Without another word, the guards drag the three of us down the hallway, and I start to lose sensation in my arms from their unrelenting grip. We’re hurriedly marched away to some unknown, unspoken destination, uncertain what fate awaits us. Curiously, it is only Walumaq, the one endowed with supernatural powers, who seems rattled by our predicament, eyes wide and breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Deep down, I should’ve known better. I should’ve known this was a ludicrous plan, to sneak into the palace like thieves and assume we could get all the answers we needed in the span of a night, without any real direction or starting point. Did I honestly expect us to have some miraculous revelation the moment we stepped foot inside the palace? How could I let Pomaqli, some stranger, sway me so easily? Was he exploiting my eagerness to uncover the truth behind Limaqumtlia's murder, and had I naïvely fallen for his ruse?
No, that doesn’t seem like his particular way of operating. The emotionless warrior is well-trusted by Qumuna, a man I highly respect. Unless he’s plotted something several steps ahead of what I could possibly conceive, there’s no reason he would endanger himself and risk serving a punishment that would prevent him from continuing to serve the people of Qiapu. I recognize that I’m upset at our situation, getting caught by some sneering, slithering sycophant. Though he’s unfamiliar to me, he’s left no room for getting into my good graces with his introduction. Sure, we may have happened to trespass onto palace grounds, but where does he come off, right?
We take a rapid turn around a corner and I instantly know where we’re headed, somewhat relieved. Had we gone the other way, I would be certain the three of us would be placed in chains in the prison located deep within the chasm of the palace. Instead, our destination is the throne room, likely to be confronted by Saxina himself. My only solace is believing we can negotiate our way out of any harsh repercussions, regardless of the state I left our relationship in during my last visit. My hope is that he will forego anything dire due to the presence of the Sanqo princess in our company, believing—half-heartedly, I admit—he will resort to diplomacy in this instance.
The stifling, choking confines of the chamber mirrors the oppressive atmosphere thick with tension, and despite the night's chill, sweat beads on my skin. We're thrust to the ground, each of us reacting in our own way: Walumaq offers a quiet whimper, Pomaqli launches a futile struggle against our captors, and in the midst of it all, I find myself overcome by incredulous laughter at the absurdity of our predicament. For my trouble, I receive a swift punch to the side of my head, my ears ringing from the blow while my jaw clenches in response to the searing pain.
Flanked by a half dozen or so guards, Saxina enters the throne room with a loud yawn. His outfit has clearly been hurriedly thrown together for him: wearing no tunic nor headpiece, all that’s worn is a long, red and white cape and a plain, white loin cloth.
“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” I say, rewarded with another abrupt thump to my skull.
“At first, I couldn’t believe I was being awoken out of my peaceful slumber for a couple of intruders,” Saxina says, his voice sounding tired and hoarse. “When I found out dear Paxilche was one of the trespassers, I had to see for myself. Incredible!”
“Enough with the fake formalities,” I snap. Perhaps I’m exhausted, or I’m reminded of all of Saxina’s bloviating, but I just don’t want to hear any of it right now. I want to know what he plans to do with us and get this interaction over with. “You’ve caught us, so we are at your mercy, if you care to indulge us with what our consequences shall be.”
“Paxilche,” he says with mock disappointment, “that would be too easy! Too quick. You haven’t yet introduced me to your accomplices, although that one–“ he points to Pomaqli,” is certainly one I recall. Aren’t you supposed to be in Qumuna’s military detail? You returned all this way to be thrown into the cells with this one?” He punctuates the end of his sentence by indicating me with a lazy wave of the hand.
“I am acting on his orders,” he responds, maintaining his focus on the ground at Saxina’s feet, “and it is his instructions I am following.”
“Yes, yes,” Saxina says dismissively, “you’re as obedient as a hunting dog, tail wagging at the first scent of a command. And what are these instructions you’re following that meant breaking into the palace?”
“Qumuna did not instruct me to do such an action,” Pomaqli says, attempting to protect Qumuna and the esteemed general’s reputation, “and the matter will have to be discussed between the two of you.”
“You know I’m in command of the military, correct?” Saxina says rhetorically as a predator plays with its helpless prey. “So anything he orders must be run through me. I highly doubt I would want my sleep disturbed by having three imbeciles trespassing into my palace.”
In fairness to Pomaqli, he remains tight lipped, and I can now see the advantage to his well-practiced stoicism. A nearby guard pulls back as if ready to strike Pomaqli and beat an answer out of him, but Saxina waves a hand to halt such a proceeding.
“You, my dear,” Saxina now speaks to Walumaq. “It cannot be a coincidence that you wear the colors of the Sanqo. Who are you, and why are you here, with them?”
"I am Walumaq," she declares, her voice assuming a sudden and commanding authority, belying her youthful appearance with an air of experience, “daughter of the Sanqo ruler, Siunqi.”
“Ah, yes,” Saxina says. “I believe I heard stirrings about a Sanqo princess in Pichaqta, though I couldn’t fathom why such a person would be so far from home.”
“My story is quite simple, really,” Walumaq says, and I become more impressed with her the more she speaks—whereas she was frightened and timid moments earlier, she has seemingly assessed the situation and now has the gravitas of a seasoned noble or politician. “My father desires to establish trade with the factions of the continent, and to learn how we can more efficiently and effectively rebuild our nation. I took it upon myself to journey to the continent, and I was in Chalaqta, as a matter of fact, before continuing my travels to the south.”
“By yourself?” Saxina asks. While I was entranced by Walumaq’s ability to create her excuse so quickly and reflexively, Saxina’s attention to this detail causes my heart to sink, fearing he’s detected a lie. However, astonishingly, Walumaq appears prepared for this, replying almost instantaneously.
“The Sanqo are known for their independence,” she responds, “and it is a time-honored tradition of our nobility to send their children who are to soon come of age to travel the lands and embark on a journey of self-discovery. This is the only way, in our opinion, to expand our view of the world and foster resourcefulness. I decided I would conjoin this rite of passage with the mission of my father. I was fortunate to have encountered Qumuna on his way to the capital, and it was there he decided to send Pomaqli with me as a liaison, for protection on my journey to Pichaqta as well as any requests I may have.”
