In the embrace of the morning, I become unified with Pachil. Pressed against the earth, my hands sense its rhythmic pulse, a steady heartbeat coursing beneath my palms. A cool mist brushes my skin, a gentle breeze weaves through the air and swirls around me. Though the nearest water source is a modest brook, I remain bound to it, as I am to all the elements of this land. There's a profound sense of interconnectedness, a knowing that I am part of something far greater than my singular self.
Amidst the ritual, I feel a presence of someone approaching, awakening me from my meditation. Paxilche holds a tan gourd, struggling to carry it over to me, his face serious as he focuses on not spilling its contents. I stifle a chuckle as I watch him walk with such care and caution, hardly looking up to see where he’s stepping and, instead, maintaining his concentration entirely on the vessel.
“I… brought you…” he says, pausing his statement to gently set the gourd down before continuing, “this herbal infusion. Apologies for interrupting.” His face filled with pride for not wasting a drop, placing his hands on his hips as he admires his work. Looking inside the container, I only see a dark liquid with a light steam curling above it.
“What’s in your ‘herbal infusion?’” I ask, curious as to what, if anything, has been done to it.
Still beaming, he says, “muña with some matico I discovered nearby.” Though I’ve never heard of either, there is a pungent aroma of invigorating and refreshing mint with a subtle undertone of warm, woody notes reminiscent of a forest floor after a fresh rain. A peculiar combination, yet intriguing nonetheless, so I lift up the gourd and take a sip. I’m immediately revitalized as the warm liquid courses through me, and I’m pleasantly surprised at his concoction.
Pleased with himself, he picks up the gourd and says after he sips some for himself, “I’m humbled that you like it. It’s not something I’m apt at making, being honest, so I had to take some liberties with the ingredients. The Qiapu typically drink an herbal infusion for special ceremonies, but I figured it would bring us all good fortune in our endeavors if we had some before parting ways.” If I didn’t know better, it feels as though this was made as an offering to me. Though I may be conflating things, the way he bows and hardly looks me in my eyes, I can’t help but suspect that, perhaps, he views me as a deity, some goddess on earth based on what occurred yesterday. Or maybe he is just this sincere and polite.
I pick myself up off the ground and take in the scenic view one last time before we make our way over to the camp, trekking down the small hill by the tiny stream. Having traveled through it for a number of days now, I find the Tapeu landscape fascinating and captivating, being nothing like that on Sanqo. A creek casually makes its way through the hills that roll seamlessly into one another, with occasional patches of trees in faded greens among an otherwise vast field of golden grasses. All of the colors are muted as though they don’t want to impose themselves upon the view, with creatures occasionally stirring in the grasslands.
As I enter the camp, two men have gathered to meet with Paxilche and me while other Qiapu warriors stand off a ways from the area, preparing themselves for the northward trek. One is Qumuna, the well-respected leader, standing stoically as we approach. The other is introduced to us as Pomaqli, a sturdy and muscularly built man appearing to be roughly the same age as Qumuna, with his toned and heavily tattooed arms crossed, wearing much simpler garments than his well-decorated leader. Instead, he has on an off-white tunic with subtle red embellishments, and numerous pouches and sheaths suspended on belts and harnesses around his waist and torso. His face, expressing a sense of calm and confidence, is marked with countless silver piercings around his ears, nose, and lip, and has dark brown hair cut short, allowing a couple scars to be made visible along the sides of his head. The most notable feature, though, is his jaw and chin below his lower lip is tattooed entirely black. As I bow to greet him, Pomaqli, too, bows deeply, his eyes maintaining their intense gaze as he returns to an upright position.
“Safe journey to Qapauma,” Paxilche tells Qumuna, who nods and replies, “and to you to Pichaqta. Remember what I told you regarding Saxina.” Paxilche nods in understanding, though I’m curious when the grizzled general was able to speak to him privately, and what was exchanged.
“May Aqxilapu forge your path,” each says to one another, clasping their fists together in front of their chests in salute and departing with a nod. And at that, the two sides go their separate ways, with Qumuna and his men going north and the three of us traveling south. Both Paxilche and Pomaqli walk with a brisk pace, and I helplessly attempt to keep up. The departure of the Qiapu men seems abrupt, yet polite, piquing my curiosity to the customs, etiquette, and mannerisms of their people.
Pomaqli says very little, responding to Paxilche in grunts and other guttural sounds. The trek takes us high into the mountains, navigating the rocky terrain while the elevation makes it difficult for me to breathe. Try as I might to fight through the pain and press on, as I don’t want to be responsible for holding up or delaying our travels, the two men notice my laborious breathing and take occasional breaks.
“Hmm,” Paxilche looks at me with contemplation, stroking the small amount of stubble forming across his chin. “I had hoped the herbal infusion would help with our hike. I have something else we can try,” he says as he reaches into his satchel, retrieving a sizable pouch containing waxy green leaves. “I can offer you one of these to chew on, called coca, but I’d warn you of their potentially addictive qualities. The farmers of our crops chew them to help with working in our high elevation, but–“
“No, thank you very much,” I say, turning down his offer, though nervous about possibly offending him. “I will work through this on my own; if there is such a risk, I would like to respectfully decline.”
With this, Paxilche nods approvingly along with a smile of… pride? Relief? Was he nervous that I would accept the coca leaves? If so, then why offer them at all? Was this a test? More aspects to Paxilche that I will have to decipher as I get to know him.
“What is the plan for when we reach Pichaqta?” I ask, curious to see if Paxilche has prepared any strategy—or if he’s going about matters haphazardly.
“I want to investigate the murder of my brother, naturally,” he begins, looking at his hands as he speaks, “but I believe the Eye in the Flame is culpable—if not directly, then seeking them out may lead us to the actual culprit. So, I imagine, our investigation can be two-fold: track down any information of the Eye in the Flame’s existence and activity in Pichaqta, which could also lead to information regarding my brother’s murder.”
It makes sense, and, to be honest, I’m relieved to hear he appears to have thought about the situation rationally. Though I don’t know him well at all, I must admit to feeling nervous about the possibility of someone pursuing the death of a family member from a place of emotion, rather than logic. I nod and say little else, agreeing with his approach for when we arrive in Qiapu.
