The Throne of Fire

by Rick Riordan

  Bes dumped them on firm ground. Then he turned to Vlad Menshikov, planted his feet, and ripped off his Hawaiian shirt and shorts like they were made of tissue. His eyes blazed with anger. His Speedo was embroidered with the words Dwarf Pride, which was something I really didn’t need to see.

  Menshikov only had time to say, “How—”

  “BOO!” yelled Bes.

  The sound was like the blast of an H-bomb—or a U-bomb, for Ugly. The ground shook. The river rippled. My avatar collapsed, and Menshikov’s spell dissolved with it—the venom taste in my mouth subsiding, the pressure lifting so I could breathe again. Sadie and Walt were already on the ground. Zia had quickly backed away. But Menshikov and Desjardins got a full blast of ugly right in their faces.

  Their expressions turned to astonishment, and they disintegrated on the spot.

  After a moment of shock, Zia gasped. “You killed them!”

  “Nah.” Bes dusted off his hands. “Just scared ’em back home. They may be unconscious for a few hours while their brains try to process my magnificent physique, but they’ll live. More important—” He scowled at Sadie and Walt. “You two had the nerve to anchor a portal on me? Do I look like a relic?”

  Sadie and Walt wisely didn’t answer that. They got to their feet, brushing off the sand.

  “It wasn’t our idea!” Sadie protested. “Ptah sent us here to help you.”

  “Ptah?” I said. “Ptah, the god?”

  “No, Ptah the date farmer. I’ll tell you later.”

  “What’s wrong with your hair?” I asked. “It looks like a camel licked it.”

  “Shut up.” Then she noticed Zia. “My god, is that her? The real Zia?”

  Zia stumbled back, trying to light up her staff. “Get away!” The fire spluttered weakly.

  “We’re not going to hurt you,” Sadie promised.

  Zia’s legs shook. Her hands trembled. Then she did the only logical thing for someone who’d been through her kind of day after a three-month coma. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she passed out.

  Bes grunted. “Strong girl. She held up under a full frontal BOO! Still…we’d better pick her up and get out of here. Desjardins won’t stay gone forever.”

  “Sadie,” I said, “did you get the scroll?”

  She pulled all three scrolls out of her bag. Part of me was relieved. Part of me was frightened.

  “We need to get to the Great Pyramid,” she said. “Please tell me you have a car.”

  Not only did we have a car, we had a whole bunch of Bedouins. We returned their truck well after dark, but the Bedouins seemed happy to see us, even though we’d brought three extra people, one of them unconscious. Somehow Bes made a deal with them to drive us to Cairo. After a few minutes talking in their tent, he emerged wearing new robes. The Bedouins came out ripping the remains of his Hawaiian shirt into strips, which they carefully wrapped around their arms, their radio antenna, and their rearview mirror as good luck talismans.

  We piled into the back of the truck. It was too crowded and noisy to talk much as we drove to Cairo. Bes told us to get some sleep while he kept watch. He promised he’d be nice to Zia if she woke up.

  Sadie and Walt went straight to sleep, but I stared at the stars for a while. I was painfully aware of Zia—the real Zia—sleeping fitfully right next to me, and the magic weapons of Ra, the crook and the flail, now stashed in my bag. My body was still buzzing from the battle. Menshikov’s spell had been broken, but I could still hear his voice in my head, trying to turn me into a cold-blooded reptile—sort of like him.

  Finally, I managed to close my eyes. Without magical protection, my ba drifted as soon as I fell asleep.

  I found myself in the Hall of Ages, in front of the pharaoh’s throne. Between the columns on either side, holographic images shimmered. Just as Sadie had described, the edge of the magic curtain was turning from red to deep purple —indicating a new age. The images in purple were hard to make out, but I thought I saw two figures grappling in front of a burning chair.

  “Yes,” said the voice of Horus. “The battle approaches.”

  He appeared in a ripple of light, standing on the steps of the dais where the Chief Lector usually sat. He was in human form, a muscular young man with bronze skin and a shaved head. Jewels glinted on his leather battle armor, and his khopesh hung at his side. His eyes gleamed—one gold, one silver.

