THE RISE OF THE GODDESS

PROLOGUE

Sethi slammed his way through a glut of warriors, his arms and chest bloody, his double-bladed jihn thrumming, hungry for the essence of the living. He looked up, breathing hard, the burning air searing his lungs.

There. He had her. Istara stood alone and undefended, surrounded by smoke and fire. In the heated updrafts, her star-clad, tangled hair whipped around her face. Her golden eyes raked over the scores of Elati's dead and dying, her healing light pulsing across the battlefield, brilliant haloes of gold. He stood still. Waited until she found him. Caught the parting of her lips. The tremor of her heart. The quiet hope. He smiled at her, cold, the god of war, and tread over the carpet of her fallen warriors, never taking his eyes from her, his soul scorched with hate. No one could stop him now. Not even the one who called himself her protector—

A blade, from behind, delved into his heart, the pain brutal, agonizing. He turned. Urhi-Teshub twisted the weapon, his eyes hard, hatred bleeding from him. With a roar, Sethi yanked himself free and slammed his fist into Urhi-Teshub's skull, once, twice, three times. Istara's protector collapsed, senseless. Sethi staggered, blinded by pain. His left pectoral lay torn open, muscle and bone sundered, his heart riven in two. The jihn slid from his grip. He cursed as his light ignited, slow, unsteady, working to heal him. He sank into a crouch, blackened by fury. By the time he was strong enough to stand, his quarry would have fled.

Hands came to his face and cradled his jaw, tender. He looked up. Istara's golden eyes, bright with tears, met his. She spoke, her words stolen by the thunder of an explosion. Light exploded out of her heart into his, brilliant, a nova, blinding. In its wake, tendrils of her healing light wove around him, a multitude, closing the rent in his heart, making him whole again.

His nemesis—the one who had rallied the armies of men and gods against him—granted him her healing light, the stars limning her hair dimming as she brought him back to his full power: Sethi, god of war, Commander of Elati, second only to Marduk, Lord of All, Giver of Life, Taker of Life.

Rejuvenated, he rose and hefted the jihn, the heat of battle still hot in his veins. In his grip, the jihn's curved blades awakened. Its lethal hunger coursed through him, hardening him. He looked down at his once-consort, filled with abhorrence for her weakness, scorning her gift to him. He would never have done the same for her. She remained on her knees, her eyes on his. A tear slid free and tracked a path through the fine coating of soot dusting her face.

Her lips moved again. He couldn't hear anything over the scream of the ships as they tore across the burning sky, but he read her lips, words enslaved queens had whispered as he rode them, desperate for his favor.

I love you.

He lifted his weapon. The jihn's black blades glinted, blue-white, slavering for her light, her annihilation. She was a fool. Love meant nothing. And soon she would be nothing, her light consumed by the jihn. He smiled, cold, triumphant. At last. Victory.

He thrust the glowing blades toward her heart.

Sethi sat up, abrupt, panting. He touched the back of his neck, the agony of the device Marduk had driven into the base of his skull unforgettable, its bite hot and sharp as it dug its way through flesh and bone and burrowed deep into his brain. Its malevolent presence poisoned his thoughts, corrupted his memories—had made him into a weapon.

It hadn't taken long for the device to betray Sethi's awareness of Istara's presence in Elati. Marduk had listened, impassive, then showed Sethi images of Istara with Urhi-Teshub in the Etemen'anki: the once-king of Hatti had taken her, wiling, to his bed. Sethi had destroyed everything in the suite. It hadn't been enough.

Blinded by the hateful thing controlling his mind, Sethi dined on his rage, his hunger for revenge. And yet, despite his descent into evil, his god-light remained. Each morning, during the ephemeral heartbeats of dawn, golden tendrils of his light would overcome the device's control. Fragments of his true self would slip from their bonds, would force him to face the horror of what he had become, of the crimes he had committed, and of the lie he believed against the one he loved—and his helplessness to stop it.

He carved messages into his flesh: It is a lie. Istara was not unfaithful. Protect her at all costs. But no matter how deep he cut, his warnings would last no more than a few hours, his light erasing every desperate, bloody symbol. He clenched his fists, the dream returning, haunting him. To think he might do it, might drive his blade into the heart of the one he loved beyond all reason—

He caught a glimpse of his bleak reflection in the enormous mirror facing the bed. The tyranny of his acts seared his mind, damned him for his brutality. Everything he had once stood for had become perverted, his power used to oppress those who dared resist Marduk's conquest of Elati.

The air in the room oppressed him, he lunged from the bed and shoved aside the shutters leading to the terrace. The lavender hue of dawn sliced its way along the mountain's ridge to the east. At the edge of the terrace, he eyed the sheer drop into an enormous lake, more than half a short iter distant.

From an outcropping in the mountains, a waterfall thundered into the lake, shrouded in pre-dawn mist. The night before, he had flung a king from this terrace—for entertainment—then dragged the dead king's queen to his bed before throwing her to her death after him. Anguished, he clawed at the back of his head, desperate to dig the vile device out, to end what he had become. How many times had he tried to cut it out with his dagger before the device reignited? More than he could count. There was never enough time.

The warmth of the sun's rays slid over him. He glanced at the golden disk as it ascended, fast, recalling a smaller, statelier sun which had risen over the desert sands of an empire that had once been his home. The memories of his mortal life had almost vanished. Soon there would be nothing left of the commander he used to be, or of the princess he loved beyond all reason.

His fingers bloody, he pressed his palm over his heart, sensing his light reawakening his bond with Istara. For a beat, joy. Then, the agony of her grief for his crimes slammed into him, followed by her yearning, her loneliness; her determination to free him from Marduk's grip. Shame engulfed him. Somewhere out there, beyond the mountains, beyond the sea, beyond the desert, she gathered allies—to save him from himself. His goddess. His consort. His everything.

A shear of blue-white light tore through his mind, washed her presence away. He sank to his knees and gripped the edge of the terrace, his muscles straining, resisting the device as it dragged him back, unwilling, to its filth, its lies. Nausea boiled, rancid and bitter. Hate sawed through him, ugly and familiar.

He clung, stubborn, to the last images he had of Istara, of when he had lived with her in another world, his love for her endless, overwhelming. The device’s light screamed through the images, scoured his mind, its heat blistering, blinding. He fought its brutal onslaught, vomiting over the edge of the terrace, his heart aching, bitterness saturating him as his memories dissolved and slipped through his fingers, grains of sand. Gone. For eternity.

The god of war fell back on his haunches. He blinked, disoriented, unable to recall when he had come to the terrace from his bed. The images of his dream crept into the corridors of his mind, of the mysterious weapon which could consume a god's light, a weapon which had called to him. With such a powerful artifact, none could stand against him, not even the gods. He would search for this weapon, and once he possessed it . . . he smiled, cold, as he considered his faithless consort and the agonies he would inflict on her for betraying him. Yes. He glared at the sun as it soared into the sky. For what she had done with Urhi-Teshub, he would make her suffer. Forever.

The Rise of the Goddess: A finale fueled by the flames of a dying world and a love that never ends. (Transcendence Book 3)

By Carter, E A

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CHAPTER ONE

The thunderous downpour ended, abrupt. In its wake, a rush of rich, rain-cleansed air. The quiet ripple of potted bamboo. A shear of silence. The plaintive cry of a night heron, far-off. Thoth picked up his wine, left the chaos of his desk and pushed past the silken hangings separating his apartment from the terrace. Barefoot, he went to its edge, skirting the pots overflowing with geraniums, their soft leaves laden with water droplets.

He sipped his wine, once more turning over Istara's request to create a sanctuary for the gods when none of his powers remained. Her words, said so quiet almost a month earlier, still kept him awake at night: We cannot remain in Imaru. We must find a location separate from the kingdoms where we can gather allies and prepare to face our enemy. There must be a way you can grant us the protection we need.

A warm breeze slid past, languid and damp. Below his apartment, the golden lights of the city of Imaru skirted the shore of a vast lake. The clouds parted. Two crescent moons hovered just over the horizon—one pink, one white, both breathtaking. Across the lake's dark surface, the moons' light danced and shimmered, a starry canopy to match the profusion of glittering lights spanning the heavens.

A sweet, earthy scent swept over the terrace. Thoth inhaled, deep, savoring the fresh air denied to him after almost two years of captivity, buried deep beneath the Etemen'anki of Babylon—the enormous stepped pyramid Thoth's presence had destroyed, along with half of Istara's world. If Istara and Baalat's sacrifice hadn't ensured his escape through the portal at Surru to Elati—the world he now called home—nothing would have been left of Istara's world on the other side of the portal's ephemeral, churning wall.

Surru. His greatest achievement. A portal which traversed the distance between two universes. The amount of energy it had taken to power it up had been immense, had required the building of—

He caught his breath.

Of course. It was so simple.

He turned and hurried back to his desk, uncaring of the wine sloshing over the rim of his cup and onto his hand. The answer he had been seeking for weeks had come in the blink of an eye. How had he not thought of it before? Surru held the answer. It always had. But—his hands stilled against his notes—Surru led to not one but two worlds, neither of them safe. He sank onto his chair. When he last traversed Surru from Elati to Istara's world how long had he had before her world robbed him of his powers as a god and rendered him mortal? Hours, at most.

But they would still be there—the pyramids he had created in the long distant past, their cores once used to power up the portals, later modified to protect themselves from destruction—he had given up a fair portion of his own light to ensure they would never fail. They would have stood against the worst of the unraveling in Egypt while the rest of the world succumbed, torn apart by his presence. They had also granted an unexpected barrier against Marduk's devices, although he had discovered that advantage far too late. He would not make the same mistake twice.

Could it be done in time? A trip to Istara's world, all the way to Egypt and back? He exhaled. Of course not. He was mad to even consider it. It was too far and would take too long, even with a fast ship—and what of the instability he would bring back to her world? No. He had no choice. He would have to return to the parallel world he and Arinna had fled, the one still caught in the other Marduk's brutal grip.

Thoth sighed, so many worlds, so many outcomes, yet all with one constant—Marduk and the endless worlds-spanning war to overcome him. A fight which, right now, the gods were losing as one kingdom of Elati after another pledged allegiance to Marduk, their unwilling submission forced upon them by the brutality of the god of war, no longer Horus, but another, the once-commander of Egypt, Sethi, Istara's consort.

Thoth dried his wine-soaked hand against his kilt, his usual pleasure at considering the complex abandoning him. From among the piles of pages and scrolls, a map protruded. He pulled it out and followed the familiar lines and contours of the world he had fled with Arinna more than two years before. His gaze came to rest on the delta of Egypt, long made into a barren wasteland, its boundaries guarded by Marduk's malevolent, patrolling devices.

Beyond the open doors of the terrace, a white star fell from the heavens. Thoth eyed its descent, grim, thinking of the price three of the gods from his world had paid to free the others from Marduk's tyranny. In a final, desperate act, they had evaded the patrols and entered the hearts of the pyramids where, as one, they had sacrificed their light to the pyramids' cores in the hopes of increasing the radius of the pyramids' defences. It had worked. Their combined energies had, for a brief time, forced Marduk to flee to the heavens, his devices and weapons useless to him while the others escaped.

A red star slid from the sky's indigo canopy, followed by another, haloed in a brilliant blue. Thoth's heart clenched. Remorse, raw and jagged, cut deep. His portals had caused more harm than he could ever have anticipated. He looked down into his cup, morose. The trio of gods from his pantheon who had sacrificed their light would have suffered unimaginable anguish. The cores would have burned them from the inside out. Though the gods of Istara’s world had lived on, the gods of his world—Teshub, Horus, and Baalat—were gone. Obliterated.

His grip tightened on his cup. No. Their sacrifice would not be for nothing. If the survivors in Elati from his and Istara's worlds were to have any chance against Marduk, Thoth needed the cores. With them he could construct the pyramids again and grant the gods an impenetrable refuge from Marduk. He might have gained immortality by traversing the portal with Istara, but his godly powers—just like Teshub's and Arinna's—were long gone. He would never be able to make such powerful artifacts again.

A rustle of material. He looked up.

"Lady Istara." He rose. "I did not hear you come in."

"You were deep in thought," Istara said. Her golden eyes met his, shrouded with grief. "I did not wish to disturb you."

Thoth moved around his desk and took her hands in his. "I might have a plan."

The stars in her hair brightened, a shear of hope against her sorrow.

"I have to go back," he said.

"Back?" Istara's brow furrowed. "Where?"

"To the world Arinna and I left. I must retrieve artifacts of great power which could save us all."

"A dangerous decision," Istara murmured. "The enemy of your world still controls it. If he finds you, he will enslave you again."

