small groups. They sip wine and fan themselves, bored, while a handful of ordinary citizens huddle near the steps of the throne in nervous anticipation.

I move behind a group of women adorned with high headdresses concocted from peacock feathers. From between their ornamentation, I allow myself to look, at last, at the one I have crossed two empires to reach.

My heart stills. She is a glorious beauty, fine featured, and breathtaking, even if there is almost nothing left of her under her heavy burden of jewels, gown, and golden crown. Despite her bones eating their way through her flesh, her will holds, determination the fuel that has kept her alive as she continues to wait for me. Over the white feathers of her fan, her dark eyes slide, cautious, from the petitioners to the open doors of the hall. I sense she is waiting for me to arrive, but she is used to being watched, to living in continual mortal danger, so each movement is calculated, measured. Her fortitude astounds me.

Her eyes, enhanced by the design of the Eye of Horus and dusted with gold continue to move over the assembled nobles, expressionless. I step behind a pillar as her gaze approaches my position, though I doubt she would see me through the multitude of headdresses that screen me from her. I know I must wait for the petitioners to finish before I will be presented to her. I am only a merchant after all.

Behind me, my men gather, their satchels filled with a fortune of wares, their eyes down, humble, my father’s own Mesedi prepared to protect me to the death. I shift the weight of my satchel, carried like a royal babe through treacherous mud-soaked mountain trails, the scorching desert winds of The Horus Way, and the pestilent insects that infest the Nile. The key that will unlock a kingdom and make Hatti the greatest empire in the world.

I glance at my men. They meet my eyes. They know how this might end, but I have faith in my future queen. She will be ready for us. And now that I have seen her, I know that I have judged her well.

The group of petitioners has dwindled to only two. They step forward as one and begin. Gazes begin to slide in our direction, and a murmur of excitement ripples outward from us. As the interest in our arrival reaches the queen, I wait to see what she will do.

She does nothing at all, and my heart swells with pride.

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

A wave of excitement washes through the room and laps against the golden footstool of my throne. My heart stutters to a halt though my attention does not waver from the petitioners for the complexity of their grievance demands the fullness of my attention. And I am grateful for it, because now more than ever I must be cold, distant, and aloof.

But he is here. And my heart, locked beneath its walls of flesh and bone sings like a bird freed from its lifelong cage.

After a long discourse from the petitioners, dragged out by Ay, I bring the case to its conclusion and give my judgment. There is an audible sound of relief from the nobles, and a sense of expectation fills the room as the final petitioners depart - neither have won, but neither have lost. My father would be proud. I judged well and fair, as a queen should.

A sharp clap comes from the palace steward, and a hush falls upon the assembly. He approaches my throne, head bowed, and his arms spread open, under his gold and gemmed collar, his chest gleams in the lamplight with almond oil. The scent he wears is intentional, and I savor the expensive, resinous tang of juniper captured in the far-off mountains of the Levant - a reminder of the vast reach of Amarna’s trade during my father’s reign, now long gone.

Until tonight.

The steward comes to a stop. I wait, the reins pulled tight against my heart in refusal to its desired gallop.

“My Queen, Lady of Aten, I have the pleasure to announce the arrival of a merchant from the northern lands, with wares of great value, rarity, and beauty for your perusal.”

I remain silent. The steward holds his pose, bent at his waist, arms outstretched. I know he suffers pain in his back, but he serves Ay, not me. I let him suffer, note the trembling of his legs.

The nobles shift, uneasy, their dread plain that I wish to retire, and all their waiting to spend their gold will have been in vain. I let the beats stretch, eye the noblewomen wearing my mother’s jewels, one after another. They feel the heat of my gaze, perceive its intention, and lower their eyes. One fingers the hasp on the cuff upon her wrist, as though she wishes it gone from her. Satisfaction slides through me. Soon all will be returned, but in this instance, on the delicate cusp between my doom and my triumph I pull the thread of the two outcomes to its breaking point.

Ay leans into my space, draws a breath.

“Let them come,” I announce. Boredom skirts my tone. I am pleased with how well I conceal my anticipation—even as the crowd parts to allow my prince to approach.

My steward straightens with an exhalation of relief.

And then, he comes to me, his dark eyes on mine, his steps steady and sure. How anyone could believe he is nothing more than a merchant astounds me. Quiet sounds of admiration ripple through the assembly as he processes through the hall, a large leather satchel slung over his broad shoulder. Sighs and rapid flutters of fans whisper from the women, but a few men with a penchant for their own kind also look upon my prince with open hunger.

I cannot blame them. He is perfect. Regal, strong, a warrior to his bone. I am already in love with him—cannot wait for him to call me his. It is as though I have lived my whole life for this one single heartbeat.

SIX

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

Ay’s condescension is unbearable. My subjects come to me, but it is he who decides all matters. I am a nothing more than an ornament in this place. Never have I felt more powerless. Each time I speak, he waits, then declares the opposite decision. My subjects look from me to him, their confusion tangible. They do not know who to bow to and obey, their queen or the ancient vizier who stands by her shoulder, perched like a vulture, seeking to take the last of her power from her. I only endure it because I know who is coming. How soon this charade of a court will be overturned, and my power restored.

Food is brought. The only good outcome so far this day. All wait while I dine. I cannot eat much for my hunger has fled, but it feels good to eat and enjoy the saltiness of the crumbled goat’s cheese and the sweet, rich texture of fat, sun-ripened olives, and dates. To savor the doughy warmth of bread straight from the oven. I am content after only a few bites, but already I feel restored. My fingers are dipped into rosewater and dried by my attendant. Another brings a tiny flagon of lily-scented almond oil, places a few drops upon the backs of my hands and massages it into my palms and my fingertips.

The proceedings continue, disputes over a transaction of land, a dowry unpaid, the list is endless for I have not sat upon my throne in months. But I wait, and endure because I know the summons for the merchant has been sent. He is to come once the proceedings finish. There is a tangible feeling of impatience among the attending nobility. They wish for the complaints and grievances to come to an end as much as I. I glance at the remaining number still waiting their turn. Ten more petitioners. Only ten. And then he will be here.

