The Throne of Fire (Kane Chronicles #2)(60)

I’ll just say Walt is my brother.

Ouch.

If I’m honest with myself, Zia wasn’t the only reason I was anxious to go off on my own. I was in shock that Sadie had discovered my secret name. Suddenly she knew me better than anyone in the world. I felt like she’d opened me up on the surgery table, examined me, and sewn me back together. My first instinct was to run away, to put as much distance between us as possible.

I wondered if Ra had felt the same way when Isis learned his name—if that was the real reason he went into exile: complete humiliation.

Also, I needed time to process what Sadie had accomplished. For months we’d been trying to relearn the path of the gods. We’d struggled to figure out how the ancient magicians tapped the gods’ powers without getting possessed or overwhelmed. Now I suspected Sadie had found the answer. It had something to do with a god’s ren.

A secret name wasn’t just a name, like a magic word. It was the sum of the god’s experiences. The more you understood the god, the closer you got to knowing their secret name, and the more you could channel their power.

If that was true, then the path of the gods was basically sympathetic magic—finding a similarity between two things, like a regular corkscrew and a corkscrew-headed demon, and using that similarity to form a magic bond. Only here, the bond was between the magician and a god. If you could find a common trait or experience, you could tap the god’s power.

That might explain how I’d blasted open the doors at the Hermitage with the Fist of Horus—a spell I’d never been able to do on my own. Without thinking about it, without needing to combine souls with Horus, I’d tapped into his emotions. We both hated feeling confined. I’d used that simple connection to invoke a spell and break the chains. Now, if I could just figure out how to do stuff like that more reliably, it might save us in the coming battles….

We traveled for miles in the Bedouins’ truck. The Nile snaked through green and brown fields to our left. We had nothing to drink but water from an old plastic jug that tasted like Vaseline. The goat meat wasn’t sitting well in my stomach. Every once in a while I’d remember the poison that had coursed through my body, and my shoulder would start to ache where the tjesu heru had bitten me.

Around six in the evening we got our first lead. An old fellahin, a peasant farmer selling dates on the roadside, said he knew the village we were seeking. When he heard the name Makan al-Ramal al-Hamrah he made a protective sign against the Evil Eye, but since Bes was the one asking, the old man told us what he knew.

He said Red Sands was an evil place, very badly cursed. No one ever visited nowadays. But the old man remembered the village from before it had been destroyed. We would find it ten kilometers south, at a bend in the river where the sand turned bright red.

Well, duh, I thought, but I couldn’t help being excited.

The Bedouins decided to make camp for the night. They wouldn’t be going with us the rest of the way, but they said they’d be honored if Bes and I borrowed their truck.

A few minutes later, Bes and I were cruising along in the pickup. Bes wore a floppy hat almost as ugly as his Hawaiian shirt. It was pulled so low, I wasn’t sure he could see anything, especially since he was barely eye-level with the dashboard.

Every time we hit a bump, Bedouin trinkets jangled on the rearview mirror—a metal disk etched with Arabic calligraphy, a Christmas-tree–shaped pine air freshener, some animal teeth on a leather strap, and a little icon of Elvis Presley for reasons I didn’t understand. The truck had no suspension and hardly any padding on the seats. I felt like I was riding a mechanical bull. Even without the jostling, my stomach would’ve been upset. After months of searching and hoping, I couldn’t believe I was so close to finding Zia.

“You look terrible,” Bes said.

“Thanks.”

“I mean magically speaking. You don’t look ready for a fight. Whatever’s waiting for us, you understand it isn’t going to be friendly?”

Under the brim of his hat, his jaw jutted out like he was bracing for an argument.

“You think this is a mistake,” I said. “You think I should’ve stayed with Sadie.”

He shrugged. “I think if you were looking at it straight, you’d see this has TRAP written all over it. The old Chief Lector—Iskandar—he wouldn’t have hidden your girlfriend—”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“—without putting some protective spells around her. Set and Apophis apparently both want you to find this place, which means it cannot be good for you. You’re leaving your sister and Walt on their own. On top of all that, we’re traipsing through Desjardins’ backyard, and after that stunt in St. Petersburg, Menshikov won’t rest until he finds you. So, yeah, I’d say this isn’t your brightest idea.”

I stared out the windshield. I wanted to be mad at Bes for calling me stupid, but I was afraid he might be right. I’d been hoping for a happy reunion with Zia. The chances were I’d never make it through tonight alive.

“Maybe Menshikov is still recovering from his head injuries,” I said hopefully.

Bes laughed. “Take it from me, kid. Menshikov is already after you. He never forgets an insult.”

His voice smoldered with anger, like it did in St. Petersburg when he’d told us about the dwarf wedding. I wondered what had really happened to Bes in that palace, and why he was still brooding over it three hundred years later.