Page 158 of The Lost Guardian

“No, I really don’t know,” Santiago responded, hoping his grandfather would fill him in. Manco only smiled.

“But Atahualpa’s people, his followers, this line of Guardians, we are loyal,” his grandfather said. “We have been loyal for all of the centuries since his death. You are the last of the line, mijo. The last Guardian. Atahualpa and his army can fulfill the curse. Or you can decide that the Guardianes de la Tumba are no longer needed. We will end with you.”

“End?” Santiago repeated. “You mean, disband? Just decide, after all this time, to stop?”

Abuelo Manco nodded.

Santiago looked back at the people behind his grandfather, witnessing the almost endless line of history that spanned from himself into the distant past. Here, in front of him, was a direct connection—a link to those who wanted to claim him as their own. He had not been part of the Guardianes for very long, but it had been the first time in his life that he felt like he really belonged somewhere. That he was connected to a people and a land.

It was what he’d wanted since childhood.

Would his choice to let the line of Guardianes end with him sever that tie? Without this one, undeniable link to his roots, would his connection to his ancestry wither? Would he return to being that lost, reticent man more content to hide behind his research than live?

He hesitated. “I would no longer be a Guardian?”

“Mijo, you will always be a Guardian,” Manco replied with a smile. “It is different than it was for your father, who renounced the calling. You have embraced it. Not only did you walk the path, you figured out every clue and surpassed every obstacle. And when it is your turn to pass to what comes next, your soul will be free to return here.”

Santiago felt tears prick the backs of his eyes. “Can I go to where Papá is, too?” he asked.

“I cannot say more, mijo,” Manco replied. “But I will say that though the gods can be cruel, even they know the importance of family. All types of family.” His abuelo motioned toward the wispy outline of Atahualpa’s army.

You will always be a Guardian.

Something inside Santiago settled. He was a Guardian de la Tumba.

He was Peruvian. His people, his family, were of Andean descent. It didn’t matter how he chose to live his life, didn’t matter how much or how little he knew of the people who had come before him. No matter who Santiago chose to be, the same blood flowed through his veins, and he was proud of the past and the lineage that made that possible.

Santiago looked past his grandfather, to the one figure who stood slightly ahead of the clustered shadow army. The man was short and broad, the hazy outline of a feathered headdress above his brow.

“It has been my honor to be a Guardian.” Santiago placed his hand over his heart. “To be a part of your great legacy. But I am no longer needed, and you no longer need our protection. Your empire has long since fallen. But it is not forgotten. Nor will it ever be, as long as I draw breath. I will promise you that, at least. You can let our world go and exist in peace wherever you may be.”

The figure regarded him. Santiago wished he could see the man’s face clearly, but it was like looking at someone behind fogged glass. There was no hint in the hazy features to show what the emperor was thinking. Santi resisted the urge to squirm under the intense scrutiny.

Finally, Atahualpa bowed his head.

When Santi turned back to his grandfather, Manco beamed with pride, tears trickling down his sun-bronzed face.

“I wish I had had more time with you,” Santiago admitted. “It would have been nice, even in death.”

“We cannot know for certain what comes next.” Manco winked. “Not even the dead. We may reunite one day yet.”

“I hope so,” Santiago replied.

Manco’s head tilted, as if listening to something. Then he nodded.

“You need to return,” he said urgently. “We can contain the curse, but the force of it will destroy the temple. You must get out as quickly as you can. The enemies of Atahualpa will be swallowed by it. Atahualpa may no longer seek revenge on the world, but he will bury any enemy within his walls. The Huáscaros—those who bear his brother’s sigil—will fall, so that you may escape.”

Manco pulled Santi into a tight hug. Santiago clung to him, eight years old again.

“Atahualpa also offers you a gift,” Manco added, releasing him far too soon. “As the last Guardian, you may take one piece of treasure from his ransom.”

Santiago blinked, dazed. The artifacts in Atahualpa’s tomb were of immeasurable value and would be an incredible discovery for the archaeological and historical communities. How could he choose?

Gold llama, his inner monologue immediately decided.

“You may leave with one thing of value and nothing more,” his grandfather repeated. “Now go, mijo. Go and live.”

And Santiago was thrust back into a crumbling ruin.