“Sapa, a traitor is amongst us!”
Anqatil shouts to get the Arbiter’s attention, forcefully grabbing my arm and lifting me up, revealing my presence behind the bags of belongings. My heart attempts to escape my chest as he looks upon me with a mixture of alarm and anger. Panicked, I try to craft an excuse, some reason for me to be inside the throne room. But my mind is blank, only capable of imagining what peril awaits me at the hands of the ruler of our land. I can only look onto the Arbiter with fear as I await my fate.
The Arbiter works through all the possible scenarios and outcomes, looking for answers amidst the cold, stone floor and walls. Without facing me nor Anqatil, he commands as cooly as his surroundings, “take her to the cells and find out what she knows. Be discreet.”
After delivering his orders, the Arbiter rises from his throne and storms out of the room, his eyes never returning to me as they remain fixed on his path ahead. I can only squeak out a plea, but my efforts are immediately stymied as Anqatil flings me around and pulls me out of the exit behind me. Her grip around my arm is like that of a python, constricting my movement and nearly causing me to lose feeling in my extremity.
We hurry through the halls, with Anqatil dragging me along while she nonchalantly strides past uninterested guards who largely ignore us as we walk by them. They maintain their focus ahead, their bronze helmets limiting the likelihood of noticing my discomfort and desperation to escape her clutches. As I’m jostled about on our way to who knows where, I cling my satchel to my hip and haphazardly encase it in some of the loose fabric of my flowing dress, hoping the ritualistic knife contained within doesn’t collide with anything else inside and gives away its existence. I may have to answer for it if Anqatil goes through my belongings, though I hope it doesn’t come to this.
The two of us take a sharp turn down another hallway, marching through a section of the palace to which I’ve never been. Small slits along the top of the walls, close to the ceiling, allow minimal light to illuminate our way. An inky darkness begins to weave around us, and as if this alone isn’t enough to fray my nerves, unintelligible wails and cries grow louder the further in we go, leaving me feeling more and more isolated from the rest of the palace.
After traversing one lone, dark corridor, we arrive at a tiny, empty chamber, with a single torch casting the only light in the area. Anqatil grabs the attention of a nearby guard with a quick shout before hurling me into the room. I tumble across the floor and collide with the stone wall, my shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact as pain bolts through my arm.
Anqatil stands over me as I try to lift myself off the ground. My ribs throb abruptly, and I eventually realize I’ve just been kicked. Before I can clutch my side, Anqatil delivers another swift blow, and I crumple to the ground, a whimper escaping my lips. The guard hoists me up, and with him and Anqatil flanking me, I feel a sudden chill around my wrists. I look up and notice metallic clasps shackling me against the wall.
“Wha-“ I can barely speak from a combination of astonishment and agony. Is this really happening to me?
“Wait for the knock,” she says sternly to the guard, “and be sure that’s the only sound you hear coming from this room, understood?” Before the heavy wooden door shuts behind her, I watch his head nervously bobble up and down, terror blanketing his boyish face as his eyes quickly dart between me and Anqatil. Looking over at him, I recognize my sandals and satchel in his hands, but I’m in too much distress to wonder how they obtained them, or care about him taking my belongings.
The room is shrouded in darkness, the torch from the corridor faintly lighting Anqatil’s silhouette through the door’s narrow window as she stands between me and the only exit from this treacherous chamber.
“I want you to tell me everything you think you heard,” she says, her voice void of emotion. “Names, places, everything. If I suspect you’re lying to me…” Without warning, an indescribable stinging rips through my toe as if it’s being peeled back. My cries for help go unheeded, and I think I hear a slight chuckle out of Anqatil.
“Now, proceed.”
I can barely comprehend where I am or what is happening, and as I droop, my wrists burn from the clasps digging into my skin due to the weight of my sagging body.
“I… I didn’t–“ but before I can finish my thought, another insurmountable burst of pain shoots through my foot. Anqatil only tsk tsk tsks as she eventually, mercifully, releases my toe from the torturous contraption.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” she says. “What did you think you heard?”
“Aqulisu,” I utter. It’s the only name I can recall while my besieged mind valiantly battles against the rising tide of anguish. “He’s… part of a terrorist organization… seeking a coup against the… the Arbiter.”
Anqatil considers this, though I can’t see her facial expressions. I don’t know what’s worse to experience, however: the unbearable pain brought about by torture or waiting in anticipation of it amidst an unsettling silence.
“What is the name of the terrorists?”
“Qente Waila” I confess. Unless the Arbiter purposely excludes Anqatil from such matters, this shouldn’t be news to her. Having seen her presence in the throne room and speaking privately to him before, I’m confident she’ll already be aware of them, and by labeling them as ‘terrorists’, I hope to appeal to her merciful side and appear as an ally.
“Where can this ‘Qente Waila’ be found?” she asks. Does she already know this answer and is testing my knowledge, or is she still gauging what I overheard? There’s no point in lying, even if she doesn’t believe me. She will find out the truth eventually, and anything I leave out will likely–
Anqatil determines I’ve taken too long to answer, and more pain is unleashed upon my foot. It feels as though my toenail is about to be ripped off entirely at this point, barely hanging onto the cuticle.
