From the oversized bed in my room at the palace, I’ve done nothing but stare at the ceiling all night. Now the sun is rising, and the servant tasked with awakening me, the poor Aimue girl from before, is startled when she finds my eyes already open.
I’m too tired from the day before, yet there are too many thoughts running in my head to attempt sleeping, too much to do. For starters, I want to find out more about the Arbiter’s mother, and why I traveled with her the entire way to Qapauma without ever learning of this. I also need to figure out why I’m here in Qapauma, besides relieving my father of the burden of raising me for supposed “etiquette lessons,” which sounds like a very weak excuse to be rid of me. I recall him intently speaking to Anqatil, an advisor to the Arbiter, and the whole cast of Achope nobles had clung onto her every word. What did they discuss? I must also learn more about their dynamic while I’m here—not only the one between my father at Achutli, but Anqatil’s relationship with Suntu.
But even more so, I want to find out what happened at the marketplace. Who was that tall girl from yesterday, and what was she doing? Who were those two assailants in the red scarves? Why was she so ungrateful for my help? Why is she so determined to not be my friend, keeping me at arm’s length?
From the hallways that connect the bedrooms to the various halls and chambers of the palace, chanting and singing echos off the gray stone. It must be taking place beyond the palace walls, since I can’t see anyone in the courtyard other than the stoic, statuesque guards, and I slow down to focus on what they’re saying. Eventually, I make out words praising Iptanqa, and I’m momentarily confused by this.
In my studies back home in Achope, we learned about The Eleven and their sacrifice to defeat the Timuaq. We learned all of their names and what they did to end the mad titans’ rule, and to be honest, it initially sounded like fables told around a campfire. These warriors who set out to defeat the evil rulers of our land, freeing us from their tyranny. Once we learned that they were mortals, one from each faction, who at one time lived amongst us, the idea that they were chosen by the gods of the land to become the heroes and saviors of Pachil didn’t seem as far fetched, but perhaps the story was a bit embellished. For Achope, our hero was Achpula, who worked with Sualset, hero of the now-extinct Atima faction, to create the Merchant’s Tongue that every faction speaks today. This enabled all the factions to communicate with one another and formulate and coordinate plans against the Timuaq. In fact, it’s because of this that our people adapted his name into our own and have begun calling ourselves Achope, out of respect.
For the Tapeu, their hero was Iptanqa, who is said to have had the ability to harness the power of the sun. The legend goes, he was able to light the way to the lair of the ruling titans after their retreat and scorch the enemy into oblivion. Hearing the chanting from outside, the people seem to have embellished his story a bit, which is unsurprising, since every faction heralds their hero much greater than the rest. I’m amused, however, as I hear them exalt Iptanqa as a sun god, claiming that he now lives in the sun and watches over them every day, supporting their crops and “illuminating their fated path.” These types exist in every land, and I don’t have the heart to race outside the walls and inform them that The Eleven merely died in combat, since there’s nothing logic can do to persuade the fanatical.
There’s a colorful assortment of fresh fruits set out for me when I finally emerge from my bed and arrive at the dining hall, my nose hit immediately with the luscious, sugary scent of sweet delights from all over Pachil. Due to Achope’s location on the continent and our people’s penchant for trade, my family has always been exposed to a wide variety of fruits and other foods from the different factions. Yet even here, I’m seeing many items I have never seen before, which I’m eager to try right away. A crisp, fresh breeze flows through the dining hall, and sunlight pours into the room to brighten the otherwise gloomy gray stones.
At the table is the familiar face of Anqatil, wearing a form-fitting orange wrap dress, her hair pulled up and tied at the back of her head into an elaborate series of braided knots, and disdain fixed on her face as she looks disapprovingly down at her plate of food. She commands a servant to come to her, says something quietly enough so that I can’t make out what is being discussed, then sternly says, “now,” as if the servant has been annoying her for some time. The worker grabs the plate and sprints toward the kitchen. As she passes, I glimpse at the plate of food and see only juicy, delectable items sliced into bite-sized pieces, and it’s difficult for me to not swipe a piece or three.
The tall woman from the day before sits next to her, difficult to miss by her tall height, even while seated. Unlike Anqatil, who wears the traditional, tight garments worn by Tapeu nobility, she wears almost the complete opposite attire, much like she did yesterday. Her dress, exposing her shoulders, flows loosely from her torso down to her ankles, concealing any aspect of her figure. This time, the outfit’s color is more neutral toned, in shades of faded pink and rust. A few bruises and blemishes from the skirmish in the ally poke through the top of the garment around her collarbone. When she notices me staring at the markings, she raises the top of her dress in an effort to better hide them.
Once she’s content that the bruises are concealed well enough, she plucks berries and pieces of fruit individually from her plate, between her thumb, index and middle fingers, while her remaining two fingers extend outward as if trying to not interfere. She narrowly opens her mouth to show bright, white teeth that carefully bite into each morsel and nearly rolls her eyes during the motion and snorts a sigh. I’m left to believe this must be something she does regularly, and when I think upon all the instances she’s done this to me, I give myself momentary comfort in thinking this might be an impulse she happens to do with everyone.
“Quraqa Haesan,” Anqatil says in a flat and unenthused tone—oof, that word again, ‘quraqa’. “I trust you found your accommodations to your liking?” She says this more as a statement than an inquiry, and I don’t respond to it right away out of confusion because of her tone. I eventually catch on that she’s asking me a question, and I nod my pleasure with the arrangements made. Anqatil appears indifferent to my response, turning her attention to inspecting the new dish of food placed in front of her, the servant standing by eager with anticipation. After a curt nod, the servant is visibly relieved and rushes off to the kitchen.
“This is Quraqa Onixem,” Anqatil says, continuing her unemotional demeanor, presenting the other woman lackadaisically with her left hand. The tall girl turns only her head toward me, looks me up and down, then nods cooly, returning her attention to plucking fruit from her plate immediately after. Is she pretending our encounter yesterday didn’t occur?
