The weather mirrors Pichaqta's mood, a gloom that's settled in like the stubborn cloud cover. Washed out gray skies meld with the mountains, painting the city in a subdued palette. Rain threatens, much like tears held back, an act of silent defiance akin to the Qiapu people's resilience.
Sunken shoulders, downcast eyes, and somber faces fill the room, a congregation of muted souls. Once vibrant with chatter and laughter, the inn has become as silent as unworked metal awaiting the hammer’s blow. Taqaiu, his frown echoing the pervasive atmosphere, bemoans the patrons' melancholic demeanor and grumbles about how sad hearts are poor spenders.
I stare at the small onyx statue that Qumuna gave to me yesterday, after which he decided to part with some unnecessary remarks that live on in my head. The figurine rests in my hand and looks back at me blankly. Did Limaqumtlia mean for this statue to be found, or passed on to the next Tempered instead of me? What significance does Qumuna actually believe it holds, aside from being my brother’s, and now the only item of his that I possess?
“Hey!” Taqaiu shouts at me. I look over to see the heavy set man scowling at me from the back of the room. “I’m going to throw that thing into Xutuina if you don’t get back to cleaning up this place!”
Two palace guards enter the room, slouching and dragging their feet as they make their way to one of the tables. After putting away the statuette, I present two chalices of chicha to them, timing it almost exactly when they sit down. They grunt and nod as a means of expressing their thanks, then take two large gulps each, slamming the goblets down while staring blankly at different spots on the table.
I leave them be and carry on with my duties, cleaning up after some mineworkers just left and wiping down any and all surfaces. While I work around the room, my wandering ear picks up tidbits of conversation from guardsmen and villagers alike. Some discuss personal family matters, or vent about an aspect of their job, or concerns about the impending war with the Ulxa.
"I couldn't help but notice that Saxina seemed remarkably composed at the death of Limaqumtlia,” I hear one of the patrons say, slurring his words almost to the point of being unintelligible. He’s an older man, hunched over his goblet with beady eyes, patches of white hair on an otherwise bald scalp, and whatever teeth aren’t missing are brown and crooked. He sways to and fro as he speaks, barely able to hold himself up with his elbows on the table.
“That’s the sign of a great leader,” his companion says, “being calm during the calamity.” The friend doesn’t look much better: An angled nose that has definitely been broken multiple times, a chin that juts out prominently, and more wrinkles than smooth patches of skin.
“I don’t know,” the first one responds, tapping the table with a lone index finger. “It’s almost as if he expected it to happen.”
I roll my eyes and carry on cleaning, shaking my head at the drunken banter. It’s fairly common to hear such rantings, especially after a few drinks, but the conspiracies have been flying wild and freely since the day after Limaqumtlia—my brother—was slain. It takes a lot of restraint to stop myself from interjecting, knowing that, while I may not care for the work, having Taqaiu offer me housing and a job is something I don’t want to throw away with petty and unproductive confrontations with drunkards.
I begin wiping the table by the corner where the palace guards are huddled, their murmurs are an undercurrent to the inn's otherwise dispirited banter. Those bronze helmets of theirs, topped with an outrageous flurry of plumage, give the impression of puffed-up roosters gearing for a brawl. They look like brothers, sharing the same close-cropped, midnight hair that crowns their elongated faces. A pair of eyes squint above squished noses, and rugged jaws are set with a slight underbite. My ears have been half-immersed in the clanging forge of conversations around me, but these two men hammer out a sentence that shapes my attention.
"I can't believe he managed to infiltrate our ranks,” one of the men says. “Someone on the inside must’ve helped him, yeah?”
“Unnerving,” says the other, slightly shorter one, with a grunt. “Makes you wonder if there are traitors among us. Can't trust anyone these days."
"How did he even get his hands on a guard’s uniform?”
“Suspicious. Security around here’s supposed to be tight. Someone must have turned a blind eye or provided the disguise."
I notice myself wiping the table in smaller and slower circles, cleaning the same spot on the surface over and over again. They’re echoing thoughts that have reverberated in my head since that day, but to hear guards from the palace discuss such topics is alarming, though in a strange way, it comforts me, knowing I’m not alone with these thoughts.
“Killer had that strange symbol carved into his chest,” the shorter one continues. “That Eye in the Flame? Don't know about you, but gives me the chills."
"I agree,” the first one says. “Who knows what kind of dark forces are at play here."
“Can’t be good. Know the Ulxa are being declared responsible, but I fought alongside some of them in the war. Don’t remember seeing anything like that on them.”
I’ve stopped wiping at this point, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. I never fought with any Ulxa during the war, so I can’t confirm the relevance of the Eye in the Flame description. Seeing the mark carved into the boy’s pectoral muscle is odd, and not something done in Qiapu, so I can only assume the assailant is not from our region.
“Overheard some of the nobles talking about internal investigations.”
“Have they concluded anything? I hadn’t heard that investigations were taking place.”
“Because there aren’t any investigations,” the second one says, taking a large swig from his chalice before crashing the empty container onto the table. I hurriedly grab the carafe of chicha and serve him a refill. I try to be quick so they can resume their discussion and I can pick up more information about palace affairs.
“Some suspect there might be a network helping the assassin,” he continues, “but the Tempered hasn’t explored the matter any further. Says it’s concluded, and the Ulxa are to blame.”
"You know,” says the larger man, “I find it strange that everyone is so focused on external threats, that nobody’s considered the possibility of danger from within."
“Mmm-hmm,” the other one confirms, “Wake-up call for all of us. Makes you wonder if some powerful figures are involved."
