Mabruke did not stir. He was asleep with his face to the wall. Prince Viracocha sat cross-legged, meditating in a patch of sunlight. Oken stopped pacing and knelt at the nearest opening in the wall to look.
Guards stood at various posts on the plaza below. Musicians were filing in through the western door from the Hallway of the Musicians, and the Aklya Kono dancers were coming in with them, leaping and twirling to the drumbeats. The Mama Kunas stood in somber line against the wall, watching their charges, the Virgins of the Sun.
The women leaped forward with vivid, lithe displays of their native dance, beautiful, wild things, like mountain birds moving through ritual patterns a million years old. The dancers wore only sheer tunics with flowing sleeves, and as they danced, their brown limbs did, as Viracocha said, “sparkle like sun on the water.” They wereentrancing.
Then Oken saw an impossible pair of legs that stopped his heart for an instant, and the entire world shifted around that beautiful view. She was nearly twice as tall as the native dancers. Natyra paced alongside the Aklya Konos, her gaze fixed upon each little dancer as a hawk upon its prey. She mimicked their steps with studied, graceful precision.
Oken thrilled at the intensity of her focus, at the impossible presence of her, there in the courtyard below. The compass of his inner world swung eagerly to true South. There could be only one explanation for her inexplicable presence down there with the Virgins of the Sun. She had come to rescue him.
Oken called eagerly to Mabruke, “Mik! Natyra! Natyra is here!” Mabruke awoke with a start and looked around in confusion. “Natyra!” Oken said again, more urgently. “She’s here!” Prince Viracocha broke from his meditation and twisted around to peer through the grille. “You know this woman?” He could not take his eyes from her. Then he turned to Oken, distress clear in his face. “She is your woman?”
Oken shook his head. “She is no one’s woman, and she never will be. She is her own self, completely. I claim only the honor of her acquaintance.”
“I hope to earn such an honor,” Viracocha whispered, face transformed. He went back to gazing at her.
Oken joined him. “Soon as we get out of here, I’ll introduce you.”
“Do you fancy Natyra came all this way to rescue you?” Mabruke had raised himself on one elbow and was looking at Oken with the intense expression of a professor testing his best pupil. “That would be something quite striking, wouldn’t it, like finding Bismarck in the Andes.”
Oken wanted to protest. He glanced at Viracocha, who was kneeling before the opening in the wall, enrapt by the vision in the courtyard below. Oken said, finally, “Women are the eternal mystery—now and forever.”
“We will discover her reasons when we meet her,” Mabruke said, and he lay down again, turning his face to the wall.
Oken slowly scanned the other people in the ball court, the guards standing along the rim, the Mama Kuna and her matrons in their formal rows, guarding their maidens. The doors to the dancers’ entry from the Hallway of the Musicians stood open, a wedge of sunlight stealing in. A man stood there. He was more out of place than Natyra. His black suit belonged in Paris or London, not Ollantaytambo. He was on the far side of the court, but the width, bulk, and blond mustache of the one standing boldly in the light were unforgettable—General Vladimir Modestovich Blestyak.
On that revelation, Oken’s confidence wavered. Blestyak’s secret alliance with Victoria, together with Bismarck’s presence in Tawantinsuyu, erased the golden apparition of Natyra. Unbidden and unwanted, the opera program with her handwritten dismissal flashed in his memory, fixed in green wax—You do not know me. We have never met. You have no interest in me.
Oken felt himself go empty and cold. Natyra was not here to rescue him. She was here to watch him die.
AMBASSADOR AMBROSE
LeBrun tried to decide which of the purple maracuyá fruit peeping out from the lush tangle of the vines was the ripest, ready enough for the baby teeth of the toddler he carried on one arm. The boy, his first grandchild, was batting happily at the large, purple-edged leaves in rhythm to his song to the eve ning.
The vines were thickly woven into the wrought-iron trellis that stood across the southern end of the terrace, providing shade and a certain amount of privacy, setting them off from the central courtyard, and the bustle of embassy staff.
His daughter Sarah sipped at her tea, humming along with her child’s spontaneous tune.
“Here you are, little man,” LeBrun said as he plucked one that suited him. The child reached out for the fruit with chubby brown fingers; laughing, his grandfather carried him over to join Sarah at the table.
The child gave the selected fruit to his mother and said, “Make little pieces, Mama.”
Sara tookit, smiling. “What is the name of this, Zozo? What did Papa teach you?”
The boy squeezed his eyes shut, writhing in his grandfather’s arms. “Mama-raky?”
