Horus eyed the sun as it slid, rapid, toward the horizon. Just like the dawn, sunset on Elati sped through the stages of its descent, as though desperate to escape. The gloaming deepened. The darkened windows of the palace flickered, awakening, one by one, bathed in the warm glow of firelight. In a heartbeat, night would fall and the stars would erupt, glittering white against a canopy of obsidian. Horus still wasn't used to it. He turned his back to the setting sun and gazed over the purple and pink hues of the darkling skies. Five days ago Zherei had left with Tyrn. Five long days of watching, waiting, hoping. His hands tightened on the terrace's rail. Please, his heart begged as he raked his eyes over the heavens, vigilant, let her come home tonight.

Since Sethi's departure, Horus had examined Elati's map until his head ached, spending all his free time in the calculation of distances and flying times, estimating Tyrn's possible arrival from every corner of the world. He had triple-checked with the mews master whether Elati's falcons could cross the Adriande Sea without sustenance. Every time, the master had said yes, although the third time Horus asked, he had added the sea was continually plied by hundreds of trading fleets, each nation bound by an ancient Elatian decree to feed those falcons which landed on their boats. He had smiled and repeated his earlier reassurances. Tyrn would come home. Eventually. And yet, doubt prevailed. Questions piled up in Horus's mind, tormenting him, antagonizing him.

At night, dark scenarios pulled him from his sleep, leaving him to pace the rooms and corridors of his luxurious villa. The day after Sethi departed, the queen had offered Horus the keys to the three-storied villa, admitting she hoped Serde might gain the Creator's protection if she bestowed favor on the once-gods of war and healing. Horus had thanked her, but promised nothing. How could he? He was as mortal as she, the Creator as far removed from him as the stars.

Never before had he felt this vulnerable, or as dependent on the passage of external events, every one of them out of his control. Apart from the choice to retreat to the Immortal Realm—a choice he and the other gods had made to protect the world and men from Marduk's annihilation—he had remained untouched by the outcomes played out by mortals, his position immune to the horrors of their existence. He shuddered. How could they bear it? He hated everything about mortality, longed for the return of his power, his immutability. Baalat had come to terms with her fate far better than he, her wealth of knowledge and skills a sop to her lost light. But him? No, he had had his wings clipped hard. He was the god of war, of blood, heroism, and death. No longer could he face an adversary knowing he would survive no matter how grave the blows against his body. Now he could fall, just like any man, and leave Baalat alone, forever. It was unthinkable, unbearable.

As he had walked, unseeing, through his new home, the long nights proved a cruel mistress, tearing apart his certainty his plan would work. What if Zherei had not had a chance to see the sky, or Tyrn had been taken from him? What if Zherei was already dead? What if his plan had been uncovered, what would befall Serde for her treachery? There were too many variables, too many ways for his plan to fail.

His heart heavy, he continued to scan the noctilucent clouds, his cherished hope for Tyrn's arrival fading fast. Far below, the city barely stirred even though the hour was still early. Quiet despair seeped from Ikalur's walls. Hopelessness and defeat plagued the hearts of men. Fear preyed on their thoughts, just as it did to his. Horus he had seen this before—during the wars of gods and men—as one nation after another succumbed to Marduk's sway.

Marduk had controlled his subjects with a metal fist encased in a silk glove. He sowed doubt in their minds, creating chaos and devastation, blaming innocents for what his weapons had wrought, only to turn around and offer mercy, a dark savior, the price for his reprieve, brutal, crippling. His greatest weapon was fear. He planted conspiracies, uncertainty, lies and suspicions; dividing and conquering, letting men do his dirty work for him while he sat back and waited, watching, amused as they poisoned themselves on hate and tribalism. They would go to him to arbitrate their disputes, unaware they had been warring over nothing more than whispers, rumors, fakery, and deceptions, all of them started by him. In those dark years, truth curled up and died, along with hundreds of thousands of innocent lives. And now, it had begun again. This time, Marduk could not be killed, and Horus could, and there would be no escape to an Immortal Realm. Horus ground his teeth. He needed Tyrn to come home. Just to know where Marduk was. It would be a start. He waited. The stars blossomed. Darkness reigned.

