Riordan - The Tyrant’s Tomb: The Trials of Apollo, Book Four

Also by Rick Riordan

PERCY JACKSON AND THE OLYMPIANS

Book One: The Lightning Thief

Book Two: The Sea of Monsters

Book Three: The Titans Curse

Book Four: The Battle of the Labyrinth

Book Five: The Last Olympian

The Demigod Files

The Lightning Thief: The Graphic Novel

The Sea of Monsters: The Graphic Novel

The Titans Curse: The Graphic Novel

The Battle of the Labyrinth: The Graphic Novel

The Last Olympian: The Graphic Novel

Percy Jacksons Greek Gods

Percy Jacksons Greek Heroes

From Percy Jackson: Camp Half-Blood Confidential

THE KANE CHRONICLES

Book One: The Red Pyramid

Book Two: The Throne of Fire

Book Three: The Serpents Shadow

The Red Pyramid: The Graphic Novel

The Throne of Fire: The Graphic Novel

The Serpents Shadow: The Graphic Novel

From the Kane Chronicles: Brooklyn House Magicians Manual

THE HEROES OF OLYMPUS

Book One: The Lost Hero

Book Two: The Son of Neptune

Book Three: The Mark of Athena

Book Four: The House of Hades

Book Five: The Blood of Olympus

The Demigod Diaries

The Lost Hero: The Graphic Novel

The Son of Neptune: The Graphic Novel

Demigods & Magicians

MAGNUS CHASE AND THE GODS OF ASGARD

Book One: The Sword of Summer

Book Two: The Hammer of Thor

Book Three: The Ship of the Dead

For Magnus Chase: Hotel Valhalla Guide to the Norse Worlds

9 from the Nine Worlds

THE TRIALS OF APOLLO

Book One: The Hidden Oracle

Book Two: The Dark Prophecy

Book Three: The Burning Maze

Copyright 2019 by Rick Riordan

Cover art 2019 by John Rocco

Designed by Joann Hill

Cover design by Joann Hill

All rights reserved. Published by Disney Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

ISBN 978-1-368-00144-1

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In memory of Diane Martinez,
who changed many lives for the better

The Dark Prophecy

The words that memory wrought are set to fire,

Ere new moon rises oer the Devils Mount.

The changeling lord shall face a challenge dire,

Till bodies fill the Tiber beyond count.

Yet southward must the sun now trace its course,

Through mazes dark to lands of scorching death

To find the master of the swift white horse

And wrest from him the crossword speakers breath.

To westward palace must the Lester go;

Demeters daughter finds her ancient roots.

The cloven guide alone the way does know,

To walk the path in thine own enemys boots.

When three are known and Tiber reached alive,

Tis only then Apollo starts to jive.

There is no food here

Meg ate all the Swedish Fish

Please get off my hearse

I BELIEVE IN RETURNING dead bodies.

It seems like a simple courtesy, doesnt it? A warrior dies, you should do what you can to get their body back to their people for funerary rites. Maybe Im old-fashioned. (I am over four thousand years old.) But I find it rude not to properly dispose of corpses.

Achilles during the Trojan War, for instance. Total pig. He chariot-dragged the body of the Trojan champion Hector around the walls of the city for days. Finally I convinced Zeus to pressure the big bully into returning Hectors body to his parents so he could have a decent burial. I mean, come on. Have a little respect for the people you slaughter.

Then there was Oliver Cromwells corpse. I wasnt a fan of the man, but please. First, the English bury him with honors. Then they decide they hate him, so they dig him up and execute his body. Then his head falls off the pike where its been impaled for decades and gets passed around from collector to collector for almost three centuries like a disgusting souvenir snow globe. Finally, in 1960, I whispered in the ears of some influential people, Enough, already. I am the god Apollo, and I order you to bury that thing. Youre grossing me out.

When it came to Jason Grace, my fallen friend and half brother, I wasnt going to leave anything to chance. I would personally escort his coffin to Camp Jupiter and see him off with full honors.

That turned out to be a good call. What with the ghouls attacking us and everything.

Sunset turned San Francisco Bay into a cauldron of molten copper as our private plane landed at Oakland Airport. I say our private plane; the chartered trip was actually a parting gift from our friend Piper McLean and her movie star father. (Everyone should have at least one friend with a movie star parent.)

Waiting for us beside the runway was another surprise the McLeans must have arranged: a gleaming black hearse.

Meg McCaffrey and I stretched our legs on the tarmac while the ground crew somberly removed Jasons coffin from the Cessnas storage bay. The polished mahogany box seemed to glow in the evening light. Its brass fixtures glinted red. I hated how beautiful it was. Death shouldnt be beautiful.

The crew loaded it into the hearse, then transferred our luggage to the backseat. We didnt have much: Megs backpack and mine, my bow and quiver and ukulele, and a couple of sketchbooks and a poster-board diorama wed inherited from Jason.

I signed some paperwork, accepted the flight crews condolences, then shook hands with a nice undertaker who handed me the keys to the hearse and walked away.

I stared at the keys, then at Meg McCaffrey, who was chewing the head off a Swedish Fish. The plane had been stocked with half a dozen tins of the squishy red candy. Not anymore. Meg had single-handedly brought the Swedish Fish ecosystem to the brink of collapse.

Im supposed to drive? I wondered. Is this a rental hearse? Im pretty sure my New York junior drivers license doesnt cover this.

Meg shrugged. During our flight, shed insisted on sprawling on the Cessnas sofa, so her dark pageboy haircut was flattened against the side of her head. One rhinestone-studded point of her cat-eye glasses poked through her hair like a disco shark fin.

The rest of her outfit was equally disreputable: floppy red high-tops, threadbare yellow leggings, and the well-loved knee-length green frock shed gotten from Percy Jacksons mother. By well-loved, I mean the frock had been through so many battles, been washed and mended so many times, it looked less like a piece of clothing and more like a deflated hot-air balloon. Around Megs waist was the pice de rsistance: her multi-pocketed gardening belt, because children of Demeter never leave home without one.