“It’s unknown!” I holler between gasps. “There was a cave-in near the marketplace, but they travel through the catacombs!” The pain subsides, welcomed relief washes over me. I may have garbled up the precise details, but I apparently said enough to momentarily stop the torture. Was that enough information for me to be released?
“So, then,” she says calmly—am I finally being freed? “Now we will see what else you know,” she says, as I hear footsteps from her pacing about the room. “I suspect you know more than the droplets of gossip you heard in the throne room. Why else would you have appeared hiding nearby?”
Does she know I’ve been talking to Onixem? Is Anqatil aware of her activities? Am I going to be guilty by my tangential appearances with her? Whatever the case, my mind is relishing in the alleviation from the pain, willing to do whatever it is Anqatil asks of me.
“Why were you snooping around the throne room, during such an important meeting amongst Tapeu quraqa?” she asks with venom in every syllable.
My mind is flooded with panic, unable to determine what answer a madwoman would find acceptable. I can’t disclose being involved in the skirmish from last night, making me appear culpable, as well as drawing attention to the ritualistic knife both the Qente Waila and Eye in the Flame members were fighting over. Until I understand why that occurred and what power this blade possesses, I can’t allow it to fall into Anqatil’s hands. So, perhaps, my only option is to admit that I had hoped to find answers regarding the skirmish itself. That sounds plausible, I think—that I could confess my curiosity was piqued when I saw the gathered nobles.
Before I can reply, she shouts, “it’s because you’re a spy!” Anqatil rips off my toenail and my senses burn. I can no longer support myself, dropping all my weight until I’m dangling by the metal clasps that tear into my wrists. What little I could see in the dim light briefly vanishes, and then I’m jarred awake from being splashed by a repugnant, stale scent. Was I doused in urine? Repulsed at the thought, I lean forward and vomit, the sour, acidic taste coating my tongue and mouth. This causes Anqatil to cackle, enjoying my anguish.
“Don’t go passing out on me now, Haesan!” she says in between her squawks of laughter. “You still have nine toes left. We’ve barely begun!”
In an instant, her voice turns from amusement to fury, as she says through clenched teeth, “Now tell me, what on Pachil were you doing in the throne room?!”
My thoughts search and reach for any possible reason I can use that will end this suffering. And yet, despite how easy it would be to release Onixem to the jaguars, I can’t bring myself to betray her trust. With each passing moment I’m subjected to this abuse, any possibility of leaving here alive diminishes and fades into the abyss of despair. Mustering up the last bit of hope that remains within me, I try one final effort to appease my tormentor.
“I overheard them discussing the matters from last night and I wanted to know if Qapauma is in danger! That’s all, I swear!”
“The matters discussed by the quraqa do not concern you, girl.” She says this with such vitriol, spitting the words at me, then reaching for another one of my toenails and forcing it upward. I begin to faint again, but Anqatil slaps me and I come to, my mind brought back to the pain that races throughout my foot and leg.
“You’re not even supposed to be in Qapauma, Haesan,” she says, her voice suddenly tranquil as the sea in the early morning. I hear her feet scraping the dirt floor as she paces about, likely relishing in my present state. “You could have stayed in Chopaqte, being none the wiser. But no, Suntu decides to send you here, completely abandoning the agreement. And if Sapa wasn’t so blind to the prophecy, you could have been dealt with long, long ago.”
Abandoning the agreement? What agreement? Involving me? What had been arranged between the Arbiter and my father? I’m frustrated by the remark, not only because it only raises more questions than answers, causing my mind to race, but it keeps my awareness tethered to the reality of my situation, denying me the ability to delude myself with visions of better, happier times.
“Instead,” she returns to speaking through gritted teeth, “the responsibility falls to me. Always does. I’m always cleaning up the mess. You should have been dead before you were even brought into this world, before you were a smear on a pristine lineage.”
Her voice calms as she then continues, “but it’s going to be okay, because the matter will be taken care of now. Later than it should have, but taken care of nonetheless. And I’m going to enjoy this. I’m going to take it nice and slow. ‘Be discreet’, he said.” She chuckles, her laughter dripping with sinister intent. “Oh, I won’t be discreet. This is going to hurt, I’ll make sure of that. I want you to beg for me to put an end to your life.”
In Chopaqte, the fervent worship of Achpula, the legendary Achope hero and esteemed member of the revered Eleven, Iptanqa, permeates every facet of life and is ingrained in the very upbringing of each citizen in our faction. Though I had steadfastly dismissed the notion of praying to the demigod, believing such rituals to be absurd, it is in this moment where I find myself pleading to Him, the Eleven, whichever deity, any celestial force that is there to hear my prayers, or release me from this suffering and guide me into the comforting embrace of the afterlife.
The wooden door clatters open and the sudden brightness of the torch momentarily blinds me. As my vision adjusts, two figures emerge from the doorway, one smaller than the other. They enter the chamber slowly, lit from behind, which obscures their features, except the outline of the taller one wears a helmet that partially glimmers. Am I hallucinating? Is this a dream? Are they leading me to someplace for more suffering? Or am I mercifully being brought to the ethereal plane?
