PROLOGUE

The Immortal Realm

Teshub, the once-powerful and mighty storm god, woke to the sensation of flames burning across his arms. He cracked an eye open. Symbols, glowing red-orange crackled to life along the backs of his forearms. Rubbing his eyes, he sat up wondering how long he had slept this time. The last time he woke, Horus had said more than one hundred thousand years had passed in the mortal realm, though, he had added with a wry smile, Teshub had missed nothing. Teshub pushed his long dark hair, tousled from sleep, back from his eyes, hoping this time he had slept even longer; it was a good way to pass the meaningless, useless, endless time.

The symbols brightened, glowing, demanding his attention. He lifted an eyebrow, savoring the long-forgotten sensation of cold fire spreading along his arms. It had been an eon since he had followed the actions of mortals on his flesh; when he last lived in their realm, a god. But those days, once filled with opulence and glory, had come to their brutal end when the savage wars of gods and men reached its fatal impasse. Thoth, infinitely wise and rational—standing in the place of the Creator God who had abandoned his creations once the first blood was shed—had called for their evacuation, sealing them into the immortal realm, the new home of the gods, sentencing them to an eternity of silence.

And yet, after an epoch of dormancy, the fiery symbols which had once ignited and extinguished endlessly on Teshub's arms flamed again. Strange. He leaned forward, intrigued, tingling with anticipation.

A long time passed before he sat back, troubled. A man—a prince—had sacrificed six bulls to Teshub begging him to spare the life of the woman he loved; a woman he had almost killed with his own hands. She lived, but the prince had then lost her to another, a pharaoh. The prince wanted her back, but first, as dozens of bulls fell to his blade, he pleaded for success in his campaigns against the pharaoh's vassals so he might win back his right to the throne. Then, with the armies of the empire behind him, he would bring war to the very gates of Egypt until the woman bound to him in blood was returned.

The flames subsided, though the glow remained; the connection between Teshub and the prince remaining, tenuous. Teshub got up and moved across his sumptuous apartments, undisturbed for millennia, wondering if Baalat still used her vision pool. After enduring the crushing weight of the endless epochs of wasted time, an upwelling of purpose ignited in him, raw, visceral. Hope bloomed in his chest; to be useful again, to have a reason to exist. He hurried through his rooms, eager. As he reached the outer vestibule, a gilt card lying on the threshold of his apartment lit up, glowing pure white. Curious, he bent and collected it, recognizing the elegant handwriting of Baalat.

Turning the card over, he read her words. He blinked, and read them again. No. It couldn't be. Waving his hand over the panel bearing his sigil, the door to his residence slid open. He left, striding through the realm toward the apartment of Baalat and Horus.

Preoccupied by Baalat's disturbing message, he was halfway to his destination before he realized the vast realm's wide avenues lay quiet, shrouded in silence. None processed. Doors stood sealed, the sigil of the ones within hovering without, glowing white. Teshub walked on, alone, trepidation bearing down on him. A tremor, deep within the foundation of the realm vibrated against his feet, faint. Slowing his steps, he halted, waiting, his skin prickling. There. Another tremor, so faint it almost felt like he might be imagining it.

He quickened his pace, uneasy, disturbed by the realm's ominous silence. Within the courtyard of their home, the entrance to Baalat and Horus's apartment stood open. He entered, calling their names, hoping Baalat's message had been an elaborate diversion, nothing more. On the table, a glass of wine, half-finished. In the bedroom, an unmade bed; its silken covers trailing onto the floor, a cushion halfway between the door and the bed. On the room's ceiling, the fractals of which Horus had been so proud were gone; vanished as though they had never existed. Teshub turned, searching for something, anything to help him understand why two of the highest gods among the pantheon would throw away their immortality for two mere mortals. He looked down at the card again, turning it over, hoping to find more, but there was nothing, only her brief words: They were gone. One day they would die so two mortals could live. It made no sense.

The symbols on his arms lit up again. Another tremor shot through the realm's foundation. The floor trembled. The wine in the glass shivered. Golden symbols flared to life on his arms, so bright the walls reflected its light. He staggered, staring at the arcane lettering as it coalesced, its movements stately, regal, inexorable, the symbols older than time itself. After an eon, the Creator God—the father of his existence—had broken his punishing silence. The symbols solidified; the glare faded. Teshub read the message, burned, indelible on his arm. He sank down onto the bed, stunned, and read it again.

You are next.

CHAPTER ONE

Northeast Amurru, Late Autumn. Reign of Muwatallis, Year 21

Along the line of chariots, torches flared to life. Pinpricks of wavering light spread away into the distance, holding back the ominous, murky depths of Amka's wood. Alone, within his chariot, Urhi-Teshub waited, patient, ignoring the late autumn chill seeping into his limbs. He flexed his fingers on the reins, the quiet clack of his horses' teeth worrying at their bits triggering an old memory from a time when things had been different—when he had belonged in Hatti and would inherit the throne. When Istara had been his and not a hostage of Egypt's pharaoh.

A sharp crack rent the air. Across the muddy, ruined plain the massive cedarwood doors of Ay's gates buckled against his army's battering ram. He let out a slow breath, the air turning white in its wake. Not much longer now.

Under a roiling, heavy sky, the walled city stood dark and silent; the stars of Arinna's crown lost behind swollen clouds eager to lash Hatti's soldiers with icy rain. Long exhausted of arrows and burning oil, the last of Amurru's north-eastern city-states loyal to Pharaoh Ramesses II, waited, bleak, for its fall. The terror of the people trapped within scythed across the devastated fields, past the once-crown prince of Hatti and into the impenetrable darkness of Amka.

Urhi-Teshub cut a look at the splintered doors, his lips thinning as he considered what his father, the king of Hatti would do if he were here—imagining the destruction. The brutality. The waste. No. Urhi-Teshub was not a murderer like his father. Dead men did not grow crops, smelt metal, craft weapons, or herd livestock. He had a different plan. Mercy. Occupation. Ramesses would hate it.

Another blistering crack snapped across the plain, startling the horses. They blustered and pulled on the reins, agitated. Urhi-Teshub called to them, soothing them with quiet words, even as the memory of the previous evening returned, unbidden, and haunted him.

A wealthy Amurrite trader had come to him bearing a casket of gold ingots, seeking permission to trade in Hatti. Over a cup of spiced wine he mentioned a strange rumor he thought might interest Urhi-Teshub. While in one of the southern cities of Amurru, he had heard a story about the Princess of Kadesh, fallen to an ambush of barbarians in Amka. The trader had made light of it, saying there was no limit to the stories the common folk could fabricate, unaware she no longer resided in Tarhuntassa, but had been taken to Egypt and never returned.

Urhi-Teshub had tossed and turned the entire night, unable to sleep, fearing the pharaoh's oblique message to find another queen had hidden a sinister truth—Ramesses had not returned Istara to Urhi-Teshub because she was dead. No. Urhi-Teshub tightened his grip on the reins. Istara had been surrounded by an army of five thousand men. She lived. He could feel it in his bones. The trader had heard wrong. He had to be wrong. To live without the hope of her—

Another splinter wracked the cooling air, sharp with the tang of falling frost. A section of the door buckled inward. Darkness gaped through the hole. Urhi-Teshub eyed the damage. At least two more blows would be needed to open the way. He drew a deep breath, letting the air's bitter chill invigorate him. He could be patient. His weeks of confinement after Kadesh had hardened him. Sharpened him. Granted him focus.

Never again would he make a reckless mistake like he had done at Karchemish, where he had discovered the extent of his father's tyranny, and the depths of the king of Hatti's deviousness and dishonor. Urhi-Teshub could never win against a man who could murder in cold blood every relative and slave of Asuru's family—his father's once-beloved wife who had died giving birth to Urhi-Teshub—in revenge for Urhi-Teshub's uprising to regain his right to the throne.

His heart tight, he forced his thoughts away from the burden of his guilt, thinking instead of the carts laden with caskets of gold, ivory, silver, and gems, of the raw panels of cedarwood worth a fortune—the spoils of Egypt's vassals, worth more than twice the costs depleted from the treasury for the battle at Kadesh. Urhi-Teshub bit back the nascent hope he had nurtured, fearing if he dwelled upon it too long, he might cause its demise. And yet, this was why he was here, in the cold, laying siege to all of Egypt's vassal cities south of Amka—to win back his father's favor and regain his right to the throne.

Another section of the doors crumpled under the blow of the battering ram. Jagged pieces of wood exploded out from the gap, raining onto the shields of the soldiers flanking the sides of the enormous tree, its weight borne on the trunks of lesser trees beneath. Wails, thin with distance, rose from within the shrouded city—women keening in fear, men pleading to their gods—the city's smooth walls caressed by the light of thousands of flickering torches.