“Better be careful to say such things out loud. We don’t want the wrong ears to hear us talking all accusatorially.”
To this, I bring my attention back to cleaning tables, trying not to give away hints of me listening in. The two mutter inaudibly to one another a bit longer before the bigger man reaches into a pouch at his side, pulls out his fist, then slams a few coppers down onto the table. They both get up to leave, grabbing their helmets and carrying them out on their hips as they emerge onto the road.
Is it true that there isn’t an ongoing investigation into Limaqumtlia’s death? Has the presumption that the assassin was from Ulxa really been accepted without question? And the guards are right: how was the murderer able to get a palace uniform? Is he working with somebody or an organization we should be aware of? And if so, could that organization be after anyone else? I don’t want to give credence to intoxicated fools, but could those other two men be right, and that Saxina knew–
No, I can’t allow myself to go down that road. Conspiracies proclaimed over chicha are as good as tales told to children around the fire. However, the lack of a genuine investigation is concerning. Perhaps one is being conducted between Saxina and his council members, and preventing outside influence, has kept the matter private. It seems reasonable to that one wouldn’t want the public speculation to creep in—considering what I’ve overheard from the drunken patrons, this makes a lot of sense.
There’s a nagging feeling within me to check, however. Just to make certain Limaqumtlia’s murder isn’t being cast aside. I have no reason to suspect otherwise; he is the former Tempered, so surely someone is looking into the matter. Perhaps Saxina has delegated the task to one of his councilmen so that he may focus his attention on the possibility of fighting the Ulxa.
So, then, why does the two guards’ conversation irk me?
Being the brother of the slain Tempered, I feel I’m entitled to some information about anything they’ve found: Who’s responsible, how was my brother so poorly guarded, am I safe, what actions are they taking to ensure no one else is targeted.
Even more peculiar, I find it odd that the words from Qumuna—a well-respected general and loyal servant to Limaqumtlia and Qiapu—did not stir me to action as much as two drunken fools at the inn. Maybe due to the paternal dynamic between him, my brother, and me, and how he’s a figure of authority? There’s probably something to that, but I don’t care to examine it. Not when I need to ensure that justice for Limaqumtlia’s murder is being procured.
“Where on Pachil do you think you’re going?” I hear Taqaiu say in his theatrical manner. There are more remarks coming from him, but they’re fading and blending in with the commotion of the foot traffic outside the inn. I utter something incoherent even to myself, noticing for the first time that I have left the room and am walking toward the palace. I’m confident that, once I speak to Saxina, the matter will be put to rest, and I can deal with Taqaiu later.
The looming, tall stone walls create a less-than-welcoming atmosphere as I approach the entrance to the main gate. Even the decorative terracotta tiles forming a path to the main throne room don’t have the usual shimmer and warmth. Since the death of Limaqumtlia, and the subsequent ceremony that marked the beginning of Saxina’s reign, the number of guards and patrol has more than doubled, giving the impression there are more warriors in Pichaqta than citizens. Beyond the fortress walls, the air carries a weight of unease, with every sentinel a vigilant guardian, their eyes boring into every passerby as if each person hides a secret to be unearthed. With the rainy season upon us, there’s a chill in the air, coincidentally matching the coldness of the guards’ stares.
My progress is halted as two guards point their halberds out at me. There’s a scowl on both faces, their bushy eyebrows nearly merged together on their wrinkled foreheads. One is taller than the other by about a hand, but other than that, their barrel-chested builds and boxy jaws make them look identical, aided by the bronze helmet that covers up a good amount of their faces. Are they the two from the inn just moments ago? Unlikely, but I couldn’t be blamed for believing so.
“Where do you think–“ the taller one bellows.
“I am the brother of Limaqumtlia,” I say, cutting him off before he can finish. I’m not willing to face a line of questioning that will ultimately lead nowhere. “I demand to speak to Sax–… to the Tempered.”
“How do we know–“
“Let me through to speak to Saxina at once!” I demand, shouting so practically every guard on the wall can hear. My heart races as I choke down my fear while trying to present myself with a confidence I most certainly don’t feel. I can acknowledge they’re doing what they’ve been commanded to do, but that isn’t preventing me from insisting I’m allowed through, my desire for answers drives my will to press on.
A few other warriors join in the shouting, sticking the halberds closer and closer to me and occasionally jabbing them in my direction. Soon it becomes a competition as to who among them can yell the loudest, the collection of voices turning more and more indiscernible. Passersby grant us an expanse of space, their expressions etched with concern as they attempt to avoid any possibility of being ensnared in the web of events. There’s one prominent voice that attempts to break through the hollers, persistently yelling and growing louder until finally:
“That’s enough!” the deep, booming voice emerges from the cacophony of angry shouts. We all turn to see a large man, arms crossed and displaying a slew of black markings running across both forearms. His nearly black eyes are large and intense, nostrils flaring as he breathes, and both ears are lined with silver piercings, stretching from his lobes to just over half the curve of his ears. He holds his bronze helmet at his side, and like his red and white tunic, they are adorned in red feathers. These are the indications of a general, although not quite to the level of Qumuna, yet fairly close; perhaps after a dozen or so more seasons, those piercings will become gold.
“Explain the meaning of this spectacle!” he shouts. A few of the officers speak over one another to answer him, and after a brief moment of this, the general raises his hands and yells at them to stop. Still looking angered, the man looks to me, and with the hand that is raised, now points to me.
“You are Paxilche,” he says, a bit calmer now, “brother of Limaqumtlia.”
“That, I am,” I say, battling with my adrenaline to match his calmness. “I demand to speak to Saxina.” He looks at me, squinting as if studying my face, then paces for a moment while he does this.
