Bathed in the soft glow of Elati's star-glazed canopy, Istara rose from the divan to stretch, hoping to ease the gnawing ache spreading across her lower back. The temptation to use her light to grant herself relief was visceral, but after everything the others had endured over the last night and day, it felt selfish to use her light for such a small thing. Better to conserve it for the days to come. She cut a look toward the flight deck, and drank in the sight of the one who had emerged from the churning light of Surru, her heart unquiet, conflicted. He sat manning the controls, deft, experienced, exuding power, and a world of charisma—no longer Urhi-Teshub, the King of Hatti, who, once, in another world, and another life, had been her mortal husband and king but Urhi-Teshub, storm god, second highest in the pantheon, eclipsed only in power and rank by her consort, the corrupted god of war.

After everything she had endured since their arrival to Elati—the accusations, guilt, alienation, recriminations, and judgments of the other gods for the actions of her consort and for Marduk's presence in Elati—the reborn storm god's arrival to Imaru in the early hours of the morning had changed everything, had set her free. Even Thoth had not expected that.

They had roared in from the west, Thoth cursing over the state of Imaru's once-tranquil, beautiful streets and terraces, its gardens and courtyards aflame, stained ugly by black smoke, rioting, and violence. The king had requested the gods find another home. Set had threatened to take the city by force, and had gathered the gods to bring the mortals to heel. He cared little if Teshub's destructive landing the night before had taken the lives of three, one—a child of four—or if the gods were no longer welcome to remain in the kingdom of Rhzev. Imaru belonged to the gods, and if the mortals would not comply, he would raze their city until they did. Into the unfolding chaos of gods preparing to oppress their hosts, Urhi-Teshub emerged from Sekhmet's ship bearing the storm god's double-headed ax, alive with raw bolts of cerulean power, his golden eyes afire.

Ptah had come to him first, incredulous, and knelt before the highest god among them. A heartbeat later, Isis followed, then Osiris, Bast, the others following after, one by one until Set stood alone. They waited. Set scoffed, but relented, muttering he hoped Urhi-Teshub had a better plan than his.

Urhi-Teshub did. Despite Thoth's fretful, repeated admonitions to make haste, it had still taken until the evening for the pantheon to pack and load their ships in preparation for their departure to their new home in Anki. And now . . . Istara looked past the transparent walls of the ship's rear. Two dozen ships were out there, cloaked, and following the course Thoth had set for the new home of the gods. Teshub's discoveries on the forbidden isle offered more hope than Istara had felt since she had arrived at Elati. To think they would be able to live without fear of attack—without risking mortal lives as they had done in Imaru. A flicker of pleasure rippled through her. Sanctuary. At last, after so much uncertainty, a door had opened. And what a door. Once, Anki had been the home of Elati's gods and for an eon it had lain dormant, isolated, and shielded by a powerful storm, as though waiting for the return of another set of gods. She shivered, prescience touching her. The Creator's hand had to be in this detail. It meant something. It meant despite the bleakness of her thoughts of late, perhaps they were not alone after all.

Her thoughts raced ahead, wild, like children freed from the claustrophobia of endless lessons. Once the cores were active, and Marduk's devices were rendered useless, there would be no limit to what the gods could do. She longed to send ships out to those countries already caught in Marduk's grip where, she suspected the generals and commanders would be amenable to sending a selection of warriors to join the gods. And yet, she pressed her palms against her abdomen, seeking to ease its ephemeral flutterings of anticipation, after so much time lost, that task alone could take weeks, if not months. Impatience wove it silver threads through her, darting, restless. She paced away from her seat, toward the back of the cabin. Thoth lay prone on the divan, his arms folded over his chest, caught in the cradle of deep sleep. A half dozen leather satchels stuffed with sheaves of bamboo paper surrounded him, with one transformed into a lumpy cushion for his head. Further down, at the back of the cabin, the cores sat upon the cabin's metal floor, patient, their cerulean hearts pulsing, quiet, steady.

She turned and made her way back toward the front of the ship. Past the open door into the flight deck, Urhi-Teshub sat alone. Sekhmet no longer occupied the seat beside him. Instead, she flew in their wake, guiding her own ship through the dark skies. Two hours earlier, Urhi-Teshub had taken the controls of Marduk's ship, Thoth beside him, translating the bizarre symbols of Marduk's language etched into the panel. Urhi-Teshub proved a quick study. Within heartbeats, the ship burst to life and they screamed back up into the stars, Urhi-Teshub's hands moving over the controls, calm, focused, the line of his jaw harsh in the control panel's illumination.

