As the whirlwind of recent events casts a disorienting haze over my thoughts, the intensity in Qane's eyes tells a story darker than the approaching dusk. Fortunately for me, the young Tapeu palace guard, assigned to me by Nuqasiq, is nervous enough for the two of us, allowing me to focus on not exerting myself unnecessarily. Though I’ve gradually regained my strength the further we get from the Qapauma palace, each step still requires an extraordinary amount of effort. Yet believe me when I say that I cannot move fast enough to get away from that haunting, dreaded place.
My confrontation, and subsequent abuse, at the hands of Anqatil leave me reeling, both physically and emotionally. I have difficulty discerning whether the encounter was in reality or a terrible nightmare. With the exception of our introductions in front of my father in Chopaqte, Anqatil’s attitude and demeanor toward me has been cold ever since we’ve met each other. Even so, her vitriol and complete disgust for me would make one believe I had done something irreparably to her and her family.
Then my mind recalls a comment seemingly thrown away, as though it was common knowledge to everyone inside the prison cell:
“So you know this is your granddaughter,” Anqatil had said to Nuqasiq, as a statement of fact. And that there was an arrangement between Achutli and my father, Suntu. Except… he’s not my father after all; it’s Achutli. Anqatil spoke of a prophecy, that, supposedly, the Arbiter will be betrayed by his own blood and lose his throne. Am I what was prophesied?
Reflecting on the matter causes my head to spin, and the lightheadedness makes me stumble over my own feet. Qane is there to catch me, his perpetual look of concern now focused on me.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to convince him—and, apparently, myself.
“We’re almost to the gate,” he says breathlessly. “Do you know this person we’re supposed to be meeting?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. It’s probably for the best, in case anyone is curious why a young Qapauma palace guard is carrying a wounded Achope girl.”
“No disrespect meant, quraqa,” he says, his voice a bit strained while he supports me as we walk, “but I’ll be relieved when I don’t have to lug you around out in the open.”
“Disrespect taken,” I quip, trying to infuse some humor into the situation. Although I aim for a light-hearted chuckle, the pain makes even breathing a chore, leading me to a fit of coughs instead.
The Gates of Ipa are just beyond the limits of Qapauma, standing four stories high and made of large, jagged, gray stones. The humongous opening is fortified with two thick wooden doors that, thanks to Atima ingenuity, require an elaborate chain mechanism to open and close. On either side are stone walls that stretch in opposite directions: One heads to the west toward the mountains, while the other stretches toward the shore far off in the distance to the east. Mirroring the formidable breadth and might of a mountain, they are virtually impregnable. With a narrow pass to the west and Timuaq forces concentrated to the south, the only way the rebels were able to attack Qapauma was by ship—an arduous task, but one that surprisingly resulted in a major success for the people of Pachil.
Now that the war is long over, the northern gates remain open, permitting traders to travel freely to and from Qapauma. The guards stationed here seem to be drowning in sheer boredom. They entertain themselves with impassioned debates or telling one another jokes, enjoying the calm, cool evening and not paying any attention to those making their way on the nearby path. I’m grateful for this, allowing Qane and me to walk relatively unnoticed by any curious onlookers.
After traversing the dense wooden door and passing through the grand gates, a man wearing a dark blue cloak stands, barely illuminated by the torches nearby, an unmoving presence amidst the bustling traffic that flows around him. His facial features are shrouded in shadow, and his physique is masked by his loose clothing. As we approach, he remains as still as the base of the stone structure upon which he casually leans.
Qane mutters, “I don’t like the look of this. That person seems suspicious.”
“I’m not sure we have much of a choice,” I say while I grimace with every other step.
"We can simply turn around and head back to the palace," he suggests, rather thoughtlessly. As I come to an abrupt stop, he almost loses his grip on me. He glances back in surprise, only to see my gaze firmly conveying just how preposterous I find his proposal.
As we approach, the man pulls back his hood, unveiling a warm, radiant smile. He jovially declares, "Ah, so you're the travelers I've heard so much about." His sharp, small eyes twinkle, the crow’s feet deepening on his weathered face with his beaming expression. Qane looks warily at the man with gray hair cropped so close to the scalp it is little more than a shadowy stubble, save for one lone, long braid of gray hair that cascades over his shoulder.
“Who told you what about us?” Qane asks simply, and I feel him gripping me tighter as we interact with the mysterious figure.
“Why, our Queen Mother!” the man exclaims. There’s something off about his remark, as though he’s performing in front of an audience, despite the bored guards close by paying us no mind. “I was told a beautiful Achope princess was being escorted by a dashing, young guard, to visit and inspect the bountiful land just beyond the walls. Come! Come! Allow me to show you the wonders of the Tapeu plains!”
Qane continues to monitor the man skeptically, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Though I’m also wary of the man’s intentions, I feel there’s little we can do other than follow him.
“We should be alert to possible deception,” I mutter discreetly to Qane. “He could be leading us to be ambushed by robbers. We’ll need to proceed with caution.”
“I am twenty steps ahead of you, Quraqa Haesan,” he says, patting his sheathed sword. I have never witnessed Qane in combat, and I’m uncertain of the very young man’s experience with a weapon compared to this stranger, assuming the person before us is a much more capable fighter, based on his appearance. However, the older gentleman doesn’t seem bothered nor threatened; his demeanor is calm and relaxed, showing great patience for us as we try to determine any threats he may pose.
“Nuqasiq wouldn’t put us in the hands of someone with ill intent,” I say, more so to convince myself that we’re safe more than anything. Qane doesn’t appear to believe me, but reluctantly aids me in walking toward the man anyway.