With a low curse, Horus tore his gaze from the night sky and glanced at the city, sensing Marduk's foul taint already spreading, of men turning against each other, choosing sides, father against son, wife against husband, friend against friend.

He turned and made his way back into the mews, eyeing Tyrn's empty perch, his heart tight, a new fear rising to torment him, of Zherei being forced to admit the truth—Tyrn's life taken from her in revenge for Horus's half-baked plan. Guilt cascaded through him. Not the falcon. Not her.

He picked up the covered bowl, and checked its contents. The meat was still fresh, a runner had brought it up only a little while before, replacing the previous bowl, as he had done over and over for the last days, and would continue to do until she returned.

If she returned.

Horus silenced the traitorous thought, refused to entertain it. With the bowl of meat still held in his hand, he returned to the rail, drawn to the place of his vigil, a moth to a flame.

He ran his eyes over the sky again, the sweep of his search familiar, automatic. Against the starlight to the north, a flicker of darkness eclipsed the bright northern star. Horus held his breath, aching with hope. Another star dimmed and brightened, then another, then two stars, three, the blot of darkened stars spreading in total silence. Let it be Tyrn, he willed, clenching the base of the wooden bowl so hard it cracked.

The faint beat of wings. A far-off piercing cry. A greeting. Horus knew that cry. Relief poured through him, his heart pounding, escaping its long restraint, fierce, exultant.

"Tyrn," he breathed as she swept closer, ephemeral, the starry glint of the heavens illuminating her pale feathers. "Tyrn!" he cried, raising his gauntleted arm, triumphant, as she tore down from the skies to him, her talons outstretched. She hit his arm, heavy, reassuring, and let out another keening cry, tainted with urgency, tilting her head toward the covered bowl.

With soft words of praise, Horus carried Tyrn into the mews and settled her on her perch. Fastening her jesses, he slipped on her hood and let her select one of the morsels in the bowl. She attacked it, ravenous. Though he longed to removed the scroll case, he waited, giving her time to eat, examining her for injury. She looked thinner, but otherwise herself. He let out a quiet exhalation. She was home. Safe. His vigil was over. And now, he would learn where his nemesis kept his lair. He pulled the ties of the scroll case free and opened it. Inside, a crude hand had written out one word. Perev. He lifted his brow. He had never seen that name before. He went to the map and scanned it, searching through the northern kingdoms, the direction from which Tyrn had arrived.

No location called Perev existed in the north of Tholis. He checked the west, then the island of Senas. Nothing. He eyed the scrap of thin vellum between his fingers, the script written not in the hand of a sage, but what looked like the immature hand of a child, the curves overly rounded, splatters of ink staining the edges of the letters. He eyed the map, sour. Perev didn't exist. His gaze moved across the sea to the continent of Chaus. Even though he already knew Tyrn could never have flown all the way from Chaus in such a short time, he persisted, stubborn, poring over the valleys, plains, and mountains of its kingdoms, though he was not surprised when his search turned up fruitless.

He pressed his lips together, bitterness assailing him. He had been sent a meaningless answer. Sethi must have learned of his intent. But why would Sethi have bothered to return the bird, and with a nonsense message? The realization hit Horus like the drop of an anchor. Because Sethi didn't send the bird back. Marduk did—the message clear in his cryptic response. You will never find me.

Sickened, Horus turned his back to the map and offered Tyrn some water. There was nothing left for him to do but face the queen of Serde. He had failed. Bleak, furious, he began the long descent, Marduk's mocking message buried deep within his fist.