“Anqatil!” a voice of an elderly woman shouts in disgust. Do I recognize the speaker? She steps over to me, halting at the place where I got sick, then places her cold, soothing hand on my cheek, gently lifting up my head.
“Sun and sky, Anqatil! What have you done to the poor child?”
“This is none of your concern, Nuqasiq,” Anqatil growls. “I am here by order of the Sapa himself.”
“Achutli would never allow such an atrocity to take place on his own grounds with his own daughter!” Nuqasiq says, turning to face and scold Anqatil. Is she referring to me? Have I heard her correctly? Or am I in a state of delirium?
“Then you should take the matter up with him, since he gave me the command. The prophecy says–“
“I don’t care about the damn prophecy!” Nuqasiq shouts over Anqatil. “This is mygranddaughter, and I will not have her subjected to such abuse.”
“You will risk losing your son, the gods-chosen ruler who will return Pachil to its former state of glory, at the cost of saving the one who will destroy him?!”
“There are other ways of handling this matter that don’t involve needless murder!”
“Do you not see that, as long as she exists, your son is in peril?” Anqatil says in stunned disbelief.
Nuqasiq commands the young guard to free me from my restraints, causing his head to swivel back and forth between her and Anqatil, battling internally as to whose orders he should follow.
“If you lay a hand on her,” Anqatil snarls, “so help me Sapa, I will have you flayed and hanged for all to see.”
“B-But…” he starts, looking pleadingly at Anqatil. “This is the Queen Mother, Quraqa Anqatil! I cannot go against her commands!”
“You will have my protection, I can assure you,” Nuqasiq says to him reassuringly, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder.
Released from the clutches of the clasps, my limp body falls to the ground like a sack of stones. Fortunately, the guard catches me, wincing at the pungent smells as he hoists me up to support my weight. As I’m carried toward the chamber door, I feel as if I’m a feather, floating away to safety.
“So you know this is your granddaughter,” Anqatil says to Nuqasiq, more as a statement than a question.
“It’s why I made sure I traveled with you to Chopaqte,” Nuqasiq says. “Why I never trusted your motives to be of pure intent. I’ve always assumed you invested too heavily into a wayward prophet, and I suspected you were up to something devious with your vague reasons to travel to Achope. Yet I never would have guessed you would stoop this low, Anqatil.”
“What would you have me do?” she says, sounding some combination of offended and bewildered. “When a prophecy speaks—correctly, I will add—about the rise of Sapa to reclaim Pachil and rescue it from the clutches of the Timuaq, what am I to do when the prophecy also speaks of the one way to have it all come toppling down? That he will be betrayed by his own blood! How can that be breathed into existence if she is extinguished?”
“That is not a matter for you to decide,” Nuqasiq says pointedly. She turns her back to Anqatil, but before we depart, she says, “Even if some baseless, absurd, delusional prophecy spoke of such nonsense, if this is how you choose to respond to it, then it is clear you are not worthy of the title you hold. There is always another way. I expected more from you.”
As I’m led toward the light, my sweet salvation, it gradually becomes easier to breathe, easier to exist. The air has never felt so soothing, the sun has never felt warmer. I’ve taken for granted all these simple delights, but never again, I promise myself with each step we take. There are shouts and wails that fade into the distance, but I can only focus on my own steps at this moment.
I fight through the pain of each step, my foot feeling as though it wants to part with the rest of my leg. Yet I will do anything, walk any distance on a wounded foot, to get myself away from that place. My consciousness drifts in and out as the world blurs past, and Nuqasiq’s face shifts in and out of my focus. With my awareness slowly returning, it suddenly occurs to me that I’m without my belongings, taken away before I was tortured. I panic at the thought of having lost the ritual knife, the evidence potentially falling into the wrong person’s possession. However, when I attempt to state my concerns, my voice squeaks, and I find it difficult to speak. Nuqasiq shushes me in a maternal manner, petting my back and shoulders while we make our way through the corridors.
“You’re fortunate I found you,” Nuqasiq says, not in a chiding way, more so with a tinge of relief. “Anqatil is relentless. After all, she achieved her position by being ruthless and stopping at nothing to accomplish her mission.”
“How did…” My breath has become steadier and more relaxed, but it still requires an exorbitant amount of effort and concentration to speak, which has been dedicated to my attempts to walk. It feels as though I’m stepping on thousands of needles, causing me to move gingerly, and I’m grateful for the support of the guard, among many of the reasons to be thankful for him.
“I’ve had my eye on her for quite some time,” Nuqasiq answers me, having anticipated my question. “Being ruthless is admirable in the spy and combat line of professions, but one must be more measured when acting in a court setting. And that, she is most certainly not, try as she might. You can’t teach a jaguar to be a fish, nor can you teach Anqatil subtlety.”
Nuqasiq points in a particular direction, and we’re led into another portion of the palace of which I’m unfamiliar, stepping outside into the harsh midday sun. Here, the grounds are stark and sparse of any life, no surrounding vegetation to provide any color amidst the vast span of gray stones. There’s no shimmer, no glow to the palace, only drab, neutral tones.
