“Wait.”
So Orqo waited. He continued to shake, and he hoped Kusi could not feel his tremors. Coldness seeped from the floor of the cave into his legs. He could see nothing, and hear nothing save his own breathing and Kusi’s.
Then Kusi’s stopped. Orqo held his own breath to listen for his brother’s, and just as he thought he might faint, Kusi moaned, then screamed. He fell onto Orqo, Orqo yelled, and they both scrambled for the way out of the cave. Kusi found it first, and Orqo pressed after him. For a moment he felt stuck, and he thought perhaps the mountain would squeeze him to death in punishment for trespassing on sacred ground. Then Kusi pulled on him with both hands, and he stumbled into fresh air.
Kusi ran. Orqo followed his shadow, tripping and stumbling all the way back to Qosqo. Finally the walls of the city loomed before them.
“Stop!” Orqo called. “Wait, Kusi!” His ribs hurt, and his feet felt torn to shreds; but also he knew that once they returned to the palace it would be hard to talk.
Kusi paused and turned. His eyes glinted. But even in the starlight, Orqo could see his expression, and it was one he had never seen before. Kusi was afraid—but not of the mummy. He was afraid of Orqo. Indeed, he kept moving his eyes so that he would not have to look Orqo in the face.
“What did you hear?” Orqo asked.
Kusi shook his head.
“I heard nothing,” Orqo insisted. “What is it?”
The fear on Kusi’s face turned to sadness, a horrible sadness. “You did not hear?”
“No.”
Kusi fell to the dirt with his head in his hands. He moaned. Orqo waited.
Kusi finally whispered, “It isn’t just the mummy, Orqo. Stones. Water. The gods in the temples. They all speak to me.”
Orqo’s mouth felt dry. “What do they say?”
“The same. Pachakuteq Inka Yupanki, they call me.”
“So that’s what the mummy said?”
“Not this time. This time it said—it said, beware of Orqo. Beware. He is no brother to you.” Kusi looked up imploringly. “Would you hurt me, Orqo? Are you not my brother?”
Orqo felt as if his feet had grown one with the ground. He could not move, and when he tried to speak reassuringly, the words stuck in his throat. He reached toward Kusi, and Kusi flinched. Finally he mumbled the only words he could muster: “I don’t know.”
At that, Kusi leaped up and ran again, and Orqo chased after him. When they neared the palace they found that sneaking in undetected would have been impossible, after all, for they were scooped up by Wiraqocha’ s guards and carried bodily into the palace. Qori Chullpa tended their scrapes and bruises while Wiraqocha lectured them on the danger of the next Inka running around unguarded at night like a stray dog.
Their skin wounds healed soon enough. But as the days passed Orqo knew that Kusi would never look at him with brotherly trust again. Not because of what the unknown mummy had said—but because of what Orqo had not been able to say.
Orqo felt he had been swimming forever, when he glimpsed ahead a bridge swinging high over the Willkamayu. Tampu—he must be approaching Tampu. If he floated under the bridge, he thought, he would surely be seen. He swam to the riverbank to continue his journey on foot. His wet sandals still clung to his feet, but they slipped so treacherously on the stones that he finally took them off and flung them into the current. If they were seen, he might be presumed dead, and so much the better.
The sandals bobbed on the ripples. “For you, Mayu-Mama,” he said to the river spirit, half in jest. “A sacrifice.”
A sacrifice.
Orqo froze. What was that? Had a god deigned to speak to him? Or were his ears playing tricks?
He licked his lips. What did one say in return? He looked into the water, not knowing whether he appeared reverent or absurd. “Did you speak to me?”
But the river ran on, absorbed in its own thoughts. Orqo shook off the moment. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by imaginary voices from the gods. He had to get past Tampu. He jammed his mace into his belt. He saw that his knife and sling still hung there as well, and he felt encouraged. At least he had his weapons.
Orqo climbed quickly into the rocks at the river’s edge. He kept one eye on the bridge as he crept along, and though he saw no one pass, he tried to stay well hidden. With the bridge behind him, however, he returned to the river. Travel by foot was devastatingly slow. He had a better chance of escape if he let the Willkamayu carry him.