Thoth smiled, dry. "Then I had best ensure I am not found." A cool wind sliced through the apartment. The silken hangings of the terrace billowed inward. A profusion of geranium petals skidded across the damp terrace. "However, I cannot go alone since I am no longer a god—the portal will not open for me."

Istara’s grip tightened against his fingers. "I will come with you."

"As will I."

An immortal, his powerful body clad in a gold-gilt leather tunic and kilt stepped from the shadows of the doorway. A pair of Marduk's appropriated weapons hung from his belt. From over his shoulders, two more of the once-god of Babylon's stolen weapons reared up.

Thoth met Urhi-Teshub's eyes and nodded. "Tomorrow then," he said, "we will leave for Surru at dawn. May the Creator—"

A scream split the skies. Marduk's warship sundered the night's canopy in blue fire. Thoth eyed it, bleak. It was the first time he had seen it since their arrival. He had heard Marduk's reach was growing. The god of war would be seeking out new kingdoms to conquer, while Marduk remained with his consort, Meresamun, in a location still unknown.

Istara pressed her hand against her heart, her eyes fixed on the ship, her longing for the one within tangible. "My love," she whispered, "I beg you. Fight this. Fight him. Come back to me."

Her hand fell to her side. Desolate, she met Thoth's look and shook her head. The ship ascended into the stars. A burst of blue and it was gone. In the silence of its wake, the broken cry of a goddess.

❃

In the hushed silence of Rzhev's deepest night, the halls, vaults, and corridors of Imaru's royal armory slept. Pale moonlight pierced the metal latticework of the armory's narrow windows, and washed the stone-flagged floor in watery light. Beyond the city's walls, the cry of a nightbird rose, plaintive, lonely. Close by, a watchman tolled the fourth hour. Outside, a loose shutter ricocheted against the wall, captive to the prowling wind.

In just a few hours, they would depart. Urhi-Teshub was not ready.

His hands on his hips, he pondered the assortment of seamless, silvery weapons and devices he had liberated along with Teshub, Thoth, and Ahmen from Marduk's armory in the Etemen'anki. Each item bore unique, appealing merits. Even so, an immortal could only carry so much. A prickle of uncertainty glided through him as his gaze lingered on the largest weapon, one he had discovered with a single shot could consume an entire building in a vortex of white heat. Even if it was heavy and cumbersome, it felt wrong to leave it behind. Thoth had said the pyramid complex was large, and to expect to have to run. A weapon of this size would be certain to slow him down. And yet . . . No. He could not leave it behind.

With a grunt, he hefted it from the table and threw its strap over his shoulder. Its weight bore down on him, dense as an ashlar. He rolled his shoulder, fighting the thing's drag, its length unwieldy and its balance pulling him to one side. Knots tightened in his neck, screaming this was not a weapon to be carried by any other than Marduk, whose armor granted him strength beyond what was natural. And yet, during their escape from the Etemen'anki, the once-god Teshub had borne its weight through the wreckage of the collapsing ziqquratu, while also carrying his fallen consort, Arinna. A shot of admiration rippled through Urhi-Teshub. If Teshub could do it, so could he. It would be madness to face Marduk's patrols with anything less. 

"If you take that one," a quiet voice said from beyond the vault's open door, "you will regret it." A slim woman emerged from the shadows, her skin flawless, a midnight marble burnished by the torchlight. "Urhi-Teshub," she said, "I am Sekhmet." A greeting, of sorts.

Clad from neck to toe in fitted black leather, she glided over to him, her movements sleek, mesmerizing, graceful. She came to a halt behind him and ran her hand along the weapon's enormous barrel. "I like the way you think." Her words washed over him, rich, luxurious, a fountain of dark, red wine. "When it comes to Marduk, bigger usually is better. But perhaps, not this time."

He turned, unwilling to leave his back exposed to her. Teshub had once confided Sekhmet was wild and unpredictable. She met his eyes, hers a dark, molten gold, fathomless, unreadable. He did not look away, refused to let her think him afraid. A faint smile touched her lips.

"Thoth tells me you were once the king of a great empire." Her gaze slid over him, impassive. She took his hand and turned his palm upward, exposed the lines marking the path of his life. "It appears you are an honorable man," she said. "Of pure heart. A great warrior. Noble. Just. At times, stubborn." She paused to trace her forefinger over his scar of binding. "Hmmm." She let go of his hand and turned to examine his chosen array of weapons. "I have decided to aid Thoth." She shot an enigmatic look at Urhi-Teshub. "Osiris took it upon himself to point out my ship is the fastest."

"I am in your debt," Urhi-Teshub said, hoping he sounded more grateful than he felt. When she lifted one of Marduk's devices, Urhi-Teshub cut an oblique look at her, his curiosity getting the better of him. After the tales he had heard of the goddess of war, he had expected her to be savage, bloodthirsty, brutal; her visage disfigured, ugly from glorying in violence. Teshub had said she was a loner, friendless, her rage during battle terrifying, legendary. Known as the queen of revenge, death, and destruction—she was a goddess to be feared and avoided. Urhi-Teshub had heard the stories, what she was capable of in battle, her brutality far beyond anything his father had done. After the things he had heard, he never could have expected a woman like this, clad in beauty, elegance, and grace, her features even, perfect, as though carved by a master sculptor. She turned, caught his frank appraisal. He turned away, but there was nothing to look at it except the wall.

She laughed, soft. It washed over him, honeyed and warm. "You have heard the stories about me."

"Who hasn't," he said, hauling the strap away from his shoulder. He dropped the weapon back onto the table. It landed between them, hitting the wood with a dense thud. He met her eyes again. "I admit you are not who I expected."

"I am never what anyone expects," Sekhmet returned. She reached past him to pick up a slim pair of blunt-nosed weapons, their polished metal reflecting the flames of the torches. She held the weapons out to him. "Take these. Where we are going, we will not have much room to maneuver."

He took them with a murmur of thanks and waited for her to select more. Though she picked up several pieces and set them down again, she gave him nothing else. With only two weapons, he felt exposed. Unprepared. Even escorting Istara along the palace's corridors, he carried twice as much. His gaze slid back to the largest weapon. He could stow it in the ship—

"Not that one," Sekhmet said, following his look. "There is a better one." She went to where the weapons of the gods were set out, and opened a metal case. From within its depths she retrieved a long-barreled weapon along with a leather harness. "Wear this on your thigh," she said, handing him the harness, before letting him take the weapon. "This is only to be used when there are no other options left."

Urhi-Teshub took the weapon. Made of black metal, it looked similar to the design of Marduk's weapons, although unlike them, this one had a pleasing, reassuring heft. He took hold of its grip and held it up, admiring its simple design, liking it already. "What does it do?"

"It is one of Set's," Sekhmet answered. "Those targeted by it will turn against their own. But the effect is brief, and once they return to their senses, they will come back with a vengeance." She touched it, reverent. "Be sure not to lose it. Set dismembers those who offend him."

He sensed she hoped for a reaction; he gave her none. Instead: "Will it work on Marduk's patrols?" he asked, eyeing the length of the weapon, nearer to that of a short sword, imagining what it could have wrought in his world—what he could have done with it at Kadesh.

Sekhmet nodded. "Patrols. Ships' weapons. It is the only thing we possess apart from the pyramids' cores which can overcome Marduk's devices."

Urhi-Teshub lifted a brow, impressed. He turned the weapon over in his hands, appreciating anew the balance and weight of it. "I could do a lot of damage with this."

"You could, but you won't," Sekhmet said. Her gaze drifted once more to the weapons taken from the Etemen'anki. She eyed them, cool, her expression tightening. "It is regrettable there is only the one or we could have escaped without the loss of my sister and brothers." She fell silent, though sorrow tainted the curve of her lips. "This time we must be quiet. But the next time, we fight."

She went to the door. Her eyes touched his. A flicker of her fury scorched him, a furnace of hate, buried alive. "You have my word." The heat faded. Sorrow returned. She cut a look at the windows. "A storm is coming."

A fresh gust rattled the vault's latticed windows. The loose shutter banged against the wall. The wind surged past him, catching at the panels of his kilt. All but one of the torches guttered. The dry, acrid tang of smoke soaked the air. Another gust swept through the vault, thick with the slap of rain.

He went to the corridor, his skin prickling. He had not seen Sekhmet leave. Faint, on the edge of his hearing he caught the whisper of leather. He turned. One heartbeat. Two. Thunder tore a chasm through the skies and rolled over the citadel. Underfoot, the stone trembled. A burst of lightning sliced through the darkness. Further down, along the open walkway, he found her. She stood in the midst of the storm's fury, her small fists clenched at her sides, her face raised to the heavens, her profile soaked in anguish. In the space between heartbeats, her image seared his mind, raw, vulnerable, broken, her sorrow frozen in the staccato beat of the jagged, savaged skies.

Darkness returned, thick, furious at having been usurped. Rain sluiced from the heavens, and pounded against the walkway, violent, deafening. His heart thudded, awakening, skidding between terror and anticipation, fuelled by the rage of the storm. He waited. Lightning sheeted across the walkway, drowning it in a world of black and white. Her dark outline slipped to the opposite end of the walkway, and then she was gone, lost in the tumult of the storm.

❃

Ahmen paced the length of his rain-swept terrace locked in futility. Above, the splendor of Elati's shimmering canopy of stars and two crescent moons emerged from behind the storm clouds, their reflections spreading across Imaru's vast lake. Though he knew he shouldn't, he let his thoughts wander forbidden corridors, imagining other lives, and other outcomes. Meresamun would have loved Imaru with its wild, chaotic storms and endless skies. To be here, with her, in this beautiful, pristine world, his terrible crime uncommitted, never having led to what she had become, the enslaved consort of a tyrant. No. He forced his thoughts away. He had no right to think such things. None.

He went to the edge of the terrace, unseeing, agitated. He needed to do something. If only he could work with horses again, feel the pull of their reins against his forearms, sense the revolutions of a chariot's axel under his feet. A day in the royal stables working himself to exhaustion was what he needed to clear his mind. Not this. Not waiting, simmering in guilt and indolence, doing nothing. The lack of physical activity over the last weeks had left him caged, confining not only his body, but his mind. Without any way to relieve the pent-up energy within him, without purpose, or employment, his world had collapsed to a single focused point: Meresamun.

The day they had arrived to Elati, he learned Meresamun had cried she no longer wished to be Marduk's consort when he refused to aid her people during Babylon's destruction. Within Ahmen's breast, fury had burned. Marduk had stolen Meresamun's memories, and taken what little she had shared with Ahmen, leaving her mind empty of the love she had once had for him—a love he had destroyed, consumed by bitterness and jealousy. He looked down at his hands clenched into fists, hating himself. What a fool he had been. If only he could turn back time. He pressed his lips together, enduring a punishing wave of regret. And now, it turned out, time was all he had.

He came to a stop, eyeing one of the brighter constellations of Elati's heavens, certain of at least one thing in this place of near-eternal uncertainty: his estranged wife no longer wished to be with the one who had stolen her heart and memories. And if Marduk would not let her go, that made her Marduk's prisoner.

Somewhere out there, in this vast, new world, the woman Ahmen still loved, suffered, and considering what Istara and the others spent their time discussing—the building of a sanctuary from which they could launch their war against Marduk, and the liberation of Sethi from Marduk's clutches—it was clear Meresamun was of little to no importance. If Ahmen didn't help her, no one would.

When he had pressed Thoth to consider Meresamun's plight, the once-god of wisdom had suggested when Marduk was subdued and Sethi had been returned to them, perhaps Meresamun could be considered. Ahmen asked to join the search for Marduk's stronghold, but Thoth had looked away, uneasy, muttering it was a job better suited to his brothers and sisters. Ahmen knew what Thoth wasn't saying: Ahmen was a liability, as was Meresamun. Even if she were liberated, she would never be welcome among the pantheon of refugee gods, not while Marduk remained. Thoth had told Ahmen of the love Marduk had harbored for his first consort, Zarpanitu, the one Horus had beheaded in cold blood during the wars of gods and men—Horus's act the reason for Sethi's enslavement. No, Thoth had said, Meresamun was best where she was, where if she had any influence over Marduk as Zarpanitu had once done, she might be best placed to aid the gods.

Thoth had departed soon after, murmuring he still had to solve the question of the creation of a sanctuary, leaving Ahmen to face his bitter truth: in Elati, Lord Ahmen-om-onet, Pharaoh Ramesses II's Royal Charioteer and Chief of the Archers was no one. As the weeks passed, the connection to his life in Egypt faded—of its orderly, precise seasons measured by the brief span of one's mortality.

