INCA MOON CHRONICLE II

It was the heart of the dry season when warm days give way to brilliant nights, and the stars send down frost. I left my compound early that morning while the cobblestone streets of Cuzco still dozed in shadow, but thatch roofs glistened under a wakening sun. The sharp mountain air tingled my cheeks and turned breath to vapor. Warm smells from a thousand hearths met my footsteps, and the hollow moan of a conch shell trumpet called priests to worship. A cur wagged its tail and approached with head lowered, then pricked its ears at its master’s call and scampered off. The holy city, my beloved city, welcomed another day. Not even my maids knew of the charge being brought against me that morning. If all goes well, I thought, the incident will never be known outside the royal council. And if it doesn’t go well the whole city will know soon enough. A girl bent under a load of firewood entered the narrow street. I saw at a glance she was a Chupaychu native from the province of Wanaku, for her people’s clothes and coiffures were as distinct as any of the hundred other nations that made up the Empire. When the girl saw me she went to her knees, head bowed. She was obviously new to the city, and awed by the great temples and palaces of those who ruled the world. Her humble reaction to my passing was overly polite. I wasn’t accompanied by an honor guard with banners, or by maids shading me with feather parasols, nor was I carried in a hammock. Perhaps the girl wasn’t yet aware of these distinctions, but if nothing else she should have noticed I wore the silver jewelry of secondary nobility. A polite bow in passing would have sufficed, but the need for showing respect to her Inca masters had been impressed on her, and she took no chances. Another day I might have passed by with no more than a bemused smile, but seeing her that morning loosed a flood of memories that brought me to a halt. The ashlar walls of the House of Chosen Women rose behind her. I stared at the scene in silence. I was this girl’s age when I first came to holy Cuzco from a distant province, as ragged and wide-eyed as she. Within the House of Chosen Women I spent years learning to be a proper Inca woman, and as full of wonder and hope as she was now. It was so long ago; I hadn’t thought of it in years. From the House of Chosen Women I went in marriage to a minor noble, but by my own merit and daring I earned the gratitude of the Emperor. Now I had maids of my own and wealth beyond count. Royalty befriended me, they curried favor, and they trusted me. But would they come to my aid this morning? I am Lady Qori Qoyllur, I thought, and I have earned my place among them. They should know I do not accept humiliation. I would rather die than live with their sneers. Will this day end with my execution before jeering crowds? Lift your chin high, and never let them see a furrowed brow. The girl lowered her eyes, unsure what was expected as I stood before her. I extended my hand and she looked up in surprise. I nodded. She took my hand and I helped her to her feet. An old treasure came to mind, the copper shawl pin they gave me when I entered the House of Chosen Women, which always accompanied me as a talisman. It lay in the bottom of my bag. I fished out this cherished memory of hope and innocence, and fastened it to the girl’s shawl. “Its name is Qori,” I told her. I emerged from the street into the sudden openness of the great plaza. Royal compounds of fitted stone framed three sides of this vast expanse, and at the lower end the cobble pavement continued all the way to the stone bridges over the Huatanay River. Across the river another plaza opened for the commoners, surrounded by the mud brick residences of provincial lords. Cuzco flexed under a warming sun, nestled in its basin at the head of the Huatanay Valley, and watched by grass-covered mountains now yellowed by the season. Squealing children dashed by lost in an early morning game of chase, their voices echoing over the expanse. Soon the plaza would come alive, but as yet no more than a hundred strolled there, making the place seem empty. I inhaled the peace of another perfect morning, and if it was to be my last there was no place I would rather greet it. The stone façade of Emperor Wayna Qhapaq’s palace compound faced me across the plaza, its high-peaked roofs layered with thatch waist deep.