We’re led further beyond the gates and out of sight of the guards, off the path and through a field of tall, golden grass. Our lack of visibility to the guards is initially troubling as we enter the dark landscape, but with their indifference to all of the bustling activity, our safety was never going to be a concern of theirs. I continue to tell myself that Nuqasiq wouldn’t willingly put us in harm’s way, like repeating a sacred mantra or solemn oath.
As we round a gentle hill in the countryside, a column of white smoke ascends amidst a cluster of white tents that come into view. Clad in deep blue and silver tunics, individuals bustle about the campgrounds, too immersed in a myriad of tasks to notice our arrival, even at this late time of day. Viscachas and deer are brought to the fire, ready to be skinned and cooked for the night’s meal, while others sift through baskets brimming with berries and nuts. Skilled hands weave long blankets in vibrant shades of red and blue, artisans craft wood into elegant bowls and containers, and near the fire, the air is filled with the warm hum of lively conversations.
“Welcome to Qelantu Loh!” the man says excitedly, presenting the settlement with exaggerated flourish. I search my memory, but the name doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before, as does the language.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I say as we progress through the tent village, “but where is that name from? It doesn’t sound to be from Tapeu, nor any of the other languages I know.”
“Oh, you know many languages?” he says with a smile, in a half-playful, half-mocking sort of way—I can’t discern the statement’s intent. “This is but a humble settlement, filled with the best and brightest Atima refugees in all of Pachil.”
“Atima?” I say, bewildered by their presence here.
He cheerfully replies, “Why, yes, my dear! We didn’t go extinct! Well, not entirely, I suppose.”
“Why are the Atima camped out here, outside of Qapauma?” I inquire, genuinely curious.
“Sure, there are Atima refugees in Aimue and Qantua,” he responds, “but we didn’t want to be contained within the walls of someone else’s city. We enjoy our independence, however that has been achieved. And this is a great location and a great life! We are within close proximity to intercept traders traveling between Qapauma and the villages in Aimue so we can present much more lucrative offers before they’re swindled by Tapeu merchants.”
“Spoken as if you were Achope, not Atima,” I say, noticing the opportunistic business acumen.
“The tents are no replacement for permanent homes,” Qane grumbles.
I’m uncertain whether Qane intended to be heard or was speaking only to himself, but the man replies anyway, saying, “Where you see permanence in stones and mortar, I see it in the heartbeat of our community and the embrace of the land.”
I can’t help but chuckle at the combination of the retort and Qane’s gaping mouth in reaction to it. Knowing their history, this man’s assessment of the Atima and how they’ve persevered is most certainly sound. Perhaps it’s his disarming attitude, but I find myself respecting this supposed friend of Nuqasiq.
We arrive at a modest tent in the middle of this settlement, unadorned and indistinguishable from the surrounding shelters. The man grabs a torch close by and brings it inside. There, the number of possessions that appear through the low light of a torch is also modest, containing only a single bedroll and a sack bursting at the seams with clothing and other woven textiles. There are a few wooden bowls scattered about, and in the opposite corner, a spear is propped upon the canvas wall.
The man approaches and offers to assist me in making my way to the bedroll. Qane is hesitant to allow this, at first, but ultimately concedes, and the two men lower me onto the comfortable bed of straw and grasses, crinkling as I’m placed upon it. The man retrieves two more textile mats and places them on the dirt ground, sitting on the one furthest from the tent’s opening. Qane casts a dubious glance at the mat, but eventually yields and takes a seat.
“Now that we’re well out of range of curious ears, allow me to introduce myself,” the man says as he finds a seat on a blanket on the ground. “I am Chalqo, whose footprints span across distant lands and whose voice carries legends of old. Tales and whispers might have crossed your path about me, but I assure you, the reality is far more enthralling.”
While Qane looks completely unamused, I find the introduction delightfully enchanting. Even in the shaded confines of the tent, Chalqo’s light brown eyes glint as he boastfully speaks about himself.
Not swayed by his charm, Qane focuses on the matter at hand, asking, “How were you made aware of our arrival? There wasn’t much time from when Quraqa Haesan and I left the… palace… and traveled here.”
“Right you are, my astute guardian!” Chalqo says. “Fortunately, on the wings of quetzals, a messenger sent by Nuqasiq flew with great speed to notify me that I was to receive a very valuable guest and her exceptionally intuitive companion. I would surmise that the resourceful and resilient Nuqasiq dispatched this messenger before carrying out her task, as that's what any truly wise and intelligent person would naturally do.”
Each time Chalqo speaks, I have trouble determining whether his compliments are heartfelt or merely veiled jabs. His effusive demeanor further muddies the waters, and judging by Qane's puzzled look, he too is uncertain if he's been praised or slighted. I can see how Nuqasiq would get along with such a person.
“Now, I understand you’ve had quite a harrowing adventure, to put it lightly,” he says. “Therefore, I propose we allow Lady Haesan to rest and recover while you,” he then pats Qane on his shoulder with a loud thwap, “can put your muscular physique to good use in the meantime, assisting us with cleaning the animals and preparing them for tonight’s meal.”
“But, I don’t know how to do any of that,” Qane quietly protests.
“Not to worry, my boy!” Chalqo says. “You seem like a quick learner, so I’m as confident as jaguar stalking its prey in the moonlight that you’ll be able to pick up the skill in no time!”
Chalqo guides the hapless Qane out of the tent, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am surrounded by stillness. Though hesitant to declare myself secure and safe, I give in to my exhaustion and allow myself to momentarily relax. The commotion of activity taking place outside, the footsteps and occasional chatter, are like a soothing lullaby as I drift off to sleep.