“You are to join her in your lessons,” she continues. I stifle a scoff building within my throat and take a seat at the table. Looking at Onixem, I can see she’s just as unamused by this arrangement as I am, though I can’t decipher what it’s directed to, me or the situation. Most likely both, being honest.
Like a reprieve from the storm, the elderly woman from the previous day’s travels, the Arbiter’s mother, slowly enters the dining hall. Ignoring how hopelessly awkward I must appear, I feel myself beaming at seeing her presence for the simple fact she was dismissed just as much by her own son as I was. She makes her way to the table, sitting to the far opposite end from the rest of us, and is assisted by all the attendants who swarm around her like worker bees to the queen. She thanks each person individually along with a pat on their hand and a warm smile before settling into her seat. I guess her touch is better received than mine was, when I attempted to apologize to the servant.
“There is your instructor, Nuqasiq,” Anqatil says, once again in a showman-like manner.
“Isn’t she a little old to be an instructor?” Onixem muses aloud. “What could we possibly learn from her?”
“It appears my first lesson will involve respecting one’s elders,” Nuqasiq says, not removing her attention from her plate. I’m sure I’m grinning while my hand tries to withhold a chuckle from my mouth. Onixem doesn’t look amused, curling one side of her face into a scowl as she chomps on a piece of fruit.
Ignoring the exchange, Anqatil pushes herself away from the table and stands up, not saying another word before marching off toward the palace’s throne room. She leaves without saying goodbye, and I think to myself how it must not be part of Tapeu etiquette to politely depart from guests. Maybe we’re no longer considered guests, but rather a step below her on the hierarchy and thus undeserving of courtesies.
After we finish eating, Nuqasiq has the servants usher us into a room near the palace garden. The sweet smell of the blossoms are carried through the many large openings of the hall by a gentle breeze and mixes with the earthy, musty scent of what I believe to be powdered dyes. As we pass the men guarding the entryway, we arrive inside a room filled with numerous sheets of colorful fabrics, spools of threads, multiple looms placed around the perimeter, and neatly organized pots of the various dyes next to a large, metal cauldron. It isn’t a particularly large room, and we’re crowded by the assortment of tools and materials in the confined space, but the intimacy of the tight quarters comforts me. As a child, when my father, Suntu, would carry on with his regularly scheduled tirade, I would find my way to the room storing all the textiles acquired from either trading neighboring factions or produced from our talented servants, and I’d imagine each sheet of cloth as a new outfit, parading around the storeroom in my devised fashion.
Nuqasiq hobbles over to one of the looms and sits contemplatively. She meticulously looks over the different colors of cloths and threads, picking up each one, inspecting it, then setting it down. The practice is repeated over and over while she takes each material into consideration before, finally, settling on threads of very deep red, bright blue, and a golden yellow. As if she’s in the room alone, Nuqasiq works the shuttle through the threads and hums a song to herself.
“Aren’t we supposed to be taking lessons from you?” asks Onixem. I’m uncertain what I should be doing, so I walk over and sit at a vacant loom next to Nuqasiq, folding my hands in my lap while awaiting instruction. Onixem remains standing at the entryway, humorless and looking around the room.
“This is the lesson,” Nuqasiq says matter-of-factly, her attention remaining on the loom. “The lesson is, I don’t teach lessons to unwilling students. As you pointed out, I don’t have long on Pachil, so why waste my time? You have it all figured out anyway, so I decided I want to work on a garment for the upcoming festival. Do whatever you will.”
Onixem appears to take offense to this and pouts, crossing her arms in disbelief. I shrug, since this seems like a standard Onixem reaction to everything, and follow Nuqasiq’s lead, examining the threads and picking some bright colors that call to me: A yellow like the sun and a rich purple, that remind me of the colors of home. Nuqasiq briefly looks over to assess my selection, and nods approvingly as she resumes weaving the shuttle back and forth. Meanwhile, Onixem rolls her eyes and stitches more assertively now, narrowing her eyes to a near squint as she watches the wooden needle and thread frenetically disappear and reappear through the cloth.
Looking over at Nuqasiq, she’s already made excellent progress on her loom, impressively merging and intertwining the red and blue. I imagine she could create this design in her sleep, her technique well-practiced as evidenced by the masterful craftsmanship with such an intricate design. I ask where she learned such fine loom work, looking at the clumsy start to my own piece.
“I spent much time with the weavers of Atima,” she says. I’m stunned to hear the name “Atima”, who, I learned from my studies, have long been extinct since the beginning of the Timuaq rule.
“How do they compare to weavers from other factions?” I look at my loom and am not sure what I’m doing or what pattern I’m trying to achieve, so instead I focus my attention on Nuqasiq, preferring to learn more about other cultures instead of weaving.
“For certain, they were the best,” Nuqasiq recalls fondly. “There were designs that seemed almost supernatural in how they could achieve such complexity. There were some that were so detailed, you would think a live creature was woven directly into the item!”
Nuqasiq pauses her speedy use of the shuttle to cover her mouth as she lets out an amused squeak of a laugh. This causes Onixem to groan, and I can see she doesn’t want to allow Nuqasiq’s statement to stand uncontested.
“Has anyone warned you,” Nuqasiq says to Onixem, “that if you roll you eyes as frequently as you do, they’ll get stuck looking into the back of your head?”
“It’s just that,” Onixem starts, “I don’t believe the Atima are the best. Maybe during their time, but they’re extinct, and we’ve improved on their techniques significantly since they’ve perished. In fact, the Tapeu have improved on a lot of what the Atima were deemed to be masters in.”
“That is certainly one way to look at things,” I retort, not making direct eye contact and focusing on my shoddy loom work.
“Excuse me?” Onixem gasps. “Is the Achope girl asserting that the Tapeu aren’t the most advanced society in Pachil?”