Behind the thin fabric of my gown, my nipples harden at the thought of him striding into my reception hall, all the way from another empire far to the north, to claim me as his queen. I lift my fan to hide my excitement. My longing for him is visceral. And on my wrists, my mother’s gift of golden cuffs glimmer in the glow of the freshly lit braziers and lamps. I gesture to one of my attendants to pour wine, and sip it to settle my nerves. Soon he will come to me, and Ay’s near-stolen crown will be snatched from his grasping fingers. I cannot wait. Truly. It is a delicious torture, and a tale of love my mother would adore. I sense the presence of Aten, sheltering me. Nothing can go wrong now. Nothing. I am certain of it.

The next petitioner has begun his complaint of stolen livestock, he claims they were taken by the man who also stole the woman he was to marry away from him. His expression is soured by his bitterness, and I find it hard to feel anything for him except distaste. I wish him to depart from my presence but because I am in a good mood, I decide in his favor, and the transformation in his appearance is stunning, for he is, in fact, a handsome man. Behind me, Ay draws a sharp breath, his displeasure clear.

“My Queen,” he says in that oily, false voice of his and I imagine he is holding his palm against his chest to show a humility he neither feels nor believes. “It will be as you decree.” Then, quietly so only I will hear: “Perhaps Her Majesty tires and would prefer I dismiss the remaining petitioners so she may rest?”

I know what he’s after, the wily jackal. He wants me gone so he can lord his power over my court once more. I ignore him and nod for the next petitioner to begin. They launch into their tale of woe while I bask in the heat of Ay’s impotent rage, the soft goose feathers of my fan a shield against the smile on my lips.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

Amarna is nothing like I expected. Everything feels new and looks new. I have heard how the entire city was built during the reign of Amenhotep, raised out of the desert from nothing more than a well and a goat herding oasis. It is a marvel to me. Even had I not known it was built in such a brief time, I would be impressed. There is a sense of harmony in every angle and curve of the city’s palm-lined avenues, plazas, and temples. Symmetry abounds. It is a feast for the senses. I am accustomed to the chaos of a city built and extended over hundreds of years, not this - a pristine, perfect place of beauty and calm.

Birdsong fills the air. Above, stretched over flower-laden terraces a riot of rich blue, green and red awnings ripple in the brisk river breeze. I am a price of an empire so I will not gape, but the boy in me wishes to. I breathe my thanks to Teshub for the gift he has given me and smile at a child holding out a basket of dates toward me. I gesture to one of my men to purchase a handful, and the child’s eyes widen at the size of the heavy pouch of gold he carries.

Of course, it is planned, this show of wealth. Even in a new city, things will be the same as in even the oldest one. People are always the same. I will continue through the market and barter, buy and sell some choice trinkets my father gave me from Babylon and by the time evening arrives, everyone will know there is a wealthy merchant in the city and I will be summoned to the palace. Nobles never wish to miss a chance to purchase a pretty bauble. And this perfect city, with its white walls and glass bead mosaics embedded into every threshold will most certainly be full of vain and wealthy nobles with gold to spend.

At last, I will kneel before her, the miracle who sent for a prince of Hatti to protect her throne from her enemies. After the most arduous journey of my life, I am here. Ahead, perched on a rocky cleft, the royal citadel, walled in white and crested with inverted pyramidions of gold, its palm-lined terraces soaked in the sultry heat of Arinna’s light. The widow queen may even stand upon one of its many indigo-draped terraces now, locked in her patient vigil, unaware the one she awaits is already here, walking among her subjects, invisible. The thought thrills me.

Soon, my queen, I will be by your side, Zanannza Prince of Hatti, son of Teshub, Pharoah of Egypt.

FIVE

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

He is here. I am sure of it. As my attendants bathed me, they spoke of a merchant who has arrived with a large pouch of gold, and exceptional gems and golden collars carried from as far as Babylon.

After the darkness of the past months, of death and uncertainty, the whole city is consumed by this unexpected diversion. We have had no visitors for so long. No envoys, nothing. No news of the world outside our own. He will bring news. Ay will be hungry for it.

Of course, I sent a message to Ay requesting that he be sent to the palace so I might browse his wares as is the custom. The royal family are always given first selection, then the nobles, and so forth. It is expected of me. Ay, of course, will agree. He must, it is court protocol.

I am tired. I have not eaten anything in three days. I miss Benut as if a piece of my heart has been carved from me. But I stand still as my attendants dress me in a pale blue gown sewn with threads of gold that shimmer in the firelight of the braziers. My heart tells me he will come this evening. I am nervous but I must give the appearance of aloofness to the one who would claim me as his queen, as if he were nothing to me - the prince who has become my everything. I wonder how he will look, dark, and powerful I suspect. A warrior prince. The lords of the north have always been of sturdier build than ours.

A smile threatens to shadow my lips. I cough and turn away. No one must suspect anything. Instead, I give my attention to the selection of jeweled cuffs laid out on a tray and choose which to place on my wrists. I select a pair my mother gave me my last year day before she died. On them, the tragic story of love of a shepherdess and a prince. Since my beautiful mother went to the gods, I have never worn them. I could not bear to. But today, in my victory I will have her presence with me.

The lady of my wardrobe asks if I will wear my crown today. I say yes and meet the astonished looks of my attendants with a cool expression for I have not worn my crown since my brother-husband-king was interred. They may think I have given up, but I am still the Queen of Egypt, even if I am caged and my wings are clipped.

Because my prince is in Amarna, at last. Aten has rewarded me for my endurance. As I walk to the main reception hall to show my face to my subjects for the first time in months, my skin tingles with anticipation.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

Amarna is nothing like I expected. Everything feels new and looks new. I have heard how the entire city was built during the reign of Amenhotep, raised out of the desert from nothing more than a well and a goat herding oasis. It is a marvel to me. Even had I not known it was built in such a brief time, I would be impressed. There is a sense of harmony in every angle and curve of the city’s palm-lined avenues, plazas, and temples. Symmetry abounds. It is a feast for the senses. I am accustomed to the chaos of a city built and extended over hundreds of years, not this - a pristine, perfect place of beauty and calm.

Birdsong fills the air. Above, stretched over flower-laden terraces a riot of rich blue, green and red awnings ripple in the brisk river breeze. I am a price of an empire so I will not gape, but the boy in me wishes to. I breathe my thanks to Teshub for the gift he has given me and smile at a child holding out a basket of dates toward me. I gesture to one of my men to purchase a handful, and the child’s eyes widen at the size of the heavy pouch of gold he carries.

