The man’s hushed words bring a shiver to my spine. Frozen in place, I stand still, glancing over to Yachaman to determine the level of threat we face. For a brief moment, I contemplate utilizing my plate, still containing pieces of uneaten meat and root vegetables, as a weapon, flinging it at my assailant as a distraction so Yachaman and I can escape to safety. My eyes dart about the rest of the festive scene, searching for Qane or Chalqo, but neither are anywhere to be found. It’s moments such as this where I wonder just how much safety the young Tapeu palace guard actually provides.
After my lack of response, the man says, “If you are for the cause, you are among friends. If not, well, I cannot assure you your safety. Meet at the seamstress’ tent at the sound of the trompe.”
I faintly hear his footsteps walk away, but when I turn to see who the man was, there is no individual nearby; a crowd of people engaged in festive merriment stand or dance, as though nothing devious or sinister had taken place. Did they not see the man speaking to me? Should I make inquiries about the possibility of people supporting ‘the cause’ existing among the camp?
“Did you get a good look at the man who spoke to me?” I ask Yachaman, hoping she might be able to identify him. She winces and shakes her head in short, quick bursts.
“My sincerest apologies,” she says. “He blends in with the others pretty well, with dark brown hair and wearing the neutrally-toned tunics. However, he had a plain, dark green scarf covering most of his face. It’s not to say that there are others among the inhabitants who would possess such an item, but-“
“… if we hurry, we might be able to find someone walking around with the scarf now,” I say, enthusiastically finishing her thought. We nod, setting our dishes down where we were previously seated, and rush off in the direction Yachaman saw the blur of this mysterious figure move. Our heads swivel back and forth, frantically seeking a person with a green scarf—or any green item of clothing, for that matter. Once, I admired the warmth and hospitality of Qelantu Loh’s residents, but now their well-meaning interruptions, with constant offerings of food and invitations to dance, are hindering our progress.
After much searching, and many mistaken identities, Yachaman and I turn to each other and grimace at the missed opportunity. Had I not been too cowardly to turn around and face my pursuer directly, we could have confronted him about the meaning of all of this. After all, we were in a public place, surrounded by many eyes and ears to provide a level of protection should things have gone awry. Self-doubt begins to creep in. Am I in over my head, attempting to engage with the Qente Waila? Do I have the courage and mental fortitude to handle joining their cause?
Without much time for self-loathing, the unmistakable sound Chalqo described as “a regal animal dying nobly” blares throughout the campsite, which could only be the trompe.
“We’ve run out of time,” I lament. “I was hoping we could isolate the man. Do we appear where he told us to? Is this a trap?”
Unconvinced, Yachaman reasons, “With permission to speak openly, if they wanted to harm us, and this campsite contains the numbers of rebels we could assume it has, we would have been disposed of much sooner. I believe he wants to speak to us in earnest, likely gauging our interest. Although, if we engage with them and don’t provide them with the answers they seek, they will most likely kill us before we can leave the tent, so as to not expose their identities.”
“That sounds reassuring,” I sigh. With whom am I getting involved? Beyond my interactions with Onixem and overhearing conversations about them, what do I truly know about the Jade Hummingbird? For all I know, they could be lunatics seeking to resurrect the defeated Timuaq and enslave humanity. Are these the types of people with whom I want to engage?
I turn to Yachaman, deep concern etched into my face, and say, “Well, above all else, I don’t want to put you–“
“You are not endangering my life any more than I’m willing to allow you to do,” she says before I can finish my statement. “Though I am tethered to you by rights of the ceremony, I, too, would like to learn about this organization to which I know so little. Besides,” the corners of her mouth slide to a subtle smirk, “since your bodyguard has disappeared to swoon over some maiden, you’ll need all the protection you can get.”
“The maiden…” I echo her, pondering aloud. “Do you think that seamstress’ daughter is being used to distract Qane in order to separate us from the Tapeu guard?”
Yachaman’s eyes grow wide at the realization, and she nods profusely. “That is entirely plausible! Perhaps this group is attempting to figure out where we stand in the turmoil building in Qapauma, since you arrived to Qelantu Loh in Achope colors, but with a Tapeu palace guard, and are vouched for by Chalqo—a friend of the Arbiter’s mother.”
