I awaken to my head swimming in confusion. For a moment, I forget where I am, startled by the commotion taking place outside the tent. Where am I? Did the previous days really happen? My foot is still sore and swollen, the pain not allowing me to forget. This bedroll’s straw and grass occasionally scratches my skin, reminding me that the space in which I find myself is a significant change to the vast bed I slept on while in Qapauma. Relief, anger, sorrow—it’s difficult for me to determine how I feel. Most likely, all of those emotions all at once.
There’s a sudden, resonating toom toom tum-dum toom accompanied by wispy whistling, stirring me off my bedroll and out of the tent. In a clearing at the middle of the settlement, people dance, hopping to the beat and swirling colorful sashes and ribbons as they twirl in circles. The women have tied their black hair into braids behind their head that swing from side to side as they move about, as do the yellow and red tassels at the bottom of the men’s tunics. The notes of the flutes flit and flutter, singing a melody of joyfulness intertwined with a profound sense of longing, a duality between celebration and reflection, between the present moment and a deep reverence for the past.
Chalqo gracefully sways from side to side as he performs with one of the flutes. He seems entirely consumed by the music, eyes closed as though he’s savoring a delectable dish. One of the dancing women attempts to cajole Qane into joining her for a dance, which he politely declines, with a llama-like hesitance in reaction to the proposal. She is stubborn and persistent, however, and she eventually pulls him into the circle, eliciting an eruption of cheers and laughter as he tries, and fails, to emulate the moves.
After the song ends and revelry sweeps through the campsite, Chalqo opens his eyes as he graciously accepts numerous compliments. As I approach him with my hobbled steps, he beams that charismatic smile of his and bows deeply at my arrival.
“My Lady Haesan,” he exclaims. “I trust you are feeling better?”
“Physically, I’m improving,” I say. “Emotionally… I’m still trying to figure that part out.”
“Understandable,” he says, no longer flashing his bright smile and nods consolingly. “From what I gather, it has been a trying few days. But you are welcome to stay as long as you need in order to return to your vibrant self.”
Turning the attention away from myself, I look upon the dancers and musicians, preparing to begin a new song, and I ask, “I didn’t realize you are such an accomplished flute player, Chalqo.”
“I have many talents, Lady Haesan,” he says with a sly grin. “If kings were crowned by song and dance, I would rule over all of Pachil. Alas…” He lets the thought hang in the air, seemingly pleased with himself from crafting a poetic way to describe his skills.
“Achope doesn’t have such instruments,” I say. “We- uhh, they appreciate art and music, but aren’t ones to divine such things themselves.”
He frowns with mock sympathy, saying, “Not everyone possesses the gift of music, certainly. This,” he proudly presents his flute, “is a quena, my instrument of choice. The wonderful people over there,” he points to the other musicians standing at the edge of the dance circle, holding items that have either one or two rows of pipes that are lined from short to long, “are playing either a siku or an antara, depending on their preference and where in Atima they originate. And those drums,” he nods to the group of seated men, “are playing various-sized tinyas. Their ability to keep the rhythm is impeccable!”
“What is all the music and festivity for?” I inquire.
“Aside from celebrating being alive,” he answers, “today marks the beginning of the harvest in Aimue. The people commemorate the change in the season, and give thanks to their god, Laytauma, for blessing them with another bountiful yield. We may be from a different faction, but I enjoy honoring their festivals, as well as celebrations from all the factions. Speaking of which, the Tapeu will soon be preparing for their grand celestial festival, Chasqa Quimi. It's a rare and magnificent event, aligned with the stars and steeped in tradition. I had the fortune of witnessing it once during my extensive travels. The transformation of the entire city of Qapauma is a sight to behold—truly a spectacular spectacle!”
He pauses, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. “But also, I’ll confess: it gives me an excuse to display my exceptional playing abilities.” Unabashed, he winks and casts a prideful grin.
“We might even perform one of the Aimue songs in a moment,” he says excitedly. “When you see the trompe—that circular horn—you’ll know it’s an Aimue song. You can’t miss it; it sounds like a regal animal dying nobly!”
I’m unable to resist laughing at the absurdity of his description regarding the instrument’s sound, how he offers both a compliment and insult in the same breath. Suddenly, he jolts in alarm, interrupting his explanation by saying, “Oh, pardon me, Lady Haesan! I’m needed for this next piece. I think you’re going to enjoy this one, especially if Qane is still being persuaded to dance!”
The music begins slowly, with Chalqo and one other person playing the quena and performing as if they’re dueling; the two perform an interlocking melody, with alternating notes played to form a seamless tune. The dancers gracefully hop from one foot to the other, moving in tandem with the plodding, steady beat of the tinya, their colorful sashes swaying at their sides. As the tinya intensifies its rhythm, the quenassynchronize, amplifying their melody to keep up. The tempo surges, building and building to a breathtaking pace, challenging the dancers to match its fervor. One enthusiastic dancer manages to convince Qane to join the whirlwind, and while he starts with confidence, his self-assurance soon turns into sheer panic, attempting desperately to synchronize with the relentless tum! tum! tum! tum! of the drums.