He thought of Ramesses, wondering how the pharaoh would have reacted to being flung into another world where he could walk among those he once worshiped. Ahmen lifted his brow. No, far from balking at his fate, Ramesses would waste no time in building his empire. But Ahmen wasn't Ramesses, and never would be. He had been content in the role of a soldier, happy to leave the greater responsibilities of running an empire to others.

He turned his back to the sky. He was on his own, his destiny no longer directed by the gods or the pharaoh. It unnerved him. In Egypt, everyone had their place and behaved according to their station. But now, he had no such constraints. It was time to discover of what he was capable.

He glanced at the tangled sheets of his bed, where sleep eluded him and thoughts of Meresamun and of his failings tormented him. In Elati, there was only one constant which remained from his mortal life: The one he still loved, beyond all reason. He would free her with or without the help of the gods. Had he not survived the odds at the battle at Kadesh, and walked across Thamud Desert to Babylon without their aid?

Even after he learned she had become the consort of Marduk, he had gone to her father, the king of Babylon to face his crimes. Beaten, but not broken, he had followed Marduk into the depths of the Etemen'anki, where he had almost been buried alive in its collapse. With the others, he had escaped by boarding one of Marduk's ships which Thoth had flown across the skies to a distant underground cavern where an ancient, vast, glowing wall of cerulean light led to another world—and to her—the journey through the void between their world and Elati granting him the unexpected gift of immortality. Now he existed in a place between mortals and gods. He wasn't alone. As they had crossed into Elati, Urhi-Teshub, Thoth, Teshub, Arinna, Marduk, and Meresamun had also become immortal.

He crossed his arms over his chest. A strange thing to face—the loss of one's mortality. But if he couldn't die, neither did he have anything to lose. With his crossing into Elati, everything had changed, and he was tired of waiting, of letting others decide his and Meresamun's fate—of being the least priority. He had been someone in Egypt. He could be someone here. He just had to find out who.

He eyed the skies, at the strange constellations of the stars. He couldn't just fling himself out into an unknown world. First, a visit to the palace library, and a map. He didn't even know if Imaru lay to the north, south, east, or west, was an island, or part of a continent. He had no idea what other countries and empires existed in Elati, or what their histories, alliances and loyalties were. Neither did he know who had succumbed to Marduk's control and who still remained free. He had much to learn. As a man who could not die he could take risks, and slip in and out of cities unremarked. He would learn everything he could, and follow the trail he was certain would lead to her. He had no currency, and nothing of value, apart from the blade he had taken from Marduk's armory. He had always been a man of the sword, now he would also need to be a man who used his wits. So be it. He would find her. He would not fail. Let the others fight their battles. He would fight his, alone.

❃

Horus rolled onto his back and pulled Baalat up against him, cradling her head against his shoulder.

Her fingers traced the outline of his pectorals. "Do you ever feel guilty?" she asked, soft.

He lifted his head to meet her eyes. "Guilty?" he asked, glancing down at their naked bodies glistening with perspiration. "For making love to you? Never."

Baalat smiled and kissed him, slow, arousing him anew.

He pulled back, breaking off the kiss. "I can tell you have something on your mind, better to say it before you entice me again."

With a quiet smile, Baalat slipped out from under his arm and left him alone on the bed. She went to the table and lifted their new wine pitcher, crafted in gold and chased with silver—payment for her ensuring the safe delivery of a high nobleman's son—and poured the ruby liquid into the jug's matching goblets, deft, elegant. Horus eyed her, appreciative, his woman, his only love. He wasn't done. Next, he would take her, slow, steady, and watch her as she crested hidden waves of pleasure, her eyes dark with her private ecstasies.

She returned to him, no longer the goddess of healing, or the one who had fallen from the Immortal Realm to remain with him in Egypt, still bearing a remnant of her immortal light. No. All their light was gone. Nothing had been left of their scintillating past except their memories. Now, just like him, Baalat was as mortal as their neighbours in the well-off trade quarter of Serde's capital of Ikalur, granted a second chance by the Creator to live again on Elati—a chance Horus had no intention of squandering.

He ran a reverent hand down the side of her breast, along the indentation of her waist and over her hip before taking the proffered wine and moving to join her on the edge of the bed. They drank together, quiet, companionable. The wine pleased him, its notes rich, full-bodied, sensual. A perfect finish to the love they'd just shared.

Baalat lowered her goblet and tucked its stem between her bare thighs. She trailed her forefinger around the goblet's silvered rim. Horus watched her, trying and failing not to be aroused by her guileless actions.

"I do," she said, low. She glanced up at him.

He blinked, his thoughts still on the cup nestled between her thighs.. "Do what?"

"Feel guilty."

"For what?" he asked, a sinking part of him sensing wherever she was going with this was going to affect him too, in ways he didn't want to face—at least, not yet. Baalat could never rest easy when there was work to be done. And she always found work to do. Always. It both drove him mad and made him love her beyond all reason.

She sighed and returned her attention to her goblet. She dipped her fingertip into the wine and traced the rim anew. He put his hand over her fingers, stopping her. "You have no idea how arousing that is," he murmured.

"Oh." A tiny flare of pink touched her cheekbones. She set the goblet onto the floor, out of harm's way.

"My love," Horus said, soft. "Tell me. What troubles you?"

She got to her feet and went back to the table. Her fingers followed its outline. Horus forced himself to look at her fingers and not her buttocks.

She turned. He lifted his gaze to her face. She bit her lip. "I want us to have a child."

Horus blinked, taken aback. "You feel guilty for wishing to have a baby?"

Baalat nodded. A glint came to her eyes. She turned her back to him and brushed at her eyes. Horus went after her, gathered her into his arms.

"There is nothing wrong with wishing for a child of our own." He cupped her chin, gentle. "Now we can finally have one I think we should—"

Baalat crumpled. Her beautiful mouth turned downward. One, then another tear slipped free. Horus floundered, uncertain what he had said wrong. He waited, stroking her hair, kissing her brow, whispering quiet reassurances, giving her time. She quieted, and sighed, desolate.

"How can we sit here and pretend to make a life," she murmured, pushing her tears away, "when we know Marduk is here and what his intentions are—how this will end if he is not overcome." She pulled free, putting as much distance from him as their sleeping room would allow. He went after her. She backed away until her legs pressed against a chair. "Please. Don't touch me—"

"My love," Horus pleaded, "I beg you, talk to me. Tell me how I can alleviate your pain."

"You can't," she said, miserable. "Now I have said it, I have made it real. I am selfish to think of raising a family when I know what this world is facing, and what we still must do. I want to believe we will be safe, that we have done our part and can do as we please, but—" she touched the spot over her heart "—in here, I know he will come. Eventually he will come to Ikalur, and we will be enslaved, like everyone else." She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. "It's not over. With him it's never over." She sank onto the chair and pressed her face into her hands, weeping in earnest.

Horus knelt beside her, his heart aching. Since the day the Creator had granted them a second chance, one beautiful, precious month ago, he had refused to think of Marduk and of the part he would eventually have to play in the fight against him. After all they had been through, after everything they had sacrificed, how could it be wrong to wish for a quiet life with the woman he loved, spending his evenings drinking, eating, and making love. And his serendipitous employment—arranged via one of Baalat's wealthy clients—at the royal falconry training messenger falcons had given him more satisfaction than he had anticipated. They weren't wealthy, but they had done well enough for themselves, considering they had had nothing but the clothes on their backs a month ago. Life was good. He had never wanted it to end.

He went back to the bed and picked up Baalat's goblet, thinking of the desperate messages which had been arriving hourly over the last days begging for aid, warning of a new and powerful invader with weapons beyond anyone's comprehension; the messenger a brutal, vicious god who meted out cruelties beyond one's worst nightmares.

He had kept his misgivings from Baalat, not wishing to bring their brief idyll to its end. On the map pinned to the wall of the falconry's office, Horus had taken in the breadth of Elati. It was bigger than the world they had left behind, perhaps twice as large, vast enough for him to harbor the hope of at least another month of peace. Two continents, three large islands, and many smaller ones encircled by a vast ocean. The messages pleading for aid had arrived from all over their continent, which meant Marduk could be anywhere.

Horus knew what Sethi was doing. He would have done the same—conquering cities at random, the misdirection leaving no obvious path to Marduk's stronghold. Elati was vast and Sethi, although a god, was still only one. It would take time to conquer every kingdom. Horus let out a heavy breath. Once the messages began to arrive, he knew Ikalur's days were numbered. He eyed Baalat, locked in silent sorrow. Ever the canny one, she had hastened the end of their reprieve, simply by wishing for a child. She looked up, tearstained and unhappy. He held out the wine. She drank it all.

"We will have our child," he said, pressing his forehead to hers. "I swear it." She shuddered and succumbed to a fresh onslaught of tears. He collected her into his arms and carried her back to the bed where he made slow, tender love to her, kissing her tears away, swearing to finish this fight once and for all—for her, and for the child he too longed to have.

❃

"Lady Ninsunu. I have brought a woman to serve you. She did not please me."

Meresamun woke. Disorientation swarmed over her. She had been dreaming of Ahmen, of the night he had found her in the rain at Kadesh. He had just begun to kiss her. Her lips still tingled from the memory. Beyond the closed shutters leading to the terrace, thin gray light heralded the approach of dawn. The dream faded. The present coalesced. Ahmen had broken her heart. She belonged to another now. Marduk. Once her god, now her consort, he had left her father and her people to their brutal deaths when he took her beyond the boundary of her disintegrating world and into another, stranger one—to a place where she could never die. To where she walked the lonely corridors of her new, opulent home, adrift, lost, and purposeless.

Sethi stood in the middle of her sleeping room, his golden eyes cold and distant in the dying flames of the brazier's heat, gripping the upper arm of a beautiful, quivering woman. A golden circlet hung in the tangles of her unbound hair. He flung her away from him. She collided into the back of a divan.

"Meresamun," Meresamun said, leaving the bed, eyeing the one she had once known as the commander of Egypt's army, the third most powerful man in the empire. And now . . . she looked away, sickened. Nothing was left of Sethi, of the one who had lived with honor and integrity—who had loved Istara more than his own eternal soul. "My name is Meresamun, not Ninsunu."

Sethi glared at her, baleful, the golden fractals on his chest stuttered, jagged, angry. "I will call you what Lord Marduk calls you, Ninsunu."

"Don't you have another kingdom to oppress?" she snapped, going to the woman huddled by the divan. "Perhaps another unwilling queen to rape?"

He took a step toward her, his eyes churning. "I am the god of war. To be chosen to share my bed is a great honor."

The woman behind Meresamun failed to suppress a shudder. Meresamun crossed her arms over her chest, realizing too late her transparent night dress did nothing to conceal her nakedness. "I suspect not all of your conquests agree."

"The women here are ungrateful." Sethi sniffed. "You, at least, know my worth."

"Meaning?"

"I had you at Kadesh—many times—" He blinked. A sliver of confusion rippled over his features. Meresamun caught her breath.

"You remember," she whispered. She unfolded her arms. "Sethi." He looked at her, sharp, wary. "Tell me you remember who you are."

I—" The rancor surrounding him melted away. "Meresamun," he said. "Where—" he looked around, disoriented. His gaze fell to the woman. She glared back at him, riven between hate and fear.

He took a step back. "No," he breathed, horror circling him. "The things I did to you, I remember it all. How could I—" His fingers went to the base of his skull. "Get it out," he panted. He tore into his flesh, opening a bloody, gaping hole, granting a pale glimpse of bone. "Hurry. Before the sun rises."

Meresamun gaped. Through the slick of his blood, tendrils of golden light burst free and darted into his wound. "Get what out?"

"The device," Sethi grunted. His eyes raked her dressing table. "I need a blade. Something. Anything. Help me. I cannot do it alone. Not before the sun rises."

"I have nothing like that. Marduk has an aversion to blades near his consort."

Faint strips of sunlight probed the gaps of the shutters, brightening with each heartbeat. Sethi roared, primal, his anguish palpable. "Augh! Why does their sun have to rise so fast?"

Meresamun scrambled through the contents of her dressing table, knocking combs and jewels onto the floor. There. Her obsidian hairpin. She held it up. "How much time do you have?"

"Not enough, not with that." He cut a look at the shutters. Sunlight clawed to get in. "In my palace, there are other women, you must—" A shudder slammed through him. He pressed his palm over his heart. "Istara," he breathed. The golden markings on his chest slid to halt and rotated anew, smooth, seamless, mesmerizing. "I can feel her." Remorse cut a savage path through his features, stained his eyes. "She suffers. Because of me." He looked down at his hands, his fingers dark with blood. "How could I return to her, after all I have done? How shall I ever cleanse myself of my crimes?"

"Your crimes are not your own," Meresamun said, tilting her head at the ragged opening in his flesh. "They are Marduk's."