I awake to the sounds of someone entering the tent. Shrieking, I bolt up from the bed roll and see a shadowy silhouette shushing me as it approaches. Flashbacks to the dark prison cell flood my mind, seeing Anqatil and the mechanisms she used to inflict pain upon me. Her face, twisted with anger, grabs the device and prepares to remove another toenail, stating how I am a blight on the Arbiter’s reign and that she will eradicate this infection once and for all.
“You must be purged,” she says.
“You must be purged…”
“Purged…”
I scream out in horror, causing Qane to charge into the tent with a torch in one hand while the other rests on his sword’s hilt. Illuminated by the torchlight, Nuqasiq's concerned face breaks through the darkness, like a harbor emerging amidst a storm.
“Haesan!” she gasps, rushing over to console me, cradling me in her arms. Qane breathes a sigh of relief, and Chalqo arrives with his face showing a slight panic—the first time I’ve seen him not appear merry.
“My sincerest apologies, Lady Haesan,” Chalqo says. “You’ve been asleep for nearly an entire day, so I didn’t realize your slumber could be disturbed. Lady Nuqasiq just wanted to check on you to see how you were faring, but I should have been better prepared for any visitors while you were resting.”
“It’s okay,” I say as I attempt to catch my breath. “I didn’t realize I would have a reaction like that.” An entire day? Was I truly that fatigued?
“It’s understandable, my child,” Nuqasiq says, releasing her embrace to look at me, sorrow and sympathy in her eyes. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
She rests a hand on mine, and I find her touch soothing as my heart gradually stops racing. She looks at the two men and requests a moment alone with me, to which they graciously oblige. Before departing, Qane says he will be posted just outside the tent if we need anything.
“He has a good heart,” Nuqasiq says. “Praise the Eleven for providing us his protection.”
With my breathing steadied, I’m able to adjust my posture and sit up straight, shifting myself around to face Nuqasiq directly. She hasn’t made any effort to conceal her status of importance, wearing numerous gold bracelets, earrings, and necklaces embedded with various precious stones, and her blue dress is long and flowing like a gently cascading waterfall—not form-fitted as so many in Tapeu wear their clothing. She wears a jade-adorned golden headband, glimmering in the torchlight, which struggles to hold back her white mane of hair.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice calm and maternalistic, before clarifying, “Physically, at least.”
"Better," I muster weakly, scarcely aware of how many muscles ache after the arduous trek from Qapauma to this place. “My foot is still in incredible pain, but Chalqo seems to have bandaged it while I was asleep. I must’ve been too exhausted at the time to notice him tending to my injury.”
“Chalqo is adept at numerous tasks,” she says. “He’s ventured near and far, picking up skills as he’s traversed the land.”
“How did you meet Chalqo?” I ask.
She exhales a puff of air as she tries to recall, then replies, “It’s been so long since I’ve had to remember such a thing. I believe his band of performers traveled to my village once upon a time, and we became fast friends.”
“He’s a performer?” I echo. “That explains a lot.” She giggles at this in the way she does, hand up to her mouth in an effort to conceal it.
“He is certainly not subtle,” she says before chuckling once again. “The Qantua have their quipus, but the Atima much prefer oral tradition. Chalqo, however, prefers to do so flamboyantly. I don’t believe he knows any other way to be.”
There’s a break in the conversation, as both of our gazes drift off into that place where one daydreams, ghostly figures reenacting scenes from memory or imagination. With my mind’s eye, I can envision a young Nuqasiq and a young Chalqo, his debonair looks to match his demeanor, while she is nothing short of resplendent.
I return my attention to her and see her face overwhelmed with melancholy, something I haven’t seen from her, even when we briefly parted ways at the edge of Qapauma. Even in sorrow, she is beautiful, as her eyes glisten in the dim light like two polished obsidian stones.
“What’s on your mind, Nuqasiq?”
She sniffles and wipes her eyes. Then, after a deep breath, she says, “I must tell you about your past. About where you come from. Or, at least, what I know of it. Though I lack all of the pieces, I believe it will explain a lot, particularly the events from before.”
“You mean,” I say, staggering my breath as I recall the exchange between her and Anqatil, “about… being your granddaughter?”
“And that the Arbiter… is my father?” I say the words as though it’s a new food I’m tasting for the first time, and she nods in response. The reality of this news is still difficult to comprehend, and I feel a numbness as the words echo inside my head.
The Arbiter is your father.
The Arbiter is your father.
He left you in the hands of someone who was going to murder you, as if it was just another chore to complete.
The Arbiter is your father, and would not have thought twice about your death.
“And that Anqatil declared the blood of the Arbiter would be the reason he lost the throne?” I say. Once again, Nuqasiq somberly nods.
“Is that… that why you traveled to Chopaqte? To make sure she didn’t kill me there?”
“Partly,” she says. “I feared what would be done to you, and I had determined that if she was, in fact, seeking to harm you, you’d fare better if you were under my surveillance.”
“Is that why I was returned to Qapauma? And the reason for the loose excuse of etiquette lessons?”
“Partly,” she says again. “There was a greater chance of her obstructing the arrangement if I couldn’t intervene. But also to provide me with the opportunity to finally get to know you, see who you’ve become. I would have done it sooner, visited sooner, but it could’ve potentially exposed the truth, and thus Achutli would never have allowed it. Yet, with recent developments, I no longer cared what he forbade me to do.”
I’m somewhat touched by this, and where I feel I should be upset—by having an actual relative not attempting to visit me and inform me of the truth sooner—instead I believe I understand the circumstances. Having spent my life around nobility, reputation and perceptions are valued greater than precious gems, and there are numerous pitfalls in which one can find themselves if they don’t take care. Maybe I should resent Nuqasiq for waiting so long to see her granddaughter, but I’m too overwhelmed by the realization that my own father didn’t want me, then wanted me dead.
“What was the arrangement? And who was it between?”