Nuqasiq looks around the area and registers who and what’s around. There’s minimal guard activity on this side of the palace, though it’s understandable with the difficult, rugged terrain on the other side of these walls. None of the armored men pacing on patrol pay us any mind as we make our way toward a moderate-sized gate at the perimeter wall.
As we approach the imposing gate, colossal stone towers flank the entrance, and perched atop are guards, peering down upon us. With a sharp and practiced salute, each one exclaims "Queen Mother!" in unison as we pass through. We continue forward, minimally acknowledging their resolute presence and granting them only a brief nod to show our respect.
I feel as though I’m drifting, hovering above the ground, but it’s due to my limp body being carried by the young, animated guard. Through blurred vision, I can see him nervously looking around, eyes wide as he wipes away the occasional bead of sweat. His blatant show of concern causes Nuqasiq to hit him to get his attention, and uttering under her breath for him to stand me upright.
It’s only now that I realize we’re a significant distance away from the palace, walking in the middle of the Qapauma streets. We receive the occasional glance from passersby in their simple, neutral-toned garments, doublechecking if they are, in fact, seeing the Queen Mother.
“Where are we going, Nuqasiq?” I ask, concerned.
“Queen Mother,” the guard mutters, correcting me under his breath. Nuqasiq smacks him, and he returns his attention to supporting me.
“Well, my dear Haesan,” she says with a hint of regretfulness, “I’m afraid it may no longer be safe for you to be in Qapauma. Not for now, at least.”
“Nuqasiq!” I attempt to shout, though my voice is still too weak to speak clearly and coherently. With my heart leaping out of my chest, I manage to faintly murmur, “My belongings! There are very important–“
“Fear not, child,” she calmly says. “I’ve sent for them to be delivered to you. You will possess them before you depart, I promise.”
“I will depart? You’re not–“
“I cannot join you,” Nuqasiq says, “not at this time. It will already be enough that you’ve vanished from the palace grounds; my disappearance will cause a tremendous stir.”
“Will you be safe?” I feebly ask. “What will Anqatil do after what took place in the chambers? And the Arbiter?”
With a defiant laugh, she says, “I’ve dealt with worse than whatever they think they can do to me. You don’t become my age if you don’t know your way around the inner workings of life in a palace, Haesan.”
Though I’ve experienced my share of navigating the social and political circles of the nobility, I’m uncertain as to what Nuqasiq might be referring. Should I be concerned? Am I to face such transgressions? Perhaps it’s best if I don’t know?
“You are placed in the most capable hands of… I’m sorry, what’s your name, son?”
The young guard looks nervously between Nuqasiq and me, taken by surprise that he has actually been addressed. For a moment, it’s as though he’s forgotten how to speak, until he gracelessly blurts out, “Q-Qane, Quraqa Nuqa-“
“Son,” Nuqasiq scolds, “it’s horrible enough that I have to hear people calling me ‘Queen Mother.’ Don’t use that awful Tapeu blather and call me ‘quraqa.’ It’s a stupid, stupid title.”
“I apologize, Qu-, erm, Lady Nuqa-“
“Yes, yes,” she says with a wave, “you didn’t intend any disrespect, I know.”
“Now!” she remarks, swiftly changing to an upbeat cadence. “Qane, is it? Qane, you are to escort Haesan to the Gates of Ipa, where she is to meet my associate. From there, well, you’ll find out when you’re meant to.”
“Who is Lady Haesan mee-“
“You will find out when you’re meant to,” Nuqasiq interrupts, reiterating her words with a scolding emphasis. “I’m afraid I will not disclose this information to you. If you get captured, I don’t want you blurting it out as you’re being tortured.”
“Sun and sky!” Qane yelps, eyes wide with fright.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Confident, even!”
Turning to me, Nuqasiq meets my eyes with hers, and I can feel the warmth of her gaze enveloping me. It's a moment of connection, and in that sincerity, I find a profound sense of belonging, the most I’ve felt in gods know how long.
“Haesan,” she says, her voice slightly choked with emotion, “I very much dislike that we have to part for any amount of time, especially in this manner. But you are going to be cared for, I promise. My associate will give you the best medical attention you need, and you will be able to recover away from the calamity in the palace.” She says this holding my hands and gripping them tightly. “This is only temporary, and I will reunite with you again soon, since we have much to discuss. You’ll just have to trust me on this, okay?”
I nod, overcome by a shortness of breath as we look upon one another. Nuqasiq presses her lips into a fine line, then abruptly turns away and walks speedily back toward the palace. I have so many questions to ask, so much I don’t understand, and I’m left to be confused where I stand. But she’s saved me from a certain death, an unspeakable doom, to which I am eternally grateful, so I will place my trust in her machinations.
Qane places a hand at the small of my back and, with a wounded expression, nods his head to indicate the direction we’re to go. As I leave Qapauma behind, once a radiant and resplendent city now tarnished and devoid of its luster, I’m overwhelmed by a wave of emotion and feelings, unable to pick out how or what I should feel. It’s difficult for me to comprehend all that’s occurred in that dismal and desolate place, something that will hopefully come together and make sense one day.
“Sapa, a traitor is amongst us!”