“This definitely feels like a trap,” I say. Disrupting our deliberations, the trompe plays once more, signaling to the residents of Qelantu Loh that a grand event is about to take place. The interest of Yachaman and I are piqued, and we move to the large clearing at another central location of the campsite. Dancers are gathering in the center, while Chalqo and his musicians set up off to the side. Another festive display is about to occur, which makes me believe that the message we received to meet in the tent after the trompe sounds is purposely intended to happen away from the possibility of prying eyes.
Doubts echo in my mind, making it hard to find clarity in the path we should take. I worry that this is an opportunity for the Qente Waila to ambush me and attack a once-member of the Tapeu court, using my death as an example of their threatening might to send a message to the Arbiter. Yet as Yachaman mentioned, if they wanted to dispose of me, they would have done so already. Perhaps they’re waiting for such an inconspicuous moment to strike, but the more I deliberate upon it, the more I’m inclined to give them an opportunity to prove themselves to me, just as I will have to prove myself to them. If this is the choice I made just this morning, I can’t shy away after the first sign of trouble or discomfort. I highly doubt I’ll be confronted with as easy a circumstance as this in the future.
“Okay, Yachaman,” I say, steeling myself as I make my declaration, “we should still meet at the seamstress’ tent, but with heightened caution. Let us be prepared and determine an escape route should the situation fall apart.”
She looks to the sky for a moment as she considers our options, then says, “The tent is at the end of a row of tents, so we’ll be just out of earshot from the festivities taking place now—and all their noise and singing will probably drown out any yelling. We’ll need to slip out of the tent, and perhaps have a weapon on us, in case the conversation turns into confrontation. Do you think the ritual knife will work?”
I pat the satchel at my side, acknowledging the ritual knife housed within. “Its shape is a little awkward, but I believe it should do. And I recall she had a flint dagger that she used to cut the strip of material for my hair tie. That gives us another possible weapon. Let’s meet by the large ombú tree by the road in the countryside if this turns sour.”
With abated breath, I walk with Yachaman to the seamstress’ tent. Where our previous visit brought me joy, I grow more nervous beyond description with each approaching step. I shake off the imagined scenarios and consequences we may find ourselves in, forcing myself to focus on the here and now. The joyful music and cheering that fades into the background clashes with the anxiousness coursing through me. Unlike the gathered crowds off in the central clearing of the campsite, the activity along this path leading up to the tent is nonexistent. There’s an eerie stillness to the area, and I fight the urge to turn around and return to the celebrations.
After Yachaman and I exchange nods, we lift the flap of the closed tent and enter into the space partly illuminated by torchlight. There, the seamstress and three others—two men and another woman—are seated in a circle, facing one another, with an empty chair off to the side. Their clothes aren’t distinctive from any worn throughout Qelantu Loh, with simple tunics and dresses lacking intricate designs or decorations, nor do they wear any elaborate jewelry. The only unique aspect is their shortened hair and single braid that trails down to their shoulder. From memory, I don’t recall any of the Jade Hummingbird members I previously encountered wearing the braid, so perhaps they have different groups or cells within their organization.
“So this is the Achope butterfly who has shed her cocoon and is ready to fly,” the woman says, more as a statement. She gets up from her seat and stands with the stature of one who has seen many seasons turn. The woman has a sculpted appearance, with high, well-defined cheekbones and full lips that make her appearance striking and elegantly captivating. Her eyes, vibrantly animated with each word she utters, are complimented by neatly arched eyebrows. This expressive visage is framed by her chestnut brown hair, trimmed in a style that gracefully contours her soft jawline, along with a solitary braid of silver hair weaves through the locks.
The two men remain seated, stoically evaluating me as I approach. Though they share many similarities in their angularly shaped, clean-shaven faces, one possess hair of pure white and has a leaner, lankier physical build while the other’s hair is black and his muscles are more clearly defined. The seamstress looks upon me with an indeterminate expression—is it pride? Confidence? Smugness? Regardless, her arms are crossed as she watches the scene unfold before her.
I stand alongside Yachaman behind the chair, not wanting to be caught without the possibility of escape if the situation takes a turn. The regal woman’s mouth forms a bemused smile as she walks among the others present. Looking around inside the tent, I fail to spot any indication of the Jade Hummingbird—no emerald green or magenta items marking their presence here. I begin to grow concerned that I have fallen into a trap, and my hand subconsciously trails down my side and onto my satchel.
