Гарри Тертлдав - The First Heroes

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. Then 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.