Horus didn't believe in miracles, but he had been spared the trouble of replying. The queen had left, bidding him wait while she prepared to meet with the king. Now, Horus stood just inside the closed door of the private study of the king, waiting as the king and queen conferred, quiet, at the opposite end of the dark, wood-paneled room. The queen held out the message carried south by Tyrn. The king's reaction revealing her husband had known nothing thus far of their plan. Horus wondered if she had expected it to fail.

The king gazed at the letters written on the vellum, silent. His wife spoke again, fervent, gesturing toward the floor, then at Horus. King Rhewyn glanced up, sharp, at Horus, then back at the vellum. The muscles of his jaw worked. Tension oozed from him. The queen touched her husband's hand, her tone changing, becoming urgent, persuasive. Fragments of her entreaty reached Horus. Choice. Try. Sign.

The king shook his head. She stepped closer, and whispered into her husband's ear. He looked again at Horus, taking his time examining him, considering him. He exhaled, and murmured a few words. The queen's face softened. Whatever she had requested, she had gotten it. Perhaps this was the miracle, Horus mused, a queen's ability to change a king's mind.

Impassive, King Rhewyn motioned for Horus to approach.

"Our queen has revealed to us the successful conclusion of your plan to learn the location of the enemy of Elati," he said as Horus neared them and bowed his head. "We congratulate you on your quick thinking." Horus looked up. King Rhewyn's gaze dropped to the scrap bearing the solitary, momentous word. "And now, we have a choice," he continued, low, as if to himself, "do we trust you, and risk our meager hold on stability, or do we cower here, and do nothing?"

"My lord?" Horus asked into the lengthening silence.

King Rhewyn handed the note to the queen. She took it, subdued, uncertain.

"I was a coward," the king said, meeting his wife's eyes. "I knelt when one of my guards would not. I should have defied Marduk's demands and died that day, but I could not bear to leave my queen alone and defenceless. When the king of Thes Dios refused to kneel, Lord Sethi killed him and took Queen Urah for himself. She vowed to take her life, swore he would never have her." He reached out and touched Welyn's cheek, tender, the dark circles surrounding his eyes accentuated by the flickering flames of the lamps. "I could not sacrifice you to such a fate. But now—" he dropped his hand and turned to Horus, abrupt, his expression hardening "—the time for cowardice is over. Follow me." He turned and went to one of the panels along the wall. He ran his fingers along its edge. A click and the panel eased from the wall.

The king cut a look at Horus, cold, calculating. "Queen Welyn has vouched for you, claims you are more than who you appear to be. What lies below is one of the most powerful relics of Serde, not even the sages know of its existence. It is a secret which has been passed down from king to king since time immemorial. A secret which must be kept at any cost, unless a miracle happens. Below you will face a test. If you are able to pass it, the miracle will have been confirmed. If not, your life shall be taken, regardless of the aid you have given Serde thus far. Do you understand?"

Horus eyed the panel, open no more than a finger's span, the slim opening revealing nothing except a thick, inky darkness. Within the study, the lamps' flames wavered in a cold draft, a rare thing in the continual warmth of Ikalur. An epochal silence crept up from the depths, heavy with the oppressive weight of eons.

"I would prefer to know what the test is before I commit my life against it," he said, his senses awakening, tingling in the presence of something other. Whatever was beyond the opening reeked of an age long forgotten. It called to him, a buried memory, longing to resurrect.

Rhewyn narrowed his eyes. "The queen says you claim to have been the god of war. Have you told the truth?"

Horus nodded, slow. "I have."

Rhewyn jerked the panel open. A gust of cold, stale air washed over Horus. "Then you have nothing to fear." He picked up a lamp, its flame bobbing as he entered the corridor and glanced back at Welyn, who hung back, uncertain. Rhewyn held out his hand to her. A shimmer of pleasure rippled over her fine features as she went to him and took it.

Horus held back one heartbeat. Two. With a curse he followed them, hoping he wasn't making the worst mistake of his existence.

Rhewyn led them down a long, circular, stone stairway, his tiny flame the only light in a well of black. Claustrophobia skidded around Horus, oppressive and gilded with the sensation he was walking into his tomb.

They continued on until Horus thought he could hear the faint crash of waves against the shore. He strained to hear over their quiet footsteps; beyond the soft breathing of the queen, his own rasping breaths, and those of Rhewyn. There. A low boom, dulled by the weight of the stone, followed by the familiar roar of waves slamming against a rocky shore.

