Until today, the farthest I had ever traveled was to a trading post to the east, further down the Maiu Hatun, when I was less than a dozen solar years younger. The purpose was for a mundane affair, and audit conducted by my father, Suntu, inspecting the fortress and collecting the quipus that cataloged what was stored there. My brother, Anaimi, and I would play in the nearby river, or race through the rainforest. I would look across the waters of the Maiu Hatun to the south, and an insatiable curiosity burned within me, beckoning me towards unseen lands and undiscovered people just beyond our reach. An explorer's spirit yearned to break free, shattering the boundaries of my existence... whatever it truly meant to be an adventurer.
Knowing the status of my father and family, I knew that was next to impossible, as they would never allow a girl of my position and stature to ever put herself in risky, life-threatening situations. Therefore, the idea of traveling to the capital city would have filled me with unparalleled excitement any other time in my life. However, having it thrust upon me seemingly out of nowhere left me confused and angry. It seems like a calculated move by my father, a way to cast me aside and teach me a lesson for daring to challenge his authority. As I mull this over, a mischievous chuckle escapes my lips. If he truly intends to quell my rebellious spirit, he will soon discover that this journey only ignites the flames of defiance within me, growing stronger the further I get from home.
Since the start of our trek, Anqatil has not said a word to me nor the elderly woman; the last she spoke was in the presence of my father and the nobles back in Chopaqte. Anqatil looks unamused by the entire experience of the journey, and doesn’t appear to be deep in thought about anything particular. She just looks… bored, appearing as though this trip is entirely beneath her—quite literally for most of the trip, I might add—and that she’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. I squint, as if narrowing my eyes and concentrating will aid me in figuring out what is going on inside her head, but as you might expect, my attempt is unsuccessful.
As the palanquins weave through the winding valley and approach Qapauma, however, all of my outrage and indignation melts away in an instant. The city feels as if it was built for giants: The walls, made from enormous, gray boulders the size of a few tapirs, are easily two or three times the size of the walls in Chopaqte, giving the impression they touch the sky. As if that weren’t tall enough, several buildings lord over the walls and rival the height of the nearby mountains. It takes me a few beats to realize they’re guard towers, containing several men clad in simple orange and red tunics of the Tapeu colors, containing very minimal patterns in the design. Even with the monotone stones used in all construction, the city has a preternatural glimmer in the setting sun, giving it a transcendental presence. I can’t tell if it’s the altitude or the architecture—or that this means we’ve reached the end of the long journey—but the sight takes my breath away, enhanced by the evening glow or my exhaustion from the travels.
The people of Qapauma clear the wide road to make way for the procession of palanquins parading through the gates. I assume such a spectacle must be a common occurrence because hardly anyone acknowledges our arrival. With the towering buildings several stories high, they are like ants scurrying around their mounds, all more concerned about carrying on with whatever chore or activity they were engaged with before we interrupted them. For citizens of the capital—and being Tapean, to boot—their outfits are surprisingly plain: Unlike my people back in Achope, hardly any of the commoners wear any jewelry or other embellishments, primarily sticking to eggshell white or beige tunics and long dresses with plain leather sandals.
Several narrow passageways jut out from the main road, which is wide enough to have multiple wagons pass by one another and still not be disrupted by the people bustling about. Slowly emerging into view is a larger-than-life stone building adorned in orange-and-red banners with purple and gold trim. The guards here also have tunics made of orange and red, but they wear bronze helmets adorned with red feathers, the polished metal reflects the sun’s bright rays, and I imagine the headwear must be too heavy and cumbersome to be anything but decorative. As the building grows in size, I observe several more wide roads leading to it from different angles and directions. These must be other main roads that lead to more key locations, but I can’t be certain of the precise destination. I attempt to ask Anqatil about the reasoning behind the city’s layout and the guards’ outfits, but she only continues looking ahead onto what I am left to assume is our destination.
As we arrive to the main gate of the palace, flutes and horns begin their wailing, signaling our arrival. Between the blaring notes, hollers echo from one guard to another, then the heavy wooden doors part to unveil the building I could see a glimpse of as we entered from the edge of the city. Now closer, the banners are enormous—how many people, and how much material, did it take to make all these? Seeing it in its entirety, the building looks even more gigantic now, and if I believed the walls of the city shimmered ineffably, this building transcends them. Servants in simple orange attire hurriedly chase adorned nobles dripping in gold jewelry with every variety of precious stone imaginable.
Our entrance is barely noticed by anyone other than the guards, inspecting us with narrowed eyes, as the men carrying us reach a certain point within the grounds and gently and gracefully set the palanquins down. Anqatil expresses no interest in what’s taking place at all; by now, this must be entirely commonplace and unremarkable to someone like her. A couple servants rush to grab the few belongings I have, while the elderly traveling companion is assisted off by two other servants. Others hastily begin collecting all of Anqatil’s chests—she had a whole army of men just to carry her clothes—and she dismounts, wasting no time walking toward the entrance to the large building.
I jog slightly to catch up to her, making an effort to start some small talk and anticipate what awaits me. Since I know little about her, perhaps she will reveal what the plans are for me during my time in Qapauma. It takes a bit for me to muster up some courage and utter something more than a squeak.
“I’m surprised to travel in such a manner, Lady Anqatil. I’ve never been in a palanquin before—we have usually walked everywhere we go, my family and I.”
