Istara opened her eyes and rubbed her hand over her brow. She had dreamed of a place of unyielding darkness, and of a black-haired woman, bloodstained, and broken, huddled into herself, drowning in hopelessness. Bleak, Istara sat up and looked around the quiet ship, seeking to reorient herself, but the dream's images lingered, troubling her. There had been other things: glimpses, fragments of brutality, malevolence, violence, but of the details nothing remained apart from a thickening sense of dread. It settled within the depths of her torso, visceral, a warning.

The door slid open with a quiet hiss. A shaft of sunlight slanted in from under the ship's wing and sliced its way across the floor, an elongated oblong. Urhi-Teshub came up the steps, his bulk breaching the straight lines of the light. He lay his ax on the divan opposite her and took a seat. He leaned toward her, his forearms sliding along his leather-clad thighs.

"You slept almost the whole day," he said, cutting a look over his shoulder out the open door, to where the ships of the other gods spread across the wide expanse of the central complex, their harsh outlines softened by the ripening light of the late afternoon sun. "Despite his fractiousness," Urhi-Teshub continued with a resigned lift of his brow, "Thoth has made good progress. He expects the shield to be active before the sun sets." The storm god folded his fingers together, his gaze lingering on the view beyond the open door. He cleared his throat. "There has been a development."

His tone made Istara's skin prickle. Prescience touched her. Urhi-Teshub remained silent for several heartbeats, his eyes moving over the ships, unseeing. He looked back at her, abrupt.

"Ahmen has uncovered a portal from Anki into Marduk's stronghold. He suspects Marduk will learn of it sooner rather than later."

Istara absorbed the weight of his words. Until the shield was active, it meant the gods stood at the threshold of their annihilation. "Where?"

Urhi-Teshub tilted his head toward the southern edge of the city. "It's in one of the palaces, we think it belonged to Thoth."

Fear sluiced through Istara. Her dream reared, ugly, a warning. She stood. "If Ahmen came here to tell you, who has been guarding the way? Marduk could—"

"Ahmen is still at the portal. Another has come to warn us, he—" Urhi-Teshub looked down at his hands, clasped together. The skin over his knuckles whitened.

His silence tore into her. "Who has come?" Istara demanded, tight. Only Teshub, Arinna, and Ahmen had gone to Anki. There could be no one else. Unless . . . her heart stuttered. Sethi.

The storm god met her eyes, his golden ones dark, wary. "Do you remember Horus?"

Istara blinked at his unexpected question. "I—" A memory slammed into her, of a pillar collapsing onto Sethi, decimating him, and of his resurrection, granted by the light of a fallen god. Horus. The one who had brought Sethi back from death. Not once, but twice. She staggered and sank onto the divan. "It cannot be. Horus is gone." Trepidation climbed up her spine. She cut a look to the door, at once comprehending Urhi-Teshub's focus.

"He is out there, isn't he?" Istara asked, her mouth dry. "Alive."

Urhi-Teshub nodded, terse. He stood. "He wishes to meet you." He hefted his ax and turned to the door. She caught his arm, stopped him. He waited. Gave her time.

"Is he a god?" she whispered, her throat tight. "Is Sethi—" she couldn't finish the question. Lost.

"Horus is mortal. The Creator gave him another chance to live. He is here to help."

Istara let out a tremulous breath. "And his consort?"

Urhi-Teshub looked back out the door, his profile taut. "He is alone." He turned again to the door and descended the steps onto the plaza's ashlars. He looked back at her, his eyes lost in the shadows cast by the ship's wing. "I will wait out here." His attention moved to the front of the ship, out of Istara's line of sight. He tilted his head at the open door and stepped back. Footsteps approached.

Istara came to her feet, her heart thudding, aching. A burst of sunlight eclipsed the doorway. Istara shielded her eyes as the outline of a tall, powerful man ascended the steps and ducked into the cabin, sunlight ricocheting against a pair of Marduk's weapons, strapped to the belt on his hip.

He came to a halt. His eyes touched hers, brief, before they slid away to follow the cascade of her starlight. Anguish sheared his features. He lifted the back of his hand to his mouth and rubbed it against his lips. Tears glinted in his eyes. He shuddered.

"Istara," he said, bleak. Hollowness eroded him. He tore his gaze from her to take in the details of the flight deck. He swallowed, his throat moving, ragged, as he dined on his tears.

He reached into a fold of his kilt and pulled out a slender, golden pendant. He held it out to her, cradled in his hand. "This is yours."

She lifted her hand to him, palm upward. He tilted his hand. The slight weight of it settled against her skin, its sudden, familiar heft branding her, awakening her, suffusing her with memories, long buried under the smooth sands of the tides, exposed anew by the ferocity of a sudden winter storm: A gift, from Tarhuntassa's chief surgeon for the completion of her studies as a healer, bought from a trader from Babylon; Tanu-Hepa suggesting it might be as old as the time of Gilgamesh; of her wearing of it during her flight with Urhi-Teshub from Tarhuntassa to Kadesh; of its disappearance before she departed for the pharaoh's camp on the eve of the Battle of Kadesh; of its return to her on the way to Babylon, taken from Rhoha by Urhi-Teshub on the brink of his death in Karchemish; of her flight from the Etemen'anki with Baalat, Sethi, Marduk, and Meresamun—the others left to be buried alive in the collapsing city; caged and left to die on the cold shore of Surru as Marduk departed with Sethi and Meresamun; of Baalat's final embrace, the wash of her light as Istara returned to life, a goddess, opening the way into Elati—

She pressed the golden, serpent-entwined stave against her breast, her heart trembling. At last, she was complete, the fullness of her memories restored. "Thank you," she murmured, lifting her eyes to Horus, who watched her, stricken.