“I was deeply saddened by the death of your brother,” he says. “All of Pichaqta and Qiapu are in terrible pain over your loss. He was a great man, on the path to create great things for our people.”
“I appreciate–“
“That doesn’t mean,” he interrupts, “you can insult our Tempered by dismissing his title when you speak of him.” This stirs the nearby guards, and they begin standing up straighter and a bit taller, their chins all raising.
“I apologize,” I say. It’s all I can think to do, despite not genuinely believing it. Perhaps my flat tone is too noticeable, as a few of the guards hold their halberds more tightly and point them closer to me after my inadequately expressed sentiment.
“You are fortunate I have walked by this gate when I did,” he says, “Or else my men would’ve likely sliced you to pieces.” He sounds as though he’s gloating a bit, prideful how his guards would treat a civilian in such a manner, especially one who is the brother of a slain leader.
“State your business at the palace.”
“I have a matter to discuss regarding the death of my brother. I was hoping–“
“We are nearly at war with the Ulxa,” he says, “and you’re going to carry on about your brother?”
“Excuse me?” is all I can muster, honestly taken aback by his demeanor.
“There is an impending attack by the Ulxa, who have already stuck first blood. We don’t have a moment to spare and must focus our efforts on mounting a defense against the enemy at our borders, and already within our lands.”
He begins to walk away, dismissing me with the fanning of his hand. Several of the surrounding guards begin flanking him and step alongside, about to return to the palace grounds.
“You are going to reprimand me for not using the Tempered’s title when referring to him, yet you insult my brother by speaking as though his death doesn’t matter?” While I am genuinely furious at this general’s insulting behavior, I realize my opportunity for speaking to Saxina will diminish if I can’t sway this general to my side. So, I focus on feeling offended to help embellish my speech with some Taqaiu-like performative flourish. Maybe it’s due to spending an inordinate amount of time around him. Just… don’t let him know of his influence on my theatrics.
“Of course, I wouldn’t imply such a thing. I am just say–“
“His body has barely been returned to Pachil and you are going to ignore all that he has done for Qiapu after the War of Liberation?!” A crowd has now gathered around us, and the numbers steadily grow to the point that the citizens are starting to outnumber the guards in the area. This only encourages me further, attempting to take advantage of the audience.
“That’s not what I–“
“My brother, who served his people with love and compassion, was murdered, and all I want is to speak to the Tempered about an investigation into the matter. Yet I’m to be denied?”
“Okay, Paxilche, that’s–“
“You won’t allow me to discuss my new findings with the Tempered, preventing our deceased Limaqumtlia justice?”
Those gathered begin joining my protest, shouting their disgust at the general and saying things… I won’t repeat here. The guards look at one another, heads on a swivel, and gradually take steps backward toward the gate opening. I stare down the stone-faced general, who takes an account to the numbers swarming his men. A corner of his mouth twists upward, and he gives a shrug of resignation.
“I will fetch the Tempered for you, Paxilche,” he says over the shouts, hoping to appease the gathering masses. Sporadic cheers pop up throughout the crowd as the general waves his hand to present a path for me to the palace entrance. That this excessive and unnecessary confrontation happened at all, and the result that came of it, which could have been avoided entirely, frustrates me. Yet as I walk a few steps behind the general, I stifle a chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
I’m escorted through the palace grounds, a vast and empty space devoid of any vegetation or decoration. The stones are darker than the white dirt, which is somehow bright enough in this overcast day to force me to shield my eyes as we walk through. The first room we enter makes up most of the building’s size, a large, empty chamber lacking any decorations or embellishments, save for a throne in the center, made from swirling black lava rock that juts up from behind the seat into several spikes. More than three dozen guards are placed every so often along the perimeter of the room, all pairs of eyes vigilantly watching our entrance.
In only a few words, the general commands me to halt a distance away from the throne, then walks toward an opening at the back of the room. I wait for a while, standing with every guard staring at me. The room is illuminated by openings to the outside way high up the walls—probably the height of three or four men—making a sheet of white clouds the only thing I can see. Rather than make awkward eye contact with each individual, I look up to the outdoors, wishing I was there rather than loitering around here.
In a chain reaction, a series of guards stand at attention, faces looking straight ahead. In comes Saxina, casting a wide smile as he walks toward me. Unlike the last few times I’ve seen him, he wears an elaborately decorated tunic, covered everywhere in an array of colorful feathers that cascade all the way down to the floor and drag behind him. He’s gained a few piercings, with several gold hoops around both nostrils and a large golden septum piercing to round it out. His right forearm bears new geometric tattoos, his skin slightly raised and pink around the black lines, indicating that the work is recently done. His oversized gold headpiece contains numerous pieces of jade and onyx, and enhanced by more colorful feathers that create an elaborate backdrop to Saxina’s head.
He is assisted by two servants, gently helping him to be seated atop the rugged and angular throne. As soon as he sits, a goblet is placed in his left hand, and Saxina wastes no time taking a long sip.
“Paxilche,” he says warmly, “how pleasant it is to have you visit the chamber. I hope you are doing well, given the…” Saxina’s voice trails off and his eyes drop for a fleeting moment before returning to his sunny disposition.
“It’s been nonstop busy here since taking over, so I sincerely hope I haven’t offended you by not stopping to see you. We haven’t really spoken since…”
His voice drops again, and his manner of speaking feels excessively put-on, but I know what he is trying to say. He discussed important matters about the Ulxa before his ruthless display against Qumuna at the ritual. What was once a secret regarding the Ulxa information has now become public knowledge, and coincidentally timed with his coronation.