Being unfamiliar with Sanqo traditions, I’m uncertain if what she says is true. However, she speaks with such confidence that it’s difficult for me to say, with certainty, that she’s lying.
“You are quite the impressive, independent woman, indeed,” Saxina says, mildly amused. “That doesn’t explain why you trespassed onto the grounds at this time of night. And how you became connected with Paxilche.”
“Your guards refused us the moment they saw Paxilche,” she says. “You yourself mentioned hearing the stirrings, so you must be aware that we had attempted to approach formally and diplomatically, to which your arrogant officer at the main gate refused. You can ask him if I tell any untruths.”
“If they presented themselves as an envoy of Sanqo, there is absolutely no way we would have refused to receive the princess,“ the man who initially apprehended us says defensively.
“And yet, that is what took place,” Walumaq says, and it may me a trick of the light, but she appears grander in stature while, at the same time, Saxina and his irksome advisor wither and shrivel in place. “If you are genuinely appalled at our treatment and want to rectify the situation, then you must take the matter up with them and see to it this doesn’t happen again. Such disrespect for a Sanqo noble will not be tolerated by my father, that much is certain.”
The guards eye one another nervously as they watch their leader get scolded by an adolescent. This advisor—or whatever his relation to Saxina may be—begins pleading inaudibly, but Saxina holds up a single hand, and the man ceases his groveling.
“I will discuss this with my advisor and the palace officer in the morning,” Saxina says cooly, and I am immediately concerned upon hearing his tone, calm and calculating. “Yet you still have not answered why you were caught in a ritual chamber, with Paxilche nonetheless.”
“I met him at a tav-,” she says, correcting herself, “an inn. My travel was many days, and I was weary. So Pomaqli told me how the Qiapu have these places called ‘inns’ where a traveler may rest. I haven’t slept on something that wasn’t the ground in quite some time, so I took him up on the offer. And that is where I met Paxilche.”
I watch Saxina for any sign of his assessment over Walumaq’s alibi. He remains stone faced for a lengthy amount of time, and my quickening heart tries to break free from my chest. He reclines into his throne, at first in contemplation, then, to my relief, conceding in acceptance. Despite this, there’s something in his demeanor—I can’t quite place it—that is unsettling.
“Normally in such situations, we arrest the intruders and behead them as a sacrifice to Aqxilapu,” Saxina says in a disturbingly casual manner. The guards take this as their signal to apprehend us and carry us away, causing Walumaq to cry out an unintelligible plea in bewilderment while Pomaqli attempts to fight off his captors.
“However,” Saxina continues, his voice raised so as to be heard over the scuffle, “it has been brought to my attention that you three have achieved something that may be of great value to us. You can thank Aqxilapu for His mercy and blessing.”
The room falls into a hushed silence, anticipation palpable as Walumaq, Pomaqli, and I await with bated breath to learn of Saxina's plan for us.
“Our resident oral historians from Qantua tell us of a lost amulet worn by a great Tempered from many generations ago,” he begins. “Granted, there are many tales about our past rulers, but one that Amalu has reminded me of involves an amulet. That you three have stumbled upon such an item cannot be a coincidence.”
“What is the tale about the amulet?” Walumaq asks. I slump down, getting comfortable in preparation of a long-winded tale that will, eventually, lead to his point.
“The legend goes,” Saxina begins, easing back into the throne as he prepares to regale us with his storytelling, “that long ago, yet shortly after our land was formed by Aqxilapu, He received a higher calling, a greater purpose that required Him to leave the land He crafted. He was preparing to search for a predecessor worthy enough to sit atop the throne when, from Xutuina, an enormous monster, Ninaxu, emerged from the volcano. The giant, formed by lava flows that streamed down its body, grew as tall as the surrounding mountains, its claws digging into the soil to pull itself out from the mouth of the volcano. Its roar reverberated across not just Qiapu, but all of Pachil, and the residents grew worried that the end was near, that the world would be covered in molten lava.
“With all His might, Aqxilapu fought the creature, beating it down and back into the volcano from which it came with a flurry of blows. After a short period, however, His hands began to burn, His flesh becoming raw from the immense heat. He could no longer fight off the creature, and all of Pachil began to despair.”
Though I’m unamused, having heard this story countless times throughout my childhood, Saxina leans forward in his throne and speaks with a storyteller’s intensity, “it was then that a blacksmith, Iachanisqa, labored day and night, hammering and forging and bending and cutting and tempering and welding, until, finally, he crafted an amulet, the finest ever created. He then gathered every shaman in our land, and they traveled to Xutuina. With Aqxilapu’s guidance, they communed with the elemental spirits, beseeching them for a means to protect their people from the wrath of the restless volcano creature. He was able to harness the essence of the volcano and use its power against the creature, imprisoning it within the fiery depths.
“This was how our first ruler, whom we call the Tempered, came to be. Wearing the amulet, he, along with the shamans, present ritualistic sacrifices to the volcano to grant the Qiapu—and all of Pachil—safety. It’s unknown how the amulet disappeared, but if this is what I believe it to be, then Qiapu is sure to return to safety. The timing is excellent, since the next ritual was due to take place by the next full moon.”
“So now that the fireside tales have ended,” I say, beyond eager to be done with this place and find out what Saxina wants, “what is this supposed ‘great value’ we have provided you?”
“I want to determine if this is the amulet of legend,” he says. “And you are going to find out if it is.”
“How on Pachil are we to do that?” I ask, baffled by the absurd quest with which we’ve been tasked.
“There is a shaman in Qespina, to the south,” Saxina says. “He knows the ritual that must be conducted in connection to the amulet. Bring him here to Pichaqta so that he can perform the ritual at Xutuina, and if he succeeds, your lives will be spared. If not, well… hope that it doesn’t come to that.”
“He is to perform the ritual at the next full moon?” I ask, perplexed by this request.
“But that’s only a short time from now!” Walumaq says.
“Then you better move quickly,” Saxina says smugly.
“This is an unachievable task,” Pomaqli says. “The travel to Qespina alone will take days. Then to return to Pichaqta? Impossible!”
“I have faith that Aqxilapu will guide your way,” Saxina says. “And if He doesn’t, then He has clearly decided your fate.”
