by Rick Riordan
I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I exchanged an uneasy look with Sadie.
“Sounds fun,” Sadie ventured. “And if we fail this test?”
Zia regarded her coldly. “This is not the sort of test you fail, Sadie Kane. You pass or you die.”
S A D I E
15. A Godly Birthday Party
THEY TOOK CARTER TO A DIFFERENT dormitory, so I don’t know how he slept. But I couldn’t get a wink.
It would’ve been hard enough with Zia’s comments about passing our tests or dying, but the girls’ dormitory just wasn’t as posh as Amos’s mansion. The stone walls sweated moisture. Creepy pictures of Egyptian monsters danced across the ceiling in the torchlight. I got a floating cot to sleep in, and the other girls in training—initiates, Zia had called them—were much younger than me, so when the old dorm matron told them to go to sleep straightaway, they actually obeyed. The matron waved her hand and the torches went out. She shut the door behind her, and I could hear the sound of locks clicking.
Lovely. Imprisoned in a nursery school dungeon.
I stared into the dark until I heard the other girls snoring. A single thought kept bothering me: an urge I just couldn’t shake. Finally I crept out of bed and tugged on my boots.
I felt my way to the door. I tugged at the handle. Locked, as I suspected. I was tempted to kick it till I remembered what Zia had done in the Cairo Airport broom closet.
I pressed my palm against the door and whispered, “Sahad.”
Locks clicked. The door swung open. Handy trick.
Outside, the corridors were dark and empty. Apparently, there wasn’t much nightlife in the First Nome. I sneaked through the city back the way we’d come and saw nothing but an occasional cobra slithering across the floor. After the last couple of days, that didn’t even faze me. I thought about trying to find Carter, but I wasn’t sure where they’d taken him, and honestly, I wanted to do this on my own.
After our last argument in New York, I wasn’t sure how I felt about my brother. The idea that he could be jealous of my life while he got to travel the world with Dad—please! And he had the nerve to call my life normal? All right, I had a few mates at school like Liz and Emma, but my life was hardly easy. If Carter made a social faux pas or met people he didn’t like, he could just move on! I had to stay put. I couldn’t answer simple questions like “Where are your parents?” or “What does your family do?” or even “Where are you from?” without exposing just how odd my situation was. I was always the different girl. The mixed-race girl, the American who wasn’t American, the girl whose mother had died, the girl with the absent father, the girl who made trouble in class, the girl who couldn’t concentrate on her lessons. After a while one learns that blending in simply doesn’t work. If people are going to single me out, I might as well give them something to stare at. Red stripes in my hair? Why not! Combat boots with the school uniform? Absolutely. Headmaster says, “I’ll have to call your parents, young lady.” I say, “Good luck.” Carter didn’t know anything about my life.
But enough of that. The point was, I decided to do this particular bit of exploring alone, and after a few wrong turns, I found my way back to the Hall of Ages.
What was I up to, you may ask? I certainly didn’t want to meet Monsieur Evil again or creepy old Lord Salamander.
But I did want to see those images—memories, Zia had called them.
I pushed open the bronze doors. Inside, the hall seemed deserted. No balls of fire floated around the ceiling. No glowing hieroglyphs. But images still shimmered between the columns, washing the hall with strange, multicolored light.
I took a few nervous steps.
I wanted another look at the Age of the Gods. On our first trip through the hall, something about those images had shaken me. I knew Carter thought I’d gone into a dangerous trance, and Zia had warned that the scenes would melt my brain; but I had a feeling she was just trying to scare me off. I felt a connection to those images, like there was an answer within—a vital piece of information I needed.
I stepped off the carpet and approached the curtain of golden light. I saw sand dunes shifting in the wind, storm clouds brewing, crocodiles sliding down the Nile. I saw a vast hall full of revelers. I touched the image.
And I was in the palace of the gods.
Huge beings swirled around me, changing shape from human to animal to pure energy. On a throne in the center of the room sat a muscular African man in rich black robes. He had a handsome face and warm brown eyes. His hands looked strong enough to crush rocks.