A harsh shout broke through the susurration. One of Urhi-Teshub's commanders bellowed to strike again. The soldiers scrambled to secure the teams of oxen to the rigging lashed to the battering ram—a giant cedar felled, stripped and dragged across the plain from Amka. The men swarmed over the ruins of the tree like locusts, their burnished leather armor gleaming orange in the firelight. Another command. The cracks of dozens of whips. The beasts bellowed, frightened, straining against the weight of the monstrosity beside them, the whites of their eyes iridescent in the torchlight.

Urhi-Teshub rolled his shoulders, the heavy weight of his scabbarded sword across his back dragging on him. Not once had he needed to draw it. One by one, the cities had fallen, grateful for the reprieve of occupation granted at the cost of an emptied treasury. How fast they had succumbed, unguarded and unprotected. No one, least of all Ramesses, could have anticipated another Hittite campaign only four months after the bloodbath at Kadesh. Urhi-Teshub suppressed a ripple of satisfaction, wishing he could be in the room when Ramesses learned he had lost six of his wealthiest vassals within the space of one month—and who had taken them from him. Across the muddy field, the battering ram settled into position, ready to strike again.

A cold wind rose, cutting, raw, warning of rain as the soldiers freed the oxen from their tracings and tugged them away. Night fell in earnest. The chill in the air deepened. Between the scudding clouds, the stars glittered, sharp and cold.

Another terse command, and the soldiers shoved against the shorn limbs of the tree, their feet sliding in the muck, already beginning to harden in the cooling night air. Heaving to the beat of a hundred goatskin drums, his soldiers rocked the felled tree toward the gate, their breath coming out in vapors; murky clouds of white. At the last drumbeat, they let go, the momentum of the monstrosity carrying it the last few spans. It slammed against the crumpled doors with a heavy thud and bounced back. The soldiers scrambled away, tumbling into each other, frantic, desperate to avoid its recoil.

The debris settled. Another section had fallen, but the doors still held. Urhi-Teshub knew they would not withstand another blow. It never took more than three barrages to break through once the wood had been breached. The wails inside the city escalated. Hatti's soldiers roared, eager for the spoils they were permitted to take: food, armor, weapons, concubines. Urhi-Teshub eased on the reins, and let his horses walk forward, restraining them as they bobbed their heads up and down, caught by the fervor of more than ten thousand men beating their swords against their shields.

Soon he would enter the city and claim it in the name of his father; would meet the conquered king, and deplete his treasury. He would drink the king of Ay's wine, eat his roasted meat, and sleep in his royal apartment where he knew his dreams would be haunted by how Istara had looked at him when he had freed her from the blade of the Egyptian queen's Nubian guard—and the act of treason he had committed to protect her. He had kept his end of the bargain. Now he wanted her back, his wife—bound to him in blood before the gods—belonged to him, not Egypt. Not Ramesses.

Across the plain, his men reattached the oxen's harness to the ram's rigging for the last time. It would be another hour before the gates would fall, but it would be worth it. One hour less apart from Istara. One step closer to his throne. He just had to be patient. And he could be. Anything for her. Anything.

"My lord, a courier has arrived. From Tarhuntassa."

Urhi-Teshub sat up, disoriented. He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. He had been dreaming of Istara. Again. It had to be his proximity to Kadesh. His blanket slid down to his waist, the cold hitting his bare chest, razor sharp. He shot a look at his brazier and cursed himself for forgetting to put more fuel on it before retiring.

Since he had arrived the week before, Rhoha, the usurper queen of Kadesh had sent numerous messages to him, inviting him to leave his camp on Kadesh's muddy plain and stay at the palace while he waited for spring to arrive, suggesting he might want to spend time with his son, the one he had fathered on her whilst possessed by her sorcery. He stifled a shudder. He would never go near that woman again, would rather sleep on frozen ground than enter the gates of Kadesh.

His guard moved nearer, clasping a leather scroll case, his knuckles chapped and white with cold.

"What is the hour?" Urhi-Teshub asked, hauling his blanket up around his shoulders. He took the proffered case.

"Coming up to the third hour, Your Highness," the guard answered, backing away, his fist pressed to his chest. A slice of cold air slid into the tent as he ducked under the leather flap.

Untying the case's leather straps, Urhi-Teshub hesitated, caught by misgiving. To receive a courier in the dead of the night did not bode well. What if the message contained news of Istara? What if Ramesses had sent her back while Urhi-Teshub was away on campaign? His heart clenched. His father would have wasted no time sending her to the gods for her betrayal at Kadesh. He glanced at the scroll. His uncle's seal lay stamped on the rolled papyrus. Hattusilis would not have sent a courier for nothing less than state matters. Praying the message was not about Istara, he broke the seal and unrolled the message. The words assembled in the dim light of the shuttered lamp.

Return to Tarhuntassa at once. Your father is ailing. He asks for you. Make haste. There is little time left.

Urhi-Teshub stared at the improbable words, a guilty flicker of relief whispering through him. Istara was safe.

He poured himself wine and drank deep, seeking to cleanse the staleness from his mouth. He would leave as soon as dawn broke. If he took a small party with him, he could make it to the capital in twenty days if the weather and the horses held and he didn't travel with a supply cart—

He paused, toying with his empty cup. He had heard rumors food had become scarce in Hatti; traders had said they had heard the heartland had become locked deep in famine. He set the cup aside. A supply cart would mean the journey would take ten days more, at least. No, it would take too long. He glanced at the casket by his pallet, laden with gold ingots—his share of the spoils. He would take the chance and gamble on men's greed. He needed to get home, before it was too late. Before his uncle claimed the throne.

Picking up his woolen tunic, he pulled it over his head, the stiff material fell to his knees, cold, its edges rimed with frost. Lifting his leather kilt from the bench, he fastened its straps against his hips, his movements methodical, practiced. As he worked, he eyed his satchel of belongings, hesitating before rummaging through it until he found what he was looking for, a tightly rolled bundle. Holding it under his arm, he went to a stool and sat, the hardened leather strips of his kilt studded with bronze sunbursts clacking against the seat. He unrolled the soft material and lifted it to his nose, seeking to find a remnant of its fragrance, of sun-warmed roses. Of her. His wedding gift, given to Istara two years earlier. He lay the shift on his lap, running his fingers over the delicate embroidery along the neckline, admiring the flowers and bees stitched in golden thread, his hands stopping at the rent she had made, welcoming the familiar drag of guilt, knowing she had torn it away, devastated by his rejection of her on their wedding night.

How short-sighted he had been, how stubborn. And now, she was gone. He cradled the shift against his chest. If not for Rhoha and her dark arts, he would have won his wife back. Istara would never have gone to Ramesses—an incredible, desperate act—but for Rhoha's barely concealed machinations. It was not too late. It could not be too late. He pressed his lips against the material where her heart would have beat.

"Be safe, my love," he whispered. "I am coming for you. Wait for me. I beg you."

CHAPTER TWO

Tarhuntassa, Early Winter. Reign of Muwatallis, Year 22

Snow flurries gathered on the backs of Urhi-Teshub's horses as they climbed the frozen road up to the icy walls of Tarhuntassa. His fingers, coarse and raw, long since numbed by the bitter cold, ached. He ignored the pain, focusing instead on what was to come. Soon he would be back in the warmth of the palace—where braziers blazed their heat night and day, where cold dare not breach—holding a cup of hot spiced wine in his hands. Beside him, his men drove their horses, their expressions stoic, their mouths set in thin lines. No one spoke, not even to call encouragement to the horses, who plodded, instinctive, toward their stables, knowing the way home.

No trumpets blared to acknowledge him. The gates opened, slow, creaking, heavy. He guided his horses through the narrow opening, unwilling to wait in the chill air. Inside, apart from an icy wind whistling down the city's frozen lanes, the streets lay deserted, the tradesmen's shops shuttered and dark. From within the apartments above the shops, the quiet sounds of mourning. He pushed up into the city, past dormant taverns, arenas, stables. Every door stood closed, tight. Within the residential area, the cries increased, a low keening, grazing against his numb ears. He called to the horses, coaxing them—despite their ribs protruding, sharp from their flesh—to walk faster over the frozen ground.

Ahead, the sealed gates of the royal citadel loomed. He glanced up and caught the eye of one of the guards, already signalling to the gatekeeper to open the doors. His movements frantic, energetic; discordant against the lassitude of the windswept, desolate, grieving city.

Inside the palace square, silence—deeper than even the quiet lurking over the lower city. He had expected to hear the wail of mourners from the temples. But nothing apart from the unsteady clopping of the horses' hooves against the dark stone—the crevices slippery with rivulets of ice—met his ears. He pulled into the stable yard. One of the doors to the stables opened, and a groom hurried out to aid him, wearing the symbolic rags of mourning and smuts of ash across his brow and cheeks. Other grooms followed, similarly dressed, hastening to his men, who lumbered from their chariots, clumsy with cold and exhaustion, plucking at the reins, rigid and clinging to the frozen wool of their tunics.