After another lengthy trek through the mountains, I request another break to allow myself to catch my breath, much to my dismay. As eager as I am to push onward with our journey to Pichaqta, I’ve become lightheaded and have to fight harder for my breath more than I’m accustomed. In fairness, both Paxilche and Pomaqli do not discourage me nor cause me to feel embarrassed, insisting we take a rest despite my insistence to continue on.
The two men offer me more of the herbal infusion, to which I graciously accept, hoping it will aid me for the rest of this journey. Impressively, Pomaqli creates a fire almost instantaneously like a bolt of lightning striking dried timber, and we sit by the flames for much-welcomed relief from the cold. I watch the manner in which they craft this concoction, with fire-warmed stones placed gently in a clay container, then the contents are strained using a wicker basket. It reminds me of the way we make tea in Sanqo, and as I sip the herbal remedy, I’m not only warmed by the beverage, but also by the memories of my homeland.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Paxilche says coyly, staring into the open flame, “but if you’ll pardon my curiosity, I’d like to inquire about the ritual you performed this morning.” It takes me a moment to understand what he’s mentioning until I finally realize he’s referring to my meditation.
“It’s something the Sanqo spirit speakers perform regularly, a ritual that started generations upon generations ago.”
“Spirit speakers?” he asks.
“Ah, yes. I suppose they would be considered ‘shamans’, or spiritual leaders here on the continent,” I say.
“Are you a spirit speaker, then?” I can’t help but notice the tones of perplexity and awe as he speaks, further confirming my suspicions as to how he perceives me.
“No, no,” I chuckle. “Far from one. I grew up with tutors who taught me a great number of subjects—mathematics, history, culture, both Merchant’s Tongue and the ancient Sanqo language, navigation, etiquette, and, later, diplomacy, politics and governance. However, our village’s spirit speaker was the person from whom I learned the greatest amount. He taught me how to become unified with the land and elements in nature, and I’ve always felt a connection to Pachil because of it, feeling at peace. Centering myself so I can best focus. It's been a long time since I meditated, especially since arriving on the continent, so I thought I'd resume the practice this morning.”
“Why are they called ‘spirit speakers’, if I may ask?” says Paxilche.
“Well,” I say, trying to recall what I learned, “I was taught from my tutors that this was a title given to them by a Sanqo ruler many, many generations ago, when our people still lived on the continent. But the spirit speaker, Alsuaqu, believes it’s from their ability to connect with our ancestors, though special ceremonies.”
“Connect how?”
“By performing a ceremony during certain celestial events, they enter a trance and can speak to the spirits of our ancestors to gain wisdom and guidance. We don’t know how one becomes a spirit speaker; only that the ancestors choose the person who is to be their vessel, and then suddenly they just are.”
“That sounds… complicated,” Paxilche says, forcing a giggle from my lips that I try—and fail—to restrain with my hand.
“So how is it…” I can see Paxilche is wrestling with the best way to phrase what he’s about to say, so I take more sips of the concoction in anticipation. “I know I’ve already asked something similar, but… Do you not believe you have some connection to being a spirit speaker?” After asking this, he glances at Pomaqli as though trying to discreetly gauge the warrior’s impression of the question he asked. However, Pomaqli appears disengaged while sharpening his sword, grinding a large stone up and down the blade.
“I don’t have the ability to speak to our ancestors, though,” I reply, “so I don’t see a relation. Our spirit speakers don’t possess any more capabilities beyond connecting with ancestors.” It’s not something I’ve considered nor attempted, and I don’t have any recollection of being spoken to by our ancestors in the way a spirit speaker receives their wisdom and guidance. I believe Paxilche is trying to make more of what I can do than what it is, and I’m growing more concerned about how he perceives me.
Paxilche considers this, and though I can tell he has something further he wants to say, wanting to inquire more about my so called powers, he instead picks up his belongings and prepares to resume our trek to Pichaqta. Pomaqli finishes sharpening his sword, tossing the stone aside before grabbing his few items and setting off. I feel like the conversation has been left unfinished, yet I can’t bring myself to discuss my middling abilities any further, especially if he will make me out to be some deity.
As we continue our hike through the rugged terrain, I reflect on my abilities more deeply. I don’t recall the precise moment I discovered I could manipulate water, but it seemed so mundane as I did so, playing in the nearby tide pools. It wasn’t until Pahua began making fun of me that I kept my ability to myself, realizing not everyone could do what I could. While my brother teased me by calling me a sea nymph, it’s my blue eyes that has been the easier target for harassment by the others. Fortunately, it’s as though they never understood the reason behind my brother calling me a sea nymph, which could have driven me even further into isolation. Nevertheless, my childhood was marked by a profound solitude, my days consumed by my own company.
Once I met our spirit speaker, Alsuaqu, I began to better understand my capabilities. Though I never told him of my abilities with water, discovering the ways of a spirit speaker was my key to finding inner peace, a deeper connection with the very essence of our planet. Knowing that my father, Siunqi, would likely frown upon my regular interactions with Alsuaqu, I made sure I never faltered in my duties as a noble’s child, studying attentively with our tutors and becoming an excellent student. This only made Pahua tease me more, of course, but I found solace in my time spent with Alsuaqu, the safe harbor amidst a stormy sea.
As if appearing from nowhere, a large city built almost entirely of stone emerges from the steep mountain peaks. Its walls blend in seamlessly with the rocky landscape, all cast in a vibrant hue of gold from the setting sun. In the distance, a few columns of smoke ascend into a sky painted with hues of purple and pink, sparsely dotted with clouds. It becomes difficult for me to determine whether I’m short of breath from the elevation or the beautiful scenery. While Sanqo has a few snow-tipped peaks, our people haven’t dared venture into them. So the notion that an entire faction can live amongst the mountains is awe-inspiring. This is my second new region experienced in less than a moon cycle, and I’m amazed and impressed with how unique and distinctive each area can be.
The guards, in their plain bronze helmets, stand tall as we pass through the gates, wearing the same simple white and red tunics as Pomaqli. Yet they all wear numerous piercings prominently displayed, and their armor and weapons—a variety of swords, spears, and halberds—are embellished with gold, silver, or copper. Even from afar, l can see the intricate craftsmanship on their armaments, living up to the storied Qiapu skillfulness with weapon forgery.
