Istara opened her eyes. Speckled rays of early morning sun streamed through the filigreed lattices of her suite and flickered against the wall. For several heartbeats, disorientation clambered over her. Then, it came. The dream. Again. Every morning for the last week it had taunted her—the sensation someone had watched her as she slept.
It lingered at the edge of her awareness, sensual, enticing. She held still, not even daring to breathe. There. A glimpse of starlight over rugged features, eyes of gold, riven with love and longing. Fingers against her lips, tender, worshipful. A kiss, faint, a mere whisper. She clung to it, willing there to be more. The images faded, slid behind the curtain of her mind, elusive once more. In their wake, a wave of yearning, haunted with melancholy.
She lifted herself up onto her elbows and eyed the closed lattices, sensing the one she dreamed of had been here, before, with her, in this suite, in the flesh, and yet, no—it was impossible. She had no consort, nor even a lover. She lived like her confidant and closest friend, Thoth, chaste and alone, her time filled by her duties as the leader of the pantheon of gods.
And yet—frustration prickled. She searched her mind, traversed its lonely corridors. Nothing. She did not recognize the one who had come to her. He was not one of the gods, and neither would any dare use trickery against her, to deceive her into an amorous relationship. A memory of a late night conversation shared with Thoth eons ago tantalized. The god of wisdom had spoken of one who glinted with the power of the stars and resided in a realm far removed from the one of gods and men. The Creator.
Her cheeks warmed, shamed by the arrogance of her thoughts. Of course her visitor was not the Creator. He would never lower himself to take the form of one of his creatures. Or—would he? In the same conversation, Thoth had also mentioned during one of his solitary journeys into the mountains to commune with the Creator, a man—a powerful warrior—had walked out of the evening's shadows and asked to share Thoth's fire. He had carried a pair of fresh-caught fish, which he had prepared and served for their dinner.
They had whiled away the evening, companionable, comfortable, speaking of the stars, and of the vast time which encompassed their slow procession across the heavens. Later, deep in the night, as Thoth fought fatigue and struggled to stay awake, they spoke of beginnings and endings, of the death of eternity, and its rebirth, an endless cycle.
When Thoth woke to the gray light of dawn, his guest was gone, as was all evidence of his having ever been there. It was only as he rubbed his eyes he realized there were no lakes within hundreds of iters of the mountains. Whoever had come to him was no god, neither had he arrived in a ship—
Thoth had stopped there, content to leave the identity of his guest open to speculation. Istara had believed at the time Thoth had merely had a dream. Now, her certainty wavered.
She sat up and pushed the sheets aside, deciding she would ask Thoth more about his fish-carrying visitor, though she would never admit to her dreams, not even to him, with whom she was wont to share most of her thoughts.
Turning her mind to the day ahead, she considered the binding ceremony to come and the celebrations which would follow. She smiled, recalling Urhi-Teshub's joy when he had knelt and requested her blessing. At last, after entertaining the pantheon with their passionate, violent misunderstandings and equally amorous reconciliations, the pair had, at last, succumbed to the other. Both stubborn, both fierce, both alike in so many ways, and yet, they were perfect. It was rumored that atop one of Nisu's ziqqurati, Sekhmet had challenged Urhi-Teshub to a duel. Some said she had defeated him with her blades, until he, in turn, conquered her with his love.
Still smiling, Istara reached out to collect her silken robe. A white rose fell from its folds. A glimmer of stars glinted within its heart. It had been no dream after all. The one who had stood over her as she slept, his powerful jaw graced by a shimmer of starlight, had left her a gift.
She lifted the rose, admiring its perfection, the silkiness of its petals, the softness of its kiss against her cheek. Roses were her favorite. Although—white was an odd choice. In Elati, white roses were strewn over the bodies of fallen mortals, a symbol of grief, loss, and sorrow, of the finality of death. Wondering at its meaning, she set it upon her pillow. Despite the day only having just begun, its rich, exotic scent heavy with the warmth of the sun lingered against her soul, a promise.
The clarion peal of horns silvered the morning air. She eyed the rose for another heartbeat, hoping for another shimmer of starlight. It remained innocent of its previous glory, a mere rose once more. Suppressing a shear of disappointment, she left it behind and crossed the marble tiles, surrounded by the whisper of her robe. In the speckled light of the morning's sun, she pulled the nearest pair of shutters open and emerged into the rising warmth of a new day.
She went to the edge of the terrace. The city of Nisu spread away, its valley of white and gold temples, gardens, plazas, libraries, markets, and pools awakening to the steady, stately rise of the sun. The glittering palaces of the gods overlooked the basin of the city, where those who served the gods kept their villas—their indigo, emerald, garnet, and purple awnings rippling in the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze.
Across the sweep of city, nascent bursts of sunlight glinted against the rows of gold-sheathed obelisks lining the plazas and avenues. To the west, caught within the horizon's ribbon of pale pink, Elati's white moon lowered its bulk toward a marble-faced ziqqurati, whose tiers overflowed with elegant gardens.
Along the city's palm-lined avenues, movement, as the kings and queens of Elati's kingdoms arrived in their golden chariots and palanquins via the temples housing Thoth's portals. The royals and their guests poured into Nisu from their cities, having crossed vast distances within the space of a heartbeat. In their wake, trains of nobles bearing gifts for the storm god and the goddess of war. They made their way up the tiers leading to the flower-strewn plaza of the central complex, the buzz of their anticipation sizzling through the morning air.
Istara lifted her eyes past the growing throng clustering around the silken pavilions, past the trio of golden pyramids, which had been there ever since she could remember, to the enormous temple set in the center of the plaza—the temple where Urhi-Teshub and Sekhmet would soon bind their hearts together for eternity. From within the temple's colonnaded depths, an endless pillar of light streamed up into the heavens soaked with the light of stars, an eternal beacon which pierced the darkness beyond the reach of the ships of the gods.