He left them, unable even to muster the strength to bid his men farewell. Laden with dread for what he knew he would soon face, he forced himself to place one wool-lined goatskin-shod foot before the other. Though he longed for food, he ignored the pangs gnawing at his torso and pressed on, straight to his father's residence, deep in the Court of the Sun.

Silence hung over the citadel, heavy and oppressive, as though every resident and servant waited behind closed doors, huddling, fearful, around their braziers, waiting for the announcement of the king's death. With his chance of redeeming himself almost certainly lost, Urhi-Teshub would be left with no choice but to wage war against his uncle for his claim to the throne, forcing what remained of the empire after Kadesh to tear itself apart.

He passed a pool in one of the deserted courtyards, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the dark water, the skim of ice pulled away to allow the fish to breathe. Several weeks' worth of thick stubble coated his jaw, and despite being tied back in a thong, his long hair had become a tangled, dirty, matted mess. His armor, dull and unoiled, glinted with frost in the cold, pale light. If not for the wealth of gold embossing his armor and scabbards, none would have believed he was the crown prince of Hatti. He had lost weight too, his face had thinned, accentuating the hard cut of his jaw even through the dense graze of his stubble.

The traders at Kadesh had not exaggerated. Famine had fallen hard on Hatti, and the further away from Kadesh he and his men travelled, the worse it became. People hoarded what little they had left from the year before and were unwilling to sell it, even to Hatti's crown prince. Despite his purse brimming with gold ingots, he could not procure even a single dried fig for his men or a handful of grain for the horses.

In one village, an emaciated young widow, her hair unbound in mourning, fell on her knees when he and his men passed, wailing, begging him to end her life, saying she had lost her husband, father and brother at Kadesh. Without any milk, her infant son had starved so she had strangled him, only to cook and eat his withered flesh herself. She followed after them, pleading, desperate, longing for death. None of them had looked at her, and that night as he sat beside a meager fire with his men, no one spoke. Darkness had fallen on Hatti. The gods had turned their backs against her king. None would be spared. In the gods' eyes all were equal, all would suffer for Muwatallis's crimes. Many would die.

Urhi-Teshub passed through the gate into the empty outer courtyard of the Court of the Sun, the wind breaking free of its restraints. It roared across the open space, cutting through his snow-encrusted tunic, carrying the faint smell of baking bread. His stomach cried out, clenching hard at the scent of warm food. Five days had passed since he had eaten the last of his rations, sharing a dried biscuit between six men; the horses forced to subsist on what frozen grass could be found between the rocky clefts of the uninhabited valleys between the mountain passes.

At night, as his stomach cramped, his body surrounded by the relentless, bitter cold, Urhi-Teshub shivered in his blanket, slipping in and out of broken dreams where he saw Istara, safe and warm on a sunlit terrace, at a table overflowing with roasted cuts of calf and glistening fillets of fish. An Egyptian man—a warrior—gazed at her, tender, as he fed her from his own platter, his actions intimate, private, possessive. Other dreams showed her walking in opulent gardens, gathering flowers, smiling and happy, wearing elegant, near-transparent gowns and jewelry fit for a queen. And then there were other dreams, ones that made Urhi-Teshub's heart ache until he feared it would break, of the warrior taking her in his arms and kissing her the way Urhi-Teshub longed to do—of Istara returning the warrior's ardor, clinging to him as he took his fill of her, welcoming his attention as she had once, long ago, welcomed Urhi-Teshub's.

Each time, he would wake with a start and stare at the glittering stars as they processed, slow, across the black canopy of the heavens, and wonder who the Egyptian was, if he was real or just a phantom of his deepest fear, resurrected from the careless words he had once said, unthinking, never expecting them to come true.

During the long, slow weeks of their harrowing journey to Tarhuntassa, when time felt as though it stood still and the sun hung low and pale in an indifferent, white-washed sky, the memory of the morning after his wedding would replay in his mind—the details precise, aching with clarity. Bathed in the golden light of a new day, Istara had told him she would never love again. His reply had been reckless, desperate, foolish. He had sworn he could not wish such a lonely existence on her, had said he would permit her to love another if it brought her back to him. He looked at the gold-clad pillar of Teshub's temple rising up over the walls of the palace, dull in the gray light. What sane man would allow his wife to love another?

He turned and looked toward the Temple of Arinna, the place where he and Istara had made their sacred bond, bathed in the light of a full moon. Even if his dreams had been showing him the truth of Istara's life in Egypt, it could not last. Istara had been bound to Urhi-Teshub before the gods. Nothing could tear them apart, not even the warrior, who, in one of Urhi-Teshub's dreams had carried Istara to a beautiful, cushioned bed and laid her down, his fingers tracing the outline of her lips, gentle, seductive. Her eyes dark with desire, she had reached up and pulled him down to her, allowing his powerful body to cover hers. Urhi-Teshub had woken, abrupt, drenched in sweat despite the freezing weather, and left the group of men and horses, to sink to his knees onto the frozen earth, his heart breaking, the images tormenting him. He begged the storm god Teshub to aid him, to grant him his throne and to protect Istara until he could bring her home, back where she belonged, by his—

"By the gods! Your Highness!" The cry pierced the cold, raw with hope. Urhi-Teshub looked up, startled. A lone guard stood outside the gate to the inner Court of the Sun. He pressed his fist to his chest, reverent. Urhi-Teshub noted the thinness of his face, the shadows under his eyes and pressed on, passing under the stone arch onto the wide pillared colonnade leading to the palace's throne room. Halfway along the colonnade, another colonnade transected the main walkway. He turned right and headed to the eastern side of the complex, toward the gold-panelled doors of his father's apartment. Two of his father's royal guard, the deadly, spear-wielding Mesedi flanked the doors. They bowed low, their expressions bland as Urhi-Teshub approached. They, at least, he noticed, were still well fed.

He pushed open the door, his eyes roaming the familiar details of the wood-panelled walls of the outer reception room, the warmth of its four braziers hitting him like a blast furnace. He went to stand near one, the snow and ice in his tunic thawing, the woolen material softening, the stink of it rising up, sour with stagnant sweat, dirt and horses. He stood, patient, as the moisture seeped out and dripped from the leather panels of his kilt onto the thick rug covering the marble floor. He waited for someone to announce his name; for his father's steward to appear; for a servant to bring him spiced wine; for a runner to let his uncle know he had arrived. No one came. He listened, straining to hear through the open doors leading into the vast royal apartment. Within, no whisper of footsteps; no soft noises of cleaning; no quiet conversations. Nothing but the whine of wind rattling the wooden shutters.

A spear of agony lanced through his fingers as the brazier's heat delved deep into his digits, awakening his blood, stirring it back to life. He rubbed them, absent, fatigue creeping into his muscles. Exhaustion pulled on him. He found a wooden stool and carried it to the brazier. He sat, his hands on his knees, eyeing his knuckles, chapped and cracked. Blood seeped from their deep crevices. Still, no one arrived.

He dozed. Hunger woke him. He got up and wandered to the edge of the reception room, hesitating at the threshold which led through the apartment to his father's sleeping room—a room Urhi-Teshub had never been in. He dithered, wondering if he dare break protocol and cross into his father's private chambers without permission.

"My lord Hattusilis?" he called, feeling foolish. No answer. He tried again, louder, cringing at the sound of his harsh voice, loud and rude in the elegance of his father's rooms. Silence.

Trepidation clawed at him. The emptiness of his father's apartment was beyond comprehension. Was his father alone, and dying, without a single servant to attend him? He went back to the courtyard doors and pulled them open, a surge of cold air surrounded him. He suppressed a shiver. The Mesedi eyed him, bland.

"Where is my uncle?" he demanded.

"He is at the temple, my lord prince," the guard answered, his expression neutral. "Praying—as he has commanded every man, woman and child to do."

"Has he left no one to attend my father?" Urhi-Teshub asked, incredulous.

The guard lowered his eyes, a flicker of shame whispering over his face. Urhi-Teshub closed the door, shutting out the cold and strode through his father's deserted apartment. His uncle had gone too far. The wily serpent had abandoned Muwatallis, his own brother, using a fraudulent act of piety to expedite the king's death. Urhi-Teshub moved through the opulent rooms, ignoring the gold-embossed panels reflecting the flames of a dozen lamps; the fine pieces of cedarwood furnishings arranged in perfect symmetry; the thick colorful rugs layered over the floors, absorbing the chill. He came to his father's door, the cedarwood panels engraved with the Hittite sunburst, its points gilded with gold. No Mesedi stood without. Urhi-Teshub suppressed a curse. His uncle had stripped Hatti's king of all but two of his guardsmen. Without Urhi-Teshub in Tarhuntassa to question his decisions, Hattusilis had begun to rule as king—already a tyrant, worse than his brother.

