The Red Pyramid

by Rick Riordan

  She nodded in agreement. “Day after tomorrow, at sunrise, Set completes his pyramid and destroys the world unless we stop him. So, yes, Captain Very Large Blade, or whatever it is, I’d say we’re in a bit of a rush.”

  “We will, of course, do our best,” said Bloodstained Blade, though his voice sounded a little, well, sharp. “The crew will prepare your staterooms. Will you dine while you wait?”

  I looked at the table laden with food and realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since we were in the Washington Monument. “Yeah. Um, thanks, BSB.”

  The captain bowed again, which made him look a little too much like a guillotine. Then he left us to our dinner.

  At first, I was too busy eating to talk. I inhaled a roast beef sandwich, a couple of pieces of cherry pie with ice cream, and three glasses of ginger ale before I finally came up for air.

  Sadie didn’t eat as much. Then again she’d had lunch on the plane. She settled for a cheese-and-cucumber sandwich and one of those weird British drinks she likes—a Ribena. Khufu carefully picked out everything that ended with -o—Doritos, Oreos, and some chunks of meat. Buffalo? Armadillo? I was scared to even guess.

  The balls of fire floated attentively around the room, refilling our goblets and clearing away our plates as we finished.

  After so many days spent running for our lives, it felt good to just sit at a dinner table and relax. The captain’s informing us that he couldn’t transport us instantly to the Land of the Dead was the best news I’d had in a long time.

  “Agh!” Khufu wiped his mouth and grabbed one of the balls of fire. He fashioned it into a glowing basketball and snorted at me.

  For once I was pretty sure what he’d said in Baboon. It wasn’t an invitation. It meant something like: “I’m going to play basketball by myself now. I will not invite you because your lack of skill would make me throw up.”

  “No problem, man,” I said, though my face felt hot with embarrassment. “Have fun.”

  Khufu snorted again, then loped off with the ball under his arm. I wondered if he’d find a court somewhere on board.

  At the far end of the table, Bast pushed her plate away. She’d hardly touched her tuna Friskies.

  “Not hungry?” I asked.

  “Hmm? Oh...I suppose not.” She turned her goblet listlessly. She was wearing an expression I didn’t associate with cats: guilt.

  Sadie and I locked eyes. We had a brief, silent exchange, something like:

  You ask her.

  No, you.

  Of course Sadie’s better at giving dirty looks, so I lost the contest.

  “Bast?” I said. “What did the captain want you to tell us?”

  She hesitated. “Oh, that? You shouldn’t listen to demons. Bloodstained Blade is bound by magic to serve, but if he ever got loose, he’d use that axe on all of us, believe me.”

  “You’re changing the subject,” I said.

  Bast traced her finger across the table, drawing hieroglyphs in the condensation ring from her goblet. “The truth? I haven’t been on board since the night your mother died. Your parents had docked this boat on the Thames. After the...accident, your father brought me here. This is where we made our deal.”

  I realized she meant right here, at this table. My father had sat here in despair after Mom’s death—with no one to console him except the cat goddess, an axe demon, and a bunch of floating lights.

  I studied Bast’s face in the dim light. I thought about the painting we’d found at Graceland. Even in human form, Bast looked so much like that cat—a cat drawn by some artist thousands of years ago.

  “It wasn’t just a chaos monster, was it?” I asked.

  Bast eyed me. “What do you mean?”

  “The thing you were fighting when our parents released you from the obelisk. It wasn’t just a chaos monster. You were fighting Apophis.”

  All around the parlor, the servant fires dimmed. One dropped a plate and fluttered nervously.

  “Don’t say the Serpent’s name,” Bast warned. “Especially as we head into the night. Night is his realm.”

  “It’s true, then.” Sadie shook her head in dismay. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you lie to us?”

  Bast dropped her gaze. Sitting in the shadows, she looked weary and frail. Her face was etched with the traces of old battle scars.

  “I was the Eye of Ra.” She spoke quietly. “The sun god’s champion, the instrument of his will. Do you have any idea what an honor it was?”