“I understand,” I say, simply, bowing my head. “There are a lot of matters that demand your time. No need to apologize.”
Saxina is visibly relieved, nodding and forcefully exhaling. His right hand rubs what I suppose can be considered the arm of the throne: A jutting, black, barely-straight piece of lava rock that gnarls into something on which he can rest his elbow as he leans to one side. After one more taste from his chalice, he resumes eye contact with me and slightly cocks his head to his left.
“So, what brings you to the palace on this day?” he asks.
“I come to inquire about Limaqumtlia,” I say after taking a deep breath. Saxina maintains a smile, but raises an eyebrow at the sound of my brother’s name. “There are some questions about that day that I would like to ask.”
“Well, certainly, friend,” he says in a voice that is as if he’s playing the part of a ruler. Besides, I can’t recall a time when he simply called me “friend” without using my name.
“We both know that the assailant bore the mark of the Eye in the Flame,” I say. “He did so in a palace guard uniform.”
I pause to watch Saxina’s reaction to my statements, seeing if he will offer any information willingly or give away any clues as to what he knows about the matter. He only nods thoughtfully and, I assume, waits for me to get to my point. I had hoped that, should he be looking into the murder, he would be inclined to tell the brother of the victim anything he has discovered or learned.
“I haven’t seen nor heard of any further investigation into the issue,” I say, beginning to pace in front of the seated leader, hearing nothing more than my echoing steps.
“Are you…” Saxina begins to say, angling his head and furrowing his brow, seemingly not understanding what I’m hinting at, or at least pretending that he doesn’t. “Do you believe there is more to investigate?”
“Well, yes,” I say, slightly stunned. “While we know the assassin bore the marking and had the guard uniform, it was stated—you stated—that the murderer is from Ulxa and this is a signal of their intent. Nothing more. Don’t you think it’s odd to not look into this further? We are to accept this as fact?”
“The evidence makes the answer seem obvious,” he says, bemused. “We know the symbol originates from Ulxa, the assailant had the mark etched into his chest… What more is there to determine?”
“But how did he come to possess the guard’s outfit? Did he murder someone to obtain them? Was he handed them? How did no other guard notice this traitor in their ranks? He was able to infiltrate them that easily? Have you not considered questioning your generals and–“
“I’m surprised by your sudden interest in this, Paxilche,” he says. “For a long time, you couldn’t be bothered over such things, especially your brother. When was the last time you two spoke?”
“I cared about my brother,” I say, becoming incensed. “He’s still family, whether I speak to him on a regular basis or not. How dare you question my feelings for my family!”
“I’m trying to understand what your issue is, that’s all. We have conducted our investigation into the matter and have established a straightforward conclusion. Why you are continuing to press the matter when it has already been decided and the motive determined. Why continue to pick at an old wound?”
“Because I don’t believe you are doing all that you could to find out more about why this happened,” I say. Before I irritate Saxina to the point of not cooperating with me, I decide to change tactics, to see if maybe he would grow interested if his life was on the line.
“Wouldn’t you want to know if there is a general or official in your ranks who might infiltrate the guards and attempt to take your life?” I ask. Saxina's irritation twists his features, a storm brewing behind the mask of his composed façade. He leans forward from the grandeur of his throne, fingers clenching the armrest's edge with a white-knuckled intensity that threatens to topple the ornate chalice off its perch nearby.
“Are you threatening me?” he asks. “Is this some kind of warning about what you’re planning to do?”
“No, of course not,” I say, initially defensively before calming myself down to speak more rationally and not stoke the flames, since I may have done more harm than good with that pivot in strategy. “What I’m saying is that it’s suspicious that someone was able to easily slip amongst the guards and assassinate the Qiapu leader. I’m surprised to find you aren’t doing more about this internally.”
“What more is there to be done?” he asks incredulously. “We have reached our conclusion, and Qiapu is doing something about it. I put my entire faith and trust into my generals. I would think you would be relieved to know we are seeking justice in this instance so swiftly, going after the Ulxa, who are responsible, need I remind you. I suppose there never was any way to please you, Paxilche.”
I ignore his verbal jab at me and focus on his deflection. He seems to be content with the loose conclusions drawn, and I’m beginning to grow suspicious that there is more at hand here. I need to find out why he’s not giving me more of an answer. I stop my pacing, turning to face him straight on, rolling my shoulders back and standing up straight and proud.
“Why are you so quickly accepting this as being concluded, Saxina? Why are you willfully ignoring investigating this any further, perfectly satisfied with a very loose conclusion? Are you benefitting from attacking the Ulxa? Are you protecting the person responsible for allowing this assassin to kill my brother?!”
At the use of his birth name rather than his title, the guards along the perimeter start to close in, gripping their halberds tightly and ready to swing at me if I move falsely. As I continue my series of questions, my voice increasing in intensity with each probe, Saxina stands from his chair, pointing an accusatory finger at me, fire of a thousand forges in his eyes.
“How dare you accuse me of being responsible for Limaqumtlia’s death!” he shouts. “I allow you, as a guest—and a friend—into my throne room, and you have the gaul to disrespect me?!”
“Answer my questions, Saxina!” I shout. A half dozen guards circle me, two of them apprehending me by my shoulders, gripping my arms and squeezing tightly like vices. I am jostled as they grab me, multiple yells and commands tossed about, but I can’t hear what they’re saying with the ringing in my ears from the adrenaline. The only words I can make out are Saxina’s before he stomps away to the opening in the back of the room.
“Get! Him! Out of here!”