A burst of brilliant sunlight streamed through the slats in the shutters and slid across the suite. Colors flared to life, the golden cover of her bed, the rubies woven into her slippers, the jeweled green of her gown thrown over the back of a dark blue upholstered chair.

"You need to leave," Sethi panted as the light crept toward his sandaled feet. His hands clenched into fists, the veins in his arms protruded, a river of torment, stark from his inner battle. He jerked his head at the woman watching them, stricken. "Take her with you." He turned his back to them, to face the rising sun. "Run! I can't last much long—" He staggered.

Meresamun held out her hand to the fallen queen. Together they fled her sleeping room, their gowns whispering against the marble floor as he bellowed, despairing, crying out Istara's name. At the far end of the suite, Meresamun drew the woman behind a privacy screen as he strode out, possessed by the device once more, his eyes hard, and his lips turned downward, a cruel, harsh line. The fractals on his chest jerked, chaotic, disconnected.

He left, clad in violence, a weapon, deadly, indestructible. Meresamun's thoughts tumbled, tumultuous, replaying Sethi's transformation from evil to good, back to evil.

The roar of Marduk's warship sheared through the morning's quiet, drowning out the cries of the birds wheeling along the cliffs. It screamed past her suite, a thing made for brutality and oppression, and shot up over the mountain range, black, malevolent, hateful, in pursuit of its next quarry. Several heartbeats passed. Its cry faded. Silence fell, heavy and accusing.

At a loss what else to do, she poured wine leftover from Marduk's visit the night before. She held out a brimming cup to the woman, who took it, vicious bruises staining her wrists and forearms.

"I am Meresamun, daughter of Kadashman-Turgu, king of Babylon, and Consort of Marduk," Meresamun said, eyeing the bruises, the memory of that final night with Ahmen salting open wounds. "Like you, I do not wish to be here."

"Marduk," the woman repeated, bleak. She sipped her wine and met Meresamun's eyes, hers hollow, empty. "I am Urah, Queen of Thes Dios. My husband refused to submit." A tear tracked a path through the remnants of her ruined cosmetics. "Now he is dead, and the one who butchered my only love has spilled his seed inside me." She sipped again, her gaze drifting to the terrace. "Elati has known peace for thousands of years. And now, in the blink of an eye, your consort has brought fear and sorrow into our world." She met Meresamun’s eyes, the condemnation in hers, brutal. "Why?"

Meresamun welcomed the sting of shame, refused to soften the truth with a lie. "Marduk believes it is his destiny to rule supreme, for eternity."

Urah eyed her, cold. "You came through the wall of light on Pir's westernmost isle, didn't you?"

"Did we?" Meresamun answered. She lifted her shoulders and let them fall again. "I have no knowledge of your world, or even where I am. Perhaps you might know where we are?"

Urah set aside her wine, walked toward the terrace.

"Where are you going?"

"To see if I recognize where we are," Urah replied, dull. She pushed past the transparent curtains.

Meresamun followed her to the terrace's edge, haunted by misgiving. "Do you recognize it?" she asked, uneasy, stricken by Urah’s blank expression—her desolation.

Urah shook her head. A mere breath stood between her and oblivion. Tears glistened in her eyes. Meresamun took her hand.

Urah cut a withering look at Meresamun's grip on hers. "Let go, or I will take you with me."

"No." Meresamun pulled on Urah's hand, dragged her back from the edge. "Please. Do not do this thing."

"I do not wish to live in the world your consort intends for us," Urah said. Her gaze moved to a pair of herons flying across the chasm. "Do you know what it is to love someone with all your being?"

Meresamun blinked, the memory of Ahmen holding her against him on his pallet as he made love to her during those brief nights they had had on the march back from Kadesh slammed into her. "I do," she answered, her heart tight, fighting the feelings the forgotten memory stirred. "But he is gone. Forever."

"Then you must know how much it hurts to continue to live without him," Urah continued, soft. She glanced at Meresamun, her eyes laden with tears. "What do I have to live for now, hm? Nothing."

"You must live for the fight," Meresamun pleaded. "For your people, so you can return and free them. Please." She hauled on Urah's arm, but the other woman resisted. "You call yourself a queen?" Meresamun cried as Urah moved back to the edge. "Where is your honor?"

Urah shook herself free of Meresamun's grip. "Honor? Our sages spoke of an ancient prophecy: One day a great evil would befall Elati. An invader would breach Pir's impenetrable wall of light and ravage Elati for his own ends. His darkness would leave our world in ashes. I will not remain to face what is to come. I will join my love in the light." She pulled her crown free and tossed it aside. It clattered across the terrace. "I am no longer queen of Thes Dios. I am Urah—the youngest daughter of Vreka, a fisherman—who caught the eye of a king, and lived to love and be loved in return."

She stepped out, into nothingness. Meresamun lunged after her with a cry, her fingers slipping through Urah's gown. She staggered and sank to her knees, disbelieving, clinging to the edge of the terrace, helpless, as Urah plummeted, her gown whipping around her, the broken wings of a dying bird. The queen of Thes Dios struck an outcropping and crumpled, a shattered doll, her gown a faint smear of white against the black-dark ledge. A fat blot of red spread from its center.

A hand gripped Meresamun's shoulder, hauled her back. She slammed against Marduk's chest, the heavy thudding of his heart harsh against her flesh. He dragged her away from the edge and caught her to him. His kiss came, deep and punishing.

"To see you there, so close to the edge," he said, holding her face in his hands, "I thought you would fall. Even if you are immortal, your body can still be broken. You can still feel pain. My love, you can still break my heart." He kissed her again, soft, tender, arousing her, as he always did—despite what he was. He grazed his teeth against her lower lip, slow, seductive, a private act Meresamun had no defense against. Shards of carnal need slid through her and coiled deep in her torso, hungering for his dominance—for the familiar, solid heat of him filling her. She returned his kiss with a sigh. He groaned and claimed her then, devouring her, his hands tangling in her hair, her cries echoing along the rugged cliffs as he guided her to the stars. She fell back to him, shuddering, cocooned in bliss.

He left her and gazed into her eyes, his pupils thin slits in the brilliant light of a new day. "I may have your body," he murmured as he brushed a tendril of hair from her brow, "but what must I do to hold your heart?"

"You left my father and my people to die," Meresamun answered, hating herself for having succumbed to him once more, addicted to the heights of pleasure he carried her to—heights Ahmen had never taken her. Guilt sawed at her, harsh. She looked at the chasm, thinking of Urah—of what Marduk drove others to do to escape him. Tears pricked her eyes. "You could have helped them but you didn't. I cannot love you."

He flinched. "I had no choice," he said, low. "Sethi would never have survived if I had remained to aid the others. Without him granting us access to the portal, we would have perished." He pulled her against him and cradled her against his chest, sunlight bathing them in its nascent warmth. "My love, I cannot bear to exist without you." His eyes met hers. "I need you, Ninsunu. Ask anything of me. For you, I will do it."

Meresamun thought of Urah's fall, her shattered body. "Let me go," she said, "I no longer wish to be your consort. You stand for everything I do not."

A flicker shimmered in Marduk's eyes. He leaned back, the markings on his chest and arms shifting, shearing into points and edges. He reached out and lifted a thick tress of her hair, let it trickle through his fingers.

"And where would my consort go?" he asked, soft. "Do you think the Elatians wouldn't find out where you came from—who you are?" He leaned forward, until his lips brushed her ear, sending a traitorous prickle of pleasure shivering along her spine. "They would torture you, to get to me. And I would come for you, once I have killed every single one of them."

Meresamun pulled back. "So you intend to keep me your prisoner."

"No," Marduk said. "I intend to keep you safe." He stood, his markings shifting, unsettled, reflecting his inner turmoil. He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. "If you do not wish to be my consort, I cannot force you, but I cannot let you go. At least not until Elati is mine. Then perhaps we could find you a kingdom of your own, and you would remain my consort in name only." He took a step back. Meresamun blinked, she had expected a fight. Not this. Not quiet acceptance.

"But if you do not share my bed," Meresamun began, a sudden, unexpected bolt of jealousy shearing through her, dark, "whose will you warm?"

Marduk folded his arms over his chest. His markings seethed, tumultuous. His gaze moved to the mountains in the distance. "For a time," he answered, "I will wait for you, in the hope you will return to me. But—" his markings stuttered to a halt, "—if you will not come back to me, there will be others. Elati is not short of beautiful women."

In her mind, she saw it, him mounting a willing woman, taking her in his arms, calling out her name as he reached his release. She took a step back, sickened, unable to face it, knowing she could never share him.

"What have you done to me?" she whispered, horror claiming her. "I cannot love you yet neither can I share you."

Marduk nodded, his gaze still fixed on the mountains. "Once, long ago, Zarpanitu said the same." His eyes met hers. "It seems my heart is captured only by those whose hearts are so pure they cannot love me once they know what I am." The muscles of his jaw clenched. "I have been loved, many times, but those who loved me I did not love in return. Their hearts were as dark as mine. If only I could be loved by you, I would be complete." He looked away. "But how could you? You are good, and I am not, and I never will be. I am incapable of it."

"Marduk," Meresamun breathed, stunned by his revelation, his honesty. He looked back at her, aching, raw, exposed. His markings slid, tenuous, into a symphony of whorls and swirls.

"Tell me about Zarpanitu," she said, quiet. "Tell me how she found her way with you, so I might find mine."

❃

Teshub cursed. He hated being so far out of his depth. Once, long ago, he had been a god, feared and revered, able to turn mountains to dust. But this. It was too much. He eyed the closed door, dithering, uncertain, before deciding to ease the cumbersome tray onto his forearm. Cautious, he shifted its weight under his arm, seeking its point of equilibrium.

He let go of the tray with his other hand and reached for the handle of the door, slow, careful. The contents of the tray tilted to a precarious angle, the laden gold and silver platters rattling as they shifted toward the edge. With a muffled curse, he grabbed onto the tray and steadied it. How in the name of all that was eternal was he supposed to get the door open and hold the tray at the same time. For the hundredth time, he wondered how the servants managed it. To think, Teshub, once the mighty storm god, could be bested by a breakfast tray. Biting back a curse he eyed the last hurdle standing between him and success and decided to try another approach.

He edged up to the wall beside the door. Holding the tray steady, he positioned it against his torso, and braced the hateful thing against the wall. He lifted one finger free, then another, testing its stability. He waited. Nothing happened. He let go of the tray and again reached for the door's handle. The tray wobbled. He darted a look at it, baleful, daring it to tilt. It stilled. He wrapped his fingers around the door's handle and pulled, gentle. Nothing happened.

"For the love of—" he erupted, his temper, long suppressed, threatened to free itself from its restraints. The tray jiggled. He shut his mouth and held his breath. It had been a long morning.

Hours ago, in the heavy darkness before dawn he had risen sleepy-eyed and surly to spend far too long wandering Imaru palace's torchlit maze of corridors, elegant wings, and courtyards in search of the kitchens. When he finally arrived, irritable and frustrated, he ordered the bemused servants to make space for him at the large work table where he cracked eggs into a bowl until it was full of broken yolks and eggshells. After an eternity spent picking out every treacherous shell fragment, he rummaged through the baskets of cheeses, searching for the right one to add to the eggs as they fried in a slab of creamy butter.

One of the cooks held out a wooden platter bearing round patties of soft cheese made from goat's milk. Teshub took two and crumbled them on top of the eggs, sprinkling a handful of thin green herbs over them. He had no idea what the herbs were, but they smelled nice—warm, spicy, yet lively and invigorating. Atragon, the cook said as Teshub took more and scattered it over the eggs and cheese, bubbling in the hot pan. At first, he worried he had made a mistake, his creation looked terrible—a sticky, unappealing mess—but he kept stirring it, coaxing it along, a linen hand towel tossed over his shoulder. Once it cooked through, it looked better and smelled delicious. He tasted it.

"Salt," he muttered. He wasted an age searching the cupboards and worktops for it only to find it had been sitting on a shelf in a bowl above the stove all along, white flakes of it, piled into a soft point. He jabbed his thumb and forefinger into its peak and sprinkled a generous amount over the food with a flourish. He tasted it again. It was good. Really good.

As the eggs rested in their pan, fluffy and glistening, he found a tray, and lay several gold and silver platters onto it, piling an assortment of breads, a selection of cubed fruit, and cold slices of roast boar, venison, and pheasant onto them. He found another platter of smoked fish seasoned with pepper and stuffed it onto the side of the bulging tray. Some eating utensils, linen napkins, a pot of butter, and another of honey with a fat piece of honeycomb found their way into the cracks and crevices remaining. One of the servants wedged two cups and a crystal jug of fresh-squeezed fruit juice between the platters. Another added a little dish of bite-sized pastries, still warm from the oven. Teshub loaded the eggs into a golden bowl and covered it with a dish to keep them warm. A young serving girl came forward, diffident, and lay a little bouquet of pink and white wildflowers tied with a yellow ribbon atop the platter covering the eggs. Teshub smiled at her, making her blush a furious shade of red.