The city is equally impressive, with rows and rows of homes built up along the steep mountainsides, reaching as high as the sky in a seemingly never-ending tower of buildings. There are stairs everywhere that climb up through the neighborhoods that span each mountain, and I grow physically tired just thinking about having to scale the series of steps. There aren’t any identifying or distinguishing marks on the houses, causing them to all resemble the buildings next to them, yet their construction into the cliffs is undeniably impeccable.
What stands out the most to me, however, is the people of Pichaqta. While the city stands proudly in all its magnificence, the residents appear gloomy and subdued. Nobody engages nor interacts with anyone else as they pass one another, keeping their heads and gazes down while they walk. As we move through the streets bursting with bustling energy, and the scent of continually burning fires from the nearby forges penetrates the air, everyone presses on to their destination without much fanfare, like livestock being driven to their pen. Having only recently encountered anyone from Qiapu, I can’t discern whether this is how the people of this faction are, or if something more is at play.
Unwavering, Paxilche and Pomaqli march purposefully through the streets, heading straight toward the grandest building. Like the other homes and structures in the city, the walls and buildings contained within its grounds are made of plain stones, though the noticeable differences are their smooth surface and how they’ve been cut into various tightly-packed quadrilateral shapes. The only decoration among the intimidating structure is a path of terracotta tiles that lead from the gate toward a building in the center of the grounds.
The stern expressions on the guards’ faces brings turbulent waters to my stomach. Initially, none of them react as we approach, but as soon as Paxilche and Pomaqli walk within an arrow’s range of the men, they begin shouting down at us to halt. I immediately stop in place, feeling a jolt through my nerves, yet my two travel companions proceed toward the gate, causing the yelling to grow louder and their weapons drawn. Pomaqli raises a fist in the air, causing the shouting to abruptly cease as the men await his explanation.
A tall, stout figure emerges through the crowd of warriors collected at the mouth of the walls. Though brawny, it’s evident he’s much older than everyone else gathered, as his body sags at the waist that’s barely contained by his metallic armor, with his sides bulging through gaps in the straps that have been crafted to ensure the expanded plating still fits. Piercings span his ears, mouth, and even his cheeks, with some of the gold and silver decorations dangling about and fluttering as he steps. His tunic is colored not only in white and red, but a black-and-white checkered pattern on a separate garment loosely draped over his armor.
“What is the meaning of this, Pomaqli?” his raspy voice growls. “Your post was with Qumuna. Why have you abandoned your orders and returned to Pichaqta?”
“I was ordered by Qumuna himself,” Pomaqli says, perhaps the most words I’ve heard him speak, “to escort Paxilche and this maiden to the palace. We have–“
“We are under strict command,” the official interrupts, “to prohibit Paxilche from entering these grounds, under any circumstance.”
“Even if he is escorted by–“
“Under any circumstance,” the official says, interrupting Pomaqli once again.
“May I inquire why such a command has been enacted?” Pomaqli says. Paxilche places a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, yet the warrior continues to stoically stare down the officer until he receives a reply. He stands defiantly with his chest out and eyes narrowed, as if he’s prepared to engage in combat against all the guards at these walls.
The officer responds, “we are under no obligation to inform you of what the Tempered has decreed. You can discuss the matter with him, if he desires to hear you.”
“And how on Pachil are we supposed to–“ Paxilche remarks, but this time it’s Pomaqli who rests a hand on him in an effort to calm him down.
Stepping forward and springing out from behind the two men, I ask, “will he see a member of the Sanqo nobility? I am Walumaq, the daughter of Siunqi, ruler of the Sanqo people.” I fight hard to suppress my nerves and the quiver in my throat. Though I am usually loathe to do so, my hope is to utilize my standing as a noble to gain an audience with this Tempered, if this is what it will take.
“If you are an accessory to a person who is not permitted to enter the throne room, then you, too, shall be prohibited,” the official says with a smirk, and I sense he takes some enjoyment in denying us the opportunity.
“But I will speak to him alone,” I say, trying to mask my desperation. “The matter to which I must seek his reception does not pertain to any issue or complication caused by Paxilche.”
“And I am acting as a representative of Qumuna, the Qiapu emissary.”
“You were, Pomaqli,” the official says snidely, “until you abandoned your post.”
“Again, I was ordered by Qum–“
“Qumuna’s orders do not hold sway in Pichaqta,” the official says. “This is under the dominion of the Tempered. It would be in your best interest to return to your post.”
“That goes for you, as well,” he says, now speaking to me. “You would be wise to disassociate yourself with the likes of him.” He gestures to Paxilche, who gets held back by Pomaqli before he comes to blows with the official.
“This is getting nowhere,” Pomaqli grumbles low to the two of us. “We should leave.”
Disparaged, we begin walking the streets away from the gates. Jeers from the guards erupt from behind us as we leave, causing Pomaqli to grab Paxilche by the arm and practically drag him away. It’s upsetting to be turned away so aggressively, but we can’t focus on the negative and must plan a different way to speak to the Tempered and find what we seek.
As if he’s reading my mind, Pomaqli says, “I believe I have another way we can enter the palace. From there, we can conduct our own search without relying on the assistance of the Tempered.”
“And how do you propose we go about this?” Paxilche says with anger and a touch of condescension. “There are guards everywhere about the palace.”
“Not necessarily,” Pomaqli says, remaining composed and stone-faced. Both Paxilche and I look at him attentively, curious of his plan, which takes a moment for him to begin explaining.
“Behind the palace is a narrow break between the wall and the mountain, resting near the stone channels for Pichaqta’s water. The maintenance of it has been… lacking. My understanding is that the last Tempered was to send workers to repair it, but…” his voice trails off, and he continues to look ahead. As we walk around the perimeter of the palace grounds, following along the length of the wall, I notice the nearby mountain gradually increasing in size as we approach.
“Anyway, needless to say, the repairs have not yet happened. With darkness approaching, we can slip through the opening and search for information throughout the night. Once inside, I may be able to contact an associate inside the palace. He’s an oral historian, who might have knowledge on the daily happenings in the throne room and on these grounds. Otherwise, we can inspect the ritualistic chamber to see if there is any evidence connecting the palace activity to the Eye in the Flame.”
“But what about the palace guards?” Paxilche asks. “Do you think it’ll be simple for us to enter the palace without any confrontation?”
“Confrontation is always a possibility,” Pomaqli says bluntly. “It’s why we must be stealthy and exercise great caution moving about the grounds. I assumed that would be apparent.”