The moment I bring up such an unexciting topic, I immediately regret it. There’s no way Lady Anqatil cares about such matters! Who would bother responding to such a pitiful effort for conversation? I kick myself repeatedly for even bringing it up.
To her credit (I think), Anqatil ignores me entirely, as if I hadn’t asked anything at all. Perhaps it was out of mercy, or, what’s more likely, she was so insulted at my desperation that she refuses to dignify it with a response. She continues gliding forward, a surprising feat in such a tight-fitting outfit. Each step hardly causes a clink as she disrupts the bevy of her metallic necklaces and bracelets, and her long, orange and red cape soars behind her to reveal the dark blue and white dress she’s traveled in. Part of me is relieved to think she may not have heard my embarrassing lack of conversational skills, but another part of me is annoyed to not receive any acknowledgement. Does she think of me as only apart of her luggage, or no higher in value than the people transporting us to our destination?
The only solace I give myself is knowing that Anqatil has treated the elderly woman the same as she treated me, along with the servants assisting us. I look over at the old woman and see she is glacially progressing to the palace, a peaceful expression on her face with her eyes closed, basking in the background noise as if enjoying a sweet melody. Despite a combination of boredom and curiosity overtaking me to find out more about her, I ultimately determine I don’t want to disrupt her meditative joy, presuming such moments are rare around here, and follow slowly behind her.
We finally arrive at the palace and I’m taken aback by how vast the inside of this building is. The room appears as open and expansive as the outside, stretching several long fields in length. Guards donning the bronze helmets and orange, red, and purple tunics line the room’s perimeter, as still as statues and not once altering their attention. A few murmurs echo throughout the hollow chamber, with many decorative tapestries adding much-needed color to the otherwise drab, gray stones. I’m surprised to see how dull the interior is, compared to how much the city glistens in the sunlight.
In the center of the chamber is a throne that could seat a human three or four times the size of the person currently sitting in it. The presence of the seated man humors me, seeing how the chair dwarfs him so significantly. Yet it’s immediately apparent how important he is: Servants rapidly rush to and from his seat and various entrances and openings, returning with foods and beverages to serve him and those standing around him.
Although the other men and women positioned around the throne are elaborately dressed in a variety of colors and patterns, wearing a number of necklaces and bracelets, it pales in comparison to the seated man. Atop his head is a gold headdress with green and blue peacock feathers, as well as the unmistakable blue, yellow and emerald green macaw feathers fanning out in all directions. Simple, gold bracelets around his wrists act like cuffs, and roughly half a dozen thick ropes of gold worn as necklaces cover his torso; he doesn’t wear a shirt nor shawl, showcasing the tanned skin that proudly displays numerous dark scars across his muscular and well-defined chest and abdomen. His short hip cloth is turquoise with geometric patterns woven in gold throughout. The only other item he wears is a scowl across his flat, boxy face. The man’s beady eyes look distrustingly at me and the elderly woman, but to test my theory as to who he might be angry with, I step in a slight zig zag pattern while we’re approaching the throne, and his eyes don’t follow my movements at all.
Anqatil’s athletic frame stands proudly at the man’s right, and the other men are positioned much further away from the two of them, giving me the impression that her position in whatever hierarchy Qapauma has is substantial. To the side from the presumed advisors stands an extremely tall girl with a long torso, and dainty, delicate features. Her angular, heart-shaped face and strong jawline accentuates an expression of defiance and pride, with her nose raised and chin held high as she looks off into the distance. Unlike Anqatil, who wears the apparently traditional, tight garments worn by Tapeu nobility, this tall woman wears almost the complete opposite attire. Her top is a large, rectangular cloth that drapes loosely over her shoulders and has an intricate pattern of bright red and yellow woven into it. Covering her long, thin legs is a white skirt that has immaculately stitched images of red and purple flowers with green stems along the bottom. I deduce she must not be from Tapeu with an outfit like that, and I’m awed by the craftsmanship that only rivals my own flowing dress of blue and white that sways as I move. To be honest, I’m slightly jealous at her access to such a tailor—one of my first missions in the palace will be to see who created such an impressive garment.
When the elderly woman and I get to within a dozen or so paces away from the throne, she abruptly stops and curtseys. I stumble to a stop, take one step back to line up evenly with her, and mirror her gesture.
“Mother, the journey was sufficiently satisfying, I hope,” the man says, dully and unenthused. She hardly reacts to his statement, doing nothing more than slightly bowing her head in acknowledgement. His voice alarms me, as I was not expecting it to be as high-pitched and throaty as it is, and the drawn out manner in which he speaks is very peculiar to me. I can tell he’s attempting to sound regal and more important, lowering his tone and talking theatrically, and I try very hard to stifle my laughter. Not so humorous, on the other hand, is realizing I’ve been traveling, unannounced, with the Arbiter’s mother.
“Very well,” he continues. “See to it that she is returned to her chamber so that she may rest after her taxing travels.” In an instant, two servants and two guards are by her side, accompanying her off to one of the openings on the far side of the throne room and down a long, long hallway with grand openings on either side to take in the light and stunning countryside.
I return my attention to the man and Anqatil, unsure of what I should be doing or how I should stand. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but a knot in my stomach forms as I regret ignoring the countless etiquette lessons attempted to be taught to me by my mother and extremely patient instructors. The best I can come up with is tangling my fingers together low in front of me. I’ve suddenly become self-conscious of my horrible posture, so I lift my head and roll my shoulders to straighten my back, in a way hoping nobody has noticed me slouching in front of these important figures.