The weather mirrors Pichaqta's mood, a gloom that's settled in like the stubborn cloud cover. Washed out gray skies meld with the mountains, painting the city in a subdued palette. Rain threatens, much like tears held back, an act of silent defiance akin to the Qiapu people's resilience.
Sunken shoulders, downcast eyes, and somber faces fill the room, a congregation of muted souls. Once vibrant with chatter and laughter, the inn has become as silent as unworked metal awaiting the hammer’s blow. Taqaiu, his frown echoing the pervasive atmosphere, bemoans the patrons' melancholic demeanor and grumbles about how sad hearts are poor spenders.
I stare at the small onyx statue that Qumuna gave to me yesterday, after which he decided to part with some unnecessary remarks that live on in my head. The figurine rests in my hand and looks back at me blankly. Did Limaqumtlia mean for this statue to be found, or passed on to the next Tempered instead of me? What significance does Qumuna actually believe it holds, aside from being my brother’s, and now the only item of his that I possess?
“Hey!” Taqaiu shouts at me. I look over to see the heavy set man scowling at me from the back of the room. “I’m going to throw that thing into Xutuina if you don’t get back to cleaning up this place!”
Two palace guards enter the room, slouching and dragging their feet as they make their way to one of the tables. After putting away the statuette, I present two chalices of chicha to them, timing it almost exactly when they sit down. They grunt and nod as a means of expressing their thanks, then take two large gulps each, slamming the goblets down while staring blankly at different spots on the table.
I leave them be and carry on with my duties, cleaning up after some mineworkers just left and wiping down any and all surfaces. While I work around the room, my wandering ear picks up tidbits of conversation from guardsmen and villagers alike. Some discuss personal family matters, or vent about an aspect of their job, or concerns about the impending war with the Ulxa.
"I couldn't help but notice that Saxina seemed remarkably composed at the death of Limaqumtlia,” I hear one of the patrons say, slurring his words almost to the point of being unintelligible. He’s an older man, hunched over his goblet with beady eyes, patches of white hair on an otherwise bald scalp, and whatever teeth aren’t missing are brown and crooked. He sways to and fro as he speaks, barely able to hold himself up with his elbows on the table.
“That’s the sign of a great leader,” his companion says, “being calm during the calamity.” The friend doesn’t look much better: An angled nose that has definitely been broken multiple times, a chin that juts out prominently, and more wrinkles than smooth patches of skin.
“I don’t know,” the first one responds, tapping the table with a lone index finger. “It’s almost as if he expected it to happen.”
I roll my eyes and carry on cleaning, shaking my head at the drunken banter. It’s fairly common to hear such rantings, especially after a few drinks, but the conspiracies have been flying wild and freely since the day after Limaqumtlia—my brother—was slain. It takes a lot of restraint to stop myself from interjecting, knowing that, while I may not care for the work, having Taqaiu offer me housing and a job is something I don’t want to throw away with petty and unproductive confrontations with drunkards.
I begin wiping the table by the corner where the palace guards are huddled, their murmurs are an undercurrent to the inn's otherwise dispirited banter. Those bronze helmets of theirs, topped with an outrageous flurry of plumage, give the impression of puffed-up roosters gearing for a brawl. They look like brothers, sharing the same close-cropped, midnight hair that crowns their elongated faces. A pair of eyes squint above squished noses, and rugged jaws are set with a slight underbite. My ears have been half-immersed in the clanging forge of conversations around me, but these two men hammer out a sentence that shapes my attention.
"I can't believe he managed to infiltrate our ranks,” one of the men says. “Someone on the inside must’ve helped him, yeah?”
“Unnerving,” says the other, slightly shorter one, with a grunt. “Makes you wonder if there are traitors among us. Can't trust anyone these days."
"How did he even get his hands on a guard’s uniform?”
“Suspicious. Security around here’s supposed to be tight. Someone must have turned a blind eye or provided the disguise."
I notice myself wiping the table in smaller and slower circles, cleaning the same spot on the surface over and over again. They’re echoing thoughts that have reverberated in my head since that day, but to hear guards from the palace discuss such topics is alarming, though in a strange way, it comforts me, knowing I’m not alone with these thoughts.
“Killer had that strange symbol carved into his chest,” the shorter one continues. “That Eye in the Flame? Don't know about you, but gives me the chills."
"I agree,” the first one says. “Who knows what kind of dark forces are at play here."
“Can’t be good. Know the Ulxa are being declared responsible, but I fought alongside some of them in the war. Don’t remember seeing anything like that on them.”
I’ve stopped wiping at this point, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. I never fought with any Ulxa during the war, so I can’t confirm the relevance of the Eye in the Flame description. Seeing the mark carved into the boy’s pectoral muscle is odd, and not something done in Qiapu, so I can only assume the assailant is not from our region.
“Overheard some of the nobles talking about internal investigations.”
“Have they concluded anything? I hadn’t heard that investigations were taking place.”
“Because there aren’t any investigations,” the second one says, taking a large swig from his chalice before crashing the empty container onto the table. I hurriedly grab the carafe of chicha and serve him a refill. I try to be quick so they can resume their discussion and I can pick up more information about palace affairs.
“Some suspect there might be a network helping the assassin,” he continues, “but the Tempered hasn’t explored the matter any further. Says it’s concluded, and the Ulxa are to blame.”
"You know,” says the larger man, “I find it strange that everyone is so focused on external threats, that nobody’s considered the possibility of danger from within."
“Mmm-hmm,” the other one confirms, “Wake-up call for all of us. Makes you wonder if some powerful figures are involved."
