Apart from the crackle of flames burning in the braziers, the library lay shrouded in a shadowy silence. Meresamun crept along the long rows of wooden stacks packed tight with scrolls, their edges still as fresh as the day they were placed there despite—at least according to the servant—the passage of thousands of years since the language written in them had last been spoken.

In the center of the library, a rectangle of open space stood arrayed with large leather-topped tables and an assortment of chairs. She leaned against one of the stacks, dejected. Amongst all these scrolls, she was quite alone. Her hopes had been unfounded. It had been that satchel he bore, packed tight with scrolls. She had thought—No. She felt her cheeks darkening, embarrassed by her fanciful hope the old man had arrived just when she had need of answers the most, as if it had been all about her. She had been foolish. Childish even. He had most likely been brought here so he could speak with Marduk, to share his intelligence. Why else would Sethi ever bring one such as he to Marduk's stronghold?

She sank onto one of the chairs and set the translation device on the table, morose. Tilting her head back, she gazed at the upper galleries. Three more floors rose above her, each level reached by narrow wooden steps without any railings. The looming central gallery was only one small part of the whole. The sprawl of the library beyond the gallery was enormous, as vast as the hypostyle hall of the Temple of Sekhmet—each floor a copy of the other—four floors of equal measure. Despondence touched her, deflating her earlier hopes, mocking her near-euphoria of her expectations. It would take her years to get through just a fraction of the scrolls contained within the library's walls.

Marduk would never allow her to access so much information, she was certain of it. Presumably, he had learned having an intelligent consort had its drawbacks. Where Zarpanitu had had the freedom to learn, Meresamun sensed she would be restrained, her leash kept much shorter and tighter than her predecessor's. She wondered anew why he had allowed her access to Zarpanitu's notes. Perhaps to frighten her, to show her that knowledge led to pain. His attitude when he came to collect her certainly betrayed that bias when he assumed her tears were from her being overwhelmed by the incomprehensible scope of Zarpanitu's words.

A distant thud roused Meresamun from her despair. She sat up, defensive, alert, secreting the translation device into the folds of her gown. Voices, low and intent, moved along the main corridor towards the gallery. For a wild heartbeat, she thought she heard Sethi's voice. But no, it was another, Marduk's steward. The voices neared. The other bore a strong accent, as dry as the desert, and as fragile as ancient papyrus. Her heart thudded anew, and her hope, reinvigorated, flared. It had to be him, the old man, the one she longed to meet. She turned, filled with anticipation before another thought struck her: The steward might inform Marduk he had found her in the library. She had only just read Zarpanitu's notes. Marduk would ask questions, would begin to suspect her intentions. Better for him not to know. Although she had never done such a thing since she was a child, she slipped under the table and huddled deep in the shadows of its immense girth, holding her breath.

"I will come for you once Lord Sethi is ready to depart," the steward said. A quiet clack against the table. "A lamp should you wish to use the stacks in the upper levels. A tray of refreshment will be sent up shortly. There is a water closet at the back of the library on this floor, near the entrance." He hesitated. "Shall I take your falcon to the mews?"

"No," the old man answered. "She remains with me—although if it will not be too much trouble, some raw meat, and perhaps a basin of water could be provided? It has been a long time since she last had any nourishment."

"Of course," the steward said. The soft swish of his robes faded as he retreated, hurrying to return to his master, a loyal dog. His devotion disturbed Meresamun, especially for one who had so recently lost his freedom and seen his family enslaved. Meresamun wondered if the steward also bore a device in him, just like Sethi, depriving him of his will. She touched the back of her skull, sickened, imagining her consort impaling her with such a thing—how terrifying, how invasive, how painful it would be. A low boom reverberated through the library as the door closed and the key turned, locking them inside.

"So," the accented voice of the old man said, soft, "will you come out, or will you force my old bones to bend down to face you?"

Meresamun started. She was certain she had kept total silence. "I will come out," she said, making her way, inelegant and clumsy, encumbered by the material of her gown, to the edge of the table. Taking hold of one of the chairs she hauled herself out.

"Are you not a bit old to be playing hide and seek?" he asked, setting his falcon onto the back of one of the chairs, his movements stiff and laden with fatigue. "Unless," he turned, his gaze moving over her expensive attire, his mien becoming serious, "you are hiding from him?"

"Perhaps a little," Meresamun admitted as she looked over her sudden companion, curious. He was by far the most aged person she had ever seen. His face was a map of lines, his skin as thin as the finest vellum, little dark patches of color mottled his cheeks, and underneath, a fine map of blue veins.

"Who are you?" she breathed, fascinated by the sight of him, perceiving his fragility was deceiving; an aura fortitude surrounded him.

He bowed his head, though he held her eyes, his gray, sharp, and inquisitive. "I am Zherei," he answered, "Master of the Ages, my home lies far to the south in the land of Serde. I lived in a white city beside a turquoise sea. Perhaps you can guess its name?"

Meresamun looked at him, blank. She shook her head, disappointed she would not be able to participate in his little game.

"Ah," he said, settling himself into one of the chairs with an exhalation of relief. He pulled away the leather gauntlet the bird had rested on. "Well no matter. Not everyone enjoys examining maps, or memorizing place names."

"I would, if I could," Meresamun said, looking down at her fingers, wrapped around the translation device, embarrassed by the depth of her ignorance. She had always prided herself on her learning, and here, before her was a sage of great age and wisdom. "Once, long ago, I was a priestess, and studied many of the writings of our most erudite sages."

