The Rise of the Goddess

22 | SOMETHING DIFFERENT, SOMETHING GOOD

A violent scream tore through Meresamun's mind. It burrowed into her, searing through flesh and bone. She sat up, trembling, her heart pounding. Brilliant sunlight flooded Marduk's apartment. The scream continued, a crescendoing wail, tearing across the chasm, echoing along the walls of the cliffs, its cry deepening as it neared the palace. As it swept past the terrace it fell to a reverberating thunder, the smooth exterior of Marduk's war ship catching in the light of the morning sun as it circled, jets of steam hissing from its wings as it prepared to lower its bulk onto the palace's lower terrace.

Her heart sinking, she eyed the ship as it descended past the edge of Marduk's terrace. Though she was loathe to admit it, Sethi's cold violence frightened her, even more than the dark moods of her consort. Marduk's enslaved god was far removed from the man she remembered from Egypt, whose honor and integrity had been legendary. But now, suppressed by the power of the device, he reeked of tyranny, arrogance, and heartlessness. He took what he wanted. Life meant nothing to him. Mercy was unknown. Brutality shrouded him. It was if the device had stripped away all his good qualities and enhanced his darkest traits, feeding them, empowering them. Whatever Marduk had buried into Sethi's head was powerful if it could overcome the will of a god—and the god of war was no lesser god. Horus—the god Sethi had superseded—had been one of the greatest gods of the Egyptian pantheon. The protector of pharaohs.

Meresamun shivered as a blast of cool mountain air washed through the room, drawn into the palace's sheltered alcove in the wake of the ship. She fell back against the cushions and stared at the designs painted on the ceiling—beautiful images of white-winged horses battled against black horses bearing equally stunning wings of night—considering whether she dared return to the study where Zarpanitu's bound notes still remained spread out across the rug. She eyed one pair of horses: the black horse's teeth were bared. It bit deep into the throat of a white one. The white horse's eyes rolled, wide with pain and fear as it tumbled to its death. She stared at it, stricken, seeing herself in the white horse, and Marduk in the black.

Unable to die as Zarpanitu had done, Meresamun knew, in time, Marduk would overcome her will unless she stopped him as his first consort had failed to do. Her thoughts moved, cautious, to the hidden volume she had found, the one which could only have been secreted there by Marduk, his intention for it never to be found by any other than he.

Zarpanitu had addressed her notes to Marduk's next consort—in them she had detailed the aching truth. Regret for her failings bled from the pages. Soon she would fall to Marduk's thrall; his darkness clawed at her, tainted her. It had begun to change her, turning her away from the light. In a desperate bid to stop the inevitable, she wrote that she would put herself in harm's way on purpose. She would tempt fate over and over until her life became forfeit. She would not let Marduk's darkness consume her heart—could not use her knowledge to aid him in his agenda to rule, alone, forever. Horus, unaware of her design, had done her a kindness by granting her the escape she sought. And now, Sethi paid the price for it. Meresamun closed her eyes, shutting out the grisly image of the suffering horse. And Marduk knew. He knew Zarpanitu had wanted to die, had chosen death to escape him, yet, despite this, he had waited an eon feeding on thoughts of revenge, unable, or unwilling to accept the truth: He had been the true cause of his consort's demise. Horus had merely provided the blade.

Near the end of her notes, Zarpanitu had reiterated her belief the well of life existed in a special world, one she termed as the first world. Meresamun opened her eyes again, her gaze returning to the image of the savaged horse, the pain in its eyes visceral. How was she—a once-enslaved priestess—to find this well if her illustrious predecessor had failed? How was she even to begin? Who could she ask? She was powerless, and Marduk knew it.

And yet, if she did nothing, she was destined to become as black-hearted and dangerous as her consort. No. She would not go down without a fight. She still had the translation device, and in her wanderings through the palace, she had discovered a vast library hidden behind a plain door. At first she had been delighted, her love of learning and discovery reawakened, but when she opened the scrolls she found the language impossible to comprehend. The elegant, complex symbols alienating her despite her enhanced abilities to pick up the various languages of Elati. When she had asked a passing servant what language was written upon the scrolls, she learned it was an archaic one, long lost to the deepest of time. She had left, disappointment and loneliness deepening her isolation. But now, with Marduk's device, nothing stood in her way. She suspected she would discover nothing more regarding the so-called well of life, but she might learn something. It was a start.

She turned onto her side. On the low table beside the bed, a silver pot rested on a stand with a burning flame. The sharp, bitter scent of coffee, a beverage Marduk had introduced her to met her nostrils. The first time she had tried it, she had recoiled, unable to bear its exotic, rich, bitter heat. But when it could be adapted to suit her taste with something called sugar, a pale brown crystal from the Senichin Isles, and cream, she found it quite pleasant after all. Coffee was perhaps the only thing she and Marduk agreed on—it truly was the drink of the gods.

She sat up and poured out a generous measure, vapors of steam rising from within the smooth-glazed ceramic of her cup. From the little pots beside the warmed pot of coffee, she added sugar and cream, the familiar ritual soothing her. The coffee slid down her throat, hot, comforting, just a little too sweet. Slipping out of the bed, she pulled on a silken robe and ventured out onto the terrace, the warmth of the sun on her shoulders staving off the worst of the mountains' chill. At the edge of the terrace, she wrapped her arms around herself and eyed the scene unfolding below.

Marduk's war ship hulked over the lower terrace. Greasy vapors leaked from its rear, distorting the cool morning air. Beneath the monstrosity, the terrace's once-beautiful tiled mosaic surface lay ruined—blasted, scorched, and blackened by the flames of the ship's dozens of arrivals and departures.

Sethi was nowhere to be seen. He must have already gone inside to meet her consort, to spend the day locked in Marduk's office discussing strategy. Idle, thinking of the hours she would be able to spend undisturbed scouring the library for answers, she sipped her coffee as the servants began to haul out the latest offering of tribute.

An old man stepped out of the ship, a long white robe tied closed over one of his bony shoulders. He walked to the edge of the terrace, limping a little. Across his chest he bore the burden of a bulging leather satchel, and perched on his gauntleted arm, a hooded falcon. He looked around, slow, surveying the cliffs and the palace, his gaze sharp, intelligent. Meresamun leaned forward, intrigued. None like him had ever arrived before. She wondered who he was, and why Sethi had brought him here. The old man stroked the bird's wing, fond, his eyes moving over the sky. His gaze paused on the twin moons, pale crescents locked in the midst of a quiet blue. The steward called to him, impatient. The old man turned and limped through the growing pile of goods under the ship's wing, to disappear within the shadows of the palace.

Meresamun hurried back into Marduk's apartment. She dressed, her fingers trembling, tangling in the gown's ties in her haste. There was something about that man, something different, something good. She sensed he could tell her much about the world Marduk had brought her to, though she also suspected Marduk would not approve of her meeting him. Her heart thudded, urgency stamping itself into her, forcing her to hurry, warning her time was short. Clasping the translation device against her torso, she left Marduk's suite to the quiet work of his silent, black-clad servants and slipped along the corridors of the palace. Her heart pulling her toward her destination, both aching with hope she was right, and raw with fear she was not.