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.”