“I just believe,” I say, working very hard to keep my voice sounding calm, a technique I’ve struggled to master when regularly debating my father or family, “that all factions have a strength, which they’re contributing to the reconstruction of our lands after the War of Liberation, and to say one is better than another is speculative and subjective.”
“The Tapeu may not be particularly strong in governing,” Onixem offers, “but we’re far superior to the other factions in every other aspect.”
"While the Tapeu may indeed excel in certain areas, I believe each faction brings its own unique strengths to the realm,” I say. “The Achope, for instance, may not boast the same cultural prominence, but we value innovation and progress. The realm needs a balance of perspectives to thrive, and unity is our true source of strength."
“The Achope don’t boast nearly as much as the Tapeu, it appears,” says Nuqasiq.
Onixem appears as though she wants to respond, but bites her tongue. Her mannerisms inform me she’s not used to being challenged or questioned very often, and I’m slightly amazed to see she has no reply to the verbal sparring.
Realizing she does not have the ally in Nuqasiq as she expected, Onixem throws down her needle and cloth and storms out of the room. My eye is drawn to the green scarf laying by her seat at the loom, similar to—if not, exactly—the one she wore yesterday when I saw her by the marketplace. I hadn’t noticed before, but stitched into the material is a hummingbird, jade green and nearly blending into the color of the rest of the scarf, with a reddish-orange chest that somehow shimmers when the light hits it just right.
Before I have a chance to grab the scarf and return it to her, she’s gone in the blink of an eye. I look for an indication that Nuqasiq would step in to arbitrate, but she is nonplussed and lets the matter go. Unsure of what I should do, Nuqasiq responds to the question building up inside me before I have a chance to ask it, perhaps sensing my gaze burning into her.
“She may be a bit misguided, but she is very much in the same position as you, Haesan. Her family has left her to Anqatil as a caretaker, quite abruptly. So, you don’t have to determine this today, but it is up to you whether you would like her to be an ally or an enemy. I determined it was too soon to make that call just yet.”
So far, Onixem is the only person I’ve met in Qapauma who is of my approximate age, and apparently in a similar situation—getting abandoned by family and left to Tapeu caretakers—so I could certainly use a friend if we’re experiencing the same strife together. I have my own battles to fight, not needing to add another one. However, she hasn’t made it easy to befriend her, and I conclude I should let her do what I’ve perceived to be her other favorite activity: Storming off.
I use this opportunity to get to know Nuqasiq better, although her eyes are closed as she returns to working the loom, once again humming a melancholic tune. I recall to myself how I didn’t speak to her during our trip—to be fair to the both of us, she was asleep for much of the journey, something I was very envious of. That, and she wasn’t formally introduced to me, as though her identity should be kept as some secret. Perhaps there are those in Achope who would wish ill upon her? I’ll have to research this at a later time.
“Have you traveled away from Achope before?” I ask. It takes me a few attempts at repeating my question, each subsequent effort gradually louder than the last one. Eventually, she opens her eyes from the trance induced by her loom work, and she searches to see who is trying to talk to her, looking up as if the inquiry is coming from above her. I try once more to get her attention, and as if I appeared out of thin air, she startles upon seeing me over her left shoulder. She begs my pardon and I ask my question one more time, although being honest, my patience is wearing thin by this point, and I begin wondering how much do I care for this answer.
“Many times. Many, many times,” she replies. Her voice is shaky and faint, as if she’s speaking from the echos of a period of time in which she’s recalling the memories. Her attention drifts and she looks off into the distance, like her memories can be seen far into the mass of buildings. I wait to see if she has more to say, and just as I’m about to leave the conversation at that and focus on my amateurish loom work, she continues.
“Although most of my life has been spent living in Tapeu, I have seen the lush jungles of Auilqa, the plains of the Aimue, and the hills of the Atima and Qantua.” Once again, she mentions Atima—that was unexpected, and I’m certain my face can’t hide the surprise I feel.
“Wait,” I interject, “You’ve mentioned them before. You went to Atima? You actually saw it?”
“Why, yes. Though the people now reside in the lands of the Qantua and Aimue, they had their own–“
“Their own kingdom, yes, I recall learning about this while studying the history of Pachil.” I couldn’t help but interrupt her out of excitement. Having an instructor teach me history is one thing—and conducted very boringly, at that. But having someone who has actually experienced the history and been there first hand is fascinating. Just imagining what the lands must’ve been like is thrilling to me, and let’s be honest: Had I known this one simple fact about her, it could have been a welcomed refuge from the monotony of the journey we completed the day prior. I try to hide my giddiness, but questions spill out of me like an overflowing gourd.
“So you have met these people? What was their land like? What are they like? Is it true that they are extremely short and stout people because of the highlands? Weren’t they the ones who created theater? And most of the culture we adapt today? What were their plays like? How was their food? I heard they were amazing cooks!“
Reacting to my barrage of questions, she chuckles, once again placing a hand to her mouth. She closes her eyes tightly, her nose scrunches up, and her whole withered body jiggles as she laughs. This is so abrupt that I’m not prepared for such a hearty reaction, and I can’t help but to chuckle, as well, particularly when I see her gray braids swinging so intensely.
“Where do I begin to answer those questions?” she muses. “The people are kind–“
“So they do still exist,” I say with wonder. I apologize for yet another disruption and beg her to continue. She looks amused, which I’m grateful for, then starts up again.
“They were a significantly creative people, full of art and culture, creating beautiful, wonderful things,” she says like a storyteller, gazing up at the trees and speaking with awe, reliving everything in her mind as she speaks. “They had a beautiful city just past the edge of the hills to the north, but it was destroyed by the Timuaq. That’s why they sought refuge with the Qantua people and live amongst them, though their numbers are sparse.”
I knew the last part, regarding the Atima refugees and the Qantua sheltering the few who remain. I felt myself about to blurt out what I knew, but I didn’t want to be impolite and interrupt her yet again. I have always been curious why the Achope never took in the Atima in their time of need, but I attributed it to proximity, since there was a sea and vast jungles to get through before reaching us, not to mention the adjacent Qantua lands that were right below them, as well as the dangerous Tuatiu, those bestial people stalking about like animals, in the jungles between Qantua and us.