Istara had slept for a time, but now, as the distance to Anki shrank, and her hope of finding a way to liberate her consort grew, agitation gnawed. She drew closer to the open door. Urhi-Teshub kept his eyes on the controls, though she sensed he was aware of her presence. From under her lashes, she examined him, curious. He was the same and yet not. Before, he had resonated power, now his presence radiated both immutable power and authority. Quiet confidence saturated him. In many ways he reminded her of Sethi. No. She cut off the thought. Sethi was different. He possessed something, something other, something more. She turned and leaned against the wall, her gaze falling onto Thoth, who snored, quiet, his bony ribcage rising and falling as he traveled esoteric paths known only to him.

Over téy one afternoon, he had told her a tale. He claimed the storm god and god of war had been the first gods the Creator had created. One had arisen in the morning. The other in the afternoon. They had lived on the coast of a vast, primordial sea, brothers, where they spent a season together, competing one against the other in various challenges the Creator set for them. When it was done, the Creator tallied their results. The god of war had won by the merest margin and was rewarded the power of flight, a gift no other god would ever possess. The god of war chose the form of a falcon and shot up into the blue skies, triumphant, savoring his brother's jealousy.

When he returned, full of arrogance, he discovered he and his brother were no longer alone. The Creator had brought forth another, the ephemeral, beautiful sun goddess. The storm god had lost his heart to her, and all thoughts of his loss to the god of war had been forgotten.

For one month, while the storm god and his consort wandered the coast locked in their private world of love, the god of war searched the heavens, seas, and mountains in the hopes of finding his own consort, but the Creator, in his wisdom, made him wait. When at last the goddess of healing stepped out of the light and approached the god of war, gratitude and humility filled him. No longer arrogant, he was ready to lead, an equal to his brothers and sisters for eternity. But now—he was corrupted and Urhi-Teshub had taken his place.

Istara pushed away from the wall, abrupt, and paced to the back of the ship again, drawn to the calm heartbeat of the cores. It was just a tale, and had been told to cheer her, but Thoth didn't know any better than the rest of them how the gods had begun, or, in truth, who the Creator intended to be first among them. In ages past, Thoth had been supreme, before that Ptah, and even earlier, Set, but when Marduk and his people arrived, it had been the god of war who had possessed supremacy, with the storm god his second-in-command. Perhaps it had been predestined, considering how well suited he was to lead during the wars which followed. And now, the storm god had been reborn and taken Sethi's place.

Istara knelt before the row of cores. The steady pulse of the smallest one called to her. With a faint smile, she ran her fingertips along its edges and planes, thinking of the light she had sacrificed to protect Urhi-Teshub as he struggled to return with it to the ship.

Against her back, the pressure of a frank look. Suspecting her actions had roused Thoth's territoriality over his cores, she rose and turned to him, expecting to be chastened, but he remained prone, lost in the land of dreams. She turned, slow, toward the flight deck. Urhi-Teshub met her eyes, his unreadable. He tilted his head at the seat next to his, an invitation. Her heart tight, she passed Thoth as he snuffled and turned onto his side. The satchel under his head slipped to the floor with a dull thud.

She reached the door. Urhi-Teshub's attention was back on the controls. In the dim illumination of the flight deck, he worked through several sequences, keeping his gaze on the screen. When he had emerged from the portal, he had not acknowledged her, though he had given Sekhmet a look which could have scorched lava. All through their long, silent flight back to Imaru, and throughout the day of frantic preparations he had avoided her, had not once spoken to her, or even looked at her. And now—

She perched on the edge of the seat.

He punched another series of buttons. "The Creator spoke to me."

Istara blinked. "When?"

"When I became the storm god." Urhi-Teshub flipped a switch beside the screen. It dimmed. In the low light of the panel's instruments he turned to her, the cut of his features outlined in shadow, softening their harsh planes. "He made clear what he wished of me," he continued, quiet. "My primary duty is to remain your protector. If so, it means the Creator wishes for you to lead us in what is to come, not me."

Istara caught hold of the seat's armrests and clung to them, stunned. In the window over the panel, the canopy of stars glittered, impervious to the weight of responsibility being handed to her. Urhi-Teshub's hand covered hers, warm, strong, familiar, reassuring. She closed her eyes, blocking out the stars—their remote happiness, their freedom. "It cannot be," she whispered. "A goddess has never led the pantheon before—and in a conflict like this? No. The others will not abide it. I cannot abide it."

"If I tell them what I have told you, they will have no choice."

She turned to him, fear, anger, and the scorch of resentment poured through her, a cascade. It swept her away, a leaf in a torrent. "I do not want this," she panted, pulling her hand out from under his. "I beg you, take this burden from me. I know nothing of the art of war. Nothing. I am not a warrior like you or Sethi—I am everything you are not. You destroy. I heal." She looked down at her hands pressed against her lap, streaming with her inner starlight. She longed for Sethi, for the end of her torment, the end of her loneliness. She could not carry on like this, alone. Sorrow, long suppressed, piled up against her lashes, heavy, hot. "Sethi," she whispered. "Please. Come back. The Creator asks too much of me."