When the final note plays, the group is overcome in a collective, exhausted elation, punctuated by fits of hearty, uncontrollable laughter. Qane’s fear changes to relief, as Chalqo walks over and pats him on the back. Numerous ladies swarm the Tapeu guard, apparently impressed with what seemed to me to be bumbling twitches.
This joyous moment serves as a balm, a gentle touch that eases the pain and heartache I've borne in recent days. The memories of Anqatil's cold gaze and the searing pain she inflicted still haunt my every waking moment. And beyond the physical torment, the revelations from Nuqasiq have added layers of confusion and betrayal to the mix. Learning that Achutli, the ruler who has been a distant figure in my life, is actually my blood—my father—feels like a cruel twist of fate. How do I reconcile the life I thought I knew with this new reality? The weight of it all is suffocating, a heavy shroud draped over my spirit. But here, in the company of the Atima, I find solace. It’s been difficult to process everything—not just what actually occurred, but my emotions, as well. However, for just this one, fleeting moment, I can enjoy the respite. My pain, both physical and mental, washes away.
An unexpected series of shouts breaks me from my trance, pulling me back into the present. Approaching from the distance, a lone figure wearing a white hooded cloak makes their way toward the settlement. Being so far away, it’s difficult to discern any features that would determine whether the traveler is friend or foe. The once exuberant Atima men and women stand alert and attentive, vigilantly watching as the person gets nearer. Qane picks up his gear and begins putting on pieces of his armor, preparing himself to aid in defending the camp, if needed.
After a period, two Atima men, with spears in hand, march to intercept the figure in the plains. The three converse, with the stranger shaking the large sack they carry as if to emphasize their explanation, and points at the settlement, then to the south. I can’t explain, but there’s a feeling that comes to me regarding this person, and I determine, without any other evidence, that it’s a friend whose face is shrouded by the hood.
I start to leave the camp, drawn towards the stranger, despite the vocal objections from Chalqo and Qane. As I get closer, features of the figure’s face peek out from beneath the hood, showing a gently curving jaw and chin and petite nose. At the palace, she presented herself as meek and modest, but I’d be forgiven for confusing her to be someone else as she assertively accentuates her statement in frustration.
“Yachaman?” I ask, caught between conviction and doubt.
The figure raises their free hand and admonishes the two intervenors, crying out, “See! She knows who I am!”
The two men frown, then look to me to confirm whether or not this is true, and nod and I wave to them to diffuse the situation. They shrug and promptly return to the campsite, leaving me alone with my former servant.
“What on Pachil are you doing here?” I ask, astonished to see her. “How did you know I was here?” While I’m genuinely happy to see her, the realization of her presence makes my heart sink, fearing for Nuqasiq’s safety and worried that others may know of my location, as well.
Fortunately, she abates my fears, saying, “I was sent by Quraqa Nuqasiq to deliver your possessions. I had to travel by means of a… questionable… route. I do not wish to return that way again! Especially in the dark of night? It’s terrifying!”
This is the most animated I’ve ever seen Yachaman, and her impassioned demeanor evokes a laugh from me. I apologize, not wanting to appear that I find humor in her undesired circumstances, but the tension in her shoulders relaxes, and she joins me with a chuckle of her own.
We make our way toward Qelantu Loh, whose people have returned to their festive mood, now that they’ve been made aware that there is no danger. Yachaman appears puzzled by the jubilant atmosphere, curiously gazing at the various performers. When I mention the purpose of the celebrations, she laughs in disbelief.
“I thought only the Aimue celebrated such an occasion,” she says.
“Supposedly, the people here celebrate anything,” I say.
As if on cue, the squeal of a blaring horn resounds throughout the campsite. I jump, startled by the noise, but Yachaman doesn’t seemed bothered by it at all. In fact, she stops walking and looks lost in thought, smiling warmly as if recalling something pleasant from deep within the recesses of her memory.
To no one in particular, she says, “I suppose the harvest celebration has officially begun.”
I ask if she’s interested in partaking of the festivities, but she dismisses the notion with the wave of her hand, then resumes toward the huddle of tents. I lead her to the one in which I’m residing, lifting the flap and allowing her to enter first.
“This is far from your accommodations at the palace,” she says with a smirk, browsing my humble abode. I can see some of my belongings poke out as she sets down the large sack. Colorful dresses and tunics, blankets, shimmering jewelry and ornamental headpieces. Most important of all, I spot my favorite comb, a wooden piece decorated with shells I picked from the shores back in Achope with my mother. Or, whom I believed to be my mother, that is.
I thank Yachaman profusely for delivering my possessions and reclaim my beloved comb. Lifting the instrument from the sack, I unveil an unexpected item: a magenta scarf. As I pick it up, a green hummingbird stitched onto one of the corners catches my eye. My heart leaps into my throat, compelling me to hurriedly bury the piece of cloth. My hand sinks deep into the sack, and I feel another foreign object—the unmistakable weight and shape of the ritual knife I retrieved with Onixem, inside my satchel.
“Did anyone enter my room, or go through my belongings?” I ask, trying to maintain a calm and collected composure.
“Not of which I was made aware, Lady Haesan,” she says, appearing slightly confused. “Quraqa Nuqasiq had requested I quickly grab anything that was inside your room. I didn’t have much time, as she sent me off right away.”