“I was taught that the Atima worked with the Achope to create the Merchant’s Tongue,” I say with an inquisitive tone, partly to show off what I know, “and that the Timuaq were enraged by this, and they took their anger out on the Atima.”
“Most certainly,” she says to confirm the factual statement known by all, and she nods along. “Merchant’s Tongue most obviously helped with communication, but also with trade and sharing news and information. In a way, the common language was one of the unifying factors for the people of our land.”
“And the Timuaq made an example of them by wiping them out, is that right?”
Her expression drops to one of sorrow, mourning the loss of so many people as she continues nodding, more somberly this time.
“It was sad to hear of them being nearly annihilated,” she continues. “I hope the few who remain have become equally prosperous. Maybe they will reclaim their old lands, now that the Timuaq are gone.”
I let the sentiment sit in the bloom-scented air for a moment, and daydream about the possibility of traveling to a rebuilt Atima and experiencing all the enchantment their lands were storied to have. Looking upon Nuqasiq, she seems to be imagining those times, as well.
“Peaceful Star,” I blurt out to fill the silence. “The meaning of your name, that is. Well, that’s how your name would’ve translated in the ancient tongues, I think.”
“Right you are!” she grins warmly. “Your education in Chopaqte was truly well done!”
“Father only wanted the best for his heirs,” I say, somewhat disgruntled.
“I am certain he did so out of love,” she muses, and this elicits an eye roll from me—Onixem would be proud. If you met Suntu, your immediate reaction would absolutely not be ‘loving father and paternal figure’. I can’t recall a single time he ever played with me when I was younger, leaving the task to raise me to my mother and whatever house servants were available.
Mulling all this over causes a pause in the conversation. I don’t particularly care to praise my father at all, so I change the subject back to something significantly more interesting.
“Do you know why she vanishes so frequently?” I ask. “Onixem, that is. I’d assume it’s boredom, since there’s only so much stitch work that can keep someone entertained.”
“She’s not necessarily welcomed here,” Nuqasiq says with a shrug. Is she aware of the Arbiter’s feeling on the matter? Being his mother, she might know him well enough to anticipate such a thing.
“Why is that?” I query. Nuqasiq frowns and, after looking out into the hallway, shakes her head and shrugs again. Is she worried about being overheard? My interest is now piqued, and I’m eager to isolate her away from curious ears.
“Well, aside from being very talented in eluding the watchful eyes of the guards,” I say, “Onixem’s ability to stitch is really impressive. Taking a look at some of the work she’s done, it’s enviable!” I pull out the scarf to show Nuqasiq the impressive hummingbird. Nuqasiq initially doesn’t look up from her loom, but I hold the scarf closer to her and ultimately force her to observe the item.
Once she lays eyes onto it, for just the briefest of moments, I notice Nuqasiq’s eyebrows raise and her eyes get wide, before she quickly turns her head back to look at the loom and resume moving the shuttle.
“Where did you obtain that piece?” Nuqasiq asks, her voice tense and low.
“It was lying here next to the loom,” I say. Her tone has made me nervous, since she seems so uncharacteristically apprehensive about a scarf.
“What does the hummingbird mean?” I ask, pretending to be oblivious to it’s obviously objectionable meaning.
“You said you found it here on the floor?”
“Well, yes, but what–“
“You must put that away and be sure nobody sees it,” she commands. I oblige, tucking the scarf into my satchel.
“Why is there a problem with the scarf? Is it the hummingbird?” I ask.
“There are people who disapprove of how the Arbiter is reconstructing the continent,” she says, still with an uneasy, hushed tone. “Certain people disagree with how he has distributed responsibility among the factions, and some believe he is continuing to oppress those the Timuaq oppressed.”
“But they’re clearly misguided or misinformed,” I say, attempting to give Nuqasiq an excuse in case one of the nearby guards or a noble passing by decided to listen in.
“Of course,” she says, unconvincingly. Her reply is abrupt, nearly said before I finish my statement. I’ll have to investigate that later.
“How could people take exception to what the Arbiter is doing when it’s so early into the reconstruction? It’s only been a few moon cycles.”
“There will always be those who dislike someone in power who is not from their tribe,” Nuqasiq says. “There were eleven factions on the continent at one point—twelve if you include the Sanqo before they were exiled to their island many generations ago.”
Twelve? Who is the twelfth faction? I don’t remember learning anything about that. Perhaps she misspoke.
“That means there are that many opinions on how to do something,” Nuqasiq continues. “It is very difficult to manage that number of factions and that number of people. Some are more willing to compromise than others, and there will be those who see the reconstruction as an opportunity for their faction to get ahead. This is politics. This is how it is.”
“So this hummingbird group,” I say, “are they a disgruntled faction? Who do they belong to?”
“That, I’m afraid, I am uncertain,” she says. “This is not to leave this room, but I am only aware they exist because I happened to be in the throne room when Achutli was discussing the matter with his advisors. It is not something that should be discussed openly and in public, Haesan. I would leave the matter to those in charge and remove it from your mind, before you get yourself into trouble.”
We both know it’s unlikely I will let the matter be. If I’m to be in Qapauma, my life is at risk if there are people who want to do harm to those living within the walls of the palace. What is this organization that wants to usurp the Arbiter? What are their demands? Is Onixem involved with them? Isn’t Onixem from Tapeu? Why would she be involved in such an organization? And if she is, then who were those two men in red who attacked her?
“Do you think the Arbiter knows?” I ask. I’m undecided how—or if—I want her to respond.
“Achutli knows more than you think,” she says, vaguely in a well-practiced diplomatic manner, not swaying one way or the other and not letting on more than she has to convey. Her answer is ominous, too, making me wonder just how correct she is, what the Arbiter plans to do about the possible animosity, and how my people, the Achope, play a part in all of this.