As Pomaqli described it, we arrive at a slender opening between the mountain and the walls that protect the perimeter of the palace grounds. The space is jagged and very narrow, just wide enough for a grown man to squeeze through, and looking beyond the opening is a gigantic building among many other tiny ones, which I assume must be the palace.
“We will have to sprint over to the palace without much cover,” Pomaqli says, pointing to the large building, “so we’ll have to be quick. Although I don’t happen to spot any guards in the area, we would be wise not to assume they won’t appear, so we can’t hesitate.”
Pomaqli goes through first, contorting his body around the rough and pointed stones, and slips through. He extends a hand and gazes intently, offering to assist me. I grab ahold of his meaty palm and he pulls me through, my flowing dress trailing behind me as I squeeze between the rocks. Paxilche is right behind me, but then curses, looking back. As I reach the other side, I glance over and see there’s a long, slender tear in his white tunic. He feels the stone for something behind him, but Pomaqli urges him on, and Paxilche reluctantly abides.
After searching the area, Pomaqli waves us forward, pointing to an open window leading to the inside of the palace. We dart over to it, scanning left and right, up and down, for any signs of the guards, but to our good fortunes, not another soul besides the three of us can be found. Pomaqli clenches his hands into a ball and, leaning against the palace wall, lowers them down. I place my foot onto it and am sprung up and over the lip of the window, dropping into the building. The hallway is dimly lit by torches infrequently spaced about, and I don’t spot any moving shadows or figures in our proximity. Once all of us have made it into the building, we tiptoe into an unlit area of the hall.
“If I recall correctly,” Pomaqli whispers, “we are actually close to the ritual chamber. We can search in there first before moving on to seek out my associate.”
We nod and head in the direction Pomaqli points to, slowly moving down the way on the balls of our feet and slipping into any patch of darkness at which we arrive. Reaching an intersection, Pomaqli motions with his hand toward one of the corridors, and we hurriedly make our way down it. After taking a few steps, footsteps scrape and drag along the stone ground, and Paxilche reaches out to stop me in my tracks. We frantically look around the space and see an opened entryway to a dark room. Hoping to be shrouded well enough by the shadows, we scamper in and crouch down low.
The guards are discussing their relief at not having to work in the mines or forgeries, how the workers there must be stressed beyond belief. This is a matter I store away to discuss at a later time, but in the meantime, I watch their feet gradually move past us. There’s a collective sigh of relief as they turn the corner, their steps fading into the distance.
We wait a few more heartbeats before Pomaqli gestures for us to resume our pursuit. Leaving the darkened room, we follow close to the wall and, after some time, arrive at a large opening, the frame engraved with peculiar etchings of various shapes. With a brief scan, I don’t see any carved flames or eyes, and while I can’t say I expected any, I’m relieved nonetheless.
We find ourselves ensconced in what I presume to be a Qiapu ritual chamber, a realm of captivating contrasts. The walls, made of smooth stone and lined with torches, are adorned with intricate mosaics, which appear to tell stories of what I assume are gods and mortals in paintings of vivid colors, figures frozen in various poses. The air carries the earthy aroma of aged stone that mingles with the delicate sweetness of dried herbs. Glimpses of obsidian glint beneath the flickering torchlight, and an altar stands tall in the center of the room, bearing offerings of jade and quetzal feathers. Above, a tapestry of stars stretches across the ceiling.
“Okay, let’s search for any sign of the Eye in the Flame,” Paxilche says. “If we can find any indication of their activity, we may be able to learn how and why they attacked my brother.”
He grabs a torch, causing shadows to play upon the walls as he moves about. His eyes scan the room, drawn to the enigmatic markings on the back wall. Joining him, I trace my hand along the intricate carvings, the smooth stone feels cold to the touch. My breath hitches as my fingers catch a minuscule notch in the dim light.
I start to say, “I think I’ve found a…” but I don’t quite know what I’ve discovered, actually. Either way, the other two join me, and we all inspect the opening. Its shape is quite peculiar: not quite round, with a flat bottom, roughly the size of a few fingers.
“Is it a keyhole?” Pomaqli asks. I’m not sure what he means, but Paxilche seems to understand, replying, “it doesn’t appear to be. Its shape doesn’t match what a typical Qiapu key would fit into.”
Looking around the area, I notice some of the markings resemble the figures in the mosaics, with a group just off to the side of the notch. There are two humanlike shapes, with one entirely in black while others are in white and red.
“Do you think the figures are supposed to represent the Qiapu people and your god?” I ask, trying to make sense of the symbols. The two take a closer look, grunting as they investigate the mosaics closer.
“The little one might be on to something,” Pomaqli says flatly, which I assume is the most he can emote.
I return my attention to the notch and look at the mosaic around it. Similar to the others, there is a series of red humanlike figures beneath the opening, except something is missing.
“There is no black figure in this space,” I point out, “unlike the others that have one.” Paxilche sighs, then reaches into his satchel to pull out an obsidian humanoid figurine.
“I think I’ve got it,” he says before inserting the statuette into the notch. It’s a perfect fit, sliding into the space with ease. A yellow glow radiates around the figure, and a large illuminated square forms within the wall. The glow is blinding, at first, forcing me to shield my eyes with my hands. Eventually through my squinted eyes, however, I revel in the beautiful aura that fills the room with its warmth. A rumble vibrates the ground beneath us, causing us to temporarily lose our balance, and the square slides to one side, revealing a narrow, hollow chamber the size of a tiny room. Inside is a simple, unfinished cave, but laying on one of the stones that acts as a pedestal is a gorgeous, ornate amulet made of four gold loops, each beset with jade and obsidian.
“What is this place?” Paxilche wonders aloud, his voice reflecting the mystification we all feel. We slowly approach the chamber, slightly suspicious of any other magic that might befall us. Instead of magic, we hear a rich, resonant voice wrapped in gravitas.
"I trust there is some profound significance for such an intrusion?"
Surrounded by a dozen guards, the words come from a tall, slender figure, who strolls through the entrance of the main chamber and is revealed by the dim light of the torches, his tone drips with a mixture of condescension and thinly veiled curiosity. As the white robed man approaches, a visible smirk plays on his lips as his eyes glint with a haughty amusement.
“I must admit, I'm impressed,” he continues. “Not everyone has the audacity to venture where they don't belong. Unfortunately for you, trespassing here comes at a price, and a steep one at that.”
