Darkness impaled him. He held still, waiting, wretched with misgiving, for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It came, but in staggered, agonizing increments. The dark shifted, slow, into deeper shadows atop thinner ones. The sensation of vaulted space reared over him, dwarfing him, making his flesh tingle. He backed up. Behind, the solidness of the wall. He pressed his back against it, grateful for its bulk. Blind, he crouched and ran his fingertips over the floor. The smooth, reassuring weight of flagged stone greeted him. Satisfaction slid through him. This, at least, was an improvement. A faint gleam of light, far ahead, a mere pinprick. He narrowed his eyes. It taunted him from the end of a dense tunnel of black. He crept toward it, slow, steady, listening for voices. None came. Cautious, he edged along the flagstones, drawn to the pool of light, his dagger still in his hand.

He stopped. His heart thudded, heavy, unprepared anew for the abrupt resurrection of old feelings, ones he believed long buried and laid to rest. Meresamun sat at a table, a small pile of scrolls beside her, her hair piled onto the top of her head in a messy, yet beguiling style Ahmen had never seen before. Her gaze was fixed on a small device she slid over the face of an open scroll, its blue light the sole illumination in this vast place—what Ahmen realized was a repository of vast knowledge. Thoth's library. He eyed the gallery's darkened heights, uneasy. The weight of the arcane pressed down on him, oppressive, forbidding. He was a soldier, not a priest. The writings of the sages were beyond his understanding. But for Meresamun . . . He slid his dagger back into its scabbard in total silence, letting himself drink in the sight of her bent to her task, her focus absolute, her comprehension etched in the sorrowful, downward turn of her lips. His heart aching, he took a step toward her, let the faint light of her device touch him.

"Meresamun," he whispered, so low it was no more than a breath, a tendril of hope.

She lifted her head, slow. The device came to a halt. She stared straight ahead, into the shadows, seeing nothing. Tears glistened in her eyes. She lowered her gaze back to the scroll and ran her fingers over its markings. "And now I imagine your voice," she said. "How lonely I must be."

Ahmen waited, his heart thudding, heavy, aching with regret, guilt, sorrow, and love—the love he had felt the first time he had held her in his arms—the love he had imprisoned in hate, jealousy, and bitterness. He knelt. His kilt rustled, quiet.

She turned. He met her eyes, hers as blue as lapis, just as he remembered. Her lips parted. She stood, abrupt, the transparency of her gown hiding nothing. Ahmen let his gaze fall. She stood before him, as fragile and vulnerable as a young gazelle, as thin as she had been in Waset all those long, long months ago when she sat in Sethi's garden and refused him a second chance.

"Am I dreaming?" she breathed. She stepped toward him, her chest rising and falling. A tear slipped free. "Ahmen?"

His heart aching, he lifted his hand to her, striving to contain the firestorm within his breast. "I am here. You are not alone."

A faint cry bled from her depths, soaked in regret and sorrow. She staggered and caught the back of the chair. "No," she breathed. "It is impossible." She cast her gaze away from him into the darkness, fear sliding through her. "I am going mad. It is too much. I cannot—" She hurried to gather the scrolls together, her haste sending several tumbling from the table.

One rolled toward Ahmen. He picked it up. She fell utterly still, watching him, horrified, as he carried it to her.

"You are not going mad," he said, holding the scroll out to her. "I followed you into Elati and have found a way in to Perev. No one knows I am here. No one but you."

Without taking the scroll, she sank onto the chair, her eyes moving over him, hungry, as though seeing him for the first time. Her lips parted. A faint flicker of hope shivered through her. It bloomed and died within the shuttered brilliance of her eyes. She rose, her look hardening, her vulnerability shifting in heartbeat to the imperiousness of a queen.

"You must leave before Marduk finds you."

Ahmen set the scroll onto the table, pleased by the steadiness of his hand, at direct odds with the turmoil roiling within him—to be with her again, alone, after so long. She was changed, of that there could be no doubt. His once-gentle wife was harder, colder, darker, yet something of the woman he had loved still remained, just out of reach, as yet untouched by Marduk's poisonous taint. "Not without you," he answered. "I know of a place where you will be safe from all this. Once you are free, I swear I will stay away from you, forever. You will never see me again."