“The fate that caused him to have us reveal this amulet, but not care enough that we can retrieve this shaman in a timely manner,” I say, the ludicrous reasoning is not lost on me.
“He works in mysterious ways,” Saxina says condescendingly. “I trust in His plan.”
“When have you become so spiritual?” I ask Saxina. “I don’t ever recall you acting in this manner before.”
“Being the Tempered and receiving the teachings from our shamans has enlightened me to the wisdom and ways of Aqxilapu,” he says, and not for one moment do I believe in what he speaks. This is clearly all part of a greater scheme, acting the part of what the people believe a Tempered should be to win them over. He may have everyone else fooled, but he isn’t fooling me.
“Have you been so busy with receiving the shamans’ wisdom that you’ve been unable to continue the investigation into Limaqumtlia’s assassination?” I ask, tired of Saxina’s superciliousness and treating myself to a simple, small victory with a retaliatory remark. He doesn’t take kindly to my question, his smug smile turning into a sneer.
“Paxilche,” he says patronizingly, “this matter has already been discussed. The Ulxa plotted to murder Limaqumtlia, and we are making all the preparations to seek justice for his death, I assure you. I understand you are emotional over the loss of your brother, but what I don’t understand is why you continue to harp on this.”
“But how was the guard able to obtain the uniform?” I shout.
“He snuck into the barracks, stole the uniform and weapon, and infiltrated our ranks,” Saxina says, visibly annoyed. “The markings on his chest are indicative of the Ulxa, ergo the Ulxa assassinated your brother. There is nothing more to discuss.”
“How do you know?” I continue yelling my questions, as though the louder volume of my voice will get him to finally answer and stop avoiding the issue. However, to no one’s surprise, it doesn’t work.
“We were friends once, you and I,” I say as the guards begin to close in on us. “How could you be like this? Do you even recognize the face before you? We used to stand shoulder to shoulder, laughing at the world's absurdities and dreaming of a brighter future together. Our bond, forged through shared struggles and countless memories, was one I believed unbreakable. Yet here I am, vulnerable before you, and it's not the might of this throne room that intimidates me, but the icy gaze from a friend I once held dear. How did we come to this precipice? How could you forget our camaraderie so quickly and turn your heart to stone? Time might have diverged our paths, but the echoes of our shared history should not be silenced so quickly.”
“You’ve been given your task,” Saxina sighs, projecting his boredom with how the events are playing out, though I can see through the cracks in his armor that he’s restraining himself from speaking upon the emotions I laid before him. “I suggest you begin. That will be all.”
Saxina gets up from the throne, flings the cape around to cover his body, then strides out of the throne room. We’re flanked by guards, who escort us away, leaving behind a flummoxed Amalu, supposedly Saxina’s trusted advisor. He’s someone I’ve never seen before, and I’m curious how he achieved a high position of power so quickly, wondering which strings he pulled and whom he stepped over to reach such a height. Yet reflecting on Saxina’s rise to power, a lot doesn’t seem to make much sense anymore, and I have a rare flash of a thought where I entertain the idea that maybe greater forces are, in fact, in play.
“He’s insistent that the assassin is from Ulxa,” Walumaq says in a hushed tone to me and Pomaqli as we leave the chamber, “yet the marking is clearly from the Eye in the Flame, who may or may not be Ulxa. When I heard their grandiose speech before they executed that poor family, they only mentioned being ‘chosen by their ancestors’. That could implicate anyone. Why is he convinced otherwise?”
“We can find out if anyone in the ranks of palace guards knows,” Pomaqli says. “I know a number of men who could direct us to anyone who may have interacted with the assassin beforehand.”
“It won’t involve that dreadful officer we encountered at the front gate, will it?” Walumaq asks.
“No, not at all,” Pomaqli says, though I’m not immediately reassured.
“We can also look to see if they’ve kept anything from that day,” I propose, “as evidence—or even a trophy. We should take advantage of being inside the palace grounds, since I can’t say when we’ll have such an opportunity later.”
“Are you certain we’ll be given free rein of the palace?” Walumaq asks, a bit leery of our initial plan.
“Perhaps they will not do so willingly, but they will relent nonetheless—I’ll make sure of that,” Pomaqli says with a steely cool and calm that is, quite frankly, a bit intimidating, and I’m thankful he’s on our side.
“You make sense,” Walumaq says, though there’s hesitancy in her voice. “But why do you think the murder weapon would be kept? That’s quite a morbid thought. Are you suggesting someone in the palace plotted to kill your brother and hired the assassin from within the guards’ ranks?”
“I suppose we’ll discover whether or not that’s true,” I answer, although she’s correct, and it’s precisely what I’m suggesting. This is the second time now that I’ve directly confronted Saxina, and he’s instantly dismissed my theories without further explanation. Perhaps the matter is as simple as he claims, and the assailant was recruited by the Ulxa. Yet I’m skeptical of what he adamantly states is fact. The Ulxa don’t have, and never have, any grudges nor reason to attack the Qiapu, and it stands to reason that sparking a war between the two sides while both are still licking their wounds after defeating the Timuaq will only do further harm. There’s something Saxina is not saying, and I have my suspicions that he has some ulterior motive he’s keeping to himself.
Once we’re removed from the palace, the guards no longer have interest in us, stopping at the opulent entryway lined with elaborately decorated columns and leaving us on our own as they return inside. Pomaqli motions for us to follow him, heading toward another, separate stone building close to the perimeter walls to the west. Our way is barely illuminated by the glow of the moon, and our presence grabs the occasional attention from one of the patrolling warriors. We’re not intending to be stealthy—Pomaqli strides past many of the onlookers—and I’m amazed how effective it is to walk somewhere with enough confidence that you’re not questioned about where you’re going.
As we enter the building, a plethora of guards stand about aimlessly, gawking at us as when we walk in. Pomaqli searches the room, casting his eyes left and right quickly, then gives up and hollers at no one in particular, “where is your commanding officer?”
After a few shared stares and an awkward silence, a gangly young man in an ill-fitted armor and helmet stands and eventually responds, “h-he’s in the back, but he’s–“
Before the boy has a chance to finish his reply, Pomaqli charges toward the back of the room, and Walumaq and I hurriedly follow behind. A foul odor of unwashed bodies strikes my nostrils as we swim through those milling about the room well lit by numerous torches.