The other gods celebrated round him. Music played—a sound so powerful that the air burned. At the man’s side stood a beautiful woman in white, her belly swollen as if she were a few months pregnant. Her form flickered; at times she seemed to have multicolored wings. Then she turned in my direction and I gasped. She had my mother’s face.
She didn’t seem to notice me. In fact, none of the gods did, until a voice behind me said, “Are you a ghost?”
I turned and saw a good-looking boy of about sixteen, dressed in black robes. His complexion was pale, but he had lovely brown eyes like the man on the throne. His black hair was long and tousled—rather wild, but it worked for me. He tilted his head, and it finally occurred to me that he’d asked me a question.
I tried to think of something to say. Excuse me? Hello? Marry me? Anything would’ve done. But all I could manage was a shake of the head.
“Not a ghost, eh?” he mused. “A ba then?” He gestured towards the throne. “Watch, but do not interfere.”
Somehow I wasn’t interested in watching the throne so much, but the boy in black dissolved into a shadow and disappeared, leaving me no further distraction.
“Isis,” said the man on the throne.
The pregnant woman turned towards him and beamed. “My lord Osiris. Happy birthday.”
“Thank you, my love. And soon we shall mark the birth of our son—Horus, the great one! His new incarnation shall be his greatest yet. He shall bring peace and prosperity to the world.”
Isis took her husband’s hand. Music kept playing around them, gods celebrating, the very air swirling in a dance of creation.
Suddenly the palace doors blew open. A hot wind made the torches sputter.
A man strode into the hall. He was tall and strong, almost a twin to Osiris, but with dark red skin, blood-colored robes, and a pointed beard. He looked human, except when he smiled. Then his teeth turned to fangs. His face flickered—sometimes human, sometimes strangely wolflike. I had to stifle a scream, because I’d seen that wolfish face before.
The dancing stopped. The music died.
Osiris rose from his throne. “Set,” he said in a dangerous tone. “Why have you come?”
Set laughed, and the tension in the room broke. Despite his cruel eyes, he had a wonderful laugh—nothing like the screeching he’d done at the British Museum. It was carefree and friendly, as if he couldn’t possibly mean any harm.
“I come to celebrate my brother’s birthday, of course!” he exclaimed. “And I bring entertainment!”
He gestured behind him. Four huge men with the heads of wolves marched into the room, carrying a jewel-encrusted golden coffin.
My heart began to race. It was the same box Set had used to imprison my dad at the British Museum.
No! I wanted to scream. Don’t trust him!
But the assembled gods oohed and aahed, admiring the box, which was painted with gold and red hieroglyphs, trimmed with jade and opals. The wolf-men set down the box, and I saw it had no lid. The interior was lined with black linen.
“This sleeping casket,” Set announced, “was made by my finest craftsmen, using the most expensive materials. Its value is beyond measure. The god who lies within, even for a night, will see his powers increase tenfold! His wisdom will never falter. His strength will never fail. It is a gift”—he smiled slyly at Osiris—“for the one and only god who fits within perfectly!”
I wouldn’t h
ave queued up first, but the gods surged forward. They pushed each other out of the way to get at the golden coffin. Some climbed in but were too short. Others were much too big. Even when they tried to change their shapes, the gods had no luck, as if the magic of the box were thwarting them. No one fit exactly. Gods grumbled and complained as others, anxious to try, pushed them to the floor.
Set turned to Osiris with a good-natured laugh. “Well, brother, we have no winner yet. Will you try? Only the best of the gods can succeed.”
Osiris’s eyes gleamed. Apparently he wasn’t the god of brains, because he seemed completely taken in by the box’s beauty. All the other gods looked at him expectantly, and I could see what he was thinking: if he fit in the box, what a brilliant birthday present. Even Set, his wicked brother, would have to admit that he was the rightful king of the gods.
Only Isis seemed troubled. She laid her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “My lord, do not. Set does not bring presents.”
“I am offended!” Set sounded genuinely hurt. “Can I not celebrate my brother’s birthday? Are we so estranged that I cannot even apologize to the king?”
