Rick Riordan - The Throne of Fire

Bes barked something in Egyptian. At the top of the bridge, blue light flashed. A swirling sand vortex appeared.

“What did Set mean,” I asked, “about holding my breath?”

“Hopefully won’t be for long,” Bes said. “We’ll only be thirty feet under.”

“Thirty feet under water ?”

BANG! The Mercedes careened sideways. Only later did I realize another javelin must have hit our back tire. We spun across the ice and flipped, sliding upside-down into the vortex.

My head slammed against something. I opened my eyes, fighting for consciousness, but either I was blind or we were in complete darkness. I heard water trickling through the javelin-shattered glass, and the roof of the Mercedes crumpling like an aluminum can.

I had time to think: A teenager for less than a day, and I’m going to drown.

Then I blacked out.

IT’S DISTURBING TO WAKE UP as a chicken.

My ba floated through dark water. My glowing wings flapped as I tried to figure out which way was up. I assumed my body was somewhere close by, possibly already drowned in the back of the Mercedes, but I couldn’t figure out how to return to it.

Why on earth had Bes driven us through an underwater portal? I hoped poor Carter had somehow survived; perhaps Bes was able to pull him free. But dying from poison rather than drowning didn’t seem much of an improvement.

A current caught me and whisked me into the Duat. The water changed into cold fog. Wailing and growling filled the darkness. My acceleration slowed, and when the mist dissipated, I was back in Brooklyn House, floating just outside the infirmary door. On a bench against the wall, sitting together like old friends, were Anubis and Walt Stone. They looked like they were waiting for bad news. Walt’s hands were folded in his lap. His shoulders slumped. He’d changed clothes—a new sleeveless tee, a new pair of running shorts—but he looked like he hadn’t slept since returning from London.

Anubis talked to him in soothing tones, as if trying to ease his grief. I’d never seen Anubis in traditional Egyptian clothes before: bare-chested with a gold and ruby collar around his neck, a simple black kilt wrapped around his waist. It wasn’t a look I’d recommend for most guys, but Anubis pulled it off. I’d always imagined he would look rather skinny with his shirt off (not that I imagined that a lot, mind you) but he was in excellent shape. They must’ve had quite a good gym in the underworld, bench-pressing tombstones and whatnot.

At any rate, after the shock of seeing them together, my first thought was that something terrible must’ve happened to Jaz.

“What is it?” I asked, not sure if they could hear me. “What’s happened?”

Walt didn’t react, but Anubis looked up. As usual my heart did a little happy dance quite without my permission. His eyes were so mesmerizing, I completely forgot how to use my brain.

I said, “Um.”

I know, Liz would’ve been proud.

“Sadie,” Anubis said. “You shouldn’t be here. Carter is dying.”

That jarred me back to my senses. “I know that, jackal boy! I didn’t ask to be—Wait, why am I here?”

Anubis pointed at the door of the infirmary. “I suspect Jaz’s spirit called to you.”

“Is she dead? Am I dead?”

“Neither,” Anubis said. “But you are both on death’s doorstep, which means your souls can speak to each other quite easily. Just don’t stay long.”

Walt still hadn’t acknowledged me. He muttered: “Couldn’t tell her. Why couldn’t I tell her?” He opened his hands. Cradled in his palms was a golden shen amulet exactly like the one he’d given me.

“Anubis, what’s wrong with him?” I asked. “Can’t he hear me?”

Anubis put his hand on Walt’s shoulder. “He can’t see either of us, though I think he can sense my presence. He called to me for guidance. That’s why I’m here.”

“Guidance from you? Why?”

I suppose it sounded harsher than I intended, but of all the gods Walt might’ve called, Anubis seemed the least likely choice.

Anubis looked up at me, his eyes even more melancholy than usual.

“You should pass on now, Sadie,” he said. “You have very little time. I promise I’ll do my best to ease Walt’s pain.”

“His pain?” I asked. “Hang on—”

But the infirmary door swung open, and the currents of the Duat pulled me inside.

The infirmary was the nicest medical facility I’d ever been in, but that wasn’t saying much. I hated hospitals. My father used to joke that I was born screaming and didn’t stop until they got me out of the maternity ward. I was mortally afraid of needles, pills, and above all the smell of sick people. Dead people and cemeteries? Those didn’t bother me. But sickness…well, I’m sorry, but does it have to smell so bloody sick ?

My first visit to Jaz in the infirmary had taken all my courage. This second time, even in ba form, wasn’t any easier.

The room was about the size of my bedroom. The walls were rough-hewn limestone. Large windows let in the nighttime glow of New York. Cedar cabinets were carefully labeled with medicines, first aid supplies, magical charms and potions. In one corner stood a fountain with a life-size statue of the lion goddess Sekhmet, patron of healers. I’d heard that the water pouring through Sekhmet’s hands could cure a cold or flu instantly, and provide most of one’s daily vitamins and iron, but I’d never had the courage to take a drink.

The gurgle of the fountain was peaceful enough. Instead of antiseptic, the air smelled of charmed vanilla-scented candles that floated around the room. But still, the place made me jumpy.

I knew the candles monitored the patients’ conditions. Their flames changed color to indicate problems. At the moment, they all hovered around the only occupied bed—Jaz’s. Their flames were dark orange.

Jaz’s hands were folded on her chest. Her blond hair was combed across her pillow. She smiled faintly as if she were having a pleasant dream.

And sitting at the foot of Jaz’s bed was…Jaz, or at least a shimmering green image of my friend. It wasn’t a ba. The form was fully human. I wondered if she’d died after all, and this was her ghost.

“Jaz…” A wave of fresh guilt washed over me. Everything that had gone wrong the past two days had started with Jaz’s sacrifice, which was my fault. “Are you—”

“Dead? No, Sadie. This is my ren. ”

Her transparent body flickered. When I looked more closely, I saw it was composed of images, like a 3-D video of Jaz’s life. Toddler Jaz sat in a high chair, painting her face with baby food. Twelve-year-old Jaz cartwheeled across a gymnasium floor, trying out for her first cheerleading squad. Present-day Jaz opened her school locker and found a glowing djed amulet —our magical calling card that had led her to Brooklyn.

“Your ren,” I said. “Another part of your soul?”

The glowing green image nodded. “Egyptians believed there were five different parts of the soul. The ba is the personality. The ren is—”

“Your name,” I remembered. “But how can that be your name?”

“My name is my identity,” she said. “The sum of my experiences. As long as my name is remembered, I still exist, even if I die. Do you understand?”

I didn’t, even remotely. But I understood she might die, and that it was my fault.