The flame of the hearth danced weakly, like an old man on his deathbed forgetting how to breathe. It only needed some fire to bring it back to life, but not just any fire—one that sprang from the woman's palm, born of a golden, shining liquid thread that, like gasoline, crackled upon touching the blackened stone of the oven, merging with the rest of the flame. The glow bathed the humble walls of the white-stone dwelling and cast long shadows of mother and daughter upon them, united in the same heartbeat beside the little one's bed.
The smell of damp firewood, mixed with the metallic sweetness of that golden "energy," filled the air like the finest incense and yet so ordinary for these beings. The sound of the growing fire resembled a deep murmur, a conspiratorial chant responding to the woman's heart. Her fingers trembled for just an instant before pulling back from the hearth, as if releasing fire from her blood was as natural as breathing, and yet it always demanded conscious effort.
With one arm, she held her little one against her chest. With the other, she pointed toward the stone window, where only a thin layer of yellow, solid, crystalline material separated them from the cruel mountain cold at dusk. The night, clear as the purest lake, stretched on infinitely. No cloud dimmed the stars; the entire universe seemed to lean down just to gaze at that bright-eyed child, brimming with wonder.
"Look, Intaya," the mother whispered, her voice soft but heavy with solemnity. "It's the perfect moment."
The girl's eyes reflected the glowing points as if they were tiny mirrors. The whole sky fit inside them. Her expression was expectant, torn between gazing at her mother or at the heavens, that blend of innocence and hunger for knowledge only children possess.
The mother lowered her gaze and caressed tenderly the child's forehead, covered by a blanket of vicuña wool. Her fingers slid toward the girl's elongated, pointed ears, stretched by the lobe and adorned with earrings inset with a vivid red, like oval rubies that emphasized that shape even more. The firelight made them gleam as if they truly had a life of their own.
Then her fingers moved down to the child's open little hand. There lay her mark: a golden cross in the center of the palm. Irrefutable proof that the blood of the desert-hearted empire ran in her veins, blood golden as the sun. The woman touched it with a reverence so deep it blurred into devotion for what she had "created" and raised. Still fascinated by the gift a mother has of giving life, even if several years have already passed.
She breathed deeply, and her voice changed. It was no longer the murmur of a mother lulling her child, but the echo of centuries of memory speaking through her.
"Listen closely, Intaya, because I'm going to tell you another of your favorite stories. Stories that live not only on my lips nor those of the elders, but in the mountains that surround us, in the rivers you cross each day, in every breath of wind that touches us. And they beat within you, too."
The girl's eyes widened. Her breathing matched the cadence of the words. The mother noticed, and smiled.
"A long, long time ago, before the condor spread its wings over these lands… before our empire even existed, the earth was inhabited by enormous, terrible, but sacred creatures. They were called the Apus. They were not mere mountains nor distant spirits: they were children of the world, like us, but their dimensions were titanic, and their strength, chaotic."
The hearth crackled loudly, as if to confirm the words.
"One beast could move the waters as if they were part of its own body," the mother continued, gesturing slowly with her hands and the golden vital essence flowing from them, imitating the sway of giant waves. "Another, with just a roar, could bring down mountains that its brethren had raised before. Each one was a pillar of the 'mother world,' and each demanded respect."
The girl frowned, worried.
"And what did men do, mama? Did they just run like little ants?"
"Yes, Intaya," the mother laughed softly. "They couldn't face them alone. They ran, fled, hid. But it would not be like that forever…"
The woman's voice grew firm.
"There came a moment when the Sun and the Moon descended to walk with us. The "Sapa Inca" and the "Sapa Qoya". They understood what others could not: that the beasts were pure balance, and only a similar power could challenge that balance."
The tale made the child's eyes shine. The mother rocked her gently in her arms, setting the rhythm of the narration as if it were music.
"The founders fought. They defeated the bodies of those creatures. But the spirits remained. Do you know where?"
The girl shook her head quickly, eager for her mother to reveal it.
"In our temples. In our "ayllus". In the land you walk on. Their bones became columns, their skins became roofs, their hearts became weapons. Their memories… songs we still sing."
Silence filled the room for a moment. Outside, a nocturnal bird gave a peculiar cry. The girl clutched her blanket, uneasy, because she already knew the source of that eerie sound, but her mother's arms were a refuge against that childhood fear.
"But listen carefully," the woman went on, now graver. "Not all the beasts were the same. Two of them were different: the Amarus, one of day and one of night. They were not slain, no, no, no. They were found and raised. They learned from them to live with us. To sustain the eternal cycle."
The girl's lips curled into a dreamy smile.
"I like the Amarus, even if they don't leave the capital," she murmured.
The mother laughed and kissed her forehead. But then, her voice darkened again.
"Well, let's say they are alike. But… there was one more. One that was not like the others. A colossal bat, from lands beyond the end of the world. Dark, strange... Against it, neither the Inca nor the Qoya could fight, for their paths never crossed… It was a foreigner who did it, someone who came from very far away. They called him the 'Black Legend.' His people allied with ours afterward… but that being left deep scars."
The child's eyes trembled with fear. She clung to the blanket, for nervousness was part of her nature whether she wanted it or not. The mother stroked her cheek.
"Do not be afraid, my dear daughter. Remember: those beasts were not mere monsters. Now they are part of our land. And as long as you respect the river, the mountain, the sand, and the jungle… you will never be alone."