Osiris smiled at Isis. “My dear, it is only a game. Fear nothing.”
He rose from his throne. The gods applauded as he approached the box.
“All hail Osiris!” Set cried.
The king of the gods lowered himself into the box, and when he glanced in my direction, just for a moment, he had my father’s face.
No! I thought again. Don’t do it!
But Osiris lay down. The coffin fit him exactly.
A cheer went up from the gods, but before Osiris could rise, Set clapped his hands. A golden lid materialized above the box and slammed down on top of it.
Osiris shouted in rage, but his cries were muffled.
Golden latches fastened around the lid. The other gods surged forward to intervene—even the boy in black I’d seen earlier reappeared—but Set was faster. He stamped his foot so hard, the stone floor trembled. The gods toppled over each other like dominoes. The wolf-men drew their spears, and the gods scrambled away in terror.
Set said a magic word, and a boiling cauldron appeared out of thin air. It poured its contents over the coffin—molten lead, coating the box, sealing it shut, probably heating the interior to a thousand degrees.
“Villain!” Isis wailed. She advanced on Set and began to speak a spell, but Set held up his hand. Isis rose from the floor, clawing at her mouth, her lips pressed as if an invisible force were suffocating her.
“Not today, lovely Isis,” Set purred. “Today, I am king. And your child shall never be born!”
Suddenly, another goddess—a slender woman in a blue dress—charged out of the crowd. “Husband, no!”
She tackled Set, who momentarily lost his concentration. Isis fell to the floor, gasping. The other goddess yelled, “Flee!”
Isis turned and ran.
Set rose. I thought he would hit the goddess in blue, but he only snarled. “Foolish wife! Whose side are you on?”
He stamped his foot again, and the golden coffin sank into the floor.
Set raced after Isis. At the edge of the palace, Isis turned into a small bird of prey and soared into the air. Set sprouted demon’s wings and launched himself in pursuit.
Then suddenly I was the bird. I was Isis, flying desperately over the Nile. I could sense Set behind me—closing. Closing.
You must escape, the voice of Isis said in my mind. Avenge Osiris. Crown Horus king!
Just when I thought my heart would burst, I felt a hand on my shoulder. The images evaporated.
The old master, Iskandar, stood next to me, his face pinched with concern. Glowing hieroglyphs danced round him.
“Forgive the interruption,” he said in perfect English. “But you were almost dead.”
That’s when my knees turned to water, and I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, I was curled at Iskandar’s feet on the steps below the empty throne. We were alone in the hall, which was mostly dark except for the light from the hieroglyphs that always seemed to glow around him.
“Welcome back,” he said. “You’re lucky you survived.”
I wasn’t so sure. My head felt like it had been boiled in oil.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Look at the images? And yet you did. Your ba left your body and entered the past. Hadn’t you been warned?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But...I was drawn to the pictures.”
“Mmm.” Iskandar stared into space, as if remembering something from long ago. “They are hard to resist.”
“You speak perfect English,” I noticed.
Iskandar smiled. “How do you know I’m speaking English? Perhaps you are speaking Greek.”
I hoped he was kidding, but I couldn’t tell. He seemed so frail and warm, and yet...it was like sitting next to a nuclear reactor. I had a feeling he was full of more danger than I wanted to know.
“You’re not really that old, are you?” I asked. “I mean, old enough to remember Ptolemaic times?”
“I am exactly that old, my dear. I was born in the reign of Cleopatra VII.”
“Oh, please.”
“I assure you, it’s true. It was my sorrow to behold the last days of Egypt, before that foolhardy queen lost our kingdom to the Romans. I was the last magician to be trained before the House went underground. Many of our most powerful secrets were lost, including the spells my master used to extend my life. Magicians these days still live long—sometimes centuries—but I have been alive for two millennia.”
“So you’re immortal?”
His chuckle turned into a racking cough. He doubled over and cupped his hands over his mouth. I wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure how. The glowing hieroglyphs flickered and dimmed around him.
Finally the coughing subsided.