In the embrace of the morning, I become unified with Pachil. Pressed against the earth, my hands sense its rhythmic pulse, a steady heartbeat coursing beneath my palms. A cool mist brushes my skin, a gentle breeze weaves through the air and swirls around me. Though the nearest water source is a modest brook, I remain bound to it, as I am to all the elements of this land. There's a profound sense of interconnectedness, a knowing that I am part of something far greater than my singular self.
Amidst the ritual, I feel a presence of someone approaching, awakening me from my meditation. Paxilche holds a tan gourd, struggling to carry it over to me, his face serious as he focuses on not spilling its contents. I stifle a chuckle as I watch him walk with such care and caution, hardly looking up to see where he’s stepping and, instead, maintaining his concentration entirely on the vessel.
“I… brought you…” he says, pausing his statement to gently set the gourd down before continuing, “this herbal infusion. Apologies for interrupting.” His face filled with pride for not wasting a drop, placing his hands on his hips as he admires his work. Looking inside the container, I only see a dark liquid with a light steam curling above it.
“What’s in your ‘herbal infusion?’” I ask, curious as to what, if anything, has been done to it.
Still beaming, he says, “muña with some matico I discovered nearby.” Though I’ve never heard of either, there is a pungent aroma of invigorating and refreshing mint with a subtle undertone of warm, woody notes reminiscent of a forest floor after a fresh rain. A peculiar combination, yet intriguing nonetheless, so I lift up the gourd and take a sip. I’m immediately revitalized as the warm liquid courses through me, and I’m pleasantly surprised at his concoction.
Pleased with himself, he picks up the gourd and says after he sips some for himself, “I’m humbled that you like it. It’s not something I’m apt at making, being honest, so I had to take some liberties with the ingredients. The Qiapu typically drink an herbal infusion for special ceremonies, but I figured it would bring us all good fortune in our endeavors if we had some before parting ways.” If I didn’t know better, it feels as though this was made as an offering to me. Though I may be conflating things, the way he bows and hardly looks me in my eyes, I can’t help but suspect that, perhaps, he views me as a deity, some goddess on earth based on what occurred yesterday. Or maybe he is just this sincere and polite.
I pick myself up off the ground and take in the scenic view one last time before we make our way over to the camp, trekking down the small hill by the tiny stream. Having traveled through it for a number of days now, I find the Tapeu landscape fascinating and captivating, being nothing like that on Sanqo. A creek casually makes its way through the hills that roll seamlessly into one another, with occasional patches of trees in faded greens among an otherwise vast field of golden grasses. All of the colors are muted as though they don’t want to impose themselves upon the view, with creatures occasionally stirring in the grasslands.
As I enter the camp, two men have gathered to meet with Paxilche and me while other Qiapu warriors stand off a ways from the area, preparing themselves for the northward trek. One is Qumuna, the well-respected leader, standing stoically as we approach. The other is introduced to us as Pomaqli, a sturdy and muscularly built man appearing to be roughly the same age as Qumuna, with his toned and heavily tattooed arms crossed, wearing much simpler garments than his well-decorated leader. Instead, he has on an off-white tunic with subtle red embellishments, and numerous pouches and sheaths suspended on belts and harnesses around his waist and torso. His face, expressing a sense of calm and confidence, is marked with countless silver piercings around his ears, nose, and lip, and has dark brown hair cut short, allowing a couple scars to be made visible along the sides of his head. The most notable feature, though, is his jaw and chin below his lower lip is tattooed entirely black. As I bow to greet him, Pomaqli, too, bows deeply, his eyes maintaining their intense gaze as he returns to an upright position.
“Safe journey to Qapauma,” Paxilche tells Qumuna, who nods and replies, “and to you to Pichaqta. Remember what I told you regarding Saxina.” Paxilche nods in understanding, though I’m curious when the grizzled general was able to speak to him privately, and what was exchanged.
“May Aqxilapu forge your path,” each says to one another, clasping their fists together in front of their chests in salute and departing with a nod. And at that, the two sides go their separate ways, with Qumuna and his men going north and the three of us traveling south. Both Paxilche and Pomaqli walk with a brisk pace, and I helplessly attempt to keep up. The departure of the Qiapu men seems abrupt, yet polite, piquing my curiosity to the customs, etiquette, and mannerisms of their people.
Pomaqli says very little, responding to Paxilche in grunts and other guttural sounds. The trek takes us high into the mountains, navigating the rocky terrain while the elevation makes it difficult for me to breathe. Try as I might to fight through the pain and press on, as I don’t want to be responsible for holding up or delaying our travels, the two men notice my laborious breathing and take occasional breaks.
“Hmm,” Paxilche looks at me with contemplation, stroking the small amount of stubble forming across his chin. “I had hoped the herbal infusion would help with our hike. I have something else we can try,” he says as he reaches into his satchel, retrieving a sizable pouch containing waxy green leaves. “I can offer you one of these to chew on, called coca, but I’d warn you of their potentially addictive qualities. The farmers of our crops chew them to help with working in our high elevation, but–“
“No, thank you very much,” I say, turning down his offer, though nervous about possibly offending him. “I will work through this on my own; if there is such a risk, I would like to respectfully decline.”
With this, Paxilche nods approvingly along with a smile of… pride? Relief? Was he nervous that I would accept the coca leaves? If so, then why offer them at all? Was this a test? More aspects to Paxilche that I will have to decipher as I get to know him.
“What is the plan for when we reach Pichaqta?” I ask, curious to see if Paxilche has prepared any strategy—or if he’s going about matters haphazardly.
“I want to investigate the murder of my brother, naturally,” he begins, looking at his hands as he speaks, “but I believe the Eye in the Flame is culpable—if not directly, then seeking them out may lead us to the actual culprit. So, I imagine, our investigation can be two-fold: track down any information of the Eye in the Flame’s existence and activity in Pichaqta, which could also lead to information regarding my brother’s murder.”
It makes sense, and, to be honest, I’m relieved to hear he appears to have thought about the situation rationally. Though I don’t know him well at all, I must admit to feeling nervous about the possibility of someone pursuing the death of a family member from a place of emotion, rather than logic. I nod and say little else, agreeing with his approach for when we arrive in Qiapu.