  She extended her claws and studied them. “When people see pictures of Ra’s warrior cat, they assume it’s Sekhmet, the lioness. And she was his first champion, it’s true. But she was too violent, too out of control. Eventually Sekhmet was forced to step down, and Ra chose me as his fighter: little Bast.”

  “Why do you sound ashamed?” Sadie asked. “You said it’s an honor.”

  “At first I was proud, Sadie. I fought the Serpent for ages. Cats and snakes are mortal enemies. I did my job well. But then Ra withdrew to the heavens. He bound me to the Serpent with his last spell. He cast us both into that abyss, where I was charged to fight the Serpent and keep it down forever.”

  A realization crept over me. “So you weren’t a minor prisoner. You were imprisoned longer than any of the other gods.”

  She closed her eyes. “I still remember Ra’s words: ‘My loyal cat. This is your greatest duty.’ And I was proud to do it...for centuries. Then millennia. Can you imagine what it was like? Knives against fangs, slashing and thrashing, a never-ending war in the darkness. Our life forces grew weaker, my enemy’s and mine, and I began to realize that was Ra’s plan. The Serpent and I would rip each other to nothingness, and the world would be safe. Only in this way could Ra withdraw in peace of mind, knowing chaos would not overcome Ma’at. I would have done my duty, too. I had no choice. Until your parents—”

  “Gave you an escape route,” I said. “And you took it.”

  Bast looked up miserably. “I am the queen of cats. I have many strengths. But to be honest, Carter...cats are not very brave.”

  “And Ap—your enemy?”

  “He stayed trapped in the abyss. Your father and I were sure of it. The Serpent was already greatly weakened from eons of fighting with me, and when your mother used her own life force to close the abyss, well...she worked a powerful feat of magic. There should’ve been no way for the Serpent to break through that kind of seal. But as the years have gone by...we became less and less sure the prison would hold him. If somehow he managed to escape and regain his strength, I cannot imagine what would happen. And it would be my fault.”

  I tried to imagine the serpent, Apophis—a creature of chaos even worse than Set. I pictured Bast with her knives, locked in combat with that monster for eons. Maybe I should’ve been angry at Bast for not telling us the truth earlier. Instead, I felt sorry for her. She’d been put in the same position we were now in—forced to do a job that was way too big for her.

  “So why did my parents release you?” I asked. “Did they say?”

  She nodded slowly. “I was losing my fight. Your father told me that your mother had foreseen...horrible things if the Serpent overcame me. They had to free me, give me time to heal. They said it was the first step in restoring the gods. I don’t pretend to understand their whole plan. I was relieved to take your father’s offer. I convinced myself I was doing the right thing for the gods. But it does not change the fact that I was a coward. I failed in my duty.”

  “It isn’t your fault,” I told her. “It wasn’t fair of Ra to ask of you.”

  “Carter’s right,” Sadie said. “That’s too much sacrifice for one person—one cat goddess, whatever.”

  “It was my king’s will,” Bast said. “The pharaoh can command his subjects for the good of the kingdom—even to lay down their lives—and they must obey. Horus knows this. He was the pharaoh many times.”

  She speaks truly, Horus said.

  “Then you had a stupid king,” I said.

/>   The boat shuddered as if we’d ground the keel over a sandbar.

  “Be careful, Carter,” Bast warned. “Ma’at, the order of creation, hinges on loyalty to the rightful king. If you question it, you’ll fall under the influence of chaos.”

  I felt so frustrated, I wanted to break something. I wanted to yell that order didn’t seem much better than chaos if you had to get yourself killed for it.

  You are being childish, Horus scolded. You are a servant of Ma’at. These thoughts are unworthy.

  My eyes stung. “Then maybe I’m unworthy.”

  “Carter?” Sadie asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m going to bed.”

  I stormed off. One of the flickering lights joined me, guiding me upstairs to my quarters. The stateroom was probably very nice. I didn’t pay attention. I just fell on the bed and passed out.

  I seriously needed an extra-strength magic pillow, because my ba refused to stay put. [And no, Sadie, I don’t think wrapping my head in duct tape would’ve worked either.]