“Try again, Zozo,” his mother encouraged him.
“Maracuyá?” the boy tried again.
“Good boy!” his mother cooed at him, and began peeling the purple fruit.
LeBrun set the child into his highchair. “I should be getting back to the office, Sarah. I saw birds coming, flying with escorts, when I crossed the courtyard. The messages will be in by now.”
The chimes over the entry to the garden terrace rang with a merry tinkle, making little Zozo clap happily. The ambassador’s junior secretary Edward stood on threshold, looking strained and impatient.
“I’ll speak with you after dinner, Sarah. Have a good eve ning, my dear.”
LeBrun patted little Zozo on his head and went to meet his assistant. “You look frightened, Edward. What has happened?”
“I apologize for intruding, sir.” The young man held out a small scroll. “This has just arrived from Ollantaytambo.” His expression was a note of alarm that rang through the words written on the scroll.
LeBrun read the message through, then read it again in hopes he had misread something. He made himself take a long, slow breath to calm his suddenly beating heart, and said to his daughter, “Sarah, I must leave at once. Would you send a message to your mother, please? Ask her to have my travel kit sent to the office. If she sends it at once, it will arrive when I do.”
“Of course, Father, at once.” She gathered up the child and went to the speaking tube, Zozo on her hip, and rang the sequence of chimes for her mother’s apartment. Zozo put his little hands around the brass mouthpiece and leaned forward, chanting, “Gram-mum! Gram-mum!”
THE WALK
from his daughter’s apartment and out of the residential quarters to his ambassadorial suite gave LeBrun time to compose himself. He was reminded most immediately that his brother, the ambassador of Maya Land, while discussing the changing situation in Tawantinsuyu, had said Pachacuti would not last a month as Inca. “The poor man is cracked through and through. The least push, and he will shatter.”
If the news Ambassador LeBrun had just learned true, those shattered pieces were about to fall in a hail of destruction across Tawantinsuyu.
OKEN WAS
waked by the peals of dawn. Anxious dreams nagged after him, moonlit pools where serpentine women danced with flames, dragging the darkness out the night and into the dim morning.
Viracocha was sitting cross-legged before the long wall of the Milky Way. Oken could hear him chanting softly under his breath, reminding him of many morning prayers his mother had taught him.
None of which, however, seemed quite to fit here, and the dream women lingered just out sight, mocking Oken with the guilt he had felt, believing that he had earned Natyra’s trust, back in fabled Novgorod.
Mabruke was still asleep. Oken went over quietly to look at the scratches on his face. The swelling was no better, and the wounds looked hot, too red along the edges. He leaned closer to put out his hand to check Mabruke’s temperature. Before touching his face, however, Oken could feel the heat. He drew back, frowning.
Oken went over to Viracocha and sank down on his heels beside him.
Viracocha opened his eyes and looked at him.
Oken nodded toward Mabruke. “Fever.”
Viracocha stood at once and went to kneel beside Mabruke. He remained very still, gazing at Mabruke’s sleeping form, the rhythm of his breathing. Then he stood, moving silently, and returned to sit beside Oken.
“Sleep is the best we can give him,” he whispered softly.
Oken agreed.
The two sat side by side, watching dawn grow into bright morning through the figures of the Milky Way.
Mabruke woke when the temple guards opened the staircase entry and put their food inside the attic chamber. He sat up slowly, his good eye blinking. The swollen scratches and graying stubble made him almost unrecognizable. He yawned widely, then shivered.
Oken and Viracocha stood up. Oken went to the water jug and filled the cup for Mabruke, who drank eagerly.
VIRACOCHA STRODE
toward the guards with a commanding gesture. The guard with the spear raised the tip, but the threat was lost in the tremor of his hands that made the point waver. Viracocha spoke in clear, commanding words, a long sentence in Quechua. The quavering spear point was lowered, and the guards exchanged unhappy looks. They each gave the prince a curt nod and withdrew. The section of the wall that had let them in swung shut.
“What did you say to him?” Mabruke said. His voice was thick. “I told him what herbs to bring for your fever.”
“Do you think he will?” Oken brought Mabruke a second cup of water.
“If he can get through the security in the passageways.” Viracocha picked up the tray and brought it over to the others.
They were just finishing up the last of the fruits, and licking the juice from their fingers, when they heard the mechanism of the staircase opening. Oken and Viracocha stood up at once. Mabruke kept eating.
There was only one guard this time, with no spear. He had a large, plain jug, from which wisps of steam rose, and a fistful of leafy plants that looked as though they had just been ripped from the ground. Despite the man’s fierce paint and armor, he wore a desperate and anxious expression. He set the jar and plant down inside the chamber and backed out. His eyes were fixed on Viracocha’s face.