“What brings an Achope so far from the comforts of home?” she says cooly. I attempt not to take too much hidden meaning from her words and focus on the present matter.
I unclinch my jaw and, looking directly at her, I say, unflinchingly, “It is true that I am from Chopaqte, where luxury often masks the uncomfortable truths of power and injustice. I may have been raised among the Achope, but their ideals no longer align with mine. Comfort has never been a friend of progress, and I’ve come to realize that real comfort lies not in the opulence of noble halls, but in the pursuit of something greater—justice, change, challenging the status quo. There’s a world beyond those walls that demands our attention, a world where actions speak louder than the hollow promises of nobility.”
In my life, there might have been a fleeting moment when my parents—or, rather, the ones assigned to me through a calculated arrangement between the Arbiter, Suntu, and Polan—showed a glimmer of pride in one of my achievements, though the specifics of that instance elude me now. However, any semblance of pride I might have glimpsed in them pales in comparison to the vivid and almost palpable surge of pride that radiates from this woman following my response. Her expression is so intense and tangible, it seems to fill the air around us, eclipsing any past acknowledgments I may have received.
“Noble words from a noblewoman,” the man with silver hair says, “but we’ve heard such declarations before. Every well-fed Achope speaks of change when it suits them. You claim to seek justice, but what have you actually done to challenge the power you were born into?”
I peer upon his snarling, disgusted expression with disdain of my own. Looking about the others, the black-haired man continues with his statuesque appearance while the woman and seamstress watch me with curiosity as to how I’ll respond. Though I was nervous entering this tent, there’s something in this man’s words and his intent that gives me a resurgence of energy, of confidence, to take on his efforts to dismantle my argument for being here. Yet it also feels more than that, as though his words are a direct affront to my existence. He’s intimidated by me, I can see it clearly, fearing that I will usurp whatever small grip of power he has within this group. I can’t determine how I know, but… it’s as though something is speaking to me, informing me of his thoughts and emotions.
“My very presence here isn’t it proof enough?” I challenge. “I’ve left behind the safety and privileges of my birthright to embrace a struggle against the prevailing order. I’ve endured torture and betrayal, not shielded by my noble status, but exposed to the harsh realities of those who wield power without conscience. My journey here is a testament to my commitment to seek something more meaningful, something rooted in justice and truth.”
The tent falls into an unsettling silence after hearing my words. The silver-haired man grumbles and utters something incoherent to himself while the other three exchange knowing glances. I stand in defiance of their judgement, no longer fearful of what outcome awaits me. If they want to strike me down, so be it—they will not succeed without a fight. I’ve faced worse than death.
The silver-haired man tests me once more, “You talk of injustice and the pursuit of change. Yet here you stand, an Achope by birth and upbringing. The ideals you claim to reject have shaped your very existence. Our cause requires more than just a change of heart. How do we know this isn’t just another whim of a bored noble?”
Is that the best he’s got? He is but cornered prey, lashing out once more before being consumed by the more dominant predator.
“You continue to address my Achope heritage,” I say, gradually approaching and towering over where he sits, “yet I don’t see myself wearing their colors, do you? I may not have led rebellions or spoken out in courts, but I have shed the illusions that were fed to me since birth. I’ve seen the suffering caused by those ‘noble’ ideals and chose to reject them, choosing instead to align myself with those who dare to make a real difference. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake coming here, believing such people existed inside this tent. My actions from this point forward will eclipse any past inaction and outshine the mere bluster and theatrics that seem to suffice here.”
With my face but a breath away from his, I say with a growl, “Watch closely, for I’m not just here to talk—I’m here to act, to make a tangible difference.” I turn my back to him and return to Yachaman, whose wide smile says all I need to know as to how my words have been received.
“You arrived to Qelantu Loh with a Tapeu palace guard,” the seated black-haired man says, finally speaking, whose voice is deep and resonant, carrying a commanding presence that belies his youth. “What is your affiliation with the Tapeu?” Each word he speaks is imbued with a sense of purpose and unwavering confidence.
“My association with the Tapeu is a product of circumstance rather than loyalty,” I respond. “The guard you saw was more a guardian against common threats than a symbol of allegiance. My journey has crossed many paths, and with each, I’ve sought allies who share a common vision for change and justice, not bound by the territories that claim us. My commitment is to the people of Pachil, in all its diversity, not to the crowns that seek to rule them.”
