Three Princes

by Ramona Wheeler

  Oken had to consider that Mabruke was older, and that this was a second such assault on his endurance.

  Dark streets amid dark houses and shops wound finally to a district on the eastern shore of Quillabamba’s center. Statues of Incan kings stood on either side of a wide boulevard within gold-covered walls. Towering buildings made angular shapes against the star- spangled sky. As soon as they stepped out onto the boulevard, tall doors at the far end opened, spilling lurid red light into the darkness. Armored figures with tall pikes stood just inside, and the golden walls shed bloody shadows. Oken could not see beyond them as he marched dully forward.

  The red-lit interior was a maze of narrow corridors and low ceilings, constant right- and left-hand turns with no pattern. They were forced to halt by yanks on the chain before a bewildering series of wooden doors and gates of barred steel. Oken clung to the task of simply moving forward.

  The purpose of that tour through the mysterious building was inscrutable as well. They emerged onto stone docks built into the Urubamba River, and from there they were loaded into reed boats, similar to the one Runa had used, larger and sleeker looking. Instead of a pumpkin head at the fore, a wooden puma snarled down at the water, with lamps in his eyes.

  They were untied, a moment of exquisite pain that pushed Oken’s reserve more than he liked, adding to his determination not to let these silent, cold men see weakness in him. He shook his hands vigorously to bring life to them, but they were numb, and barely responsive.

  Mabruke managed to signal Oken as he was marched past by folding his hands before his face as though praying. Mabruke touched both thumbs to the Third Eye spot on his forehead, which meant, “Both hands know what the other is doing.” Applying it in this context was less than heartening. They might know what the other was doing, but did anyone know where he and Mabruke were?

  A new round of warriors loaded him and Mabruke into separate boats, handling them as impersonally as cargo. Once on the boat, they tied his hands to a bar in front of him, holding him firmly in place. Oken had to pray for the skill of the boatmen. If the vessel overturned, they were doomed.

  He tried to see the men in the boat, but in the dark they were just shapes, part-man, part-beast, hunched over their oars. The rush of water filled the night as big as all the waters of the world. Once again, even in the miasma of discomfort, and pain, and the awkward position, Oken fell into a long dream of water demons that looked like Alsatian hounds swimming after him, snarling, their eyes glowing as red as rubies on fire.

  THE FIRST light of dawn found them sailing up to a wharf, in a bend of the Urubamba at the base of a cliff. Oken could see only a dark gray wall rising above them. Once untied from the boats, they werefinally given water, a long drink of the coldest, most refreshing elixir Oken had ever experienced. He almost thanked the guard for giving it to him, but they were immediately hustled across a courtyard, under an arch into deep shadow.

  Before his eyes could adjust, Oken was roughly seized and lifted up into the back of a horse-drawn wagon, covered on the top and sides with fabric. Oken could not see the horses, but he smelled them, and heard the soft whinny. Mabruke was hauled up onto the plank-seat across from Oken, and two guards in leather armor leaped inside with them. Their hands and feet were tied, this time to brass rings in the wagon bed.

  Orders were shouted from somewhere outside, there was the slap of reins, and the wagon set off with a lurch, emerging into morning sunshine. Oken could finally see Mabruke sitting across from him, their knees almost touching. He was leaning his head back against the fabric cover, eyes closed. The scratches across his face had swollen, distorting one eye. Oken doubted he himself looked much better. The sight of Mabruke, however, was reassuring. Oken could tell he was not asleep. The gentle rhythm of his fingers, drumming almost imperceptibly within the bonds, showed that he was meditating, a trained withdrawal meant to conserve physical and emotional energy.