The stairs ended. Rhewyn and the queen came to a halt. Neither spoke, though reverence suffused them. The king turned and lifted his lamp to the stone wall and moved along its length. Massive ashlars greeted him, easily the width of two men, their height impossible to gauge from the weak light of a single flame. He continued, his eyes moving over the smooth stone wall, searching. He stopped and lifted the lamp higher. Horus edged closer, curious. A metal covering lay flush against the stone. The king pressed his fingers against it. The cover opened without a sound. Inside, a cerulean blue light awakened, pouring like water into a sigil, its form taking shape, slow, stately. Horus stared, incredulous. No. It couldn't be.

The king pressed his hand against the lit sigil. White light shattered the darkness. His eyes aching, Horus fell back, his arm raised against the brilliant glare. By degrees his eyes adjusted. He lowered his arm, cautious. Clean, clear light suffused the space. Beside him, the wall soared up as high as a four story villa. He turned. A massive stone chamber, constructed of fine-cut ashlars as large as a villa. And there, in the center of the space, silent, and alone—a memory returned to life.

"How can it be?" he breathed. He tore his eyes from it and cut a look at Rhewyn, his heart pounding so hard, it hurt. "I never thought—" He ran to it, crying out, tears burning his eyes. He touched it, reveling in the feel of it, real again, no longer a thought, but resurrected from the ephemeral fragments of his lost existence. He ran his hands along its side, worshipful. It was as beautiful, as perfect as he remembered. He pressed his hand against the sigil beside the door. It slid open and the stairs unfolded, seamless, just as they had always done. Within the cabin, the lights flickered on, white, and soft, welcoming him just like he remembered. He caught sight of the metal gate leading out of the chamber toward the sea, as familiar to him as the one he had once had in his city, long ago, before Marduk had arrived to tear his world apart—

Realization slammed into him. In Elati, Ikalur had been his city. Of all the places the Creator could have sent them—

He shouted, triumphant, longing to once more cross across the skies with Baalat by his side. To think all this had unfolded simply because he had had the wit to send a falcon along with Zherei. He clenched his fists, invigorated, renewed. With his ship restored to him, he was no longer powerless. It was not over yet. Not by a long shot.

He turned. Serde's king and queen regarded him, pale, trembling. Rhewyn sank to his knees. "Forgive me," he breathed, tears glinting in his eyes. "I dared not allow myself to hope my queen had spoken true: 'The Creator has sent Lord Horakhti back to us in our greatest hour of need.'" He lowered his head, his chest rising and falling, his composure lost.

"Since the gods were vanquished, this ship has lain dormant," Welwyn whispered, tears slipping from her eyes as she gazed, awestruck at Horus and his ship, resurrected after its slumber of eons. "No one has been able to open its door. It is a miracle. You are the miracle." Shuddering, she slid to her knees. "I beg you, my lord, save us."

❃

A low boom woke Baalat. She sat up, abrupt, startled, disoriented, knocking aside a pile of medical notes. They tumbled from her desk, carpeting the marble tiles around her in a sea of parchment. She blinked, struggling to regain her bearings. Gathering up the notes still left on the desk, she scanned her mind for her most recent memory. Ah, yes. In the midst of making notes about a treatment for burns, an overwhelming need for sleep had overcome her, leading her straight into a vivid, profound dream. She had found herself back in the Creator's realm, walking hand in hand with him across the starry disk, under a glittering canopy of stars and planets, his presence reassuring, calming, peaceful.

Heavy footsteps hastened through the courtyard, she ignored their approach, seeking to grasp the fading tendrils of her dream. What was it the Creator had said just before she had been torn away from her dream? It had been important.

Fragments glimmered, like the silver fish in the courtyard's pool, darting up to her, flashing between her fingers, only to slip away, elusive. The footsteps neared, echoing along the colonnaded corridor, quickening, urgent. She closed her eyes, willing herself to recall the Creator's parting words before it was too late. More flickers, remnants, shadows. A glimpse. She held still. It came, like a sunburst through a raincloud, burning through her mind, its golden words as detailed as the images of her lost vision pool.

To defeat the darkness, the goddess must rise.

Baalat shivered. Her skin prickled, prescience surrounding her as the power of the Creator's words imprinted themselves into her heart, indelible. His message, like everything else about him, was cryptic. But if he had taken the trouble to send her into a deep sleep to give her a message, it meant much, but, she wondered, humbled, as she bent to collect her fallen notes, what could it—

Horus burst into her study, his eyes afire, and his body quivering with energy, alive, fierce, as though he has just returned from the battlefield. He crossed the room in two strides and pulled her from her chair.