The brief walk had warmed him, and the icy water took his breath away. He kicked to keep himself afloat, and wondered about the voice he thought had spoken to him. Was that the sort of voice Kusi had heard? Quiet, almost breathless, seeming to come more from within than without?
If he made another sacrifice, would Mayu-Mama speak again?
At a bend in the river, he saw a narrow stretch of white rapids, and in the middle of them, a large flat stone. He swam for it, though the waves nearly drowned him before he pulled himself onto its surface. He coughed and caught his breath, then sat up and considered what he had. Precious little; but then, his sandals had not been much.
He pulled his sling from his belt and threw it onto the dancing water. “May it please you,” he said.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Then he heard it again, the whisper that came from the water and from nowhere.
Thank you.
Relief washed over Orqo. He had not been hearing things. He was no longer out of favor. The gods spoke, and they spoke to him.
“Help me, Mayu-Mama,” he said.
More, said the water.
More? Orqo was loathe to give up his club or his knife. Then he knew what to do. With shaking hands he untied the belt and removed his loincloth—woven by his mother, of course, fine fabric worthy of any holy thing—and tossed it into the water.
“Can you help me?” he shouted, not bothering to whisper any longer.
Perhaps, the water said. More.
Yet more sacrifice? The relief Orqo had felt vanished. The river was insatiable. He had only his mace and his knife; without at least one he would be defenseless. But the mace was the finer object, he knew, and now was no time to be stingy. He tossed it into the water and tried to remember where it landed. If Mayu-Mama failed him, perhaps he could retrieve it.
More. Yet more.
Orqo pounded the rock in frustration. The river toyed with him. Would it demand next that he jump in and drown himself? “What do you want?” he shouted.
Silence answered him.
He grabbed the knife. First he hacked off his hair; then he gritted his teeth and slashed his arms and legs until the blood ran over the stone and into the river. The pain made his eyes water. Finally he threw the knife into the waves, and tossed his belt after it.
“This is all I have,” he shouted, “unless you would take my life as well.”
No, said the river. It is enough, Orqo son of Wiraqocha. What do you wish to know?
The rapids quieted; the water seemed to wait. Orqo shook violently. He was not sure now that he wanted to know anything. But he whispered, “Can I save myself? Can I become Inka?”
He thought the river laughed. At a price, it responded. At a great price.
Orqo gulped. “What price?”
Only the glory of the Inka people.
The glory of the Inka people? What sort of price was that? Surely Mayu-Mama toyed with him, Orqo thought. Or tested him.
“I would never bargain away the glory of my people,” he said.
Then you choose to die.
Orqo nearly wept with frustration. “No, I do not choose to die,” he shouted. “You tease me with riddles.”
No. No riddle. Lie down.
Orqo hesitated.
Lie down.
The river’s voice was irresistible. Orqo lay on his back, with his palms pressed against the cold, wet stone. He closed his eyes.
A warm wind swept through his body, and he clung to the rock to keep from being pushed off. Th
en he was spinning and he could not tell where he was or where he might be going, and he gave himself up to the river’s whim.
A vista opened before him, and he darted over it like a bird—he realized he was looking at Qosqo, not Qosqo as he knew it, but a cleaner, grander Qosqo, with gold-encrusted temples and people from the four quarters of the earth mingling on its streets. The wind lifted him, and he saw roads stretching into the distance, full of travelers and pack llamas, and many bridges across the rivers, and people working on terraces and in well-kept fields.
Then he fell toward Qosqo again, where an old man stepped into the plaza, to the cheers of the people. Pachakuteq Inka Yupanki! Pachakuteq Inka Yupanki!
Kusi.
Orqo’s heart hardened within him. The scene vanished, then opened again. He still hovered over Qosqo, but this Qosqo was smaller, dirtier, unfinished. The wind dropped him nearer, and he saw his own people scurrying fearfully through the streets, while walking among them, slow and arrogant, went many Chanka men with their thin mustaches and finely braided hair.
Then that scene, too, disappeared, and Orqo found himself returned to the stone in the river’s heart.
He opened his eyes to assure himself he was alive. A condor drifted overhead. Orqo lay still, wishing he could pretend that he had seen nothing, for the river’s meaning seemed clear. If he lived, the Chankas won. If Kusi triumphed—
No, he would make the river say it.