Deep within the pillar's heart, Thoth had perceived a thin, almost imperceptible line of darkness which soaked its core, utter and absolute. Why such a thing was there, amidst the silent pyramids in the center of the city of the gods, or what it did remained a mystery. He had deemed the central complex sacred, an unknowable gift of the Creator and had spent a thousand years constructing the temple around the pillar, a place of mathematical perfection. It became a place for the gods to seek communion with the Creator of all life, though his silence had been deafening.
Istara cut a look over her shoulder, back into her suite, toward her bed where the rose lay, her heart riven between awe and hope. A whisper of the memory of his lips against hers fleeted through her, sending a shiver of pleasure rippling along her spine.
A quiet knock and the doors of her suite opened. Her attendants entered, reverent, quiet, laden with breakfast trays and her finery for the day.
She went to a divan overlooking the city and sat, waiting, as her servants prepared her breakfast platter, her thoughts lingering on the rose, and the one who had left it for her—a glimmer of starlight against his jaw.
❃
Ahmen made his way across the plaza, weaving his way through the crowds toward Serde's pavilion, his heart thudding with anticipation. This would be his chance, perhaps his only chance. Sequestered within the hallowed walls of the queen's palace, he had seen her only twice during his numerous visits to Ikalur, when the queen's court had been present while the king knelt before the pegagi Ahmen had escorted from Anki, its liquid eyes enhanced by its affinity with the Creator.
The day he learned her name, the pegagi, Amara, had granted Serde's queen its companionship and wisdom for a month. The queen had called her over to greet the pegagi. She had lifted her hand to its nose, filled with wonder at its gold-tipped wings folded against its back, ready to take flight within the space of a heartbeat.
Aiya.
Her name still sent ripples through his soul, a gentle rainfall against the yawning ravine of his lonely heart. Since then, he hadn't stopped thinking of her, dreaming of her. He was a wealthy man, as wealthy as most kings, his affinity with the pegagi unparalleled, his fortunes enhanced by his friendship with the storm god—though how they had become friends neither of them could quite recall. Urhi-Teshub, having uncovered Ahmen's love interest, had sent a message to Serde's king to ensure Aiya would be in attendance on the day of his binding. In addition, he had requested as a gift to him, that she be released from her duties to the queen for the day.
Ahmen cast a quick look over his attire, ensuring his gold-embroidered kilt hung in its perfect folds, and his golden armbands and gold-embossed belt sat not a hair out of place. His oiled and scented skin gleamed in the light of the mid-morning sun, its nascent heat already warming his flesh. And now, he was only heartbeats from seeing her again, from having to craft a reason to make himself known to her. Within the shade of Serde's blue and white pavilion, he picked up a golden cup of mead from a server's tray and drank, eyeing the beautiful crowd from over the cup's rim. At the far end of the pavilion, atop a raised platform, King Rhewyn and Queen Welyn sat upon their thrones, smiling, happy and relaxed, sipping from jeweled goblets.
The faint scent of gardenias drifted over him, layered with the warmth of the sun, ripe fruits, and sweet spices. He knew that scent. Aiya. His heart thudded. He turned.
She tilted her head at him, a faint smile ghosted her lips. "My lord Ahmen-om-onet, you grace us with your presence." She bowed her head. "It is a pleasure to at last meet the one who communes with the pegagi."
Her soft greeting tore through him, unraveled him. He blinked, at a loss, her beauty even more devastating than he remembered. In the heartbeat before she had bowed, her eyes had touched his, brilliant, like emeralds, honest, gentle, good. In all his imaginings of how he would begin a conversation with her, it had never occurred to him she might speak to him first.
She lifted her head, met his eyes, the faint smile at the corners of her lips slaying him. "I am Aiya."
"I know," Ahmen said before he could stop himself. She caught her smile, turned and lifted a cup of mead from a passing server. Sipped. He watched her swallow in an agony of humiliation. Nothing was going as he had planned. Nothing.
"I know you know," she said, quiet, her eyes on the contents of her cup.
Ahmen caught the look she swept up to him from under her lashes, the shy smile, the faint tremor of hope as she caught her lower lip between her teeth, the act both innocent and sensual.
Her vulnerability tore into him, scored a path deep into his heart. To think he had feared she might reject him. He glimpsed the queen eyeing them from over the rim of her cup, her pleasure at their pairing ripe with expectation. He wondered if all this time Aiya had felt the same for him. In time, he would know the truth, but for now, he was content just to be with her, beside her, her heart calling to his.
He bowed, a slave to her perfection. "Lady Aiya," he said, no longer lost, but found, "shall we walk and talk of pegagi, and Ikalur, and of the celebrations to come today?"
He lifted his arm to escort her away from the oblique looks of Serde's nobility. The touch of her jeweled fingers against the back of his hand sent a bolt through him. In its wake, an image, sharp, lanced into him, of Aiya trapped within the wreckage of a burning ship, blistered and bloody, looking up at him with terror in her eyes.
He blinked, taken aback, distressed he might have glimpsed their future. No. His heart hardened as he shoved the disturbing image away. There would never be such a future for them as this. He would protect her, always. He looked down into her upturned face, her eyes open and trusting, utterly lacking in the artifice usual among a queen's women.
Under her quiet gaze, the noise of the crowd melted away. The steady thud of his heartbeat filled his senses, alive with the hope of her, and of the end of his fragmented dreams of another, her body laced with dark markings, her sorrowful eyes haunting him long after he woke. He enfolded Aiya's hand in his, and as her fingers laced between his there were no more dark images, only her smile, her light, and her love.