I pause to think about the magenta scarf and how it came to be among my possessions. Is this Onixem’s doing? Had she remembered my compliments of the dress’ vibrant colors and crafted this for me? Does this mean she’s aware of my situation? What about the ritual knife? If she’s behind it and the scarf being placed inside the sack, does she plan on retrieving it sometime soon? Will I see her again, as a result?
As questions swirl in my head, Yachaman begins unpacking the sack. I promptly stop her, stating that I don’t want to cause her to do any more work for me, as we’re no longer inside the palace. She looks at me with confusion, her brows furrowed as she tries to make sense of my request.
“Lady Haesan,” she eventually manages to get out, “I don’t believe you’re aware, but…”
She hesitates, and I can sense there’s some upsetting news she’s about to impart upon me. She takes a moment to collect herself, then says, “I am to serve you, as I was assigned to you by the Arbiter himself. I… If you are not at the palace, then I am not to be at the palace. I am not allowed back there, as long as you are not there. It is stated as such in the laws and what was agreed to, by any who serve within the palace.”
“So, does the Arbiter know where I am?” The panic I felt earlier returns, nervous that he or Anqatil may have someone tracking Yachaman and are using her to discover my whereabouts. She said she traveled in the darkness of night, but would a curious guard or some whisperer of Anqatil’s monitor the servant’s movements while inside the palace?
“I was informed by Quraqa Nuqasiq to be discreet, that this was a matter not to be discussed with anyone outside of her and your presence,” she says, bowing her head slightly. While I’m not completely convinced my safety is ensured, I still feel a little relief, knowing Nuqasiq likely took whatever precautions she could. A part of me is conflicted regarding the Jade Hummingbird insignia in my possession, uncertain what it means and what I should do. Yet, knowing Yachaman’s knack for discretion, I consider asking her advice, though hesitating to reveal my truth in its entirety.
“If I’m no longer a part of the palace, what does that mean for your situation?” I ask. “To be honest with you, I don’t believe I will be part of the court any time, well, ever. Does this mean you get reassigned or–“
“Well, Lady Haesan, I’ve been bonded to you, by order of my people and the Arbiter, so I am to go wherever you go,” she says flatly, as if she cannot believe I’m unaware of her situation. But the reality is, I’m not aware of her circumstances, and will need her to clarify.
“I don’t believe I have any recollection of such an ordinance involving the Aimue,” I say. “I was taught some history of the factions of Pachil, and some of the languages, but nothing like that ever came up in my lessons.”
Yachaman looks ashamed, for some reason, which saddens me, making me believe I’m responsible for her distress once again. After a deep sigh, she says, “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, it’s an arrangement made between my people’s officials, my father, and the Arbiter—or, rather, one of the Arbiter’s advisors. I’m to fulfill the requirements of the agreement for the designated time. That’s what was decided.”
“Yachaman,” I say, touching her wrist and expressing my empathy. I understand her people don’t handle physical contact very well, but I’m compelled to show her that I genuinely want to hear her story. “If we’re ‘bonded’, as you say, then it appears we are to spend an extraordinary amount of time together. I failed in getting to know you when we were both in the palace, but I refuse to make such an error again. Please, I want to know about you—where you’re from in Aimue, your family, what this arrangement is. I’m not going anywhere, and my attention is all yours.”
Yachaman takes in my statement and request, and I get the impression she’s not used to being heard, which saddens me further. I’m prepared to hear an upsetting tale, and can only hope I can provide her some comfort. I can see her mustering up the strength to share her story with me, and I do my best to restrain myself from pressing her. With a deep breath, she begins.
“As you likely learned, the Aimue were forced to cultivate our crops and provide their yields to the Timuaq. All we could keep for ourselves was a minuscule amount barely enough to feed the family. It was during this time that my mother passed away. We were struggling to keep up with the demands of the Timuaq, and she had worked herself to death. I was but a young child at the time of her passing—maybe five, six harvests old? We could barely gather enough from our crops to supply the titans, and on countless occasions, we would have to forego eating just to have enough to meet the yields.
“Once the War of Liberation concluded, the Aimue had worked out a pact with the Arbiter, offering to supply Pachil as needed, but allowing the farmers to retain more of their crops, and provide a more sustainable return. However, my father became injured and couldn’t assist with the farming as effectively. My two older sisters and I attempted to help, but even with the lowered demands, we still couldn’t provide enough to meet the yields. The Aimue officials had told my father that the Arbiter would seize his land and assign it to someone more capable if he couldn’t meet the requirements.”
“That sounds needlessly cruel,” I interject, noting how counterintuitive it seems to punish a person in need of assistance, when they only want to be a productive member of a society.
“It’s the Aimue way,” Yachaman says. “What matters more than family is the field.”
“So, what did they do?” I ask.
“Seizing our family’s farm would send my family into greater, unrecoverable poverty. But more than that, the farm was a gift to my parents when they married, and together, they constructed our house. It’s essentially all we have that reminds us of her, and my father didn’t want to lose the land and the life they worked so hard to build.