Anqatil shouts to get the Arbiter’s attention, forcefully grabbing my arm and lifting me up, revealing my presence behind the bags of belongings. My heart attempts to escape my chest as he looks upon me with a mixture of alarm and anger. Panicked, I try to craft an excuse, some reason for me to be inside the throne room. But my mind is blank, only capable of imagining what peril awaits me at the hands of the ruler of our land. I can only look onto the Arbiter with fear as I await my fate.
The Arbiter works through all the possible scenarios and outcomes, looking for answers amidst the cold, stone floor and walls. Without facing me nor Anqatil, he commands as cooly as his surroundings, “take her to the cells and find out what she knows. Be discreet.”
After delivering his orders, the Arbiter rises from his throne and storms out of the room, his eyes never returning to me as they remain fixed on his path ahead. I can only squeak out a plea, but my efforts are immediately stymied as Anqatil flings me around and pulls me out of the exit behind me. Her grip around my arm is like that of a python, constricting my movement and nearly causing me to lose feeling in my extremity.
We hurry through the halls, with Anqatil dragging me along while she nonchalantly strides past uninterested guards who largely ignore us as we walk by them. They maintain their focus ahead, their bronze helmets limiting the likelihood of noticing my discomfort and desperation to escape her clutches. As I’m jostled about on our way to who knows where, I cling my satchel to my hip and haphazardly encase it in some of the loose fabric of my flowing dress, hoping the ritualistic knife contained within doesn’t collide with anything else inside and gives away its existence. I may have to answer for it if Anqatil goes through my belongings, though I hope it doesn’t come to this.
The two of us take a sharp turn down another hallway, marching through a section of the palace to which I’ve never been. Small slits along the top of the walls, close to the ceiling, allow minimal light to illuminate our way. An inky darkness begins to weave around us, and as if this alone isn’t enough to fray my nerves, unintelligible wails and cries grow louder the further in we go, leaving me feeling more and more isolated from the rest of the palace.
After traversing one lone, dark corridor, we arrive at a tiny, empty chamber, with a single torch casting the only light in the area. Anqatil grabs the attention of a nearby guard with a quick shout before hurling me into the room. I tumble across the floor and collide with the stone wall, my shoulder bearing the brunt of the impact as pain bolts through my arm.
Anqatil stands over me as I try to lift myself off the ground. My ribs throb abruptly, and I eventually realize I’ve just been kicked. Before I can clutch my side, Anqatil delivers another swift blow, and I crumple to the ground, a whimper escaping my lips. The guard hoists me up, and with him and Anqatil flanking me, I feel a sudden chill around my wrists. I look up and notice metallic clasps shackling me against the wall.
“Wha-“ I can barely speak from a combination of astonishment and agony. Is this really happening to me?
“Wait for the knock,” she says sternly to the guard, “and be sure that’s the only sound you hear coming from this room, understood?” Before the heavy wooden door shuts behind her, I watch his head nervously bobble up and down, terror blanketing his boyish face as his eyes quickly dart between me and Anqatil. Looking over at him, I recognize my sandals and satchel in his hands, but I’m in too much distress to wonder how they obtained them, or care about him taking my belongings.
The room is shrouded in darkness, the torch from the corridor faintly lighting Anqatil’s silhouette through the door’s narrow window as she stands between me and the only exit from this treacherous chamber.
“I want you to tell me everything you think you heard,” she says, her voice void of emotion. “Names, places, everything. If I suspect you’re lying to me…” Without warning, an indescribable stinging rips through my toe as if it’s being peeled back. My cries for help go unheeded, and I think I hear a slight chuckle out of Anqatil.
“Now, proceed.”
I can barely comprehend where I am or what is happening, and as I droop, my wrists burn from the clasps digging into my skin due to the weight of my sagging body.
“I… I didn’t–“ but before I can finish my thought, another insurmountable burst of pain shoots through my foot. Anqatil only tsk tsk tsks as she eventually, mercifully, releases my toe from the torturous contraption.
“Let’s try again, shall we?” she says. “What did you think you heard?”
“Aqulisu,” I utter. It’s the only name I can recall while my besieged mind valiantly battles against the rising tide of anguish. “He’s… part of a terrorist organization… seeking a coup against the… the Arbiter.”
Anqatil considers this, though I can’t see her facial expressions. I don’t know what’s worse to experience, however: the unbearable pain brought about by torture or waiting in anticipation of it amidst an unsettling silence.
“What is the name of the terrorists?”
“Qente Waila” I confess. Unless the Arbiter purposely excludes Anqatil from such matters, this shouldn’t be news to her. Having seen her presence in the throne room and speaking privately to him before, I’m confident she’ll already be aware of them, and by labeling them as ‘terrorists’, I hope to appeal to her merciful side and appear as an ally.
“Where can this ‘Qente Waila’ be found?” she asks. Does she already know this answer and is testing my knowledge, or is she still gauging what I overheard? There’s no point in lying, even if she doesn’t believe me. She will find out the truth eventually, and anything I leave out will likely–
Anqatil determines I’ve taken too long to answer, and more pain is unleashed upon my foot. It feels as though my toenail is about to be ripped off entirely at this point, barely hanging onto the cuticle.