Meresamun drew a ragged breath. One tear, then another slipped free. Silence yawned, an abyss. Then, low: "You should not have come. I will not leave."

Ahmen blinked. He had not expected that. The memory of what he had witnessed between her and Marduk seared his thoughts. Jealousy drew its icy finger along the contours of his heart. He shoved it aside. No. Not that again. Never again. "Is that your choice or his?" he asked, winning the battle to keep his tone neutral.

She met his eyes, steadfast, unwavering. "Mine."

He took a cautious step toward her. "I swear I have not made this journey in the hope of restoring myself to you. I only wish to do one thing right—one honorable thing among the multitude of dishonorable ones done to you." He lifted his hand to her, gentle, as though seeking to reassure a skittish foal. "A blind man could see you are suffering. Come with me. Take this opportunity to set yourself free. It may be the only one you shall have."

She retreated from him, taut, defensive, until the backs of her legs pressed against the table's edge. "Even so," she answered, so low he had to strain to hear her, "I will remain. It is my wish." Her gaze dropped to the heap of scrolls gathered on the table. Ahmen picked one of them up and unrolled it, seeking to buy time, to find a way through the barrier encasing her. Across the parchment's aged skin, incomprehensible symbols glared back at him.

"Do you love him?" The question came out before he could stop himself. He kept his eyes on the meaningless markings piled into neat rows, willing her to say no.

"Yes," she whispered.

He cut a look at her. Despair, resignation, and grief surrounded her. It made no sense. Her unhappiness was palpable. Whatever she felt for Marduk, it could not be love.

"Does he love you?" he asked, his throat tight, seeking to find a breach in the smooth walls gilding her, his fingers sliding against their frictionless shear, desperate for an opening, a way past her elusive words. He would not leave her here, locked in misery, as the darkest of all evil crept into her soul.

"As far as he is capable." Her answer came soft, quiet, matter of fact.

His heart tight, Ahmen waited. She returned to gathering the scrolls, piling them up into the crook of her arm. "Although," she halted in her work, holding one of the scrolls halfway to the bundle, continuing, pensive, "for you to come here and face grave danger, knowing we could never be reconciled . . ." A sheen of fresh tears glinted in her eyes. She blinked and let out a tremulous breath. "It is too late. You are too late."

"Why am I too late?" Her words made no sense. She was miserable, thin, wan, her existence slipping away, as though Marduk dined upon her very soul. Desperation touched him. He set the scroll aside and turned to her, though she avoided his look, her attention once more upon her work. "I ask nothing of you except to allow me to help you escape. I swear on Haran's soul I will never come near you again. I only want you to be free and happy. I have vowed I will not rest until you are the mistress of your own destiny."

She fell still. So still Ahmen wondered if she had heard him. A shudder tore through her. Her eyes came to his, wide, hollow, hopeless. The scrolls tumbled from her grip and rolled away, their clattering rude in the library's sacred silence. Her chest rising and falling, she sank to her knees heaving great, heartbreaking sobs, her anguish washing over him in bleak, cold waves. Her suffering tore through him, a tempest, fierce, devastating. He knelt and took hold of her shoulders, gentle, tugging her toward him, aching to protect her from herself. She resisted for a heartbeat, then crumpled against him, as faint as a whisper, clinging to him, weeping in earnest, bathing his chest with her sorrow. He stroked her hair and rocked her, whispering quiet reassurances, willing her to relent, to come with him, to flee this tainted, wretched place—to save herself.

A thud as the door to the library came to. Ahmen held still, his instincts screaming for him to retreat. Meresamun continued to weep, her senses lost. A tread approached, rapid, far too quick for Ahmen to depart without being seen. He tightened his hold on Meresamun, who quaked in his arms, her grief riding her hard, blinding her. Ahmen closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her against him, sensing it would be the last time he would ever touch her. He pressed a kiss against the crown of her head, tender, aching with the love he had lost. The footfalls came to a halt. Cold, precise fury bled over him.

A voice, elegant, disdainful. "Remove your hands from my consort."