Viracocha did not move. He just spoke gently, thanking the guard.
Once the door had swung shut, Viracocha leaped over to the jug and herbs and brought them to Mabruke. The jug held steaming hot water. Viracocha plucked buds from the plants. “Bring me the cup,” he said to Oken.
He crushed the buds in his palm, then put them in the cup and poured the hot water over them. He swirled the cup gently until satisfied with the aroma and held it out to Mabruke.
“What is this called?” Mabruke said as he took the cup.
“Rawray unquy qura—fever- herb.”
“Lovely fragrance,” Mabruke said, breathing deeply of the aroma before drinking it.
Oken found himself heartened by the pungent yet soothing fragrance.
Viracocha, meanwhile, was picking buds and small leaves, grinding them against the stone of the sleeping bench. He dribbled hot water onto the crushed leaves and continued to work the herb with his fingers, then used the edge of the cup to grind the herbs into a paste. “Mama Kusay taught me this,” he said.
“Ah, then it will be a potent poultice!” Mabruke said with more of his usual enthusiasm.
Viracocha used a leaf to scrape up the green paste he had created. “To soothe the heat in those scratches.”
Oken took the leaf and sat beside Mabruke. “Look at me,” he said.
Mabruke turned the injured side of his face to Oken, eyes closed, and let him smear the herb poultice over the scratches. Oken hesitated when Mabruke flinched, then he continued, gently.
“It is helping,” Mabruke said. “I can tell. Mama Kusay is wise in the ways of plants and herbs.”
“She makes damned fine roast pig, too,” Viracocha said, “and she can turn the meanest fish into food fit for Inty!”
“I believe that,” Mabruke said. “The Sun himself would step down from the sky to dine at her table.”
Viracochawas pleased. “I will tell her that when I see her again.”
“I rather hope to tell her that myself,” Mabruke said. The unswollen side of his mouth was smiling. He touched his injured cheek gingerly. “Her magic is already working. The heat is fading.”
“Your fever?” Oken said, putting his hand out to touch Mabruke’s face with the back of his hand. “Yes, cooler— but still too warm.”
“After you sleep, Mik, another cup of the tea will do it.”
“A nap after such a feast is a fine idea,” Mabruke said, pushing the straw together as a pillow. “I shall fall asleep thinking about our next feast in the kingdom of Mama Kusay.”
Mabruke fell asleep very quickly. Viracocha returned to his mediations before the Milky Way. Oken sat staring at beast-shaped openings in the wall, thinking, remembering.
MABRUKE SAT
up, stretching his long limbs. “Could I have more of Mama Kusay’s fever-tea? My faith is in Egypt, but just at this moment, my money is on Mama Kusay.”
Viracocha had placed the jug of tea in a sunny patch to hold its warmth, patiently moving it to keep up with the steady march of the sunbeam while Mabruke slept.
Mabruke stretched, then gingerly explored the swollen scratches on his face with his fingertips. “Mama Kusay is a wise woman. I will speak with Lady Nightingale about sending students of the Sakhmetical School to study with her.” His swollen eye was open at last, and the redness had lessened.
“I will prepare another poultice,” Viracocha said. “Who is Lady Nightingale?”
“Egypt’s Mama Kusay—although I do not think Florry has much experience with frying guinea pig.”
THE BELL
of Requirement rang at dawn, accompanied by a carillon of lesser bells, closer and more strident. The shrieking of the birds was lost in the ringing echoes. The three princes were already awake, having been roused during the last hour of darkness by that innate sense of impending disaster that had accompanied them throughout the night. They sat quietly, watching the dawn light grow from a pearly luminescence filtering through the stone walls, to the full rosy light of morning.
“Will they feed us today?” Mabruke said. His voice was clear, and Mama Kusay’s poultice had fully opened his swollen eye.
“Yes. I do not recommend it.”
“Why is that?” Oken said, pushing himself up to his feet and stretching elaborately.
“Teonanactl,” was Viracocha’s reply.
“Ah, I see,” Mabruke said, also standing to stretch, although less steadily than Oken liked to see. “The divine mushroom, Flesh of the Gods.”
“You know of Teonanactl?”
“We have a similar product in Egypt,” Mabruke said. “We call it Lotus Dust. We use it during major ceremonies and rituals, for the expansion of conscious awareness of the sacred nature of the eternal dimension. I would not want to be on Lotus Dust while someone was cutting my heart out, so I appreciate the warning.”