From the oversized bed in my room at the palace, I’ve done nothing but stare at the ceiling all night. Now the sun is rising, and the servant tasked with awakening me, the poor Aimue girl from before, is startled when she finds my eyes already open.
I’m too tired from the day before, yet there are too many thoughts running in my head to attempt sleeping, too much to do. For starters, I want to find out more about the Arbiter’s mother, and why I traveled with her the entire way to Qapauma without ever learning of this. I also need to figure out why I’m here in Qapauma, besides relieving my father of the burden of raising me for supposed “etiquette lessons,” which sounds like a very weak excuse to be rid of me. I recall him intently speaking to Anqatil, an advisor to the Arbiter, and the whole cast of Achope nobles had clung onto her every word. What did they discuss? I must also learn more about their dynamic while I’m here—not only the one between my father at Achutli, but Anqatil’s relationship with Suntu.
But even more so, I want to find out what happened at the marketplace. Who was that tall girl from yesterday, and what was she doing? Who were those two assailants in the red scarves? Why was she so ungrateful for my help? Why is she so determined to not be my friend, keeping me at arm’s length?
From the hallways that connect the bedrooms to the various halls and chambers of the palace, chanting and singing echos off the gray stone. It must be taking place beyond the palace walls, since I can’t see anyone in the courtyard other than the stoic, statuesque guards, and I slow down to focus on what they’re saying. Eventually, I make out words praising Iptanqa, and I’m momentarily confused by this.
In my studies back home in Achope, we learned about The Eleven and their sacrifice to defeat the Timuaq. We learned all of their names and what they did to end the mad titans’ rule, and to be honest, it initially sounded like fables told around a campfire. These warriors who set out to defeat the evil rulers of our land, freeing us from their tyranny. Once we learned that they were mortals, one from each faction, who at one time lived amongst us, the idea that they were chosen by the gods of the land to become the heroes and saviors of Pachil didn’t seem as far fetched, but perhaps the story was a bit embellished. For Achope, our hero was Achpula, who worked with Sualset, hero of the now-extinct Atima faction, to create the Merchant’s Tongue that every faction speaks today. This enabled all the factions to communicate with one another and formulate and coordinate plans against the Timuaq. In fact, it’s because of this that our people adapted his name into our own and have begun calling ourselves Achope, out of respect.
For the Tapeu, their hero was Iptanqa, who is said to have had the ability to harness the power of the sun. The legend goes, he was able to light the way to the lair of the ruling titans after their retreat and scorch the enemy into oblivion. Hearing the chanting from outside, the people seem to have embellished his story a bit, which is unsurprising, since every faction heralds their hero much greater than the rest. I’m amused, however, as I hear them exalt Iptanqa as a sun god, claiming that he now lives in the sun and watches over them every day, supporting their crops and “illuminating their fated path.” These types exist in every land, and I don’t have the heart to race outside the walls and inform them that The Eleven merely died in combat, since there’s nothing logic can do to persuade the fanatical.
There’s a colorful assortment of fresh fruits set out for me when I finally emerge from my bed and arrive at the dining hall, my nose hit immediately with the luscious, sugary scent of sweet delights from all over Pachil. Due to Achope’s location on the continent and our people’s penchant for trade, my family has always been exposed to a wide variety of fruits and other foods from the different factions. Yet even here, I’m seeing many items I have never seen before, which I’m eager to try right away. A crisp, fresh breeze flows through the dining hall, and sunlight pours into the room to brighten the otherwise gloomy gray stones.
At the table is the familiar face of Anqatil, wearing a form-fitting orange wrap dress, her hair pulled up and tied at the back of her head into an elaborate series of braided knots, and disdain fixed on her face as she looks disapprovingly down at her plate of food. She commands a servant to come to her, says something quietly enough so that I can’t make out what is being discussed, then sternly says, “now,” as if the servant has been annoying her for some time. The worker grabs the plate and sprints toward the kitchen. As she passes, I glimpse at the plate of food and see only juicy, delectable items sliced into bite-sized pieces, and it’s difficult for me to not swipe a piece or three.
The tall woman from the day before sits next to her, difficult to miss by her tall height, even while seated. Unlike Anqatil, who wears the traditional, tight garments worn by Tapeu nobility, she wears almost the complete opposite attire, much like she did yesterday. Her dress, exposing her shoulders, flows loosely from her torso down to her ankles, concealing any aspect of her figure. This time, the outfit’s color is more neutral toned, in shades of faded pink and rust. A few bruises and blemishes from the skirmish in the ally poke through the top of the garment around her collarbone. When she notices me staring at the markings, she raises the top of her dress in an effort to better hide them.
Once she’s content that the bruises are concealed well enough, she plucks berries and pieces of fruit individually from her plate, between her thumb, index and middle fingers, while her remaining two fingers extend outward as if trying to not interfere. She narrowly opens her mouth to show bright, white teeth that carefully bite into each morsel and nearly rolls her eyes during the motion and snorts a sigh. I’m left to believe this must be something she does regularly, and when I think upon all the instances she’s done this to me, I give myself momentary comfort in thinking this might be an impulse she happens to do with everyone.
“Quraqa Haesan,” Anqatil says in a flat and unenthused tone—oof, that word again, ‘quraqa’. “I trust you found your accommodations to your liking?” She says this more as a statement than an inquiry, and I don’t respond to it right away out of confusion because of her tone. I eventually catch on that she’s asking me a question, and I nod my pleasure with the arrangements made. Anqatil appears indifferent to my response, turning her attention to inspecting the new dish of food placed in front of her, the servant standing by eager with anticipation. After a curt nod, the servant is visibly relieved and rushes off to the kitchen.
“This is Quraqa Onixem,” Anqatil says, continuing her unemotional demeanor, presenting the other woman lackadaisically with her left hand. The tall girl turns only her head toward me, looks me up and down, then nods cooly, returning her attention to plucking fruit from her plate immediately after. Is she pretending our encounter yesterday didn’t occur?