  My spirit floated up to the steamboat’s wheelhouse, but it wasn’t Bloodstained Blade at the wheel. Instead, a young man in leather armor navigated the boat. His eyes were outlined with kohl, and his head was bald except for a braided ponytail. The guy definitely worked out, because his arms were ripped. A sword like mine was strapped to his belt.

  “The river is treacherous,” he told me in a familiar voice. “A pilot cannot get distracted. He must always be alert for sandbars and hidden snags. That’s why boats are painted with my eyes, you know—to see the dangers.”

  “The Eyes of Horus,” I said. “You.”

  The falcon god glanced at me, and I saw that his eyes were two different colors—one blazing yellow like the sun, the other reflective silver like the moon. The effect was so disorienting, I had to look away. And when I did, I noticed that Horus’s shadow didn’t match his form. Stretched across the wheelhouse was the silhouette of a giant falcon.

  “You wonder if order is better than chaos,” he said. “You become distracted from our real enemy: Set. You should be taught a lesson.”

  I was about to say, No really, that’s okay.

  But immediately my ba was whisked away. Suddenly, I was on board an airplane—a big international aircraft like planes my dad and I had taken a million times. Zia Rashid, Desjardins, and two other magicians were scrunched up in a middle row, surrounded by families with screaming children. Zia didn’t seem to mind. She meditated calmly with her eyes closed, while Desjardins and the other two men looked so uncomfortable, I almost wanted to laugh.

  The plane rocked back and forth. Desjardins spilled wine all over his lap. The seat belt light blinked on, and a voice crackled over the intercom: “This is the captain. It looks like we’ll be experiencing some minor turbulence as we make our descent into Dallas, so I’m going to ask the flight attendants—”

  Boom! A blast rattled the windows—lightning followed immediately by thunder.

  Zia’s eyes snapped open. “The Red Lord.”

  The passengers screamed as the plane plummeted several hundred feet.

  “Il commence!” Desjardins shouted over the noise. “Quickly!”

  As the plane shook, passengers shrieked and grabbed their seats. Desjardins got up and opened the overhead compartment.

  “Sir!” a flight attendant yelled. “Sir, sit down!”

  Desjardins ignored the attendant. He grabbed four familiar bags—magical tool kits—and threw them to his colleagues.

  Then things really went wrong. A horrible shudder passed through the cabin and the plane lurched sideways. Outside the right-hand windows, I saw the plane’s wing get sheared off by a five-hundred-mile-an-hour wind.

  The cabin devolved into chaos—drinks, books, and shoes flying everywhere, oxygen masks dropping and tangling, people screaming for their lives.

  “Protect the innocents!” Desjardins ordered.

  The plane began to shake and cracks appeared in the windows and walls. The passengers went silent, slumping into unconsciousness as the air pressure dropped. The four magicians raised their wands as the airplane broke to pieces.

  For a moment, the magicians floated in a maelstrom of storm clouds, chunks of fuselage, luggage, and spinning passengers still strapped to their seats. Then a white glow expanded around them, a bubble of power that slowed the breakup of the plane and kept the pieces swirling in a tight orbit. Desjardins reached out his hand and the edge of a cloud stretched toward him—a tendril of cottony white mist, like a safety line. The other magicians did likewise, and the storm bent to their will. White vapor wrapped around them and began to send out more tendrils, like funnel clouds, which snatched pieces of the plane and pulled them back together.

  A child fell past Zia, but she pointed her staff and murmured a spell. A cloud enveloped the little girl and brought her back. Soon the four magicians were reassembling the plane around them, sealing the breaches with cloudy cobwebs until the entire cabin was encased in a glowing cocoon of vapor. Outside, the storm raged and thunder boomed, but the passengers slept soundly in their seats.

  “Zia!” Desjardins shouted. “We can’t hold this for long.”

  Zia ran past him up the aisle to the flight deck. Somehow the front of the plane had survived the breakup intact. The door was armored and locked, but Zia’s staff flared, and the door melted like wax. She stepped through and found three unconscious pilots. The view through the window was enough to make me sick. Through the spiraling clouds, the ground was coming up fast—very fast.