“So, in order to retain the farm, the officials declared that the family would be given a lesser assignment, which is providing food to the locals instead of being a part of the Arbiter’s distribution. This meant a significantly less lucrative assignment, but one our family could reasonably fulfill.”
“That doesn’t seem too harsh, but where do you tie into this arrangement?” I ask. Yet I immediately regret saying the words as they leave my mouth, fearing that the worst part of the agreement was yet to be told to me.
“As part of the arrangement and Aimue law crafted in tandem with the Arbiter,” Yachaman says, her head bowed and her eyes cast upon the ground, “my father would have to become a bonded servant to the Arbiter, to be used however they required, for the period of twenty harvests. Given his advanced age and his injury, they determined he may not be able to effectively serve out the term. Thus, one of his children would go in his stead. My two older sisters were promised to be wed to two other, wealthier families in our village, which means…”
She didn’t have to complete her statement for me to know the story’s conclusion. With her eyes closed, she wipes a solitary tear from her cheek. My mind is filled with questions: Was there no other way to reconcile the short yields? Why wasn’t the reassignment punishment enough? Was the farm worth that much that such a sacrifice was considered acceptable?
“Yachaman,” I begin, taking a deep breath, the weight of her tale pressing down on me, “I can't even begin to imagine the pain and turmoil you've gone through. It's an unfair burden for anyone to bear, let alone be thrust upon a young woman because of circumstances beyond her control.”
I pause, looking deeply into her eyes, trying to convey the depth of empathy I feel. “It’s easy to stand here and question a father's choices—how he could possibly consider such a sacrifice. But life has taught me that things are rarely as simple as they appear. We’re all entangled in webs of duty, of love, of desperation, of hope.”
I swallow, my own past rushing back to me. “You and I, we have different stories, but they converge at a place of abandonment where we're merely leaves caught in someone else’s storm. The parents I grew up with weren’t truly mine. My biological father abandoned me to a fate he believed was better for his line, guided by baseless superstitions.”
Though I want to say more, and I regret not sharing more of my own story—especially after Yachaman opened up about hers—I’m still grappling with the details. And even though she's no longer at the palace, there's a chance she might relay information about me to them. However, I still mourn for Yachaman’s situation, and I feel a sense of kinship in our shared struggles. One item still perturbs me, worried that my actions may have brought her to a more troubled fate.
“So, if the arrangement was made between the Aimue officials and the Arbiter, does my departure from the palace affect the terms of your service?” I ask.
“Well, when the bonding ceremony was performed, it was determined that my servitude applied to the one to whom I’m bonded. Quraqa Nuqasiq informed me that, when you were selected as my bond, it was established that I was to serve you, under any circumstance or capacity. The bond is not just made through law, but there’s a ritual performed, and I am sworn to serve the person to whom I’m bonded, in which you were named. If I were to stay in the palace without you, it would be seen as a grave spiritual transgression, breaking the sacred pact my family made.”
“So we really are sealed to each other’s fate, I suppose,” I say, more as a statement and realization than fact. Yachaman nods in agreement, and I can see that, after she’s considered all that’s been shared, there’s something she wishes to say, and has been conditioned even at her young age to not speak unless given permission by her superiors. Recognizing this, I ask if there’s something more. She hesitates initially, but after pressing her lips into a tight, thin line, her face turns to one of determination, and she decides to tell me what’s on her heart.
Yachaman gazes at the cloth wall of the tent, as if looking through it to watch the festivities taking place outside. She’s lost in thought for a moment before saying, “It’s fitting that, today, these people revel in the Aimue tradition of honoring the abundant harvest. It reminds me of a deeper tale, the legend that speaks of our god, Laytauma, who withers away from Pachil as the last crop is reaped. His departure beckons the harsh winter, leaving the world in a solemn slumber. But with the dawn of spring, Laytauma breathes anew, gracing the land just when the fields yearn to be sown and the skies weep nurturing rains.”
She looks contemplatively at the surroundings and adds, “Beyond the cycles of seasons, this tale whispers to our souls about resurrection and rebirth. In life, we endure losses, face despair, and confront endings. But with every end, there's a promise of a new beginning. A chance to evolve, to reinvent, to rise stronger and brighter from the ashes of what was. We all, in our ways, have seasons of hardships, but they lead us to our own springs, filled with hope and potential. An opportunity not just to begin anew, but to evolve, to rise stronger, more radiant, outshining what once was. The story of Laytauma isn't just about my god—it's about us.”
Her message resonates deeply with me, and her composure in the face of such a tragic and incomprehensible situation is truly remarkable. Despite all the adversities she's faced in her young life, she remains grounded and holds onto that faint glint of hope. Her strength inspires me to rise above my own challenges, determined to be more than just a victim.
I reach out, tentatively placing my hand on her arm, “I can't change what's been done to us, Yachaman. But here, now, we have a chance to reclaim the control that was taken from us.”
I reach into the sack once more and retrieve the magenta scarf. Yachaman gazes upon it inquisitively, eyes narrowed as she inspects the item. I can see that she’s unable to decipher its meaning, but to me, it means everything. Our next step. The way forward.
“I believe I know what we must do,” I say, feeling more determined than ever before. “And this,” I wave the vibrant scarf in the air, “is where our journey begins."
