Carter stood beside the fountain. He was dressed in linen with Dad’s workbag over one shoulder and his sword strapped to his back. His hair was rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept well. At least he hadn’t been doused in ice water. Seeing him, I felt a strange sense of relief. I thought about Iskandar’s words last night: Your brother will need your guidance.
“What?” Carter asked. “You’re staring at me funny.”
“Nothing,” I said quickly. “How’d you sleep?”
“Badly. I’ll...I’ll tell you about it later.”
Was it my imagination, or did he frown in Zia’s direction? Hmm, possible romantic trouble between Miss Magic and my brother? I made a mental note to interrogate him next time we were alone.
Zia went to a nearby cabinet. She brought out two ceramic cups, dipped them into the fountain, then offered them to us. “Drink.”
I glanced at Carter. “After you.”
“It’s only water,” Zia assured me, “but purified by contact with Thoth. It will focus your mind.”
I didn’t see how a statue could purify water. Then I remembered what Iskandar had said, how gods could inhabit anything.
I took a drink. Immediately I felt like I’d had a good strong cup of Gran’s tea. My brain buzzed. My eyesight sharpened. I felt so hyperactive, I almost didn’t miss my chewing gum—almost.
Carter sipped from his cup. “Wow.”
“Now the tattoos,” Zia announced.
“Brilliant!” I said.
“On your tongue,” she added.
“Excuse me?”
Zia stuck out her tongue. Right in the middle was a blue hieroglyph.
“Nith ith Naat,” she tried to say with her tongue out. Then she realized her mistake and stuck her tongue back in. “I mean, this is Ma’at, the symbol of order and harmony. It will help you speak magic clearly. One mistake with a spell—”
“Let me guess,” I said. “We’ll die.”
From her cabinet of horrors, Zia produced a fine-tipped paintbrush and a bowl of blue dye. “It doesn’t hurt. And it’s not permanent.”
“How does it taste?” Carter wondered.
Zia smiled. “Stick out your tongue.”
To answer Carter’s question, the tattoo tasted like burning car tires.
“Ugh.” I spit a blue gob of “order and harmony” into the fountain. “Never mind breakfast. Lost my appetite.”
Zia pulled a leather satchel out of the cabinet. “Carter will be allowed to keep your father’s magic implements, plus a new staff and wand. Generally speaking, the wand is for defense, the staff is for offense, although, Carter, you may prefer to use your khopesh.”
“Khopesh?”
“The curved sword,” Zia said. “A favored weapon of the pharaoh’s guard. It can be used in combat magic. As for Sadie, you will need a full kit.”
“How come he gets Dad’s kit?” I complained.
“He is the eldest,” she said, as if that explained everything. Typical.
Zia tossed me the leather satchel. Inside was an ivory wand, a rod that I supposed turned into a staff, some paper, an ink set, a bit of twine, and a lovely chunk of wax. I was less than thrilled.
“What about a little wax man?” I asked. “I want a Doughboy.”
“If you mean a figurine, you must make one yourself. You will be taught how, if you have the skill. We will determine your specialty later.”
“Specialty?” Carter asked. “You mean like Nectanebo specialized in statues?”
Zia nodded. “Nectanebo was extremely skilled in statuary magic. He could make shabti so lifelike, they could pass for human. No one has ever been greater at statuary...except perhaps Iskandar. But there are many other disciplines: Healer. Amulet maker. Animal charmer. Elementalist. Combat magician. Necromancer.”
“Diviner?” I asked.
Zia looked at me curiously. “Yes, although that is quite rare. Why do you—”
I cleared my throat. “So how do we know our specialty?”
“It will become clear soon enough,” Zia promised, “but a good magician knows a bit of everything, which is why we start with a basic test. Let us go to the library.”
The First Nome’s library was like Amos’s, but a hundred times bigger, with circular rooms lined with honeycomb shelves that seemed to go on forever, like the world’s largest beehive. Clay shabti statues kept popping in and out, retrieving scroll canisters and disappearing, but we saw no other people.
Zia brought us to a wooden table and spread out a long, blank papyrus scroll. She picked up a stylus and dipped it in ink.
“The Egyptian word shesh means scribe or writer, but it can also mean magician. This is because magic, at its most basic, turns words into reality. You will create a scroll. Using your own magic, you will send power into the words on paper. When spoken, the words will unleash the magic.”
She handed the stylus to Carter.
“I don’t get it,” he protested.
“A simple word,” she suggested. “It can be anything.”
“In English?”
Zia curled her lip. “If you must. Any language will work, but hieroglyphics are best. They are the language of creation, of magic, of Ma’at. You must be careful, however.”
Before she could explain, Carter drew a simple hieroglyph of a bird.