The room in back is tiny and narrow, barely large enough to accommodate the three of us and the officer we’re to meet. Only two torches hang on opposite walls, with more of the generated light coming from the neighboring room. Seated at a large table that occupies most of the space is a burly figure, who swells into his clothing and armor as though he’s borrowing the garments of a much smaller man. His helmet rests close by, plunked on its side, and I notice his significant lack of piercings compared to Pomaqli.
“Your guards,” Pomaqli snaps. “Who had orders to oversee the Tempered and receive him at the palace gates?”
“Who are you?” the bewildered official asks. “Who allowed you to barge into here?”
“I seek answers, not permission,” Pomaqli says, speaking over the officer. “If you hold any allegiance to Qiapu, you will assist me in this matter. I come on behalf of truth, and it would be wise not to impede me in my pursuit.”
The official stares at him, taken aback by the direct manner spoken to him. I can sense he wants to say some retort, but he’s left without any words and resorts to answering Pomaqli with silence. Pomaqli, for his part, shows little emotion and waits patiently for a response. He’s eventually rewarded when a lower-ranking officer, judging by the close number of piercings he wears compared to the other official, speaks up from behind us, in defiance of the silent treatment.
“Aselo and Hietlo,” he says flatly. “They were in charge of organizing the roster that would protect the slain Tempered, and they’re both present. I can lead you to them.”
The other official attempts to protest, but is immediately shown a dismissive hand by Pomaqli, and the man falls silent. I’m stunned by the obedience, and I wonder if Pomaqli’s rank is much greater than I had thought, given how abruptly circumstances have changed.
Big bouts of laughter erupt from a group of guards huddled together a distance away from the building. They’re all surprisingly young—not much older than those amassed inside the place we just left—but two prominently stand apart from the rest, thanks to their embellished armor and multiple piercings. Though not as decorated as other officials I’ve seen, they still wear a minimal amount of black-and-white geometric patters on the outside of their metallic armor, signifying the amount of experience they possess over those gathered around them, albeit relatively minimal. The pair work in tandem as they tell jokes and entertain the warriors, and considering the jovial banter, you would be forgiven if you saw them and suddenly forgot the Qiapu are preparing to go to war.
“Hietlo and Aselo,” Pomaqli barks, and the two decorated warriors cut short their storytelling to see who calls to them. Pomaqli marches toward them, maintaining his signature emotionless demeanor, and stops short of colliding with them, his face disquietingly close to the two men.
“The day of Limaqumtlia’s murder,” he starts right in, forgoing any niceties. “Where were you, and what occurred that day?”
The two men stare at one another for a moment, caught off guard by the directness of Pomaqli’s inquiry. They look over at the young officer for guidance in handling this situation, but only receive an awkward and nervous nod.
“We were in charge of the late Tempered’s security detail,” one of the men recounts. “There was some shuffling around in the roster, as we were notified of including additional guards. We–“
“Who notified you?” Pomaqli asks sharply.
“I believe it was Amalu,” the other one says, more nervous than his compatriot. “Said he received word from Qumuna to include–“
“Qumuna would not have pulled rank to alter an existing roster,” Pomaqli says. “He puts his trust in those assigned roles and wouldn’t micromanage, for better or worse.”
Though Pomaqli is quick to dismiss the claim that Qumuna was involved in tampering with the roster, I keep it in the back of my mind to ask Amalu about this. I don’t expect a direct answer, nor a truthful one, but it’s a piece of information to use for the next time I see him.
“Tell me about the warriors who were added,” Pomaqli says. “Who were they and where were they from?”
“They were from Pichaqta…” one says, thinking about his response before adding, “Oh, except one of the warriors. He had a very odd way of speaking, like he had a lisp or hissed his words. And he possessed a strange weapon. It wasn’t standard issue, but I can’t tell from where it was crafted.”
“Was it a weapon from Ulxa?” Pomaqli inquires, beginning to lessen the severity in his interrogation.
“No, it was from somewhere else,” the other official says, struggling to recall the detail. “I hadn’t seen anything like it before, but it certainly didn’t look like a southern faction’s weapon. Most likely it was forged in the north. I found it odd and went to question it, but Amalu left abruptly, and before we knew it, we were hearing that the late Tempered was approaching the city. We had to organize quickly, and our orders were to meet at the city walls and escort the nobles and the late Tempered to the palace. That’s when… well, you know the rest.”
Pomaqli thanks them for their time and hastily walks away, nodding to the young officer who escorted us here as he rejoins and ushers us to a more private area on the grounds.
“‘Northern crafted?” Walumaq asks. “How could they tell?”
“We may not be great at many things,” I say, “but Qiapu are excellent in our ability to mine and forge weapons. We take exceptional pride in our ability to know everything about weaponry: how to forge them, where they were forged, the best techniques in crafting and using them. Each factions has a particular way in which they forge their weapons—a signature trait, if you will.”
“The southern factions,” Pomaqli adds, “being the Ulxa and Qiapu, are noted to use obsidian and bronze materials when forging. The north doesn’t have access to such materials, so they use other metals, and embellish their weapons with different gemstones and decorative flourishes. The jungle factions like the Achope and Tuatiu tend to use bow and arrows more frequently, as well.”
“Do you think the weapon is still on the palace grounds?” Walumaq asks.
“It would be foolish to maintain its possession,” Pomaqli says. Then I interject by saying, “unless you’re overly confident in getting away with committing murder that you forget to cover your tracks.”
“Would Saxina be that foolish?” Walumaq asks.
“Not necessarily,” I say, “but if he delegated the task to someone like Amalu in an effort to put more distance between him and the criminal activity, that’s one more opportunity for a mistake to be made.”
“We should locate the weapon,” Pomaqli charges, “and identify its origin. There’s a storeroom nearby that should possess all the armaments used by the palace guards.”
“It also sounds like we have some questions to ask of Amalu,” Walumaq says, “before we venture off on this quest Saxina imposed upon us.”
“It seems this palace advisor might hold the key to this fiery little puzzle,” I say. “Let's pay him a visit, shall we? I'm sure he's just dying to tell us everything. It should be… illuminating.”
