The Throne of Fire (Kane Chronicles #2)(83)

“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-Fran?ois 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.