After another lengthy trek through the mountains, I request another break to allow myself to catch my breath, much to my dismay. As eager as I am to push onward with our journey to Pichaqta, I’ve become lightheaded and have to fight harder for my breath more than I’m accustomed. In fairness, both Paxilche and Pomaqli do not discourage me nor cause me to feel embarrassed, insisting we take a rest despite my insistence to continue on.
The two men offer me more of the herbal infusion, to which I graciously accept, hoping it will aid me for the rest of this journey. Impressively, Pomaqli creates a fire almost instantaneously like a bolt of lightning striking dried timber, and we sit by the flames for much-welcomed relief from the cold. I watch the manner in which they craft this concoction, with fire-warmed stones placed gently in a clay container, then the contents are strained using a wicker basket. It reminds me of the way we make tea in Sanqo, and as I sip the herbal remedy, I’m not only warmed by the beverage, but also by the memories of my homeland.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Paxilche says coyly, staring into the open flame, “but if you’ll pardon my curiosity, I’d like to inquire about the ritual you performed this morning.” It takes me a moment to understand what he’s mentioning until I finally realize he’s referring to my meditation.
“It’s something the Sanqo spirit speakers perform regularly, a ritual that started generations upon generations ago.”
“Spirit speakers?” he asks.
“Ah, yes. I suppose they would be considered ‘shamans’, or spiritual leaders here on the continent,” I say.
“Are you a spirit speaker, then?” I can’t help but notice the tones of perplexity and awe as he speaks, further confirming my suspicions as to how he perceives me.
“No, no,” I chuckle. “Far from one. I grew up with tutors who taught me a great number of subjects—mathematics, history, culture, both Merchant’s Tongue and the ancient Sanqo language, navigation, etiquette, and, later, diplomacy, politics and governance. However, our village’s spirit speaker was the person from whom I learned the greatest amount. He taught me how to become unified with the land and elements in nature, and I’ve always felt a connection to Pachil because of it, feeling at peace. Centering myself so I can best focus. It's been a long time since I meditated, especially since arriving on the continent, so I thought I'd resume the practice this morning.”
“Why are they called ‘spirit speakers’, if I may ask?” says Paxilche.
“Well,” I say, trying to recall what I learned, “I was taught from my tutors that this was a title given to them by a Sanqo ruler many, many generations ago, when our people still lived on the continent. But the spirit speaker, Alsuaqu, believes it’s from their ability to connect with our ancestors, though special ceremonies.”
“Connect how?”
“By performing a ceremony during certain celestial events, they enter a trance and can speak to the spirits of our ancestors to gain wisdom and guidance. We don’t know how one becomes a spirit speaker; only that the ancestors choose the person who is to be their vessel, and then suddenly they just are.”
“That sounds… complicated,” Paxilche says, forcing a giggle from my lips that I try—and fail—to restrain with my hand.
“So how is it…” I can see Paxilche is wrestling with the best way to phrase what he’s about to say, so I take more sips of the concoction in anticipation. “I know I’ve already asked something similar, but… Do you not believe you have some connection to being a spirit speaker?” After asking this, he glances at Pomaqli as though trying to discreetly gauge the warrior’s impression of the question he asked. However, Pomaqli appears disengaged while sharpening his sword, grinding a large stone up and down the blade.
“I don’t have the ability to speak to our ancestors, though,” I reply, “so I don’t see a relation. Our spirit speakers don’t possess any more capabilities beyond connecting with ancestors.” It’s not something I’ve considered nor attempted, and I don’t have any recollection of being spoken to by our ancestors in the way a spirit speaker receives their wisdom and guidance. I believe Paxilche is trying to make more of what I can do than what it is, and I’m growing more concerned about how he perceives me.
Paxilche considers this, and though I can tell he has something further he wants to say, wanting to inquire more about my so called powers, he instead picks up his belongings and prepares to resume our trek to Pichaqta. Pomaqli finishes sharpening his sword, tossing the stone aside before grabbing his few items and setting off. I feel like the conversation has been left unfinished, yet I can’t bring myself to discuss my middling abilities any further, especially if he will make me out to be some deity.
As we continue our hike through the rugged terrain, I reflect on my abilities more deeply. I don’t recall the precise moment I discovered I could manipulate water, but it seemed so mundane as I did so, playing in the nearby tide pools. It wasn’t until Pahua began making fun of me that I kept my ability to myself, realizing not everyone could do what I could. While my brother teased me by calling me a sea nymph, it’s my blue eyes that has been the easier target for harassment by the others. Fortunately, it’s as though they never understood the reason behind my brother calling me a sea nymph, which could have driven me even further into isolation. Nevertheless, my childhood was marked by a profound solitude, my days consumed by my own company.
Once I met our spirit speaker, Alsuaqu, I began to better understand my capabilities. Though I never told him of my abilities with water, discovering the ways of a spirit speaker was my key to finding inner peace, a deeper connection with the very essence of our planet. Knowing that my father, Siunqi, would likely frown upon my regular interactions with Alsuaqu, I made sure I never faltered in my duties as a noble’s child, studying attentively with our tutors and becoming an excellent student. This only made Pahua tease me more, of course, but I found solace in my time spent with Alsuaqu, the safe harbor amidst a stormy sea.
As if appearing from nowhere, a large city built almost entirely of stone emerges from the steep mountain peaks. Its walls blend in seamlessly with the rocky landscape, all cast in a vibrant hue of gold from the setting sun. In the distance, a few columns of smoke ascend into a sky painted with hues of purple and pink, sparsely dotted with clouds. It becomes difficult for me to determine whether I’m short of breath from the elevation or the beautiful scenery. While Sanqo has a few snow-tipped peaks, our people haven’t dared venture into them. So the notion that an entire faction can live amongst the mountains is awe-inspiring. This is my second new region experienced in less than a moon cycle, and I’m amazed and impressed with how unique and distinctive each area can be.
The guards, in their plain bronze helmets, stand tall as we pass through the gates, wearing the same simple white and red tunics as Pomaqli. Yet they all wear numerous piercings prominently displayed, and their armor and weapons—a variety of swords, spears, and halberds—are embellished with gold, silver, or copper. Even from afar, l can see the intricate craftsmanship on their armaments, living up to the storied Qiapu skillfulness with weapon forgery.