Of course, it is planned, this show of wealth. Even in a new city, things will be the same as in even the oldest one. People are always the same. I will continue through the market and barter, buy and sell some choice trinkets my father gave me from Babylon and by the time evening arrives, everyone will know there is a wealthy merchant in the city and I will be summoned to the palace. Nobles never wish to miss a chance to purchase a pretty bauble. And this perfect city, with its white walls and glass bead mosaics embedded into every threshold will most certainly be full of vain and wealthy nobles with gold to spend.

At last, I will kneel before her, the miracle who sent for a prince of Hatti to protect her throne from her enemies. After the most arduous journey of my life, I am here. Ahead, perched on a rocky cleft, the royal citadel, walled in white and crested with inverted pyramidions of gold, its palm-lined terraces soaked in the sultry heat of Arinna’s light. The widow queen may even stand upon one of its many indigo-draped terraces now, locked in her patient vigil, unaware the one she awaits is already here, walking among her subjects, invisible. The thought thrills me.

Soon, my queen, I will be by your side, Zanannza Prince of Hatti, son of Teshub, Pharoah of Egypt.

FOUR

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

Benut is dead. My dearest and only true companion. And it was I who killed her. No one ever speaks of how my half-brother-husband went to the gods. But I have long suspected the truth. Poison. They say he died alone in the night, while he slept, from the sickness in his blood.

Perhaps. It is true he had an infected leg from where he broke it, and the stench was terrible, but he was mending. The day before he went to the gods, his fever had broken, and he asked for food. In the morning, he was dead, and I, forbidden to see his body.

Since, I have not touched the food brought to my apartment. Instead, I send Benut to the kitchens deep in the night to throw my food into the fire and bring me a portion of the bread and cheese meant for the slaves from the storage jars. She never questioned me, even when I began to lose weight and the bones of my ribs and hips began to show through my flesh. But I saw it in her eyes. The fear that I was hastening my life’s end, to free my ka and join my half-brother-husband and our two stillborn daughters and walk with them among the gods.

Of course, the jackal Ay would not dare attempt to poison my food while I dine among others, where his crime would be blunt and obvious. Though those occasions are rare now. No, he prefers to work in the shadows where he can cast uncertainty in the minds of my people, force them to doubt what is happening right before their eyes, the murder of a whole family. A coup in progress with only myself remaining. It suits me to let him think I am starving myself from grief and will do the dirty work for him and end my life. If anything, it has bought me time.

The wait since I burned Prince Zanannza’s letter has been arduous. Aten drags his chariot across the sky instead of racing through it. And all the while, Ay spreads his lies, denying the truth of his intentions with honeyed praise for me and false words of support where the others can hear. The hypocrite. The eater of hearts must be slavering to consume Ay for his multitude of crimes. Unfortunately, the jackal lives, and lives well on the abundance my father created. He clothes himself in the finest pleated linens, sewn with gold thread, and helps himself to the gem-laden collars of my dead mother, and gifts them to his favorites. And all I can do is walk past these women and say nothing. They, at least, have the shame to look down, their faces flushed with the dishonor of wearing jewels that should be mine.

And yet, all of this was bearable with Benut beside me. We never spoke of any of this, but she knew and remained steadfast and faithful to me, even as I became alienated in my own court. The pariah blocking the power Ay longs for, the thorny bush in his well-tended garden.

Loneliness has been my companion since Benut died. And guilt my new friend. She died in my arms, frothing at the mouth, her eyes wide and terrified, her breath stolen by the food she ate. My food. She admitted when she returned, she ate a little of it before she burned the rest. It was her favorite, honeyed almond cake. An innocent thing. But it cost her her life and confirmed my suspicion: That I will be next. Only this time, now that he knows I know what he has done, I suspect it will be a blade to my heart. There is no more need for ruse. My time is up.

May my prince come to me soon. Before it is too late.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

I stand, naked in the bathing pool. Water sluices off my body leaving droplets glistening on my skin. The attendants have earned their payment well. Cleansed of the grime of twenty-five days of hard travel, I am renewed, and the crisp scent of natron soap invigorates me. They wished to ply various oils on my skin, but I declined, I am not yet ready to smell like a flower garden. So much is different here. Where in Hattusa, we move with efficiency, are direct in our words and actions, these people seem to have time to spare as they move with grace and without haste. Everything is done with care and even the simplest task seems to follow a ritual. Impatience saws at me. I am a man of expedience and simplicity. All this activity has no purpose but to please the senses. Perhaps for the royal family, but for a merchant? Do all the ordinary people live thus? Spoiled as though they are noble? It seems I have much to learn, and most of it to my dislike. I wonder if my queen will spend half her day in such activity, and if I will be expected to do so.

No. It will not be. I will not tolerate it. I cannot waste my life soaking in flower-strewn baths and being smothered in scented oils. If she wishes to bring a prince of Hatti into her empire and crown him Pharaoh, she will soon learn that Hatti’s customs come with him. But for now, it is time to dress for my role and prepare for our departure to Amarna.

Two days, and I shall be there. The current is not flowing as strong against us this time of the year, and we will have a light load I am told. Teshub watches over us. It is my destiny to find her, and no amount of treachery will stop it. My father has made sure I am invisible. A no one. A mere merchant. I turn away to hide my smile. The attendants are watching me, their curiosity high because I insist on dressing myself with haste. Soon, they will know who I am. But for now, I place the merchant’s ring on my finger, pick up the satchel laden with false evidence of sales, a fortune of opals, and precious purple cloth and leave.

THREE

| ANKHESENAMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

He has written to me. Though not the king of Hatti, as I have been waiting, longing for. His silence since his envoy departed with my last message more than eleven weeks ago - hastily written whilst upon the seat of defecation - tormenting me, robbing me of hope. My faith in the message Aten instructed me to write wavering, flickering like the flame of my life, drawing the last of the lamp’s oil it needs to keep it alive.

I should not have wavered. Aten sees all, knows all. I am shamed by my lack of faith. My father would be ashamed of me, and my beautiful, kind mother, even more. Never again.

This morning, as I promenaded in the cool of the gardens before the ascent of Aten’s sacred disk, a missive was delivered to me, stained and strangely folded, instead of rolled and placed into a scroll case. A glance at the seal told me its message had miraculously remained unseen by Ay’s eyes. I accepted it—sensing his vulture-gaze upon my back, that hateful man who never ceases to be present when I wish him elsewhere—and handed it to Benut unopened as though it were a meaningless thing unworthy of my attention. She, my clever, trusted friend, followed my lead and carried it carelessly, its seal turned inward, away from Ay’s attention, as though we had expected it, perhaps from a merchant, and picked up from where she left off telling me of the arrival of a new caravan from Babylon with strange creatures that bellow and drool that have enormous humps upon their backs. And upon my own back, Ay’s gaze thinned and moved elsewhere, as he continued to watch, wait, and bide the time of his ascent and my demise.

