Henry stepped nearer. His nephew had said he would contact base around ten o’clock. The call was a few hours ahead of schedule.

“Base here,” Philip said, lips pressed to the receiver. “Go ahead, Sam.”

Static and interference whined for a few seconds, then… “Philip? It’s not Sam. It’s Norman.”

Philip glanced over the radio to the others, brows raised. Henry understood the Harvard student’s shock. From Sam’s last radio message, Norman had been at risk of being sacrificed last night. Thank God, he was still alive!

Norman continued, speaking rapidly. “When do you expect the helicopters? We need them up here now!” Panic etched his voice.

“They’re right here!” Philip yelled back. “As a matter of fact, Professor Conklin’s with me.” Philip held out the walkie-talkie.

Henry took it, but not before noticing the narrowing of Abbot Ruiz’s eyes. A warning against any slip of the tongue. Henry raised the radio. “Norman, it’s Henry. What’s going on up there?”

“Denal’s in danger! Sam and Maggie have gone to rescue him. But we need help up here ASAP. Within the hour, several signal fires should be blazing near the cone’s western ridge. They should be visible through the mists. Hurry!”

Henry eyed the Abbot. He was already waving some of his men back toward the helicopter. They had thought to have a few hours until Sam called, but clearly Abbot Ruiz was more than happy to accelerate the schedule, especially with Norman’s next words.

“There’s something strange up here… borders on the miraculous, Professor. Must see to…” The static was growing worse, eating away words.

The abbot met Henry’s gaze, his eyes bright with religious hope. Ruiz nodded for Henry to question the photographer.

“Does it have anything to do with a strange type of gold?” Henry asked.

Norman seemed not to have heard, cutting in and out, “… a temple. I don’t know how… heals… no children though.”

The choppy transmission was clouding any clear meaning. Henry gripped the walkie-talkie firmly and pressed it closer to his lips. If he had any hope of warning Sam and the others, it would have to be now. “Norman, sit tight! We’re coming! But tell Sam not to do anything rash. He knows I don’t trust him to act on his own.”

Beside him, Philip startled at his words. Henry prayed Norman would be as equally shocked by such a statement. The entire team knew Henry held his nephew in the highest esteem and would never disparage Sam or any of them in this manner, but Abbot Ruiz didn’t know that. Henry pressed the receiver again. “I mean it. Do nothing. I don’t trust Sam’s judgment.”

“Professor?” Norman’s voice was full of confusion. Static raged from the unit. Any further words dissolved away.

Henry fiddled with the radio but only got more static. He thumbed it off. “Batteries must have died,” Henry said morosely. He prayed Norman had understood his veiled warning, but if not, at least no harm had been done. Abbot Ruiz seemed oblivious of Henry’s attempt at a secret message. He handed the radio back to Philip.

Philip returned the walkie-talkie to a pocket, then opened his mouth. “What do you mean you don’t trust Sam, Professor. Since when?”

Henry took a step forward, trying to signal the Harvard grad to shut up.

But Abbot Ruiz had already heard. He swung back to Henry and Philip. “What’s all this about?” he asked, his face narrowed with suspicion.

“Nothing,” Henry answered quickly. “Mr. Sykes here and my nephew have an ongoing rivalry. He’s always thought I favored Sam over him.”

“I never thought that, Professor!” Philip said loudly. “You trusted all of us!”

“Did you now?” Ruiz asked, stalking up to them. “Trust seems to be something that all of us are losing at this moment.”

The abbot waved a hand, and Friar Otera appeared behind Philip with a bared blade.

“No!” Henry yelled.

The thin man grabbed a handful of the student’s hair and yanked Philip’s head back, exposing his throat.

Philip squawked but grew silent when he saw the blade. He stiffened when the knife touched his throat.

“Is another lesson in order so soon?” the abbot asked.

“Leave the boy be,” Henry begged. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

The abbot stepped beside Philip, but his words were for Henry. “Were you trying to pass a warning up there? A secret signal perhaps?”

Henry stared Ruiz full in the face. “No. Philip just mis-spoke.”

Ruiz turned to the terrified student. “Is that so?”

Philip just moaned, closing his eyes.

The abbot leaned and spoke in Philip’s ear. “If you wish to live, I expect the truth.”

The student’s voice cracked. “I… I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“A simple question. Does Professor Conklin trust his nephew?”

Philip’s eyes flicked toward Henry, then away again. “I… I guess.”

The abbot’s face grew grim, clearly dissatisfied by the vague answer. “Philip,” he intoned menacingly.