The city is equally impressive, with rows and rows of homes built up along the steep mountainsides, reaching as high as the sky in a seemingly never-ending tower of buildings. There are stairs everywhere that climb up through the neighborhoods that span each mountain, and I grow physically tired just thinking about having to scale the series of steps. There aren’t any identifying or distinguishing marks on the houses, causing them to all resemble the buildings next to them, yet their construction into the cliffs is undeniably impeccable.
What stands out the most to me, however, is the people of Pichaqta. While the city stands proudly in all its magnificence, the residents appear gloomy and subdued. Nobody engages nor interacts with anyone else as they pass one another, keeping their heads and gazes down while they walk. As we move through the streets bursting with bustling energy, and the scent of continually burning fires from the nearby forges penetrates the air, everyone presses on to their destination without much fanfare, like livestock being driven to their pen. Having only recently encountered anyone from Qiapu, I can’t discern whether this is how the people of this faction are, or if something more is at play.
Unwavering, Paxilche and Pomaqli march purposefully through the streets, heading straight toward the grandest building. Like the other homes and structures in the city, the walls and buildings contained within its grounds are made of plain stones, though the noticeable differences are their smooth surface and how they’ve been cut into various tightly-packed quadrilateral shapes. The only decoration among the intimidating structure is a path of terracotta tiles that lead from the gate toward a building in the center of the grounds.
The stern expressions on the guards’ faces brings turbulent waters to my stomach. Initially, none of them react as we approach, but as soon as Paxilche and Pomaqli walk within an arrow’s range of the men, they begin shouting down at us to halt. I immediately stop in place, feeling a jolt through my nerves, yet my two travel companions proceed toward the gate, causing the yelling to grow louder and their weapons drawn. Pomaqli raises a fist in the air, causing the shouting to abruptly cease as the men await his explanation.
A tall, stout figure emerges through the crowd of warriors collected at the mouth of the walls. Though brawny, it’s evident he’s much older than everyone else gathered, as his body sags at the waist that’s barely contained by his metallic armor, with his sides bulging through gaps in the straps that have been crafted to ensure the expanded plating still fits. Piercings span his ears, mouth, and even his cheeks, with some of the gold and silver decorations dangling about and fluttering as he steps. His tunic is colored not only in white and red, but a black-and-white checkered pattern on a separate garment loosely draped over his armor.
“What is the meaning of this, Pomaqli?” his raspy voice growls. “Your post was with Qumuna. Why have you abandoned your orders and returned to Pichaqta?”
“I was ordered by Qumuna himself,” Pomaqli says, perhaps the most words I’ve heard him speak, “to escort Paxilche and this maiden to the palace. We have–“
“We are under strict command,” the official interrupts, “to prohibit Paxilche from entering these grounds, under any circumstance.”
“Even if he is escorted by–“
“Under any circumstance,” the official says, interrupting Pomaqli once again.
“May I inquire why such a command has been enacted?” Pomaqli says. Paxilche places a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, yet the warrior continues to stoically stare down the officer until he receives a reply. He stands defiantly with his chest out and eyes narrowed, as if he’s prepared to engage in combat against all the guards at these walls.
The officer responds, “we are under no obligation to inform you of what the Tempered has decreed. You can discuss the matter with him, if he desires to hear you.”
“And how on Pachil are we supposed to–“ Paxilche remarks, but this time it’s Pomaqli who rests a hand on him in an effort to calm him down.
Stepping forward and springing out from behind the two men, I ask, “will he see a member of the Sanqo nobility? I am Walumaq, the daughter of Siunqi, ruler of the Sanqo people.” I fight hard to suppress my nerves and the quiver in my throat. Though I am usually loathe to do so, my hope is to utilize my standing as a noble to gain an audience with this Tempered, if this is what it will take.
“If you are an accessory to a person who is not permitted to enter the throne room, then you, too, shall be prohibited,” the official says with a smirk, and I sense he takes some enjoyment in denying us the opportunity.
“But I will speak to him alone,” I say, trying to mask my desperation. “The matter to which I must seek his reception does not pertain to any issue or complication caused by Paxilche.”
“And I am acting as a representative of Qumuna, the Qiapu emissary.”
“You were, Pomaqli,” the official says snidely, “until you abandoned your post.”
“Again, I was ordered by Qum–“
“Qumuna’s orders do not hold sway in Pichaqta,” the official says. “This is under the dominion of the Tempered. It would be in your best interest to return to your post.”
“That goes for you, as well,” he says, now speaking to me. “You would be wise to disassociate yourself with the likes of him.” He gestures to Paxilche, who gets held back by Pomaqli before he comes to blows with the official.
“This is getting nowhere,” Pomaqli grumbles low to the two of us. “We should leave.”
Disparaged, we begin walking the streets away from the gates. Jeers from the guards erupt from behind us as we leave, causing Pomaqli to grab Paxilche by the arm and practically drag him away. It’s upsetting to be turned away so aggressively, but we can’t focus on the negative and must plan a different way to speak to the Tempered and find what we seek.
As if he’s reading my mind, Pomaqli says, “I believe I have another way we can enter the palace. From there, we can conduct our own search without relying on the assistance of the Tempered.”
“And how do you propose we go about this?” Paxilche says with anger and a touch of condescension. “There are guards everywhere about the palace.”
“Not necessarily,” Pomaqli says, remaining composed and stone-faced. Both Paxilche and I look at him attentively, curious of his plan, which takes a moment for him to begin explaining.
“Behind the palace is a narrow break between the wall and the mountain, resting near the stone channels for Pichaqta’s water. The maintenance of it has been… lacking. My understanding is that the last Tempered was to send workers to repair it, but…” his voice trails off, and he continues to look ahead. As we walk around the perimeter of the palace grounds, following along the length of the wall, I notice the nearby mountain gradually increasing in size as we approach.
“Anyway, needless to say, the repairs have not yet happened. With darkness approaching, we can slip through the opening and search for information throughout the night. Once inside, I may be able to contact an associate inside the palace. He’s an oral historian, who might have knowledge on the daily happenings in the throne room and on these grounds. Otherwise, we can inspect the ritualistic chamber to see if there is any evidence connecting the palace activity to the Eye in the Flame.”
“But what about the palace guards?” Paxilche asks. “Do you think it’ll be simple for us to enter the palace without any confrontation?”
“Confrontation is always a possibility,” Pomaqli says bluntly. “It’s why we must be stealthy and exercise great caution moving about the grounds. I assumed that would be apparent.”