He sat up, too quickly. His head spun and he thought he would faint. But the world righted itself, and he looked out over the river.
“Tell me what this means.”
You know.
“Tell me.”
Water rushed by in a huge sigh. Swim to Chupalluska. Kusi’s men find and kill you. Kusi becomes Inka and builds a great empire, an empire that astonishes peoples whom you do not know and of whom you have not dreamed. But pass Chupalluska, and the war continues. Kusi dies in battle. You rule Qosqo for a time, but the Chankas challenge your descendants. The Inka people disappear from the earth.
The water’s voice dwindled to murmurs. Orqo held his head in his hands. He felt stabbed to the heart.
He groaned, and then raged, “This is no choice!”
But the water flowed mutely by.
Again he shouted, “How do I know this is true?”
Mayu-Mama offered no answer.
Orqo howled and leaped to his feet. “I will do it! I will build the empire!”
A wave lapped over the rock and washed blood into the river. It is not in you, Orqo.
“I will! I will!” He jumped into the waves, embracing the water that stung his self-inflicted cuts, and swam desperately. But when he passed the rough water, and let his tired and blood-drained body float and rest, a certain knowledge surfaced from deep within him. Mayu-Mama was right. It was not in him to build an empire. He would have work enough just ruling a distrustful Qosqo.
Besides, he had seen the fire in Kusi’s eyes and, just as formidable, the confidence—indeed, the worship—in the eyes of Kusi’s followers. The river spoke the truth. Only Kusi could build an empire. Only Kusi could save the Inka people who so despised Orqo.
For the first time in the whole wretched, bloody campaign, Orqo wept.
It was mid-afternoon when Wiraqocha’s scouts finally sighted Kusi and his army entering the valley below Hakihawana. Orqo hurried to array himself in the finery commanded by Wiraqocha: his best tunic and mantle, arm bands of gold, new fine sandals made of leather from the neck of a llama, a feathered headdress, his golden earplugs, and a disk of engraved silver around his neck. This last he tried to cover with his mantle, for it signified bravery in battle, and Orqo knew that it would draw only scorn from Kusi. But Wiraqocha had told him to wear it, and he must.
His head ached from all the aqha he had drunk since the news of Kusi’s victory had arrived from Qosqo. Wiraqocha continued to insist that Kusi could not have defeated the Chankas, but Orqo was not so sure, and he was not ready to face the truth with a clear head. He fumbled with the knot on his mantle. An attendant straightened his headdress. Then his bearers helped him into his litter—his father had insisted on that, too, even though they were traveling no further than the fortress gate—and he rode to join Wiraqocha, to await the defenders of Qosqo.
The Inka sat at the gate with Qori Chullpa in their own resplendent litter. Its gold and silver adornments sparkled in the sunlight, and the curtains were pulled back so they could watch for Kusi. Wiraqocha wore finery similar to Orqo’s, except that he had donned his own battle helmet and the maskapaycha, the red royal fringe that hung across his forehead and marked him as ruling Inka. Age had shrunk him, Orqo knew, but he looked a king in blood and bone, still in command of himself and his people. Orqo relaxed slightly. Even Kusi could not fail to respect their father. In his younger days, as a warrior, Wiraqocha had more than earned the gold and silver disks that glittered at his own neck.
Orqo watched with growing unease as Kusi’s troops flowed like a river through the hills below the fortress. At the head of that river of soldiers someone rode in a royal litter. Orqo swallowed his sudden anger. Riding in a litter as if he were already Inka—had Kusi’s arrogance no end?
Wiraqocha’s army stood silently both within and without the gate, but the noise of Kusi’s procession rose to their ears. Music, joyous shouts, the rattling of weapons—Orqo saw Wiraqocha set his jaw stubbornly and shake his head. “We shall see,” he said.
“You still do not believe Kusi won?” Orqo asked.
“When the Chankas lie at my feet.”
The din of voices and instruments approached, becoming merely loud, then deafening. Finally the curtained litter halted but a few steps from the place where Orqo and Wiraqocha waited. Someone flung open the curtains from within. Without even waiting for the bearers to lower him, Kusi leaped to the ground and stood before Wiraqocha, his face solemn but his eyes sparkling. His clothes were blood-stained, his silver earplugs small—and he barely old enough to stretch his earlobes for them—but he stood proudly, and behind him, a troupe of musicians played flutes, beat drums, and sang loudly of the great victory.