“Before the War of Liberation—though its conception was eminent and the impending battles close to being fought,” she begins, “Achutli recognized what his role would be during the conflict. He was only one of a few from the Maqanuiache deemed worthy enough of leading warriors on the battlefield, and he would be away for the duration of the war. He wanted to ensure that you would receive all the affection and care you deserved, as well as the best education that could be afforded to you. This led him to consult with Suntu and Polan, who graciously accepted you. Considering everything you’ve just experienced, it will surprise you when I say that he was genuinely well-intentioned.”
She’s correct: I do find that difficult to believe. The recent events have informed me of what his intentions genuinely are. Even if he was initially well-meaning, any goodwill has now been lost.
“He never asked you to raise me?” I question.
“I was a widow, and he wanted a father and mother to raise you. Also, frankly, he doesn’t care for me, doesn’t care for my beliefs. He would be concerned with how I would raise his child, and since he resents how I raised him, it was an easy decision for him to make.”
I’m taken aback that someone would do this to their own mother. No matter what his intentions originally were, it doesn’t replace the present reality that he is willing to mistreat his family.
“What changed? How did I remain in Achope?”
“At some point,” says Nuqasiq, “perhaps through desperation as the war dragged on and no end nor victory was in sight, he consulted a well-respected prophet, which is where he learned of this ridiculous prophecy pertaining to his rule. Furthermore, when he became the Arbiter, he was faced with conceptualizing his lineage and succession. The mere fact that he would be succeeded by a woman greatly displeased him. Adding to that, the tale regarding his blood betraying him meant he no longer desired a family, whether that was one he already had or creating a new one.
“Thus, he made an arrangement with Suntu, the details of which, as you can imagine, were not shared with me. It wasn’t until the war ended, and when he was declared the Arbiter, that Achutli truly changed. Power corrupts, and though it’s supposed to be a temporary title until all the factions can lift themselves up from the ashes and restore their ways of life, I’ve never gotten a sense that he intends to relinquish the throne.”
Her willingness to openly discuss these matters—about her son, my history and lineage, the state of Tapeu and Pachil—initially astounds me. It’s a lot of new information to take in, and a lot of the truths I’ve believed all my life have become undone. I feel a mixture of anger, shock, and sorrow, mourning the life I once had that can no longer be.
“So, I’m not Achope—I’m actually Tapeu?” I ponder aloud. This particular realization is alarming, forcing me to confront everything I am, everything with which I’ve identified, everything I’ve been raised to be. Who am I? I should not have gone down this path, as I can feel myself spiraling out of control. Hoping to prevent the ensuing existential crisis, I divert my attention back to the conversation.
“What about my mother? Where is she, and why could she not raise me?”
“I never knew who your mother was,” Nuqasiq says with a sigh of disappointment. “One moment, my son is childless, and then the next, he’s cradling you in his arms. Not once did he ever bring up her name, and he’s never shared it with me no matter how much I’ve pressed him for it. I’ve been searching all your life for any indication of who she may have been, to understand why she left you to Achutli, but it’s been a fruitless endeavor, I’m afraid.”
“So I’ve been abandoned by both of my parents,” I say, dejected. “In the span of a day, I’ve gone from having two parents, one of whom may have actually cared about me—although perhaps that’s all a fabrication—to having two parents that want nothing to do with me. Excellent.”
“Haesan,” Nuqasiq says, clutching my shoulders with a gentle squeeze as she looks at me directly with her bright, brown eyes, “I know this is a heavy burden to bear, and unfortunately, I can't change the past. But please know that you're not alone in this. Sometimes, family is more than blood—it's the bonds we forge through love and understanding. Your worth isn't defined by the choices your parents made, but by the person you are. And you, my dear, are someone deserving of love and care."
Perhaps it’s the exhaustion from my dealings with Anqatil, or the weight of everything I’ve just learned, but all I can do is bury my face into Nuqasiq’s chest and sob, releasing all the tension and pain I’ve experienced not only during my time in Qapauma, but from everything that did and did not happen to me in my lifetime. The confusion, hate, fury, depression, I release it all in large bursts of sobs.
In Nuqasiq's embrace, the past and present converge, granting me a fleeting respite from the storm of emotions. Each tear that falls is a testament to my journey, a symbol of both vulnerability and strength. And in this moment, amidst the anguish, I find a hint of solace, a soft whisper of hope that things might, one day, be better.
Once I settle myself, I straighten my dress and adjust my hair, brushing aside the stray strands. She holds my shoulders and allows a subtle, commiserating smile to crack the corners of her mouth.
“I’m afraid I must go,” she says. “Though I wish nothing more than to stay and answer any other questions you may have, my disappearance will be looked upon with suspicion, and it’s a long way back to Qapauma from here.”
I nod in understanding, but I’ll admit I’m disappointed and sad to see her leave me. She may be the first family member who sincerely cares for my wellbeing, and I want to bask in that love and care for as long as I can.
“What are we going to do now, about Achutli, Anqatil… everyone?” I ask.
“We will need allies, and we will need a plan,” Nuqasiq says. “I have contacts, friends who have evaded the shadows of the past, much like Chalqo. We'll seek them out, rally support, and confront the challenges that lie ahead together.”
She takes a deep breath, as if drawing strength from the world around us. In a gentle voice, she says before she departs, “The truth is always a double-edged sword, Haesan. It has the power to free us, but also to cut deeply. Your path has never been simple, nor will it be going forward. But first, you must decide which path you wish to walk, knowing the weight it carries.”
The wind rustles the tall grasses in the nearby plains, the world seemingly holding its breath for my answer. But for now, I can only respond to her with silence, the weight of the revelations still settling in my heart.