Without another word, the guards drag the three of us down the hallway, and I start to lose sensation in my arms from their unrelenting grip. We’re hurriedly marched away to some unknown, unspoken destination, uncertain what fate awaits us. Curiously, it is only Walumaq, the one endowed with supernatural powers, who seems rattled by our predicament, eyes wide and breaths coming in ragged gasps.
Deep down, I should’ve known better. I should’ve known this was a ludicrous plan, to sneak into the palace like thieves and assume we could get all the answers we needed in the span of a night, without any real direction or starting point. Did I honestly expect us to have some miraculous revelation the moment we stepped foot inside the palace? How could I let Pomaqli, some stranger, sway me so easily? Was he exploiting my eagerness to uncover the truth behind Limaqumtlia's murder, and had I naïvely fallen for his ruse?
No, that doesn’t seem like his particular way of operating. The emotionless warrior is well-trusted by Qumuna, a man I highly respect. Unless he’s plotted something several steps ahead of what I could possibly conceive, there’s no reason he would endanger himself and risk serving a punishment that would prevent him from continuing to serve the people of Qiapu. I recognize that I’m upset at our situation, getting caught by some sneering, slithering sycophant. Though he’s unfamiliar to me, he’s left no room for getting into my good graces with his introduction. Sure, we may have happened to trespass onto palace grounds, but where does he come off, right?
We take a rapid turn around a corner and I instantly know where we’re headed, somewhat relieved. Had we gone the other way, I would be certain the three of us would be placed in chains in the prison located deep within the chasm of the palace. Instead, our destination is the throne room, likely to be confronted by Saxina himself. My only solace is believing we can negotiate our way out of any harsh repercussions, regardless of the state I left our relationship in during my last visit. My hope is that he will forego anything dire due to the presence of the Sanqo princess in our company, believing—half-heartedly, I admit—he will resort to diplomacy in this instance.
The stifling, choking confines of the chamber mirrors the oppressive atmosphere thick with tension, and despite the night's chill, sweat beads on my skin. We're thrust to the ground, each of us reacting in our own way: Walumaq offers a quiet whimper, Pomaqli launches a futile struggle against our captors, and in the midst of it all, I find myself overcome by incredulous laughter at the absurdity of our predicament. For my trouble, I receive a swift punch to the side of my head, my ears ringing from the blow while my jaw clenches in response to the searing pain.
Flanked by a half dozen or so guards, Saxina enters the throne room with a loud yawn. His outfit has clearly been hurriedly thrown together for him: wearing no tunic nor headpiece, all that’s worn is a long, red and white cape and a plain, white loin cloth.
“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” I say, rewarded with another abrupt thump to my skull.
“At first, I couldn’t believe I was being awoken out of my peaceful slumber for a couple of intruders,” Saxina says, his voice sounding tired and hoarse. “When I found out dear Paxilche was one of the trespassers, I had to see for myself. Incredible!”
“Enough with the fake formalities,” I snap. Perhaps I’m exhausted, or I’m reminded of all of Saxina’s bloviating, but I just don’t want to hear any of it right now. I want to know what he plans to do with us and get this interaction over with. “You’ve caught us, so we are at your mercy, if you care to indulge us with what our consequences shall be.”
“Paxilche,” he says with mock disappointment, “that would be too easy! Too quick. You haven’t yet introduced me to your accomplices, although that one–“ he points to Pomaqli,” is certainly one I recall. Aren’t you supposed to be in Qumuna’s military detail? You returned all this way to be thrown into the cells with this one?” He punctuates the end of his sentence by indicating me with a lazy wave of the hand.
“I am acting on his orders,” he responds, maintaining his focus on the ground at Saxina’s feet, “and it is his instructions I am following.”
“Yes, yes,” Saxina says dismissively, “you’re as obedient as a hunting dog, tail wagging at the first scent of a command. And what are these instructions you’re following that meant breaking into the palace?”
“Qumuna did not instruct me to do such an action,” Pomaqli says, attempting to protect Qumuna and the esteemed general’s reputation, “and the matter will have to be discussed between the two of you.”
“You know I’m in command of the military, correct?” Saxina says rhetorically as a predator plays with its helpless prey. “So anything he orders must be run through me. I highly doubt I would want my sleep disturbed by having three imbeciles trespassing into my palace.”
In fairness to Pomaqli, he remains tight lipped, and I can now see the advantage to his well-practiced stoicism. A nearby guard pulls back as if ready to strike Pomaqli and beat an answer out of him, but Saxina waves a hand to halt such a proceeding.
“You, my dear,” Saxina now speaks to Walumaq. “It cannot be a coincidence that you wear the colors of the Sanqo. Who are you, and why are you here, with them?”
"I am Walumaq," she declares, her voice assuming a sudden and commanding authority, belying her youthful appearance with an air of experience, “daughter of the Sanqo ruler, Siunqi.”
“Ah, yes,” Saxina says. “I believe I heard stirrings about a Sanqo princess in Pichaqta, though I couldn’t fathom why such a person would be so far from home.”
“My story is quite simple, really,” Walumaq says, and I become more impressed with her the more she speaks—whereas she was frightened and timid moments earlier, she has seemingly assessed the situation and now has the gravitas of a seasoned noble or politician. “My father desires to establish trade with the factions of the continent, and to learn how we can more efficiently and effectively rebuild our nation. I took it upon myself to journey to the continent, and I was in Chalaqta, as a matter of fact, before continuing my travels to the south.”
“By yourself?” Saxina asks. While I was entranced by Walumaq’s ability to create her excuse so quickly and reflexively, Saxina’s attention to this detail causes my heart to sink, fearing he’s detected a lie. However, astonishingly, Walumaq appears prepared for this, replying almost instantaneously.
“The Sanqo are known for their independence,” she responds, “and it is a time-honored tradition of our nobility to send their children who are to soon come of age to travel the lands and embark on a journey of self-discovery. This is the only way, in our opinion, to expand our view of the world and foster resourcefulness. I decided I would conjoin this rite of passage with the mission of my father. I was fortunate to have encountered Qumuna on his way to the capital, and it was there he decided to send Pomaqli with me as a liaison, for protection on my journey to Pichaqta as well as any requests I may have.”