I awaken to my head swimming in confusion. For a moment, I forget where I am, startled by the commotion taking place outside the tent. Where am I? Did the previous days really happen? My foot is still sore and swollen, the pain not allowing me to forget. This bedroll’s straw and grass occasionally scratches my skin, reminding me that the space in which I find myself is a significant change to the vast bed I slept on while in Qapauma. Relief, anger, sorrow—it’s difficult for me to determine how I feel. Most likely, all of those emotions all at once.
There’s a sudden, resonating toom toom tum-dum toom accompanied by wispy whistling, stirring me off my bedroll and out of the tent. In a clearing at the middle of the settlement, people dance, hopping to the beat and swirling colorful sashes and ribbons as they twirl in circles. The women have tied their black hair into braids behind their head that swing from side to side as they move about, as do the yellow and red tassels at the bottom of the men’s tunics. The notes of the flutes flit and flutter, singing a melody of joyfulness intertwined with a profound sense of longing, a duality between celebration and reflection, between the present moment and a deep reverence for the past.
Chalqo gracefully sways from side to side as he performs with one of the flutes. He seems entirely consumed by the music, eyes closed as though he’s savoring a delectable dish. One of the dancing women attempts to cajole Qane into joining her for a dance, which he politely declines, with a llama-like hesitance in reaction to the proposal. She is stubborn and persistent, however, and she eventually pulls him into the circle, eliciting an eruption of cheers and laughter as he tries, and fails, to emulate the moves.
After the song ends and revelry sweeps through the campsite, Chalqo opens his eyes as he graciously accepts numerous compliments. As I approach him with my hobbled steps, he beams that charismatic smile of his and bows deeply at my arrival.
“My Lady Haesan,” he exclaims. “I trust you are feeling better?”
“Physically, I’m improving,” I say. “Emotionally… I’m still trying to figure that part out.”
“Understandable,” he says, no longer flashing his bright smile and nods consolingly. “From what I gather, it has been a trying few days. But you are welcome to stay as long as you need in order to return to your vibrant self.”
Turning the attention away from myself, I look upon the dancers and musicians, preparing to begin a new song, and I ask, “I didn’t realize you are such an accomplished flute player, Chalqo.”
“I have many talents, Lady Haesan,” he says with a sly grin. “If kings were crowned by song and dance, I would rule over all of Pachil. Alas…” He lets the thought hang in the air, seemingly pleased with himself from crafting a poetic way to describe his skills.
“Achope doesn’t have such instruments,” I say. “We- uhh, they appreciate art and music, but aren’t ones to divine such things themselves.”
He frowns with mock sympathy, saying, “Not everyone possesses the gift of music, certainly. This,” he proudly presents his flute, “is a quena, my instrument of choice. The wonderful people over there,” he points to the other musicians standing at the edge of the dance circle, holding items that have either one or two rows of pipes that are lined from short to long, “are playing either a siku or an antara, depending on their preference and where in Atima they originate. And those drums,” he nods to the group of seated men, “are playing various-sized tinyas. Their ability to keep the rhythm is impeccable!”
“What is all the music and festivity for?” I inquire.
“Aside from celebrating being alive,” he answers, “today marks the beginning of the harvest in Aimue. The people commemorate the change in the season, and give thanks to their god, Laytauma, for blessing them with another bountiful yield. We may be from a different faction, but I enjoy honoring their festivals, as well as celebrations from all the factions. Speaking of which, the Tapeu will soon be preparing for their grand celestial festival, Chasqa Quimi. It's a rare and magnificent event, aligned with the stars and steeped in tradition. I had the fortune of witnessing it once during my extensive travels. The transformation of the entire city of Qapauma is a sight to behold—truly a spectacular spectacle!”
He pauses, a hint of nostalgia in his eyes. “But also, I’ll confess: it gives me an excuse to display my exceptional playing abilities.” Unabashed, he winks and casts a prideful grin.
“We might even perform one of the Aimue songs in a moment,” he says excitedly. “When you see the trompe—that circular horn—you’ll know it’s an Aimue song. You can’t miss it; it sounds like a regal animal dying nobly!”
I’m unable to resist laughing at the absurdity of his description regarding the instrument’s sound, how he offers both a compliment and insult in the same breath. Suddenly, he jolts in alarm, interrupting his explanation by saying, “Oh, pardon me, Lady Haesan! I’m needed for this next piece. I think you’re going to enjoy this one, especially if Qane is still being persuaded to dance!”
The music begins slowly, with Chalqo and one other person playing the quena and performing as if they’re dueling; the two perform an interlocking melody, with alternating notes played to form a seamless tune. The dancers gracefully hop from one foot to the other, moving in tandem with the plodding, steady beat of the tinya, their colorful sashes swaying at their sides. As the tinya intensifies its rhythm, the quenassynchronize, amplifying their melody to keep up. The tempo surges, building and building to a breathtaking pace, challenging the dancers to match its fervor. One enthusiastic dancer manages to convince Qane to join the whirlwind, and while he starts with confidence, his self-assurance soon turns into sheer panic, attempting desperately to synchronize with the relentless tum! tum! tum! tum! of the drums.