“Better be careful to say such things out loud. We don’t want the wrong ears to hear us talking all accusatorially.”
To this, I bring my attention back to cleaning tables, trying not to give away hints of me listening in. The two mutter inaudibly to one another a bit longer before the bigger man reaches into a pouch at his side, pulls out his fist, then slams a few coppers down onto the table. They both get up to leave, grabbing their helmets and carrying them out on their hips as they emerge onto the road.
Is it true that there isn’t an ongoing investigation into Limaqumtlia’s death? Has the presumption that the assassin was from Ulxa really been accepted without question? And the guards are right: how was the murderer able to get a palace uniform? Is he working with somebody or an organization we should be aware of? And if so, could that organization be after anyone else? I don’t want to give credence to intoxicated fools, but could those other two men be right, and that Saxina knew–
No, I can’t allow myself to go down that road. Conspiracies proclaimed over chicha are as good as tales told to children around the fire. However, the lack of a genuine investigation is concerning. Perhaps one is being conducted between Saxina and his council members, and preventing outside influence, has kept the matter private. It seems reasonable to that one wouldn’t want the public speculation to creep in—considering what I’ve overheard from the drunken patrons, this makes a lot of sense.
There’s a nagging feeling within me to check, however. Just to make certain Limaqumtlia’s murder isn’t being cast aside. I have no reason to suspect otherwise; he is the former Tempered, so surely someone is looking into the matter. Perhaps Saxina has delegated the task to one of his councilmen so that he may focus his attention on the possibility of fighting the Ulxa.
So, then, why does the two guards’ conversation irk me?
Being the brother of the slain Tempered, I feel I’m entitled to some information about anything they’ve found: Who’s responsible, how was my brother so poorly guarded, am I safe, what actions are they taking to ensure no one else is targeted.
Even more peculiar, I find it odd that the words from Qumuna—a well-respected general and loyal servant to Limaqumtlia and Qiapu—did not stir me to action as much as two drunken fools at the inn. Maybe due to the paternal dynamic between him, my brother, and me, and how he’s a figure of authority? There’s probably something to that, but I don’t care to examine it. Not when I need to ensure that justice for Limaqumtlia’s murder is being procured.
“Where on Pachil do you think you’re going?” I hear Taqaiu say in his theatrical manner. There are more remarks coming from him, but they’re fading and blending in with the commotion of the foot traffic outside the inn. I utter something incoherent even to myself, noticing for the first time that I have left the room and am walking toward the palace. I’m confident that, once I speak to Saxina, the matter will be put to rest, and I can deal with Taqaiu later.
The looming, tall stone walls create a less-than-welcoming atmosphere as I approach the entrance to the main gate. Even the decorative terracotta tiles forming a path to the main throne room don’t have the usual shimmer and warmth. Since the death of Limaqumtlia, and the subsequent ceremony that marked the beginning of Saxina’s reign, the number of guards and patrol has more than doubled, giving the impression there are more warriors in Pichaqta than citizens. Beyond the fortress walls, the air carries a weight of unease, with every sentinel a vigilant guardian, their eyes boring into every passerby as if each person hides a secret to be unearthed. With the rainy season upon us, there’s a chill in the air, coincidentally matching the coldness of the guards’ stares.
My progress is halted as two guards point their halberds out at me. There’s a scowl on both faces, their bushy eyebrows nearly merged together on their wrinkled foreheads. One is taller than the other by about a hand, but other than that, their barrel-chested builds and boxy jaws make them look identical, aided by the bronze helmet that covers up a good amount of their faces. Are they the two from the inn just moments ago? Unlikely, but I couldn’t be blamed for believing so.
“Where do you think–“ the taller one bellows.
“I am the brother of Limaqumtlia,” I say, cutting him off before he can finish. I’m not willing to face a line of questioning that will ultimately lead nowhere. “I demand to speak to Sax–… to the Tempered.”
“How do we know–“
“Let me through to speak to Saxina at once!” I demand, shouting so practically every guard on the wall can hear. My heart races as I choke down my fear while trying to present myself with a confidence I most certainly don’t feel. I can acknowledge they’re doing what they’ve been commanded to do, but that isn’t preventing me from insisting I’m allowed through, my desire for answers drives my will to press on.
A few other warriors join in the shouting, sticking the halberds closer and closer to me and occasionally jabbing them in my direction. Soon it becomes a competition as to who among them can yell the loudest, the collection of voices turning more and more indiscernible. Passersby grant us an expanse of space, their expressions etched with concern as they attempt to avoid any possibility of being ensnared in the web of events. There’s one prominent voice that attempts to break through the hollers, persistently yelling and growing louder until finally:
“That’s enough!” the deep, booming voice emerges from the cacophony of angry shouts. We all turn to see a large man, arms crossed and displaying a slew of black markings running across both forearms. His nearly black eyes are large and intense, nostrils flaring as he breathes, and both ears are lined with silver piercings, stretching from his lobes to just over half the curve of his ears. He holds his bronze helmet at his side, and like his red and white tunic, they are adorned in red feathers. These are the indications of a general, although not quite to the level of Qumuna, yet fairly close; perhaps after a dozen or so more seasons, those piercings will become gold.
“Explain the meaning of this spectacle!” he shouts. A few of the officers speak over one another to answer him, and after a brief moment of this, the general raises his hands and yells at them to stop. Still looking angered, the man looks to me, and with the hand that is raised, now points to me.
“You are Paxilche,” he says, a bit calmer now, “brother of Limaqumtlia.”
“That, I am,” I say, battling with my adrenaline to match his calmness. “I demand to speak to Saxina.” He looks at me, squinting as if studying my face, then paces for a moment while he does this.