Being unfamiliar with Sanqo traditions, I’m uncertain if what she says is true. However, she speaks with such confidence that it’s difficult for me to say, with certainty, that she’s lying.
“You are quite the impressive, independent woman, indeed,” Saxina says, mildly amused. “That doesn’t explain why you trespassed onto the grounds at this time of night. And how you became connected with Paxilche.”
“Your guards refused us the moment they saw Paxilche,” she says. “You yourself mentioned hearing the stirrings, so you must be aware that we had attempted to approach formally and diplomatically, to which your arrogant officer at the main gate refused. You can ask him if I tell any untruths.”
“If they presented themselves as an envoy of Sanqo, there is absolutely no way we would have refused to receive the princess,“ the man who initially apprehended us says defensively.
“And yet, that is what took place,” Walumaq says, and it may me a trick of the light, but she appears grander in stature while, at the same time, Saxina and his irksome advisor wither and shrivel in place. “If you are genuinely appalled at our treatment and want to rectify the situation, then you must take the matter up with them and see to it this doesn’t happen again. Such disrespect for a Sanqo noble will not be tolerated by my father, that much is certain.”
The guards eye one another nervously as they watch their leader get scolded by an adolescent. This advisor—or whatever his relation to Saxina may be—begins pleading inaudibly, but Saxina holds up a single hand, and the man ceases his groveling.
“I will discuss this with my advisor and the palace officer in the morning,” Saxina says cooly, and I am immediately concerned upon hearing his tone, calm and calculating. “Yet you still have not answered why you were caught in a ritual chamber, with Paxilche nonetheless.”
“I met him at a tav-,” she says, correcting herself, “an inn. My travel was many days, and I was weary. So Pomaqli told me how the Qiapu have these places called ‘inns’ where a traveler may rest. I haven’t slept on something that wasn’t the ground in quite some time, so I took him up on the offer. And that is where I met Paxilche.”
I watch Saxina for any sign of his assessment over Walumaq’s alibi. He remains stone faced for a lengthy amount of time, and my quickening heart tries to break free from my chest. He reclines into his throne, at first in contemplation, then, to my relief, conceding in acceptance. Despite this, there’s something in his demeanor—I can’t quite place it—that is unsettling.
“Normally in such situations, we arrest the intruders and behead them as a sacrifice to Aqxilapu,” Saxina says in a disturbingly casual manner. The guards take this as their signal to apprehend us and carry us away, causing Walumaq to cry out an unintelligible plea in bewilderment while Pomaqli attempts to fight off his captors.
“However,” Saxina continues, his voice raised so as to be heard over the scuffle, “it has been brought to my attention that you three have achieved something that may be of great value to us. You can thank Aqxilapu for His mercy and blessing.”
The room falls into a hushed silence, anticipation palpable as Walumaq, Pomaqli, and I await with bated breath to learn of Saxina's plan for us.
“Our resident oral historians from Qantua tell us of a lost amulet worn by a great Tempered from many generations ago,” he begins. “Granted, there are many tales about our past rulers, but one that Amalu has reminded me of involves an amulet. That you three have stumbled upon such an item cannot be a coincidence.”
“What is the tale about the amulet?” Walumaq asks. I slump down, getting comfortable in preparation of a long-winded tale that will, eventually, lead to his point.
“The legend goes,” Saxina begins, easing back into the throne as he prepares to regale us with his storytelling, “that long ago, yet shortly after our land was formed by Aqxilapu, He received a higher calling, a greater purpose that required Him to leave the land He crafted. He was preparing to search for a predecessor worthy enough to sit atop the throne when, from Xutuina, an enormous monster, Ninaxu, emerged from the volcano. The giant, formed by lava flows that streamed down its body, grew as tall as the surrounding mountains, its claws digging into the soil to pull itself out from the mouth of the volcano. Its roar reverberated across not just Qiapu, but all of Pachil, and the residents grew worried that the end was near, that the world would be covered in molten lava.
“With all His might, Aqxilapu fought the creature, beating it down and back into the volcano from which it came with a flurry of blows. After a short period, however, His hands began to burn, His flesh becoming raw from the immense heat. He could no longer fight off the creature, and all of Pachil began to despair.”
Though I’m unamused, having heard this story countless times throughout my childhood, Saxina leans forward in his throne and speaks with a storyteller’s intensity, “it was then that a blacksmith, Iachanisqa, labored day and night, hammering and forging and bending and cutting and tempering and welding, until, finally, he crafted an amulet, the finest ever created. He then gathered every shaman in our land, and they traveled to Xutuina. With Aqxilapu’s guidance, they communed with the elemental spirits, beseeching them for a means to protect their people from the wrath of the restless volcano creature. He was able to harness the essence of the volcano and use its power against the creature, imprisoning it within the fiery depths.
“This was how our first ruler, whom we call the Tempered, came to be. Wearing the amulet, he, along with the shamans, present ritualistic sacrifices to the volcano to grant the Qiapu—and all of Pachil—safety. It’s unknown how the amulet disappeared, but if this is what I believe it to be, then Qiapu is sure to return to safety. The timing is excellent, since the next ritual was due to take place by the next full moon.”
“So now that the fireside tales have ended,” I say, beyond eager to be done with this place and find out what Saxina wants, “what is this supposed ‘great value’ we have provided you?”
“I want to determine if this is the amulet of legend,” he says. “And you are going to find out if it is.”
“How on Pachil are we to do that?” I ask, baffled by the absurd quest with which we’ve been tasked.
“There is a shaman in Qespina, to the south,” Saxina says. “He knows the ritual that must be conducted in connection to the amulet. Bring him here to Pichaqta so that he can perform the ritual at Xutuina, and if he succeeds, your lives will be spared. If not, well… hope that it doesn’t come to that.”
“He is to perform the ritual at the next full moon?” I ask, perplexed by this request.
“But that’s only a short time from now!” Walumaq says.
“Then you better move quickly,” Saxina says smugly.
“This is an unachievable task,” Pomaqli says. “The travel to Qespina alone will take days. Then to return to Pichaqta? Impossible!”
“I have faith that Aqxilapu will guide your way,” Saxina says. “And if He doesn’t, then He has clearly decided your fate.”