  “How did you get here?” I asked. “Isn’t this place shielded against gods?”

  “I’m not here, Carter. You are. But we were once joined. I am an echo in your mind—the part of Horus that never left you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just listen. Your situation has changed. You stand on the threshold of greatness.”

  He pointed at my chest. I looked down and realized I wasn’t in my usual ba form. Instead of a bird, I was a human, dressed like Horus in Egyptian armor. In my hands were the crook and flail.

  “These aren’t mine,” I said. “They were buried with Zia.”

  “They could be yours,” Horus said. “They are the symbols of the pharaoh—like staff and wand, only a hundred times more powerful. Even with no practice, you were able to channel their power. Imagine what we could do together.” He gestured to the empty throne. “You could unite the House of Life as its leader. We could crush our enemies.”

  I won’t deny: part of me felt a thrill. Months ago, the idea of being a leader scared me to death. Now things had changed. My own understanding of magic had grown. I’d spent three months teaching and turning our initiates into a team. I understood the threat we were facing more clearly, and I was beginning to understand how to channel the power of Horus without being overwhelmed. What if Horus was right, and I could lead the gods and magicians against Apophis? I liked the idea of smashing our enemies, getting back at the forces of Chaos that had turned our lives upside down.

  Then I remembered the way Zia had looked at me when I was about to kill Vlad Menshikov—like I was the monster. I remembered what Desjardins had said about the bad old days when magician fought magician. If Horus was an echo in my mind, maybe I was being affected by his desire to rule. I knew Horus well now. He was a good guy in many ways—brave, honorable, righteous. But he was also ambitious, greedy, jealous, and single-minded when it came to his goals. And his biggest desire was to rule the gods.

  “The crook and flail belong to Ra,” I said. “We have to wake him.”

  Horus tilted his head. “Even though Apophis wants that to happen? Even though Ra is weak and old? I warned you about the divisions between the gods. You saw how Nekhbet and Babi tried to take matters into their own hands. The strife will only get worse. Chaos feeds on weak leaders, divided loyalties. That’s what Vladimir Menshikov is after.”

  The Hall of Ages trembled. Along either wall, the curtain of purple light expanded. As the holographic scene widened, I could tell that the chair was a fiery throne, like the one Sadie had described in her vision of Ra’s boat. Two shadowy figures were locked in combat, grappling like wrestlers, but I couldn’t tell if they were trying to push each other into the chair, or trying to keep each other out of it.

  “Did Menshikov really try to destroy the Book of Ra?” I asked.

  Horus’s silver eye glinted. It always seemed a little brighter than his golden one, which made me feel disoriented, like the whole world was listing to one side. “Like most things Menshikov says, it was a partial truth. He once believed as you do. He thought he could bring back Ra and restore Ma’at. He imagined himself as the high priest of a glorious new temple, even more powerful than his ancestors. In his pride, he thought he could reconstruct the Book of Ra from the one scroll in his possession. He was wrong. Ra had taken great pains not to be wakened. The curses on the scroll burned Menshikov’s eyes. Sun fire seared his throat because he dared to read the words of the spell. After that, Menshikov turned bitter. At first he plotted to destroy the Book of Ra, but he did not have the power. Then he hit upon a new plan. He would awake
n Ra, but for revenge. That’s what he’s been waiting for, all these years. That’s why he wants you to collect the scrolls and reconstruct the Book of Ra. Menshikov wants to see the old god swallowed by Apophis. He wants to see the world plunged into darkness and chaos. He is quite insane.”

  “Oh.”

  [Great response, I know. But what do you say to a story like that?]

  On the dais next to Horus, the empty throne of the pharaoh seemed to undulate in the purple light. That chair had always intimidated me. Long ago, the pharaoh had been the most powerful ruler in the world. He had controlled an empire that lasted twenty times longer than my own country, the U.S., had existed. How could I be worthy of sitting there?

  “You can do it, Carter,” Horus urged. “You can take control. Why take the risk of summoning Ra? Your sister will have to read the Book, you know. You saw what happened to Menshikov when just one scroll backfired. Can you imagine if three times that much power is unleashed on your sister?”

