“Fair.” He pulls open the door. “¿Estás lista?”
I glance down at my ensemble. I’m still wearing the long tunic from the night before, but my hair is at least dry, my face scrubbed of dirt, my hair rid of tangles. What I wouldn’t give for a hairbrush to smooth it into a polished shine. I leave it long and loose, and it curls in every direction.
Manuel is dressed in a royal blue tunic with gold detailing and embroidery. He looks neat and clean, as if he hadn’t slept on the ground. The Illari have given him leather sandals and a blade to remove his scruff. He looks young and more like the Manuel who left me behind three years ago.
Together we follow Nina and a couple of guards on a path that leads deeper into Paititi. The buildings become numerous, all with white-patched walls, and roofs of russet clay tiles, mixed in with a few solid-gold ones. The stone path splits into several directions, but we remain on the one heading straight to the center of the city. We cross a stone bridge, guarded by a golden statue of a jaguar on one end and a king vulture on the other. Both animals are rendered in motion, ready for attack, fierce expressions on their gleaming faces.
“What are your buildings made of?” Manuel asks.
“We mix white clay with a bit of straw and soil,” Nina says. “When it dries, the material becomes strong. Our roofs are the clay found in the riverbank and the gold from our mountain.”
Their mountain is smaller than ours, but equally majestic. It’s dark and rocky, and while the peak isn’t capped in snow, the rest is covered in handsome trees. A square temple made of black stone juts forward, as if part of the mountain itself. Gold pillars frame the entrance. I hope they’ll let me peek inside one day. I slow down to walk alongside Manuel. His dark eyes flicker from one building to another, to the guards patrolling the market and back down the way we came, memorizing the route, not missing a single detail.
“Have you figured out a way to leave this place already?” I’m sort of joking, but when he nods, my laughter evaporates. “What, seriously?”
“This path will lead us back to the base of the hill.” He points to a smaller path next to the market. “And that one leads to the farmlands. I imagine we can make a run for it from there.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Because it ends at the market. How else will they transport their produce?”
“Is this how you think? All the time?”
“It’s how my mother trained me to think.”
At the mention of Ana, I reach over and place a soft hand on his sleeve. “I miss her too.” Nina glances at us and urges us to hurry. My stomach twists at the thought of meeting Sonco—I still haven’t thought of what to say. All I have is my truth, and I pray to Luna that it will be enough, or else my stay in Paititi will be very short.
Now that I’m here, I don’t want to return to the jungle.
Once we’re on the other side of the river, the path takes us to a large square protected by woven cloths hanging above and filled with wooden stalls. The cloths come in every color and I’m immediately drawn to the bright ambiance of the market. Everywhere people are dressed in a variety of tunic styles and leather sandals, and they mill around, selling produce and pottery, blankets and llama poop. A few call out to us as we pass, and while I long to explore, I keep up with our guide.
“We have many artisans here,” Nina explains. “Tanners and weavers, butchers and dyers. But we also have farmers, each specializing in a different produce.”
“How many people live in the city?” I ask.
“Enough,” Nina says. She leads us off the main path toward a building, larger than the rest but just as white, the golden tiles gleaming in the sunlight. I step inside after her and squint against the sudden dimness.
There are dozens of people crowded in the room, clamoring to be heard. They’re shouting, asking questions in Quechua, but it’s not anger I hear threaded in their voices. It’s something else, and it taints the room.
Fear.
Manuel and I press closer, trying to move forward through the crowd. Someone taps me on the arm, and I turn to find Chaska at my elbow.
“Stand over there.” She gestures to the curved wall. “Andlisten.” Then she disappears into the crowd.
I pull on Manuel’s sleeve and guide him to the spot she indicated. There’s room for both of us, provided we stand very close to each other, our hands almost brushing. He clears his throat and tucks his hands into his pockets. I survey the room, trying to peer over shoulders to see the Illari leader. A young man stands in front of the crowd, his hands in the air pressing downward as if trying to instill calm energy into the room. He’s dressed in a red tunic that reaches his knees and a necklace made of hammered gold. On his fingers are bands of rings in the same style.
This must be Sonco.
Directly behind him, another man is propped up against the wall—one leg extended straight, the other bent at the knee, his bare foot slapped against the surface. His arms are folded across his broad chest. He’s dressed in a plain white tunic—I say white, but there are more dirt stains than what’s appropriate at a gathering such as this. He might be Sonco’s personal guard. He certainly has the face for it.
It’s been through war.
Three jagged scars slash downward from his left temple, the outermost line nearly running against his full bottom lip. His nose has been broken at least twice, and his hair is shorn close to the scalp—which also displays more ragged scars.
I avert my attention away from the Illari guard and pay attention to the young man dressed in red, who has somehow managed to quiet everyone. His tone is soft and almost soothing. There’s a quiet power to his voice, despite how he appears to be only a few years older than I am.
“I know you’re all frightened,” he says. “As your leader, I promise I’ll find a way forward. But we must work together. This latest news is alarming—”