“Quraqa Haesan,” Anqatil says woodenly, “The Arbiter, Achutli, has graciously welcomed you to his palace on behalf of the Tapeu and all residing in Pachil.”
I am not sure the meaning of what I assume is the title given to me, and I make a mental note to look into it at a later time. I also notice that she is the one who addresses me, not the man seated beside her, supposedly Achutli, the much spoken about Arbiter of the continent. He looks at me with a blankness, as if this is some formality he must suffer through before continuing onto more pressing matters. Anqatil talks with the same manner of speaking—what I’m now determining is a fake, showman-like diction that she uses outside how she would talk normally—that she had back in Chopaqte within my father’s presence.
“It’s been requested of me by your father that you will be learning the practice of etiquette of the Tapeu nobility, to make you a suitable candidate for suitors.”
Etiquette lessons? Suitors? Is this some kind of joke? I’ve been around nobles all my life—too much, I would say—so I think I know what’s required of a lady, or a quraqa, as these Tapeu seem to say. But to be treated no better than livestock is beyond insulting. Is this a passive aggressive message from my father, Suntu, telling me that I am unruly and must learn manners to fit some paradigm of high society?
The other disconcerting part is the realization that it likely means I will have to spend more time with Anqatil, assuming she’s conducting these lessons. During our long journey, she was startlingly cold with me, hardly acknowledging my presence at any point. I’ve recounted any and all conversations I attempted to have with her, to see where I may have offended her, but nothing springs to mind. That considered, I can’t imagine her being a dedicated teacher. The thought fills me with dread, and a dark shadow has been cast over this entire experience in the capital city.
“Suntu and Achutli’s relationship and camaraderie go back many solar cycles, and he has instructed the nobles, guards, and servants to show you the absolute greatest hospitality Qapauma has to offer during your time here.” As if remembering to do so as part of her speech, Anqatil finishes her statement with a generic smile. Rather than getting into a confrontation before the first sleep, I curtsey once more and bow my head, using all the effort I can muster to bite my tongue and not let my reluctance show.
Just like that, my meeting with the great Arbiter is completed, and, similar to what occurred with his mother, I’m abruptly dismissed, with two servants and two guards promptly flanking me on either side. They look at me expectantly, leaning to the side of the room and subtly motioning with their heads in a few nods, willing me to move toward that direction. I hope I’ve taken the hint correctly and start to walk to the opening. Sure enough, they follow.
Trying to be discrete, I look out the corner of my eyes to gauge what’s happening by Achutli’s throne as I depart the room. Anqatil talks to the man in hushed tones, making it agonizingly difficult to hear the exchange, even with the echos bouncing off the stone walls. Are they talking about me? If it’s other business, what is so important to discuss that requires hurrying me and his own mother away? And how did a man such as himget to become the Arbiter anyway?
I notice the tall woman that stood next to the Arbiter is no longer next to them. After being led through the lengthy, winding hallway, I eventually see her, walking hurriedly toward the courtyard while tying a green scarf around her neck, perhaps preparing to step outside the palace grounds. She appears to be my age, and I fear she may be my only ally while I’m in Qapauma, so decide to make the effort to befriend her. I attempt to get her attention, walking just ahead of the guards and servants at my sides to catch up to her long strides and follow closely behind.
“I love your outfit,” I say to her, attempting to break the tension and change the subject. “Where did you have it made? Is that from your home region?”
She’s startled by my conversation at first, then she looks at me—condescendingly?—and remarks, “I made it myself,” as though I was supposed to know this.
“Well, it’s very well done,” I say, trying to crack her armor one more time. “You must have practiced your stitching for a long time! How long did it take you to make this?”
She shakes her head and scoffs as if she’s offended by my questions, then marches abruptly through the courtyard and toward the large entrance at the palace walls. When she gets close to the guards at the gate, I notice she begins walking gingerly around the guards’ patrol routes, and I’m immediately suspicious, guessing she’s perhaps unaware I’m able to see her. I stop for a moment to figure out whether I said something offensive before she abruptly parted ways with me—maybe this will be taught in my future lessons, since the Tapeu apparently have a different way of conversing than us in Achope. As I’m standing still, one of the servants clears her throat, bringing my attention back to those immediately around me. She looks down at the ground and her arms are behind her back. The uniform she wears is very simple, much like those outside the palace, except the dress is a faint orange.
“Can I help you?” I ask. I quickly realize I might have come across condescending and immediately apologize, touching her shoulder as I do so. She hops back, her eyes growing wide for a moment before she looks to the ground once more. Am I doing nothing right? How was that an offensive gesture? I guess my reaction was more assertive than I realized. I suppose I have something to learn about Tapeu customs, after all.
“Your items have been brought to your chambers,” she says with a meek voice. “If Quraqa Haesan wishes, we shall—“
“Alright,” I interject, “what on Pachil does ‘quraqa’ mean? I must know before I can go any further.”
“Well,” the servant says, abashed, “it’s a sign of respect for the nobles of Tapeu’s allies. It’s more like a title given to honored royalty.”
“So, there’s nothing derogatory about it? It’s not something you call someone you Tapeu look down upon?”
“Uh, Qur–“ the servant begins to say, before correcting herself, “Lady Haesan, I am from Aimue. It’s not a term anyone would use to signify a foe, I promise.”
