Page 81 of The Lost Guardian

Santiago’s mother told him that children in Peru were expected to memorize and recite the Incan emperors in order. He had worked a month straight to do the same, an endeavor that had come in handy in grad school and any time he’d needed to distract himself since.

“Manco Cápac, founder of Cusco,” he chanted under his breath. “Sinchi Roca, his son, who conducted the first census of the Incan people.”

He realized he was wasting precious breath and switched to his head.

Lloque Yupanqui, who constructed the House of the Virgins of the Sun.

Well, “virgins” was the name the colonizers had given them, of course. It was more likely than not that the priestesses, themselves, had no such hang-ups. Why would enjoying the bodies that Inti had fashioned for them make the women any less sacred, after all?

His thighs screamed, but he continued, not even bothering to look up anymore.

Mayta Cápac, only eight, too young to rule. Later succeeded by his son, Tarku Waman, who was overthrown by his cousin, Cápac Yupanqui.

“Ugh,” Santiago groaned. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without keeling over. “Inca Roca, Yahuar Huacac.”

He began taking one step with every name.

“Wiracocha, Pachacutec.” He exhaled, needing to hear anything but his own monotonous footfalls. “Tupac Yupanqui, Huayna Cápac…”

He nearly crashed into Ali, who had stopped ahead of him.

“What?” he asked, trying to catch his breath.

Wordlessly, she moved to the side. The endless stairs had come to an end; they were on flat ground once more. Ali dragged him up the last step.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Huáscar and Atahualpa.”

They reached the cave.

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The cave was tucked into the side of the mountain.

Santiago drew closer, wondering if Ali was right, if this could truly be the final resting place of Atahualpa.

When they reached its opening, his shoulders slumped. The hollow space was fairly wide and tall enough, but not deep. Its back wall was clearly visible from the entrance. There were no additional caverns to explore. No hidden tomb.

It was just a cave.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Ali asked, pulling a flashlight from the side of her bag and shining it into every corner and crevice. “I don’t see anything, do you?”

“No,” Santiago said, circling the fallen rocks out front. He kicked at a tough and scraggly-looking mountain bush. There must be a reason why we were led here.

After a few more dragging steps, his head snapped up.

“This is it!” Santiago exclaimed, rushing toward a towering rock face on the cave’s right.

“What is it?” Ali asked, following the sound of his voice. When she came up beside him, she gasped.

In front of them was a smooth, polished section of cliff wall, with deeply etched symbols and images on its surface. Unlike the sacrificial stone, these carvings needed no blood to be visible. They were boldly carved into the mountain.

Ali reached out to graze her fingertips over the indentations.

“It’s a petroglyph wall,” Santiago breathed. He pulled his notebook and pencil out of his pack. Remarkable.

“We’ve found these across the Andes, like Toro Muerto in Arequipa or the Pusharo Petroglyphs in Manu National Park.” His eyes darted back and forth across the side of the mountain, hand furiously sketching.

When more charcoal stuck to his fingers than the paper, he did his best to rein in the excitement. He forced himself to slow, to steady.