Hours later, in the sanctuary of my bed, my breath tight with hope, I open it at last. At the double doors leading to my outer rooms, only one lamp burns, its oil measured to mark the hours until Aten’s return, when Benut and my ladies will enter and bathe and dress me for another day. Outside, Ay’s guards keep me imprisoned to his will while he sleeps—if that jackal ever does sleep. I suspect he walks the corridors of Amarna touching its walls and pillars, imagining the ring of Pharaoh upon his finger, and I, locked away out of sight, his unwilling queen. But now is not the time to think of these things.

I open the message and tilt it toward the light of a full moon.

It is written in Nesite. Not Akkadian. I am surprised at this and pleased. I know Nesite. My mother bade me learn it, among many other languages including Akkadian the language of diplomacy. She believed a woman’s mind is sharper than a man’s - a gift given by the gods - and for her to achieve true contentment she must hone her mind with learning as men hone their bodies to endure the brutality of war.

I was an obedient, and adept student. She brought tutors to me from every land and empire and of them all I loved learning Nesite the most. I found its strange symbols soothing to read, the order and symmetry of them a kind of art. Perhaps I was destined to know this language because of what is to come, or perhaps Aten gave me a proficiency for it because he knew I would need it one day.

Still. My fingers tremble as I unfold the intricate layers. Even how it is folded is pleasing to the eye, the strange symmetry of its repeating pattern gives the letter a depth that resonates with my ka. And I have not even read the message or know who it is from.

My gaze falls to the first line.

My imprisoned queen. I long to meet you.

And my heart, long silenced, skips a beat, it is he, the one who will be Pharaoh. His directness bolsters my flagging hope this dark trial to save my kingdom from Ay will be overcome. I breathe my thanks to Aten and continue.

I believe your claim of grave peril, and your request, though unprecedented, is sincere. My father has chosen me from among my brothers to be your husband, and king. I am Zanannza, fourth son of The Sun, King Suppiluliuma, and Queen Henti, prince of Hatti, warrior, and servant of the Storm God Teshub.

I departed Hattusa as soon as I received the king’s command. The journey to you should be swift, for we ride hard to reach you. Hold fast, my queen. I will come to you. Together we will rout the vipers from your nest and secure your place as the rightful queen of Egypt.

I have heard you are beautiful, that you take after your mother whose perfection of soul and purity of beauty has been spoken of as far distant as Babylon. I sense the hands of the gods are upon us, that our fates are tied to their will. Teshub came to me in a dream and warned me to be cautious. I have decided it is better that it is not known I am coming to you. Say nothing of this to no one. I plan to come to Amarna not as a prince but as a merchant. I will find you. And you will know it is I when you see that I carry purple silk and opals to you.

You will be safe. I will protect you. Wait for me. Soon you will be free to rule as your god intended.

Zanannza

I read it twice more. Elation threatens to consume me, but I suppress it. I must remain the same as always. Ay misses nothing. Even my closest and most trusted companion Benut cannot know. Although I long to secret this mysterious prince of Hatti’s message away where I might re-read it and press my fingertips against the symbols he made, I know it will not be safe. It will be found, and all will be lost. Egypt will be lost. I will be lost.

Like a thief, I steal from my bed to the lamps by the doors. A pause to read his words one final time, to commit them to memory. I kiss his name, so strange, so beautiful. Zanannza. My champion. My Pharaoh. It will be a dawn of a new age, with Egypt and Hatti united. I know my mother wrote often to Queen Henti and they shared many gifts with each other, greeted each other as sister, an unusual thing perhaps, but my mother was unlike any other Egyptian queen. She had many visions of the future, described a world of peace, knowledge, and prosperity for all. A world I am committed to create now that she is gone.

The flames flicker in a sudden draft drawn from the cold blue of Amarna’s moonlit desert sands. It slides over my skin like a hiss of a god, but it is not Aten’s voice I hear. The flesh of my arms prickle, and Anubis’s message reaches me, faint, but inevitable.

Beware.

Zanannza’s message, dry as desert dust, catches in the heat of the flame. Swift, I carry it to an empty brazier and watch it curl into ash, thinking of him coming to me, and of our secret, concealed behind a ruse of purple silk and opals. I mark the day and calculate the distance and time. Perhaps thirty days more if he is as fast as he claims. I allow for forty.

When the ashes cool, I place them into the night pot and defecate on them. Back between the cool sheets of my bed, flamelight against the painted pillars draws my attention. I imagine Aten’s light shining upon us all, clear, and clean, and Ay gone from his place, his power stripped from him by Pharaoh Zanannza, wearing the crown of Egypt. I allow myself a quiet smile, the feel of it a rare thing, and fall asleep to dream of him, the one who will restore Egypt to Aten with me by his side - his queen who defeated the darkness, alone.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

I am in desperate need of a bathing pool. The stench of my body is so pungent it wakes me from the deepest of dreams, drags me back to the hard, cold ground of my bed and the embers of a dying fire. For weeks, all I have known is the creak of leather, the stink of my sweat, the callouses of my hands, the ache of my body, and the seams of filth caked into every crevice of my flesh. We are on our fourth set of horses, these purchased at the edge of the desert, my own left behind at Kadesh, ridden to exhaustion. But we have done it. The impossible. After twenty-five days of hard travel, we have reached the end of The Horus Way and are approaching the verdant fields of Egypt. It is a vast distance to cover in such a short time, from Hattusa to Memphis. Nothing could be faster than us. Not even a courier. Soon we will reach the great river and board the vessel that will carry us to Amarna, several more days to the south.

In the distance, the ancient city of Memphis sits against the bank of the river, its port bustling with trade, glutted with ships drawn from all the corners of the Great Sea. The walls of the city gleam brilliant white against the radiant light of Arinna, an exotic thing to eyes used to the dark stone of the northern kingdoms. Beyond the walls, the city piles its way up to the courtyard of a great temple, layered in terraces brilliant with awnings of red, blue, green, and yellow. The whole of it basks under a deep indigo sky, a sprawling white and gold flower of symmetrical beauty, lined with obelisks, pillared courtyards and palm-lined pools so perfect, I cannot imagine how the gods could not wish to live among them.