“It’s unknown!” I holler between gasps. “There was a cave-in near the marketplace, but they travel through the catacombs!” The pain subsides, welcomed relief washes over me. I may have garbled up the precise details, but I apparently said enough to momentarily stop the torture. Was that enough information for me to be released?
“So, then,” she says calmly—am I finally being freed? “Now we will see what else you know,” she says, as I hear footsteps from her pacing about the room. “I suspect you know more than the droplets of gossip you heard in the throne room. Why else would you have appeared hiding nearby?”
Does she know I’ve been talking to Onixem? Is Anqatil aware of her activities? Am I going to be guilty by my tangential appearances with her? Whatever the case, my mind is relishing in the alleviation from the pain, willing to do whatever it is Anqatil asks of me.
“Why were you snooping around the throne room, during such an important meeting amongst Tapeu quraqa?” she asks with venom in every syllable.
My mind is flooded with panic, unable to determine what answer a madwoman would find acceptable. I can’t disclose being involved in the skirmish from last night, making me appear culpable, as well as drawing attention to the ritualistic knife both the Qente Waila and Eye in the Flame members were fighting over. Until I understand why that occurred and what power this blade possesses, I can’t allow it to fall into Anqatil’s hands. So, perhaps, my only option is to admit that I had hoped to find answers regarding the skirmish itself. That sounds plausible, I think—that I could confess my curiosity was piqued when I saw the gathered nobles.
Before I can reply, she shouts, “it’s because you’re a spy!” Anqatil rips off my toenail and my senses burn. I can no longer support myself, dropping all my weight until I’m dangling by the metal clasps that tear into my wrists. What little I could see in the dim light briefly vanishes, and then I’m jarred awake from being splashed by a repugnant, stale scent. Was I doused in urine? Repulsed at the thought, I lean forward and vomit, the sour, acidic taste coating my tongue and mouth. This causes Anqatil to cackle, enjoying my anguish.
“Don’t go passing out on me now, Haesan!” she says in between her squawks of laughter. “You still have nine toes left. We’ve barely begun!”
In an instant, her voice turns from amusement to fury, as she says through clenched teeth, “Now tell me, what on Pachil were you doing in the throne room?!”
My thoughts search and reach for any possible reason I can use that will end this suffering. And yet, despite how easy it would be to release Onixem to the jaguars, I can’t bring myself to betray her trust. With each passing moment I’m subjected to this abuse, any possibility of leaving here alive diminishes and fades into the abyss of despair. Mustering up the last bit of hope that remains within me, I try one final effort to appease my tormentor.
“I overheard them discussing the matters from last night and I wanted to know if Qapauma is in danger! That’s all, I swear!”
“The matters discussed by the quraqa do not concern you, girl.” She says this with such vitriol, spitting the words at me, then reaching for another one of my toenails and forcing it upward. I begin to faint again, but Anqatil slaps me and I come to, my mind brought back to the pain that races throughout my foot and leg.
“You’re not even supposed to be in Qapauma, Haesan,” she says, her voice suddenly tranquil as the sea in the early morning. I hear her feet scraping the dirt floor as she paces about, likely relishing in my present state. “You could have stayed in Chopaqte, being none the wiser. But no, Suntu decides to send you here, completely abandoning the agreement. And if Sapa wasn’t so blind to the prophecy, you could have been dealt with long, long ago.”
Abandoning the agreement? What agreement? Involving me? What had been arranged between the Arbiter and my father? I’m frustrated by the remark, not only because it only raises more questions than answers, causing my mind to race, but it keeps my awareness tethered to the reality of my situation, denying me the ability to delude myself with visions of better, happier times.
“Instead,” she returns to speaking through gritted teeth, “the responsibility falls to me. Always does. I’m always cleaning up the mess. You should have been dead before you were even brought into this world, before you were a smear on a pristine lineage.”
Her voice calms as she then continues, “but it’s going to be okay, because the matter will be taken care of now. Later than it should have, but taken care of nonetheless. And I’m going to enjoy this. I’m going to take it nice and slow. ‘Be discreet’, he said.” She chuckles, her laughter dripping with sinister intent. “Oh, I won’t be discreet. This is going to hurt, I’ll make sure of that. I want you to beg for me to put an end to your life.”
In Chopaqte, the fervent worship of Achpula, the legendary Achope hero and esteemed member of the revered Eleven, Iptanqa, permeates every facet of life and is ingrained in the very upbringing of each citizen in our faction. Though I had steadfastly dismissed the notion of praying to the demigod, believing such rituals to be absurd, it is in this moment where I find myself pleading to Him, the Eleven, whichever deity, any celestial force that is there to hear my prayers, or release me from this suffering and guide me into the comforting embrace of the afterlife.
The wooden door clatters open and the sudden brightness of the torch momentarily blinds me. As my vision adjusts, two figures emerge from the doorway, one smaller than the other. They enter the chamber slowly, lit from behind, which obscures their features, except the outline of the taller one wears a helmet that partially glimmers. Am I hallucinating? Is this a dream? Are they leading me to someplace for more suffering? Or am I mercifully being brought to the ethereal plane?