“But there is an association with the Tapeu, correct?” the woman asks.
“While I have allies within the Tapeu court, my allegiance is not to the court itself, but to the ideals of justice and equity they represent,” I answer. “My connections are guided by common goals for the betterment of all in Pachil, transcending mere political alliances.” She nods slowly at this, then turns to the seamstress, who gives a quick nod as if in confirmation of something spoken prior to this engagement.
“You speak of justice and change, qualities we value deeply,” the woman says with a touch of hesitancy. “If your actions prove as strong as your words, then perhaps there is a place for you among us. But beware, our cause demands more than mere intent.”
“I still don’t understand what the Qente Waila is about,” I say. “What ideals guide you, what goals burn in your heart, and what do you aspire to achieve? How do your beliefs resonate with my own? And why should I lend my support to help you realize your plans?”
The silver-haired man scoffs, apparently offended that I dare question them. However, the woman appears more receptive to my inquiries, shushing him before speaking with a soft, yet commanding tone, her eyes reflecting the fire’s glow as she addresses me.
“In many of the cultures of Pachil,” the woman says, now slowly pacing about the tent behind her compatriots, “the hummingbird symbolizes vitality and resilience—two characteristics the continent’s people have needed after the defeat of the Timuaq. It thrives where others falter, embodying the spirit that drives the Qente Waila. Like the hummingbird, we, too, are small but unyielding, ever adaptable in the face of adversity.”
While the man with silver hair fixes his stare to the ground, the others look upon me during the woman’s reply. She gestures towards the flames of the torches, and her voice takes on a deeper resonance.
“But there’s another side to the hummingbird often forgotten, yet equally vital—its association with Sualset, the member of the Eleven who represented the Atima, and the warriors she commanded. In its agility and ferocity, it mirrors the qualities we hold dear in our struggle. Our warfare is not of brute force, but of agility and adaptability, confronting the entrenched powers that suffocate our lands.”
She places her hands on the back of the chair and leans forward slightly, her expression intensifying. “The Arbiter promised change, yet what we witness is a return to the shadows of old, where the few thrive at the cost of the many. Under his rule, we see the echoes of the Timuaq’s tyranny, masked under the guise of an oligarchy. This… cannot stand.”
The others continue to monitor me, their eyes not once breaking their focus upon me. The woman pauses, allowing her words to sink in before continuing. “Our vision is clear: to return power to the people of Pachil. Each faction should govern its own, under a confederacy where voices are heard and respected. The Jade Hummingbird seeks to be the guardians of this balance, ensuring no one seizes power for selfish gains.
“Yet in this quest, we must remain vigilant. Power can corrupt the noblest of intentions. We strive not for glory, but for a future where every individual in Pachil can soar as freely and as high as the hummingbirds themselves.”
“It appears we envision the same future for Pachil,” I agree. “All I’ve known is life under Timuaq rule, so to see it fall into the hands of someone who is effectively continuing their tyranny is disheartening.”
“Then let us join forces and test the depth of your commitment to our mission,” declares the man with dark hair. “We need insight into the Arbiter’s next moves, to aid us in our strategic planning. Our group based in Qapauma is still regrouping after a skirmish with a terrorist organization there, which depleted our resources and ability to collect information. Your ties with the Tapeu nobility could be instrumental in propelling our cause forward.”
“How do you propose I achieve such a task?” I ask, nervous about the possibility of having to return to Qapauma.
“We will allow you to assess the situation on the ground on your own,” the woman says. “We need to understand the Arbiter’s current political standing, military capabilities, alliances, potential weaknesses… anything you can discover and provide to us. Texani,” at this name, the woman points to the dark-haired man, “will travel with you and your servant to Qapauma, where you can exchange information with our group located there. You will depart at dawn’s first light, to ensure you will arrive before the roads become treacherous.”
I wince at Yachaman being declared my ‘servant’, yet I must remain calm and proceed without showing too much emotion, lest I want to be perceived as someone who can’t be even keeled.
“And what of my housing while I’m in Qapauma?” I ask. “I’m not exactly welcomed there, which is how I ended up in Qelantu Loh, after all.”
“You will be in the capable hands of our group and should not face any difficulties in having your living situation arranged,” the woman says flatly. “The rest will have to be navigated by you.”