  My mouth went dry. Bad enough I’d let Sadie go off to find the last scroll without me. How could I let her take a risk that might scar her like Vlad the Inhaler, or worse?

  “You see the truth now,” Horus said. “Claim the crook and flail for yourself. Take the throne. Together, we can defeat Apophis. We can return to Brooklyn and protect your friends and your home.”

  Home. That sounded so tempting. And our friends were in terrible danger. I’d seen firsthand what Vlad Menshikov could do. I imagined little Felix or timid Cleo trying to fight against that kind of magic. I imagined Menshikov turning our young initiates into helpless snakes. I wasn’t even sure Amos could stand against him. With the weapons of Ra, I could protect Brooklyn House.

  Then I looked at the purple images flickering against the wall—two figures fighting before the fiery throne. That was our future. The key to success wasn’t me, or even Horus—it was Ra, the original king of Egyptian gods. Next to the fiery throne of Ra, the pharaoh’s seat seemed about as important as a La-Z-Boy recliner.

  “We’re not enough,” I told Horus. “We need Ra.”

  The god fixed me with his gold and silver eyes like I was a small bit of prey miles below him, and he was considering whether or not I was worth diving for.

  “You do not understand the threat,” he decided. “Stay, Carter. And listen to your enemies plan your death.”

  Horus disappeared.

  I heard footsteps in the shadows behind the throne, then familiar raspy breathing. I hoped my ba was invisible. Vladimir Menshikov stepped into the light, half-carrying his boss, Desjardins.

  “Almost there, my lord,” Menshikov said.

  The Russian looked well rested in a new white suit. The only sign of our recent fight was the bandage on his neck from where I’d crooked him. Desjardins, however, looked like he’d aged a decade in a few hours. He stumbled along, leaning on Menshikov. His face was gaunt. His hair had turned stark white, and I didn’t think it was all because he had seen Bes in a Speedo.

  Menshikov tried to ease him onto the pharaoh’s throne, but Desjardins protested. “Never, Vladimir. The step. The step.”

  “But surely, lord, in your condition—”

  “Never!” Desjardins settled on the steps at the foot of the throne. I couldn’t believe how much worse he looked.

  “Ma’at is failing.” Desjardins held out his hand. A weak cloud of hieroglyphs drifted from his fingertips into the air. “The power of Ma’at once sustained me, Vladimir. Now it seems to be sapping my life force. It is all I can do…” His voice trailed off.

  “Fear not, my lord,” Menshikov said. “Once the Kanes are dealt with, all will be well.”

  “Will it?” Desjardins looked up, and for a moment his eyes flared with anger like they used to. “Don’t you ever have doubts, Vladimir?”

  “No, my lord,” said the Russian. “I have given my life to fighting the gods. I will continue to do so. If I may be so bold, Chief Lector, you should not have allowed Amos Kane into your presence. His words are like poison.”

  Desjardins caught a hieroglyph from the air and studied it as it revolved in his palm. I didn’t recognize the symbol, but it reminded me of a traffic light with a stick figure guy standing next to it.

  “Menhed,” Desjardins said. “The scribe’s palette.”

  I looked at the dimly flickering symbol, and I could see the resemblance to the writing tools in my supply bag. The rectangle was the palette, with places for black and red ink. The stick figure on one side was a writing stylus, attached with a string.

  “Yes, my lord,” Menshikov said. “How…interesting.”

  “It was my grandfather’s favorite symbol,” Desjardins mused. “Jean-François Champollion, you know. He broke the code of hieroglyphics using the Rosetta Stone—the first man outside the House of Life to do so.”

  “Indeed, my lord. I have heard the story.” A thousand times, his expression seemed to say.

  “He rose from nothing to become a great scientist,” Desjardins continued, “and a great magician—respected by mortals and magicians alike.”

  Menshikov smiled like he was humoring a child who was becoming annoying. “And now you are Chief Lector. He would be proud.”