As Pomaqli described it, we arrive at a slender opening between the mountain and the walls that protect the perimeter of the palace grounds. The space is jagged and very narrow, just wide enough for a grown man to squeeze through, and looking beyond the opening is a gigantic building among many other tiny ones, which I assume must be the palace.
“We will have to sprint over to the palace without much cover,” Pomaqli says, pointing to the large building, “so we’ll have to be quick. Although I don’t happen to spot any guards in the area, we would be wise not to assume they won’t appear, so we can’t hesitate.”
Pomaqli goes through first, contorting his body around the rough and pointed stones, and slips through. He extends a hand and gazes intently, offering to assist me. I grab ahold of his meaty palm and he pulls me through, my flowing dress trailing behind me as I squeeze between the rocks. Paxilche is right behind me, but then curses, looking back. As I reach the other side, I glance over and see there’s a long, slender tear in his white tunic. He feels the stone for something behind him, but Pomaqli urges him on, and Paxilche reluctantly abides.
After searching the area, Pomaqli waves us forward, pointing to an open window leading to the inside of the palace. We dart over to it, scanning left and right, up and down, for any signs of the guards, but to our good fortunes, not another soul besides the three of us can be found. Pomaqli clenches his hands into a ball and, leaning against the palace wall, lowers them down. I place my foot onto it and am sprung up and over the lip of the window, dropping into the building. The hallway is dimly lit by torches infrequently spaced about, and I don’t spot any moving shadows or figures in our proximity. Once all of us have made it into the building, we tiptoe into an unlit area of the hall.
“If I recall correctly,” Pomaqli whispers, “we are actually close to the ritual chamber. We can search in there first before moving on to seek out my associate.”
We nod and head in the direction Pomaqli points to, slowly moving down the way on the balls of our feet and slipping into any patch of darkness at which we arrive. Reaching an intersection, Pomaqli motions with his hand toward one of the corridors, and we hurriedly make our way down it. After taking a few steps, footsteps scrape and drag along the stone ground, and Paxilche reaches out to stop me in my tracks. We frantically look around the space and see an opened entryway to a dark room. Hoping to be shrouded well enough by the shadows, we scamper in and crouch down low.
The guards are discussing their relief at not having to work in the mines or forgeries, how the workers there must be stressed beyond belief. This is a matter I store away to discuss at a later time, but in the meantime, I watch their feet gradually move past us. There’s a collective sigh of relief as they turn the corner, their steps fading into the distance.
We wait a few more heartbeats before Pomaqli gestures for us to resume our pursuit. Leaving the darkened room, we follow close to the wall and, after some time, arrive at a large opening, the frame engraved with peculiar etchings of various shapes. With a brief scan, I don’t see any carved flames or eyes, and while I can’t say I expected any, I’m relieved nonetheless.
We find ourselves ensconced in what I presume to be a Qiapu ritual chamber, a realm of captivating contrasts. The walls, made of smooth stone and lined with torches, are adorned with intricate mosaics, which appear to tell stories of what I assume are gods and mortals in paintings of vivid colors, figures frozen in various poses. The air carries the earthy aroma of aged stone that mingles with the delicate sweetness of dried herbs. Glimpses of obsidian glint beneath the flickering torchlight, and an altar stands tall in the center of the room, bearing offerings of jade and quetzal feathers. Above, a tapestry of stars stretches across the ceiling.
“Okay, let’s search for any sign of the Eye in the Flame,” Paxilche says. “If we can find any indication of their activity, we may be able to learn how and why they attacked my brother.”
He grabs a torch, causing shadows to play upon the walls as he moves about. His eyes scan the room, drawn to the enigmatic markings on the back wall. Joining him, I trace my hand along the intricate carvings, the smooth stone feels cold to the touch. My breath hitches as my fingers catch a minuscule notch in the dim light.
I start to say, “I think I’ve found a…” but I don’t quite know what I’ve discovered, actually. Either way, the other two join me, and we all inspect the opening. Its shape is quite peculiar: not quite round, with a flat bottom, roughly the size of a few fingers.
“Is it a keyhole?” Pomaqli asks. I’m not sure what he means, but Paxilche seems to understand, replying, “it doesn’t appear to be. Its shape doesn’t match what a typical Qiapu key would fit into.”
Looking around the area, I notice some of the markings resemble the figures in the mosaics, with a group just off to the side of the notch. There are two humanlike shapes, with one entirely in black while others are in white and red.
“Do you think the figures are supposed to represent the Qiapu people and your god?” I ask, trying to make sense of the symbols. The two take a closer look, grunting as they investigate the mosaics closer.
“The little one might be on to something,” Pomaqli says flatly, which I assume is the most he can emote.
I return my attention to the notch and look at the mosaic around it. Similar to the others, there is a series of red humanlike figures beneath the opening, except something is missing.
“There is no black figure in this space,” I point out, “unlike the others that have one.” Paxilche sighs, then reaches into his satchel to pull out an obsidian humanoid figurine.
“I think I’ve got it,” he says before inserting the statuette into the notch. It’s a perfect fit, sliding into the space with ease. A yellow glow radiates around the figure, and a large illuminated square forms within the wall. The glow is blinding, at first, forcing me to shield my eyes with my hands. Eventually through my squinted eyes, however, I revel in the beautiful aura that fills the room with its warmth. A rumble vibrates the ground beneath us, causing us to temporarily lose our balance, and the square slides to one side, revealing a narrow, hollow chamber the size of a tiny room. Inside is a simple, unfinished cave, but laying on one of the stones that acts as a pedestal is a gorgeous, ornate amulet made of four gold loops, each beset with jade and obsidian.
“What is this place?” Paxilche wonders aloud, his voice reflecting the mystification we all feel. We slowly approach the chamber, slightly suspicious of any other magic that might befall us. Instead of magic, we hear a rich, resonant voice wrapped in gravitas.
"I trust there is some profound significance for such an intrusion?"
Surrounded by a dozen guards, the words come from a tall, slender figure, who strolls through the entrance of the main chamber and is revealed by the dim light of the torches, his tone drips with a mixture of condescension and thinly veiled curiosity. As the white robed man approaches, a visible smirk plays on his lips as his eyes glint with a haughty amusement.
“I must admit, I'm impressed,” he continues. “Not everyone has the audacity to venture where they don't belong. Unfortunately for you, trespassing here comes at a price, and a steep one at that.”
