The Complete Kane Chronicles (28 page)

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 lightning 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!”

Sadie was shaking my arm. She and Bast stood over me, looking concerned.

“What?” I asked.

“We’re here,” Sadie said nervously. She’d changed into a fresh linen outfit, black this time, which matched her combat boots. She’d even managed to redye her hair so the streaks were blue.

I sat up and realized I felt rested for the first time in a week. My soul may have been traveling, but at least my body had gotten some sleep. I glanced out the stateroom window. It was pitch-black outside.

“How long was I out?” I demanded.

“We’ve sailed down most of the Mississippi and into the Duat,” Bast said. “Now we approach the First Cataract.”

“The First Cataract?” I asked.

“The entrance,” Bast said grimly, “to the Land of the Dead.”

S A D I E

ME? I SLEPT LIKE THE DEAD
, which I hoped wasn’t a sign of things to come.

I could tell Carter’s soul had been wandering through some frightening places, but he wouldn’t talk about them.

“Did you see Zia?” I asked. He looked so rattled I thought his face would fall off. “Knew it,” I said.

We followed Bast up to the wheelhouse, where Bloodstained Blade was studying a map while Khufu manned—
er,
babooned—the wheel.

“The baboon is driving,” I noted. “Should I be worried?”

“Quiet, please, Lady Kane.” Bloodstained Blade ran his fingers over a long stretch of papyrus map. “This is delicate work. Two degrees to starboard, Khufu.”

“Agh!”
Khufu said.

The sky was already dark, but as we chugged along, the stars disappeared. The river turned the color of blood. Darkness swallowed the horizon, and along the riverbanks, the lights of towns changed to flickering fires, then winked out completely.

Now our only lights were the multicolored servant fires and the glittering smoke that bloomed from the smokestacks, washing us all in a weird metallic glow.

“Should be just ahead,” the captain announced. In the dim light, his red-flecked axe blade looked scarier than ever.

“What’s that map?” I asked.

“Spells of Coming Forth by Day,
” he said. “Don’t worry. It’s a good copy.”

I looked at Carter for a translation.

“Most people call it
The Book of the Dead,
” he told me. “Rich Egyptians were always buried with a copy, so they could have directions through the Duat to the Land of the Dead. It’s like an
Idiot’s Guide to the Afterlife.”

The captain hummed indignantly. “I am no idiot, Lord Kane.”

“No, no, I just meant…” Carter’s voice faltered. “
Uh,
what is
that?”

Ahead of us, crags of rock jutted from the river like fangs, turning the water into a boiling mass of rapids.

“The First Cataract,” Bloodstained Blade announced. “Hold on.”

Khufu pushed the wheel to the left, and the steamboat skidded sideways, shooting between two rocky spires with only centimeters to spare. I’m not much of a screamer, but I’ll readily admit that I screamed my head off. [And don’t look at me like that, Carter. You weren’t much better.]

We dropped over a stretch of white water—or red water—and swerved to avoid a rock the size of Paddington Station. The steamboat made two more suicidal turns between boulders, did a three-sixty spin round a swirling vortex, launched over a ten-meter waterfall, and came crashing down so hard, my ears popped like a gunshot.

We continued downstream as if nothing had happened, the roar of the rapids fading behind us.

“I don’t like cataracts,” I decided. “Are there more?”

“Not as large, thankfully,” said Bast, who was also looking seasick. “We’ve crossed over into—”

“The Land of the Dead,” Carter finished.

He pointed to the shore, which was shrouded in mist. Strange things lurked in the darkness: flickering ghost lights, giant faces made of fog, hulking shadows that seemed unconnected to anything physical. Along the riverbanks, old bones dragged themselves through the mud, linking with other bones in random patterns.

“I’m guessing this isn’t the Mississippi,” I said.

“The River of Night,” Bloodstained Blade hummed. “It is every river and no river—the shadow of the Mississippi, the Nile, the Thames. It flows throughout the Duat, with many branches and tributaries.”

“Clears that right up,” I muttered.

The scenes got stranger. We saw ghost villages from ancient times—little clusters of reed huts made of flickering smoke. We saw vast temples crumbling and reconstructing themselves over and over again like a looped video. And everywhere, ghosts turned their faces towards our boat as we passed. Smoky hands reached out. Shades silently called to us, then turned away in despair as we passed.