Kusi turned to his followers and lifted his arms. Someone blew a conch shell. At the loud blast, the shouts and the music ceased. Kusi turned back to Wiraqocha, removed his sandals, and bowed.
“Lord and Father,” he said, loudly enough for those behind him to hear. “I bring you the Chankas.”
The musicians parted, and between them the warriors dragged one after another of the painted and mustached Chanka soldiers, shoving them to the ground in front of Wiraqocha. Yet other Inkamen came, bearing armloads of weapons, and finally a group of eight with a large, costumed lump on a litter. Orqo’s stomach lurched, and not only because of the aqha he had drunk.
The mummy of Osqo Willka, the Chanka ancestor—the shrunken figure could be no other, unless Kusi had somehow stolen a mummy to fabricate the victory. Orqo glimpsed dry, dead skin where the rich clothing did not quite cover it, and his fingers felt again the shoulder of the unknown mummy who had spoken to Kusi.
What would Wiraqocha do, he wondered, now that proof of the victory lay before him?
The wrinkles in his father’s face seemed turned to stone. Kusi, likewise, did not move. Then the soldiers began to shout and to cheer, and their cheers became as a single voice, “Pachakuteq! Pachakuteq! Pachakuteq!”
Earth-Shaker.
Orqo stared at his brother. The litter was one thing—presumptuous but perhaps excusable, since Kusi had ridden occasionally as a member of the royal entourage. But had he also dared to take a new name? Surely he had not claimed the rest of what the gods had called him—Inka Yupanki—as if Wiraqocha had already abdicated. No, not even Kusi would be that bold. But perhaps there was now no limit to his audacity.
Still Wiraqocha sat motionless. Then he moved his hand, and an attendant was immediately at his side. Orqo barely heard his whisper. “Bring the Chanka envoy. Immediately.”
So, thought Or
qo. Still he is not satisfied.
Waman Waraka arrived almost before Orqo finished the thought. He must have waited nearby, Orqo surmised, to learn the fate of his people. The envoy stood in front of Orqo and Wiraqocha for just a moment before his face crumpled and he fell to the ground, shrieking. The Inka people’s shouts intensified. Wiraqocha’s shoulders sagged, briefly. Then he held up his chin.
“Well done, Kusi, my son.” He raised his arms and gazed at the cheering thousands. Then he clapped once, and they fell silent.
Kusi straightened and looked Wiraqocha in the face. Still he did not so much as glance at Orqo. “The Chankas are driven from Qosqo, lord,” he said formally. “I bring prisoners and spoils that you may walk upon them and claim your victory.”
Wiraqocha looked down at Kusi. His eyes narrowed, then his face relaxed. He smiled, and nodded to Orqo. Orqo felt an impulse to flee. His head pounded with pain.
“I am old,” said Wiraqocha. “My remaining days as your lord are few. Let Orqo, he who will soon be Inka, claim the victory.” He signaled to Orqo’s bearers, who lowered the litter so Orqo could step out. The motion made Orqo dizzy, and he held tightly to his chair.
But Kusi stepped forward and grabbed Wiraqocha’s ankle. The nearest soldiers gasped. “No! Not him!” Kusi hissed.
Wiraqocha broke Kusi’s grasp with a quick twist of his foot. His voice was low and menacing. “He will soon be your lord. Give him this honor.”
“Him? The deserter? The coward who ran from the Chankas like a frightened qowi? He is no brother of mine, and he will never be my lord!” Kusi finally looked at Orqo, and the anger in his eyes made Orqo flinch. But he did his best to meet Kusi’s gaze. Kusi already thought him a coward; Orqo would not prove him right by refusing to look him in the eye.
Wiraqocha squared his shoulders and gazed straight ahead. “It is decided. Orqo claims the victory.” He nodded to Orqo.
Orqo climbed from his litter and took a hesitant step toward the nearest Chanka. But Kusi leaped in front of him, and they stood chest to chest, not a finger’s breadth between them. Orqo still stood the taller, by half a head, but Kusi’s shoulders were broad and muscled.
The First Heroes Page 26