Within the empty reception hall of the queen's apartment, Horus waited. He eyed the space, noting its return to opulence, his memory of the destruction wrought upon it five days ago denied by the quiet beauty reflected in the hall's gold-gilt mirrors. Soft lamplight imbued the space with warmth, yet despite its appearance of orderly calm, a sensation of despair permeated the room. He glanced at the pillar where one of the queen's women had clung to it, resisting the grip of a soldier, intent on sacrificing her to Sethi. She had not escaped the twelve. Horus had seen her ascend the steps of the ship quaking with terror, her garments torn and disheveled, her face swollen and stained from weeping. He pulled his gaze from the pillar, sickened. Her presence may have been erased from this room but her life went on, trapped in the merciless grip of a corrupted god, as he, Horus, stood waiting—the once-immutable god of war, mortal and powerless—to reveal his useless information to the Queen of Serde.

Footsteps approached, soft against the marble tiles. Horus bowed as Queen Welyn ascended the two steps to her seat, though she remained standing, a loose robe tied at the waist, her long hair unbound and hanging to her hips. She folded her hands before her.

"Tyrn has returned?" she asked.

Horus nodded and opened his fist, he plucked out the scrap of vellum and handed it to her, silent.

She took it and gazed at it. "Perev," she breathed. She glanced at Horus, her look flickering toward disbelief. He waited, bracing himself for her ire. It did not come. Instead, after a long silence she called one of her guards. He came to her and knelt.

"Send for Master Iyun," she said. "And," she continued as the guard rose and pressed his fist to his chest, "send a message to the king, requesting our permission to see him."

As her guard departed, the queen looked back down at the piece of vellum between her elegant fingers. She stroked its inked letters, reverent. Horus waited, wondering what he was missing.

While they waited for Iyun to arrive, the queen said nothing, her eyes remained distant, turned inward, traveling paths known only to her.

Hurried footsteps approached. A elderly, gray-haired man clad in a white robe tied over his shoulder approached the queen and knelt.

"My queen," he said, his voice elegant, yet warm. "How may I serve you?"

She held out the message to him. He rose and took it with both hands, quick, agile despite the obvious evidence of his age.

"Perev," he read. He looked up at her, bland. "What is it you wish of me, my lady?"

"Now that Master Zherei has left us," she answered, folding her hands before her once more, "you are Serde's most learned of sages. Tonight, the fate of Elati may well rest upon your shoulders."

Iyun made a gesture of humility, though a hint of color touched his cheeks, betraying his pleasure at her words.

"We know your order keeps many secrets," the queen continued, "and for good reasons, but in this instance, we must ask you to consider breaching your oath for the sake of Elati's survival."

The color slid from Iyun's face. "My lady," he dithered, "the order's oaths are sacred. I—"

"We command it."

Iyun bowed his head, consternation billowing from him. "As my queen commands." .

"Do you recognize that name?" she asked, nodding at the piece of vellum still held by the sage's fingers.

He hesitated, feigning consideration, but Horus caught Iyun's look, that of an animal trapped, desperate, afraid.

"Answer your queen," Horus said, moving closer, his heart tight. He may not have failed after all.

Iyun shot a cold look at Horus, filled with resentment. Horus narrowed his eyes, sensing the sage was searching for a middle way between obeying the queen and keeping his oath.

"My lady," Iyun began, "Perev is known to me only from conversations with Master Zherei. There is nothing I am aware of which has been written about it."

Horus glared at Iyun. The man was a coward.

The sage ignored him, continuing, "Once, over a flask of wine, Master Zherei regaled me with tales of when he was a young sage and had traveled the length and breadth of Elati in search of the most learned sages." He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, and looked up at the queen, uncertain. "He mentioned a palace he found which had been preserved from the time of the gods, locked in the northern mountains of Kium, inaccessible by either land or sea."

The queen's brow furrowed. "Then . . . how did he manage to find it?"

Iyun let out a nervous chuckle. "He, ah, well—he said he fell into a pool in a cavern in Tyratu and at the bottom of it there was, ehm, a mirror?"

"There was a mirror in a pool?" Queen Welyn repeated, dubious.

