Valley of the Jaguar
697 A.D.

The god of the underworld.

Two Marches ago, a young girl had come to Iliyan and foretold the arrival of a god. He had never known how seriously to take her words, yet he had learned the oracle tongue from her all the same. The oracle had said that a god would grant Iliyan his deepest wish, if he offered his aid in return. Though he had been skeptical, he believed there was no harm in learning to speak the language of the gods. After all—who better to help him claim his vengeance than a god?

Now that Iliyan knew it was the god of the underworld, a longing stirred within him that he had never before allowed himself to feel.

To have Iliyan back. The real Iliyan.

The dead did not return. But a god who ruled the realm of death could bring Iliyan back. He could undo the suffering his father had caused.

Iliyan had never known what to imagine when it came to the gods. The way his own people depicted them differed greatly from the visions of the Muchika. And he had met warriors from the mountains and the far rainforest, who worshipped other gods still—other spirits.

What had never crossed his mind was that the gods would look so human.

And certainly not that they would blanch at the sight of blood, or sit screaming in frustration in the sand.

Carefully, Iliyan approached the god on the beach, who stared stubbornly at the crashing waves. Of course, Iliyan knew that gods felt emotions—that they could rage and grieve—but it shortened the distance he had expected between them.

He took it as a blessing. He had no idea how one was meant to behave in the presence of a god.

A few steps away, Iliyan sank to his knees and bowed his head.
“Good night.” The words came awkwardly to his lips. Aside from his practice sessions with the oracle, he had never spoken it aloud in another’s presence. “I am here to offer you my aid.”

Through his lashes, he glanced up. The god jerked his head sideways. Iliyan stiffened when he saw tears glinting at the corners of the god’s eyes. Where did that sorrow come from? Slaying a shamuqanchis was no small task—but for a god, surely it posed no insurmountable challenge? Especially not for one who ruled over death itself. And if he disagreed with His Holiness, why had he not struck him down at once?

“You—you speak English?” the god asked.

“English?” Iliyan echoed, grasping for meaning. “I speak the oracle tongue.”

The god stared at him—then burst out laughing. “Holy shit, man, I could hug you. I thought I was basically dead.”

Iliyan frowned. “Dead? But are you not the god of the realm of death?”

“Ah.” The god rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah… yeah, I am. I was just messing around.”

Iliyan did not know what messing around meant, but he was relieved that the god’s divinity had not been a misunderstanding. Perhaps gods could not slay higher beings—or perhaps such acts were forbidden.

He straightened his back. “I can help you. With killing the shamuqanchis. In return, will you grant me someone back from the realm of the dead?”

Nervously, he rubbed the nails of his thumb and middle finger together. Had he been too direct? Perhaps the god expected him to offer his aid humbly, without asking for a reward, and would then grant it freely. Had his impatience cost him his heart’s desire?

“You want someone back from the underworld? Uh—yeah, sure.” The god glanced at him briefly, then turned his gaze back to the sea.

It felt as though Iliyan’s heart—long buried deep within the earth—was finally touched again by the warmth of Kanchi. A burning sensation spread through him. Could he truly see Iliyan again? The thought tightened his throat. There is nothing in this world I desire more.

Countless questions burned on his tongue—what the underworld looked like, how Iliyan fared now… Yet the god did not look inclined to answer many questions, and Iliyan did not wish to test his patience.

He placed a hand over his heart. “I am Iliyan.”

The god’s eyes met his briefly. “Emilio.”

Emilio. The sound of the name was unlike anything Iliyan had heard before, but he knew that gods bore many names.

“Let us depart at first light,” Iliyan suggested.

The god nodded.

Iliyan hesitated. Could he simply bring a god to the warriors’ quarters? Surely that was no place for a deity. Then again—it was a very human thought to imagine gods sleeping.

“Will you remain here?” he voiced his doubt. “You may also come with me to the warriors’ quarters…” Though he disliked the idea. Others might offer their help, or his overlord might have other plans for him. Anything could interfere. “No—it is better if we leave now,” he amended. “The roads are quiet at night. I must pass through the warriors’ quarters to make preparations.”

The god rose and stifled a yawn behind his hand. “I’m cool with whatever.” He clapped Iliyan on the shoulder, startling him. “From now on, I go where you go.”