“The lost and confused,” Bast said. “Spirits who never found their way to the Hall of Judgment.”

“Why are they so sad?” I asked.

“Well, they’re dead,” Carter speculated.

“No, it’s more than that,” I said. “It’s like they’re…expecting someone.”

“Ra,” Bast said. “For eons, Ra’s glorious sun boat would travel this route each night, fighting off the forces of Apophis.” She looked round nervously as if remembering old ambushes. “It was dangerous: every night, a fight for existence. But as he passed, Ra would bring sunlight and warmth to the Duat, and these lost spirits would rejoice, remembering the world of the living.”

“But that’s a legend,” Carter said. “The earth revolves around the sun. The sun never actually descends under the earth.”

“Have you learned nothing of Egypt?” Bast asked. “Conflicting stories can be equally true. The sun is a ball of fire in space, yes. But its image you see as it crosses the sky, the life-giving warmth and light it brings to the earth—that was embodied by Ra. The sun was his throne, his source of power, his very spirit. But now Ra has retreated into the heavens. He sleeps, and the sun is just the sun. Ra’s boat no longer travels on its cycle through the Duat. He no longer lights the dark, and the dead feel his absence most keenly.”

“Indeed,” Bloodstained Blade said, though he didn’t sound very upset about it. “Legend says the world will end when Ra gets too tired to continue living in his weakened state. Apophis will swallow the sun. Darkness will reign. Chaos will overcome Ma’at, and the Serpent will reign forever.”

Part of me thought this was absurd. The planets would not simply stop spinning. The sun would not cease to rise.

On the other hand, here I was riding a boat through the Land of the Dead with a demon and a god. If Apophis was real too, I didn’t fancy meeting him.

And to be honest, I felt guilty. If the story Thoth told me was true, Isis had
caused
Ra to retreat into the heavens with that secret name business. Which meant, in a ridiculous, maddening way, the end of the world would be my fault. Bloody typical. I wanted to punch myself to get even with Isis, but I suspected it would hurt.

“Ra should wake up and smell the
sahlab,”
I said. “He should come back.”

Bast laughed without humor. “And the world should be young again, Sadie. I wish it could be so….”

Khufu grunted and gestured ahead. He gave the captain back the wheel and ran out of the wheelhouse and down the stairs.

“The baboon is right,” said Bloodstained Blade. “You should get to the prow. A challenge will be coming soon.”

“What sort of challenge?” I asked.

“It’s hard to tell,” Bloodstained Blade said, and I thought I detected smug satisfaction in his voice. “I wish you luck, Lady Kane.”

“Why me?” I grumbled.

Bast, Carter, and I stood at the prow of the boat, watching the river appear out of the darkness. Below us, the boat’s painted eyes glowed faintly in the dark, sweeping beams of light across the red water. Khufu had climbed to the top of the gangplank, which stood straight up when retracted, and cupped his hand over his eyes like a sailor in a crow’s-nest.

But all that vigilance didn’t do much good. With the dark and the mist, our visibility was nil. Massive rocks, broken pillars, and crumbling statues of pharaohs loomed out of nowhere, and Bloodstained Blade yanked the wheel to avoid them, forcing us to grab hold of the rails. Occasionally we’d see long slimy lines cutting through the surface of the water, like tentacles, or the backs of submerged creatures—I really didn’t want to know.

“Mortal souls are always challenged,” Bast told me. “You must prove your worth to enter the Land of the Dead.”

“Like it’s such a big treat?”

I’m not sure how long I stared into the darkness, but after a good while a reddish smudge appeared in the distance, as if the sky were becoming lighter.

“Is that my imagination, or—”

“Our destination,” Bast said. “Strange, we really should’ve been challenged by now—”

The boat shuddered, and the water began to boil. A giant figure erupted from the river. I could see him only from the waist up, but he towered several meters over the boat. His body was humanoid—bare-chested and hairy with purplish skin. A rope belt was tied around his waist, festooned with leather pouches, severed demon heads, and other charming bits and bobs. His head was a strange combination of lion and human, with gold eyes and a black mane done in dreadlocks. His blood-splattered mouth was feline, with bristly whiskers and razor-sharp fangs. He roared, scaring Khufu right off the gangplank. The poor baboon did a flying leap into Carter’s arms, which knocked them both to the deck.