“I was deeply saddened by the death of your brother,” he says. “All of Pichaqta and Qiapu are in terrible pain over your loss. He was a great man, on the path to create great things for our people.”
“I appreciate–“
“That doesn’t mean,” he interrupts, “you can insult our Tempered by dismissing his title when you speak of him.” This stirs the nearby guards, and they begin standing up straighter and a bit taller, their chins all raising.
“I apologize,” I say. It’s all I can think to do, despite not genuinely believing it. Perhaps my flat tone is too noticeable, as a few of the guards hold their halberds more tightly and point them closer to me after my inadequately expressed sentiment.
“You are fortunate I have walked by this gate when I did,” he says, “Or else my men would’ve likely sliced you to pieces.” He sounds as though he’s gloating a bit, prideful how his guards would treat a civilian in such a manner, especially one who is the brother of a slain leader.
“State your business at the palace.”
“I have a matter to discuss regarding the death of my brother. I was hoping–“
“We are nearly at war with the Ulxa,” he says, “and you’re going to carry on about your brother?”
“Excuse me?” is all I can muster, honestly taken aback by his demeanor.
“There is an impending attack by the Ulxa, who have already stuck first blood. We don’t have a moment to spare and must focus our efforts on mounting a defense against the enemy at our borders, and already within our lands.”
He begins to walk away, dismissing me with the fanning of his hand. Several of the surrounding guards begin flanking him and step alongside, about to return to the palace grounds.
“You are going to reprimand me for not using the Tempered’s title when referring to him, yet you insult my brother by speaking as though his death doesn’t matter?” While I am genuinely furious at this general’s insulting behavior, I realize my opportunity for speaking to Saxina will diminish if I can’t sway this general to my side. So, I focus on feeling offended to help embellish my speech with some Taqaiu-like performative flourish. Maybe it’s due to spending an inordinate amount of time around him. Just… don’t let him know of his influence on my theatrics.
“Of course, I wouldn’t imply such a thing. I am just say–“
“His body has barely been returned to Pachil and you are going to ignore all that he has done for Qiapu after the War of Liberation?!” A crowd has now gathered around us, and the numbers steadily grow to the point that the citizens are starting to outnumber the guards in the area. This only encourages me further, attempting to take advantage of the audience.
“That’s not what I–“
“My brother, who served his people with love and compassion, was murdered, and all I want is to speak to the Tempered about an investigation into the matter. Yet I’m to be denied?”
“Okay, Paxilche, that’s–“
“You won’t allow me to discuss my new findings with the Tempered, preventing our deceased Limaqumtlia justice?”
Those gathered begin joining my protest, shouting their disgust at the general and saying things… I won’t repeat here. The guards look at one another, heads on a swivel, and gradually take steps backward toward the gate opening. I stare down the stone-faced general, who takes an account to the numbers swarming his men. A corner of his mouth twists upward, and he gives a shrug of resignation.
“I will fetch the Tempered for you, Paxilche,” he says over the shouts, hoping to appease the gathering masses. Sporadic cheers pop up throughout the crowd as the general waves his hand to present a path for me to the palace entrance. That this excessive and unnecessary confrontation happened at all, and the result that came of it, which could have been avoided entirely, frustrates me. Yet as I walk a few steps behind the general, I stifle a chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
I’m escorted through the palace grounds, a vast and empty space devoid of any vegetation or decoration. The stones are darker than the white dirt, which is somehow bright enough in this overcast day to force me to shield my eyes as we walk through. The first room we enter makes up most of the building’s size, a large, empty chamber lacking any decorations or embellishments, save for a throne in the center, made from swirling black lava rock that juts up from behind the seat into several spikes. More than three dozen guards are placed every so often along the perimeter of the room, all pairs of eyes vigilantly watching our entrance.
In only a few words, the general commands me to halt a distance away from the throne, then walks toward an opening at the back of the room. I wait for a while, standing with every guard staring at me. The room is illuminated by openings to the outside way high up the walls—probably the height of three or four men—making a sheet of white clouds the only thing I can see. Rather than make awkward eye contact with each individual, I look up to the outdoors, wishing I was there rather than loitering around here.
In a chain reaction, a series of guards stand at attention, faces looking straight ahead. In comes Saxina, casting a wide smile as he walks toward me. Unlike the last few times I’ve seen him, he wears an elaborately decorated tunic, covered everywhere in an array of colorful feathers that cascade all the way down to the floor and drag behind him. He’s gained a few piercings, with several gold hoops around both nostrils and a large golden septum piercing to round it out. His right forearm bears new geometric tattoos, his skin slightly raised and pink around the black lines, indicating that the work is recently done. His oversized gold headpiece contains numerous pieces of jade and onyx, and enhanced by more colorful feathers that create an elaborate backdrop to Saxina’s head.
He is assisted by two servants, gently helping him to be seated atop the rugged and angular throne. As soon as he sits, a goblet is placed in his left hand, and Saxina wastes no time taking a long sip.
“Paxilche,” he says warmly, “how pleasant it is to have you visit the chamber. I hope you are doing well, given the…” Saxina’s voice trails off and his eyes drop for a fleeting moment before returning to his sunny disposition.
“It’s been nonstop busy here since taking over, so I sincerely hope I haven’t offended you by not stopping to see you. We haven’t really spoken since…”
His voice drops again, and his manner of speaking feels excessively put-on, but I know what he is trying to say. He discussed important matters about the Ulxa before his ruthless display against Qumuna at the ritual. What was once a secret regarding the Ulxa information has now become public knowledge, and coincidentally timed with his coronation.