"My love," he breathed, "just wait until you see this."

Baalat let go of Horus's hand, and stared, disbelieving, at a lost piece of her past. It stood, proud, fierce, and beautiful upon a massive ashlar floor far beneath the palace of Ikalur. Its presence filled her mind, solid, real. The king and queen knelt, their diadems glinting in the sconces' brilliant white light, its power a remnant of the gods—of an age long gone, vanished amongst the ashes of another life, one she believed forever lost.

She approached it, rapt. Its golden contours gleamed, brilliant, illuminating the ship's bay. Awakened by Horus's presence, it hummed, alert, tense, ready to depart. A streamer of white light pulsed along its hull.

Reaching out, she touched it, reverent. Tears burned her eyes. Horus came up behind her.

"The Creator left us outside Ikalur on purpose," he said, low. "Again, he has aided us in our fight, although the key which turned the lock was a humble one—a mere falcon."

Baalat said nothing. Her heart overflowed. Gratitude poured through her. How she missed the power of flight. To leave the ground—to fly free. Horus moved in front of her and held out his hand, his eyes dark, unreadable. She touched her fingers to his, trembling with anticipation and followed him into his ship—into the past. Present. Future.

The gate slid back into the wall. Horus guided the ship through the opening onto a massive, crumbling, mossy platform, jutting out a quarter of the way up the cliff wall. Baalat leaned forward and peered out the window. Below, Ikalur's starlit turquoise sea seethed against the sheer northern face of Ikalur's ancient foundations, spattering gobbets of white foam against the mollusc-encrusted rocks.

"Are you ready, my love?" Horus asked, quiet, his attention fixed on the console, his fingers moving over the controls, confident, as though more than one million years had not separated him from the last time his fingers had guided his ship through the heavens.

"Yes," Baalat breathed, turning her face up to the star-clad skies, longing to feel its embrace. "Oh, yes."

He punched the ignition. A familiar roar filled her senses, laden with nostalgia. They shot away from the platform, ascending, soaring, the thrust pinning Baalat to her seat. The ship rippled as Horus engaged the cloaking device, then shimmered as its walls and floor turned translucent. Far below, Ikalur dwindled, its torchlit gold and white sprawl shrinking, the importance of their lives played out within its walls paling against the scope of the continent's shadowed bulk spreading away to the north, west and south.

Horus veered away from the continent toward the endless reach of the sea.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He enabled one of the screens on the console. A map appeared. He pointed to a spot far to the north of Ikalur, nestled at the southern edge of a bay. "Eventually, Perev. Once Thoth's palace, now Marduk's stronghold," he said. "It is only accessible by air, however we know there is at least one way in to it via a portal. Knowing Thoth, I suspect there are other portals to it hidden all over Elati." Her consort then pointed at an island in the middle of the map. "And this is Anki. Long ago, it was the island of the gods. Since they were vanquished, a storm has raged all around it, making it impossible to reach, at least by sea. No one has been there in two million years. We are going there first."

"And what do you hope to find in Anki?" Baalat asked, eyeing the map, curious what the once-home of her Elatian counterparts would be like, wondering it if it would be similar to the Immortal Realm or like the cities they had built in the mortal one.

"A weapon Sethi wants which I intend to find first," Horus said, his voice hard. "And hopefully, another portal into Marduk's stronghold." He punched a few more buttons, flicked several switches. He stood up and held out his hand.

"It's a long flight," he said, his voice low. He glanced into the cabin, toward the divan, where, as they had screamed across the heavens of another world he had made love to her more times than she could count.

She stood and took his hand, her body awakening, quivering with anticipation, recognizing in his eyes the promise of what was to come. He led her from the flight deck and across the clear floor, the faint ridges and ripples of the dark sea an endless, shifting carpet. At the divan, he paused. She sensed his thoughts. It could never be the same now they were no longer gods.

Lifting her hand to his face, she caressed it, seeing him. Horus but not Horus. His eyes were no longer gold, and the golden fractals had long since vanished, but to her, he was still a god. Her god. He took her into his arms and kissed her, deep, his hands cradling her face, reverent, whispering how much he loved her, how she was everything to him, how the Creator was with them and they would defeat Marduk yet. She sighed and sank onto the divan with him, letting him take his time in his worship of her, knowing, believing, when she cried out with her release he was right. The Creator was with them. They were not alone, after all.