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.
The first section of light was gold—the Age of the Gods. Farther along, the Old Kingdom glowed silver, then the Middle Kingdom in coppery brown, and so on.
Several times as we walked, I had to pull Leonid back from scenes that caught his eye. Honestly, I wasn’t much better.
I got teary-eyed when I saw a vision of Bes entertaining the other gods by doing cartwheels in a loincloth. (I cried because I missed seeing him so full of life, I mean, though the sight of Bes in a loincloth is enough to make anyone’s eyes burn.)
We passed the bronze curtain of light for the New Kingdom. I stopped abruptly. In the shifting mirage, a thin man in priestly robes held a wand and a knife over a black bull. The man muttered as if blessing the animal. I couldn’t tell much about the scene, but I recognized the man’s face—a beaky nose, high forehead, thin lips that twisted in a wicked smile as he ran the knife along the poor animal’s throat.
“That’s him,” I muttered.
I walked toward the curtain of light.
“Nyet.” Leonid grabbed my arm. “You tell me the lights are bad, stay away.”
“You—you’re right,” I said. “But that’s Uncle Vinnie.”
I was positive it was the same face that had appeared in the wall at the Dallas Museum, but how could that be? The scene I was looking at must have happened thousands of years ago.
“Not Vinnie,” Leonid said. “Khaemwaset.”
“Sorry?” I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him correctly, or even in what language he’d spoken. “Is that a name?”
“He is…” Leonid slipped into Russian, then sighed in exasperation. “Too difficult to explain. Let us see Amos, who will not eat my face.”
I forced myself to look away from the image. “Good idea. Let’s keep going.”
At the end of the hall, the curtains of red light for the Modern Age changed to dark purple. Supposedly this marked the beginning of a new age, though none of us knew exactly what sort of era it would be. If Apophis destroyed the world, I guessed it would be the Age of Extremely Short Lives.
I’d expected to see Amos sitting at the foot of the pharaoh’s throne. That was the traditional place for the Chief Lector, symbolizing his role as the pharaoh’s main advisor. Of course, the pharaohs rarely needed advising these days, as they’d all been dead for several thousand years.
The dais was empty.
That stumped me. I’d never considered where the Chief Lector hung out when he wasn’t on display. Did he have a dressing room, possibly with his name and a little star on the door?
“There.” Leonid pointed.
Once again, my clever Russian friend was right. On the back wall, behind the throne, a faint line of light shone along the floor—the bottom edge of a door.
“A creepy secret entrance,” I said. “Well done, Leonid.”
On the other side, we found a sort of war room. Amos and a young woman in camouflage clothes stood at opposite ends of a large table inlaid with a full-color world map. The table’s surface was crowded with tiny figurines—painted ships, monsters, magicians, cars, and markers with hieroglyphs.
Amos and the camouflage girl were so engrossed in their work, moving figurines across the map, they didn’t notice us at first.
Amos wore traditional linen robes. With his barrel-shaped figure, they made him look a bit like Friar Tuck, except with darker skin and cooler hair. His braided locks were decorated with gold beads. His round glasses flashed as he studied the map. Draped around his shoulders was the leopard-skin cape of the Chief Lector.
As for the young woman…oh, gods of Egypt. It was Zia.
I’d never seen her in modern clothes before. She wore camouflage cargo pants, hiking boots, and an olive-colored tank top that flattered her coppery skin. Her black hair was longer than I remembered. She looked so much more grown-up and gorgeous than she’d been six months ago, I was glad Carter hadn’t come along. He would’ve had difficulty picking up his jaw from the floor.
[Yes, you would have, Carter. She looked quite stunning, in a Commando Girl sort of way.]
Amos moved one of the figurines across the map. “Here,” he told Zia.
“All right,” she said. “But that leaves Paris undefended.”
I cleared my throat. “Are we interrupting?”
Amos turned and broke into a grin. “Sadie!”
He crushed me in a hug, then rubbed my head affectionately.
“Ow,” I said.
He chuckled. “I’m sorry. It’s just so good to see you.” He glanced at Leonid. “And this is—”