“You are to join her in your lessons,” she continues. I stifle a scoff building within my throat and take a seat at the table. Looking at Onixem, I can see she’s just as unamused by this arrangement as I am, though I can’t decipher what it’s directed to, me or the situation. Most likely both, being honest.
Like a reprieve from the storm, the elderly woman from the previous day’s travels, the Arbiter’s mother, slowly enters the dining hall. Ignoring how hopelessly awkward I must appear, I feel myself beaming at seeing her presence for the simple fact she was dismissed just as much by her own son as I was. She makes her way to the table, sitting to the far opposite end from the rest of us, and is assisted by all the attendants who swarm around her like worker bees to the queen. She thanks each person individually along with a pat on their hand and a warm smile before settling into her seat. I guess her touch is better received than mine was, when I attempted to apologize to the servant.
“There is your instructor, Nuqasiq,” Anqatil says, once again in a showman-like manner.
“Isn’t she a little old to be an instructor?” Onixem muses aloud. “What could we possibly learn from her?”
“It appears my first lesson will involve respecting one’s elders,” Nuqasiq says, not removing her attention from her plate. I’m sure I’m grinning while my hand tries to withhold a chuckle from my mouth. Onixem doesn’t look amused, curling one side of her face into a scowl as she chomps on a piece of fruit.
Ignoring the exchange, Anqatil pushes herself away from the table and stands up, not saying another word before marching off toward the palace’s throne room. She leaves without saying goodbye, and I think to myself how it must not be part of Tapeu etiquette to politely depart from guests. Maybe we’re no longer considered guests, but rather a step below her on the hierarchy and thus undeserving of courtesies.
After we finish eating, Nuqasiq has the servants usher us into a room near the palace garden. The sweet smell of the blossoms are carried through the many large openings of the hall by a gentle breeze and mixes with the earthy, musty scent of what I believe to be powdered dyes. As we pass the men guarding the entryway, we arrive inside a room filled with numerous sheets of colorful fabrics, spools of threads, multiple looms placed around the perimeter, and neatly organized pots of the various dyes next to a large, metal cauldron. It isn’t a particularly large room, and we’re crowded by the assortment of tools and materials in the confined space, but the intimacy of the tight quarters comforts me. As a child, when my father, Suntu, would carry on with his regularly scheduled tirade, I would find my way to the room storing all the textiles acquired from either trading neighboring factions or produced from our talented servants, and I’d imagine each sheet of cloth as a new outfit, parading around the storeroom in my devised fashion.
Nuqasiq hobbles over to one of the looms and sits contemplatively. She meticulously looks over the different colors of cloths and threads, picking up each one, inspecting it, then setting it down. The practice is repeated over and over while she takes each material into consideration before, finally, settling on threads of very deep red, bright blue, and a golden yellow. As if she’s in the room alone, Nuqasiq works the shuttle through the threads and hums a song to herself.
“Aren’t we supposed to be taking lessons from you?” asks Onixem. I’m uncertain what I should be doing, so I walk over and sit at a vacant loom next to Nuqasiq, folding my hands in my lap while awaiting instruction. Onixem remains standing at the entryway, humorless and looking around the room.
“This is the lesson,” Nuqasiq says matter-of-factly, her attention remaining on the loom. “The lesson is, I don’t teach lessons to unwilling students. As you pointed out, I don’t have long on Pachil, so why waste my time? You have it all figured out anyway, so I decided I want to work on a garment for the upcoming festival. Do whatever you will.”
Onixem appears to take offense to this and pouts, crossing her arms in disbelief. I shrug, since this seems like a standard Onixem reaction to everything, and follow Nuqasiq’s lead, examining the threads and picking some bright colors that call to me: A yellow like the sun and a rich purple, that remind me of the colors of home. Nuqasiq briefly looks over to assess my selection, and nods approvingly as she resumes weaving the shuttle back and forth. Meanwhile, Onixem rolls her eyes and stitches more assertively now, narrowing her eyes to a near squint as she watches the wooden needle and thread frenetically disappear and reappear through the cloth.
Looking over at Nuqasiq, she’s already made excellent progress on her loom, impressively merging and intertwining the red and blue. I imagine she could create this design in her sleep, her technique well-practiced as evidenced by the masterful craftsmanship with such an intricate design. I ask where she learned such fine loom work, looking at the clumsy start to my own piece.
“I spent much time with the weavers of Atima,” she says. I’m stunned to hear the name “Atima”, who, I learned from my studies, have long been extinct since the beginning of the Timuaq rule.
“How do they compare to weavers from other factions?” I look at my loom and am not sure what I’m doing or what pattern I’m trying to achieve, so instead I focus my attention on Nuqasiq, preferring to learn more about other cultures instead of weaving.
“For certain, they were the best,” Nuqasiq recalls fondly. “There were designs that seemed almost supernatural in how they could achieve such complexity. There were some that were so detailed, you would think a live creature was woven directly into the item!”
Nuqasiq pauses her speedy use of the shuttle to cover her mouth as she lets out an amused squeak of a laugh. This causes Onixem to groan, and I can see she doesn’t want to allow Nuqasiq’s statement to stand uncontested.
“Has anyone warned you,” Nuqasiq says to Onixem, “that if you roll you eyes as frequently as you do, they’ll get stuck looking into the back of your head?”
“It’s just that,” Onixem starts, “I don’t believe the Atima are the best. Maybe during their time, but they’re extinct, and we’ve improved on their techniques significantly since they’ve perished. In fact, the Tapeu have improved on a lot of what the Atima were deemed to be masters in.”
“That is certainly one way to look at things,” I retort, not making direct eye contact and focusing on my shoddy loom work.
“Excuse me?” Onixem gasps. “Is the Achope girl asserting that the Tapeu aren’t the most advanced society in Pachil?”