Urhi-Teshub pushed the door open. Within the shadows, only a single lamp burned. Thick layers of incense hung, dense, in the torpid air. He glanced at the enormous bed upon its raised platform, surrounded by four pillars engraved with the images of the gods of Hatti, a border of alternating gold and carnelians glinting at the top and bottom of each pillar.

A quiet moan drifted from the bed. Urhi-Teshub stepped into the gloom. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of his father's form under the heavy blankets and goatskin quilts. He looked small, frail, defeated. His father coughed, a brittle rattle. He lurched up and spat into a bronze basin beside his cushion. Urhi-Teshub pushed through the haze of incense, its tendrils clinging to him, coating him in the thick, resinous, sickly sweet smell of opium.

"Father?" Urhi-Teshub called, soft, uncertain, realizing, too late, he might have just condemned himself to death for entering his father's most sacred sanctuary without permission.

His father raised his head from the basin, and peered out from the vastness of his bed.

"Son?" he croaked, the hope laden in that one word making Urhi-Teshub's heart clench.

"Can it be?" his father asked, patting the blankets beside him with a trembling hand, stripped of the royal ring of the King of Hatti. "Has Teshub heard my prayers? Did my message reach you in time after all?" He fell back onto his cushion, exhaustion emanating from him.

Urhi-Teshub crossed the room and moved up the steps of the platform to his father's side, slow. His father's eyes, sunken and shadowed, looked up at him from a haggard, emaciated face. His jaw, unshaven for days, lay grizzled with gray stubble. Dark stains tinted his lips. Opium tincture. Urhi-Teshub blinked, taken aback. When he had left four months earlier, his father had been grieving for Nerit, though he had still been strong enough to continue to nurse his anger against his son, refusing to see Urhi-Teshub before he departed for Amurru. The feeble man beneath him was a shadow of the man he remembered. Urhi-Teshub suppressed a shudder. The gods had wasted no time in exacting their punishment, falling hard on Hatti and her king, their vengeance swift and brutal.

"My son!" his father cried, tears leaking from his eyes. "You have come to me," he continued, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "It is not too late, after all."

"My lord, I beg you, save your strength," Urhi-Teshub murmured. He sank to his knees beside the bed and took his father's hand in his own. "Let me send for servants to wash and shave you, and place your ring back on your finger. You may be unwell, but you are still Hatti's king. Whoever has done this to you will pay with their life." He gazed at his father, transfixed by the change in him. Gone was the arrogance, the bombastic anger, the pride, the ambition, the hunger for more, always more. Gone was the man he had once hated. Now Urhi-Teshub could only feel pity.

"No," his father panted, fear slicing into his dulled eyes, tightening his drawn features. "There is no time. I must make amends. You can help me."

"I am your obedient son," Urhi-Teshub answered, unable to keep up, the opium incense fogging his thoughts, splintering him with faint spikes of nausea.

His father moved to sit. Urhi-Teshub stood to help him, fighting the feeling of revulsion whispering through him when his hands felt only slack skin sliding over bones.

"Despite the intriguing of my brother, I have outwitted him," his father said. "You shall inherit the throne after me. You see, I have hidden my decree well." He slid a hand under one of the cushions and pulled out a leather scroll case. He held it up with a quaking hand.

Urhi-Teshub stared at the scroll case, incredulous. He would be Hatti's next king? How? Why? He had not yet told his father of his triumphs in Amurru—of the gold, gems, textiles, and cedarwood waiting at Kadesh which would arrive in the spring once the winter snows in the mountains melted.

"Please. Take it," his father whispered.

Urhi-Teshub held out his hand. His father lowered the scroll case into his hand. Something heavy moved within. He tilted it, it made a soft thud against the inside.

"The ring of the King of Hatti," his father murmured, eyeing his son, for a heartbeat his sharp, clever mind showing through the mask left by the ravages of his disease.

"My lord, I do not understand," Urhi-Teshub said, fearing it was all a dream, an illusion brought on by hunger and exhaustion. He glanced behind him, filled with uncertainty. Perhaps he was still sleeping on the stool in the outer reception room.

"You think you are dreaming," his father chuckled, his amusement cut off by a spasm of violent coughing. He snatched the basin up to him, and spat. Thick gobbets of dark blood slid from his lips to join the murky, foul-smelling pool within. "It is real," he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I have prayed I would live long enough to see you again and grant you your inheritance."

Urhi-Teshub looked back down at the scroll case, overwhelmed, numb.

"I have committed many crimes," his father said into the quiet. "And I leave you an empire on its knees, but I know you will do what is right. You will regain the favor of the gods—unlike my brother whose lust for power pales even against my own." He coughed again. More blood followed, droplets clinging to his stubble. "You came because your uncle sent you a message?" he asked, his fingers trembling as he brushed the blood from his chin.

Urhi-Teshub nodded, his grip tightening on the case. He would be king. Istara would be his once more. It was over. He had won.

"Hattusilis does not know you are here," his father continued, his voice rasping, rough. "I sent for you pretending to be him. Despite his clever manipulations, I still have a handful of men loyal to me." He paused to catch his breath. "If I had sent for you myself, my message would never have reached you. No, he wanted me dead before you returned. I thought I was capable of great wrong, but my brother—" his father coughed again. Spat again. "Parading himself as King of Hatti, striking down any who oppose him, redistributing lands to his favorites. He goes too far. The gods may have decided to claim me, but while I live I am still king, whether he accepts it or not."

"What ails you?" Urhi-Teshub asked, seeking to divert his father from the crimes of his uncle. A problem he would soon need to face.

His father shrugged, dismissive, fiddling with the folds of the sheet, speckled with bloodstains. "A disease of the lungs, the coughing, the blood, the wasting. It is the same as what struck Nerit, at least at the beginning. Perhaps she shared more than just her love with me." He sniffed, and smoothed the sheets down. "But it is of no matter. Now you have returned I can give up this fight. I will go to her and protect her on her journey through the Under Realm. I miss her. With all my black heart, I have missed that devious woman. We matched each other well."

"I will bring Tanu-Hepa back and reinstate her as Tawananna," Urhi-Teshub said, sharper than he meant.

His father nodded. A shadow of shame sliced across his hollowed features. "Yes. I am certain I shall pay for that wrong for an eternity. Tell your stepmother I was never the man she believed I could be. That man died the day I cut you out of my beloved Asuru. Perhaps in another time, another life, I could have loved Tanu-Hepa, but never in this one." His father hesitated, fiddling with the folds of the linen sheet. "Tell her I found her to be a beautiful woman and a good mother. I knew I would never be worthy of her. She always walked in light and I, in darkness."

His father shifted so that he lay once more back upon the cushions. His breathing rattled, ugly, his chest fluttering under the blankets like a falcon trapped in a net.

The King of Hatti's eyelids lowered, slow. "Stay with me," he rasped. "Do not let me die alone."

Urhi-Teshub sank down on the bed, took his father's hand in his own, and waited.

Two days later, deep in the night, under a frozen, glittering sky, Muwatallis breathed his last; the silence in the wake of his labored breathing so profound it woke Urhi-Teshub, who dozed, his arms crossed over his chest, on a chair beside the bed. Apart from a quick wash, Urhi-Teshub had not left his father's side. Not once had Hattusilis come to check on his brother, and Urhi-Teshub wondered if his uncle even knew his nephew was within the royal citadel's walls.

Alone with his dead father, Urhi-Teshub sat, numb, gazing at what remained of the man who had intimidated him his entire life. He longed for more time, to prepare, to think. Everything had changed so fast. He would have to face his uncle, show him his father's decree, and endure the reaction the news would bring. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to ease the sting from the relentless haze of incense. Perhaps his uncle would rebel and bring war to the empire. No. His uncle, always devious, always clever, would not show his hand right away, he would retreat, plan, gather allies, and then strike, like the viper he was. Perhaps he would not even trouble himself with war, would instead drag the matter through the courts, buying the favor of the judges.

A draft of cold air seeped around the edges of the heavy quilts covering the twice-shuttered openings to the terrace. Pulling a blanket around his shoulders, Urhi-Teshub got up and poured himself a cup of wine. He drank, pacing the length of the spacious room, trails of incense curling around him. He hadn't yet opened the scroll case, half-fearing his father had failed to make it legal from his sick-bed.

He picked up the leather case and moved to the lamp. Setting aside his cup, he pulled the ties apart. Inside, a scroll. He pulled it out. From within its middle, a ring slipped out. He caught it as it fell, the weight of it heavy in his callused palm. He hefted it, sensing within its bulk the burden of an empire.