I apologize to the servant for being mistrusting and blame it on the long journey causing me to be exhausted and not on my best manners. Deep down, however, I know better. I must not be off to a great start in Tapeu, and frustratingly, it feels as though I have to walk over hot coals to appease these people, even if they’re from a neighboring faction. I fear I’m not long for Qapauma, worried that I’m going to offend every citizen of this city and be banished out to sea.
I look around the courtyard and realize I’ve lost visuals on the lady from the throne room. There is no sign of where she may have gone, and the guards are stoic, their attentions remain straight ahead.
Great, I think to myself, I definitely saw this coming. Where on Pachil did she go? She’s up to something…
I can’t place my finger on it, but I know something involving her is going on. Then again, I might feel this way because of how short she was with me in conversation. That could be a selfish realization, I admit, since it feels as though everyone in this gods-forsaken city doesn’t say more than three words to one another. Selfishly, I also want another chance to befriend the only other person I’ve met who’s my age, since I haven’t been introduced to, well, anyone else. Maybe I’m trying to force the issue, and I can revisit the idea later. However, the woman’s demeanor piques my curiosity, no matter how tired I may be. I dismiss my security detail (or whomever they’re supposed to be) and the servants, letting them know I will call upon them once I settle in, which is total fabrication. For some reason, they buy into my ruse, and I start to get the impression they’re relieved to be done with me. Perhaps I’m being paranoid.
Immediately, I find that my problem is determining where the tall woman has taken off. The palace grounds alone are huge, and if she departed to go to anywhere in this unfamiliar city, it will be a monumental task to find her. After getting through a bit of confusion with the soldiers at the gate, they finally figure out of whom I’m speaking, but they can only go so far as to tell me she went straight down the main road that leads to the end of Qapauma. Could she really be leaving the city altogether? Was she just a short-term guest to the palace? At least that would explain why she wasn’t formally introduced to me, among other signs.
I walk in that direction, scanning the crowds of people in their beige and bland outfits, long dresses that drape loosely and are tied with a simple rope around the waist, or the men’s trousers and neutral-colored shirts. I’m briefly distracted by the garments, since I’ve been surrounded by nothing but tight-fitting clothing while inside the palace, and I reflect on how the other woman’s outfit was so loose fitting. For a moment, I’m relieved to see there are people in this city who seemingly aren’t required to wear such uncomfortable-looking clothing. I also gain some hope in realizing it may be easy to spot a tall woman with brightly-colored clothes amidst the sea of shorter people wearing earthly tones.
Along the road are carts and stalls containing a multitude of wares and foods, each merchant shouting to draw potential shoppers to them with enticing deals. They charm the ladies on their appearances, and likewise flatter the men on features that, well, I don’t quite notice in that way. The goods are held up for all to see like an idol to be worshipped, waving them around to show off their qualities. Taking a look at all the delectable foods makes me a bit hungry, especially since I have yet to eat anything since I’ve arrived, and I’m curious about trying some of the appetizing fare. Many merchants attempt to distract me from my mission, and I have to shake off their persuasive powers and concentrate on the matter at hand.
Through the bustling calamity of the marketplace, a distant cry pierces the air, its tone filled with anguish and desperation. Though the crowd remains oblivious, I can't ignore the haunting sound. Driven by my curiosity, I follow the faint echoes, venturing down a narrow path enclosed by towering gray stone walls. The secrets hidden within this shadowed alleyway beckoned me forward.
As I peer around the corner, a scene unfolds before me: two figures, cloaked in the neutral hues of Qapauma's citizens, with faces concealed by scarlet cloth, accost a lone woman. Yet amidst the chaos, I recognize the woman in distress—she’s none other than the audacious figure from the throne room, adorned in the vibrant red and yellow shawl, although she’s missing green scarf. Swiftly, she retaliates, delivering powerful blows and eluding her attackers' grasp. Clearly, she possesses a formidable skill in hand-to-hand combat, her low stance, feet set apart and aligned with her shoulders, is resolute and practiced.
Just as the assailants regain their composure, their eyes lock with mine, their expressions transforming from menace to alarm. In a gruff voice, one of them utters something incomprehensible, perhaps some language I can’t quite understand, and his partner turns to regard me with newfound interest. A surge of apprehension surges through my veins as I realize I might become their next target, a potential victim of their nefarious intentions.
“HELP!” I cry out as loud as my voice will allow. “WE’RE BEING ROBBED!”
The two men shout—this time, it’s clearly an expletive in Merchant’s Tongue—and race off down the ally and away from me and the woman. I’m stunned to see the woman start to chase after them, and I reflexively grab her shoulder to stop her.
“Let go of me!” she commands. I assume her adrenaline wants to unmask her attackers and bring them to justice, but I can’t allow her to risk running into potential danger, even if we haven’t gotten off to the best of starts for our friendship. She can only watch as the two men scurry away, splitting up at an intersection further into the ally. She screams in frustration, kicking the dirt on the ground.
“Who were they?” I ask, still astonished at what I witnessed.
“It’s no matter,” she says in a huff.
“Are you… angry that I helped stop them?” I say, confused.
“We should return,” is all she says. Her shoulder smashes into mine as she marches back toward the main road, and I’m jolted out of her way. I look back one more time down the ally, my mind’s eye repeating what just took place, and I conclude they were two opportunistic thieves who spotted a noble all by herself. She makes herself an easy target, after all, being tall with jarringly bright colors among the boundless span of neutral tones. I make a mental note that, should I travel the Qapauma streets, it will be done more carefully along with the protection of guards.
You’re welcome for saving your life, I think to myself as we make our way back to the large walls of the palace.