Before I can ask any of the multitude of follow-up questions I have, the meeting is adjourned, and, other than the seamstress, each member goes their separate ways. The silver-haired man scowls at me on his way out, but I pay him no mind as I lock eyes with Yachaman and depart with her.
“Well, that was certainly something,” Yachaman says in disbelief as the two of us walk down the uninhabited path toward the center of the campsite. The music is still being performed, as singing and hollers of elation continue to resound throughout the grounds. “Are we seriously going to return to Qapauma?”
“I’m apprehensive of the tasked that’s been assigned, most definitely,” I say, gravely concerned about what challenges lie before us. “When I departed the capital city, I had no intentions of returning unless it was vitally necessary. Is this such an occasion? I believe I have no choice if I want to join the Qente Waila and prove my worth.”
“But is there another way to achieve that?” Yachaman asks. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, work the loom and craft clothing with the hummingbird insignia stitched in? Serve them their meals or something?”
I look at Yachaman with mild amusement before responding, “You and I both know I have the unique position of accessibility to the Tapeu nobility that could prove invaluable to the Qente Waila. Besides, I don’t believe I need to ask your opinions on being a servant to others.”
Yachaman sighs and nods. “And what about Qane?”
“What about Qane?” I ask in response. “His attention seems to be consumed by the seamstress’ daughter, so I doubt we’ll be much of a concern to our ‘loyal guard and protector’.”
Yachaman chuckles at the thought and shakes her head. Then, spoken more as a statement than an inquiry, she says, “So we’re doing this, then.”
“I am doing this,” I say. “You’re under no obligation to join me in undertaking such a risky mission. I refuse to needlessly endanger you.”
“You’ve given me the gift of being able to make my own decisions,” she says, “and I am choosing to join you in this fight. You’re not the only one who wants to spread freedom and justice throughout Pachil.”
Despite my concerns about risking her life, I’m still comforted by the notion that I won’t be alone in this journey. Though we were initially tethered to one another through some archaic ceremony, I feel in my heart that we’ve become tethered as friends through our own care and admiration for each other, something I will never take for granted.
The celebrations have escalated into a whirlwind of raucous and fervent exuberance. People dance wherever there is space for them to occupy, and Yachaman and I swerve and twist and turn to avoid the flailing limbs and flinging bodies. Occasionally, we’re smacked in the face with various colorful sashes as the dancers twirl, but we can only laugh in response to everyone’s delirium.
After escaping the festivities, with the music and singing beginning to fade into the background, we eventually reach Chalqo’s tent, much to our relief. The night has settled into the camp, and there’s a much-welcomed peace and tranquility in this area of Qelantu Loh. I feel I can finally breathe and relax as Chalqo’s tent comes into view, but just then, Chalqo flings open the flap and emerges with a look of surprise.
“Lady Haesan! Lady Yachaman!” he exclaims. “Your extravagant beauty was greatly missed during the celebrations! Ah, but perhaps you found the night’s other offerings more... enlightening?”
His eyes twinkle with a mix of mischief and hidden knowledge. “The campfire’s glow can reveal much, don’t you think? Or perhaps cast deeper shadows where secrets like to dance.”
A panic jolts through my bones. To what is he referring? Is he aware of what I’ve involved myself in?
The man’s hushed words bring a shiver to my spine. Frozen in place, I stand still, glancing over to Yachaman to determine the level of threat we face. For a brief moment, I contemplate utilizing my plate, still containing pieces of uneaten meat and root vegetables, as a weapon, flinging it at my assailant as a distraction so Yachaman and I can escape to safety. My eyes dart about the rest of the festive scene, searching for Qane or Chalqo, but neither are anywhere to be found. It’s moments such as this where I wonder just how much safety the young Tapeu palace guard actually provides.
After my lack of response, the man says, “If you are for the cause, you are among friends. If not, well, I cannot assure you your safety. Meet at the seamstress’ tent at the sound of the trompe.”
I faintly hear his footsteps walk away, but when I turn to see who the man was, there is no individual nearby; a crowd of people engaged in festive merriment stand or dance, as though nothing devious or sinister had taken place. Did they not see the man speaking to me? Should I make inquiries about the possibility of people supporting ‘the cause’ existing among the camp?
“Did you get a good look at the man who spoke to me?” I ask Yachaman, hoping she might be able to identify him. She winces and shakes her head in short, quick bursts.