"Thank you," Teshub said, hefting the tray from the table and making his way, unsteady, up the stone steps and out into the early morning sun of the lower courtyard. The servants and cooks bowed as he departed, respectful, but as he crossed the courtyard their chatter swept after him, filled with excitement and laughter. He realised they had probably never watched a noble work in their kitchen, much less one like him, an immortal who had come from another world in a ship which could soar across Elati's pristine blue skies, flames jetting from its tail.

But his nascent moment of triumph and anticipation in delivering his gift had long since soured. It had been a long walk back, and in the intervening two hours since he had left his bed the palace had become congested with servants, guards, courtiers, courtesans, and merchants. He fretted for the eggs, willing them to remain warm, biting back foul oaths every time the way became barred by endless entourages of nobility. Thoth had warned him to treat the noble families of Imaru with respect, their stay granted by the king on the slightest thread of trust, so Teshub pressed his lips together and waited, impatient and seething, longing for the past, when he had been a god and none had dared bar his way.

He let out his breath, slow, and tried the door handle again, pulling it just a fraction harder, one eye on the tray, willing its contents to remain steady.

The door slipped free, just enough for him to wedge his foot into the opening. With an exhalation of relief, he slid the door open. He glanced at the nosegay of wildflowers. They had wilted a little from the heat of the eggs. He swallowed his curse. He had tried. He really had. He entered the apartment and tugged the door closed behind him, half-fearing his consort had already broken her fast, but the reception room lay shrouded in shadow. He crept across the suite to the sleeping room, its shuttered terrace faced west, away from the rising sun. Through the slats, he could see the cerulean blue of the sky, brightening with each heartbeat.

Under the silken sheet, caught in the realm of dreams, Arinna lay on her side, her golden hair spilling over her cushion, her chest rising and falling, slow. Teshub set the tray onto a low table and knelt beside her, his heart aching, as it always did whenever he was alone with her. He leaned over and kissed her, soft.

She stirred and smiled, lazy, without opening her eyes. "Mm," she murmured, husky. "Let me sleep, just a little longer."

He kissed her again, longer, deeper. She opened her eyes and blinked, taking in his leather tunic studded with gold oblongs.

"You are already dressed." Her brow furrowed as she brought herself up onto her elbow. "Is something amiss?"

"No," Teshub smiled, filled with pleasurable anticipation. "I wanted to surprise you. I have been up since before the sun rose." He edged to one side so she could see the tray, piled with their morning meal.

A quiet smile touched her lips. He collected the tray and slid it onto the middle of the bed, joining her as she sat up against the cushions.

He waited, nervous, as she gazed at his offering. She reached out and picked up the wilted bouquet, her fingers trailing over its fragile blossoms. "You did this?" she asked, quiet, tilting up the dish covering the bowl of eggs. Steam slid out, followed by the enticing scent of atragon.

He nodded, drinking in her soft expression, the slight upward tilt of her mouth, the warmth of pleasure in her eyes. Everything he had endured, every frustration, every setback, was worth it. Happiness saturated her.

"You cooked for me." She met his eyes, hers bright. "After an eternity of waiting, you have at last granted my wish."

He lifted the dish from the eggs. "Better late than never." The eggs still looked edible. He dipped the utensil in, and held a portion of the herbed eggs up to her lips. She opened her mouth. He slid the eggs in. Her eyes lit up.

"It's delicious." She leaned forward, eager. "More, please."

He obliged and fed her, savoring the morning, and her. When they were done, he let her pull apart the fastenings of his tunic and draw away his leather kilt. He pushed her nightgown up to her hips and carried her down into the cushions, finding her, as he always did, as he always would. He made love to her, steady and slow, until she trembled in his arms, lost to him. He waited for her to return to him, worshiping her anew with each gentle thrust until he followed her to oblivion, her name on his lips, his consort, his only love. His everything.

He descended back from the heights. The one he thought he had forever lost lay in his arms, content, satiated, languid. After a million years without her, his silenced heart had once more burst to life. With her by his side, he could do anything. He would defeat the one who had stolen her from him—the one who had left him lost, broken, and empty. He tightened his hold on her, fierce, thinking of Marduk, and the agonies he intended for the one who had torn his existence apart. He would make him suffer for an eternity. He glanced at Arinna, succumbing to the pull of sleep, his heart tight. Still holding her, he rolled onto his back and stared at the elaborate mosaic on the ceiling, a hunt scene, dissatisfaction gnawing at his contentment, knowing for Marduk, even an eternity of suffering would never be enough.

The Rise of the Goddess: A finale fueled by the flames of a dying world and a love that never ends. (Transcendence Book 3)

By Carter, E A

Buy on Amazon

CHAPTER TWO

A knock, quiet, came to Istara's door. She turned from her unhappy reflection in the dressing table's silver mirror. Since they had arrived in Elati she had not once seen herself smile.

"Enter."

The door opened and closed again, soft. A heavy tread crossed the reception room. Urhi-Teshub came to a stop at the open double doors leading to her sleeping room. He had changed from his usual attire of a gold-gilt leather kilt and tunic to a close-fitting pair of dark leather leggings and tunic. His legs, arms and hips gleamed with an assortment of weapons, snub-nosed and compact, strapped close to his powerful body.

He looked at her, enigmatic. She waited, wondering what the once-king of an empire was thinking. A little while after their arrival, he had admitted to a shared history between them, although it was one she could not recall. Despite her questions, he refused to say anything more, claiming what was in the past would remain there. And yet, the way he looked at her—Istara looked away, uneasy. No matter how hard she tried to recall the emptiness beyond the wall between the Immortal Realm and Elati, she only found darkness.

Since she had arrived in Imaru she felt as if she had wakened from a deep sleep, her heart reeling with loss, aching for her lost, corrupted consort. She could remember Marduk, but from another world, riven by endless wars and destruction, brought to an end by the gods' flight to a hidden realm, where Sethi had made love to her on a silken bed, and golden fractals rotated on the ceiling. Now, Sethi belonged to Marduk, though she could not remember how she had lost him, or why. Neither did she have any memory of the man standing before her, though within the darkened corridors of her mind she suspected much had transpired between her and her protector.

Once, she had asked if she had been unfaithful to Sethi with him. Her protector had held her gaze, an unreadable look in his eyes. He had crossed his arms and shook his head, though not before she glimpsed his battle-hardened features darkening with a cleave of regret.

Urhi-Teshub came to her, his presence, as always, protective, reassuring. "We are ready to depart for Surru." He held out his hand. She took it. As she rose, his thumb slid over the indelible scar which marred her palm, a faint caress. A memory triggered, visceral. The scent of soap, leather, horses. She caught her breath and looked down at his strong hand cradling hers, at his thick calluses, somehow both familiar, yet not. Shadows flickered against her soul, roused by the scent of a lost past. The weight of his presence rushed into her. It called to her from the gap between the memories of her life with the god of war in the Immortal Realm, and her reawakening in Elati.

"You . . . loved me," she whispered, stunned.

"I still do," he murmured. He let go of her hand and backed away. She met his eyes. A veil dropped over his. "But you belong to Sethi," he continued, low. "You always have, and you always will. It took a long time to understand who you truly are." He looked away and swallowed. "Too long."

"I—" Istara clung to the fading memory, unwilling to let it go. She sensed it meant something—would answer the questions which haunted her. Another knock came to the door, a quick staccato.

Urhi-Teshub left, abrupt, to answer it. A quiet conversation. He came back, Sekhmet gliding after him, her slim body clad in black leather, a variety of blades and throwing stars strapped to her legs, torso, and arms.

"Sekhmet will be joining us." Urhi-Teshub nodded at the goddess, who eyed Istara's opulent suite with a hint of disdain. Her gaze moved to the unmade bed and lingered there a heartbeat longer than necessary. A look fleeted through her dark eyes, unreadable. She turned to Istara and nodded at her, regal, cold.

"If you do not wish to travel with us," Sekhmet smiled, showing her teeth, even and white, "you may remain here, safe in Imaru. Thoth informed me Surru only requires one god to access the portal." She gestured, elegant, at her weapon-clad body. "I rather think I should be sufficient to the task."

"It has already been arranged." Istara glanced at Urhi-Teshub. He met her eyes, revealing nothing of his thoughts, though he folded his arms over his chest. "Unless you think I should remain behind?"

Expressionless, Sekhmet followed Istara's look.

Urhi-Teshub nodded. "Though it makes sense to risk no more than one god on this mission, I prefer to have you near me. I would rather not leave you alone in Elati while Sethi roams free."

A shear of silence slid through the room.

"Of course," Sekhmet's smile was ice. "Shall we?" She strode through Istara's rooms, her presence screaming of suppressed violence.

"Why is she—" Istara began, wondering why the goddess of war would wish to return to the world she had just escaped.

"Hers is the fastest ship," Urhi-Teshub said. He lowered his voice. "Thoth told me she was with them."

"With who?"

"With Baalat, Horus, and Teshub when they activated the cores. Sekhmet was there when they sacrificed their light so the others could escape."

"Ah," Istara said. Thoth had explained the gods which had arrived in Elati had not come from her world, but another, a parallel one with an identical pantheon of gods to her own—a world which had once been his home. A world where, unlike her own, an identical Marduk had ruled, immortal and supreme, the gods enslaved for two million years. They had only escaped his tyranny when three of their pantheon sacrificed everything. Their names replayed through her mind. Teshub she knew, but the others were unfamiliar: Horus. Baalat. She blinked. Her pantheon had never had gods with those names. Another question for Thoth.

As her protector led her through Imaru's summer palace toward the ships, Istara considered anew her plan to create a sanctuary. If Thoth's idea to use the cores worked, it would change everything.

The greatest threat the gods faced was their vulnerability. If they were to have any hope of standing against Marduk, or of gathering mortal allies to their cause, they needed to be somewhere Marduk's devices and weapons could not function. It was much to ask of Thoth, deprived as he was of his godly powers, but just when she had begun to lose hope, he had found a way. Now all they need do was return to the world the other gods had fled, slip past Marduk's protectors around the pyramids, retrieve the cores and make it back to Elati without being detected. The odds against them couldn't be worse.

They reached Sekhmet's ship. Istara entered the cabin and nodded at Thoth, who remained oblivious to her, occupied with rearranging a clutter of notes. The door to the cabin slid closed with a quiet hiss. Istara took a seat on the divan across from Thoth. Urhi-Teshub turned to join her.

"I could use a little help," Sekhmet called, her fingers moving, deft, over the lighted instruments of the console. "Thoth?"

"Have Urhi-Teshub assist you," Thoth answered, holding up a page covered with mathematical formulas. He tutted and set it aside. "I need more time to factor in the permutations of the internal resonance scale so we don't upset the balance when we break the connection between the pyramids. If I don't redirect the . . ." He picked up another page and examined it. He blinked, his harried expression lightening. "Ah! I see I already triangulated the energy currents to divert into the pyramids' structures, in case I ever needed to remove one of the cores." He made a sound of approval. "Typical me, thinking of everything."

Urhi-Teshub eyed the console at the front of the ship. Disappointment surrounded him. "Then you don't need me?"

Thoth gestured toward the flight deck. "Go," he muttered, "I still have to decide in which order to remove the cores. It's quite complicated. We can't just barge in and yank them out any which way. We will only have one chance to get this right." He looked up, his gaze unfocusing. "Largest to smallest or the other way round? There are benefits and dangers to both. Perhaps if I were to first disable the beacons to the other portals, it might just be enough to mitigate the sudden release of entropic force. . . hmmm." He turned and rifled through the pages on the seat beside him, lost in thought.

Urhi-Teshub hastened to the front of the ship and settled into the seat beside Sekhmet. He leaned forward, eyeing the levers, switches, and lights of the ship's instrument panel, hungry, eager to begin. Sekhmet pointed at the topography screen which would record the features of the land and coasts beneath the ship as they flew to their destination.

"I want you to do the mapping," she said. "Ensure this does not go black, or worse, changes suddenly from land to sea without any continuity. If it does, tell me." She glanced at him, her elegant profile severe against the morning light glinting against the window. "The only one with the ability to block mapping sensors is Marduk. If we are close to him, his beacon will scramble the readings."

"Or," Urhi-Teshub said, meeting her eyes, "he has beacons scattered across Elati to mislead and confuse us."