Until today, the farthest I had ever traveled was to a trading post to the east, further down the Maiu Hatun, when I was less than a dozen solar years younger. The purpose was for a mundane affair, and audit conducted by my father, Suntu, inspecting the fortress and collecting the quipus that cataloged what was stored there. My brother, Anaimi, and I would play in the nearby river, or race through the rainforest. I would look across the waters of the Maiu Hatun to the south, and an insatiable curiosity burned within me, beckoning me towards unseen lands and undiscovered people just beyond our reach. An explorer's spirit yearned to break free, shattering the boundaries of my existence... whatever it truly meant to be an adventurer.
Knowing the status of my father and family, I knew that was next to impossible, as they would never allow a girl of my position and stature to ever put herself in risky, life-threatening situations. Therefore, the idea of traveling to the capital city would have filled me with unparalleled excitement any other time in my life. However, having it thrust upon me seemingly out of nowhere left me confused and angry. It seems like a calculated move by my father, a way to cast me aside and teach me a lesson for daring to challenge his authority. As I mull this over, a mischievous chuckle escapes my lips. If he truly intends to quell my rebellious spirit, he will soon discover that this journey only ignites the flames of defiance within me, growing stronger the further I get from home.
Since the start of our trek, Anqatil has not said a word to me nor the elderly woman; the last she spoke was in the presence of my father and the nobles back in Chopaqte. Anqatil looks unamused by the entire experience of the journey, and doesn’t appear to be deep in thought about anything particular. She just looks… bored, appearing as though this trip is entirely beneath her—quite literally for most of the trip, I might add—and that she’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. I squint, as if narrowing my eyes and concentrating will aid me in figuring out what is going on inside her head, but as you might expect, my attempt is unsuccessful.
As the palanquins weave through the winding valley and approach Qapauma, however, all of my outrage and indignation melts away in an instant. The city feels as if it was built for giants: The walls, made from enormous, gray boulders the size of a few tapirs, are easily two or three times the size of the walls in Chopaqte, giving the impression they touch the sky. As if that weren’t tall enough, several buildings lord over the walls and rival the height of the nearby mountains. It takes me a few beats to realize they’re guard towers, containing several men clad in simple orange and red tunics of the Tapeu colors, containing very minimal patterns in the design. Even with the monotone stones used in all construction, the city has a preternatural glimmer in the setting sun, giving it a transcendental presence. I can’t tell if it’s the altitude or the architecture—or that this means we’ve reached the end of the long journey—but the sight takes my breath away, enhanced by the evening glow or my exhaustion from the travels.
The people of Qapauma clear the wide road to make way for the procession of palanquins parading through the gates. I assume such a spectacle must be a common occurrence because hardly anyone acknowledges our arrival. With the towering buildings several stories high, they are like ants scurrying around their mounds, all more concerned about carrying on with whatever chore or activity they were engaged with before we interrupted them. For citizens of the capital—and being Tapean, to boot—their outfits are surprisingly plain: Unlike my people back in Achope, hardly any of the commoners wear any jewelry or other embellishments, primarily sticking to eggshell white or beige tunics and long dresses with plain leather sandals.
Several narrow passageways jut out from the main road, which is wide enough to have multiple wagons pass by one another and still not be disrupted by the people bustling about. Slowly emerging into view is a larger-than-life stone building adorned in orange-and-red banners with purple and gold trim. The guards here also have tunics made of orange and red, but they wear bronze helmets adorned with red feathers, the polished metal reflects the sun’s bright rays, and I imagine the headwear must be too heavy and cumbersome to be anything but decorative. As the building grows in size, I observe several more wide roads leading to it from different angles and directions. These must be other main roads that lead to more key locations, but I can’t be certain of the precise destination. I attempt to ask Anqatil about the reasoning behind the city’s layout and the guards’ outfits, but she only continues looking ahead onto what I am left to assume is our destination.
As we arrive to the main gate of the palace, flutes and horns begin their wailing, signaling our arrival. Between the blaring notes, hollers echo from one guard to another, then the heavy wooden doors part to unveil the building I could see a glimpse of as we entered from the edge of the city. Now closer, the banners are enormous—how many people, and how much material, did it take to make all these? Seeing it in its entirety, the building looks even more gigantic now, and if I believed the walls of the city shimmered ineffably, this building transcends them. Servants in simple orange attire hurriedly chase adorned nobles dripping in gold jewelry with every variety of precious stone imaginable.
Our entrance is barely noticed by anyone other than the guards, inspecting us with narrowed eyes, as the men carrying us reach a certain point within the grounds and gently and gracefully set the palanquins down. Anqatil expresses no interest in what’s taking place at all; by now, this must be entirely commonplace and unremarkable to someone like her. A couple servants rush to grab the few belongings I have, while the elderly traveling companion is assisted off by two other servants. Others hastily begin collecting all of Anqatil’s chests—she had a whole army of men just to carry her clothes—and she dismounts, wasting no time walking toward the entrance to the large building.
I jog slightly to catch up to her, making an effort to start some small talk and anticipate what awaits me. Since I know little about her, perhaps she will reveal what the plans are for me during my time in Qapauma. It takes a bit for me to muster up some courage and utter something more than a squeak.
“I’m surprised to travel in such a manner, Lady Anqatil. I’ve never been in a palanquin before—we have usually walked everywhere we go, my family and I.”