The student cringed. “Yes!” he gasped out. “Professor Conklin trusts Sam more than any of us. He always has!”

The abbot nodded, and the knife left the student’s throat. “Thank you for your candor.” Ruiz turned to Henry. “It seems a further lesson is needed to convince you of the value of cooperation.”

Henry felt ice enter his veins.

“For your deception against the path of God, a severe punishment is in order. But who should it be exacted upon?” The abbot seemed to ponder the question for a moment, then spoke. “I think I shall leave this up to you, Professor Conklin.”

“What do you mean?”

“You get a choice on who will bear the burden of your sins: Philip or Dr. Engel?”

“If you’re going to punish anyone,” Henry said, “then punish me.”

“We can’t do that, Professor Conklin. We need you alive. And making this choice is punishment enough, I imagine.”

Henry blanched, his knees weakening.

“We have no need for two hostages. Whoever you choose—Philip or Dr. Engel—will be killed. It is your choice.”

Henry found Philip’s eyes upon him, begging him for his life. What was he to do?

“Make your decision in the next ten seconds or both will die.”

Henry closed his eyes. He pictured Joan’s face, laughing and smiling over their dinner in Baltimore, candlelight glowing on her cheeks. He loved her. He could no longer deny it, but he could also not dismiss his responsibility here. Though Philip was often a thoughtless ass, he was still one of his students, his responsibility. Henry bit his lips, tears welling. He remembered Joan’s lips at his ear, her breath on his neck, the scent of her hair.

“Professor?”

Henry opened his eyes and stared angrily at the abbot. “You bastard…”

“Choose. Or I will order both of them slain.” The abbot raised a hand, ready to signal the friar. “Who will die for your sins?”

Henry choked on the words, “D… Dr. Engel.” He sagged after he spoke Joan’s death sentence. But what other choice did he have? Though many years had passed since their time together at Rice, Joan had not changed. Henry still knew her heart. She would never forgive Henry if he preserved her life at the cost of Philip’s. Still, his decision cut him like a huge jagged dagger in his chest. He could hardly breathe.

“So be it,” Abbot Ruiz stated mildly, turning away. “Let it be done.”

Sam followed Kamapak as the shaman trotted out of the jungle’s fringes and into the brightness of the morning sun. Even with the cloak of mist overhead, the sun’s brilliance was painful after the dim light of the shadowed jungle.

Shading his eyes, Sam stumbled to a stop. Maggie pulled up beside him. Both were winded from the high-altitude jog. A headache rang in Sam’s skull as he surveyed the land beyond the jungle’s edge.

A hundred yards away rose an almost vertical wall of bare volcanic stone, a cliff of crenellated rock, knife-sharp, and as coppery red as fresh blood. Above it loomed the black cone of the neighboring volcanic mountain, imposing in its heights.

Ahead, a thin trail zigzagged up the wall to the opening of a tunnel seventy yards above the valley floor. It looked like a hard climb. Two men could be seen working their way down the slope from the opening. Sunlight flashed off the spears they carried. Denal was not with them.

“C’mon!” Sam said, pointing his transformed dagger toward the men.

Maggie nodded, too winded to speak. Adjusting Sam’s rifle over her shoulder, she cinched it higher and followed.

Kamapak led the way through a small field of wild quinoa, a type of highland wheat, along the forest’s edge. Beyond the green fields, at the base of the cliff, lay a wide apron of scraggled scrub and tumbled volcanic rock. A handful of vents steamed nearby, collared with yellow stains of sulfur. The air was humid and warm, a foul-smelling sauna.

They met the other two Incas at the trailhead that led up to the tunnel above. As Kamapak spoke to the guards, Sam studied the spears the two men brandished. Their blades were gold like his dagger. But more importantly, the weapons appeared unbloodied. Sam tried to listen to the conversation, but he could understand none of it. Finally, the shaman waved the men back toward the village and began the steep climb, leading them upward.

Sam stopped Kamapak with a touch to his shoulder. “Denal?” he asked.

The shaman just shook his head, pointed up, and continued the journey.

“What do you think?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know. But apparently the answer lies up there.”

Maggie glanced worriedly toward the opening far above. “At the temple?”

Sam nodded grimly, and the two followed Kamapak up the series of switchbacks that climbed the wall. Any further talk was cut off by the need to breathe. Sam’s grip on his knife grew slick. He heard Maggie panting behind him. The muscles of his legs began to protest from the exertion.