He nodded, distant, and turned to leave. He paused, his hand braced against the door's frame. "When you have the time," he said, " Ahmen could use your light."

Before Istara could reply, he left the ship and strode away, as though seeking to put as much distance between them as possible. She left the ship and watched him head to a sleek, golden ship. He entered it, and within heartbeats, its engines fired and he surged away in a wash of broiling, liquid heat.

Its wake swept over her, buffeted her hair, caught her gown. As the roar of his ship faded, Urhi-Teshub joined her. She unfolded her fingers from the pendant.

He eyed it, quiet. "Can you remember anything?"

Istara nodded. Tears touched her eyes. Gratitude swept through her. She touched it, reverent. "All of it."

He made a quiet sound of approval. "Horus said you will know when the time will be right to use it."

Istara looked up, met his eyes. "Use it? How?"

Urhi-Teshub tilted his head in the direction of the imposing, sealed tower, its reach endless, oppressive. "It opens the way in. Within its depths, there is an impression which fits the shape of the pendant. Only you can access it."

She eyed the edifice. Uneasiness gnawed. The tower was the last place she wished to go. She forced herself to ask: "And . . . when I do?"

Urhi-Teshub lifted his brow. "The Creator did not say."

Istara's heart stilled. "The Creator?"

Urhi-Teshub folded his arms over his chest. A hint of his sun-warmed leather washed over her, mundane, familiar, reassuring. "Horus used the pendant to enter the tower. While there he crossed into the Creator's realm."

Istara cut a look back at the tower again, her trepidation deepening. "And?"

Urhi-Teshub shook his head. "And nothing. Horus is not the same as I remember. He is barely existing."

Istara thought of Horus's broken, devastated look when he met her. Though she feared the answer, she dared the question. "Where is his consort?"

Urhi-Teshub let out a heavy breath. "I do not know. I could not bring myself to ask."

In the heavy quiet which followed, the brush of her once-husband's fingers against hers. She let him take her hand, savoring the feel of his grip—firm, solid, real, different, yet the same. They stood together, quiet, pensive, alone together in the shade of the ship's wing as the sun threw itself toward the western sea, the shadows of the pyramids lengthening, sliding across the plaza, paving an inexorable path toward the night.

He gestured in the direction Horus had taken. "Horus mentioned Ahmen is in need of healing. Perhaps we should go to him." He let go of her hand, and she shivered. Loneliness touched her, cold, alienating. She returned to the divan. Urhi-Teshub closed the door, blocking out the sight of the tower, the place she was destined to go. The place she never wished to enter.

She returned her attention to the pendant and traced the outline of the serpents' curves, her fingers moving over their undulations, the action driven by memory. A glimmer of white light suffused its core. It spread along its length, faint, a promise. Her heart tightened. A relic Teshub had called it, a gift from the Creator. From another world—another life. Long before she had left the court of Tarhuntassa, the Creator had chosen her. The weight of her burden bore down on her. Despite all she had suffered, so much still remained uncertain. While in Imaru, she had thought her path was simple, her purpose clear: find a safe haven for the gods, aid the others as they stood against Marduk, and, her deepest desire—reprieve Sethi from the darkness.

Urhi-Teshub settled into his seat, his fingers once more moving over the controls, deft, expert. A roar erupted from the rear, followed by a rush of speed. The walls and floor shimmered and turned translucent. Beneath her feet, the complex fell away, the ships of the gods shrinking—toys scattered along the edge of the magnificence of the complex. In the distance, their destination: the palace where Ahmen and the portal to Marduk's stronghold awaited. Its sprawl claimed more than half the side of a verdant hill, its yellowed ashlars, columns, and walls a dull orange in the heat-soaked, late afternoon light. They fell into an ascending arc. On the largest terrace, a blinding gleam reflected against the fuselage of Horus's golden ship, stark against the severity of Sekhmet's black one parked further along.

Urhi-Teshub slowed, brought them down beside the other ships, and cut the engine. Silence swarmed over Istara's senses. From the rear of the ship, the quiet tick of cooling metal.

In her hand, the pendant pulsed once, twice, then fell silent. She tucked it into a fold of her gown as Urhi-Teshub pressed the symbols on the door's panel. A quiet hiss. The door opened. Broiling, heated air rushed in, thick with the gritty, acrid tang of the ship's silenced fire.

He turned, the storm god's powerful silhouette almost filling the opening. "If Marduk arrives before the shield is activated—"

Istara nodded, quiet. Our last hope will be gone. Sethi will be lost, forever. Her heart tight, she rose. The late afternoon light limned the storm god's leather armor, a halo. Hope touched her. Soon the sun would set and Thoth would activate the cores. "The Creator will protect us," she said.

Urhi-Teshub blinked. A look fleeted over his features, enigmatic. He turned his attention back to the blistering heat of the terrace, toward the scorch marks left by Horus's ship. "Perhaps," he said, his grip on the ax's shaft tightening. A gust of heated air swept into the ship. He left, clad in silence, the bleakness of his response lingering, ominous, cold, despite the heat.