Holding it toward the light, he examined the sigil engraved upon an enormous square-cut carnelian gem. Within the raised relief, the image of a king stood flanked by the gods Teshub and Sharruma, the most powerful gods in the Hittite pantheon. The message simple, yet powerful. The wearer of the ring was protected; a god among men. Untouchable. And now it belonged to him.

He tipped the ring back into the case, and unrolled the scroll, reading through it once, then again, with care, searching for errors. Everything had been done right, from the invocation of the gods to the correct listing of the kingdoms and territories. His father had always been astute in legal matters, hence his ability to have built a case against his queen and banish her—guilty of crimes she had never committed—to the far-off island of Alasiya.

Tanu-Hepa. The first of his father's many wrongs Urhi-Teshub would rectify. He would send for his stepmother immediately. By the time the message reached her and she returned to Tarhuntassa, Urhi-Teshub would have been Hatti's king for several months. He returned to his father's lifeless body, his eyes closed as though in peaceful sleep.

Out of filial duty, he felt he should grieve, but he felt nothing. Emptiness filled him, as hollow as the winds scouring the outer walls, battering the wooden shutters. For as long as he could remember, his father had been a man utterly without honor, doing as he pleased, behaving as though the gods did not exist and no harm could ever come to him for his reprehensible actions.

Urhi-Teshub sank down onto the chair, and rested his elbows on his knees. He folded his fingers together, the scabs on his knuckles cracking open, bleeding anew. His father had said little to Urhi-Teshub in his last hours, asking only for wine or opium to ease his pain, taking his son's dutiful presence for granted. Hatti's king had drifted in and out of restless sleep, murmuring nonsense, calling out Nerit's or Asuru's name—never once expressing remorse or regret for the multitude of wrongs he had done, never becoming fearful of the consequences he would face for his actions in the afterlife. Urhi-Teshub wondered what trials his father already faced. His path would be hard, brutal even. The gods would make him suffer. Perhaps for eternity.

But his father, despite all his godlessness, had granted Urhi-Teshub one valuable lesson, how not to rule an empire. He had learned much trapped under the fist of his father's tyranny. He would show his people how a true king ruled.

But first, he must face Hattusilis. He stood. The way ahead reminded him of the vast, treacherous bogs between the mountain ranges of the north. Each step dangerous, his life hanging in the balance. The lamp began to gutter. Dawn would soon break. He went to the door, opened it, and left. He did not look back.

CHAPTER THREE

Tarhuntassa, Winter. Reign of Mursili III, Year 1

Alone in his apartment, Urhi-Teshub stepped into the tiled bathing pool, the heated water soothing his stiff, aching body. The Mesedi had gone to his uncle to deliver the news Muwatallis was dead. Now Urhi-Teshub waited. He eyed the scroll case, sitting, innocuous, on a nearby acacia table, the lamplight reflecting against the wood's dark surface.

Keeping his gaze on the scroll case, he sank lower into the pool, until his backside rested on the sitting ledge, and the water touched his jaw. A multitude of sharp stings swarmed along his extremities. His broken, chafed skin softened, opening, bleeding anew.

He lifted his hands out of the water. Tendrils of steam broke free and rose, languid. The water slid from his fingertips—his nails grimy and caked with filth—over the crevices of his bleeding knuckles. Other than the water's quiet drip slipping, soft, back into the pool, silence surrounded him.

He closed his eyes, imagining he was the only man in all of Tarhuntassa, no longer a prince, or the nearly-crowned king, but a traveler from a far-off land. He watched himself come upon the city, abandoned, its wealth intact, the stories of those within told by the items left behind. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walk through the palace, going from room to room trying to piece together the stories of those who had lived, loved, plotted, intrigued, perhaps even killed each other in their pursuit of power. He sighed and opened his eyes. The water had begun to cool. Even with four braziers burning, the relentless cold leached, hungry, into the warmth of his cocoon.

Scooping a handful of natron paste from a wooden salver, he began the work of cleaning his hands and nails, ignoring the fresh stings of salt working its way into his wounds. He stood, water cascading into the pool, continuing his work, cleaning the layers of grit embedded in his skin. The last time he had fully bathed had been before he left for Amurru, four months earlier. He scrubbed harder, willing the stubborn, ingrained filth away.

Within his apartment, a door slammed. Footsteps drew nearer, moving across the tiles toward him, dulled by the thickness of the occasional rug.

The door opened. His uncle swept in past Urhi-Teshub's guard. A draft of chilled air washed over Urhi-Teshub, making his skin pucker. From within a heavy, gold-embroidered cloak, Hattusilis eyed Urhi-Teshub, impassive. Urhi-Teshub suppressed a shiver and waited. He would not sit down, would not show deference to this man who would soon be his subject. He remained standing, saying nothing, thigh-deep in the pool's water, natron paste smeared over his arms, chest and groin.

"So, you have returned, and empty-handed," Hattusilis said, his tone colder than the winds howling without.

Urhi-Teshub held his tongue, knowing there would be more. His uncle paced to a chair, imperious, intimidating. Keeping a baleful eye on his nephew, he reached up and untied his cloak. He pulled it off in one elegant sweep and tossed it over the chair's back. He sat, the wood creaking, and waved his hand at Urhi-Teshub, bored. "You may rinse that off. I can wait."

Irritated by his uncle's arrogant tone, Urhi-Teshub stood a heartbeat longer before sinking into the tepid water. As his uncle examined the rings on his fingers, Urhi-Teshub sloughed the paste from his body, stained dark with grime. He took up a towel and ploughed up the steps of the pool, the water's sloshing, loud, in the taut atmosphere. He stood on the top step of the bath, towering over his uncle as he wrapped the towel around his hips, crisp, efficient. Hattusilis sniffed, ignoring him.

Only once Urhi-Teshub had donned a fresh tunic and had begun to strap on his kilt, did his uncle look up.

"Now. Explain yourself," he said, sharp. "Where are the rest of my men?"

"Still in Kadesh," Urhi-Teshub answered, steady, as he fastened the kilt's leather ties. "They will return in the spring as planned under Commander Uzak, with enough gold, cedarwood, textiles and ivory to cover the costs for both the campaign to Amurru and the battle at Kadesh."

"No losses?" Hattusilis asked, unimpressed, glancing around the room, taking in the details—the wood panels covering the walls, the wealth of gold objects lining the side tables. Urhi-Teshub watched him, cautious, to see if he noted the scroll case. If he did, his uncle did not show it.

"Twenty-three," Urhi-Teshub said as he sat and pulled on a pair of boots. "Caused by their own carelessness using the battering ram."

His uncle didn't answer, though his expression tightened marginally. "It's grain and livestock Hatti needs, not gold, or cedarwood," he muttered. "The stores have run to their lowest in two generations, wasted to support two campaigns, back to back. No harvest came in this autumn and now the empire starves." He turned his attention back to Urhi-Teshub, and examined the contours of his nephew's thinned features. "As have you, I see." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. "Tell me. Why leave Kadesh to make such a perilous journey in the middle of winter?" He eyed Urhi-Teshub, his dark eyes glittering in the lamplight. "I suggest you make this easy for both of us. Who sent for you?"

Urhi-Teshub stood up. "Your brother. The king."

Hattusilis lifted an eyebrow, unperturbed. "You lie, of course." He stood, taking his time straightening the layers of his embroidered kilt. "I will learn the truth, one way or another."

Urhi-Teshub went to the scroll case and opened it, his eyes never leaving his uncle's as his hands did the work of unraveling the leather bindings. "I have told you the truth," he said as he pulled the decree from the case. He read it aloud, taking his time, the air in the room thickening with tension. When he finished, he placed the scroll back into the case and set it onto the table. He turned. Hattusilis stared at him, hostile, his hands, small and weak, curled into fists at his sides.

"Your wife betrayed us at Kadesh," he whispered, outraged. "You have no right to take what should be mine."

"And why should it be yours?" Urhi-Teshub demanded, tight. "I am the king's firstborn son, and—"

"I saved your life," Hattusilis spat, bitterness twisting his smooth, elegant features. "Your father wanted to send you to the gods when we returned from Kadesh. While you waited, imprisoned in your rooms, I stood against him—you have ever been more my son than his. I thought I had lost you at Kadesh. It was a lie, of course, though the pain I endured reading the pharaoh's message was real—" He broke off, and looked away. "I couldn't bear to lose you again. I implored your father to spare you. For three days, I stood against him, refusing to eat or drink—" he looked back at Urhi-Teshub, sharp, narrow, cold, "—and this is how you intend to repay me? By taking from me what should be mine?"