  Oken knew he should be doing the same. The bright sunlight, and the sight of the blue sky, held him with a memory of freedom, high in the sky on the Quetzal, that perhaps served him just as well. For the next long run of countless hours, they were treated to the irony of riding on an Egyptian highway, built on stone arches that hugged the mountainsides, crossing flat valleys and wild rivers with equal disdain. Oken had just enough view out the front, over the driver’s shoulder, to see that the roadway was Egyptian-engineered, yet clearly built by Tawantinsuyu, in their style of architectural fabric woven of solid stone, irregularly shaped, huge, and so cleverly merged with the natural rock that mountain and road seemed to be one entity. Mountains like giant steles, with words graven into them by divine hands, overlooked flat valleys and terraced slopes, spilling over with green in orderly rows and climbing up the hard, upright stone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE LONG climb up the winding stairs was endless, forcing leaden feet and numbed legs to keep pace with the tug of the iron chain held by the guard ahead of him, and the iron prod of the guard at his back. His hands were once more bound behind him, which made the climb more precarious, forcing him to lean, from time to time, on the cold stone walls. The staircase was narrow, barely wide enough for one man. Water dripped down the walls, and Oken ached for it, almost prepared to die if he could have just one drop for his parched self. A blackness had begun to crowd at the corners of his vision, and he could no longer feel himself moving.

  He kept climbing.

  Abruptly, the march was over. They were stopped in front of yet another dark door. As it was opened, their bonds were undone, and the collars unlocked. Mabruke was pushed up beside him, and before Oken could react, the guards opened the doors and shoved them both through.

  The solid thud of the door closing cut the last string that had held them up. Both men crumpled downward to their knees, then collapsed.

  Oken was next aware of large, strong hands lifting his head, and of broth being dribbled into his mouth. He welcomed the broth, drinking greedily despite his dry lips and aching throat. Strength seemed to flow into him, slowly and steadily. The broth was not hot, and it was not demon’s piss; still, it served well enough for the moment. He was able to open his eyes finally, and found himself looking up at Prince Viracocha’s face, marked with fading bruises. His hair was loose and tangled.

  The prince helped him to sit up, propping him against the base of a stone table. Oken looked around. Mabruke sat beside him, leaning back on the same table and rubbing his hands together slowly. His one eye was swollen shut, and the scratches looked raw and inflamed. Stubble covered his skull and cheeks. He was scowling.

  The pain of sensation returning to his numbed hands and shoulders got Oken’s attention, and he rubbed his own hands, wincing at the touch.

  Prince Viracocha stood, moving slowly as though he, too, were in pain. He walked around the table out of sight, returning momentarily with the cup refilled. He knelt, holding it out to Mabruke, saying to Oken as he did so, “I apologize that I have only the one cup. If you drink it too quickly, however, it will not stay down. You have had a hard journey here.”

  Mabruke held the cup with both hands and had a long drink; then he held the cup out to Oken. “We are in Ollantaytambo?” He said to Viracocha, his voice a husky whisper.

  Viracocha nodded. “The Tower of Shadows.” His voice was hollow, sorrow in every syllable.

  Oken struggled to steady his hands enough to hold the cup. He had to sip, not wanting to risk spilling a single drop of the precious fluid.

  Oken finished the broth and held the cup out to Viracocha. His fingers could barely grasp it. Viracocha put it on the floor and sat down, carefully favoring his left side. Oken recognized at once the gesture of aching ribs. The prince settled himself so that he was facing them, leaning back against the door, his legs out straight. He was barefoot. His collar of rank was gone, and his silk suit had once been bright yellow; blood stained the sleeves and the front, and dirt stained the rest. Seams were ripped, and the pants were torn at t
he knees. He stank, too, even more than Oken and Mabruke, of dried blood and sweat. Clearly, his journey had also been hard.

  While shaking his hands against the stinging and ache, Oken gazed around. The cell was of the same wonderful stonework, imposing and raw, perhaps five or six cubits square. The only light came through slits high in the wall opposite the door. Sleeping surfaces were just stone niches along the walls, piled with straw, and straw covered the floor in uneven layers.

  “Where are we?” he said to Viracocha. Talking made him cough, and Mabruke looked at him with concern.

  Oken smiled, then suppressed a wince. The bruises on his face had stiffened.