“My sincerest apologies,” she says. “He blends in with the others pretty well, with dark brown hair and wearing the neutrally-toned tunics. However, he had a plain, dark green scarf covering most of his face. It’s not to say that there are others among the inhabitants who would possess such an item, but-“
“… if we hurry, we might be able to find someone walking around with the scarf now,” I say, enthusiastically finishing her thought. We nod, setting our dishes down where we were previously seated, and rush off in the direction Yachaman saw the blur of this mysterious figure move. Our heads swivel back and forth, frantically seeking a person with a green scarf—or any green item of clothing, for that matter. Once, I admired the warmth and hospitality of Qelantu Loh’s residents, but now their well-meaning interruptions, with constant offerings of food and invitations to dance, are hindering our progress.
After much searching, and many mistaken identities, Yachaman and I turn to each other and grimace at the missed opportunity. Had I not been too cowardly to turn around and face my pursuer directly, we could have confronted him about the meaning of all of this. After all, we were in a public place, surrounded by many eyes and ears to provide a level of protection should things have gone awry. Self-doubt begins to creep in. Am I in over my head, attempting to engage with the Qente Waila? Do I have the courage and mental fortitude to handle joining their cause?
Without much time for self-loathing, the unmistakable sound Chalqo described as “a regal animal dying nobly” blares throughout the campsite, which could only be the trompe.
“We’ve run out of time,” I lament. “I was hoping we could isolate the man. Do we appear where he told us to? Is this a trap?”
Unconvinced, Yachaman reasons, “With permission to speak openly, if they wanted to harm us, and this campsite contains the numbers of rebels we could assume it has, we would have been disposed of much sooner. I believe he wants to speak to us in earnest, likely gauging our interest. Although, if we engage with them and don’t provide them with the answers they seek, they will most likely kill us before we can leave the tent, so as to not expose their identities.”
“That sounds reassuring,” I sigh. With whom am I getting involved? Beyond my interactions with Onixem and overhearing conversations about them, what do I truly know about the Jade Hummingbird? For all I know, they could be lunatics seeking to resurrect the defeated Timuaq and enslave humanity. Are these the types of people with whom I want to engage?
I turn to Yachaman, deep concern etched into my face, and say, “Well, above all else, I don’t want to put you–“
“You are not endangering my life any more than I’m willing to allow you to do,” she says before I can finish my statement. “Though I am tethered to you by rights of the ceremony, I, too, would like to learn about this organization to which I know so little. Besides,” the corners of her mouth slide to a subtle smirk, “since your bodyguard has disappeared to swoon over some maiden, you’ll need all the protection you can get.”
“The maiden…” I echo her, pondering aloud. “Do you think that seamstress’ daughter is being used to distract Qane in order to separate us from the Tapeu guard?”
Yachaman’s eyes grow wide at the realization, and she nods profusely. “That is entirely plausible! Perhaps this group is attempting to figure out where we stand in the turmoil building in Qapauma, since you arrived to Qelantu Loh in Achope colors, but with a Tapeu palace guard, and are vouched for by Chalqo—a friend of the Arbiter’s mother.”
“This definitely feels like a trap,” I say. Disrupting our deliberations, the trompe plays once more, signaling to the residents of Qelantu Loh that a grand event is about to take place. The interest of Yachaman and I are piqued, and we move to the large clearing at another central location of the campsite. Dancers are gathering in the center, while Chalqo and his musicians set up off to the side. Another festive display is about to occur, which makes me believe that the message we received to meet in the tent after the trompe sounds is purposely intended to happen away from the possibility of prying eyes.
Doubts echo in my mind, making it hard to find clarity in the path we should take. I worry that this is an opportunity for the Qente Waila to ambush me and attack a once-member of the Tapeu court, using my death as an example of their threatening might to send a message to the Arbiter. Yet as Yachaman mentioned, if they wanted to dispose of me, they would have done so already. Perhaps they’re waiting for such an inconspicuous moment to strike, but the more I deliberate upon it, the more I’m inclined to give them an opportunity to prove themselves to me, just as I will have to prove myself to them. If this is the choice I made just this morning, I can’t shy away after the first sign of trouble or discomfort. I highly doubt I’ll be confronted with as easy a circumstance as this in the future.