“I just believe,” I say, working very hard to keep my voice sounding calm, a technique I’ve struggled to master when regularly debating my father or family, “that all factions have a strength, which they’re contributing to the reconstruction of our lands after the War of Liberation, and to say one is better than another is speculative and subjective.”
“The Tapeu may not be particularly strong in governing,” Onixem offers, “but we’re far superior to the other factions in every other aspect.”
"While the Tapeu may indeed excel in certain areas, I believe each faction brings its own unique strengths to the realm,” I say. “The Achope, for instance, may not boast the same cultural prominence, but we value innovation and progress. The realm needs a balance of perspectives to thrive, and unity is our true source of strength."
“The Achope don’t boast nearly as much as the Tapeu, it appears,” says Nuqasiq.
Onixem appears as though she wants to respond, but bites her tongue. Her mannerisms inform me she’s not used to being challenged or questioned very often, and I’m slightly amazed to see she has no reply to the verbal sparring.
Realizing she does not have the ally in Nuqasiq as she expected, Onixem throws down her needle and cloth and storms out of the room. My eye is drawn to the green scarf laying by her seat at the loom, similar to—if not, exactly—the one she wore yesterday when I saw her by the marketplace. I hadn’t noticed before, but stitched into the material is a hummingbird, jade green and nearly blending into the color of the rest of the scarf, with a reddish-orange chest that somehow shimmers when the light hits it just right.
Before I have a chance to grab the scarf and return it to her, she’s gone in the blink of an eye. I look for an indication that Nuqasiq would step in to arbitrate, but she is nonplussed and lets the matter go. Unsure of what I should do, Nuqasiq responds to the question building up inside me before I have a chance to ask it, perhaps sensing my gaze burning into her.
“She may be a bit misguided, but she is very much in the same position as you, Haesan. Her family has left her to Anqatil as a caretaker, quite abruptly. So, you don’t have to determine this today, but it is up to you whether you would like her to be an ally or an enemy. I determined it was too soon to make that call just yet.”
So far, Onixem is the only person I’ve met in Qapauma who is of my approximate age, and apparently in a similar situation—getting abandoned by family and left to Tapeu caretakers—so I could certainly use a friend if we’re experiencing the same strife together. I have my own battles to fight, not needing to add another one. However, she hasn’t made it easy to befriend her, and I conclude I should let her do what I’ve perceived to be her other favorite activity: Storming off.
I use this opportunity to get to know Nuqasiq better, although her eyes are closed as she returns to working the loom, once again humming a melancholic tune. I recall to myself how I didn’t speak to her during our trip—to be fair to the both of us, she was asleep for much of the journey, something I was very envious of. That, and she wasn’t formally introduced to me, as though her identity should be kept as some secret. Perhaps there are those in Achope who would wish ill upon her? I’ll have to research this at a later time.
“Have you traveled away from Achope before?” I ask. It takes me a few attempts at repeating my question, each subsequent effort gradually louder than the last one. Eventually, she opens her eyes from the trance induced by her loom work, and she searches to see who is trying to talk to her, looking up as if the inquiry is coming from above her. I try once more to get her attention, and as if I appeared out of thin air, she startles upon seeing me over her left shoulder. She begs my pardon and I ask my question one more time, although being honest, my patience is wearing thin by this point, and I begin wondering how much do I care for this answer.
“Many times. Many, many times,” she replies. Her voice is shaky and faint, as if she’s speaking from the echos of a period of time in which she’s recalling the memories. Her attention drifts and she looks off into the distance, like her memories can be seen far into the mass of buildings. I wait to see if she has more to say, and just as I’m about to leave the conversation at that and focus on my amateurish loom work, she continues.
“Although most of my life has been spent living in Tapeu, I have seen the lush jungles of Auilqa, the plains of the Aimue, and the hills of the Atima and Qantua.” Once again, she mentions Atima—that was unexpected, and I’m certain my face can’t hide the surprise I feel.
“Wait,” I interject, “You’ve mentioned them before. You went to Atima? You actually saw it?”
“Why, yes. Though the people now reside in the lands of the Qantua and Aimue, they had their own–“
“Their own kingdom, yes, I recall learning about this while studying the history of Pachil.” I couldn’t help but interrupt her out of excitement. Having an instructor teach me history is one thing—and conducted very boringly, at that. But having someone who has actually experienced the history and been there first hand is fascinating. Just imagining what the lands must’ve been like is thrilling to me, and let’s be honest: Had I known this one simple fact about her, it could have been a welcomed refuge from the monotony of the journey we completed the day prior. I try to hide my giddiness, but questions spill out of me like an overflowing gourd.
“So you have met these people? What was their land like? What are they like? Is it true that they are extremely short and stout people because of the highlands? Weren’t they the ones who created theater? And most of the culture we adapt today? What were their plays like? How was their food? I heard they were amazing cooks!“
Reacting to my barrage of questions, she chuckles, once again placing a hand to her mouth. She closes her eyes tightly, her nose scrunches up, and her whole withered body jiggles as she laughs. This is so abrupt that I’m not prepared for such a hearty reaction, and I can’t help but to chuckle, as well, particularly when I see her gray braids swinging so intensely.
“Where do I begin to answer those questions?” she muses. “The people are kind–“
“So they do still exist,” I say with wonder. I apologize for yet another disruption and beg her to continue. She looks amused, which I’m grateful for, then starts up again.
“They were a significantly creative people, full of art and culture, creating beautiful, wonderful things,” she says like a storyteller, gazing up at the trees and speaking with awe, reliving everything in her mind as she speaks. “They had a beautiful city just past the edge of the hills to the north, but it was destroyed by the Timuaq. That’s why they sought refuge with the Qantua people and live amongst them, though their numbers are sparse.”
I knew the last part, regarding the Atima refugees and the Qantua sheltering the few who remain. I felt myself about to blurt out what I knew, but I didn’t want to be impolite and interrupt her yet again. I have always been curious why the Achope never took in the Atima in their time of need, but I attributed it to proximity, since there was a sea and vast jungles to get through before reaching us, not to mention the adjacent Qantua lands that were right below them, as well as the dangerous Tuatiu, those bestial people stalking about like animals, in the jungles between Qantua and us.