The moment I bring up such an unexciting topic, I immediately regret it. There’s no way Lady Anqatil cares about such matters! Who would bother responding to such a pitiful effort for conversation? I kick myself repeatedly for even bringing it up.
To her credit (I think), Anqatil ignores me entirely, as if I hadn’t asked anything at all. Perhaps it was out of mercy, or, what’s more likely, she was so insulted at my desperation that she refuses to dignify it with a response. She continues gliding forward, a surprising feat in such a tight-fitting outfit. Each step hardly causes a clink as she disrupts the bevy of her metallic necklaces and bracelets, and her long, orange and red cape soars behind her to reveal the dark blue and white dress she’s traveled in. Part of me is relieved to think she may not have heard my embarrassing lack of conversational skills, but another part of me is annoyed to not receive any acknowledgement. Does she think of me as only apart of her luggage, or no higher in value than the people transporting us to our destination?
The only solace I give myself is knowing that Anqatil has treated the elderly woman the same as she treated me, along with the servants assisting us. I look over at the old woman and see she is glacially progressing to the palace, a peaceful expression on her face with her eyes closed, basking in the background noise as if enjoying a sweet melody. Despite a combination of boredom and curiosity overtaking me to find out more about her, I ultimately determine I don’t want to disrupt her meditative joy, presuming such moments are rare around here, and follow slowly behind her.
We finally arrive at the palace and I’m taken aback by how vast the inside of this building is. The room appears as open and expansive as the outside, stretching several long fields in length. Guards donning the bronze helmets and orange, red, and purple tunics line the room’s perimeter, as still as statues and not once altering their attention. A few murmurs echo throughout the hollow chamber, with many decorative tapestries adding much-needed color to the otherwise drab, gray stones. I’m surprised to see how dull the interior is, compared to how much the city glistens in the sunlight.
In the center of the chamber is a throne that could seat a human three or four times the size of the person currently sitting in it. The presence of the seated man humors me, seeing how the chair dwarfs him so significantly. Yet it’s immediately apparent how important he is: Servants rapidly rush to and from his seat and various entrances and openings, returning with foods and beverages to serve him and those standing around him.
Although the other men and women positioned around the throne are elaborately dressed in a variety of colors and patterns, wearing a number of necklaces and bracelets, it pales in comparison to the seated man. Atop his head is a gold headdress with green and blue peacock feathers, as well as the unmistakable blue, yellow and emerald green macaw feathers fanning out in all directions. Simple, gold bracelets around his wrists act like cuffs, and roughly half a dozen thick ropes of gold worn as necklaces cover his torso; he doesn’t wear a shirt nor shawl, showcasing the tanned skin that proudly displays numerous dark scars across his muscular and well-defined chest and abdomen. His short hip cloth is turquoise with geometric patterns woven in gold throughout. The only other item he wears is a scowl across his flat, boxy face. The man’s beady eyes look distrustingly at me and the elderly woman, but to test my theory as to who he might be angry with, I step in a slight zig zag pattern while we’re approaching the throne, and his eyes don’t follow my movements at all.
Anqatil’s athletic frame stands proudly at the man’s right, and the other men are positioned much further away from the two of them, giving me the impression that her position in whatever hierarchy Qapauma has is substantial. To the side from the presumed advisors stands an extremely tall girl with a long torso, and dainty, delicate features. Her angular, heart-shaped face and strong jawline accentuates an expression of defiance and pride, with her nose raised and chin held high as she looks off into the distance. Unlike Anqatil, who wears the apparently traditional, tight garments worn by Tapeu nobility, this tall woman wears almost the complete opposite attire. Her top is a large, rectangular cloth that drapes loosely over her shoulders and has an intricate pattern of bright red and yellow woven into it. Covering her long, thin legs is a white skirt that has immaculately stitched images of red and purple flowers with green stems along the bottom. I deduce she must not be from Tapeu with an outfit like that, and I’m awed by the craftsmanship that only rivals my own flowing dress of blue and white that sways as I move. To be honest, I’m slightly jealous at her access to such a tailor—one of my first missions in the palace will be to see who created such an impressive garment.
When the elderly woman and I get to within a dozen or so paces away from the throne, she abruptly stops and curtseys. I stumble to a stop, take one step back to line up evenly with her, and mirror her gesture.
“Mother, the journey was sufficiently satisfying, I hope,” the man says, dully and unenthused. She hardly reacts to his statement, doing nothing more than slightly bowing her head in acknowledgement. His voice alarms me, as I was not expecting it to be as high-pitched and throaty as it is, and the drawn out manner in which he speaks is very peculiar to me. I can tell he’s attempting to sound regal and more important, lowering his tone and talking theatrically, and I try very hard to stifle my laughter. Not so humorous, on the other hand, is realizing I’ve been traveling, unannounced, with the Arbiter’s mother.
“Very well,” he continues. “See to it that she is returned to her chamber so that she may rest after her taxing travels.” In an instant, two servants and two guards are by her side, accompanying her off to one of the openings on the far side of the throne room and down a long, long hallway with grand openings on either side to take in the light and stunning countryside.
I return my attention to the man and Anqatil, unsure of what I should be doing or how I should stand. I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but a knot in my stomach forms as I regret ignoring the countless etiquette lessons attempted to be taught to me by my mother and extremely patient instructors. The best I can come up with is tangling my fingers together low in front of me. I’ve suddenly become self-conscious of my horrible posture, so I lift my head and roll my shoulders to straighten my back, in a way hoping nobody has noticed me slouching in front of these important figures.