“As it is meant to be used in our temples, as well.” Viracocha sighed, a look of amusement almost touching his eyes. “But it is a matter of faith. The sacrificial victim must believe that he is being sent to Court of the Sun instead of Xibalba.”
Oken shrugged. “Or just a matter of names.”
“Teonanactl will be in everything?” Mabruke said, sounding disappointed.
“Knowing Kuchillu,” Viracocha said to him, “he probably added dried coca leaf as well, to make the fear more intense.”
“Coca would help with the pain, wouldn’t it?” Mabruke said.
“Not with Teonanactl. Not the way Kuchillu would serve it.”
Mabruke heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Well, we will just have to get something to eat when we get out of here.” He spoke so matter- of-factly that both Oken and Viracocha broke out into laughter.
Oken was reassured. Concern with filling his stomach was a sign that his friend was sound.
The platter of food brought in by Pomakanchy was, indeed, quite different from their previous meals—a pile of freshly baked pasties, with small bowls of sauce, and three cups of steaming hot tea. The scent of the pasties was maddeningly delicious. Oken actually had to make himself deliberately recall the physical experiences of Lotus Dust to keep himself from surrendering to the demand of his empty stomach and weakened resources. Mabruke was staring at the platter with a look of dismal realization. Viracocha, however, had not moved from his spot, meditating in front of the Milky Way.
The enticing platter remained untouched for the rest of that long morning and afternoon, while the voices of the crowd gathering, the music, the ceremonies, and the game washed over them in rising and falling waves of human enthusiasm. Mabruke slept. Oken, to distract himself from the seductive aroma of the food, watched the games through the grille of artwork. He did not want to see Natyra, yet caught himself searching for her among the crowds on the plaza below. He discovered a keener understanding of Mabruke’s decision to retire from the field. There were so many more Natyras in the older man’s career.
Inca’s team were in blue and yellow body paint, the Maya in red and green. The game was fast and violent, with nothing of the innocent fun he had seen watching Runa’s boy at play. The crowd screamed with delight whenever blood was drawn, especially when the player sprayed them with his opponent’s blood. The players were lithe and as nimble as dancers inside their elaborate gear. The garishly painted ball flashed back and forth in the sunlight at punishing speeds.
THE HALFTIME
bell rang, and the Aklya Kuna dancers came out, whirling to the music. Viracocha sat up abruptly, peering out through the grille. “She is there!” he breathed. “She is dancing.”
Oken caught a momentary glimpse of her; then the door to their attic prison swung inward, with no announcement. The sunlight dazzled, splashing into the attic chamber. High Priest Ihhuipapalotl stood in the doorway, in full ceremonial dress. Jade panels covered his chest and shins, and he had a kilt and cape of green feathers, with a headdress of plumes that arched over his back. A mask of carved and painted wood gave him a fantastic and remarkable expression, with only his eyes peering through to mark him as human. His personal guards were behind him, iron maces and shields at the ready.
Viracocha stood with a smooth and graceful gesture, in spite of his size and current condition.
“Indeed,” Mabruke said. “This must be it.”
Incredibly, the high priest’s words were not what they expected. “We must hurry,” Ihhuipapalotl said to them, “while Pachacuti is watching the new dancer!” He was sweating enough that his makeup dripped in streaks on the jade.
Mabruke clapped his hands once sharply. “Hah! Both hands know what the other is doing.”
“Now—quickly!” Ihhuipapalotl said, waving them outside.
Viracocha led them out. They winced at first, adjusting to the sudden brightness. Oken was immediately aware of the fresh taste of the air outside the attic, cooler and keener in his nose.
Ihhuipapalotl led them down a short, narrow stair behind the chapel and through a back door, all the while bubbling over with rapid, almost garbled speech in Quechua. His magical touches at the inner chapel wall, reminiscent of Runa’s tiptoe manipulations of solid stone, opened a passage into darkness. They went in, going down a spiral stair with growing speed. There were no guards or gates at the switchback landings. The light was Egyptian crystal, flickering weakly, as though neglected. The air in this dim place was sluggish and dank.
They emerged onto a side plaza at base of the pyramid, through a doorway that then closed invisibly into the wall, leaving them in the shadow of the central staircase.
At the top of the pyramid, Pachacuti’s complete attention was on the dancers. His chest piece and collar were gold; his arms and legs wrapped in gilded leather. His sandals were gold, his toes and fingers encased in golden puma claws, with a golden puma-helmet, his face framed by its gleaming jaws. The cat’s eyes were set with fiery red stones shining as brightly as the gold. He was a blaze of light above them, a second sun in the blue sky.