“I was taught that the Atima worked with the Achope to create the Merchant’s Tongue,” I say with an inquisitive tone, partly to show off what I know, “and that the Timuaq were enraged by this, and they took their anger out on the Atima.”
“Most certainly,” she says to confirm the factual statement known by all, and she nods along. “Merchant’s Tongue most obviously helped with communication, but also with trade and sharing news and information. In a way, the common language was one of the unifying factors for the people of our land.”
“And the Timuaq made an example of them by wiping them out, is that right?”
Her expression drops to one of sorrow, mourning the loss of so many people as she continues nodding, more somberly this time.
“It was sad to hear of them being nearly annihilated,” she continues. “I hope the few who remain have become equally prosperous. Maybe they will reclaim their old lands, now that the Timuaq are gone.”
I let the sentiment sit in the bloom-scented air for a moment, and daydream about the possibility of traveling to a rebuilt Atima and experiencing all the enchantment their lands were storied to have. Looking upon Nuqasiq, she seems to be imagining those times, as well.
“Peaceful Star,” I blurt out to fill the silence. “The meaning of your name, that is. Well, that’s how your name would’ve translated in the ancient tongues, I think.”
“Right you are!” she grins warmly. “Your education in Chopaqte was truly well done!”
“Father only wanted the best for his heirs,” I say, somewhat disgruntled.
“I am certain he did so out of love,” she muses, and this elicits an eye roll from me—Onixem would be proud. If you met Suntu, your immediate reaction would absolutely not be ‘loving father and paternal figure’. I can’t recall a single time he ever played with me when I was younger, leaving the task to raise me to my mother and whatever house servants were available.
Mulling all this over causes a pause in the conversation. I don’t particularly care to praise my father at all, so I change the subject back to something significantly more interesting.
“Do you know why she vanishes so frequently?” I ask. “Onixem, that is. I’d assume it’s boredom, since there’s only so much stitch work that can keep someone entertained.”
“She’s not necessarily welcomed here,” Nuqasiq says with a shrug. Is she aware of the Arbiter’s feeling on the matter? Being his mother, she might know him well enough to anticipate such a thing.
“Why is that?” I query. Nuqasiq frowns and, after looking out into the hallway, shakes her head and shrugs again. Is she worried about being overheard? My interest is now piqued, and I’m eager to isolate her away from curious ears.
“Well, aside from being very talented in eluding the watchful eyes of the guards,” I say, “Onixem’s ability to stitch is really impressive. Taking a look at some of the work she’s done, it’s enviable!” I pull out the scarf to show Nuqasiq the impressive hummingbird. Nuqasiq initially doesn’t look up from her loom, but I hold the scarf closer to her and ultimately force her to observe the item.
Once she lays eyes onto it, for just the briefest of moments, I notice Nuqasiq’s eyebrows raise and her eyes get wide, before she quickly turns her head back to look at the loom and resume moving the shuttle.
“Where did you obtain that piece?” Nuqasiq asks, her voice tense and low.
“It was lying here next to the loom,” I say. Her tone has made me nervous, since she seems so uncharacteristically apprehensive about a scarf.
“What does the hummingbird mean?” I ask, pretending to be oblivious to it’s obviously objectionable meaning.
“You said you found it here on the floor?”
“Well, yes, but what–“
“You must put that away and be sure nobody sees it,” she commands. I oblige, tucking the scarf into my satchel.
“Why is there a problem with the scarf? Is it the hummingbird?” I ask.
“There are people who disapprove of how the Arbiter is reconstructing the continent,” she says, still with an uneasy, hushed tone. “Certain people disagree with how he has distributed responsibility among the factions, and some believe he is continuing to oppress those the Timuaq oppressed.”
“But they’re clearly misguided or misinformed,” I say, attempting to give Nuqasiq an excuse in case one of the nearby guards or a noble passing by decided to listen in.
“Of course,” she says, unconvincingly. Her reply is abrupt, nearly said before I finish my statement. I’ll have to investigate that later.
“How could people take exception to what the Arbiter is doing when it’s so early into the reconstruction? It’s only been a few moon cycles.”
“There will always be those who dislike someone in power who is not from their tribe,” Nuqasiq says. “There were eleven factions on the continent at one point—twelve if you include the Sanqo before they were exiled to their island many generations ago.”
Twelve? Who is the twelfth faction? I don’t remember learning anything about that. Perhaps she misspoke.
“That means there are that many opinions on how to do something,” Nuqasiq continues. “It is very difficult to manage that number of factions and that number of people. Some are more willing to compromise than others, and there will be those who see the reconstruction as an opportunity for their faction to get ahead. This is politics. This is how it is.”
“So this hummingbird group,” I say, “are they a disgruntled faction? Who do they belong to?”
“That, I’m afraid, I am uncertain,” she says. “This is not to leave this room, but I am only aware they exist because I happened to be in the throne room when Achutli was discussing the matter with his advisors. It is not something that should be discussed openly and in public, Haesan. I would leave the matter to those in charge and remove it from your mind, before you get yourself into trouble.”
We both know it’s unlikely I will let the matter be. If I’m to be in Qapauma, my life is at risk if there are people who want to do harm to those living within the walls of the palace. What is this organization that wants to usurp the Arbiter? What are their demands? Is Onixem involved with them? Isn’t Onixem from Tapeu? Why would she be involved in such an organization? And if she is, then who were those two men in red who attacked her?
“Do you think the Arbiter knows?” I ask. I’m undecided how—or if—I want her to respond.
“Achutli knows more than you think,” she says, vaguely in a well-practiced diplomatic manner, not swaying one way or the other and not letting on more than she has to convey. Her answer is ominous, too, making me wonder just how correct she is, what the Arbiter plans to do about the possible animosity, and how my people, the Achope, play a part in all of this.