As the whirlwind of recent events casts a disorienting haze over my thoughts, the intensity in Qane's eyes tells a story darker than the approaching dusk. Fortunately for me, the young Tapeu palace guard, assigned to me by Nuqasiq, is nervous enough for the two of us, allowing me to focus on not exerting myself unnecessarily. Though I’ve gradually regained my strength the further we get from the Qapauma palace, each step still requires an extraordinary amount of effort. Yet believe me when I say that I cannot move fast enough to get away from that haunting, dreaded place.
My confrontation, and subsequent abuse, at the hands of Anqatil leave me reeling, both physically and emotionally. I have difficulty discerning whether the encounter was in reality or a terrible nightmare. With the exception of our introductions in front of my father in Chopaqte, Anqatil’s attitude and demeanor toward me has been cold ever since we’ve met each other. Even so, her vitriol and complete disgust for me would make one believe I had done something irreparably to her and her family.
Then my mind recalls a comment seemingly thrown away, as though it was common knowledge to everyone inside the prison cell:
“So you know this is your granddaughter,” Anqatil had said to Nuqasiq, as a statement of fact. And that there was an arrangement between Achutli and my father, Suntu. Except… he’s not my father after all; it’s Achutli. Anqatil spoke of a prophecy, that, supposedly, the Arbiter will be betrayed by his own blood and lose his throne. Am I what was prophesied?
Reflecting on the matter causes my head to spin, and the lightheadedness makes me stumble over my own feet. Qane is there to catch me, his perpetual look of concern now focused on me.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to convince him—and, apparently, myself.
“We’re almost to the gate,” he says breathlessly. “Do you know this person we’re supposed to be meeting?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. It’s probably for the best, in case anyone is curious why a young Qapauma palace guard is carrying a wounded Achope girl.”
“No disrespect meant, quraqa,” he says, his voice a bit strained while he supports me as we walk, “but I’ll be relieved when I don’t have to lug you around out in the open.”
“Disrespect taken,” I quip, trying to infuse some humor into the situation. Although I aim for a light-hearted chuckle, the pain makes even breathing a chore, leading me to a fit of coughs instead.
The Gates of Ipa are just beyond the limits of Qapauma, standing four stories high and made of large, jagged, gray stones. The humongous opening is fortified with two thick wooden doors that, thanks to Atima ingenuity, require an elaborate chain mechanism to open and close. On either side are stone walls that stretch in opposite directions: One heads to the west toward the mountains, while the other stretches toward the shore far off in the distance to the east. Mirroring the formidable breadth and might of a mountain, they are virtually impregnable. With a narrow pass to the west and Timuaq forces concentrated to the south, the only way the rebels were able to attack Qapauma was by ship—an arduous task, but one that surprisingly resulted in a major success for the people of Pachil.
Now that the war is long over, the northern gates remain open, permitting traders to travel freely to and from Qapauma. The guards stationed here seem to be drowning in sheer boredom. They entertain themselves with impassioned debates or telling one another jokes, enjoying the calm, cool evening and not paying any attention to those making their way on the nearby path. I’m grateful for this, allowing Qane and me to walk relatively unnoticed by any curious onlookers.
After traversing the dense wooden door and passing through the grand gates, a man wearing a dark blue cloak stands, barely illuminated by the torches nearby, an unmoving presence amidst the bustling traffic that flows around him. His facial features are shrouded in shadow, and his physique is masked by his loose clothing. As we approach, he remains as still as the base of the stone structure upon which he casually leans.
Qane mutters, “I don’t like the look of this. That person seems suspicious.”
“I’m not sure we have much of a choice,” I say while I grimace with every other step.
"We can simply turn around and head back to the palace," he suggests, rather thoughtlessly. As I come to an abrupt stop, he almost loses his grip on me. He glances back in surprise, only to see my gaze firmly conveying just how preposterous I find his proposal.
As we approach, the man pulls back his hood, unveiling a warm, radiant smile. He jovially declares, "Ah, so you're the travelers I've heard so much about." His sharp, small eyes twinkle, the crow’s feet deepening on his weathered face with his beaming expression. Qane looks warily at the man with gray hair cropped so close to the scalp it is little more than a shadowy stubble, save for one lone, long braid of gray hair that cascades over his shoulder.
“Who told you what about us?” Qane asks simply, and I feel him gripping me tighter as we interact with the mysterious figure.
“Why, our Queen Mother!” the man exclaims. There’s something off about his remark, as though he’s performing in front of an audience, despite the bored guards close by paying us no mind. “I was told a beautiful Achope princess was being escorted by a dashing, young guard, to visit and inspect the bountiful land just beyond the walls. Come! Come! Allow me to show you the wonders of the Tapeu plains!”
Qane continues to monitor the man skeptically, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Though I’m also wary of the man’s intentions, I feel there’s little we can do other than follow him.
“We should be alert to possible deception,” I mutter discreetly to Qane. “He could be leading us to be ambushed by robbers. We’ll need to proceed with caution.”
“I am twenty steps ahead of you, Quraqa Haesan,” he says, patting his sheathed sword. I have never witnessed Qane in combat, and I’m uncertain of the very young man’s experience with a weapon compared to this stranger, assuming the person before us is a much more capable fighter, based on his appearance. However, the older gentleman doesn’t seem bothered nor threatened; his demeanor is calm and relaxed, showing great patience for us as we try to determine any threats he may pose.
“Nuqasiq wouldn’t put us in the hands of someone with ill intent,” I say, more so to convince myself that we’re safe more than anything. Qane doesn’t appear to believe me, but reluctantly aids me in walking toward the man anyway.