Iyun nodded. "So he claimed. And then he said the most remarkable thing happened, he went to the mirror, because, well he was curious. And then—forgive me, but this part struck me as very odd—he said he was able to go through the mirror which led all the way across the sea to Kium, to the fabled summer palace of the god of wisdom known as Perev."

"Good old Thoth," Horus exulted, relieved. Perev was real after all. "He does love his portals."

Silence greeted him. Iyun glared at him. "Did you just utter the god of wisdom's sacred name?" he breathed.

"I did," Horus answered, folding his arms over his chest. "I take it you have heard of him?"

"Heard of—?" Iyun erupted, bristling with indignation. "It is he whom our order venerates. And you, you heathen, toss his name around as if he were your drinking companion." He turned to the queen. "My lady, I beg you, I cannot bear to be in this man's presence." He sniffed and put his back to Horus, rigid, his affront tangible.

The queen suppressed a smile. "I suggest you do not judge a man by his cover, there is more to Lord Horus than meets the eye. It is because of him we have the information you hold in your hand."

Iyun eyed Horus over his shoulder, baleful, offence bleeding from him. "Horus? Even your name is sacrilege. You youngsters these days," he ranted, "you have no respect, society has gone to the dogs. How dare you name yourself after Lord Horakhti."

Horus blinked. "Never heard of him."

"How could you never—" Iyun gaped, incredulous. "Have you been living in a cave your whole life?"

Horus glanced at the queen, wondering when she might intervene. "Something like that," he muttered.

"You will show us where Perev is," the queen said, drawing Iyun's attention back to the matter at hand. She went to a desk set against the wall and opened the top drawer. From within she extracted one of several large scrolls tied closed with red tassels. She carried it back and handed it to Iyun. He knelt and unfurled it across the floor.

An elegant, detailed map of Tholis lettered in gold shimmered in the lamplight. Iyun rubbed his jaw, contemplating the vast mountainous range girdling all of Kium's northern coast.

"It was quite some time ago when we had this conversation," he said. "I do recall him giving me the location, since he had calculated its position using the stars and spent a great deal of time explaining his methodology. Hmmm." He glanced at the queen's empty terrace, its braziers unlit in mourning for her lost women. "May I?"

Queen Welyn nodded. Iyun slipped onto the darkened terrace and gazed up at the glittering canopy of constellations, muttering to himself as he held his thumb up to the heavens, measuring. After a short while, he returned and stared at the map. He held out his forefinger, and lowered it, slow, onto a spot on the south side of a northern bay in Kium, nestled within the range of mountains, and overlooking the waters of the wide bay. "To the best of my knowledge," he said, "it should be there, or very nearly. I have had to take into account the stars' precession, since he told me this more than eight hundred years ago."

The queen nodded, pleased. "You have done well," she said. "And now, where in Tyratu is the cavern with its mirror which leads into the palace?"

A pained look crossed Iyun's face. "That I cannot say, my lady," he said.

"Cannot," Horus demanded, "or will not?"

"Cannot," Iyun repeated. "Master Zherei refused to tell me. He said those who were meant to find it, would. He refused to risk the pillaging of the sacred library of the once-home of the god of wisdom. He thought it better to leave it hidden, as intended." He looked back down at the map, and continued, diffident, "May I ask why Perev is important to our queen? I cannot comprehend how the god of wisdom's once-home could be connected with Elati's survival. Perhaps my lady seeks an ancient text?" He glanced up, hopeful.

"Not at this time," the queen answered, taking the scrap of vellum from him. "You have served us well. You will not speak of this meeting to anyone, on pain of death."

Iyun paled. "Of course," he said, bowing his head, "you may be assured of my utmost discretion."

She nodded, granting him permission to leave. He backed three steps, shot an uncertain look at Horus and left.

When the quiet thud of her door echoed down the corridor to them, the queen looked at Horus.

"Tell me," she said, soft, "do you believe in miracles?"