The picture wriggled, peeled itself off the papyrus, and flew away. It splattered Carter’s head with some hieroglyphic droppings on its way out. I couldn’t help laughing at Carter’s expression.
“A beginner’s mistake,” Zia said, scowling at me to be quiet. “If you use a symbol that stands for something alive, it is wise to write it only partially—leave off a wing, or the legs. Otherwise the magic you channel could make it come alive.”
“And poop on its creator.” Carter sighed, wiping off his hair with a bit of scrap papyrus. “That’s why our father’s wax statue, Doughboy, has no legs, right?”
“The same principle,” Zia agreed. “Now, try again.”
Carter stared at Zia’s staff, which was covered in hieroglyphics. He picked the most obvious one and copied it on the papyrus—the symbol for fire.
Uh-oh, I thought. But the word did not come alive, which would’ve been rather exciting. It simply dissolved.
“Keep trying,” Zia urged.
“Why am I so tired?” Carter wondered.
He definitely looked exhausted. His face was beaded with sweat.
“You’re channeling magic from within,” Zia said. “For me, fire is easy. But it may not be the most natural type of magic for you. Try something else. Summon...summon a sword.”
Zia showed him how to form the hieroglyph, and Carter wrote it on the papyrus. Nothing happened.
“Speak it,” Zia said.
“Sword,” Carter said. The word glowed and vanished, and a butter knife lay on the papyrus.
I laughed. “Terrifying!”
Carter looked like he was about to pass out, but he managed a grin. He picked up the knife and threatened to poke me with it.
“Very good for a first time,” Zia said. “Remember, you are not creating the knife yourself. You are summoning it from Ma’at—the creative power of the universe. Hieroglyphs are the code we use. That’s why they are called Divine Words. The more powerful the magician, the easier it becomes to control the language.”
I caught my breath. “Those hieroglyphs floating in the Hall of Ages. They seemed to gather around Iskandar. Was he summoning them?”
“Not exactly,” Zia said. “His presence is so strong, he makes the language of the universe visible simply by being in the room. No matter what our specialty, each magician’s greatest hope is to become a speaker of the Divine Words—to know the language of creation so well that we can fashion reality simply by speaking, not even using a scroll.”
“Like saying shatter,” I ventured. “And having a door explode.”
Zia scowled. “Yes, but such a thing would take years of practice.”
“Really? Well—”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Carter shaking his head, silently warning me to shut up.
“Um...” I stammered. “Some day, I’ll learn to do that.”
Zia raised an eyebrow. “First, master the scroll.”
I was getting tired of her attitude, so I picked up the stylus and wrote Fire in English.
Zia leaned forward and frowned. “You shouldn’t—”
Before she could finish, a column of flame erupted in her face. I screamed, sure I’d done something horrible, but when the fire died Zia was still there, looking astonished, her eyebrows singed and her bangs smoldering.
“Oh, god,” I said. “Sorry, sorry. Do I die now?”
For three heartbeats, Zia stared at me.
“Now,” she announced. “I think you are ready to duel.”
We used another magic gateway, which Zia summoned right on the library wall. We stepped into a circle of swirling sand and popped out the other side, covered in dust and grit, in the front of some ruins. The harsh sunlight almost blinded me.
“I hate portals,” Carter muttered, brushing the sand out of his hair.
Then he looked around and his eyes widened. “This is Luxor! That’s, like, hundreds of miles south of Cairo.”
I sighed. “And that amazes you after teleporting from New York?”
He was too busy checking out our surroundings to answer.
I suppose the ruins were all right, though once you’ve seen one pile of crumbly Egyptian stuff, you’ve seen them all, I say. We stood on a wide avenue flanked by human-headed beasties, most of which were broken. The road went on behind us as far as I could see, but in front of us it ended at a temple much bigger than the one in the New York museum.
The walls were at least six stories high. Big stone pharaohs stood guard on either side of the entrance, and a single obelisk stood on the left-hand side. It looked as if one used to stand on the right as well, but it was now gone.
“Luxor is a modern name,” Zia said. “This was once the city of Thebes. This temple was one of the most important in Egypt. It is the best place for us to practice.”
“Because it’s already destroyed?” I asked.
Zia gave me one of her famous scowls. “No, Sadie—because it is still full of magic. And it was sacred to your family.”
“Our family?” Carter asked.
Zia didn’t explain, as usual. She just gestured for us to follow.
“I don’t like those ugly sphinxes,” I mumbled as we walked down the path.
“Those ugly sphinxes are creatures of law and order,” Zia said, “protectors of Egypt. They are on our side.”
“If you say so.”
Carter nudged me as we passed the obelisk. “You know the missing one is in Paris.”
I rolled my eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Wikipedia. I thought they were in New York and London.”
“That’s a different pair,” Carter said, like I was supposed to care. “The other Luxor obelisk is in Paris.”