Urhi-Teshub caught one of her tears against his thumb. "Istara," he murmured, low, intimate, "you are not alone. You have me."

Istara stilled. His voice touched her soul, reawakening the memories she had lost and found again of when they had been mortal. She shuddered, her heart aching. "You still remember."

Urhi-Teshub nodded, the shadows deepening against his eyes. "The Creator did not take my memories."

"Mine," she breathed, keeping her gaze fixed on her lap, "have also returned."

He let out a ragged breath. "When?"

"When you left with Teshub." She felt the heat of his look. She turned away, her watery gaze moving over the flight deck's side panel, several rows of lights blinked, cold, remote, the ship's empty heartbeat.

"How much—" He fell silent. A creak of leather as he shifted in his seat. Uneasiness seeped from him.

"Do I remember?" She turned back to him. "Enough to know who you once were to me, and who I was to you." She shuddered. Now she had broken the impasse, she found herself unable to stop the words from escaping. "You stayed. You watched me mourn another." She met his golden eyes. "You protected me—and I forgot you."

"Istara." He reached out and wiped away her tears, gentle. "I hope, at least now you no longer blame yourself for Sethi's corruption."

Istara shook her head, numb. "I do not."

"Marduk is the enemy, not you. It was never you." A series of lights awakened on the panel. He leaned forward and punched in a sequence. They dimmed again. "The Creator has chosen you for a great purpose," he continued, "he would not have chosen you if he did not believe you were able to do what was needed."

Istara rested her head against the back of the seat and gazed up at the stars, resigned. "First we secure Anki, then we will see." She stood. "Say nothing of what you told me to anyone. For now, let the others believe you are in command."

Urhi-Teshub nodded. She paused at the door.

"All I want is Sethi freed of Marduk's control."

"I know."

"Can it be done?"

Urhi-Teshub met her eyes, but did not answer.

Drowning in emptiness, she left.

Anki was nothing like she could have imagined. Istara stepped out of the ship into the gray pre-dawn light, the outline of the pyramids' harsh against the canopy of waning stars.

"By the Creator's light," Thoth breathed, coming up beside her. Awe bled from him. "No god built this." He turned full circle, his gaze stalling on the central tower, its implacable, defiant presence carving a black path through the sky, blotting out the heaven's fading glow. "In theory, according to my calculations, I knew a place like this would have to exist—but to find it." He quivered, overcome, and sank to his knees. "The longevity of Elati's people, the lack of decay, the latent essence of power. Of course. How could I not see it? Without the presence of the gods, what else could have sustained Elati against the corruption of the dark for so long?" He rubbed one of his bony hands over his scalp, quick, his movements matching the rapid darting of his eyes as they drank in the brutal scope of the complex. "All this time it was right here, under my nose—the first world, waiting, ever since I made the portal to Elati millions of years ago." A bitter laugh erupted from him, sharp, nasal. He tore his attention from the tower's heights to meet the question in Istara's eyes. "It was from the first world the Creator brought forth the multiverse, it was from here every single living thing, every mountain, star, and sea emerged—from nothing. No, not nothing, even nothing is something." He shivered, delight soaking him. "Anki was not just the home of the gods, but of the first gods. Every pantheon in every universe would have been modeled after them. The power and knowledge of the original gods would have been staggering. To think this was where the first manifestation of Thoth once walked, it is—" He shook his head and let out a ragged breath.

Urhi-Teshub joined them. Shards of cerulean light flickered over the ashlars, ignited by the bolts of energy crackling along the blades of his ax. He sniffed. "Teshub said there were pyramids. I admit I had expected something . . . smaller."

Thoth pushed himself to his feet. "As did I. But this—" he rubbed his hands together, anticipation brightening his thin, sparse features, sharpened by the shifting light of the storm god's weapon, "—changes everything." He shot off into the night's thinning gloom toward the middle pyramid, the panels of his kilt flapping, erratic, against his thin calves. "When the others arrive," he called over his shoulder, "bring the cores. And my notes—all of them." He vanished into the darkened opening of the pyramid.

"He won't be able to see a thing," Istara said. "Perhaps—"

Brilliant white light flooded the opening.

Urhi-Teshub raised his arm to shield his eyes. "That man knows far more than he lets on." 

A scream cut through the sky, followed by another, then another, until the skies roared with the arrival of the gods. He looked up, searching until he spotted Sekhmet's sleek ship coming in fast, hurtling down along the length of the tower. A quiet smile touched his lips. "Now, at last. It begins."