The Lost Valor of Love

54 | ANYONE BUT YOU

Istara opened her eyes. She pushed herself up from the pallet, disoriented, her head swimming. A blanket slipped down to her waist. Close by, a brazier gave off a feeble amount of heat, its fuel almost extinguished. A bench. Rugs. Lamps. A linen hanging, unadorned, split the tent's interior in two. She leaned forward, reaching out to push aside the hanging. A wave of nausea rippled through her. She held still, waiting. Another wave, stronger this time--

She scrambled from the pallet, making it to the basin just in time. Shivering, she sank back onto her heels and wiped the tears from her eyes. Her fingers came away smeared with kohl. She stared at the black smudges, staining her fingertips, confused. When had she put on cosmetics? Her bloodstained gown was gone too, replaced by a white one, its edges embroidered in silver thread. She cleaned her fingers before touching the material, woven so fine, it must have come from the queen's wardrobe.

Her foot cramped. She shifted her position, noticing she still wore her sandals. Pulling them off, she rubbed her feet against the rug, letting its stiff weave massage them. Why would she have gone to sleep in her sandals? She gazed into the glowing embers of the brazier, trying to recall the last thing she could remember: the injured man in the tent, the one from her visions. She had spent hours tending him, had fallen asleep after, exhausted. Then . . . nothing, only darkness.

She eyed the basin, the vomit almost black, its sourness offset by a sickly-sweet tang. Opium. If she could smell it over her vomit, she had been given a very strong dose. She had learned during her studies when high enough doses of opium were used on a patient, events during the drugging could be forgotten, sometimes permanently. Anything could have happened. A dark thought crossed her mind. She pulled up her gown. No blood. Relief shuddered through her. But if not to violate her, why had the Egyptians drugged her? For what purpose--

A draft of cold air. The lamps' flames danced. She turned. A soldier moved toward her. Alarmed, she rose to her feet. He pulled the linen hanging aside and stepped through.

It was him, the man she had spent the night sewing back together, but no longer was he the broken, fevered patient: he stood before her, charismatic, powerful, larger than even Urhi-Teshub, smelling of sex. He had removed most of his bandages, exposing his raw, sutured flesh to the open air, a soldier's trick to force his wounds to heal faster. His sudden presence filled the space, overwhelming her. He bowed, keeping his eyes averted from her, his gaze moving to the dirtied basin, then away from it, to the brazier.

"You are unwell," he said, his voice deep, commanding, strong. "Shall I send for a surgeon?"

Taken aback by his transformation, she looked over his injuries wondering how could he have recovered so fast. It had only been last night when she had tended to him. Unless . . .

"How long have I been drugged?" she asked, quiet.

Startled by her question, his eyes met hers. A spark, hot and intense flared between them. She caught her breath as a memory, visceral, poured into her. He had held her against his body, warming her, his lips had brushed her forehead, tender--

He blinked, turning his attention once more to the brazier. "I did not realize you had been drugged," he said, low, "although that would explain your odd behavior in the pharaoh's tent."

Istara's thoughts tumbled to a halt. "I was in the pharaoh's tent? When?"

The soldier's brow lifted. "It must have been a powerful sedation if you cannot remember last night."

"Last night? I don't understand--" she floundered, desperate to find solid ground. She tried a different approach. "When did I tend your injuries?"

His brow quirked, though whether it was from irritation or surprise, she couldn't tell. "The night before last," he answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "You were taken from my side early yesterday morning, while still half-asleep."