Sekhmet's lips curved into an approving smile. "I knew you were no fool." She punched a button on the console and the door separating the front of the ship from the cabin slid closed, separating the pair from Istara and Thoth.

Istara leaned back and rested her head against the headrest, Urhi-Teshub's pleasure to be at the ship's controls palpable, even through the closed door. The once-king had often stood on her terrace watching the ships of the gods take off and land, his fists clenched at his sides, naked with longing. She rearranged the folds of her gown over her legs, gratified by the thought at least one of them was happy.

The ship roared to life and shot into the sky toward the far reaches of Pir's island chain, where, in the center of an isolated, uninhabited island, Surru's churning portal of cerulean light awaited.

The walls and floor of the ship shimmered and turned translucent. The sprawl of Imaru's royal city fell away, its golden spires, crystal cupolas, and white towers glinting in the light of the rising sun. Rzhev's capital city hugged the bay of a great lake, set within the basin of a long dead volcano. The lake’s dark waters bobbed, choppy and uneven, its peaks and troughs sparkling against the depths beneath. Another shimmer, and the cloaking device engaged as they shot over the bamboo-forested rim of the crater. A thundering came from the rear. The ship ascended, heading for Rzhev's coastline, the white ribbon of its verdant shores paying homage to the endless expanse of the Adriande Sea.

For the thousandth time since her arrival in Elati, Istara wandered the fallow fields of her mind, searching for the answers which eluded her, finding none.

Though Thoth had advised her to let things take their course, his guarded answers had troubled her, and despite his reassurances to trust in the Creator's wisdom, she sought to recall what had happened before she came to Elati. She longed to understand Urhi-Teshub's enigmatic melancholy, and why she could not remember Horus and Baalat, the gods who had given up their light alongside another Teshub. No matter which way she turned the questions in her mind, unbreachable, silent walls enclosed her in a narrow, hollow place of alienation and loneliness.

And so, each morning, though she knew what it would cost her, she stood on her terrace and waited for the dawn. Her brief connection to Sethi always came fast. It slammed into her and dragged her deep into the viscous depths of Sethi's confusion, misery, guilt, and sorrow. The magnitude of his suffering in those brief heartbeats would send her to her knees, bombarding her with the onslaught of his anguish for his brutality and the dread he bore for his overpowering hunger to uncover a brutal, malevolent weapon which had the power to sever his bond to her, the one he loved more than his own existence.

Fatigue circled her. She hadn't slept much the night before, and Sethi's awakening at dawn had been particularly grim. He had called out her name, despairing, his suffering visceral, cleaving her heart in two. She pressed her hands over her heart, thinking of when he had still been hers, how he had always been by her side, protecting her, as Urhi-Teshub wished to do now.

Her eyelids drifted down. The harrowing memory of the last time her consort had protected her crept forward. She fought it, her heart aching, but it saturated her mind, vivid, brilliant, clear. She had been tending the flowers of her garden, a litter of two-month old white kittens exploring the flowerbeds beside her, their tiny paws speckled with the humid soil, their discovery of a pair of blue butterflies a delight. Her consort had burst into the idyllic scene, his face hard, desperate. Without saying a word, he had thrown her over his shoulder and carried her away, screaming and struggling, forcing her to leave her companions, guards, servants—even her kittens behind.

Once in his ship, he had dragged her, weeping and angry to the flight deck, punched its ignition and flew them one-handed into the skies, the ship's walls and floors shimmering, cloaking even as they swept past the roofs of the city's villas.

Outraged, she had swung her hand back to strike him when she saw them hurtling toward her city—dozens of ships, the allies of Marduk, in attack formation. Stunned, she watched, helpless, as they fired into her city, its villas, markets, squares, and stables erupting in flames, her people and the animals fleeing, terrified. As she clawed at the panel, trying to gain control of his locked ship, it came from the heavens—a sleek black tube with fire blazing from its tail—falling faster than a star. It slammed into her palace gardens—where her kittens had just been playing, innocent, happy, and filled with the wonder of life—ten thousand times more powerful than all the weapons the gods possessed combined. Stricken, she stumbled out into the cabin and fell to her knees, devastated, screaming until her throat bled, powerless against the fiery cloud spreading over the ruins of her city and across the molten skies. Sethi had held her in his arms, silent, furious, cold, clothed in vengeance. When she could weep no more, he carried her to his bed and made fierce love to her as her city succumbed to the firestorm, vowing he would never forget—promising to do whatever it would take to end Marduk. Forever.

❃

A hand touched Istara's. She opened her eyes. Ahead, Surru's misty, ephemeral wall sparked and churned. Its cerulean light lapped over the ship's interior, gentle, like water. The ship stood silent and still. Waves of heated air slid from its wings, distorting the view. Urhi-Teshub looked down at her, his arms folded over his chest.

"Thoth wanted to speak with you before we go through," he said. He stepped back. Behind him, Sekhmet sat before the console, her fingers moving over its switches and buttons, preparing for their departure.

Thoth stood, set aside his notes onto the divan and cleared his throat. He glanced at her, then at the portal. He took a breath, began to speak, thought better of it and closed his mouth. Istara waited, uneasy. It wasn't like Thoth to hesitate.

"Lady Istara," he began, then fell silent. He sat down again. His hands moved back and forth over his thighs, rucking up the material of his kilt. He stopped, abrupt, and looked up at her. "There is a chance the portal might not take us where we intend to go."

Istara folded her eyebrows together. "I don't understand," she said. "I thought the portal leads straight through."

"It could," Thoth said. "However, when Arinna vanished during the wars of gods and men, the world split into an identical copy of itself. From that point, each world followed a different path and reached a different outcome, neither aware of the existence of the other." He sighed. "This means from the other side of the portal, the destination will always be Elati, but from this side, Surru's pathway is branched. It will either lead out to the world where I and the other gods came from, where the cores are, or—" he paused to brush away a smudge of dust on his kilt, "—the one you, Sethi, Marduk, Urhi-Teshub, Ahmen, and Teshub originated from. A world my presence almost destroyed."

A sliver of hope touched Istara. "If we return to my world, might I recover my memories?"

Thoth poked at the pile of his notes. Unhappiness saturated him. "For the brief time we might be there, I suspect not."

Istara cut a look to the front of the ship. Sekhmet had leaned back in her seat. Her booted feet rested on the console, crossed at the ankles. In the reflection of the ship's window, the goddess of war eyed the streamers of light darting over the surface of the portal.

Istara turned back to Thoth. "Who was Baalat?"

Thoth pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "In my world, she was—" he cleared his throat, glanced up at her, "—the goddess of healing."

"And Horus?" Istara asked, her heart tight.

Hesitation. A flicker behind Thoth's eyes. "The god of war."

"How is that possible?" Istara asked. "Sethi and I are the gods of war and healing. I have never before heard of Baalat or Horus. Who am I if not the goddess of healing? You told me the pantheon was identical."

Thoth shot Urhi-Teshub a troubled look. Urhi-Teshub returned his glance, impassive. Sekhmet pulled her legs down from the console and glided around in her seat to face them, her eyes on Thoth, dark, intent.

"Yes," she said, soft. "If Istara is not the goddess of healing, who is she?"

"This is not the time for this," Thoth snapped. "Is it not enough to accept the Creator moves in mysterious ways? What matters is Istara is the goddess of healing, and Sethi is the god war. Horus and Baalat are gone, forever—from both worlds."

"From both worlds?" Istara repeated. She looked down at her hands. Tiny tendrils of her golden light darted along her fingers. "My memories of the Immortal Realm," she whispered, "and the destruction of my city." She looked up, fierce. "They are mine. I was there."

"This is not the time," Thoth repeated, severe. "We must focus on getting the cores—"

"No," Istara cut in. "Now is exactly the time."

"It is better to forget what came before and press forward, nothing good will come of asking these questions," Thoth said, his hands curling into fists, tension oozing from him. "The Creator took your memories for a reason. That should be enough for you."

"So you refuse to tell me."

Thoth nodded, terse, his narrow jaw hardening into a definite, stubborn line.

Istara glared at him, furious, trembling. "You began all this by saying the portal might not lead where you wanted. And you told me this, why?"

"I have no control over what happens once we are inside the portal," he answered, "but if we do emerge in the world you came from, both you and Sekhmet will be in grave danger."

"What kind of danger?"

He cut a look at the portal, then back to her. "Grave danger," he repeated, holding her eyes. "You must trust me in this matter. Urhi-Teshub will watch over you, and I will join Sekhmet, should I need to take control of the ship."

He strode to the front of the ship. The door slid closed, final, an impassable gulf. Silence surrounded Istara.

Urhi-Teshub lowered his bulk onto the seat opposite her. Thoth's neat pile of notes slid toward him. He caught them and set them out of the way, further down the divan. The ship rumbled, its nose easing toward the improbable doorway to another world. Her protector leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, and folded his fingers together.

"I think Thoth is right," he said, gentle. "You should trust in the Creator's wisdom."

She opened her mouth to disagree, but the ship slid into the soft, watery light of the portal. A heartbeat later she fell with her protector into the silence of the void.

After the darkness and disconnection of her body from her mind—pale, gray light. By degrees, pure, clean, cerulean light washed over Istara. Her senses sharpened, raw with clarity. While still lost in the cocoon of light, the crunch of stone came from under the ship. Istara blinked. An image fleeted through her mind, sharp, visceral, of an enormous black ship, its pointed nose facing a portal, and two women, locked in a cage made of light set a little distance away. The dark ship moved toward the portal, the flat, black stones breaking under its wheels as it slid into the doorway embraced by tendrils of blue-white light. It shot through the churning wall and vanished, leaving the weeping women in their cage, shivering with cold, destined to die.

The light surrounding Sekhmet's ship faded. Istara looked up at Urhi-Teshub, seeking answers. He leaned forward and eyed her, enigmatic, revealing nothing.

The ship's wings cleared the massive engraved ashlars of the portal and emerged onto a bleak, barren island, its surface clad in flat, black rocks. Dark, inky water lapped its uneven shoreline. Above, a roof of living rock glinted with the sparkle of frost. The ship slid out from the portal into an underground cavern bathed in blue-white light. Istara stood up, blinking, drinking in the sight of it, her senses resonating. Though she could not remember being here, it felt familiar. She had been here once before, she was certain of it. Something important had happened in this dark, hidden place—something connected to the black ship, the cage, and the two women trapped within it.

She clutched at her tendril of certainty as new fragments of images tumbled through her mind: a ragged, starving child huddling in the shadows beside a golden statue of herself; a brown puppy playing in a verdant garden, chasing peacocks; a woman dressed in finery fleeing a stone-walled city, running through a damp, dripping wood; a great, bloody battle, the eyes of the dead lit by the flames of a raging fire; two women hiding in a tent, one of them blue-eyed, a dagger lying on the ground between them; endless rows of wounded, dying soldiers lined up alongside blazing pits of fire, the skies bearing down on them, cold and cruel; a needle against flesh, its thin thread pulling muscle and skin back together; a journey through a great wood; a vile, filthy man primed to rape a woman, felled by a spear; a battle between two men in the blazing heat of the sun; a journey across a desert; a terrible earthquake; a stepped pyramid; a luxurious suite deep underground, Urhi-Teshub upon a divan, looking at a woman asleep on a bed, filled with longing.

She caught her breath and looked at her protector.

"You were there." She moved toward him. "In the suite under the stepped pyramid. There was a woman. You loved her."

Urhi-Teshub blinked. His lips parted. "I—"

The ship turned on itself, sharp. Istara staggered. It swung back around to face the portal. Tendrils of light slid out from it to embrace the ship. The walls shimmered and the view of the cavern faded. From the front of the ship, Thoth's voice rang out, sharp, urgent, giving commands.

Istara sank onto the divan beside Urhi-Teshub. "Was she the woman in the cage?" She tilted her head toward the wall of the ship. "Out there? Is that where you lost her?"

Urhi-Teshub took a ragged breath as they slid back into the portal. She caught the glint of tears in his eyes. He nodded, tight. She took his hand and squeezed it. "I sense she is still with you, in spirit."

Urhi-Teshub choked and looked away. Darkness came again, but in Istara's heart—light. It was a beginning. Though they made no sense to her, the images had come to her for a reason. She needed to return to this place to learn more. Here was where her questions would be answered, where her lost memories would be found. And she would uncover them—with or without Thoth's help.

The Rise of the Goddess: A finale fueled by the flames of a dying world and a love that never ends. (Transcendence Book 3)

By Carter, E A

Buy on Amazon

CHAPTER THREE

It was a beautiful afternoon. From Horus's vantage on the balcony of the palace's western tower, clear, deep blue skies arced over Ikalur's turquoise bay toward the endless expanse of the Adriande Sea. Where the waters of the bay and sea merged, the sea's waves glittered, studded by thousands of miniature reflective suns, brilliant white globes, so blinding, Horus had to shade his eyes.

