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 patronizing 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 of 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 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.