"So, at last you return—the prodigal god." Marduk pushed his chair away from the desk, and eyed Sethi, hostile. Across the length of the desk, an array of Marduk's devices fanned out, half of them enabled, bathing the nearby walls in pale, cerulean light. On another table in the middle of the room, a heap of scrolls had been piled up, haphazard. Several lay open along the table's edge, held by the weight of inactive devices.

Marduk tilted his head toward the reception room where Sethi had left Aiya with Ninsunu. "A woman." He rose, and walked around the table to face Sethi, his armor glinting in the lamplight with violent promise. "You made me wait because you were bedding a woman, and then—" he plucked a weapon from his belt, enabled it, quiet, meaningful, "—you brought her here, into my home. Why?"

Sethi eyed the weapon. "To protect her."

"You are the god of war," Marduk said, turning the weapon onto its side to examine the illuminated panel. He pressed a sequence. Sethi knew that one. Disintegration. He moved closer to the door, blocking the way. Marduk would have to go through him to get to Aiya.

Marduk cut him a look from under his brow. "How are you not fit for the task?"

"Because I am the one from whom she needs protection."

Marduk lifted an eyebrow. After a beat, he powered the weapon down and set it back into its holder. "Indeed?"

Sethi didn't like the way Marduk's gaze slid over him, cold, impersonal, loaded with judgment. "Though I have no memory of it," he said, "I have sent three of my concubines to their deaths—"

"And the one you brought here?" Marduk interrupted, bored. His hands came to rest on the weapons strapped to his belt, meaningful.

Sethi nodded, sensing Marduk's patience had reached its limit. "I would have Aiya as my consort. Until I can uncover what ails me, I thought she might provide companionship to Lady Ninsunu."

From the reception room, quiet conversation, stiff with formality.

"Hm," Marduk said, noncommittal. "So long as Ninsunu wishes it, your woman may stay. As to your other . . . problem, it will have to wait." He shot Sethi a dark look, laden with condemnation. "You chose a bad time for a liaison. Ahmen escaped before I was able to learn Istara's location."

Disbelief barreled through Sethi. "How is that even possible?"

Marduk didn't answer, though his gaze flicked to the open door leading to the reception room. The muscles in his jaw clenched. His look turned inward. A shaft of jealousy seared the slant of his mouth. "I underestimated the bond between husband and wife."

Sethi said nothing, though Ninsunu's betrayal hung between them, a stain. After several thick beats of silence, Marduk continued: "The way Ahmen took will not open for me." He gestured, vague, at the heaped piles of scrolls. "Neither have I learned where it leads."

For a heartbeat, Sethi floundered, unable to make sense of Marduk's words. Then, the image of the Ninsunu's deserted suite flooded his mind; the guards, their cryptic orders—

"The mirror," Sethi said. "Yet. . . how could he have known?"

Marduk tilted his head toward the door, his eyes black, iced with vengeance. "You are about to find out."

❃

The sun slammed into the horizon. A heartbeat later, an explosion of stars erupted from the indigo canopy, bathing the palace with the faint glow of night. Istara followed Urhi-Teshub out of the gloom of the vestibule into the courtyard. In its center, the outline of a tiered fountain, overgrown with vines and furred with clumps of sedge. A glint of starlight shimmered against its nearest edge. Curious, Istara eased forward. Urhi-Teshub held out his arm and blocked her way. A slight shake of his head.

A shadow detached from the lee of a pillar and padded toward them, silent, clad in black leather armor, a dagger in each hand. The faint light of the night's sky embraced its daughter. Sekhmet came to a halt. Her dark eyes touched Urhi-Teshub's, distant, restrained.

"Anything?" he asked. The jagged light of his ax flickered over her elegant features, highlighting the sorrowful curve of her lips. The fleeting touch of suppressed longing—the weight of her loss. Istara blinked, taken aback—Urhi-Teshub hadn't told the goddess of war he had retained his memories, had let her believe he had forgotten her.

"Nothing." Sekhmet cut a look at Istara and tilted her head toward the opposite side of the fountain. "Horus is there, with Ahmen . . . it's bad."

Urhi-Teshub nodded. He moved on, left Sekhmet behind, soaked in her solitude. Istara followed him, wondering at his reason for keeping his distance from the goddess of war, why he would not—

A door of starlight reared up out of the courtyard's ashlars. The gateway stood, anomalous, against the shadows of the vestibule, alive with the light of the stars. She went to it, walked around it, seeking to understand. It pierced the courtyard, as though it had erupted straight from the depths of the ashlars. As she circled back to its face, she caught her reflection—a cascade of white stars streaming along the length of her hair, down her gown, and pooled at her feet. Her whole being glimmered, alive with light.

She turned to Urhi-Teshub, waiting at the mirror's side, his ax no longer on his back, but gripped in his hand. "Is this the portal?" she breathed.

Before he could reply, another voice, from behind, rasped, "Yes."

She turned. A shadow moved against the edge of the fountain. It rose. Thick creaks emanated from it, taut with tension, reminding her of the moan of ropes straining against the weight of an obelisk hauled upright.

"Ahmen?"

He stepped closer. The fountain's shadow slid away in the reflected light of her stars. A desiccated horror met her eyes, a thing of sinew and bone, dry as dust, bloodless, skinless. "Ahmen?" she whispered, unable to piece the abomination before her into the man she remembered.

"It is I," he answered, his voice harsh as burning desert sand. "This is who I am now."

Her light ignited, coming to life of its own volition. She lifted her hands, welcoming her power as it gathered, surrounded her, a vortex, bathing the courtyard with life.

"No," he said, turning away. "Leave me be."

Her light surged, insistent, drawn by his pain, his torment. It soared from her fingers, arced across the space between them, a storm of gold. A tendril touched his shoulder.

He cried out, anguished, as though where her touch cleansed him, she had seared his flesh anew. He stumbled back into the shadows, panting, begged her to cease.

His distress tore through her. To harm another was against her purpose, her existence. She hauled on her light, drew it back, her soul aching from the effort. It strained against her, hungry, resisting her call, seeking to fulfil its intention, stubborn, sentient. More of her light flared from her torso, an onslaught. She staggered, struggling to contain her power.

A shout, incoherent, sliced through her senses, sharp with urgency. Horus barreled out of the darkness, straight at her, his eyes hard as stone. He took hold of her, and tossed her aside, as though she were no more than a toy, his strength overwhelming, stunning. She hurtled across the courtyard into the vestibule. Her hands found a pillar. She clung to it, drowning in her churning light.

The drum of booted feet. The staccato pulse of blue lightning. Urhi-Teshub's eyes found hers, harsh with intent. His fingers wrapped around her arm, pulled her from the pillar, his grip fierce. His command tore through her senses, the voice of a god, indomitable, ruthless.

"Run."