I pat the satchel containing the forged evidence of sales made in various cities of the Levant. It was my father’s plan. Suspicious of treachery, he had prepared all in advance, the signet ring bearing my merchant’s mark, the ingots of gold sewn into the saddles, the satchels of precious wares, and the purple cloth and opals I would present to Queen Ankhesenamun as the mark of my identity. The soldiers who accompany me are from the elite ranks of my father’s own Mesedi, though no one would know by their unadorned armor and weapons they bear. I carry nothing but a dagger, jeweled, more for show than protection as befits a merchant of high rank, though I admit I feel exposed without my sword. But for this ruse to work I must be thorough.

Ten days behind, another rides in my place carrying my weapons, and wearing my armor, and my ring. If there is treachery, then those who come for my substitute will face the might of my father’s greatest warrior in my stead. Yes, my father has considered all. And I am grateful, for I confess my sole goal is to get to her, to shield her from what my instincts sense is grave danger, and to secure the Egyptian throne for Hatti before it slips from my father’s grip. But first, her. I cannot help myself. I long for her, to meet her, to touch her. To make her mine.

The gates of the city loom large before us, and even though I long to board a ship, I must stop to make myself presentable. I am seeking the audience of a queen after all. It is strange to play the part of a man who must bow his head to others. I, who only bowed to my father must bow my head to every noble who passes on a palanquin. I find I tire of it. My pride chafes. I am the son of Teshub. They should be on their knees before me, their faces in the dust, but no. For me to live, I must travel in humility and bow my head at every turn, lower my eyes and pretend to be honored by their passage even as I endure the heat of their judging looks and comments of disgust as they pass by. Yes, this act of humility is costing me more than I expected. But I must live, so I do it, but I long for the time when this ruse will end, and they will bow before their Pharaoh. I amuse myself with thoughts of their reactions when they recognize me as the same man they mocked at the gates of Memphis. It will be worth the wait. To observe their shock. Their fear. And I will let them fear me. For a long time.

TWO

| ANKHESEN-AMUN | AMARNA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

It is wrong how I feel. I know it to the core of my ka. But, despite my guilt, the weight of anguish for my treachery, it has become a part of me—has become my sole desire ever since my vision granted in the depths of that frozen desert night. Of him. Of the one who represents the darkness of Anubis that slides against the light of Aten, who challenges his power. Who balances it. I know who he is, and what he is, as much as I know who I am. But of course, I must pretend not to know. Because I am surrounded by enemies.

Ay, of course, is the jackal. He leads the pack, slavering with ambition for what should have been my brother's and is now mine. But he is not like the rest who embraced the enlightenment of my father. Even Horemheb—that crass brute with his bloody kopeshes and chariots bristling with his precious gold-tipped spears—understands there cannot be a multitude of gods but only One, the Source of all. The Light that grants all Life. Aten.

But not Ay. Ay worships no god—only the throne. My throne. The once-vizier of my father and brother, once-beloved of my five sisters, one by one shrouded in linen and bathed in natron, their bodies folded into place and locked in the eternal silence of their tombs, each death more suspicious than the last, until now only I remain, the sole heiress to the crown of Egypt, and in convenient need of a husband.

But no. It will not be Ay, my mother’s father, that ancient relic of polytheism with his stooped shoulders and slack-skinned jaw that wobbles when he eats. He has turned his back to Aten and given his heart to the eater of souls. He circles me like a hyena, waiting, calculating, intent on his prize: the last of Aten's children. Though he shall not have me.

Because I dreamed of him. The one who would change the course Ay wishes to cut for his own ambitions and those of the priests who come to him in the dark of the night to broker deals designed to benefit them but deprive the rest. Of how he seeks to undo all the work my father has done. I am not without my intelligence. There are still those who serve the one true god, who remain faithful to me, though we must be clever. I might hold the key to the throne, but my power is non-existent. In what’s left of my father’s legacy, I am nothing more than an object to be possessed. But Aten has shown me the way to escape the snare that tightens around my neck and the solution is not only strategic but desirable. Because the one who is destined to keep Egypt on its true path is the perfect counterpoint to me. He is the darkness that beckons to my light. And it is delicious. He is Hatti's Iah to my Aten. And together we will bring harmony to the world.

And so, I write. To the one who is my enemy, to Suppiluliuma himself, the great king of the Hittites with the words Aten instructed me to write as I grieved the loss of my brother and found myself solitary and friendless in a court of viperous liars and deceivers.

And then he came to me. In my dreams, he came to me, the one I remember yet never knew. How can it be that I know him, yet I have never met him? These are the questions I dare not ask, but remain a part of me, regardless.

I understand this much. He is the one I must bind with. And I find I am pleased. No, more than pleased. I cannot wait for the touch of his hand against mine. The dark shadows of his eyes to bathe in the light of mine. He will thrive here, with me, away from the competition of his brothers. And I with him, safe from the jackal jaws of Ay.

And now, I wait. For the King of Hatti to answer.

He will. Aten has promised it. And the one I dreamed of will be crowned Pharaoh of Egypt, and we shall live and love and rule together. In this world and the next.

| ZANNANZA | HATTUSA | 14th CENTURY BCE |

My Lord King Suppiluliuma has summoned me. And not to his throne, or even to his library where he takes respite from our campaigns, the weight of his empire, or his homages to the bleak-topped mountains to make offerings to Sharruma. No. Not even to walk with him on the crushed-shell paths of his gardens, where he converses with my elder brothers Mursili and Arnuwanda amid the shrill cries of his flightless birds sent from the King of Babylon, with their fan of feathers that rattle like bones. Birds that cannot fly. What is their purpose? I perceived the insult my father chose not to see in these creatures: complained of it to my brothers. They laughed and said it was good I should never become king for I would be a tyrant, filled with suspicion and ill will.

If I were king, I would kill the birds. And I would enjoy it.

But my father, the king, has done none of these things. Instead, he commands me to come alone to his apartment at the darkest hour, and to speak of it to no one.

I have not entered his apartment in my life. Why should I? I am the fourth of his sons. I am practically invisible to him. My father has never done anything without purpose. All his actions are careful, calculated, and correct.