“You
had
to say something,” I told Bast weakly. “This a relative of yours, I hope?”

Bast shook her head. “I cannot help you with this, Sadie.
You
are the mortals. You must deal with the challenge.”

“Oh, thanks for that.”

“I am Shezmu!” the bloody lion man said.

I wanted to say, “Yes, you certainly are.” But I decided to keep my mouth shut.

He turned his golden eyes on Carter and tilted his head. His nostrils quivered. “I smell the blood of pharaohs. A tasty treat…or do you dare to name me?”

“N-name you?” Carter sputtered. “Do you mean your secret name?”

The demon laughed. He grabbed a nearby spire of rock, which crumpled like old plaster in his fist.

I looked desperately at Carter. “You don’t happen to have his secret name lying around somewhere?”

“It may be in
The Book of the Dead,
” Carter said. “I forgot to check.”

“Well?” I said.

“Keep him busy,” Carter replied, and scrambled off to the wheelhouse.

Keep a demon busy,
I thought.
Right. Maybe he fancies a game of tiddlywinks.

“Do you give up?” Shezmu bellowed.

“No!” I yelled. “No, we don’t give up. We will name you. Just… Gosh, you’re quite well muscled, aren’t you? Do you work out?”

I glanced at Bast, who nodded approval.

Shezmu rumbled with pride and flexed his mighty arms. Never fails with men, does it? Even if they’re twenty meters tall and lion-headed.

“I am Shezmu!” he bellowed.

“Yes, you might’ve mentioned that already,” I said. “I’m wondering,
um,
what sort of titles you’ve earned over the years, eh? Lord of this and that?”

“I am Osiris’s royal executioner!” he yelled, smashing a fist into the water and rocking our boat. “I am the Lord of Blood and Wine!”

“Brilliant,” I said, trying not to get sick. “Er, how are blood and wine connected, exactly?”

“Garrr!”
He leaned forward and bared his fangs, which were not any prettier up close. His mane was matted with nasty bits of dead fish and river moss. “Lord Osiris lets me behead the wicked! I crush them in my wine press, and make wine for the dead!”

I made a mental note never to drink the wine of the dead.

You’re doing well.
Isis’s voice gave me a start. She’d been quiet so long, I’d almost forgotten her.
Ask him about his other duties.

“And what are your other duties…O powerful wine demon guy?”

“I am Lord of…” He flexed his muscles for maximum effect. “Perfume!”

He grinned at me, apparently waiting for terror to set it.

“Oh, my!” I said. “That must make your enemies tremble.”

“Ha, ha, ha! Yes! Would you like to try a free sample?” He ripped a slimy leather pouch off his belt, and brought out a clay pot filled with sweet-smelling yellow powder. “I call this… Eternity!”

“Lovely,” I gagged. I glanced behind me, wondering where Carter had gone to, but there was no sign of him.

Keep him talking,
Isis urged.

“And,
um
…perfume is part of your job because…wait, I’ve got it, you squeeze it out of plants, like you squeeze wine…”

“Or blood!” Shezmu added.

“Well, naturally,” I said. “The blood goes without saying.”

“Blood!” he said.

Khufu yelped and covered his eyes.

“So you serve Osiris?” I asked the demon.

“Yes! At least…” He hesitated, snarling in doubt. “I did. Osiris’s throne is empty. But he will return. He will!”

“Of course,” I said. “And so your friends call you what…Shezzy? Bloodsiekins?”

“I have no friends! But if I did, they would call me Slaughterer of Souls, Fierce of Face! But I don’t have any friends, so my name is not in danger. Ha, ha, ha!”

I looked at Bast, wondering if I’d just gotten as lucky as I thought. Bast beamed at me.

Carter came stumbling down the stairs, holding
The Book of the Dead.
“I’ve got it! Somewhere here. Can’t read this part, but—”

“Name me or be eaten!” Shezmu bellowed.

“I name you!” I shouted back. “Shezmu, Slaughterer of Souls, Fierce of Face!”

“GAAAAHHHHH!”
He writhed in pain. “How do they always know?”

“Let us pass!” I commanded. “Oh, and one more thing…my brother wants a free sample.”

I just had time to step away, and Carter just had time to look confused before the demon blew yellow dust all over him. Then Shezmu sank under the waves.

“What a nice fellow,” I said.