To the north, a dark speck pierced the darker blue of the heavens. Faint, it came—the sound he had been waiting for—the piercing cry of a falcon announcing her return home. Horus lifted his gauntleted arm, bracing himself for the oncoming rush of the bird's landing. She arrived, her talons encircling his arm, gripping him hard, the weight of her sudden and reassuring. He carried her into the mews, freeing the leather scroll case from around her leg as he walked. Once settled onto her perch, she ruffled her feathers and eyed him as he set aside the tiny scroll case and collected a fat morsel of raw rabbit flesh from a covered bowl.

With a quiet word of affection, he tossed it to her, enduring a stab of envy. Once, long ago, he too could soar across the skies, unfettered by the pull of the land. As she worked her way through the sinews of flesh, he glanced at the map tacked to the wall of the office, reflecting on how far she had flown—all the way from Chaus's capital city of Itin—and in how little time she had accomplished the return trip. Two days. He had begun to suspect Elati possessed more enhancements than just the speed of the sun's rise and fall and the near-everlasting youthfulness of its people. He sensed the power of the Creator was stronger here, though why he couldn't guess.

Horus left the falcon to her meal and returned to the balcony. Putting his back to the sun so it would warm his shoulders, he pulled the message from the scroll case.

We are with Serde. Chaus is prepared to stand against the invader. We have begun preparations for war.

Beckoning one of the mews' runners to him, he handed her the note. With a quick bow, she sprinted away to make her way down the three hundred thirty-three steps of the tower's stairs and through the maze of the palace's corridors to the office of the king.

Horus glanced back at the falcon, already halfway through her breakfast. He had been taught to tether the birds as soon as they were set upon their perch, but he liked giving Yryn the freedom to eat, she deserved as much after her gruelling journey. Midway through tearing a length of sinew free, she lifted her head, alert, and tilted her head, listening, a glistening strip of flesh hanging from her beak.

"What is it, Yryn?" Horus asked, eyeing her, wary. The bird lowered her talon, slow. The meat hit the stone-flagged floor with a soft slap. Her feathers flattened and she hunched down. Too late, Horus realized what she was about to do. He lunged for her just as she surged past him in a rush of feathers.

"Yryn!" he cried. She shot out over the bay, heading south, her keening cry fading in her wake. Horus bit back a curse. He cut a look at her empty perch, regret clawing at him. Yryn was one of the queen's favorites. He wondered how would he explain the falcon's sudden departure. Yryn had never done anything like this before, and to leave her breakfast unfinished, it was—

In the distance, just on the edge of his hearing, a deep, throaty roar. He turned, his spine prickling. The roar deepened, surrounding him, holding him captive to its heavy, seductive thrill. From over the forested hills north of the city, it came: black dark, hulking, massive. A ship he knew far too well. It thundered over the bay and screamed past the tower, circling the city in a wide arc, searching for a place to land. Through the haze of his despair, a memory jangled, urgent, calling to him. Over breakfast, Baalat had said she would be in the palace for the day, attending the queen who had as yet been unable to conceive. A bittersweet task, after Baalat's broken confession the night before—His thoughts shuddered to a halt. Dread touched him. No. Not the palace.

He ran, taking the stairs three at a time. Of all the places Baalat could have been today, why did she have to be with the queen? He stumbled and caught hold of a niche in the wall. He would be no good to her with a broken ankle. Forcing himself to slow down, he continued, steady, taking the steps two at a time instead of three, frustration tearing at him.

Outside, the ship continued to scream past in regular circuits, its high-pitched whine blistering his ears. Halfway down the stairs, he began to nurse the hope Sethi might not land after all. He might merely fly overhead to let the king know of his awareness of Ikalur, and return another day.

The steps fled from under Horus's feet. He eyed the markers as he went. Two-thirds of the way down. Almost there. Outside, one last deafening sky-shattering scream, followed by the gushing roar of the ship's engines cutting out as it came to rest. Blinded by the windowless interior of the endless staircase Horus bellowed a curse, desperate to reach Baalat, to not be too late.

He burst out of the tower's lower rooms and into the courtyard, unprepared for the sudden onslaught of pandemonium. Everywhere, chaos. Courtiers ran, directionless, their decorum lost, and their elaborate garments and headdresses askew; servants cowered in alcoves, weeping; soldiers pushed their way through the milling mess, torn between trying to keep order, and shoving their way through the press.

Horus shouldered his way past a huddled group of white-robed sages bunched up against a cart. One of them climbed into it and raised her arms to the heavens.

"It is the ancient prophecy," she cried, her voice rising, high and shrill over the noise of the crowd, "the invader has come through the impenetrable wall of light. Without the protection of the gods we will be cut down like wheat to the sickle."

In the wake of her proclamation the courtyard erupted in renewed wails. Misery sloshed back and forth in the confined space, gaining momentum, suffocating, oppressive. Grinding his teeth, Horus shoved his way through, rough, uncaring of those who fell in his path. There was only Baalat.

He reached the courtyard's gate. Hulking over the crushed oyster shells of the black and white squares of the garden's game board—meant to be populated by tokens of horses and costumed men and women—thin tendrils of exhaust trickling from the ship's tail, Marduk's warship cooled in all its powerful, malevolent, brutal glory.

Under the ship's curved wing, a door slid open. A heartbeat later, he came, the resurrected god of war, clad in a white kilt etched with golden symbols. In utter silence, he descended the ship's floating steps and emerged from the wing's shadow into the sunlight, the golden fractals on his chest jerking, stuttering, suppressed, broken. On his hips, a pair of Marduk's weapons glinted in the afternoon light.

Dispassionate, cold, Sethi's golden eyes raked over the ruined gardens, lingering, impassive, on the once-verdant flowering bushes blackened from his landing.

"Bring me your king," he called to a young palace guard standing alone at the edge of the board, holding his spear out, defiant. The youth shook his head and lifted his spear higher. A challenge.

Sethi strode to the youth. He took the spear from him and tossed it aside. It sailed over the scorched garden and smacked against the courtyard wall. "Tell him Sethi, god of war, Commander of Marduk's armies, Mighty, Lord of All, Giver of Life, and Taker of Life demands Serde's allegiance."

The guard shook his head again, his jaw set, stubborn. "I will not," he cried, though the glint of tears glistened in his eyes. "I will die before I kneel to the enemy of Elati."

Sethi's brow twitched. "How old are you, boy?"

"Sixteen," he answered, though he held his ground as Sethi stepped closer and towered over him.

"So young," Sethi said. "And have you yet known the pleasure of a woman?"

The youth blanched. He nodded, uncertain.

Sethi laughed. "You are a terrible liar. Last night I bedded the queen of Thes Dios after her husband refused to kneel." He glanced at the curved flight of a dozen marble steps leading up from the game board to the palace. "Do you think tonight I will be taking Ikalur's queen to my palace to savor her delights?"

"You will not," a voice rang out, imperious, hostile. From the shadows of the palace, the king of Ikalur stepped onto the terrace, clad in a purple robe edged in gold, a crown of golden leaves upon his brow.

Sethi turned, his golden eyes hardened. "Ah, at last."

Horus eyed the group following King Rhewyn down the steps to Sethi—four royal guard and a half dozen members of the high council. The queen was not among them. Horus breathed his thanks to the Creator. Baalat was safe. For now. He edged his way along the shadows of the courtyard wall, drawn to the god he once had been, fascinated by the transformation of Egypt's once-commander into an immortal god. Sethi had taken on the attributes of the god of war: the clothing, the golden fractals, and blazing eyes, yet he was nothing like Horus in his bearing or demeanor, the essence of Sethi's mortal personality and physique persisted in a bizarre juxtaposition of man and god. The stink of Marduk's corruption permeated him, violence saturated him, and malevolent power suffused him. Whatever good Sethi possessed, Horus could see no trace of it in the hard features of the being eyeing the king with cold contempt.

"You have come to us from beyond the impenetrable wall of light," King Rhewyn said, meeting Sethi's baleful look. "The prophecy has foretold it. And now you have come to Ikalur." The king lifted his chin. "Let us not waste time. What are your terms?"

"Only this:" Sethi said, "Serde's allegiance to Lord Marduk, a quarterly payment of tribute, and Serde's army will be mine to control. If you fulfill these conditions, you will be allowed to remain on Serde's throne and know a certain degree of authority."

Rhewyn glared at him. "So I will be powerless while you force my men to oppress our allies in the name of your overlord." He looked across the devastation of his gardens. The muscles in his jaw thinned. "And if I refuse?"

Sethi rested his hands on the handles of his weapons. "You die, your queen becomes my concubine, and your kingdom will be enslaved to Lord Marduk's allies." He tilted his head to the north. "This morning, Chaus's king pledged allegiance to Elati's one true lord. He is prepared to sack the cities of Serde on my command and has been ordered not to spare a soul, mortal or beast until you kneel to him."

Rhewyn said nothing for a long time. Sethi pulled the weapon from his belt, and pressed an indentation on its handle. The thing gave off a quiet chirp and several blue lights gleamed along the handle's edge. It began to hum, quiet. He pointed it at the youthful guard still standing close by, listening, pale.

"You said you would not kneel to the enemy of Elati," he said as the guard stepped back, his courage waning. "This is what happens to those who don't."

The boy didn't even have a chance to cry out. A beam of blue light shot out from the nose of the weapon, and in less than a heartbeat, he was gone, obliterated into a smear of blue particles, the faint outline of his form lingering, ephemeral, before fading away as though he had never been.

Horrified cries came from the councillors surrounding the king. The group shrank back, leaving Rhewyn to stand alone before the monster Sethi had become. Within the gardens, fearful murmurs filled the air. Horus knew what the people were thinking, without a body to inter, there could be no soul—the boy would never know any kind of afterlife. Sethi carried total annihilation in a weapon small enough to hold in his hand. He pointed it at the king and lifted an eyebrow, a question.

Rhewyn knelt. He lifted his face to Sethi, his eyes filled with hate. "Serde is yours."

Sethi tucked the weapon into its holder. "It appears you are not a fool after all." He looked over the palace, proprietary. "I am hungry. While I dine you will prepare Serde's tribute." He strode up the steps into the palace—its new owner, arrogant, hostile, indomitable. He stopped at the top, and eyed the still-kneeling king. "My share shall be a dozen of your most beautiful women. If they do not please me—" he tilted his head to the yawning gap where the boy had once stood, defiant, with his spear, "—they will not be returned to you. Only your most beautiful women will suffice. I care not whether they are married or maids, they belong to me now."

He turned and entered the palace. "And bring me a sage," he called as he disappeared into its shadows. "Your most learned one."

Rhewyn rose and ascended the steps, following after his new master, a dog, beaten into submission. When the king was gone, silence swallowed the garden, blanketed by the quiet of dread, and of death.

Horus wasted no time. He slipped into the palace to begin the search for Baalat, a new fear sawing into him, leaving him raw and aching. Baalat was not safe, not with a face like hers. The perfection of a goddess still lingered on her features. He pushed his way through the chaos spreading through the palace, past the frightened screams of women caught in the grip of the soldiers once sworn to protect them, pleading for their husbands to save them. Dread circled him, black serpents, their fangs glistening. They coiled around him, hungry, seeking his despair. No. He would not lose her. Not today. He ran.

❃

Sethi ate and drank, quick. He wasn't interested in the elegant women serving him, or the gentle stringed melody filtering through the jasmine-scented air from one of the upper balconies. He had done his work for today, now it was time for him to continue his search for the elusive double-bladed jihn. He pushed his platter aside, and waited for the sage to arrive. If everything he had heard was true, Serde's sages were the most knowledgeable of the legends and history of Elati's long-vanished ancient race. If he were ever to have the answers he sought, he would have them here.

He took a sip of wine and grunted with appreciation. It was a very good, robust red. He was glad Rhewyn had knelt; Ikalur appealed to Sethi. The temperature was perfect, every structure soaked in pillared beauty. Perhaps when Elati was conquered, he would ask Marduk to allow him to make Ikalur his home. He could live well here, surrounded by white towers overlooking a clear, turquoise sea, the mosaic-tiled courtyards surrounded by waterfalls and gardens drenched in color. He would spend his days seeking out and savoring the pleasures of beautiful, willing women—

Last night had been . . . unpleasant. He had been far too merciful. He should have thrown Thes Dios's queen off his terrace, how dare she curse him to never know love. After he had been so patient with her, too, enduring her weeping, offering her wine, promising her a better life with him than with her dead king. But her tongue—the woman had been a viper, stinging and striking, provoking him, daring him to do what he did to her. And yet, if he had thrown her into the chasm perhaps her curse—breathed from the depths of a broken heart—might have come true. He had come to learn Elati vibrated with an energy more powerful than even the one which granted him the powers of a god. It surrounded him; clean, pure, suffused with an ancient, nameless sentience which slid past him, refusing to touch him. It unnerved him. He might be the god of war and the commander of Marduk's armies, but to live an eternity without love—

No, he had done the right thing sparing her, even if he had had to spend two hours flying to Marduk's stronghold to get rid of her. Marduk, at least would be happy. He had mentioned more than once Ninsunu needed a companion.