So, I am mystified. This is not the king I know. The one I bend my knee to. Perhaps Teshub has taken over my father and made him unpredictable like the Storm God himself. And if my father has become unpredictable, then the world has cracked and the gods have come to join us, which could be marvellous or, terrible. I find I am hoping it will be terrible, because it would be more interesting, and I am bored.

This evening, I sent my current favorite away once I finished with her, even though I prefer the warmth of her body next to mine when I wake in the morning. She looked afraid, as if she had displeased me. Because I can be cruel, I let her think she had. I turned my back to her, but not before I saw the smear of tears in her eyes. I know she loves me, hopes for a son before her body wears out and her beauty fades—before she is replaced, as all women are, eventually. Of course, I will replace her, whether she has a son or not.

I am a prince of Hatti, son of its greatest king. Love has no purpose for me, unless it is the love of a well-balanced sword, the oppressive heat of battle under a fiery sun, or the caress of my enemies’ blood sliding against my skin. This is the only love—the only passion I know.

The hour has come. I leave my apartment and make my way through the royal citadel toward the courtyard of the king’s palace. Apprehension settles itself upon my shoulders, a chill cloak. My senses, honed in battle prickle, wary, and in the flickering light of the colonnade’s braziers the solid stone pillars waver, reminding me of a forgotten dream. I sense the presence of the gods closing in with each step I take, as though I am being shepherded to my destiny by a force greater than the faith I have in my blade, or my sacred duty to obey my father, the king.

He is there as soon as I make my quiet knock, opens the door himself, which astonishes me. I search the space for his Mesedi, royal guards who shadow him night and day. There are none.

He notes my shock, and nods at me to enter. I obey and drop to my knee as he closes the door behind me, feeling as though my life is expanding and growing dark all at once.

He says nothing as I return to my feet, and in this quiet, secluded space, away from the noise and chaos of his court, as he looks me over, assessing me with his unreadable gaze, my heart tugs. I am the child longing for the embrace of his father. Shame fills me. I am a man full grown. Twenty-six summers are behind me. I have sired more than nine sons from my concubines, and Arinna only knows how many daughters I have left in my wake.

He turns and beckons me to follow him towards a table where I note an opened scroll case, and a brief message bearing the seal of the royal house of Egypt.

He sits. I remain on my feet, even though there is a chair I might take. He lets me stand. This, at least I am accustomed with. I steer myself into the safety of this harbor away from the storms that surround me. I will not let fear ambush me. He will not send me away to be an ambassador to Egypt, to rot in a foreign court, useless and pointless. No, it will be war. It must be war. Or, perhaps due to his secrecy, sabotage. I cling to this hope. Sabotage would please me. I know I could do it well.

“My son,” he says, at last, “it seems the gods have deigned to walk among us once more.”

I wait, cold creeping through me, though I relish it, the fear, the uncertainty. The danger: for where the gods are, death is never far behind.

He pushes the papyrus towards me. I take it. Read it. Then I read it again. The cold turns my blood to ice. Yes. This is the work of the gods. It cannot be anything else.

“And who will you send?” I ask, though we both already know the answer.

“I will not command you,” he says, “but if I were to trust any one of my sons with such a dangerous task, I cannot image a better choice than you.”

“Why?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. I regret it immediately. “My lord,” I finish, hoping to mitigate my error, though it’s too late and makes me look even more foolish.

My father waves my words away. “Because you are hard to kill.”

His answer stuns me. I expected—hoped—he might say, because you are clever, merciless, at times cruel, and will turn Egypt into Hatti’s vassal. But no, I am simply told I am hard to kill. Anger thaws the ice in my blood, but I hide my fury from him. He is the king. And I am his subject.

And it is true.

I am hard to kill. I should have died four times already, from ambushes, from battle wounds, from a poisoned cup. And yet, here I stand, as strong as a bull, my injuries vanished as though they never happened. The courtesans whisper I must be a child of Teshub, my father cuckolded by a god.

“I know what they say,” my father says into my silence, reading my thoughts. I meet his eyes, a rare thing. He holds my look. “That Teshub lay with the queen, and you are his son.”

“And am I?” I cannot believe my brazenness, but then again, I am hard to kill.

“The queen is a pious woman,” he answers. “Our empire thrives because of her endless devotion to the gods.”

“To Arinna,” I say. Who is Teshub’s consort, I don’t say. Worship of Teshub is the king’s domain.

He nods, terse. I know there will be nothing more said. I have my answer. The king suspects it, too. But what can he do? If Teshub wants to lie with a queen, he will. He is a god after all. I relish this small revelation from my father, consider what it has cost him. And understand at last why he never paid attention to me, never showed me any affection as a child. And now, why he has chosen to send me away.

To become Pharaoh of Egypt.

“I wish to write to her,” I say, “to Queen Ankhesenamun.”

He nods. “You leave tonight. Write to her as you travel.”

“Tonight?”

“You may be hard to kill, but I suspect treachery. I sent an envoy to see for himself if she spoke the truth. Her husband is very much dead, and for her own reasons I cannot fathom, is willing to give up Egypt’s throne to one of my sons.” He glances down at the letter on the table. “This is the letter she sent back with my envoy. She has not changed her mind.”

I know because I had read her letter.

“She fears for her life,” I say.

My father closes his eyes. “I have deliberated on this for several months. My son, you have a choice. Accept the queen’s offer of the throne of Egypt and make Hatti the most powerful empire in the world, or realize too late it’s a trap, and die.”

“It’s not a trap,” I say, and I know I am right. “At least not from her. She is in no position to risk war with us.”

My father’s eyes open and the clarity in them unsettles me.

“And yet, you might still die. And if I have sent you, my unkillable son, to death, I will never forgive myself.” He stands and steps over to me, clasps my forearm, warrior to warrior. “Do not die. I command it.”

I clasp his arm back, lost in the feeling of the touch of my father. I know it will be the first and last time. I grasp his arm with all my strength.

“I will live and bring Egypt to you, Father.”

And I know it shall be.

He lets go. Walks away. A door closes behind him.

And once more, I am alone.

ONE

| R’DDUR’N | THE DEEP | 500th CENTURY BCE |

In your world, I am Hades. Your so-called god of the Underworld. A bad translation, but for now it will do. Time enough for clarifications later.

Before I arrived in your world, I was R’ddurn’n. Commander of The Deep. Annihilator of Worlds. Bringer of Death. Bearer of Darkness. At the height of my ascendence, my power was vast: I stood second only to Marduk, usurper of Anu, Lord of Ten Thousand Worlds, Protector of The Deep.