“Quraqa Haesan,” Anqatil says woodenly, “The Arbiter, Achutli, has graciously welcomed you to his palace on behalf of the Tapeu and all residing in Pachil.”
I am not sure the meaning of what I assume is the title given to me, and I make a mental note to look into it at a later time. I also notice that she is the one who addresses me, not the man seated beside her, supposedly Achutli, the much spoken about Arbiter of the continent. He looks at me with a blankness, as if this is some formality he must suffer through before continuing onto more pressing matters. Anqatil talks with the same manner of speaking—what I’m now determining is a fake, showman-like diction that she uses outside how she would talk normally—that she had back in Chopaqte within my father’s presence.
“It’s been requested of me by your father that you will be learning the practice of etiquette of the Tapeu nobility, to make you a suitable candidate for suitors.”
Etiquette lessons? Suitors? Is this some kind of joke? I’ve been around nobles all my life—too much, I would say—so I think I know what’s required of a lady, or a quraqa, as these Tapeu seem to say. But to be treated no better than livestock is beyond insulting. Is this a passive aggressive message from my father, Suntu, telling me that I am unruly and must learn manners to fit some paradigm of high society?
The other disconcerting part is the realization that it likely means I will have to spend more time with Anqatil, assuming she’s conducting these lessons. During our long journey, she was startlingly cold with me, hardly acknowledging my presence at any point. I’ve recounted any and all conversations I attempted to have with her, to see where I may have offended her, but nothing springs to mind. That considered, I can’t imagine her being a dedicated teacher. The thought fills me with dread, and a dark shadow has been cast over this entire experience in the capital city.
“Suntu and Achutli’s relationship and camaraderie go back many solar cycles, and he has instructed the nobles, guards, and servants to show you the absolute greatest hospitality Qapauma has to offer during your time here.” As if remembering to do so as part of her speech, Anqatil finishes her statement with a generic smile. Rather than getting into a confrontation before the first sleep, I curtsey once more and bow my head, using all the effort I can muster to bite my tongue and not let my reluctance show.
Just like that, my meeting with the great Arbiter is completed, and, similar to what occurred with his mother, I’m abruptly dismissed, with two servants and two guards promptly flanking me on either side. They look at me expectantly, leaning to the side of the room and subtly motioning with their heads in a few nods, willing me to move toward that direction. I hope I’ve taken the hint correctly and start to walk to the opening. Sure enough, they follow.
Trying to be discrete, I look out the corner of my eyes to gauge what’s happening by Achutli’s throne as I depart the room. Anqatil talks to the man in hushed tones, making it agonizingly difficult to hear the exchange, even with the echos bouncing off the stone walls. Are they talking about me? If it’s other business, what is so important to discuss that requires hurrying me and his own mother away? And how did a man such as himget to become the Arbiter anyway?
I notice the tall woman that stood next to the Arbiter is no longer next to them. After being led through the lengthy, winding hallway, I eventually see her, walking hurriedly toward the courtyard while tying a green scarf around her neck, perhaps preparing to step outside the palace grounds. She appears to be my age, and I fear she may be my only ally while I’m in Qapauma, so decide to make the effort to befriend her. I attempt to get her attention, walking just ahead of the guards and servants at my sides to catch up to her long strides and follow closely behind.
“I love your outfit,” I say to her, attempting to break the tension and change the subject. “Where did you have it made? Is that from your home region?”
She’s startled by my conversation at first, then she looks at me—condescendingly?—and remarks, “I made it myself,” as though I was supposed to know this.
“Well, it’s very well done,” I say, trying to crack her armor one more time. “You must have practiced your stitching for a long time! How long did it take you to make this?”
She shakes her head and scoffs as if she’s offended by my questions, then marches abruptly through the courtyard and toward the large entrance at the palace walls. When she gets close to the guards at the gate, I notice she begins walking gingerly around the guards’ patrol routes, and I’m immediately suspicious, guessing she’s perhaps unaware I’m able to see her. I stop for a moment to figure out whether I said something offensive before she abruptly parted ways with me—maybe this will be taught in my future lessons, since the Tapeu apparently have a different way of conversing than us in Achope. As I’m standing still, one of the servants clears her throat, bringing my attention back to those immediately around me. She looks down at the ground and her arms are behind her back. The uniform she wears is very simple, much like those outside the palace, except the dress is a faint orange.
“Can I help you?” I ask. I quickly realize I might have come across condescending and immediately apologize, touching her shoulder as I do so. She hops back, her eyes growing wide for a moment before she looks to the ground once more. Am I doing nothing right? How was that an offensive gesture? I guess my reaction was more assertive than I realized. I suppose I have something to learn about Tapeu customs, after all.
“Your items have been brought to your chambers,” she says with a meek voice. “If Quraqa Haesan wishes, we shall—“
“Alright,” I interject, “what on Pachil does ‘quraqa’ mean? I must know before I can go any further.”
“Well,” the servant says, abashed, “it’s a sign of respect for the nobles of Tapeu’s allies. It’s more like a title given to honored royalty.”
“So, there’s nothing derogatory about it? It’s not something you call someone you Tapeu look down upon?”
“Uh, Qur–“ the servant begins to say, before correcting herself, “Lady Haesan, I am from Aimue. It’s not a term anyone would use to signify a foe, I promise.”