“The fate that caused him to have us reveal this amulet, but not care enough that we can retrieve this shaman in a timely manner,” I say, the ludicrous reasoning is not lost on me.
“He works in mysterious ways,” Saxina says condescendingly. “I trust in His plan.”
“When have you become so spiritual?” I ask Saxina. “I don’t ever recall you acting in this manner before.”
“Being the Tempered and receiving the teachings from our shamans has enlightened me to the wisdom and ways of Aqxilapu,” he says, and not for one moment do I believe in what he speaks. This is clearly all part of a greater scheme, acting the part of what the people believe a Tempered should be to win them over. He may have everyone else fooled, but he isn’t fooling me.
“Have you been so busy with receiving the shamans’ wisdom that you’ve been unable to continue the investigation into Limaqumtlia’s assassination?” I ask, tired of Saxina’s superciliousness and treating myself to a simple, small victory with a retaliatory remark. He doesn’t take kindly to my question, his smug smile turning into a sneer.
“Paxilche,” he says patronizingly, “this matter has already been discussed. The Ulxa plotted to murder Limaqumtlia, and we are making all the preparations to seek justice for his death, I assure you. I understand you are emotional over the loss of your brother, but what I don’t understand is why you continue to harp on this.”
“But how was the guard able to obtain the uniform?” I shout.
“He snuck into the barracks, stole the uniform and weapon, and infiltrated our ranks,” Saxina says, visibly annoyed. “The markings on his chest are indicative of the Ulxa, ergo the Ulxa assassinated your brother. There is nothing more to discuss.”
“How do you know?” I continue yelling my questions, as though the louder volume of my voice will get him to finally answer and stop avoiding the issue. However, to no one’s surprise, it doesn’t work.
“We were friends once, you and I,” I say as the guards begin to close in on us. “How could you be like this? Do you even recognize the face before you? We used to stand shoulder to shoulder, laughing at the world's absurdities and dreaming of a brighter future together. Our bond, forged through shared struggles and countless memories, was one I believed unbreakable. Yet here I am, vulnerable before you, and it's not the might of this throne room that intimidates me, but the icy gaze from a friend I once held dear. How did we come to this precipice? How could you forget our camaraderie so quickly and turn your heart to stone? Time might have diverged our paths, but the echoes of our shared history should not be silenced so quickly.”
“You’ve been given your task,” Saxina sighs, projecting his boredom with how the events are playing out, though I can see through the cracks in his armor that he’s restraining himself from speaking upon the emotions I laid before him. “I suggest you begin. That will be all.”
Saxina gets up from the throne, flings the cape around to cover his body, then strides out of the throne room. We’re flanked by guards, who escort us away, leaving behind a flummoxed Amalu, supposedly Saxina’s trusted advisor. He’s someone I’ve never seen before, and I’m curious how he achieved a high position of power so quickly, wondering which strings he pulled and whom he stepped over to reach such a height. Yet reflecting on Saxina’s rise to power, a lot doesn’t seem to make much sense anymore, and I have a rare flash of a thought where I entertain the idea that maybe greater forces are, in fact, in play.
“He’s insistent that the assassin is from Ulxa,” Walumaq says in a hushed tone to me and Pomaqli as we leave the chamber, “yet the marking is clearly from the Eye in the Flame, who may or may not be Ulxa. When I heard their grandiose speech before they executed that poor family, they only mentioned being ‘chosen by their ancestors’. That could implicate anyone. Why is he convinced otherwise?”
“We can find out if anyone in the ranks of palace guards knows,” Pomaqli says. “I know a number of men who could direct us to anyone who may have interacted with the assassin beforehand.”
“It won’t involve that dreadful officer we encountered at the front gate, will it?” Walumaq asks.
“No, not at all,” Pomaqli says, though I’m not immediately reassured.
“We can also look to see if they’ve kept anything from that day,” I propose, “as evidence—or even a trophy. We should take advantage of being inside the palace grounds, since I can’t say when we’ll have such an opportunity later.”
“Are you certain we’ll be given free rein of the palace?” Walumaq asks, a bit leery of our initial plan.
“Perhaps they will not do so willingly, but they will relent nonetheless—I’ll make sure of that,” Pomaqli says with a steely cool and calm that is, quite frankly, a bit intimidating, and I’m thankful he’s on our side.
“You make sense,” Walumaq says, though there’s hesitancy in her voice. “But why do you think the murder weapon would be kept? That’s quite a morbid thought. Are you suggesting someone in the palace plotted to kill your brother and hired the assassin from within the guards’ ranks?”
“I suppose we’ll discover whether or not that’s true,” I answer, although she’s correct, and it’s precisely what I’m suggesting. This is the second time now that I’ve directly confronted Saxina, and he’s instantly dismissed my theories without further explanation. Perhaps the matter is as simple as he claims, and the assailant was recruited by the Ulxa. Yet I’m skeptical of what he adamantly states is fact. The Ulxa don’t have, and never have, any grudges nor reason to attack the Qiapu, and it stands to reason that sparking a war between the two sides while both are still licking their wounds after defeating the Timuaq will only do further harm. There’s something Saxina is not saying, and I have my suspicions that he has some ulterior motive he’s keeping to himself.
Once we’re removed from the palace, the guards no longer have interest in us, stopping at the opulent entryway lined with elaborately decorated columns and leaving us on our own as they return inside. Pomaqli motions for us to follow him, heading toward another, separate stone building close to the perimeter walls to the west. Our way is barely illuminated by the glow of the moon, and our presence grabs the occasional attention from one of the patrolling warriors. We’re not intending to be stealthy—Pomaqli strides past many of the onlookers—and I’m amazed how effective it is to walk somewhere with enough confidence that you’re not questioned about where you’re going.
As we enter the building, a plethora of guards stand about aimlessly, gawking at us as when we walk in. Pomaqli searches the room, casting his eyes left and right quickly, then gives up and hollers at no one in particular, “where is your commanding officer?”
After a few shared stares and an awkward silence, a gangly young man in an ill-fitted armor and helmet stands and eventually responds, “h-he’s in the back, but he’s–“
Before the boy has a chance to finish his reply, Pomaqli charges toward the back of the room, and Walumaq and I hurriedly follow behind. A foul odor of unwashed bodies strikes my nostrils as we swim through those milling about the room well lit by numerous torches.