When he began testing his strength against the pantheon, chafing against his lower rank in the ascendence, I saw his darkness, his ambition, his cruelty, and recognized the same in me. I aligned myself to him, used my faint lineage to the royal family, born of a concubine of a lesser royal. Proved my worth and served him well in his brutal coup.

If Marduk were capable of love, he would have loved me as a brother. But he is not. His soul is as black as Void. Instead, he showed his appreciation of me in what he bestowed upon me. Interstellar ships. Several dozen planets rich with resources. And the ultimate proof: one of his three regeneration devices that cannot expire. I could live until the universe reaches heat death and still look about 30 years old. If I wanted. I haven’t decided if I want to yet. It depends how this story unfolds.

After his ascendence, Marduk placed me before Enlil, even before his own father Enki. And they bowed to me. Feared me. The sons of Anu, their blood the purest of all, the true successors of Anu. They bowed because they knew what I was capable of. The weapon Marduk wielded against those who resisted his control. I was merciless, and sadistic against those who stood against him. I shattered worlds, or crushed them, or stripped them of life little by little – and enjoyed it, enjoyed the suffering of those who believed they could withstand the inevitable. I used my power to its fullest extent. No matter how many injuries I sustained, my regenerative abilities were second to none. I had everything I wanted. Power, sex, slaves, obscene wealth, near eternal life. I was a god. Or as close to one as is possible.

Until I fell in love. With the one forbidden to all. I will let her tell you her story, herself. I know she will be here, because wherever I am, she is. We always find each other. Even here, in this sudden, unexpected chronicle of our love that has emerged from a universe-spanning entanglement - hidden behind these sterile words human readers need to communicate - is our love. Our impossible, imperfect, violent, tragic love.

And how it has begun again. Perhaps for the final time.

We shall see.

 | KUSHNINNA | THE DEEP | 500th CENTURY BCE |

When we began, the air burned violet from our violence. Today, the air is drenched with the essence of the dead. We are losing. Our mighty coup has failed and there is only a handful of us left, but still, we fight the onslaught of Marduk’s minion army, the filthy Kirrum Kag.

I raise my triple-bladed jihn and let it feast on the creatures hurtling themselves at me, hungry for the prize of my head, my back against R’ddur’n—my soul, my rock, my eternal bond. I feel his power as he lifts the mighty Hedagh cirrix entrusted to him by the Eradu, its power surging through him as the Hedagh hums with its own life, eating the souls of our victims.

Our last protector falls to the horde. As he falls, his death cry For R’ddur’n! echoes across the wasteland of the dead. Left only with R’ddur’n, the one who would have been Lord of the Deep had we not failed, we continue to fight for our lives while the sky burns crimson with the heat of ancient suns. Through my exoskeletal armor, I can feel the pressure of R’ddur’n’s back against mine, a lover’s caress.

If I could do it all again, I would, even to this end—to our fatal destiny. We believed in what was right, wished to overthrow the tyranny of my father Marduk and begin a new order. The citizens and nobles of the Deep’s Collective may adore General R’ddur’n, but my love for him is fiercer than the storms of the frozen moons of Dseum. We were meant to rule together. We were going to change the course of the universal rhythm. We would open the forbidden doors between the dimensions and usher in an enlightened existence of freedom and peace, ending the fear which has crippled my father’s subjects for aeons.

I kick aside two Kirri. They tumble from the cliff, their hissing vile in my ears even though they are their cries of terror. A brutal wall of sound decimates me, steals my strength. I fall to my knees, helpless. R’ddur’n pulls my back to my feet; the power of the cirrix overriding the weapon's assault. The Kirrum disintegrate, their molecular structures too flimsy to withstand its force. A bizarre tableau spreads away; countless dead from R’ddur’n’s army litter the rocky desert terrain. None of my father’s forces remain—it is as if we have fought phantoms.

A little distance away, my father’s ship materializes. Marduk steps out and lifts his head. He looks straight at me. I know his mind. He is going to kill us. I turn to R’ddur’n.

The Hedagh’s haft in his fist, R’ddur’n removes his visor. His beauty still takes my breath away. His eyes gleam a cold cerulean—though none ever burned as bright as his. His words sear themselves against my soul.

“I have failed you.” He casts a glance at the source of our imminent demise as my father approaches. I memorize R’ddur’n’s features. His eyes return to mine. “We are one. Never forget that. Never forget us.” He kisses me, deep, possessive. Anguished.

Caught in the force of his passion, fourteen spheres of our shared history flash through my mind—the moment our eyes locked in the Halls of Arymendu; his explosive rise to General of Marduk’s army; nights spent locked in love; the enlightenment we wished to bring; the night my father refused to allow me to bind with R’ddur’n. When R’ddur’n pulls away, my lips are bleeding, as are his. I taste our mingled blood, savor the brutality of our love.

The footfalls cease. R’ddur’n’s arms tighten around me. The voice of my father deadens the air. “Kushninna, shame of my existence, step away from the pretender and kneel before Nibiru’s true lord.”

I sink to my knee, bow my head and lift my weapon.

“Commander R’ddur’n,” I say, ignoring the heated glare of my father’s contempt as he paces past me. “I pledge my allegiance to you, in this life and all others. Throughout the dimensions of the known universes, I will always be yours. I beg you, slay me now, for I would die with you here and by no other weapon than yours.”

I lift my eyes to R’ddur’n’s. It takes me several heartbeats to realize he is already dead. His head slides from his shoulders and lands at my feet, his eyes on mine. A heartbeat later, his body collapses. His life essence sprays my armor—in the burning light, it shines red-black, the color of our love.

“R’ddur’n.” My eyes won't bleed their sorrow though I want them to. I pick up his head, rise and meet my father's cold satisfaction as he sheathes his tainted blade. “Do with me what you will. I am already dead.”

Alone in my cell, I wait for my punishment, the life essence of R’ddur’n still staining my armor. My father took R’ddur’n’s head from me before I was marched into the Temple of Anu. Forced to my knees, I was bid confess the error of my ways before our Ancient Creator. I remained silent. I have nothing to confess. The assembled nobles and priests were subdued as I left. I am certain Marduk is consulting with them as to how best to finish me. I am not afraid. I want it to be over. I want it to end. To be with the one I loved above all else.

The energy field that cages me disengages. My grandsire seats himself beside me with a heavy sigh.