Ihhuipapalotl waved to the crowd, and— to Oken’s complete and amazed delight— Zaydane and Blestyak appeared at the signal. Zaydane and Mabruke greeted each other with a tight hug, their foreheads touching. Blestyak stood back, avoiding Oken’s eyes.
“We have horses waiting,” Zaydane said, pointing toward the eastern entrance to the plaza, on the far side of the sunken viewing court. “This way!”
The weariness and dismay of their days of imprisonment faded in the sunlight and the astonishing reality of the rescue team— even Blestyak. Oken’s worldview cleared. Natyra had come to rescue him.
Then the music fell silent, one instrument at a time, replaced by screams of fear and pain mixed with angry shouting, breaking over them from the sunken viewing court. Pachacuti’s elite squad surged up the steps from the gardens, pouring in from every side. More appeared, climbing out of the viewing court. There were scuffles and mêlées as the villagers and musicians, dancers and singers perceived the danger and scattered in every direction.
Zaydane’s escape plan was now blocked by a wall of Pachacuti’s warriors, maces and shields held at the ready as they advanced.
From the atop the pyramid, Pachacuti spied the escapees and shouted his hatred at Viracocha, brandishing an obsidian axe in one hand and a jade staff in the other—the emblems of imperial authority. He kept shouting, vile and powerful curses, his painted features distorted by passion, inside his fierce mask.
Viracocha ran across the plaza toward the stair, climbing back up to the pink stone chapel atop the pyramid, with the Attic of the Sun—straight toward Pachacuti.
Oken dashed after Viracocha, his immediate thought being to intercept him, to pull him away to safety, then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a gleam, high in the clear, blue sky—the same gleam that had caught Viracocha’s eagle eye first. Oken pointed it out to Mabruke, who in turn shouted to Zaydane and the rest, ordering them to follow Viracocha.
They quickly reached the middle terrace, where the beautiful little Aklya Kuno dancers, the Virgins of the Sun, were looking about in confusion because the music had stopped so abruptly. The brilliance was a spotlight for the tall woman dancing in their midst. She was barefoot, and wore a garment of silk scarves, the colors of the rainbow, of earth and stones and water, swirling around her as she moved. Her headdress was a wild crown of improbable feathers and fantastic blossoms, which coiled about her bare skull and her long, graceful neck.
Oken almost stumbled into Viracocha, who was standing frozen in place before the dancers, his entire being enthralled by Natyra.
“Scott!” she cried, stopping herself so abruptly that the swirling scarves wrapped themselves, serpentlike, around her before falling still. She stamped her foot at him, hands on hips. “You must escape, you idiot! You must run away—Run!”
The other dancers, as if this were their cue, dashed away, disappearing down the steps, squealing in fear as they met Pachacuti’s soldiers on the plaza below.
Then Natyra caught sight of Viracocha.
Oken allowed himself to enjoy the sizzle that fired around the pair as they met eye to eye. “Natyra,” Oken said calmly, “may I present Prince Viracocha of Tawantinsuyu?”
“Your Highness.” She was smiling, her eyes alight.
Zaydane caught up with them. “My lady,” he said to Natyra, “Our plans have changed.” He pointed to Viracocha. “We must follow this gentleman.”
Viracocha leaned back to look up at his brother, raging in the sky above them, a golden puma at the top of the pyramid, screaming in thesky; then Viracocha pointed up, directly at Pachacuti. “There,” he said, and he ran, climbing swiftly. Natyra followed, scarves fluttering around her like Quetzal wings.
They reached the top of the pyramid before Pachacuti’s soldiers realized where the escapees were, directed by Pachacuti’s angry shouting. His troops swarmed up the nearly vertical stair after the three princes. Their legs and lungs were well suited to the effort, and the gap closed at an alarming pace.
A gleaming shadow fell over the Qurikancha as Mixcomitl filled the sky. His many wings twitched and tilted, using his jets and the winds of the valley to descend directly toward the chapel. Viracocha’s own loyal warriors, in red and gold, stood in the opened hatchways, armed and ready to defend their prince. Oken could just make out Usqhullu and Runa standing beside Hanaq Pacha in Mixcomitl’s giant eyes.
Pachacuti’s puma headpiece obscured his view of the sky. He could not yet see Mixcomitl, or the promise of escape carried on his wings. Pachacuti saw only his own victory—his hated brother rushing to meet death at his hands. His laughter was worse than his curses, dark and vile.