We’re led further beyond the gates and out of sight of the guards, off the path and through a field of tall, golden grass. Our lack of visibility to the guards is initially troubling as we enter the dark landscape, but with their indifference to all of the bustling activity, our safety was never going to be a concern of theirs. I continue to tell myself that Nuqasiq wouldn’t willingly put us in harm’s way, like repeating a sacred mantra or solemn oath.
As we round a gentle hill in the countryside, a column of white smoke ascends amidst a cluster of white tents that come into view. Clad in deep blue and silver tunics, individuals bustle about the campgrounds, too immersed in a myriad of tasks to notice our arrival, even at this late time of day. Viscachas and deer are brought to the fire, ready to be skinned and cooked for the night’s meal, while others sift through baskets brimming with berries and nuts. Skilled hands weave long blankets in vibrant shades of red and blue, artisans craft wood into elegant bowls and containers, and near the fire, the air is filled with the warm hum of lively conversations.
“Welcome to Qelantu Loh!” the man says excitedly, presenting the settlement with exaggerated flourish. I search my memory, but the name doesn’t sound like anything I’ve heard before, as does the language.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I say as we progress through the tent village, “but where is that name from? It doesn’t sound to be from Tapeu, nor any of the other languages I know.”
“Oh, you know many languages?” he says with a smile, in a half-playful, half-mocking sort of way—I can’t discern the statement’s intent. “This is but a humble settlement, filled with the best and brightest Atima refugees in all of Pachil.”
“Atima?” I say, bewildered by their presence here.
He cheerfully replies, “Why, yes, my dear! We didn’t go extinct! Well, not entirely, I suppose.”
“Why are the Atima camped out here, outside of Qapauma?” I inquire, genuinely curious.
“Sure, there are Atima refugees in Aimue and Qantua,” he responds, “but we didn’t want to be contained within the walls of someone else’s city. We enjoy our independence, however that has been achieved. And this is a great location and a great life! We are within close proximity to intercept traders traveling between Qapauma and the villages in Aimue so we can present much more lucrative offers before they’re swindled by Tapeu merchants.”
“Spoken as if you were Achope, not Atima,” I say, noticing the opportunistic business acumen.
“The tents are no replacement for permanent homes,” Qane grumbles.
I’m uncertain whether Qane intended to be heard or was speaking only to himself, but the man replies anyway, saying, “Where you see permanence in stones and mortar, I see it in the heartbeat of our community and the embrace of the land.”
I can’t help but chuckle at the combination of the retort and Qane’s gaping mouth in reaction to it. Knowing their history, this man’s assessment of the Atima and how they’ve persevered is most certainly sound. Perhaps it’s his disarming attitude, but I find myself respecting this supposed friend of Nuqasiq.
We arrive at a modest tent in the middle of this settlement, unadorned and indistinguishable from the surrounding shelters. The man grabs a torch close by and brings it inside. There, the number of possessions that appear through the low light of a torch is also modest, containing only a single bedroll and a sack bursting at the seams with clothing and other woven textiles. There are a few wooden bowls scattered about, and in the opposite corner, a spear is propped upon the canvas wall.
The man approaches and offers to assist me in making my way to the bedroll. Qane is hesitant to allow this, at first, but ultimately concedes, and the two men lower me onto the comfortable bed of straw and grasses, crinkling as I’m placed upon it. The man retrieves two more textile mats and places them on the dirt ground, sitting on the one furthest from the tent’s opening. Qane casts a dubious glance at the mat, but eventually yields and takes a seat.
“Now that we’re well out of range of curious ears, allow me to introduce myself,” the man says as he finds a seat on a blanket on the ground. “I am Chalqo, whose footprints span across distant lands and whose voice carries legends of old. Tales and whispers might have crossed your path about me, but I assure you, the reality is far more enthralling.”
While Qane looks completely unamused, I find the introduction delightfully enchanting. Even in the shaded confines of the tent, Chalqo’s light brown eyes glint as he boastfully speaks about himself.
Not swayed by his charm, Qane focuses on the matter at hand, asking, “How were you made aware of our arrival? There wasn’t much time from when Quraqa Haesan and I left the… palace… and traveled here.”
“Right you are, my astute guardian!” Chalqo says. “Fortunately, on the wings of quetzals, a messenger sent by Nuqasiq flew with great speed to notify me that I was to receive a very valuable guest and her exceptionally intuitive companion. I would surmise that the resourceful and resilient Nuqasiq dispatched this messenger before carrying out her task, as that's what any truly wise and intelligent person would naturally do.”
Each time Chalqo speaks, I have trouble determining whether his compliments are heartfelt or merely veiled jabs. His effusive demeanor further muddies the waters, and judging by Qane's puzzled look, he too is uncertain if he's been praised or slighted. I can see how Nuqasiq would get along with such a person.
“Now, I understand you’ve had quite a harrowing adventure, to put it lightly,” he says. “Therefore, I propose we allow Lady Haesan to rest and recover while you,” he then pats Qane on his shoulder with a loud thwap, “can put your muscular physique to good use in the meantime, assisting us with cleaning the animals and preparing them for tonight’s meal.”
“But, I don’t know how to do any of that,” Qane quietly protests.
“Not to worry, my boy!” Chalqo says. “You seem like a quick learner, so I’m as confident as jaguar stalking its prey in the moonlight that you’ll be able to pick up the skill in no time!”
Chalqo guides the hapless Qane out of the tent, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am surrounded by stillness. Though hesitant to declare myself secure and safe, I give in to my exhaustion and allow myself to momentarily relax. The commotion of activity taking place outside, the footsteps and occasional chatter, are like a soothing lullaby as I drift off to sleep.