Urhi-Teshub blinked, taken aback by his uncle's words. "Uncle. I did not know. What you did for me, it is—"

Hattusilis ignored him. He pressed on, relentless, pacing, agitated. "Then you come to me, seeking to redeem yourself, asking the impossible. More men. More supplies, when Hatti was already on her knees, her queen dying and her king demented, closeted away, drunk with grief. 'Glory for Hatti, revenge for Kadesh', you'd claimed. But I saw through it all. You sought only to avenge yourself against Ramesses for keeping your wife. I let you go, not because I believed in your agenda, but to keep you safe, to protect you from your father who, in his grief had become vengeful once more, looking for someone to blame for his misfortune. Soon, I knew I would no longer be able to stay his hand. So, just like in Kadesh, when he would have choked you to death, I put myself between you and him." He stumbled, tripping on the tasselled edge of the rug. Catching himself against the wall of the bathing pool, he shook his head, incredulous.

"My own brother, betraying me at the very last. I should have known what he was capable of," he fell silent, lost in his thoughts. He looked up, abrupt. "You could burn it. Everything could go back to what it was. If you do so, I will make Hattusa your seat of power, name you my viceroy, your power second only to mine." He nodded to himself, continuing. "He was so ill, he did not know what he was doing. He would never have given the throne back to you, not after what you and Istara did to him at Kadesh."

"Uncle," Urhi-Teshub said, "for all you have done to protect me, I thank you, but my father has named me his heir. His will, whether you accept it or not is the will of the gods." He gestured toward the scroll case. "If we were to burn this, Hatti would fall. The gods would abandon us. Utterly."

His uncle's lips thinned. "The gods?" he asked, waving his hand toward the panelled ceiling, indicating the frozen skies above. "Do you truly believe they care for us? For our toils and travails? Our bloody sacrifices? This famine, the death of Nerit and your father—what if none of it is a consequence of the gods, who only exist among us as stone effigies? What if this—" he moved his hand, flicking his fingers between Urhi-Teshub and himself, "—is all there is, mortals against mortals?"

Urhi-Teshub stared at his uncle, aghast. "I cannot believe my ears. You have always been the most devout man among us. How can you even dare to speak such things when Hatti is in her greatest need?"

"I dare because I do not believe. I have no reason to believe," Hattusilis muttered. "After we were escorted back from Amka and rested at Kadesh, Queen Rhoha invited me to dine with her." He nodded again, to himself. "A talented, fascinating woman. The things she knows, and understands. A true seer, her powers are astonishing." He caught Urhi-Teshub's eyes. "She showed me things—things I will never forget. To me, what she is capable of is more real than the gods. There is no longer any doubt in my mind. We are alone. The gods are gone, never to return. She has confirmed it."

"Rhoha is a viper," Urhi-Teshub snapped, his temper flaring. "She has enamored you with her lies. All she longs for is the throne of Hatti. You are nothing more than a token in her game. If she cannot have me, she will take you instead."

His uncle looked away. Urhi-Teshub stepped toward him, suspicious. "She has had you, hasn't she? She offered herself, encouraging you to partake of her dark appetites." He lowered his voice, his words filled with loathing. "But you, unlike the rest of us, enjoyed them. You wished for more." He stopped, comprehension hitting him, sickening him. "You intended to make her your queen—the vilest woman in the empire."

Apart from a brief flaring of his nostrils, Hattusilis did not respond. Urhi-Teshub moved back to the table and picked up the scroll case. "So this is how it must begin between you and me," he said, quiet, his grip tightening on the embossed leather. "Despite his multitude of failings, in his final hour my father did one thing right. He protected his empire from a godless king and queen. The gods live. They are real. I will be crowned, whether you accept it or not."

❃

Upon her terrace, Tanu-Hepa set aside the unfinished letter, her fingers trembling. A thick blanket covered her knees and a heavy cloak hung from shoulders, its thick folds pooling on the stone flags. To either side of her, the warmth of two blazing braziers kept the late afternoon's chill at bay. She glanced up at the watery sun, its disk misted and white, hanging low in the mid-winter sky. It was over. Her prayers had been answered. Her stepson had taken the throne, and would send a retinue to bring her to Tarhuntassa once the spring storms ended and it was safe for her to take a boat from Alasiya. She glanced back at the letter, her eyes skimming the Nesite symbols until they found the words which had made her heart clench.

Upon his deathbed, Muwatallis, King of Hatti, wished it to be known he found our stepmother, his once-queen Tanu-Hepa to be a beautiful woman and a good mother who always walked in light, while he walked in darkness. He confessed he was never the man she believed he could be, though, in another life he admitted he could have loved her.

There was more, but Tanu-Hepa didn't read it. Tears burning in her eyes, she looked back at the sun sinking toward the west, the shadows from the sandstone pillars on the terrace lengthening, creeping toward her little alcove, drenched in firelight and warmth. Just over two years before, she had been banished to Alasiya's capital, Alassa, permitted only to take the clothing she wore. Her husband had been ruthless, had stripped her of all her wealth—even what she had inherited from her first husband—striking from the records all her titles, lands and incomes. She had been devastated, but at the last heartbeat, an unexpected reprieve. Her husband's brother, Hattusilis, the one who had testified against her, had sent an ox-drawn cart to the harbor. His men had arrived at dawn as she boarded the ship, and in total silence loaded two caskets filled with gold ingots; a half-dozen crates packed with bolts of dyed linen, wool, spools of thread, leather for sandals, and even a small basket containing an assortment of jewelry. Finally, one of the men set Hattusilis's final parting gift by her feet, draped with a thick blanket—the gift which had brought her the greatest comfort during her long, lonely, alienated days. She had bent down and lifted the blanket to find a tiny gold and black songbird perched within an elegant wooden cage.

Hattusilis's gifts, borne of guilt, and perhaps fear of the retribution he would face in the Under Realm, had afforded her a luxurious villa near the palace, and granted her a semblance of dignity.

However, none would befriend her, a fallen queen. Apart from her servants, she saw no one, had never received an invitation to visit the queen's court at Alassa. In fact, when she had requested if she might have permission to promenade in the royal gardens during the summer evenings, she had received a terse reply, suggesting she find other gardens from which to take the evening air.

Soon after she arrived, she stopped going out on her palanquin to explore the city, to enjoy her newfound freedom of shopping in the bazaar—something she had not done since she had been a girl, free to roam the lanes of Hattusa. The withering looks she had received, the judgment she had felt as the city's elite turned their backs to her, waiting until she had passed had been too much to bear, so she closeted herself behind the protective walls of her villa—cultivating the flowers in the garden, taking up beadwork, and embroidering beautiful designs onto her gowns with her bird as her constant, and only, companion. She ate alone, walked alone, slept alone, dreamed alone, existed alone.

Glancing at the remains of her afternoon refreshment—honeyed almond cake—she stifled a sob, thinking of the one she had missed more than any other, her heart awakening, raw, aching with emotions she had long suppressed to survive her isolation.

A tear slipped free, her heart swelling with hope, unfurling from its tight confines, permitted to beat again. Soon she would see the one she had missed more than any other, the one she loved with all her heart. The one she had raised as her own. Istara. She picked up the letter and kissed her stepson's seal, no longer the crown prince, but The Sun, King of Hatti, Mursili III.

CHAPTER FOUR

Waset, Late Winter. Reign of Ramesses, Year 6

Istara stretched, letting the warmth of the mid-afternoon winter sun ease the tension in her shoulders. Leaning back from her embroidery frame, she rubbed her neck, her muscles stiff from remaining in the same position for so long. Above, the palms surrounding the inner courtyard rustled, their fronds rippling in a light breeze, speckling the whitewashed limestone pillars and lotus pool in layers of sunlight and shadow.

A flock of birds flitted across the rooftops of the villa. One of the servants hanging out fresh washed linens went after them, complaining of their messes, chasing them, sending the green and yellow birds hurtling off into the vastness of the blue sky, chittering, indignant. Istara smiled at the outraged expression on the servant's face when she discovered one of the linens had been dirtied. With a muffled oath, she yanked the sheet from the line and stormed away to wash it again.

A sheen of pleasure slid through Istara, contentment filling her. After everything she had suffered, finally, her life had come to a place of peace, her greatest dramas nothing more than this—a dirtied linen and an unhappy servant. It was bliss. No longer did she fear for her future, no longer was she a token in a man's game; her path fixed now, certain, the decree made by Ramesses himself. She belonged to Sethi, commander of the Egyptian army, the man she loved, who loved her. The man who had sacrificed everything for her. Everything.

Glancing back down at her work, she ran her fingers over the embroidered design: a repeating series of blue lotuses and pairs of swans. Her fingers slowed. Perhaps there was one thing which dampened her happiness—the knowledge they only had these fleeting days together, days which felt as if they passed far too fast.