  “Welcome to the palace.” Viracocha sighed, letting his head fall back, and closed his eyes. “Let’s see.” His voice had gentled. “The river and the gardens of Ollantaytambo are that way.” He gestured weakly to the wall with the slits. “At this time of day, blossoms have just begun to close for the eve ning, and breezes bring the scent of twilight down from the mountain slopes. The bell of the last hour of requirement rang a short time ago. Wives are preparing eve ning meals, and the flavors rise with the smoke from their cooking fires. Not far from here is a stone bridge that crosses the river between the palace gardens and the workers’ village. Workers from the palace, and from the gardens and the fields, are walking home across that bridge. They sing as they walk. They laugh, and talk about their lives.”

  He shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Over this shines the Qurikancha, the Temple of the Sun, in the last rays of eve ning and the first rays of dawn. The bells of the hours are rung, and in the courtyard, the Aklya Kono dance for their Inty, for the Sun. Their brown limbs move in the light like sparkles on the water.”

  Viracocha’s brow furrowed as though he struggledto remember something; then he sighed and continued, “In the workers’ village, today is a festival, so children have strung little lanterns among the trees and along courtyard walls. When twilight comes and the music of the festival begins, these lanterns make the village glow. When the ceremonies and the speeches are done, the people—the men and the women and the children, the very old and the very young— they parade through the streets and admire the lanterns, and they thank the children for being the Bringers of Light in Darkness. They sing for the entire night, singing for the dawn, all of them together, one great voice, like the mountain himself singing. Echoes reach as far as the palace. We will hear them.”

  “The palace—interesting,” Mabruke said. His voice was stronger, and he had pulled himself up straighter.

  “I prayed that you were safe,” Viracocha said. His eyes opened, the pain on his face clear. “I am most ashamed that I have failed you, that I left you to this fate.”

  Oken found he could flex his fingers at last. “Did you know Bismarck was working with your brother?”

  Viracocha looked at him blankly. “Bismarck?”

  Oken nodded. “There is a large compound in the mountains northeast of the manor. What is that for?”

  This time Viracocha turned his puzzled look to Mabruke. “That was a prison once, a long time ago. It has been abandoned for a century.” He sighed with deep sadness. “Kuchillu, and Urco, and I played there as children.”

  “That explains a few things,” Mabruke said to Oken. Oken agreed. Strength was returning, although he was still shaky.

  “Explain to me,” Viracocha said. He shifted uncomfortably again. “I have heard nothing since they put me in here.”

  “You were present when your brother killed the Inca,” Mabruke said. It was not a question.

  Viracocha leaned his head forward and put a hand across his eyes. A half sob escaped his lips. “I could not stop him,” he whispered. “I could do nothing.”

  “Runa knows you are innocent,” Mabruke said kindly. “Runa and your sister believe in you.”

  Viracocha pulled himself up to his feet with a surge of restless energy. He picked up the cup and went around the table, returning with it full. He knelt before them and held the cup out to Mabruke. When Mabruke had drunk half, he gave the cup to Oken.

  “My brother sent the assassins,” Viracocha said. He stood up, hands in his pockets, digging at the straw with his toes like a boy. The sadness and grief in his voice were too big for a boy, too big even for lesser men, larger than life. “He said you were spies for the Pharaoh.”

  “We are,” Mabruke said simply.

  Confusion showed in the prince’s face; then those eagle-eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Scott and I were sent here to investigate your father’s plans to send a man to the Moon.”

  “My father’s what?” Viracocha’s voice was suddenly hard, and too quiet.

  Oken shrugged elaborately. “We were supposed to ask if we could help, actually, when you get down to it. The Queen thought it sounded like a fine idea.”

  Mabruke held Viracocha’s hard eyes. “Your father had a noble idea, and Egypt wanted to join and support him in that noble endeavor. The Queen sent us only to find out if your father and his priests were involved in a viable project. We were sent secretly, so as not to embarrass him if it were an unrealistic endeavor. As it turns out, Pachacuti was working with Graf von Bismarck behind your father’s back, using that research instead to create rockets to drop bombs on Memphis.”

