But it is not evil.
The stone groans as the vulture’s head turns away. My stomach lurches as the wing moves. I can’t watch it happen, can’t look to see Manuel’s disappointment.
“Look,” he says breathlessly.
I force my eyes open, sure to find arrows flying. But the wing is high up.
Relief swoops into my heart, and I want to curl up as tremors rock my body. There’s a loud thud as someone races up the stone steps. Strong hands grip my arms and pull me forward. Manuel drags me off the wing. He hugs me tight, my cheek pressing against the rough fabric of his tunic. My knees buckle, but Manuel won’t let me fall. Together we climb down to face them all.
The Illari lower their arrows, stash their bows. Our guide walks forward, a tentative smile on her lips. It’s the friendliest expression I’ve seen on her, and while I ought to return the gesture, I’d rather dissolve into a puddle.
A magical statue believes my heart isn’t evil—it’s broken and wounded and scared—but it’s not evil. After everything, this test felt the hardest.
The tracker meets us at the foot of the stairs. Manuel stares at her coldly, holding me tight against his side. Her smile stretches. “I am Chaska.”
CAPÍTULO
Dieciocho
Walking through the jungle with the Illari is different from when it was just Manuel and me. For one, the sense of danger is dulled. I’m not worried about predators or getting lost. Now I fear the men and women watching us with wary eyes. They touch my ratty tunic and braid. One of them takes ahold of my hand and examines my fingernails and smooth palms. I look to Manuel in alarm, but he silently shakes his head.
Keep silent. Play along.
There’s no harm in their examinations. At least they aren’t pointing their arrows at us anymore. Manuel stays close. Ever watchful—in case their goodwill only lasts so long.
The sun dips lower in the sky and the mosquitos remain ever vigilante. The Illari warriors melt into the shadows of the jungle, disappearing suddenly and without warning. Here one minute. Gone the next. It happens so quickly, I could have missed it had I blinked.
I search in every direction for hints of their black-and-white tunics, for red fringes and feathered headdresses. “Where have they gone?” I ask Chaska.
“To their posts,” she says. “They guard the outer territory of Paititi. But we haven’t lost all of them.” She gestures behind me, and I whirl around to find three warriors remaining. They are bare chested and covered in paint, red and deep purple. I nod at them, but none respond.
“How many warriors are in Paititi?” Manuel asks.
“As numerous as the stars,” she says simply.
My brows reach my hairline. “So many as that?”
“We won’t be driven out of our homes again.”
She’s talking about the Llacsans, of course. Hundreds of years ago they conquered the land near Qullqi Orqo, the great mountain that once held all of the silver in Inkasisa. The Illari ran for their lives into the jungle, never to be seen or heard from again. My people had come in some time after, taken that land from the Llacsans, and founded our capital, La Ciudad Blanca.
We held on to that for four hundred years, until the revolt led by Atoc ten years ago. My family will forever be known as the Illustrians who lost their people their home. The thought sits heavily in my stomach, an indigestible lump.
I’m so close to arriving in Paititi, so close to asking for their help. What if they don’t listen? What if they hear my plea and dismiss it altogether? Now that the moment is quickly approaching, I can’t think of anything else. What does the lost city look like? Who will I have to convince? The Llacsans conqueredthemhundreds of years ago. I can only pray to Luna their anger burns as bright as mine.
Now that we’ve passed the third test, Chaska’s demeanor warms. Instead of walking ahead, she walks at my side, breathing the same air under the shady trees. The scent is sweet and thick, like the darkest of honey slathered onto a bit of toast.
“Every day in the jungle, you must ask Pachamama’s permission to be here,” she says. “If you don’t, you might anger her, and she won’t treat you kindly. One of her many spirit children might give you trouble.”
“What spirits?” I ask.
“The most powerful is Duende, a mischievous being. Powerful enough to trap you in another realm.”
“I’ve never heard of that word—or the spirit.”
“It means ‘goblin.’”
“And the earth goddess controls the goblin?”