When the final note plays, the group is overcome in a collective, exhausted elation, punctuated by fits of hearty, uncontrollable laughter. Qane’s fear changes to relief, as Chalqo walks over and pats him on the back. Numerous ladies swarm the Tapeu guard, apparently impressed with what seemed to me to be bumbling twitches.
This joyous moment serves as a balm, a gentle touch that eases the pain and heartache I've borne in recent days. The memories of Anqatil's cold gaze and the searing pain she inflicted still haunt my every waking moment. And beyond the physical torment, the revelations from Nuqasiq have added layers of confusion and betrayal to the mix. Learning that Achutli, the ruler who has been a distant figure in my life, is actually my blood—my father—feels like a cruel twist of fate. How do I reconcile the life I thought I knew with this new reality? The weight of it all is suffocating, a heavy shroud draped over my spirit. But here, in the company of the Atima, I find solace. It’s been difficult to process everything—not just what actually occurred, but my emotions, as well. However, for just this one, fleeting moment, I can enjoy the respite. My pain, both physical and mental, washes away.
An unexpected series of shouts breaks me from my trance, pulling me back into the present. Approaching from the distance, a lone figure wearing a white hooded cloak makes their way toward the settlement. Being so far away, it’s difficult to discern any features that would determine whether the traveler is friend or foe. The once exuberant Atima men and women stand alert and attentive, vigilantly watching as the person gets nearer. Qane picks up his gear and begins putting on pieces of his armor, preparing himself to aid in defending the camp, if needed.
After a period, two Atima men, with spears in hand, march to intercept the figure in the plains. The three converse, with the stranger shaking the large sack they carry as if to emphasize their explanation, and points at the settlement, then to the south. I can’t explain, but there’s a feeling that comes to me regarding this person, and I determine, without any other evidence, that it’s a friend whose face is shrouded by the hood.
I start to leave the camp, drawn towards the stranger, despite the vocal objections from Chalqo and Qane. As I get closer, features of the figure’s face peek out from beneath the hood, showing a gently curving jaw and chin and petite nose. At the palace, she presented herself as meek and modest, but I’d be forgiven for confusing her to be someone else as she assertively accentuates her statement in frustration.
“Yachaman?” I ask, caught between conviction and doubt.
The figure raises their free hand and admonishes the two intervenors, crying out, “See! She knows who I am!”
The two men frown, then look to me to confirm whether or not this is true, and nod and I wave to them to diffuse the situation. They shrug and promptly return to the campsite, leaving me alone with my former servant.
“What on Pachil are you doing here?” I ask, astonished to see her. “How did you know I was here?” While I’m genuinely happy to see her, the realization of her presence makes my heart sink, fearing for Nuqasiq’s safety and worried that others may know of my location, as well.
Fortunately, she abates my fears, saying, “I was sent by Quraqa Nuqasiq to deliver your possessions. I had to travel by means of a… questionable… route. I do not wish to return that way again! Especially in the dark of night? It’s terrifying!”
This is the most animated I’ve ever seen Yachaman, and her impassioned demeanor evokes a laugh from me. I apologize, not wanting to appear that I find humor in her undesired circumstances, but the tension in her shoulders relaxes, and she joins me with a chuckle of her own.
We make our way toward Qelantu Loh, whose people have returned to their festive mood, now that they’ve been made aware that there is no danger. Yachaman appears puzzled by the jubilant atmosphere, curiously gazing at the various performers. When I mention the purpose of the celebrations, she laughs in disbelief.
“I thought only the Aimue celebrated such an occasion,” she says.
“Supposedly, the people here celebrate anything,” I say.
As if on cue, the squeal of a blaring horn resounds throughout the campsite. I jump, startled by the noise, but Yachaman doesn’t seemed bothered by it at all. In fact, she stops walking and looks lost in thought, smiling warmly as if recalling something pleasant from deep within the recesses of her memory.
To no one in particular, she says, “I suppose the harvest celebration has officially begun.”
I ask if she’s interested in partaking of the festivities, but she dismisses the notion with the wave of her hand, then resumes toward the huddle of tents. I lead her to the one in which I’m residing, lifting the flap and allowing her to enter first.
“This is far from your accommodations at the palace,” she says with a smirk, browsing my humble abode. I can see some of my belongings poke out as she sets down the large sack. Colorful dresses and tunics, blankets, shimmering jewelry and ornamental headpieces. Most important of all, I spot my favorite comb, a wooden piece decorated with shells I picked from the shores back in Achope with my mother. Or, whom I believed to be my mother, that is.
I thank Yachaman profusely for delivering my possessions and reclaim my beloved comb. Lifting the instrument from the sack, I unveil an unexpected item: a magenta scarf. As I pick it up, a green hummingbird stitched onto one of the corners catches my eye. My heart leaps into my throat, compelling me to hurriedly bury the piece of cloth. My hand sinks deep into the sack, and I feel another foreign object—the unmistakable weight and shape of the ritual knife I retrieved with Onixem, inside my satchel.
“Did anyone enter my room, or go through my belongings?” I ask, trying to maintain a calm and collected composure.
“Not of which I was made aware, Lady Haesan,” she says, appearing slightly confused. “Quraqa Nuqasiq had requested I quickly grab anything that was inside your room. I didn’t have much time, as she sent me off right away.”
