The Throne of Fire (Kane Chronicles 2)

“Apophis,” Desjardins chanted, “I name you Lord of Chaos, Serpent in the Dark, Fear of the Twelve Houses, the Hated One—”

“Stop it!” Apophis bellowed. “I cannot be contained!”

He shot a blast of fire at Desjardins, but the energy simply joined the swirling cloud around the Chief Lector, turning into the hieroglyph for “heat.” Desjardins stumbled forward, aging before our eyes, becoming more stooped and frail, but his voice remained strong. “I speak for the gods. I speak for the House of Life. I am a servant of Ma’at. I cast you underfoot.”

Desjardins threw down the red snake, and Apophis fell to his side.

The Lord of Chaos hurled everything he had at Desjardins —ice, poison, lightning, boulders—but nothing connected. They all simply turned into hieroglyphs in the Chief Lector’s shield, Chaos forced into patterns of words—into the divine language of creation.

Desjardins smashed the ceramic snake under his foot. Apophis writhed in agony. The thing that used to be Vladimir Menshikov crumbled like a wax shell, and a creature rose out of it—a red snake, covered in slime like a new hatchling. It began to grow, its red scales glistening and its eyes glowing.

Its voice hissed in my mind: I cannot be contained!

But it was having trouble rising. The sand churned around it. A portal was opening, anchored on Apophis himself.

“I erase your name,” Desjardins said. “I remove you from the memory of Egypt.”

Apophis screamed. The beach imploded around him, swallowing the serpent and sucking the red sand into the vortex.

I grabbed Sadie and ran for the boat. Desjardins had collapsed to his knees in exhaustion, but somehow I managed to hook his arm and drag him to the shore. Together Sadie and I hauled him aboard the sun boat. Ra finally scrambled out from his hiding place under the tiller. The glowing servant lights manned the oars, and we pulled away as the entire beach sank into the dark waters, flashes of red lightning rippling under the surface.

Desjardins was dying.

The hieroglyphs had faded around him. His forehead was burning hot. His skin was as dry and thin as rice paper, and his voice was a ragged whisper.

“Execration w-won’t last,” he warned. “Only bought you some time.”

I gripped his hand like he was an old friend, not a former enemy. After playing senet with the moon god, buying time wasn’t something I took lightly. “Why did you do it?” I asked. “You used all your life force to banish him.”

Desjardins smiled faintly. “Don’t like you much. But you were right. The old ways…our only chance. Tell Amos…tell Amos what happened.” He clawed feebly at his leopard-skin cape, and I realized he wanted to remove it. I helped him, and he pressed the cape into my hands. “Show this to…the others.…Tell Amos…”

His eyes rolled into his head, and the Chief Lector passed. His body disintegrated into hieroglyphs—too many to read, the story of his entire life. Then the words floated away down the River of Night.

“Bye-bye,” Ra muttered. “Weasels are sick.”

I’d almost forgotten about the old god. He slumped in his throne again, resting his head on the loop of his crook and swatting his flail halfheartedly at the servant lights.

Sadie took a shaky breath. “Desjardins saved us. I—I di

dn’t like him either, but—”

“I know,” I said. “But we have to keep going. Do you still have the scarab?”

Sadie pulled the wriggling golden scarab from her pocket. Together we approached Ra.

“Take it,” I told him.

Ra wrinkled his already wrinkled nose. “Don’t want a bug.”

“It’s your soul!” Sadie snapped. “You’ll take it, and you’ll like it!”

Ra looked cowed. He took the beetle, and to my horror, popped it in his mouth.

“No!” Sadie yelped.

Too late. Ra had swallowed.

“Oh, god,” Sadie said. “Was he supposed to do that? Maybe he was supposed to do that.”