In Ahmen's arms, Meresamun stilled, a quaver whispered through her. She looked up, not at him but at the one who had stolen her away with him to Elati, her tear-stained face gaunt in the pale light of the device. She slipped out of Ahmen's hold, and rose, trembling, uncertain. Clad in nothing more than an elegant leather kilt embossed with golden panels, Marduk pulled her to him, firm, possessive, cradling her against his chest, the markings upon it moving into jagged, pointed, vicious designs.

Ahmen came to his feet, his heart cold, rimed with hate. Marduk eyed him, impassive, his unreadable look saying both nothing and everything. He caught Meresamun's chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his. His carnelian eyes moved from Ahmen to her.

"Ninsunu, my love," he asked, his voice no longer hard, but gentle. He traced his forefinger along the track of one of her tears, "has he hurt you?"

Meresamun took a tremulous breath. "He has not."

"And yet you weep. Your grief is so powerful it called me from my work." Marduk kept his gaze on Meresamun, and waited, patient, tenderness sheathing him as he held her, fragile and trembling against him. "Tell me, what happened to cause you such unhappiness?" Meresamun gave a near imperceptible shake of her head. Silence stretched, thick, taut. Marduk cut a hostile look at Ahmen. "You told me he imprisoned you with his hate—that he raped you. How could you grieve for one such as he?"

"I—" Meresamun faltered, her pallor stark against the black of her cosmetics.

"I asked her to leave with me," Ahmen said. "She refused."

A ripple of gratification shimmered over the oppressor of Elati's dark features. A smile, faint, suppressed. He bent to kiss Meresamun, lingering, sensual. In his grip, Meresamun wilted, pliant, her eyes closing, lost to the once-god of Babylon's glamour.

"Of course you did," Marduk murmured as he pulled back, approval emanating from him. "Because you are mine." He kissed her brow, reverent. "You will always be mine. You would never leave me."

He let go of Meresamun and turned his attention to Ahmen, his pupils almost fully dilated in the near dark—the cold, dead gaze of a crocodile. Ahmen suppressed a shudder.

"You have breached my home, and attempted to abduct my consort. I wonder, what shall we do with you?" Marduk asked, moving toward Ahmen, the markings on his flesh sliding into new designs, screaming of anticipation, cold, sadistic.

Ahmen glared at Marduk, sheared by regret, hate, and fantasies of vengeance. Supremacy bled from the once-god of Babylon, his cold-blooded gaze assuring Ahmen the most exquisite of torture would follow; that Marduk intended to make him pay for his crimes against Meresamun. Ahmen gritted his teeth. So be it. He would suffer, and well. In this, they were agreed, he deserved to pay for what he had done to the only woman he had ever loved. He kept his gaze on the once-god of Babylon, defiant, careful not to look at Meresamun, whose stricken silence clawed at him, sensing she did not want what was to come, but could do nothing to stop it.

Marduk smiled, his teeth white and even in the pale blue light. "I wish to understand how a mere mortal could sustain so much hate for so long, and with so much passion, against one whose heart is so pure." His gaze fell to the dagger on Ahmen's hip. His expression hardened. "I know that blade." He held out his hand.

Ahmen pulled the weapon free. Marduk took it, deft, and examined it for damage.

"I had this made for Zarpanitu during the wars so she might defend herself should the need arise," he stopped, the muscles in his jaw clenching. He looked up at Ahmen, hate bleeding from him. "How dare you—a mortal worm—touch it." He struck out, quick as a viper.

Ahmen bit back a cry of agony. Fire burned a scorching path across his upper arm. He wrapped his hand around his savaged flesh, seeking to staunch the blood; to contain the pain.

Marduk took a step back, impassive once more. "After you," he said, tilting his head a fraction toward the distant door and the corridor beyond it with its pulses of golden light. "It is time we got to know each other better."

Ahmen shot a cold look at his oppressor. The pain in his arm escalated, a fury of scorching flame sawed into him, shooting up into his shoulder and down to his fingertips. He gritted his teeth and walked on. He might be immortal, but the familiar burning scour of the blade's deep furrow felt no different to when he had been mortal. He wondered how long it would take him to heal, or if he could suffer endless injuries without the reprieve of death.