I pause to think about the magenta scarf and how it came to be among my possessions. Is this Onixem’s doing? Had she remembered my compliments of the dress’ vibrant colors and crafted this for me? Does this mean she’s aware of my situation? What about the ritual knife? If she’s behind it and the scarf being placed inside the sack, does she plan on retrieving it sometime soon? Will I see her again, as a result?
As questions swirl in my head, Yachaman begins unpacking the sack. I promptly stop her, stating that I don’t want to cause her to do any more work for me, as we’re no longer inside the palace. She looks at me with confusion, her brows furrowed as she tries to make sense of my request.
“Lady Haesan,” she eventually manages to get out, “I don’t believe you’re aware, but…”
She hesitates, and I can sense there’s some upsetting news she’s about to impart upon me. She takes a moment to collect herself, then says, “I am to serve you, as I was assigned to you by the Arbiter himself. I… If you are not at the palace, then I am not to be at the palace. I am not allowed back there, as long as you are not there. It is stated as such in the laws and what was agreed to, by any who serve within the palace.”
“So, does the Arbiter know where I am?” The panic I felt earlier returns, nervous that he or Anqatil may have someone tracking Yachaman and are using her to discover my whereabouts. She said she traveled in the darkness of night, but would a curious guard or some whisperer of Anqatil’s monitor the servant’s movements while inside the palace?
“I was informed by Quraqa Nuqasiq to be discreet, that this was a matter not to be discussed with anyone outside of her and your presence,” she says, bowing her head slightly. While I’m not completely convinced my safety is ensured, I still feel a little relief, knowing Nuqasiq likely took whatever precautions she could. A part of me is conflicted regarding the Jade Hummingbird insignia in my possession, uncertain what it means and what I should do. Yet, knowing Yachaman’s knack for discretion, I consider asking her advice, though hesitating to reveal my truth in its entirety.
“If I’m no longer a part of the palace, what does that mean for your situation?” I ask. “To be honest with you, I don’t believe I will be part of the court any time, well, ever. Does this mean you get reassigned or–“
“Well, Lady Haesan, I’ve been bonded to you, by order of my people and the Arbiter, so I am to go wherever you go,” she says flatly, as if she cannot believe I’m unaware of her situation. But the reality is, I’m not aware of her circumstances, and will need her to clarify.
“I don’t believe I have any recollection of such an ordinance involving the Aimue,” I say. “I was taught some history of the factions of Pachil, and some of the languages, but nothing like that ever came up in my lessons.”
Yachaman looks ashamed, for some reason, which saddens me, making me believe I’m responsible for her distress once again. After a deep sigh, she says, “It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, it’s an arrangement made between my people’s officials, my father, and the Arbiter—or, rather, one of the Arbiter’s advisors. I’m to fulfill the requirements of the agreement for the designated time. That’s what was decided.”
“Yachaman,” I say, touching her wrist and expressing my empathy. I understand her people don’t handle physical contact very well, but I’m compelled to show her that I genuinely want to hear her story. “If we’re ‘bonded’, as you say, then it appears we are to spend an extraordinary amount of time together. I failed in getting to know you when we were both in the palace, but I refuse to make such an error again. Please, I want to know about you—where you’re from in Aimue, your family, what this arrangement is. I’m not going anywhere, and my attention is all yours.”
Yachaman takes in my statement and request, and I get the impression she’s not used to being heard, which saddens me further. I’m prepared to hear an upsetting tale, and can only hope I can provide her some comfort. I can see her mustering up the strength to share her story with me, and I do my best to restrain myself from pressing her. With a deep breath, she begins.
“As you likely learned, the Aimue were forced to cultivate our crops and provide their yields to the Timuaq. All we could keep for ourselves was a minuscule amount barely enough to feed the family. It was during this time that my mother passed away. We were struggling to keep up with the demands of the Timuaq, and she had worked herself to death. I was but a young child at the time of her passing—maybe five, six harvests old? We could barely gather enough from our crops to supply the titans, and on countless occasions, we would have to forego eating just to have enough to meet the yields.
“Once the War of Liberation concluded, the Aimue had worked out a pact with the Arbiter, offering to supply Pachil as needed, but allowing the farmers to retain more of their crops, and provide a more sustainable return. However, my father became injured and couldn’t assist with the farming as effectively. My two older sisters and I attempted to help, but even with the lowered demands, we still couldn’t provide enough to meet the yields. The Aimue officials had told my father that the Arbiter would seize his land and assign it to someone more capable if he couldn’t meet the requirements.”
“That sounds needlessly cruel,” I interject, noting how counterintuitive it seems to punish a person in need of assistance, when they only want to be a productive member of a society.
“It’s the Aimue way,” Yachaman says. “What matters more than family is the field.”
“So, what did they do?” I ask.
“Seizing our family’s farm would send my family into greater, unrecoverable poverty. But more than that, the farm was a gift to my parents when they married, and together, they constructed our house. It’s essentially all we have that reminds us of her, and my father didn’t want to lose the land and the life they worked so hard to build.