“Your father has decided your fate,” he says. “He intended to send you to Void where you would exist for eternity, immaterial, with nothing left to you but your thoughts and memories.”

Though I am battle-hardened and believe I fear nothing, I shudder. So Void is real, after all. My father remembered my fear of Void from my formative years. The legendary nightmares I suffered. How he had comforted me and promised me no such place existed, a story to keep naughty younglings in line. And now, he will send me there. To the place of my childhood nightmares.

“Kushninna, look at me.” I meet my grandsire’s eyes, the father of my father, so kind, so unlike my father or my mother, each cruel in their own way. I feel fiercely bonded to him, the only one who ever showed me what love might look like.

“I have intervened on your behalf,” he continues. I glimpse the sheen of tears in his eyes, which he blinks away. I wonder what price my father has forced him to pay for my intervention. “You are to be put into stasis. Your body will be kept alive. Only a small part of you will continue to stay conscious, and that part will be activated in another life form.”

Horror crawls through me. I have heard of this punishment. Other serious offenders to Nibiru’s codex have suffered this rare fate, and on their return thousands of spheres later, they were never the same. Their eyes haunted by the lives they had led outside of themselves in the body of another, imprisoned in a lesser being in an immature civilization on a planet one dimension and many sars removed from the Deep. I had read what it was like, trapped in a primitive society filled with war, pestilence, cruelty, brutality, violence, hate, and needless suffering. For all my father’s flaws, at least no one starved in the Deep. Strangely, the fear of hunger terrifies me the most.

“He cannot mean it,” I whisper, incredulous my father would allow me to live. “I wish to be with R’ddur’n. I cannot be lost to him.”

“There is no alternative but Void,” Enki sighs. “If your bond is true, R’ddur’n will find you. I will visit you in your dreams, to remind you of your true identity lest you should forget. I shall not send you alone either; you will be watched over by four guardians, those who can travel between the dimensions who have agreed to be bound to you during your exile.” I understand his meaning. He suspects my father has his own plans for me.

I draw a ragged breath. “How long?”

“That is a factor that cannot be predicted. You will return to us when the one you are imprisoned within expires.”

I am taken to a hidden crystal-walled room deep in the Healing and Creation Sanctuary. I have never seen the entrance to this room before, camouflaged by a hologram my grandfather deactivates with the device on his wrist. So my grandfather has his secrets, too. He gives me a guilty look and I understand he was the one who created the ability to send others away, into exile in the body of another, silenced, powerless and only able to watch and to suffer, for years. I feel my will crumble. Not this. Please, not this.

The walls in the room are opaque. My father is already there. He gazes at me with a hate that chills me to the bone. I remember what he did to my mother. I know what he is capable of. I am led to the solitary pod in the middle of the room and made to lay down inside it, still wearing my bloodstained armor. Enki closes the lid over me without a word of farewell—my father's black, cold eyes ripe with the promise of his malevolence the last thing I see. I know he will hunt me in this other world. He left his mark there, as he does in all places—just as my grandfather can send guardians, my father can send tormenters. And he will make me suffer, more than most. I pity the one who must carry me, for my suffering will also be hers. Only, she will never know why, and I will have no way to tell her. I clench my fists until my fingers hurt, concentrate on the pain.

A magnetic field engages, creating a loud hum inside my head which rises and falls. I have not yet cried. I have never in my existence cried, yet my heart throbs with an ache that begs me to weep. Bleakness consumes me. I am lost. I miss R’ddur’n. Terror snaps at me. I am ashamed of my weakness. The hum grows, driving spikes of agony from my flesh into my core as if I am being torn apart from the inside out. Panic strikes. I scream, beg to be spared, claw at the pod’s lid and try to push it open. The force field gains momentum—drowns out my screams, hits me with an unbearable weight. My arms drop to my sides. I fall into myself, as though I am made of nothing more than fabric, am being folded into smaller and smaller squares, compressed each time. The light shrinks to nothing. Darkness beckons, cold, and silent.

A final image flares with the last of my existence and I cling to it, as an insect clings to a leaf in a storm. I see him, all of him, waiting for me, beyond the veil of his death.

R’ddur’n. Follow me. Find me. Love me again.

And somehow, I know he will. Because we are not done.

Our journey has only just begun.

PROLOGUE

| PERSEPHONE | ABOVE |

It began with him. With the one who was the other half of me—even though I didn't know it; even though I didn't understand a piece of me was missing. But, then again, do we ever realize this? No. Perhaps none of us do until it happens. Until it strikes us between the eyes and we are stunned by the force of it. Until we understand that we are alone until we are found and the one we never sought has destroyed everything we believed to be true. And then, what? We are left in the wreckage of our past, surrounded by the enormity of the future—of the sheer raw expanse of it all. Of the pain to come and the pain you suddenly remember from lives once lived and long forgotten...

But, as usual, I have raced ahead of myself. Who am I? The one who speaks to you now, out of theses symbols and lines of thoughts unformed and reunited here, now, in this moment. I am the one who became aware of many things even though I did not wish for it, or even longed for it. But I have begun to understand we are chosen, and the gods are cruel. They love to watch us suffer. And I have suffered. Perhaps more than most.

I am a daughter of the one you call Zeus. My mother was a mortal, no one special, just a shepherdess caught in the crosshairs of the lust of two gods. One prevailed, as always, in the battle of such titans. Of course, she fell in love. And of course, she lay with the one who would use her for his own temporary diversion and leave her, alone, dishonored, and pregnant. With me.

She never told me. No one did. I grew up alone, a plain girl, with simple thoughts and interests. I helped my mother with her small herd of goats. We wandered the lonely hills of Oneone. She told me stories of love, of wood nymphs and mortals. Of gods become men and woman become goddesses. We would lay on our backs under the star-studded sky and she would point up to the heavens and say to me with a soft smile: "Look there. That is where the gods live. They are looking down at us now. They are watching us." And I would ask, filled with some kind of delicious pleasure: "And do they care about us? Of the things we think, the words we speak?"

Her smile would fade and her eyes would close against the canopy of cold, silent stars. She never answered. And so, I stopped asking. Then, I didn't understand. But now I do. I understand why. And I don't know how she endured. Because I almost cannot.

It is why I write. To ease this pain. To somehow chronicle the utter improbability of it all, of who I am. And perhaps, to achieve what my mother did not.

The love of a god.

No matter what it will take.

Or how long I must wait.