  Zia slammed her wand against the controls. Red energy surged through the displays. Dials spun, meters blinked, and the altimeter leveled out. The plane’s nose came up, its speed dropping. As I watched, Zia glided the plane toward a cow pasture and landed it without even a bump. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed.

  Desjardins found her and gathered her in his arms. “Quickly,” he told his colleagues, “the mortals will wake soon.”

  They dragged Zia out of the cockpit, and my ba was swept away through a blur of images.

  I saw Phoenix again—or at least some of the city. A massive red sandstorm churned across the valley, swallowing buildings and mountains. In the harsh, hot wind, I heard Set laughing, reveling in his power.

  Then I saw Brooklyn: Amos’s ruined house on the East River and a winter storm raging overhead, howling winds slamming the city with sleet and hail.

  And then I saw a place I didn’t recognize: a river winding through a desert canyon. The sky was a blanket of pitch-black clouds, and the river’s surface seemed to boil. Something was moving under the water, something huge, evil, and powerful—and I knew it was waiting for me.

  This is only the beginning, Horus warned me. Set will destroy everyone you care about. Believe me, I know.

  The river became a marsh of tall reeds. The sun blazed overhead. Snakes and crocodiles slid through the water. At the water’s edge sat a thatched hut. Outside it, a woman and a child of about ten stood examining a battered sarcophagus. I could tell the coffin had once been a work of art—gold encrusted with gems—but now it was dented and black with grime.

  The woman ran her hands over the coffin’s lid.

  “Finally.” She had my mother’s face—blue eyes and caramel-colored hair—but she glowed with magical radiance, and I knew I was looking at the goddess Isis.

  She turned to the boy. “We have searched so long, my son. Finally we have retrieved him. I will use my magic and give him life again!”

  “Papa?” The boy gazed wide-eyed at the box. “He’s really inside?”

  “Yes, Horus. And now—”

  Suddenly their hut erupted into flames. The god Set stepped from the inferno—a mighty red-skinned warrior with smoldering black eyes. He wore the double crown of Egypt and the robes of a pharaoh. In his hands, an iron staff smoldered.

  “Found the coffin, did you?” he said. “Good for you!”

  Isis reached toward the sky. She summoned ligh
tning against the god of chaos, but Set’s rod absorbed the attack and reflected it back at her. Arcs of electricity blasted the goddess and sent her sprawling.

  “Mother!” The boy drew a knife and charged Set. “I’ll kill you!”

  Set bellowed with laughter. He easily sidestepped the boy and kicked him into the dirt.

  “You have spirit, nephew,” Set admitted. “But you won’t live long enough to challenge me. As for your father, I’ll just have to dispose of him more permanently.”

  Set slammed his iron staff against the coffin’s lid.

  Isis screamed as the coffin shattered like ice.

  “Make a wish.” Set blew with all his might, and the shards of coffin flew into the sky, scattering in all directions. “Poor Osiris—he’s gone to pieces, scattered all over Egypt now. And as for you, sister Isis—run! That’s what you do best!”

  Set lunged forward. Isis grabbed her son’s hand and they both turned into birds, flying for their lives.

  The scene faded, and I was back in the steamboat’s wheelhouse. The sun rose in fast-forward as towns and barges sped past and the banks of the Mississippi blurred into a play of light and shadow.

  “He destroyed my father,” Horus told me. “He will do the same to yours.”

  “No,” I said.

  Horus fixed me with those strange eyes—one blazing gold, one full-moon silver. “My mother and Aunt Nephthys spent years searching for the pieces of the coffin and Father’s body. When they collected all fourteen, my cousin Anubis helped bind my father back together with mummy wrappings, but still Mother’s magic could not bring him back to life fully. Osiris became an undead god, a half-living shadow of my father, fit to rule only in the Duat. But his loss gave me anger. Anger gave me the strength to defeat Set and take the throne for myself. You must do the same.”

  “I don’t want a throne,” I said. “I want my dad.”

  “Don’t deceive yourself. Set is merely toying with you. He will bring you to despair, and your sorrow will make you weak.”

  “I have to save my dad!”

  “That is not your mission,” Horus chided. “The world is at stake. Now, wake!”