The Rise of the Goddess

19 | STOLEN MEMORIES

Istara stood on the terrace, gazing at Imaru's lake, its surface reflecting the canopy of stars processing across the heavens in their stately dance, the images of the two crescent moons rippling in the basin's soft waters. Her grief had solidified, encasing her heart in silence. During the five hour flight back to Imaru, none of the others had troubled her, leaving her to her dark thoughts and recriminations.

Thoth had remained in the cabin with her, fussing over the cores, dusting them off, making notes, muttering to himself while working on his endless calculations. Beyond the open door to the flight deck, Sekhmet had answered Urhi-Teshub's questions about the construction and inner workings of her ship, his eyes moving over the console, hungry to understand what each of the controls could do. The goddess of war had smiled, pleased, and indulged him, sharing its secrets as her ship tore across the empty skies of Elati, wounded, yet proud, carrying its precious, hard-won cargo.

"My lady," Urhi-Teshub said, coming up behind Istara. "The apartment is secure. I will leave you to your rest."

She turned. He had changed out of his ruined leather armor which had borne long scores and deep, ragged abrasions along its arms and legs from his wild slide down the side of the pyramid. Now he stood, washed and scented in the sweet, earthy scent of cyprinum, wearing his usual attire: a gold-gilt leather tunic and kilt, its fitted cut enhancing his powerful physique. He folded his arms over his chest, the hard contours of his muscles catching in the terrace's torchlight, his presence dominating her, oppressing her, reminding her of when he had held her in his arms, naked, and primed to love her.

Istara nodded. Dullness lapped against her. She had meant to ask him, had been determined to find out all—how she had come to him, wondering if she had been a slave girl who had caught his eye, or a princess—longing to piece together what had driven her to leave her beloved consort's side and take the form of a mortal. To have become his queen, she would have had to plan her seduction. To capture the heart of a king would require deft maneuvering. The depth of her deception gnawed at her. Whatever they had shared had been no stolen night between god and mortal, it had been something much larger—she had loved him, heart and soul, had become his queen. She closed her eyes. She had abandoned Sethi—for a passing infatuation. And now, her once-lover stood before her, an immortal and her protector. The evidence damned her. He had followed her to Elati, had left his empire behind. Her betrayal must have torn Sethi apart. Because of her Sethi had turned away from the gods and aligned himself with their enemy.

"Why—" she began, meaning to ask him why her protector had left his people for her, then turned away, unable to frame her question. She looked up at the stars, heartsick, condemned by the magnitude of her crime.

The whisper of the panels of his leather tunic reached her as he moved closer. "Why what?" he asked, low.

When she didn't answer. He continued, cautious, "You haven't been yourself since we returned. Did something happen while we were inside the pyramids' field?"

She scoffed. "What didn't happen?" she asked, unhappiness saturating her. She lifted her shoulders and let them fall again. "There were things, although I am sure we all suffered equally."

"Will you not tell me what is troubling you?" He eased up beside her. She caught his look, his concern, his willingness to ease her pain.

"It is nothing more than I can manage," she said. She looked down at her hands folded over her torso. Glimmers of her golden light sparkled along them. "It is the guilt I must bear which burdens me."

"Guilt?" Urhi-Teshub repeated. His brow furrowed. "For what?"

She flashed him a reproachful look. "Of course you would not see it so."

He took a step back. "I do not understand your meaning. You have no guilt. In everything you are blameless."

"Ah, so you would try to convince me the guilt is yours?"

He stared at her, uncomprehending. "What guilt?" he cried. "You are speaking in riddles."

She took a step toward him, anger coursing through her, the banked fires within stirring, awakening, scorching her. "You took me to your bed," she said, her hands clenching into fists, helpless against the need to blame someone for her downfall. "We lay together, naked, as lovers. I loved you. We were in love."

"Istara," Urhi-Teshub said, taking hold of her arms, steadying her. "That was a long time ago. You moved on, and broke my heart."

Istara looked away, tears of pent-up rage blistered her eyes. "To what? Another lover? Where is he? Why did he not follow me as you have done?"

Urhi-Teshub's grip tightened on her. "You do not know what you are saying," he muttered. He let her go and backed away. "You must speak with Thoth. I am sworn to silence in this matter."

"Thoth," Istara repeated, dull, the fires of her anger fading, abandoning her as quick as they ignited. "You know he will tell me nothing."

Urhi-Teshub looked over the city. He let out a heavy breath. "You have nothing to be guilty of," he repeated, dogged. "Take some rest. We have endured a difficult day. That unnatural place only gave us glimpses of places and events. Whatever you saw, do not believe it was the whole of it. Trust in the Creator. He took your memories for a reason."

Istara caught his glance in the direction of her door, his desperation to get away, to untangle himself from her predicament.

"And yet, the Creator has allowed Sethi to remember," she whispered as her protector strode from the terrace and through her rooms, eager to depart, "else why would he stand against me?" From within the depths of her apartment, Urhi-Teshub opened the door. It closed behind him, soft, the latch clicking into place. She turned again to look at the stars, but saw nothing except darkness.