I apologize to the servant for being mistrusting and blame it on the long journey causing me to be exhausted and not on my best manners. Deep down, however, I know better. I must not be off to a great start in Tapeu, and frustratingly, it feels as though I have to walk over hot coals to appease these people, even if they’re from a neighboring faction. I fear I’m not long for Qapauma, worried that I’m going to offend every citizen of this city and be banished out to sea.
I look around the courtyard and realize I’ve lost visuals on the lady from the throne room. There is no sign of where she may have gone, and the guards are stoic, their attentions remain straight ahead.
Great, I think to myself, I definitely saw this coming. Where on Pachil did she go? She’s up to something…
I can’t place my finger on it, but I know something involving her is going on. Then again, I might feel this way because of how short she was with me in conversation. That could be a selfish realization, I admit, since it feels as though everyone in this gods-forsaken city doesn’t say more than three words to one another. Selfishly, I also want another chance to befriend the only other person I’ve met who’s my age, since I haven’t been introduced to, well, anyone else. Maybe I’m trying to force the issue, and I can revisit the idea later. However, the woman’s demeanor piques my curiosity, no matter how tired I may be. I dismiss my security detail (or whomever they’re supposed to be) and the servants, letting them know I will call upon them once I settle in, which is total fabrication. For some reason, they buy into my ruse, and I start to get the impression they’re relieved to be done with me. Perhaps I’m being paranoid.
Immediately, I find that my problem is determining where the tall woman has taken off. The palace grounds alone are huge, and if she departed to go to anywhere in this unfamiliar city, it will be a monumental task to find her. After getting through a bit of confusion with the soldiers at the gate, they finally figure out of whom I’m speaking, but they can only go so far as to tell me she went straight down the main road that leads to the end of Qapauma. Could she really be leaving the city altogether? Was she just a short-term guest to the palace? At least that would explain why she wasn’t formally introduced to me, among other signs.
I walk in that direction, scanning the crowds of people in their beige and bland outfits, long dresses that drape loosely and are tied with a simple rope around the waist, or the men’s trousers and neutral-colored shirts. I’m briefly distracted by the garments, since I’ve been surrounded by nothing but tight-fitting clothing while inside the palace, and I reflect on how the other woman’s outfit was so loose fitting. For a moment, I’m relieved to see there are people in this city who seemingly aren’t required to wear such uncomfortable-looking clothing. I also gain some hope in realizing it may be easy to spot a tall woman with brightly-colored clothes amidst the sea of shorter people wearing earthly tones.
Along the road are carts and stalls containing a multitude of wares and foods, each merchant shouting to draw potential shoppers to them with enticing deals. They charm the ladies on their appearances, and likewise flatter the men on features that, well, I don’t quite notice in that way. The goods are held up for all to see like an idol to be worshipped, waving them around to show off their qualities. Taking a look at all the delectable foods makes me a bit hungry, especially since I have yet to eat anything since I’ve arrived, and I’m curious about trying some of the appetizing fare. Many merchants attempt to distract me from my mission, and I have to shake off their persuasive powers and concentrate on the matter at hand.
Through the bustling calamity of the marketplace, a distant cry pierces the air, its tone filled with anguish and desperation. Though the crowd remains oblivious, I can't ignore the haunting sound. Driven by my curiosity, I follow the faint echoes, venturing down a narrow path enclosed by towering gray stone walls. The secrets hidden within this shadowed alleyway beckoned me forward.
As I peer around the corner, a scene unfolds before me: two figures, cloaked in the neutral hues of Qapauma's citizens, with faces concealed by scarlet cloth, accost a lone woman. Yet amidst the chaos, I recognize the woman in distress—she’s none other than the audacious figure from the throne room, adorned in the vibrant red and yellow shawl, although she’s missing green scarf. Swiftly, she retaliates, delivering powerful blows and eluding her attackers' grasp. Clearly, she possesses a formidable skill in hand-to-hand combat, her low stance, feet set apart and aligned with her shoulders, is resolute and practiced.
Just as the assailants regain their composure, their eyes lock with mine, their expressions transforming from menace to alarm. In a gruff voice, one of them utters something incomprehensible, perhaps some language I can’t quite understand, and his partner turns to regard me with newfound interest. A surge of apprehension surges through my veins as I realize I might become their next target, a potential victim of their nefarious intentions.
“HELP!” I cry out as loud as my voice will allow. “WE’RE BEING ROBBED!”
The two men shout—this time, it’s clearly an expletive in Merchant’s Tongue—and race off down the ally and away from me and the woman. I’m stunned to see the woman start to chase after them, and I reflexively grab her shoulder to stop her.
“Let go of me!” she commands. I assume her adrenaline wants to unmask her attackers and bring them to justice, but I can’t allow her to risk running into potential danger, even if we haven’t gotten off to the best of starts for our friendship. She can only watch as the two men scurry away, splitting up at an intersection further into the ally. She screams in frustration, kicking the dirt on the ground.
“Who were they?” I ask, still astonished at what I witnessed.
“It’s no matter,” she says in a huff.
“Are you… angry that I helped stop them?” I say, confused.
“We should return,” is all she says. Her shoulder smashes into mine as she marches back toward the main road, and I’m jolted out of her way. I look back one more time down the ally, my mind’s eye repeating what just took place, and I conclude they were two opportunistic thieves who spotted a noble all by herself. She makes herself an easy target, after all, being tall with jarringly bright colors among the boundless span of neutral tones. I make a mental note that, should I travel the Qapauma streets, it will be done more carefully along with the protection of guards.
You’re welcome for saving your life, I think to myself as we make our way back to the large walls of the palace.