  The prince’s face paled, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze at once turned inward as he wrapped himself around this fact.

  Oken knew the feeling. He let Viracocha work out his own reactions. “This is madness,” Viracocha said finally. “Bismarck—who is he?”

  “Queen Victoria’s top military advisor,” Mabruke said.

  “My brother’s favorite kind of playmate. What has he to do with the Moon?”

  “Egypt is closer to Tawantinsuyu than the Moon.”

  “Pachacuti thinks this Bismarck will help him to destroy Egypt.” Viracocha slumped back against the door. “That is what he meant about raining fire down on Egypt from the Moon. I thought it was only a part of his madness.”

  He looked up at them sharply. “He is mad, you know. Mama and Papa poisoned his mind with their hatred and fear his whole life, and now he sees only demons. In our words, we say that such a man has swallowed his own shadow. That is my brother, Pachacuti— Kuchillu. It means ‘Slasher.’ He can no longer see the light, only darkness. Killing Urco put the darkness into his mind. Since then, black guilt has eaten him away. Killing Papa was an act of that blackness.”

  “He killed your brother?”

  “It was called a duel. The real reason was madness, just madness. Kuchillu accused Urco of plotting to force Papa to make him the Inheritor. Urco’s friends and servants were beheaded, then Pachacuti insisted he had to defend Papa himself. He made sure that Urco could not win the duel. Mama swore she would never forgive him, but she did. Kuchillu is her favorite, her firstborn, the son who made her an empress.”

  “The official report was that Urco and his entire hunting party were killed in a landslide,” Mabruke said thoughtfully. “The embassy was able to determine only that the palace was concealing the facts of his death.”

  “Then the truth will die with me,” Viracocha said with great sadness. “Usqhullu was in Qusqo when it happened. I never told her the truth, for fear that he would kill her for knowing.”

  “I hear your brother plans to cut our beating hearts out himself,” Oken said. “Same thing for you?”

  Viracocha nodded. “Our dying screams of agony will delight the ancestors.”

  “Yours, as well?”

  “Especially mine. My ancestors will watch us die through Pachacuti’s eyes. They will hear our screams through his ears. Through him they will taste our blood, to feed the hungry ghosts.”

  “Do you believe that?” Mabruke said.

  Viracocha shrugged. “What does it matter? Kuchillu does believe it. He has always believed.”

  “All faiths are valid,” Oken said.

  Viracocha sighed wearily. “You hav
e much faith in that belief.”

  “Egypt has much faith in that belief,” Mabruke said.

  “Then Kuchillu is right, and our blood will feed the hungry ghosts.”

  “Only his hungry ghosts,” Oken said.

  “Or my faith is valid, and Egypt will rescue us.” Mabruke spoke as a professor.

  “Both hands know what the other is doing.”

  “I dare to hope he will leave Usqhullu in peace,” Viracocha said.

  “I dare to believe that Princess Usqhullu can take care of herself,” Oken said, hoping to sound cheerful. “If you ask me, I think she could take him.”

  Viracocha smiled. “You have met her?”

  “We have had that pleasure, my friend.” Oken tried stretching a few more muscles, grimacing at the results. “She smelled like horse when she arrived at the manor, and on her, horse smells good. Made me want to ride.”

  Viracocha sighed. “Our Princess Wildcat.”

  “She mentioned Ambrose,” Mabruke said. “Would that be Ambassador LeBrun?”

  Viracocha nodded. “We have known Ambrose since we were children, and there are many friends in the embassies. Perhaps they will be able to keep her safe.”

  “I have hopes for more than that,” Mabruke said.

  “Your faith?” Viracocha said. “Egypt is very far from here, my friend.”

  Mabruke smiled, a curiously confident smile. “Egypt is in my heart. She goes with me wherever I am.”

  “Then I will endeavor to have faith in your faith, my friend,” the prince said to Mabruke. “My sad fate must not be yours as well.”

  “How long before they get to the cutting-out-our-hearts bit?” Oken said.