Almost seven months had already flown away since that awful, terrible day she had been forced to watch Sethi fall to Ramesses's khopesh. The day Sethi rose again from the ruins of his own blood, whole and unharmed, the light of Horus within him.

Seven months, and still her womb did not stir with life, despite Sethi warming her bed every night. She had consulted several midwives, though as an accomplished surgeon she feared she might already know the answer. The midwives had examined her, all of them shaking their heads, confounded. Nothing was amiss. Though none wished to say it, the question was left out there, hanging, unsaid. Perhaps Sethi, the man she had since learned had slept with many beautiful courtesans, and had spent his youth in brothels with Ramesses and Ahmen, who had not sired even a single babe—

"You are hard to find," a deep voice murmured from behind her.

She turned, a memory from her childhood replaying in her mind, unbidden. Once, long ago, Urhi-Teshub had said those very same words to her, on her ninth year day, her delight at seeing him sending her rushing into his open arms. Uncomfortable, she pushed the memory aside, resenting its intrusion. Those days were in the past. They belonged to another time, another life. A life she wanted to forget.

Sethi stood silhouetted in a shaft of brilliant, golden sunlight. Lifting her hand, she shaded her eyes against the glare, watching as he navigated the maze of garden beds and joined her by the bench, his warm scent of myrrh and cinnamon washing over her, his pleated kilt whispering against his legs as he sat.

"Perhaps your villa is too large, and we should move to a smaller one," Istara teased, knowing how pleased he was with the gift the queen had given him for his valor at Kadesh. A smile played at the corners of Sethi's lips, though he didn't reply. Instead, he reached over and took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his to taste her lips, a soft greeting, filled with the promise of much more, later. He pulled back and brushed a stray tendril of hair from her face.

"I heard Ahmen and Meresamun arrived this morning on one of the barges from Pi-Ramesses," he said, kissing her brow. "They are just in time for tomorrow's feast." He settled back beside her, gesturing for a servant to bring refreshment.

"I will be happy to see Meresamun again," Istara said, waving away the platter of sweetbread the servant offered. She turned to continue her stitches. "Since the march ended, I have missed her companionship. I had hoped she would call on me during the month before we departed for Waset for the winter. I would have liked to hear about her new life as Ahmen's wife." She tugged the needle, pulling the thread through, steady and smooth. She paused and glanced at Sethi. "You did make sure our wedding gifts were delivered?"

"I did," Sethi said as the servant backed away, "Weremkhet said he had been forced to leave the gifts with the guard."

"How unusual," Istara murmured, lifting her shoulders to ease the dull ache in them. "Perhaps she had asked not to be disturbed."

"I have failed you, haven't I?" Sethi asked as he bit into a piece of honey-sweetened bread, catching the crumbs in his upturned hand. "I should have arranged for you to have companions. A woman needs company, and out here in the midst of the fields and date groves, the only company I have left you with are servants."

"I have not minded my privacy," Istara said as she worked, careful to follow the stencilled dots of the inked design. "For now, I can do without companions," she paused and looked up, "though, perhaps a dog?"

"A dog?" Sethi repeated, blinking. "It is more usual to keep cats, but if you would like to have a dog, one will be found for you." He cleared his throat and looked out over the gardens, soaked in color, drenched with the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. "Have you a preference?"

"Yes, a young one," she answered, poking the needle down into the material, "and a breed which will not grow too big."

Sethi nodded, his lips quirking into a faint smile as he brushed crumbs from his fingers and away from his kilt. Istara eyed him wondering if he might divulge what had amused him, but he remained silent, content to sit beside her as she worked, leaning his back against the trunk of a date palm, his arms crossed over his chest.

On the roof, the servant returned with the sheet, fresh washed, and hung it out once more, tugging at the corners, straightening it, her movements jerky with impatience. Istara suppressed a smile.

"Do you ever miss it?" Sethi murmured, breaching the walls of her amusement.

Her fingers stilled. "Miss what?"

"Your home, your lands, your customs, your people." He hesitated, brushing once more at his kilt, though it was clean. He glanced up, catching her eye. "Your husband."

"Why would you ask such a thing?" Istara breathed, her chest constricting. Since the fateful day Horus had intervened, they had never spoken again of Urhi-Teshub or of the difficulty Sethi faced living with a woman he could never marry. A woman married to another. To his enemy.

"I met with the pharaoh today," Sethi began, cautious, "Muwatallis has gone to the gods. Two months ago, Urhi-Teshub was crowned Mursili III, King of Hatti."

Istara's hands slid to the edge of the embroidery frame. She clung to it, feeling as though the ground had fallen away from her. Sethi's arm came around her. He pulled her to him, his lips against her brow. His quiet words of comfort lost to her.

A hundred questions cascaded through her: Muwatallis—so powerful, so wilful, so oppressive—dead, how? Why hadn't Hattusilis taken the throne instead of her husband? How had Urhi-Teshub changed his destiny in so few months? Had there been a war? What had happened to Muwatallis' imposter queen, Nerit, the Tawananna?

Numb, Istara unfolded her fingers from her palm and looked down at her binding scar. Her husband was the king, and instead of being by his side, Hatti's queen played house with the commander of Egypt's army. Shame enveloped her. She might no longer love Urhi-Teshub but she was bound to him before the gods, destined to be his consort and the high priestess of Hatti. All the duties she had spent most of her life preparing for weighed on her, suffocating, claustrophobic.

She closed her eyes, unwilling to look at the whitened scar, indelible, damning, made by her husband's hand before the goddess Arinna. Never once had she considered such an outcome—had been so certain her husband would never reclaim his right to the throne. She had believed because the gods had intervened the rest of her days would be spent with Sethi.

"Urhi-Teshub will send for me," she whispered, quaking, dread pooling within her. "He has the right. Hatti is without her queen. Ramesses cannot refuse him. The gods—"

"He has refused him," Sethi soothed, stroking her back, gentle, reassuring. "A month ago Ramesses wrote back saying he would not force you to return if it was not your wish."

Istara pulled free and looked at Sethi, disbelieving. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds Horus seems to have a special interest in you," Sethi answered quiet, though he did not meet her eyes. He left unsaid what could have been had Horus not intervened. After that day, neither of them had again spoken of the events which had brought Sethi back. It was too strange, too unreal, too dangerous. It was better this way, to carry on, keeping their mundane mortal lives, and the fantastical world of the gods separate.

She stood and pushed herself free of the embroidery frame. "Perhaps, but Urhi-Teshub will not accept it," she said as she paced the length of the lotus pool, her gaze moving to the silver-scaled fish darting between the roots of the lotus flowers. "I know how stubborn he is. How single-minded. He will never stop until he has me by his side."

"My love," Sethi said, gentle, "he is far away, tied to his duties as the king of his empire, and from what I have heard, his troubles are many. Famine ravages the land, and his uncle seethes with resentment, seeking to thwart Urhi-Teshub every step of the way. Paser's spies have reported Hattusilis still seeks to claim the throne, though his means are unconventional."

Istara lifted her attention from the fish. "How so?"

Sethi leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, the thick muscles of his upper arms flexing. He folded his fingers together, the gold and lapis lazuli scarab ring adorning his forefinger glinting in a patch of sunlight. "A spy in the city of Hakpis reported Hattusilis has begun to investigate the legal legitimacy of Urhi-Teshub's right to the throne."

"Urhi-Teshub is Muwatallis's firstborn son," Istara said, dismissive. "Hattusilis has nothing to pursue."

Sethi nodded. "As most would agree, but Hattusilis believes his blood is purest, making him the next legitimate successor. Paser's spy claims Hattusilis is gaining support, mostly from Hittite kingdoms in the south and the west."

Istara looked at Sethi, puzzled. "How?"

"Urhi-Teshub was born while his father was still a prince, while his mother, not even a princess, died in childbirth," Sethi began, unfolding his fingers and counting the points off one by one. "When Muwatallis took the throne, he married his step-mother, Tanu-Hepa, in obedience to his father."

Istara shook her head, impatient. "I know all these things, they are common knowledge, even here in Egypt. Why repeat them to me?"

Sethi held up a finger, the one bearing the scarab ring. "Because the answer is in the whole of it." He went back to counting off the points. "Muwatallis had one son by Tanu-Hepa. I have forgotten his name." He looked up.

"Lubarna," Istara answered, soft, thinking she understood where Sethi was going.

He nodded. "Yes, Lubarna, sent away to Hakpis as a child, to be raised by Hattusilis. Though Lubarna was born within the royal marriage, he was set aside by his father in favor of his firstborn son, Urhi-Teshub."

"I don't understand," Istara pressed, "I thought you said Hattusilis wanted the throne for himself. So, is it his intention to take the throne from Urhi-Teshub and give it to Lubarna, though he is still young and inexperienced, and rule through him?"