The room in back is tiny and narrow, barely large enough to accommodate the three of us and the officer we’re to meet. Only two torches hang on opposite walls, with more of the generated light coming from the neighboring room. Seated at a large table that occupies most of the space is a burly figure, who swells into his clothing and armor as though he’s borrowing the garments of a much smaller man. His helmet rests close by, plunked on its side, and I notice his significant lack of piercings compared to Pomaqli.
“Your guards,” Pomaqli snaps. “Who had orders to oversee the Tempered and receive him at the palace gates?”
“Who are you?” the bewildered official asks. “Who allowed you to barge into here?”
“I seek answers, not permission,” Pomaqli says, speaking over the officer. “If you hold any allegiance to Qiapu, you will assist me in this matter. I come on behalf of truth, and it would be wise not to impede me in my pursuit.”
The official stares at him, taken aback by the direct manner spoken to him. I can sense he wants to say some retort, but he’s left without any words and resorts to answering Pomaqli with silence. Pomaqli, for his part, shows little emotion and waits patiently for a response. He’s eventually rewarded when a lower-ranking officer, judging by the close number of piercings he wears compared to the other official, speaks up from behind us, in defiance of the silent treatment.
“Aselo and Hietlo,” he says flatly. “They were in charge of organizing the roster that would protect the slain Tempered, and they’re both present. I can lead you to them.”
The other official attempts to protest, but is immediately shown a dismissive hand by Pomaqli, and the man falls silent. I’m stunned by the obedience, and I wonder if Pomaqli’s rank is much greater than I had thought, given how abruptly circumstances have changed.
Big bouts of laughter erupt from a group of guards huddled together a distance away from the building. They’re all surprisingly young—not much older than those amassed inside the place we just left—but two prominently stand apart from the rest, thanks to their embellished armor and multiple piercings. Though not as decorated as other officials I’ve seen, they still wear a minimal amount of black-and-white geometric patters on the outside of their metallic armor, signifying the amount of experience they possess over those gathered around them, albeit relatively minimal. The pair work in tandem as they tell jokes and entertain the warriors, and considering the jovial banter, you would be forgiven if you saw them and suddenly forgot the Qiapu are preparing to go to war.
“Hietlo and Aselo,” Pomaqli barks, and the two decorated warriors cut short their storytelling to see who calls to them. Pomaqli marches toward them, maintaining his signature emotionless demeanor, and stops short of colliding with them, his face disquietingly close to the two men.
“The day of Limaqumtlia’s murder,” he starts right in, forgoing any niceties. “Where were you, and what occurred that day?”
The two men stare at one another for a moment, caught off guard by the directness of Pomaqli’s inquiry. They look over at the young officer for guidance in handling this situation, but only receive an awkward and nervous nod.
“We were in charge of the late Tempered’s security detail,” one of the men recounts. “There was some shuffling around in the roster, as we were notified of including additional guards. We–“
“Who notified you?” Pomaqli asks sharply.
“I believe it was Amalu,” the other one says, more nervous than his compatriot. “Said he received word from Qumuna to include–“
“Qumuna would not have pulled rank to alter an existing roster,” Pomaqli says. “He puts his trust in those assigned roles and wouldn’t micromanage, for better or worse.”
Though Pomaqli is quick to dismiss the claim that Qumuna was involved in tampering with the roster, I keep it in the back of my mind to ask Amalu about this. I don’t expect a direct answer, nor a truthful one, but it’s a piece of information to use for the next time I see him.
“Tell me about the warriors who were added,” Pomaqli says. “Who were they and where were they from?”
“They were from Pichaqta…” one says, thinking about his response before adding, “Oh, except one of the warriors. He had a very odd way of speaking, like he had a lisp or hissed his words. And he possessed a strange weapon. It wasn’t standard issue, but I can’t tell from where it was crafted.”
“Was it a weapon from Ulxa?” Pomaqli inquires, beginning to lessen the severity in his interrogation.
“No, it was from somewhere else,” the other official says, struggling to recall the detail. “I hadn’t seen anything like it before, but it certainly didn’t look like a southern faction’s weapon. Most likely it was forged in the north. I found it odd and went to question it, but Amalu left abruptly, and before we knew it, we were hearing that the late Tempered was approaching the city. We had to organize quickly, and our orders were to meet at the city walls and escort the nobles and the late Tempered to the palace. That’s when… well, you know the rest.”
Pomaqli thanks them for their time and hastily walks away, nodding to the young officer who escorted us here as he rejoins and ushers us to a more private area on the grounds.
“‘Northern crafted?” Walumaq asks. “How could they tell?”
“We may not be great at many things,” I say, “but Qiapu are excellent in our ability to mine and forge weapons. We take exceptional pride in our ability to know everything about weaponry: how to forge them, where they were forged, the best techniques in crafting and using them. Each factions has a particular way in which they forge their weapons—a signature trait, if you will.”
“The southern factions,” Pomaqli adds, “being the Ulxa and Qiapu, are noted to use obsidian and bronze materials when forging. The north doesn’t have access to such materials, so they use other metals, and embellish their weapons with different gemstones and decorative flourishes. The jungle factions like the Achope and Tuatiu tend to use bow and arrows more frequently, as well.”
“Do you think the weapon is still on the palace grounds?” Walumaq asks.
“It would be foolish to maintain its possession,” Pomaqli says. Then I interject by saying, “unless you’re overly confident in getting away with committing murder that you forget to cover your tracks.”
“Would Saxina be that foolish?” Walumaq asks.
“Not necessarily,” I say, “but if he delegated the task to someone like Amalu in an effort to put more distance between him and the criminal activity, that’s one more opportunity for a mistake to be made.”
“We should locate the weapon,” Pomaqli charges, “and identify its origin. There’s a storeroom nearby that should possess all the armaments used by the palace guards.”
“It also sounds like we have some questions to ask of Amalu,” Walumaq says, “before we venture off on this quest Saxina imposed upon us.”
“It seems this palace advisor might hold the key to this fiery little puzzle,” I say. “Let's pay him a visit, shall we? I'm sure he's just dying to tell us everything. It should be… illuminating.”