Zherei looked up at her, curious. "A priestess," he repeated. A shadow of uncertainty touched his eyes. "And, which god did you serve?"

"Sekhmet," Meresamun whispered, recalling her crimes against the goddess and the long, horrible path of her atonement, her reprieve brief, only to be forever lost.

Zherei blinked. A pall of confusion passed over his features. "Sekhmet? No one—How old are you, young lady?" he asked, abrupt.

"I was twenty-four," Meresamun answered, wondering at his non-sequitur.

"Was?"

"When we passed through Surru, I became immortal because Sethi was with us," Meresamun answered, hoping he would understand, since she didn't understand much more than that, herself.

Zherei leaned back, slow, his eyes moving over her, intrigued. "Surru," he said, low, reverent. "You came through the impenetrable wall of light." He glanced at the falcon, who sat, quiet on her perch. "And apart from Sethi, who else traveled with you through the wall of light?"

"Marduk," she answered, looking away, shame filling her. She hadn't wanted him to know, had hoped to keep her connection to Elati's oppressor a secret—had hoped the old man might teach her things about the world she lived in, trapped in ignorance, but now, it would be too late. She was the enemy; he would tell her nothing.

Silence came. Meresamun waited. At last Zherei asked, quiet, "Who also became immortal because of Sethi?"

She nodded. She bit her lower lip, disappointment gnawing at her. He was no fool. She made to depart. "I suppose you would prefer if I stayed away, now you know who I am," she said, low. He had been her only chance to learn things and he had uncovered her secret within the space of a few questions.

He caught her arm, holding her back, gentle. "I would prefer if you stayed," he said, nodding for her to take a seat. "I would like to hear more about you and where you came from."

From the depths of the library, a key rattled in the door's lock. The door opened with a low creak. The scrape of one tray, then another slid across the flagged stone floor. Another creak, followed by a thud. The click of a key. Quiet fell.

"Let me fetch your refreshment first," Meresamun said. She didn't wait for his permission, but hurried away and collected the trays, the size of them requiring her to make two trips, granting her time to compose herself, to realize he was not inclined to hate her for her connections. Hope swelled anew. She set the trays on the table before Zherei and lifted the lids away from the covered pots of the largest tray. Marduk's steward had been generous. Arrayed across the tray were three kinds of roasted meat, breads, cheeses, even a bowl of stewed plums for the final course. She eyed Zherei anew, her curiosity deepening, to be fed so well, the old man must be important.

On the other tray, she removed the lids of two bowls. One held water, and in the other, chunks of dark red, raw flesh, sinewy with tendons, basked in a sheen of fresh blood. Zherei smiled, pleased, as the bird perked up, awakening to the scent of fresh kill. "At long last, dinner, my darling," he said, sliding the gauntlet back on, waiting, patient, for her to settle onto it.

He set the bird onto the table, and placed several pieces of the flesh before it, murmuring he dare not try to offer a piece with his fingers. Meresamun watched, captivated, as the falcon, despite being blinded by its hood, captured a chunk in its talons and bent over to tear strips free with its sharp beak, its act of feeding savage, yet beautiful.

"Does your falcon have a name?" Meresamun asked, admiring the bird's near-snowy breast speckled by rich, dark flecks of brown.

"Tyrn," Zherei answered, pulling the gauntlet off again and setting it aside. He rubbed his hands together as he looked over his meal, pleasure emanating from him. She reached for the jug and poured him wine, her troubles forgotten for the time being. Happiness touched her, the novelty of being in the company of someone learned filled her heart. She hoped he would stay at the palace for a long time.

He nodded at her as she set the jug aside. "This is far more than I can eat, please do help yourself."

Despite not having had anything except coffee since she woke, Meresamun wasn't hungry. However, she sensed he felt uncomfortable eating in front of her, alone. She took a seat beside him and plucked a piece of the honeyed sweetbread free from the golden bread basket, and nibbled at it, polite, as he ate, as ravenous as the bird.

"How long has it been since you last dined?" she asked when he turned his attention to the steaming plums, rich with the spice of cinnamon, still warm from the cook pot.

His gray gaze met hers from under the wrinkles of his brow. "When I took my morning meal yesterday, although I am accustomed to fasting. Tyrn, however, is not used to being kept without nourishment. When we stopped for the night at the god of war's palace, I asked for food for her—pleaded in fact—but the one you call Sethi is a heartless being. He left me locked in his ship while he took his women away, to do what to them I can't imagine, although I heard their terrified cries. And one, at least, I am certain he murdered. I heard her scream as she fell to her death." His lips pursed, tight, disapproval saturating him. He cleared his throat, picked up the napkin and dabbed at the corners of his mouth, pretending not to see Meresamun's stricken look, his attention moving to survey the galleries above them, the highest levels lost in shadow. "I thought I might be next. Instead, I find myself here, where it appears his master is more amenable to the comfort of his captives."

"Marduk is dangerous, too," Meresamun whispered. "Do not be fooled. Underneath his charming exterior, his heart is as black as night."

Zherei didn't say anything, although he kept his eyes on her as he finished the plums, examining her, his gaze incisive, giving Meresamun the sensation he understood her better than she did herself.

He settled back in his seat, cradling his half-empty cup of wine. "Now, where were we?" he mused. "Ah yes," he caught her eyes, "you were going to tell me about you and the world you came from."