From behind, Marduk murmured something too low for Ahmen to hear. A heartbeat later, the faint whisper of Meresamun's gown joined the steady footsteps of Marduk as they followed him along the dark corridor. Another shear of fire scathed deep within Ahmen's arm. He tightened his grip and forced his thoughts to the heat of battle—the metallic stink of his blood resurrecting long-buried memories of rage and savagery, dulling the siege against his senses. He sensed Marduk's gaze boring into the back of his head; soaked with hate, promising suffering beyond Ahmen's wildest imaginings. There would be more. So much more to come. He pulled his blood-soaked hand free from his ravaged flesh and opened the door, uncaring of the slippery imprint he left smeared across the elegant handle. Rebellion coursed through him. He would never give Marduk the satisfaction he sought. Never. But he would suffer. For her, he would pay for what he had done. In fact, he realized as he stepped out onto the corridor's clear floor, he longed to face his punishment, to pay for his past cruelties in blood.

He turned. Meresamun took a step back, her eyes fleeted to his for the merest heartbeat, raw, bleak, hollow. Wretchedness shrouded her. She backed away. Her thin, black-clad form melding with the shadows. Ahmen's heart folded. He caught Marduk eyeing him, narrow, calculating. Ahmen walked on, the pain in his arm gone, drowned by a new agony. Her look had told him everything. She wanted to leave, but could not. Defeat tore through him, jagged, devastating. He had failed. Right to the very end he had failed her. Nothing Marduk could do to him could compare to the devastation washing through him as he imagined her returning to her gilded cage, sorrowful and broken, bearing the additional, gruesome responsibility for Ahmen's impetuous act. Marduk stopped at a plain wooden door. He nodded at Ahmen to open it.

"Do what you will to me," Ahmen said, as he left a fresh imprint of his lifeblood against the handle, "but if you truly love her, allow her the freedom to leave."

Marduk said nothing, though one, then another muscle in his clenched jaw spasmed. He tilted his head toward the door, tight.

Ahmen entered and looked around. He had expected a place of torture, but apart from a massive, rectangular, silver-polished metal box resting in the center of a windowless room, the chamber was empty. He eyed the enormous thing hulking over the stone-flagged floor, the size of a sarcophagus. It reminded him of the ruined one he had passed during their escape from the Etemen'anki, half-swallowed by the collapsing foundation. He had heard enough since arriving in Elati to suspect he was looking at one of Marduk's regeneration devices. It seemed a strange place to conduct an act of vengeance.

The door closed. A quiet click betrayed the locking mechanism. Ahmen cut a look behind him, expecting to find Marduk standing there, but there was no one. Ahmen stared, bleeding, and alone at the blank, shadowed door, finding himself unprepared for this change of direction. He tried the door. Nothing. A bitter laugh threatened to escape. So this was how it was to be. At least in this, Marduk was consistent with his locked doors, and the power it conferred to him.

Ahmen paced the narrow confines of the chamber, wondering what Marduk intended. His arm continued to bleed out in heavy, thick gouts. He examined the blade's work in the sole, faint light of the regeneration device's control panel. The muscle of his upper arm had been near severed in two, the blade's bite lay far too deep to heal without sutures. He tore a strip of linen from his kilt and tied it around his arm, as tight as he could manage. Within heartbeats, the material became drenched, the seep of his blood trickling down his arm, thin rivulets of his life, draining away. Pain ground into him, deep, hot, and dense with the throb of his heartbeat. He had enough experience of battle to know the pain would last a long time.

He continued to wait, enduring, his thoughts shifting from the searing ache in his arm to his despair for Meresamun, of his regret for his haste, and for his longing for Marduk to return and finish what had been started. He paced until his legs ached, then crouched, his back against the wall. He paced again, then sat on top of the regeneration device and faced the door, defiant, his blood leaching onto his kilt and smearing over the device's smooth metallic surface. Time wore a path through his soul, slow, agonizing. Thirst assailed him, then fatigue. He fought both. More hours passed. He began to wonder if Marduk meant to torture him simply by leaving him alone and locked in solitary confinement until he went mad. Fatigue dragged on him, as heavy as the weight of the river pulling a stricken barge into its watery embrace. His back once more against the wall, he allowed himself to close his eyes just for a heartbeat. Silence washed over him. Oblivion beckoned. He followed.