Sethi swirled the cup's ruby contents, his thoughts turning to the progress of his campaign. With the kingdoms of Serde and Chaus he had secured a large section of the eastern coast of Tholis. Marduk would be pleased.

In the province where Marduk had taken his residence—an abandoned palace perched on Kium's rugged north coast—no overlord ruled. Over time, the ruling families had died out, the remote mountainous land given over to bearded, ax-wielding tribesmen who congregated in small, primitive settlements in the valleys, their villages surrounded by vast banks of mounded earth, buried within small hills. They lived by hunting, raiding each other's villages, and drinking. They could be ignored, for now.

However, the verdant, forested kingdoms of Nimidia and Vinay to the south, and the wheat drenched plains of Pres to the west where Urah had once ruled, had refused to kneel. Even their lesser cities preferred death to submission. They would be a problem. If Saritova also refused to yield, he would have his work cut out to bring the whole of the western half of the continent to heel using only the armies of Chaus and Serde. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and considered the other unresolved issue: Lauca. Like Kium, Lauca was an outlier. Occupied by artisan guilds and merchants, Tholis's southwestern province was Elati's sole supplier of luxury goods. Lauca kept no army, preferring to settle disputes with sanctions. Neither did they have a king, instead elected citizens collaborated in what they termed a democratic process.

In Ningwu, Lauca's capital, the senate members had listened, unimpressed, to Sethi's terms, replying they would discuss the matter and take a vote in a month, their patronising tone trying Sethi's patience to its limit. Instead he let them appease him with samples of their goods: a dozen bolts of silk, a pallet of luxurious furs, ten crates of wine, and jewels for Ninsunu. Let Lauca have their pathetic vote, they had no army, and had grown indolent with wealth. He could wait.

Once he secured Tholis, he would move to Chern, the continent across the ocean, then to Rzhev and Pir. He finished his wine, dwelling on the magnitude of work he had yet to do. A young serving woman slipped forward and refilled his cup from a gold-chased silver jug. He watched her, indifferent to her tremulous smile. He was one god, with one ship: Elati was vast, and filled with resilient, stubborn men and women. Marduk asked much of him, and progress was slow. He might have full access to Marduk's cache of devices and weapons, but Marduk had commanded him to keep those in reserve, in anticipation of what he suspected would come if Sethi did not find Istara. However, after what he had learned today from Chaus's king—of sea merchants' reports ships plying the skies over the ocean he was certain Istara wasn't the only other god in Elati. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. More complications.

He set his cup on the table, impatient for the sage to arrive. Ever since he had dreamed of the double-bladed jihn he could think of nothing else, his focus narrowing to a single, determined point. He had to possess it. With a weapon like that, he would be invincible. None could challenge him. It was real, he was certain of it. Since his dream it had continued to call to him. A beacon, hidden away in this vast, near-endless world. A thought slipped though his mind, unbidden: What if one of the others found the jihn first? What if Istara did? He clenched his jaw, and looked down at his hands as they curled into fists. To be on the receiving end of that. . . no. He had to find it first. He would find it first.

"Great Lord," a voice, as faint and fragile as ancient vellum broached the walls of his solitude. "I am Zherei, Master of the Ages. How may I serve you?"

Sethi looked up. A bony, wizened man, holding an ebony staff and wearing a plain white robe tied over his thin shoulder, bowed, stiff with age.

"I have heard there are legends," Sethi said, eyeing the sage, weighing his worthiness, "of Elati's first race. Are you able to tell me all I wish to know?"

The sage nodded, slow. "I am."

"I seek the most learned of all the Masters. I will not tolerate half-truths and speculation."

Zherei pressed a blue-veined hand to his chest and lowered his head. "Mighty One, I am the last living master who carries the true knowledge of Elati's tragic history. If I cannot answer your questions, no one can."

Sethi said nothing. Instead he gestured to have his cup refilled. He waited while the serving woman tilted the pitcher and the ruby liquid poured out, the last drops reflecting the afternoon light. He lifted his cup and took a slow measure of the sage, debating whether he could trust him. Zherei waited, patient, his head lowered. He eased his weight onto the staff, his knuckles whitening.

"Bring Master Zherei a chair," Sethi said to the withdrawing servant. Zherei's eyes flicked up to Sethi's, for a heartbeat his gratitude plain. Another servant emerged from the colonnaded vestibule and ran across the marble-tiled courtyard, carrying an elegant, fine-carved chair, gilt in gold and bearing a thin crimson cushion upon its seat.

"I would know more of the double-bladed jihn which consumes the light of the gods," Sethi said as Zherei relinquished the staff to the servant and sank onto the chair.

The old man cut a look at Sethi from under his brow, his gray eyes bright despite the ravages of his years. "The double-bladed jihn," he murmured, shooting a wary glance at the retreating back of the servant. "Hidden for eons, the blade is one of Elati's deepest, darkest secrets, and the cause of the annihilation of the ancient ones. It is dangerous to even speak of it."

"I dreamed of it," Sethi said, leaning forward, elbowing aside the platters still laden with roasted meat. He folded his fingers together. "It was mine."

The sage blanched. "By the fullness of the twin moons, the Creator truly has abandoned us. I had hoped—" He looked down at his robe and busied himself straightening it over his knees, unease seeping from him.

Sethi waited. His senses prickled. Zherei's reaction had been spontaneous, unaffected. Raw, stark fear bled from the Master of the Ages.

Zherei looked up at Sethi, his expression hollow, defeated—a rabbit in a snare. "Great Lord," he whispered, "forgive me. I had hoped I would not to live long enough to see this day."

"And what day is this?" Sethi demanded, tired of the circuitous, vague responses of the Elatians regarding their hateful prophecy, and of his supposed part in it.

"For that, the answer must be given in the whole," Zherei answered with a resigned sigh. He tilted his head in the direction of the waiting wine bearer in the vestibule. "Perhaps I might be permitted a little restoration before I begin?"

Sethi waved the woman over. Zherei took the offered cup; his hand trembling as he lifted it to his lips. He drank, deep, settling the near-empty cup onto his lap, his hand steadier than before. "You have my thanks," he murmured.

Sethi said nothing. Impatience stalked him. He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms over his chest, willing the sage to go on.

Zherei began. "Long before Elati was ruled by mortals, gods walked among us, and were the stewards of the world. It was an age of knowledge, peace, and perfection. None fell to disease, nor did mortals age as they do now. Then, men and women lived ten thousand years, yet appeared to age no more than thirty, enduring in an attractive, unblemished state until their final sleep when they were welcomed into the bosom of the Creator's realm. In those long lost times, it is said the Creator often walked in the gardens and cities of Elati, a being of pure light, visiting both the wisest of men, and his children, the gods. A more wondrous existence could not be imagined.

"Then, after almost twelve million years of peace, a breach tore into the fabric of our world. From that breach emerged the one who possessed the double-bladed jihn. It was he who overcame the gods using his tainted, insatiable weapon. Though the gods pleaded for the aid of the Creator, he did not come. They were indefensible against the weapon. One by one they were annihilated."

"And who was this one who possessed the weapon?" Sethi asked into the heavy silence. "Is he still in Elati?"

Zherei shook his head. "Yes and no," he said, quiet, his eyes falling to his cup.

"More riddles," Sethi muttered, lifting his wine. He sipped. "You will speak plain. I command it."

"Great One," Zherei said, meeting Sethi's eyes again, though the sage's had become immeasurably sad, "in the aftermath of the loss of the gods, the Creator returned to us, just once. He gathered the wisest of mortals, and commanded them to commit to memory the truth of what had happened and to hear the prophecy of what was to come . . . though perhaps it might have been better if he hadn't, since there is nothing any mortal could ever have done to prevent it."

Zherei lifted the cup again and finished the last of his wine. He shivered, though in the dappled shade of the potted palms, the air was almost too warm. "The one who came to Elati, his form unutterable darkness, black as the bleakest pit, bearing that awful weapon—was also the Creator."

Sethi blinked. "How can that be possible?"

"The Creator," Zherei began, cautious, "told our ancient ancestors he is comprised of both the most malevolent of darkness and the purest of light. Soon after his awakening the dark and light in him wrestled for supremacy. The light managed to trap the dark in an empty, lifeless world, but the dark, being clever and resourceful, created the jihn with a portion of its essence and pierced the walls of its imprisonment. Elati was where the breach led. Once here, the dark fed the jihn the light of the gods, increasing its power so it could continue to cross the boundaries separating the worlds. It had no desire to rule, or to be served, its only goal to steal the light of the gods until it became powerful enough to consume the boundless light of the Creator."

Zherei's eyes met his, faint with reproach. Sethi dropped his gaze to his cup. He turned it round in his hands, watching the wine within swirl, disturbed a weapon with such a purpose would call to him. He wondered who that made him. "But the jihn is still here, in Elati," he mused. "The dark must have failed."

"The Creator captured the darkness as it traveled through the boundaries between the worlds," Zherei said. He looked as though he would say more, but he fell silent and eyed the wine bearer, his expression taut. Sethi didn't call her back. Zherei could have all the wine he wished, later, when he had told all.

"And?"

Zherei shook his head, bleak. "And then the wise ones were given the prophecy—the one I hoped was only a legend and would never come to be."

"The prophecy of the impassable wall of light and an invader who would arrive from another world and leave Elati in flames and ruin?" Sethi asked, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. He knew better. Marduk had no intention of destroying Elati, and for that matter, neither did he. The prophecy was nonsense.

"Not that one," Zherei said, misery emanating from him. He fiddled with the cup, tracing the curlicues of its chased design. "The Creator could not destroy the jihn without destroying a part of himself which would bring chaos, so he sealed it away in Elati. The dark side of himself, he did not attempt to cage again. Instead, he broke it apart and deposited a single fragment of his darkness into each world. Though weakened, each fragment remained powerful enough to manifest great evil. In some worlds, the darkness would touch every sentient thing, growing in power over time, feeding on hate, war, and greed. In others, it would attach itself to a single being who would rise to great power and cause the downfall of its world. In each of those worlds, the Creator left a pantheon of gods, who bore his light against his darkness. He predicted all of the worlds would fail to stand against the dark, and it would be here, where it all began, the darkness would return, inexorably drawn to the call of the jihn.

"The impassable wall of light appeared soon after these events. The wise men and women believed it had been placed there by the Creator, and predicted once it was breached the end of our world would soon follow. Great Lord, forgive me, but with your arrival darkness has once more come to the peaceful existence of Elati. If the jihn is indeed calling to you—that darkness is you."

Sethi set aside his cup. He had asked about the jihn, and instead he had been subject to the darkest of accusations. How dare anyone, even a Master of the Ages, speak so to the god of war. The Elatians were stubborn, ignorant, superstitious fools who believed nonsense and legends. The Creator was light, nothing more. This was just another tale of dark and light, a fabrication of mortal minds. His hand went to the weapon at his hip. He pulled it free, his finger moving, automatic, over its lighted indentations. The weapon hummed, ready to strike. He lifted his arm and aimed, his heart cold.

Zherei slid from the chair, pale and unsteady. His head bowed, he knelt, his chest lifting and falling in tight, shallow breaths, prepared—no, willing to die.

"Ah," Sethi said, perceiving the slipperiness of the other man's mind, "you hoped to provoke me into granting you your wish. You shall not have it. Instead, you will reside with me until I have found the jihn. Prepare what you need to bring with you. Once the tribute is loaded, we depart."

He picked up his wine and gulped it down, furious. When there was nothing left, he hurled the empty cup across the courtyard. It slammed against a pillar and clattered away, ugly, discordant.

Locked in silent fury, he strode back through the halls of the palace to his ship, unseeing. He was not the darkness. Marduk had told him he would liberate Elati from the darkness. One day, they would know the truth. Sethi was their savior, not their enemy. But first, the jihn. If anyone knew where to begin looking for it, Zherei would. And when he found the weapon, he would reward the sage—with death.

The Rise of the Goddess: A finale fueled by the flames of a dying world and a love that never ends. (Transcendence Book 3)

By Carter, E A

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Copyright © 2019 by E A CARTER