He took a shaky breath. “Hardly immortal, my dear. In fact...” His voice trailed off. “But never mind that. What did you see in your vision?”
I probably should’ve kept quiet. I didn’t want to be turned into a bug for breaking any rules, and the vision had terrified me—especially the moment when I’d changed into the bird of prey. But Iskandar’s kindly expression made it hard to hold back. I ended up telling him everything. Well, almost everything. I left out the bit about the good-looking boy, and yes, I know it was silly, but I was embarrassed. I reckoned that part could’ve been my own crazed imagination at work, as Ancient Egyptian gods could not have been that gorgeous.
Iskandar sat for a moment, tapping his staff against the steps. “You saw a very old event, Sadie—Set taking the throne of Egypt by force. He hid Osiris’s coffin, you know, and Isis searched the entire world to find it.”
“So she got him back eventually?”
“Not exactly. Osiris was resurrected—but only in the Underworld. He became the king of the dead. When their son, Horus, grew up, Horus challenged Set for the throne of Egypt and won after many hard battles. That is why Horus was called the Avenger. As I said—an old story, but one that the gods have repeated many times in our history.”
“Repeated?”
“The gods follow patterns. In some ways they are quite predictable: acting out the same squabbles, the same jealousies down through the ages. Only the settings change, and the hosts.”
There was that word again: hosts. I thought about the poor woman in the New York museum who’d turned into the goddess Serqet.
“In my vision,” I said, “Isis and Osiris were married. Horus was about to be born as their son. But in another story Carter told me, all three of them were siblings, children of the sky goddess.”
“Yes,” Iskandar agreed. “This can be confusing for those who do not know the nature of gods. They cannot walk the earth in their pure form—at least, not for more than a few moments. They must have hosts.”
“Humans, you mean.”
“Or powerful objects, such as statues, amulets, monuments, certain models o
f cars. But they prefer human form. You see gods have great power, but only humans have creativity, the power to change history rather than simply repeat it. Humans can...how do you moderns say it...think outside the cup.”
“The box,” I suggested.
“Yes. The combination of human creativity and godly power can be quite formidable. At any rate, when Osiris and Isis first walked the earth, their hosts were brother and sister. But mortal hosts are not permanent. They die, they wear out. Later in history, Osiris and Isis took new forms—humans who were husband and wife. Horus, who in one lifetime was their brother, was born into a new life as their son.”
“That’s confusing,” I said. “And a little gross.”
Iskandar shrugged. “The gods do not think of relationships the way we humans do. Their hosts are merely like changes of clothes. This is why the ancient stories seem so mixed up. Sometimes the gods are described as married, or siblings, or parent and child, depending on their hosts. The pharaoh himself was called a living god, you know. Egyptologists believe this was just a lot of propaganda, but in fact it was often literally true. The greatest of the pharaohs became hosts for gods, usually Horus. He gave them power and wisdom, and let them build Egypt into a mighty empire.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? Why is it against the law to host a god?”
Iskandar’s face darkened. “Gods have different agendas than humans do, Sadie. They can overpower their hosts, literally burn them out. That is why so many hosts die young. Tutankhamen, poor boy, died at nineteen. Cleopatra VII was even worse. She tried to host the spirit of Isis without knowing what she was doing, and it shattered her mind. In the old days, the House of Life taught the use of divine magic. Initiates could study the path of Horus, or Isis, or Sekhmet, or any number of gods, learning to channel their powers. We had many more initiates back then.”
Iskandar looked round the empty hall, as if imagining it filled with magicians. “Some adepts could call upon the gods only from time to time. Others attempted to host their spirits...with varying degrees of success. The ultimate goal was to become the ‘eye’ of the god—a perfect union of the two souls, mortal and immortal. Very few achieved this, even among the pharaohs, who were born to the task. Many destroyed themselves trying.” He turned up his palm, which had the most deeply etched lifeline I’d ever seen. “When Egypt finally fell to the Romans, it became clear to us—to me—that mankind, our rulers, even the strongest magicians, no longer had the strength of will to master a god’s power. The only ones who could...” His voice faltered.