The girl closed her eyes, lulled by her mother's voice, ready to sleep. She dreamed of fire-dogs and gigant ice-lizards, of condors with obsidian wings. She dreamed of colossi hidden beneath the floor of her own house…
---
Miles away, the air was very different. More serious, drier. There was no mother's lullaby or warmth of a blanket; only hard stone and stern echoes.
Two figures occupied a hall held up by several columns, just for the two of them. The place smelled of dust and strange smoke. In the center, upon a golden plate, an object like a dried sponge burned slowly, exhaling a bitter smoke that did not accumulate but vanished, as if devoured by invisible walls.
One was old, his skin already crossed by wrinkles like cracks in parched earth. His eyes, yellow as ancient suns, held a glow that would never fade until death itself. His hands were still far from trembling with weakness, but the zenith of his youth had long departed, replaced with the contained energy of years of wisdom and frustration. He wore dark mantles smelling of herbs and "experience," while leaning on a staff that seemed heavier than it should be.
He was the amauta, a teacher.
In front of him, sprawled lazily in a chair carved of light stone, was a boy. No more than eleven cycles, or years. His grayish hair—proof of his youth, paradoxical as it sounded—fell in rebellious locks, his ears adorned shone with worked gold, and between his fingers he toyed with a ceremonial knife of obsidian and silver, a "Tumi". The white blade reflected the firelight and slid between his hands like a river fish. He was Lupa'atah, the 'official' thirteenth heir of the Nazca lineage.
The master looked at him with displeasure, while the boy spun the knife, performing tricks with almost insolent skill. The metallic scrape against the stone table echoed in the hall.
"Pay attention, boy," growled the amauta, his voice harsh like the puna. "These are not bedtime tales to scare children. They are the scars of our land."
Nazca exhaled loudly.
"Old stories, nothing more. Right?"
The elder struck the table with his staff. The vibration ran through the stone, raising a dry echo, to which the Nazca only clicked his tongue in mild annoyance.
"Old, yes. Dead, no," the master retorted.
He leaned forward, and it was almost as if the shadows enveloped him. His eyes gleamed with a disturbing fire.
"Before you, before me, before the empire itself, the land was not ours. It belonged to the Apus, or rather, the Awqas: colossi of flesh and bone, born from the womb of the world. Creatures that tore entire cities away with their winds. That brought mountains down with a roar. They did not hate man, but they crushed him all the same, like an insect underfoot."
Nazca spun the knife and pointed it at the amauta as if granting him the point, with a lazy smile.
"And then the founders came, right? The Inca and the Qoya, parents of the parents of the parents of the parents of the… " The Nazca halted abruptly when he saw the amauta's gaze was far from amused. "Embodiments of the stars and so on… tales I've known since I was a child."
"You know them? No, you don't even understand them," spat the elder. "It was not strength, but pure cunning. They defeated them with sharp wit, not power. They didn't conquer by force… but with astuteness, which I'd say you lack, though I've seen you use it plenty, and not precisely for good…"
The master sighed, as if remembering many occasions when the Nazca caused him severe headaches and forced him to end lessons early.
"Ahem… They killed their bodies. And what remained of those beasts lives in us. Your temples are made of bones. Your weapons, of organs torn away. Your riches, from corpses."
The heir lifted his gaze for an instant, somewhat uneasy, and the master seized the crack of attention to continue.
"Not all were the same. Two of those creatures, the Amarus, did not fall. The one of day and the one of night… they were tamed, raised, subdued by 'affection,' so to speak. They sustained the cycle that still keeps us alive."
The boy leaned back in the chair, smirking mockingly.
"And you don't speak of the bat, do you? The foreigner's tale. Didn't he have a name or something…?"
The master was silent for a moment. His newest wrinkles tightened, as if recalling something too heavy.
"That is not a pleasant tale. But beyond the known world, there was a being that did not belong here. Neither the Inca nor the Qoya could touch it or even know of its existence until much later."
"And the Black Legend…?" For the first time, the Nazca seemed interested enough to ask.
"It was a foreigner, nicknamed the Black Legend, who defeated it. But do not be mistaken: his people allied with ours, yes, but their 'shadows' still walk among us."
"Yeah, yeah… What he told them nearly made them wet themselves back then, right?"
Silence fell like stone, though slightly diminished by Nazca's antics, still not taking it seriously. Only the crackle of flames filled the hall for a few moments, during which Nazca threatened to yawn.
And he did. The heir yawned at last, stabbing the knife into the table with disdain and boredom, not caring much either way.
"If it's so scary, amauta, why hasn't it come back already?"
The old man stared at him for a long time, unblinking, utterly perplexed, until his voice broke into a grave whisper:
"Because it never left. It only sleeps beneath the skin of the empire, in its people… waiting for you to forget your duty, or, in this case, to take advantage of your lack of seriousness."
The phrase resonated in the hall, bouncing off the stone walls, as if the very walls wanted to engrave it into the boy, sadly without success.
"Can I go to sleep now or…?"
"Not until you finish linking your quipu, young heir…"
"Booooo…"
The elder struck the table with his staff again, and that alone was enough to make Nazca return to the making of that device of cords that stores the most varied information. His fingers, though rebellious and lazy, moved with inherited skill, braiding future messages that might one day be the key to sustaining his life and his future.