The Rise of the Goddess

18 | THE ANSWER

Far into the night, when the fire had sunk to a dull orange glow, its faint heat no longer able to keep the room's chill at bay, Meresamun set aside the final volume. Her legs tingled, numb from kneeling. Pulling her legs out from under her, she massaged them, enduring the sharp prickles of invisible needles digging into her flesh.

Around her, Zarpanitu's volumes fanned out across the rug, organized into piles by subject matter. There was no doubt, Marduk's first consort possessed vast knowledge and a monumental well of intelligence, her insight far outstripping even the hallowed, arcane writings of Egypt's ancient sages.

But this, what Meresamun had learned today, would take weeks to digest, perhaps even months. Everything she had learned during her time in Egypt amounted to nothing more than a shadow of what Zarpanitu knew, Marduk's first consort's understanding of the secrets of life soared far beyond the shallow perspectives of mortals to the deepest mysteries of the cosmos.

According to Zarpanitu, thousands of worlds existed within the universe, but there were also other universes, each with their own worlds, all of them unaware of the multitudes of other universes existing a mere breath away from their own. She claimed this collection of universes—called the multiverse—could be imagined as spheres attached to an undulating, flat surface as vast as the expanse of the ocean, comparing its appearance to beads of rain clinging to a spider's web. In each universe, darkness and light wrestled to gain supremacy, but, she had found, at least in her own universe, the darkness possessed an advantage in the material world, where exploitation and violence would reward those who chose that path. As the ages passed, the light—already weak where the pleasures of the body took precedent over the esoteric pursuits of the mind—became sequestered into sacred enclaves, fenced in by the darkness's corruption as it fed on the hate, greed, and violence of mortals.

The battle between dark and light seemed destined to end with the dark's ultimate triumph when she uncovered an anomaly—her calculations revealed the presence of another, solitary universe, separate from the others—the math frustrating her. It shifted, nebulous, as though even the calculations flickered in and out of existence. She suspected this universe might be from where all life in the multiverse had sprung. If so, perhaps there was still a chance to overcome the darkness and fill the multiverse with light. It was at this point in her research when her world began to crumble and she wondered if the fault lay with her, having probed too far, her calculations unraveling the fabric of reality itself. With her last breaths she had begged for forgiveness, for a reprieve, a second chance, to find a way to overcome the darkness. When she woke, held in Marduk's arms, she learned the awful truth. Her reprieve had come, not by the hand of light, but of darkness. The Creator had abandoned her to the very thing she sought to defeat.

Meresamun rubbed her eyes and let out a heavy breath. Zarpanitu's writings encompassed vast, oppressive matters, far removed from the smallness of her own existence, and still, her question remained unanswered, of how to live with Marduk. Apart from the first volume which only spoke of Zarpanitu's suffering, and her research into how to find the so-called well of life, Meresamun was none the wiser—

A heavy knock came to the door, harsh, jarring. Meresamun started. A primal, incandescent bolt of fear shot through her. She cut a look at the closed door, her sudden awareness of the bleakness of the night hour and her being alone in an empty, dark palace paralysing her. Outside, the black canopy of the moonless sky riven by the sweep of a milky band of stars bore down on her, heavy with the weight of night. Over the shadowed cliffs, green and red curtains of light danced in the heavens, numinous, ephemeral.

"Ninsunu," Marduk called, quiet, firm. "Come to me."

She let out a quivering breath and got to her feet. The remaining fuel in the fire collapsed with a soft shudder. The shadows in the room eased closer, encroaching her shrinking cocoon of light. Casting one last look at the empty box, she lingered, disappointment shearing through her. She had learned both much—and nothing.

With a sigh, she turned from the box. In the falling darkness, a faint gleam of blue caught her eye. She blinked and looked back. It was gone. It must have been her imagination. Turning, she caught it again. Slow, she turned back. This time she saw it. She stopped and held still. The palest of blue, no wider than the span of a thread sat tucked in the upper lip of the lid's edge. Her heart clenched. A hidden compartment. Holding her breath, she pressed her fingers against the spot, searching for a niche or a lever. There. A quiet click, and a section of the lid's beveled edge slid back.

Within, tucked in the space, a single, slim volume, bound in black leather, its pages numbering no more than ten. With trembling fingers she opened it, and placed the device on it. She flipped through the pages, frantic, aware Marduk was waiting—horrified by the message the device revealed. Finally, the answer she sought, but it was an awful, terrible thing. She staggered, sliding the volume back into its hiding place, her fingers finding the lever, secreting Zarpanitu's words once more. He couldn't know she knew. It would be the end of everything.

"Ninsunu?" The door's handle lifted, stealthy.

"Coming," Meresamun said, tight, her heart pounding. Nausea slammed into her, the weight of Zarpanitu's confession, and the magnitude of Marduk's deception impaling her. He had broken his promise—the one he had made her swear to uphold. Despite his guileless words to the contrary, he must have read his first consort's words, because he had packed this box and purposely secreted this damning volume away from the others, where only he would find it. Meresamun shuddered, her eyes straying back to the near-invisible hiding place. The truth was far more terrible than she could ever have imagined.

The door opened. Cold air swept in. Marduk waited at the threshold dressed in his black armor, his eyes shadowed, and his weapons glinting in the waning firelight. His dark gaze swept over her, drifted to the empty box, then to the volumes spread across the rug. He held out his gloved hand to her.

"Come to me, my love," he whispered, gentle.

Broken, she went, shivering in her thin gown, loathing him for his lies, his falseness—yet needing him to comfort her, she, adrift in a sea of chaos, and he, the sole, poisonous island to save her from drowning. He caught her to him and held her fast against his chest, his warmth saturating her, awakening her, conflicting her.

"Shh," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. "I should have warned you. Perhaps it was too much, too fast. Zarpanitu's knowledge was unlike any other's. Even I struggled to keep up."

Meresamun didn't answer. Instead, she let him lead her through the cold, dark, silent palace, across the walkway lit by the light of the stars, and into his firelit apartment, where he had prepared a steaming, jasmine-scented bath for her. With gentle movements, he washed and dried her and carried her to his bed, easing the silken blanket over her, tender, reverent. Numb, Meresamun waited for him to take her, but he did not. Instead, his carnelian eyes on her, unreadable, he finished his wine, came to the bed, took her into his arms, and held her as the black-bound volume's words burned, indelible, into the darkest corners of her mind. She clung to him, her enemy, her lover, as her heart tumbled, terrified, hollow, toward her destiny.