I awake to the sounds of someone entering the tent. Shrieking, I bolt up from the bed roll and see a shadowy silhouette shushing me as it approaches. Flashbacks to the dark prison cell flood my mind, seeing Anqatil and the mechanisms she used to inflict pain upon me. Her face, twisted with anger, grabs the device and prepares to remove another toenail, stating how I am a blight on the Arbiter’s reign and that she will eradicate this infection once and for all.
“You must be purged,” she says.
“You must be purged…”
“Purged…”
I scream out in horror, causing Qane to charge into the tent with a torch in one hand while the other rests on his sword’s hilt. Illuminated by the torchlight, Nuqasiq's concerned face breaks through the darkness, like a harbor emerging amidst a storm.
“Haesan!” she gasps, rushing over to console me, cradling me in her arms. Qane breathes a sigh of relief, and Chalqo arrives with his face showing a slight panic—the first time I’ve seen him not appear merry.
“My sincerest apologies, Lady Haesan,” Chalqo says. “You’ve been asleep for nearly an entire day, so I didn’t realize your slumber could be disturbed. Lady Nuqasiq just wanted to check on you to see how you were faring, but I should have been better prepared for any visitors while you were resting.”
“It’s okay,” I say as I attempt to catch my breath. “I didn’t realize I would have a reaction like that.” An entire day? Was I truly that fatigued?
“It’s understandable, my child,” Nuqasiq says, releasing her embrace to look at me, sorrow and sympathy in her eyes. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
She rests a hand on mine, and I find her touch soothing as my heart gradually stops racing. She looks at the two men and requests a moment alone with me, to which they graciously oblige. Before departing, Qane says he will be posted just outside the tent if we need anything.
“He has a good heart,” Nuqasiq says. “Praise the Eleven for providing us his protection.”
With my breathing steadied, I’m able to adjust my posture and sit up straight, shifting myself around to face Nuqasiq directly. She hasn’t made any effort to conceal her status of importance, wearing numerous gold bracelets, earrings, and necklaces embedded with various precious stones, and her blue dress is long and flowing like a gently cascading waterfall—not form-fitted as so many in Tapeu wear their clothing. She wears a jade-adorned golden headband, glimmering in the torchlight, which struggles to hold back her white mane of hair.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her voice calm and maternalistic, before clarifying, “Physically, at least.”
"Better," I muster weakly, scarcely aware of how many muscles ache after the arduous trek from Qapauma to this place. “My foot is still in incredible pain, but Chalqo seems to have bandaged it while I was asleep. I must’ve been too exhausted at the time to notice him tending to my injury.”
“Chalqo is adept at numerous tasks,” she says. “He’s ventured near and far, picking up skills as he’s traversed the land.”
“How did you meet Chalqo?” I ask.
She exhales a puff of air as she tries to recall, then replies, “It’s been so long since I’ve had to remember such a thing. I believe his band of performers traveled to my village once upon a time, and we became fast friends.”
“He’s a performer?” I echo. “That explains a lot.” She giggles at this in the way she does, hand up to her mouth in an effort to conceal it.
“He is certainly not subtle,” she says before chuckling once again. “The Qantua have their quipus, but the Atima much prefer oral tradition. Chalqo, however, prefers to do so flamboyantly. I don’t believe he knows any other way to be.”
There’s a break in the conversation, as both of our gazes drift off into that place where one daydreams, ghostly figures reenacting scenes from memory or imagination. With my mind’s eye, I can envision a young Nuqasiq and a young Chalqo, his debonair looks to match his demeanor, while she is nothing short of resplendent.
I return my attention to her and see her face overwhelmed with melancholy, something I haven’t seen from her, even when we briefly parted ways at the edge of Qapauma. Even in sorrow, she is beautiful, as her eyes glisten in the dim light like two polished obsidian stones.
“What’s on your mind, Nuqasiq?”
She sniffles and wipes her eyes. Then, after a deep breath, she says, “I must tell you about your past. About where you come from. Or, at least, what I know of it. Though I lack all of the pieces, I believe it will explain a lot, particularly the events from before.”
“You mean,” I say, staggering my breath as I recall the exchange between her and Anqatil, “about… being your granddaughter?”
“And that the Arbiter… is my father?” I say the words as though it’s a new food I’m tasting for the first time, and she nods in response. The reality of this news is still difficult to comprehend, and I feel a numbness as the words echo inside my head.
The Arbiter is your father.
The Arbiter is your father.
He left you in the hands of someone who was going to murder you, as if it was just another chore to complete.
The Arbiter is your father, and would not have thought twice about your death.
“And that Anqatil declared the blood of the Arbiter would be the reason he lost the throne?” I say. Once again, Nuqasiq somberly nods.
“Is that… that why you traveled to Chopaqte? To make sure she didn’t kill me there?”
“Partly,” she says. “I feared what would be done to you, and I had determined that if she was, in fact, seeking to harm you, you’d fare better if you were under my surveillance.”
“Is that why I was returned to Qapauma? And the reason for the loose excuse of etiquette lessons?”
“Partly,” she says again. “There was a greater chance of her obstructing the arrangement if I couldn’t intervene. But also to provide me with the opportunity to finally get to know you, see who you’ve become. I would have done it sooner, visited sooner, but it could’ve potentially exposed the truth, and thus Achutli would never have allowed it. Yet, with recent developments, I no longer cared what he forbade me to do.”
I’m somewhat touched by this, and where I feel I should be upset—by having an actual relative not attempting to visit me and inform me of the truth sooner—instead I believe I understand the circumstances. Having spent my life around nobility, reputation and perceptions are valued greater than precious gems, and there are numerous pitfalls in which one can find themselves if they don’t take care. Maybe I should resent Nuqasiq for waiting so long to see her granddaughter, but I’m too overwhelmed by the realization that my own father didn’t want me, then wanted me dead.