Iliyan blinked at the sudden gesture. Still, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. Since losing Iliyan, he had been cautious in choosing his companions—but to count a god among them was a chance he could not ignore.

The festivities were still in full swing, leaving the warriors’ quarters deserted. Iliyan knew his hand would be severed if anyone believed he was stealing food, so should he encounter someone, he would claim they were offerings.

From the stables, he retrieved saddlebags used for long journeys and draped them over an alpaca’s back. He led the animal to one of the storehouses, where he gathered generous portions of cassava, oca, and olluco—enough to sustain them for a long while. Though it was, of course, a ridiculous notion that he should need to provide for a god.

While Emilio waited at the entrance to the warriors’ quarters, Iliyan led the alpaca by the reins to the barrack where he had slept for the past two Marches. He gathered his blankets and those of the man beside him, rolling them up—knowing how bitterly cold the highlands could become. With an extra tunic and Iliyan’s club, returned to him when he became a warrior, he went back to the saddlebags and stowed everything away.

Just as he turned the alpaca toward the main road, he noticed someone standing a few steps away. A jolt ran through him.

The figure stood with arms crossed, face obscured by darkness. “Where are you going?”

Relief flooded Iliyan when he recognized T’ukri’s voice. Curious, not suspicious. The man would not immediately run to the overlord with news of his plans.

“And what are you doing here?” Iliyan countered.

The young man limped closer. The wound he had been recovering from when Iliyan first met him had never healed properly. “I’ll admit—I followed you.” He grinned, revealing his incomplete set of teeth. “You never meddle in anyone else’s affairs, so when you left the festival, I wondered where you were headed. I saw you talking to that god! How is that possible? Even His Holiness could not understand them.” T’ukri stopped before the alpaca and stroked its nose, curiosity shining in his eyes as he looked at Iliyan.

“I learned the oracle tongue long ago, from my parents,” Iliyan lied. “I offered to accompany him, to seek the shamuqanchis.”

“I want to come too!”

Iliyan suppressed a sigh. T’ukri was the only person he had grown close to since his lover's death. He wished the man could come—his optimism had been a light in dark days. And he knew how badly T’ukri wished to leave the warriors’ quarters, where his condition condemned him to the tasks no one else wanted. “I wish it were possible. It is a long journey on foot.”

T’ukri let out a long breath. Before it had fully faded, his eyes widened. “That god can heal me! You can ask him, can’t you?”

“I do not know whether he can,” Iliyan admitted. “But we may ask. Come—he is waiting outside the quarters.”

Together with the alpaca, they approached the god. He stood with his hands tucked into the strange garment he wore, staring into the darkness. When he noticed them, he freed his hands and straightened.

Iliyan switched to the oracle tongue. “This is a friend of mine. He suffers greatly from his leg—the bone healed poorly after it broke. Can you mend it?”

“Well, I’m not a doctor or anything.”

“A doctor-or-anything?” Iliyan echoed. “I do not know this word.”

“Yeah, figures. Uh—I don’t really have access to all my powers right now.”

“Oh.” Iliyan studied him carefully. What were the gods doing here, truly? Seeking their lost powers? Was that why he could not harm His Holiness? “Then… can you still honor our agreement?”

A god without power was of little use to him.

“Yeah. Eventually.” Emilio grimaced. “I just need to, uh, recharge. With the blood of, you know—that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That beast. No clue what you Earth-people call it.”

“The shamuqanchis?”

“Yeah. That one. Its blood restores my powers. Or the blood of another… divine being.”

“Such as His Holiness himself?” Iliyan ventured.

“No,” Emilio said, irritation flashing across his face. “He’s too damn human.”

Let him never hear that. Still, Iliyan could not suppress a faint grin.

Though he was curious about the god’s story, it seemed wiser to depart before more revelers returned. He turned to T’ukri. “At present, he cannot aid you. Once we have defeated the shamuqanchis, his divine powers will return—and he will heal your leg.”

His friend’s eyes shone. He placed a hand over his heart and bowed deeply to the god, then did the same to Iliyan. “Farewell, my friend. I wish you great fortune and await your return. You are a brave man, with the heart of a true warrior.”

Iliyan mirrored the gesture, then tugged gently on the alpaca’s lead and turned away. His gaze lifted, searching the stars.

For you, my love. I would do anything for you.

He thought of the god’s promise. For the first time in years, his lips remembered how to smile.