  “Would he?” Desjardins wondered. “When Iskandar accepted my family into the House of Life, he said he welcomed the new blood and new ideas. He hoped we would reinvigorate the House. Yet what did we contribute? We changed nothing. We questioned nothing. The House has grown weak. We have fewer initiates every year.”

  “Ah, my lord.” Menshikov bared his teeth. “Let me show you we are not weak. Your attack force is assembled.”

  He clapped his hands. At the far end of the hall, the huge bronze doors opened. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes, but as the small army marched toward us, I got more and more alarmed.

  The dozen magicians were the least scary part of the group. They were mostly older men and women in traditional linen robes. Many had kohl around their eyes and hieroglyphic tattoos on their hands and faces. Some wore more amulets than Walt. The men had shaved heads; the women wore their hair short or tied back in ponytails. All of them had grim expressions, like an angry mob of peasants out to burn the Frankenstein monster, except instead of pitchforks they were armed with staffs and wands. Several had swords, too.

  Marching on either side of them were demons—about twenty in all. I’d fought demons before, but something about these was different. They moved with more confidence, like they shared a sense of purpose. They radiated evil so strongly my ba felt like it was getting a suntan. Their skin was every color from green to black to violet. Some were dressed in armor, some in animal hides, some in flannel pajamas. One had a chain saw for a head. Another had a guillotine. A third had a foot sprouting between his shoulders.

  Even scarier than the demons were the winged snakes. Yeah, I know, you’re thinking: “Not more snakes!” Believe me, after getting bit by the tjesu heru in St. Petersburg, I wasn’t happy to see them either. These weren’t three-headed, and they weren’t any bigger than normal snakes, but just looking at them gave me the creeps. Imagine a cobra with the wings of an eagle. Now imagine it zipping through the air, exhaling long jets of fire like a flamethrower. Half a dozen of these monsters circled the attack squad, darting in and out and spitting fire. It was a miracle none of the magicians got torched.

  As the group approached, Desjardins struggled to his feet. The magicians and demons knelt before him. One of the winged snakes flew in front of the Chief Lector, and Desjardins snatched it out of the air with surprising speed. The snake wriggled in his fist, but didn’t try to strike.

  “A uraeus?” Desjardins asked. “This is dangerous, Vladimir. These are creatures of Ra.”

  Menshikov inclined his head. “They once served the temple of Amun-Ra, Chief Lector, but do not worry. Because of my ancestry, I can control them. I thought it fitting, using creatures of the sun god to destroy those who would wake him.”

  Desjardins released the snake, which spout
ed fire and flew away.

  “And the demons?” Desjardins asked. “Since when do we use creatures of Chaos?”

  “They are well controlled, my lord.” Menshikov’s voice sounded strained, as if he were growing tired of humoring his boss. “These mages know the proper binding spells. I handpicked them from nomes around the world. They have great skill.”

  The Chief Lector focused on an Asian man in blue robes. “Kwai, isn’t it?”

  The man nodded.

  “As I recall,” Desjardins said, “you were exiled to the Three-Hundredth Nome in North Korea for murdering a fellow magician. And you, Sarah Jacobi”—he pointed to a woman with white robes and spiky black hair—“you were sent to Antarctica for causing the tsunami in the Indian Ocean.”

  Menshikov cleared his throat. “My lord, many of these magicians have had issues in the past, but—”

  “They are ruthless murderers and thieves,” Desjardins said. “The worst of our House.”

  “But they are anxious to prove their loyalty,” Menshikov assured him. “They are happy to do it!”

  He grinned at his minions, as if encouraging them to look happy. None of them did.

  “Besides, my lord,” Menshikov continued quickly, “if you want Brooklyn House destroyed, we must be ruthless. It is for the good of Ma’at.”

  Desjardins frowned. “And you, Vladimir? Will you lead them?”

  “No, my lord. I have full confidence that this, ah, fine group can deal with Brooklyn on their own. They will attack at sunset. As for me, I will follow the Kanes into the Duat and deal with them personally. You, my lord, should stay here and rest. I will send a scryer to your quarters so you may observe our progress.”

  “‘Stay here,’” Desjardins quoted bitterly. “‘And observe.’”