“Anqatil!” a voice of an elderly woman shouts in disgust. Do I recognize the speaker? She steps over to me, halting at the place where I got sick, then places her cold, soothing hand on my cheek, gently lifting up my head.
“Sun and sky, Anqatil! What have you done to the poor child?”
“This is none of your concern, Nuqasiq,” Anqatil growls. “I am here by order of the Sapa himself.”
“Achutli would never allow such an atrocity to take place on his own grounds with his own daughter!” Nuqasiq says, turning to face and scold Anqatil. Is she referring to me? Have I heard her correctly? Or am I in a state of delirium?
“Then you should take the matter up with him, since he gave me the command. The prophecy says–“
“I don’t care about the damn prophecy!” Nuqasiq shouts over Anqatil. “This is mygranddaughter, and I will not have her subjected to such abuse.”
“You will risk losing your son, the gods-chosen ruler who will return Pachil to its former state of glory, at the cost of saving the one who will destroy him?!”
“There are other ways of handling this matter that don’t involve needless murder!”
“Do you not see that, as long as she exists, your son is in peril?” Anqatil says in stunned disbelief.
Nuqasiq commands the young guard to free me from my restraints, causing his head to swivel back and forth between her and Anqatil, battling internally as to whose orders he should follow.
“If you lay a hand on her,” Anqatil snarls, “so help me Sapa, I will have you flayed and hanged for all to see.”
“B-But…” he starts, looking pleadingly at Anqatil. “This is the Queen Mother, Quraqa Anqatil! I cannot go against her commands!”
“You will have my protection, I can assure you,” Nuqasiq says to him reassuringly, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder.
Released from the clutches of the clasps, my limp body falls to the ground like a sack of stones. Fortunately, the guard catches me, wincing at the pungent smells as he hoists me up to support my weight. As I’m carried toward the chamber door, I feel as if I’m a feather, floating away to safety.
“So you know this is your granddaughter,” Anqatil says to Nuqasiq, more as a statement than a question.
“It’s why I made sure I traveled with you to Chopaqte,” Nuqasiq says. “Why I never trusted your motives to be of pure intent. I’ve always assumed you invested too heavily into a wayward prophet, and I suspected you were up to something devious with your vague reasons to travel to Achope. Yet I never would have guessed you would stoop this low, Anqatil.”
“What would you have me do?” she says, sounding some combination of offended and bewildered. “When a prophecy speaks—correctly, I will add—about the rise of Sapa to reclaim Pachil and rescue it from the clutches of the Timuaq, what am I to do when the prophecy also speaks of the one way to have it all come toppling down? That he will be betrayed by his own blood! How can that be breathed into existence if she is extinguished?”
“That is not a matter for you to decide,” Nuqasiq says pointedly. She turns her back to Anqatil, but before we depart, she says, “Even if some baseless, absurd, delusional prophecy spoke of such nonsense, if this is how you choose to respond to it, then it is clear you are not worthy of the title you hold. There is always another way. I expected more from you.”
As I’m led toward the light, my sweet salvation, it gradually becomes easier to breathe, easier to exist. The air has never felt so soothing, the sun has never felt warmer. I’ve taken for granted all these simple delights, but never again, I promise myself with each step we take. There are shouts and wails that fade into the distance, but I can only focus on my own steps at this moment.
I fight through the pain of each step, my foot feeling as though it wants to part with the rest of my leg. Yet I will do anything, walk any distance on a wounded foot, to get myself away from that place. My consciousness drifts in and out as the world blurs past, and Nuqasiq’s face shifts in and out of my focus. With my awareness slowly returning, it suddenly occurs to me that I’m without my belongings, taken away before I was tortured. I panic at the thought of having lost the ritual knife, the evidence potentially falling into the wrong person’s possession. However, when I attempt to state my concerns, my voice squeaks, and I find it difficult to speak. Nuqasiq shushes me in a maternal manner, petting my back and shoulders while we make our way through the corridors.
“You’re fortunate I found you,” Nuqasiq says, not in a chiding way, more so with a tinge of relief. “Anqatil is relentless. After all, she achieved her position by being ruthless and stopping at nothing to accomplish her mission.”
“How did…” My breath has become steadier and more relaxed, but it still requires an exorbitant amount of effort and concentration to speak, which has been dedicated to my attempts to walk. It feels as though I’m stepping on thousands of needles, causing me to move gingerly, and I’m grateful for the support of the guard, among many of the reasons to be thankful for him.
“I’ve had my eye on her for quite some time,” Nuqasiq answers me, having anticipated my question. “Being ruthless is admirable in the spy and combat line of professions, but one must be more measured when acting in a court setting. And that, she is most certainly not, try as she might. You can’t teach a jaguar to be a fish, nor can you teach Anqatil subtlety.”
Nuqasiq points in a particular direction, and we’re led into another portion of the palace of which I’m unfamiliar, stepping outside into the harsh midday sun. Here, the grounds are stark and sparse of any life, no surrounding vegetation to provide any color amidst the vast span of gray stones. There’s no shimmer, no glow to the palace, only drab, neutral tones.