"No," Sethi replied, patient, "because Hattusilis has found a way to make Lubarna's claim illegitimate as well."

Istara sank down onto the ledge of the pool. "Impossible. He is the son of Muwatallis and Tanu-Hepa, born within the royal marriage."

"Except Tanu-Hepa was married to the previous king." Sethi leaned back, crossing his arms once more over his chest, letting her work it out.

She tried, but could not see the issue. Nothing she had learned in Tarhuntassa regarding the legalities of succession had come close to this line of thinking. She shook her head, exasperated, it was all too much, too fast. "I still do not see the problem. Hattusilis must be mad."

Sethi nodded. "Perhaps, but he claims because Tanu-Hepa was the second wife of his father, any son she bore either to his father or to his brother, Muwatallis, would be second to Hattusilis, whose blood is the purest in the lineage, through his father's first queen.

The pieces fell together, slow, the perfection of it astonishing. Hattusilis, ever the crafty, devious one, had found a way to cast doubt on the legitimacy of both of Muwatallis's sons. "So it is," she breathed. "He has put Lubarna's claim ahead of Urhi-Teshub's and then made it illegitimate through Tanu-Hepa. By his reasoning, Urhi-Teshub's claim is third in line, and the weakest."

For the first time in her life, Istara felt gratitude for Hattusilis's ambition. She glanced up at Sethi, relief washing through her. He had had no obligation to share such things with her—matters of state, matters meant for men—yet he had, and his explanation had given her more comfort than a thousand kisses or caresses ever could have. She went to him and took his face in her hands.

"Thank you," she whispered, letting him pull her down into his lap, his arms encircling her once more, the warmth of his bare chest breaching the thin linen pleats of her gown. "My love, you have given me hope that all might yet be well for us."

Sethi's arms tightened around her, his lips brushing against hers, tasting her, letting the kiss deepen. A stirring within the wrappings of his loincloth told her they would not linger much longer in the courtyard.

"He might wish to have you," Sethi murmured as he rose, setting her on her feet. "But I will never let you go. Never. He would have to stand against the hosts of Egypt first, on our ground—a battle he knows he would lose." He took her hand. "Come, I have a gift for you." He led her toward their rooms.

"Is that what you call it now?" Istara teased.

Sethi laughed, warm, and rich, like spiced wine. "No, it is a gift. A real one. Come. I hoped it might ease your unhappiness after the news I brought you today."

Curious, she followed him into the reception room of their apartment. "I have gowns and jewelry enough already—" she began.

He turned and pressed a finger against her lips, quieting her. "Soft now, my love, he is sleeping."

"He?" Istara repeated, taken aback. For a wild heartbeat she wondered if he had brought an orphan into their home, for them to raise as their own. She followed him across the room, hesitant, as he led her toward the terrace. Please, not a child, she prayed, silent. Let us first have one of our own.

He stopped just at the threshold of the terrace, his eyes shining, and held up a finger for her to wait there. He went to one of the divans. Trepidation filled her. She did not want to raise another woman's child. She wanted one of her own. She fought the urge to flee, to run away, back to her embroidery frame. If she did not look at the boy, she would not have to care for him. Sethi could not do this to her, bring a child in without discussing it first—

He stood up, a smile splitting his face in two, a tan-colored puppy cradled in his arms, fast asleep, a long, silky ear trailing over his forearm.

Her hand flew to her mouth, covering it, stifling her cry of joy, relief cascading through her. He came to her, holding the pup, tender, his eyes soft.

"But I only just asked," Istara whispered, blinking back tears as she held out her arms to take the sun-warmed, lanky little body from him. She bent and kissed the top of its narrow, elegant head.

"You did," Sethi said, quiet, reaching out to stroke the pup's ears. "But I could tell how fond you were of Anash, the way you always spoke of her. I would have liked to have given you a dog much sooner, but I wanted to breed the right one for you. He is a salu-ki, descended from the royal hunting dogs of ancient Sumer."

"He is perfect," Istara breathed as the pup cracked open a liquid-brown eye and looked up at her. He settled back into her arms with a contented sigh. She glanced back up at Sethi, ashamed. "I thought you had brought home an orphan."

Sethi blinked. "An orphan?" he repeated, astonished. "Why would you—No. There will only ever be you and the ones we create between us. I swear I will never bring another child into our house." He moved to her side, and placed his hand in the hollow of her back, guiding her to one of the shaded divans. They sat, the breeze rippling along the edge of the indigo-dyed awning.

"What will you name him?" he asked.

Istara gazed across the whitewashed limestone of the terrace toward the lush gardens of the villa. She bit her lip, considering. It would have to be an Egyptian word, one which represented her feelings both for the dog and her life. She caught him looking at her, wearing the private expression she had come to know so well—possessive, passionate, taut with restraint, a harbinger of the love he would soon share with her. She felt her body reacting, as it always did to that look, longing for his touch.

"Sehetep," Istara said, quiet, tasting the word on her lips, her fingers following the curves and planes of the little dog, lingering over his chest, sensing the rapid beat of his tiny heart.

"And, are you satisfied?" Sethi asked, interpreting the meaning of the dog's name.

Istara lifted the dog onto the cushion beside her, watching as he snuggled in, making himself comfortable. She stood and held out her hand to Sethi.

"Soon, I will be."

Istara gazed up at the linen canopy over the bed. As usual, Sethi had been thorough in his lovemaking, leaving her exhausted and satiated, parts of her pleasantly aching. With a lingering kiss, he had excused himself soon after, washing himself clean in the basin, saying he must work in his office until the evening meal. Languid, sleep tugged at her, but she longed to go back to the pup, to hold him once more.

Naked, she slipped from the bed and went to the terrace. The pup had wakened. He lay, quiet and content on the cushion, blinking, taking in his new home. Sehetep looked up at her and made a quiet yip of greeting. Her heart melting, she lifted him up and carried him back to the bed, whispering to him, promising him a good life; thinking of the leather toys she would need to have made for him, so he wouldn't chew her sandals as Anash had once done.

With the dog beside her, happy to bask in her attention, Istara's thoughts turned back to Sethi's news. Urhi-Teshub was the King of Hatti. Her husband was a god. Despite the warmth of room, Istara shivered, sensing her journey was far from over. Urhi-Teshub would never give her up, though neither would Sethi. Though they were not bound in blood, Sethi's claim over her was by far the greatest, having first sacrificed his eternal life to save her from death, and later, having fallen to the pharaoh's khopesh for the crime of loving her.

She leaned back against the cushions, letting Sehetep lick her fingers, listening to the deep hum of a bee, moving from flower to flower, drinking from the arrangement of pink roses on the table at the end of the bed. Her thoughts drifted, treacherous, back to the day Horus had materialized at the pharaoh's bloodied training ground in a bolt of blinding white light, and used his immortal light to return Sethi to life, just as Baalat, his consort, had done for Istara. She had thought their journey was over. Hadn't she suffered enough? Hadn't Sethi?

Her eyelids drifted down. The bee's quiet hum filled her ears. Sehetep settled against her hip. Within a handful of heartbeats the dog began to snore, quiet little snuffles, his head tucked up against the curve of her hand.

Soothed by the pup's presence, Istara succumbed to her indolence, letting the drift of sleep wash over her.

She dreamed she soared like a falcon over a sun-drenched field of wheat. Far below, a woman dressed in white pushed her way through the waist-high grasses. Behind her, leaving deep swathes in the rippling grasses, two warriors wearing full battle armor pursued her, racing to reach her first. Istara blinked and her perspective changed, now it was she who struggled through the thick grass, toward a destination unknown.

The field came to an abrupt end, with only a narrow ledge of hard-packed earth standing between her and a vast chasm, its maw deep, dark, endless. It stretched into the distance, consuming the horizon. Her pursuers neared, their breathing ragged, loud in the unnatural quiet. She peered into the abyss's swirling depths, mesmerized, sensing the pull of eternity.

One of the warriors called her name. She turned. The gold upon his armor glinted in the sunlight. Urhi-Teshub. Startled, she backed up, the earth sliding out from under the heel of her sandal. The sudden desire to let go overwhelmed her. Her other pursuer cried out, horrified, disbelieving, as she let herself fall into the chasm. Sethi. He lunged after her, his fingertips brushing against hers, too late. Staggering at the chasm's edge, he struggled to keep his balance. A heartbeat's hesitation and he leapt into the void after her, followed by Urhi-Teshub, both men's eyes dark with desperation, fear, and something else. Determination.

Holding her heart in her hands, she plummeted, descending into nothingness, falling into infinity. She closed her eyes, finally understanding. She had been a piece on a game board after all. But not of men. Of gods.

And now, falling with her, were two pieces more.

Copyright © 2018 by E A CARTER