“What was the arrangement? And who was it between?”
“Before the War of Liberation—though its conception was eminent and the impending battles close to being fought,” she begins, “Achutli recognized what his role would be during the conflict. He was only one of a few from the Maqanuiache deemed worthy enough of leading warriors on the battlefield, and he would be away for the duration of the war. He wanted to ensure that you would receive all the affection and care you deserved, as well as the best education that could be afforded to you. This led him to consult with Suntu and Polan, who graciously accepted you. Considering everything you’ve just experienced, it will surprise you when I say that he was genuinely well-intentioned.”
She’s correct: I do find that difficult to believe. The recent events have informed me of what his intentions genuinely are. Even if he was initially well-meaning, any goodwill has now been lost.
“He never asked you to raise me?” I question.
“I was a widow, and he wanted a father and mother to raise you. Also, frankly, he doesn’t care for me, doesn’t care for my beliefs. He would be concerned with how I would raise his child, and since he resents how I raised him, it was an easy decision for him to make.”
I’m taken aback that someone would do this to their own mother. No matter what his intentions originally were, it doesn’t replace the present reality that he is willing to mistreat his family.
“What changed? How did I remain in Achope?”
“At some point,” says Nuqasiq, “perhaps through desperation as the war dragged on and no end nor victory was in sight, he consulted a well-respected prophet, which is where he learned of this ridiculous prophecy pertaining to his rule. Furthermore, when he became the Arbiter, he was faced with conceptualizing his lineage and succession. The mere fact that he would be succeeded by a woman greatly displeased him. Adding to that, the tale regarding his blood betraying him meant he no longer desired a family, whether that was one he already had or creating a new one.
“Thus, he made an arrangement with Suntu, the details of which, as you can imagine, were not shared with me. It wasn’t until the war ended, and when he was declared the Arbiter, that Achutli truly changed. Power corrupts, and though it’s supposed to be a temporary title until all the factions can lift themselves up from the ashes and restore their ways of life, I’ve never gotten a sense that he intends to relinquish the throne.”
Her willingness to openly discuss these matters—about her son, my history and lineage, the state of Tapeu and Pachil—initially astounds me. It’s a lot of new information to take in, and a lot of the truths I’ve believed all my life have become undone. I feel a mixture of anger, shock, and sorrow, mourning the life I once had that can no longer be.
“So, I’m not Achope—I’m actually Tapeu?” I ponder aloud. This particular realization is alarming, forcing me to confront everything I am, everything with which I’ve identified, everything I’ve been raised to be. Who am I? I should not have gone down this path, as I can feel myself spiraling out of control. Hoping to prevent the ensuing existential crisis, I divert my attention back to the conversation.
“What about my mother? Where is she, and why could she not raise me?”
“I never knew who your mother was,” Nuqasiq says with a sigh of disappointment. “One moment, my son is childless, and then the next, he’s cradling you in his arms. Not once did he ever bring up her name, and he’s never shared it with me no matter how much I’ve pressed him for it. I’ve been searching all your life for any indication of who she may have been, to understand why she left you to Achutli, but it’s been a fruitless endeavor, I’m afraid.”
“So I’ve been abandoned by both of my parents,” I say, dejected. “In the span of a day, I’ve gone from having two parents, one of whom may have actually cared about me—although perhaps that’s all a fabrication—to having two parents that want nothing to do with me. Excellent.”
“Haesan,” Nuqasiq says, clutching my shoulders with a gentle squeeze as she looks at me directly with her bright, brown eyes, “I know this is a heavy burden to bear, and unfortunately, I can't change the past. But please know that you're not alone in this. Sometimes, family is more than blood—it's the bonds we forge through love and understanding. Your worth isn't defined by the choices your parents made, but by the person you are. And you, my dear, are someone deserving of love and care."
Perhaps it’s the exhaustion from my dealings with Anqatil, or the weight of everything I’ve just learned, but all I can do is bury my face into Nuqasiq’s chest and sob, releasing all the tension and pain I’ve experienced not only during my time in Qapauma, but from everything that did and did not happen to me in my lifetime. The confusion, hate, fury, depression, I release it all in large bursts of sobs.
In Nuqasiq's embrace, the past and present converge, granting me a fleeting respite from the storm of emotions. Each tear that falls is a testament to my journey, a symbol of both vulnerability and strength. And in this moment, amidst the anguish, I find a hint of solace, a soft whisper of hope that things might, one day, be better.
Once I settle myself, I straighten my dress and adjust my hair, brushing aside the stray strands. She holds my shoulders and allows a subtle, commiserating smile to crack the corners of her mouth.
“I’m afraid I must go,” she says. “Though I wish nothing more than to stay and answer any other questions you may have, my disappearance will be looked upon with suspicion, and it’s a long way back to Qapauma from here.”
I nod in understanding, but I’ll admit I’m disappointed and sad to see her leave me. She may be the first family member who sincerely cares for my wellbeing, and I want to bask in that love and care for as long as I can.
“What are we going to do now, about Achutli, Anqatil… everyone?” I ask.
“We will need allies, and we will need a plan,” Nuqasiq says. “I have contacts, friends who have evaded the shadows of the past, much like Chalqo. We'll seek them out, rally support, and confront the challenges that lie ahead together.”
She takes a deep breath, as if drawing strength from the world around us. In a gentle voice, she says before she departs, “The truth is always a double-edged sword, Haesan. It has the power to free us, but also to cut deeply. Your path has never been simple, nor will it be going forward. But first, you must decide which path you wish to walk, knowing the weight it carries.”
The wind rustles the tall grasses in the nearby plains, the world seemingly holding its breath for my answer. But for now, I can only respond to her with silence, the weight of the revelations still settling in my heart.
