“This for portal?” He pointed to a block of carved limestone in the courtyard.
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks.”
Long story short: when I started at BAG, I reckoned it would be good to have an Egyptian relic close by for emergencies. So I did the logical thing: I borrowed a chunk of limestone frieze from the nearby Brooklyn Museum. Honestly, the museum had enough rocks. I didn’t think they’d miss this one.
I’d left a facsimile in its place and asked Alyssa to present the actual Egyptian frieze to her art teacher as her class project—an attempt to simulate an ancient art form. The teacher had been duly impressed. He’d installed “Alyssa’s” artwork in the courtyard outside his classroom. The carving showed mourners at a funeral, which I thought appropriate for a school setting.
It wasn’t a powerful or important piece of art, but all relics of Ancient Egypt have some amount of power, like magical batteries. With the right training, a magician can use them to jump-start spells that would otherwise be impossible, such as opening portals.
I’d got rather good at this particular magic. Leonid watched my back as I began to chant.
Most magicians wait for “auspicious moments” to open gates. They spend years memorizing a timetable of important anniversaries like the time of day each god was born, the alignment of the stars, and whatnot. I suppose I should have worried about such things, but I didn’t. Given the thousands of years of Egyptian history, there were so many auspicious moments that I simply chanted until I hit one. Of course, I had to hope my portal didn’t open during an inauspicious moment. That could have caused all sorts of nasty side effects—but what’s life without taking a few risks?
(Carter is shaking his head and muttering. I have no idea why.)
The air rippled in front of us. A circular doorway appeared—a swirling vortex of golden sand—and Leonid and I jumped through.
I’d like to say my spell worked perfectly and we ended up in the First Nome. Sadly, I was a bit off the mark.
The portal spit us out roughly a hundred meters above Cairo. I found myself free-falling through the cool night air toward the city lights below.
I didn’t panic. I could have cast any number of spells to get out of this situation. I could have even assumed the form of a kite (the bird of prey, not the kind with a string), although that wasn’t my favorite way to travel. Before I could decide on a plan of action, Leonid grabbed my hand.
The direction of the wind changed. Suddenly we were gliding over the city in a controlled descent. We set down softly in the desert just outside the city limits near a cluster of ruins that I knew from experience hid an entrance to the First Nome.
I looked at Leonid in amazement. “You summoned the power of Shu!”
“Shu,” he said grimly. “Yes. Necessary. I do…forbidden.”
I smiled with delight. “You clever boy! You learned the path of the gods on your own? I knew there was a reason I didn’t turn you into a banana slug.”
Leonid’s eyes widened. “No banana slug! Please!”
“It was a compliment, silly,” I said. “Forbidden is good! Sadie likes forbidden! Now, come on. You need to meet my uncle.”
No doubt Carter would describe the underground city in excruciating detail, with exact measurements of each room, boring history on every statue and hieroglyph, and background notes on the construction of the magical headquarters of the House of Life.
I will spare you that pain.
It’s big. It’s full of magic. It’s underground.
There. Sorted.
At the bottom of the entry tunnel, we crossed a stone bridge over a chasm, where I was challenged by a ba. The glowing bird spirit (with the head of a famous Egyptian I probably should’ve known) asked me a question: What color are the eyes of Anubis?
Brown. Duh. I suppose he was trying to trick me with an easy question.
The ba let us pass into the city proper. I hadn’t visited in six months, and I was distressed to see how few magicians were about. The First Nome had never been crowded. Egyptian magic had withered over the centuries as fewer and fewer young initiates learned the arts. But now most shops in the central cavern were closed. At the market stalls, no one was haggling over the price of ankhs or scorpion venom. A bored-looking amulet salesman perked up as we approached, then slumped as we passed by.
Our footsteps echoed in the silent tunnels. We crossed one of the subterranean rivers, then wound our way through the library quarter and the Chamber of Birds.
(Carter says I should tell you why it’s called that. It’s a cave full of all sorts of birds. Again—duh. [Carter, why are you banging your head against the table?])
I brought my Russian friend down a long corridor, past a sealed tunnel that had once led up to the Great Sphinx of Giza, and finally to the bronze doors of the Hall of Ages. It was my uncle’s hall now, so I strolled right in.
Impressive place? Certainly. If you filled it with water, the hall would’ve been large enough for a pod of whales. Running down the middle, a long blue carpet glittered like the River Nile. Along either side marched rows of columns, and between them shimmered curtains of light displaying scenes from Egypt’s past—all sorts of horrible, wonderful, heart-wrenching events.
I tried to avoid looking at them. I knew from experience that those images could be dangerously absorbing. Once I’d made the mistake of touching the lights, and the experience had almost turned my brain into oatmeal.