“So, in order to retain the farm, the officials declared that the family would be given a lesser assignment, which is providing food to the locals instead of being a part of the Arbiter’s distribution. This meant a significantly less lucrative assignment, but one our family could reasonably fulfill.”
“That doesn’t seem too harsh, but where do you tie into this arrangement?” I ask. Yet I immediately regret saying the words as they leave my mouth, fearing that the worst part of the agreement was yet to be told to me.
“As part of the arrangement and Aimue law crafted in tandem with the Arbiter,” Yachaman says, her head bowed and her eyes cast upon the ground, “my father would have to become a bonded servant to the Arbiter, to be used however they required, for the period of twenty harvests. Given his advanced age and his injury, they determined he may not be able to effectively serve out the term. Thus, one of his children would go in his stead. My two older sisters were promised to be wed to two other, wealthier families in our village, which means…”
She didn’t have to complete her statement for me to know the story’s conclusion. With her eyes closed, she wipes a solitary tear from her cheek. My mind is filled with questions: Was there no other way to reconcile the short yields? Why wasn’t the reassignment punishment enough? Was the farm worth that much that such a sacrifice was considered acceptable?
“Yachaman,” I begin, taking a deep breath, the weight of her tale pressing down on me, “I can't even begin to imagine the pain and turmoil you've gone through. It's an unfair burden for anyone to bear, let alone be thrust upon a young woman because of circumstances beyond her control.”
I pause, looking deeply into her eyes, trying to convey the depth of empathy I feel. “It’s easy to stand here and question a father's choices—how he could possibly consider such a sacrifice. But life has taught me that things are rarely as simple as they appear. We’re all entangled in webs of duty, of love, of desperation, of hope.”
I swallow, my own past rushing back to me. “You and I, we have different stories, but they converge at a place of abandonment where we're merely leaves caught in someone else’s storm. The parents I grew up with weren’t truly mine. My biological father abandoned me to a fate he believed was better for his line, guided by baseless superstitions.”
Though I want to say more, and I regret not sharing more of my own story—especially after Yachaman opened up about hers—I’m still grappling with the details. And even though she's no longer at the palace, there's a chance she might relay information about me to them. However, I still mourn for Yachaman’s situation, and I feel a sense of kinship in our shared struggles. One item still perturbs me, worried that my actions may have brought her to a more troubled fate.
“So, if the arrangement was made between the Aimue officials and the Arbiter, does my departure from the palace affect the terms of your service?” I ask.
“Well, when the bonding ceremony was performed, it was determined that my servitude applied to the one to whom I’m bonded. Quraqa Nuqasiq informed me that, when you were selected as my bond, it was established that I was to serve you, under any circumstance or capacity. The bond is not just made through law, but there’s a ritual performed, and I am sworn to serve the person to whom I’m bonded, in which you were named. If I were to stay in the palace without you, it would be seen as a grave spiritual transgression, breaking the sacred pact my family made.”
“So we really are sealed to each other’s fate, I suppose,” I say, more as a statement and realization than fact. Yachaman nods in agreement, and I can see that, after she’s considered all that’s been shared, there’s something she wishes to say, and has been conditioned even at her young age to not speak unless given permission by her superiors. Recognizing this, I ask if there’s something more. She hesitates initially, but after pressing her lips into a tight, thin line, her face turns to one of determination, and she decides to tell me what’s on her heart.
Yachaman gazes at the cloth wall of the tent, as if looking through it to watch the festivities taking place outside. She’s lost in thought for a moment before saying, “It’s fitting that, today, these people revel in the Aimue tradition of honoring the abundant harvest. It reminds me of a deeper tale, the legend that speaks of our god, Laytauma, who withers away from Pachil as the last crop is reaped. His departure beckons the harsh winter, leaving the world in a solemn slumber. But with the dawn of spring, Laytauma breathes anew, gracing the land just when the fields yearn to be sown and the skies weep nurturing rains.”
She looks contemplatively at the surroundings and adds, “Beyond the cycles of seasons, this tale whispers to our souls about resurrection and rebirth. In life, we endure losses, face despair, and confront endings. But with every end, there's a promise of a new beginning. A chance to evolve, to reinvent, to rise stronger and brighter from the ashes of what was. We all, in our ways, have seasons of hardships, but they lead us to our own springs, filled with hope and potential. An opportunity not just to begin anew, but to evolve, to rise stronger, more radiant, outshining what once was. The story of Laytauma isn't just about my god—it's about us.”
Her message resonates deeply with me, and her composure in the face of such a tragic and incomprehensible situation is truly remarkable. Despite all the adversities she's faced in her young life, she remains grounded and holds onto that faint glint of hope. Her strength inspires me to rise above my own challenges, determined to be more than just a victim.
I reach out, tentatively placing my hand on her arm, “I can't change what's been done to us, Yachaman. But here, now, we have a chance to reclaim the control that was taken from us.”
I reach into the sack once more and retrieve the magenta scarf. Yachaman gazes upon it inquisitively, eyes narrowed as she inspects the item. I can see that she’s unable to decipher its meaning, but to me, it means everything. Our next step. The way forward.
“I believe I know what we must do,” I say, feeling more determined than ever before. “And this,” I wave the vibrant scarf in the air, “is where our journey begins."