“I understand,” I say, simply, bowing my head. “There are a lot of matters that demand your time. No need to apologize.”
Saxina is visibly relieved, nodding and forcefully exhaling. His right hand rubs what I suppose can be considered the arm of the throne: A jutting, black, barely-straight piece of lava rock that gnarls into something on which he can rest his elbow as he leans to one side. After one more taste from his chalice, he resumes eye contact with me and slightly cocks his head to his left.
“So, what brings you to the palace on this day?” he asks.
“I come to inquire about Limaqumtlia,” I say after taking a deep breath. Saxina maintains a smile, but raises an eyebrow at the sound of my brother’s name. “There are some questions about that day that I would like to ask.”
“Well, certainly, friend,” he says in a voice that is as if he’s playing the part of a ruler. Besides, I can’t recall a time when he simply called me “friend” without using my name.
“We both know that the assailant bore the mark of the Eye in the Flame,” I say. “He did so in a palace guard uniform.”
I pause to watch Saxina’s reaction to my statements, seeing if he will offer any information willingly or give away any clues as to what he knows about the matter. He only nods thoughtfully and, I assume, waits for me to get to my point. I had hoped that, should he be looking into the murder, he would be inclined to tell the brother of the victim anything he has discovered or learned.
“I haven’t seen nor heard of any further investigation into the issue,” I say, beginning to pace in front of the seated leader, hearing nothing more than my echoing steps.
“Are you…” Saxina begins to say, angling his head and furrowing his brow, seemingly not understanding what I’m hinting at, or at least pretending that he doesn’t. “Do you believe there is more to investigate?”
“Well, yes,” I say, slightly stunned. “While we know the assassin bore the marking and had the guard uniform, it was stated—you stated—that the murderer is from Ulxa and this is a signal of their intent. Nothing more. Don’t you think it’s odd to not look into this further? We are to accept this as fact?”
“The evidence makes the answer seem obvious,” he says, bemused. “We know the symbol originates from Ulxa, the assailant had the mark etched into his chest… What more is there to determine?”
“But how did he come to possess the guard’s outfit? Did he murder someone to obtain them? Was he handed them? How did no other guard notice this traitor in their ranks? He was able to infiltrate them that easily? Have you not considered questioning your generals and–“
“I’m surprised by your sudden interest in this, Paxilche,” he says. “For a long time, you couldn’t be bothered over such things, especially your brother. When was the last time you two spoke?”
“I cared about my brother,” I say, becoming incensed. “He’s still family, whether I speak to him on a regular basis or not. How dare you question my feelings for my family!”
“I’m trying to understand what your issue is, that’s all. We have conducted our investigation into the matter and have established a straightforward conclusion. Why you are continuing to press the matter when it has already been decided and the motive determined. Why continue to pick at an old wound?”
“Because I don’t believe you are doing all that you could to find out more about why this happened,” I say. Before I irritate Saxina to the point of not cooperating with me, I decide to change tactics, to see if maybe he would grow interested if his life was on the line.
“Wouldn’t you want to know if there is a general or official in your ranks who might infiltrate the guards and attempt to take your life?” I ask. Saxina's irritation twists his features, a storm brewing behind the mask of his composed façade. He leans forward from the grandeur of his throne, fingers clenching the armrest's edge with a white-knuckled intensity that threatens to topple the ornate chalice off its perch nearby.
“Are you threatening me?” he asks. “Is this some kind of warning about what you’re planning to do?”
“No, of course not,” I say, initially defensively before calming myself down to speak more rationally and not stoke the flames, since I may have done more harm than good with that pivot in strategy. “What I’m saying is that it’s suspicious that someone was able to easily slip amongst the guards and assassinate the Qiapu leader. I’m surprised to find you aren’t doing more about this internally.”
“What more is there to be done?” he asks incredulously. “We have reached our conclusion, and Qiapu is doing something about it. I put my entire faith and trust into my generals. I would think you would be relieved to know we are seeking justice in this instance so swiftly, going after the Ulxa, who are responsible, need I remind you. I suppose there never was any way to please you, Paxilche.”
I ignore his verbal jab at me and focus on his deflection. He seems to be content with the loose conclusions drawn, and I’m beginning to grow suspicious that there is more at hand here. I need to find out why he’s not giving me more of an answer. I stop my pacing, turning to face him straight on, rolling my shoulders back and standing up straight and proud.
“Why are you so quickly accepting this as being concluded, Saxina? Why are you willfully ignoring investigating this any further, perfectly satisfied with a very loose conclusion? Are you benefitting from attacking the Ulxa? Are you protecting the person responsible for allowing this assassin to kill my brother?!”
At the use of his birth name rather than his title, the guards along the perimeter start to close in, gripping their halberds tightly and ready to swing at me if I move falsely. As I continue my series of questions, my voice increasing in intensity with each probe, Saxina stands from his chair, pointing an accusatory finger at me, fire of a thousand forges in his eyes.
“How dare you accuse me of being responsible for Limaqumtlia’s death!” he shouts. “I allow you, as a guest—and a friend—into my throne room, and you have the gaul to disrespect me?!”
“Answer my questions, Saxina!” I shout. A half dozen guards circle me, two of them apprehending me by my shoulders, gripping my arms and squeezing tightly like vices. I am jostled as they grab me, multiple yells and commands tossed about, but I can’t hear what they’re saying with the ringing in my ears from the adrenaline. The only words I can make out are Saxina’s before he stomps away to the opening in the back of the room.
“Get! Him! Out of here!”