Nuqasiq looks around the area and registers who and what’s around. There’s minimal guard activity on this side of the palace, though it’s understandable with the difficult, rugged terrain on the other side of these walls. None of the armored men pacing on patrol pay us any mind as we make our way toward a moderate-sized gate at the perimeter wall.
As we approach the imposing gate, colossal stone towers flank the entrance, and perched atop are guards, peering down upon us. With a sharp and practiced salute, each one exclaims "Queen Mother!" in unison as we pass through. We continue forward, minimally acknowledging their resolute presence and granting them only a brief nod to show our respect.
I feel as though I’m drifting, hovering above the ground, but it’s due to my limp body being carried by the young, animated guard. Through blurred vision, I can see him nervously looking around, eyes wide as he wipes away the occasional bead of sweat. His blatant show of concern causes Nuqasiq to hit him to get his attention, and uttering under her breath for him to stand me upright.
It’s only now that I realize we’re a significant distance away from the palace, walking in the middle of the Qapauma streets. We receive the occasional glance from passersby in their simple, neutral-toned garments, doublechecking if they are, in fact, seeing the Queen Mother.
“Where are we going, Nuqasiq?” I ask, concerned.
“Queen Mother,” the guard mutters, correcting me under his breath. Nuqasiq smacks him, and he returns his attention to supporting me.
“Well, my dear Haesan,” she says with a hint of regretfulness, “I’m afraid it may no longer be safe for you to be in Qapauma. Not for now, at least.”
“Nuqasiq!” I attempt to shout, though my voice is still too weak to speak clearly and coherently. With my heart leaping out of my chest, I manage to faintly murmur, “My belongings! There are very important–“
“Fear not, child,” she calmly says. “I’ve sent for them to be delivered to you. You will possess them before you depart, I promise.”
“I will depart? You’re not–“
“I cannot join you,” Nuqasiq says, “not at this time. It will already be enough that you’ve vanished from the palace grounds; my disappearance will cause a tremendous stir.”
“Will you be safe?” I feebly ask. “What will Anqatil do after what took place in the chambers? And the Arbiter?”
With a defiant laugh, she says, “I’ve dealt with worse than whatever they think they can do to me. You don’t become my age if you don’t know your way around the inner workings of life in a palace, Haesan.”
Though I’ve experienced my share of navigating the social and political circles of the nobility, I’m uncertain as to what Nuqasiq might be referring. Should I be concerned? Am I to face such transgressions? Perhaps it’s best if I don’t know?
“You are placed in the most capable hands of… I’m sorry, what’s your name, son?”
The young guard looks nervously between Nuqasiq and me, taken by surprise that he has actually been addressed. For a moment, it’s as though he’s forgotten how to speak, until he gracelessly blurts out, “Q-Qane, Quraqa Nuqa-“
“Son,” Nuqasiq scolds, “it’s horrible enough that I have to hear people calling me ‘Queen Mother.’ Don’t use that awful Tapeu blather and call me ‘quraqa.’ It’s a stupid, stupid title.”
“I apologize, Qu-, erm, Lady Nuqa-“
“Yes, yes,” she says with a wave, “you didn’t intend any disrespect, I know.”
“Now!” she remarks, swiftly changing to an upbeat cadence. “Qane, is it? Qane, you are to escort Haesan to the Gates of Ipa, where she is to meet my associate. From there, well, you’ll find out when you’re meant to.”
“Who is Lady Haesan mee-“
“You will find out when you’re meant to,” Nuqasiq interrupts, reiterating her words with a scolding emphasis. “I’m afraid I will not disclose this information to you. If you get captured, I don’t want you blurting it out as you’re being tortured.”
“Sun and sky!” Qane yelps, eyes wide with fright.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Confident, even!”
Turning to me, Nuqasiq meets my eyes with hers, and I can feel the warmth of her gaze enveloping me. It's a moment of connection, and in that sincerity, I find a profound sense of belonging, the most I’ve felt in gods know how long.
“Haesan,” she says, her voice slightly choked with emotion, “I very much dislike that we have to part for any amount of time, especially in this manner. But you are going to be cared for, I promise. My associate will give you the best medical attention you need, and you will be able to recover away from the calamity in the palace.” She says this holding my hands and gripping them tightly. “This is only temporary, and I will reunite with you again soon, since we have much to discuss. You’ll just have to trust me on this, okay?”
I nod, overcome by a shortness of breath as we look upon one another. Nuqasiq presses her lips into a fine line, then abruptly turns away and walks speedily back toward the palace. I have so many questions to ask, so much I don’t understand, and I’m left to be confused where I stand. But she’s saved me from a certain death, an unspeakable doom, to which I am eternally grateful, so I will place my trust in her machinations.
Qane places a hand at the small of my back and, with a wounded expression, nods his head to indicate the direction we’re to go. As I leave Qapauma behind, once a radiant and resplendent city now tarnished and devoid of its luster, I’m overwhelmed by a wave of emotion and feelings, unable to pick out how or what I should feel. It’s difficult for me to comprehend all that’s occurred in that dismal and desolate place, something that will hopefully come together and make sense one day.