“Okay, Yachaman,” I say, steeling myself as I make my declaration, “we should still meet at the seamstress’ tent, but with heightened caution. Let us be prepared and determine an escape route should the situation fall apart.”
She looks to the sky for a moment as she considers our options, then says, “The tent is at the end of a row of tents, so we’ll be just out of earshot from the festivities taking place now—and all their noise and singing will probably drown out any yelling. We’ll need to slip out of the tent, and perhaps have a weapon on us, in case the conversation turns into confrontation. Do you think the ritual knife will work?”
I pat the satchel at my side, acknowledging the ritual knife housed within. “Its shape is a little awkward, but I believe it should do. And I recall she had a flint dagger that she used to cut the strip of material for my hair tie. That gives us another possible weapon. Let’s meet by the large ombú tree by the road in the countryside if this turns sour.”
With abated breath, I walk with Yachaman to the seamstress’ tent. Where our previous visit brought me joy, I grow more nervous beyond description with each approaching step. I shake off the imagined scenarios and consequences we may find ourselves in, forcing myself to focus on the here and now. The joyful music and cheering that fades into the background clashes with the anxiousness coursing through me. Unlike the gathered crowds off in the central clearing of the campsite, the activity along this path leading up to the tent is nonexistent. There’s an eerie stillness to the area, and I fight the urge to turn around and return to the celebrations.
After Yachaman and I exchange nods, we lift the flap of the closed tent and enter into the space partly illuminated by torchlight. There, the seamstress and three others—two men and another woman—are seated in a circle, facing one another, with an empty chair off to the side. Their clothes aren’t distinctive from any worn throughout Qelantu Loh, with simple tunics and dresses lacking intricate designs or decorations, nor do they wear any elaborate jewelry. The only unique aspect is their shortened hair and single braid that trails down to their shoulder. From memory, I don’t recall any of the Jade Hummingbird members I previously encountered wearing the braid, so perhaps they have different groups or cells within their organization.
“So this is the Achope butterfly who has shed her cocoon and is ready to fly,” the woman says, more as a statement. She gets up from her seat and stands with the stature of one who has seen many seasons turn. The woman has a sculpted appearance, with high, well-defined cheekbones and full lips that make her appearance striking and elegantly captivating. Her eyes, vibrantly animated with each word she utters, are complimented by neatly arched eyebrows. This expressive visage is framed by her chestnut brown hair, trimmed in a style that gracefully contours her soft jawline, along with a solitary braid of silver hair weaves through the locks.
The two men remain seated, stoically evaluating me as I approach. Though they share many similarities in their angularly shaped, clean-shaven faces, one possess hair of pure white and has a leaner, lankier physical build while the other’s hair is black and his muscles are more clearly defined. The seamstress looks upon me with an indeterminate expression—is it pride? Confidence? Smugness? Regardless, her arms are crossed as she watches the scene unfold before her.
I stand alongside Yachaman behind the chair, not wanting to be caught without the possibility of escape if the situation takes a turn. The regal woman’s mouth forms a bemused smile as she walks among the others present. Looking around inside the tent, I fail to spot any indication of the Jade Hummingbird—no emerald green or magenta items marking their presence here. I begin to grow concerned that I have fallen into a trap, and my hand subconsciously trails down my side and onto my satchel.
“What brings an Achope so far from the comforts of home?” she says cooly. I attempt not to take too much hidden meaning from her words and focus on the present matter.
I unclinch my jaw and, looking directly at her, I say, unflinchingly, “It is true that I am from Chopaqte, where luxury often masks the uncomfortable truths of power and injustice. I may have been raised among the Achope, but their ideals no longer align with mine. Comfort has never been a friend of progress, and I’ve come to realize that real comfort lies not in the opulence of noble halls, but in the pursuit of something greater—justice, change, challenging the status quo. There’s a world beyond those walls that demands our attention, a world where actions speak louder than the hollow promises of nobility.”
In my life, there might have been a fleeting moment when my parents—or, rather, the ones assigned to me through a calculated arrangement between the Arbiter, Suntu, and Polan—showed a glimmer of pride in one of my achievements, though the specifics of that instance elude me now. However, any semblance of pride I might have glimpsed in them pales in comparison to the vivid and almost palpable surge of pride that radiates from this woman following my response. Her expression is so intense and tangible, it seems to fill the air around us, eclipsing any past acknowledgments I may have received.
“Noble words from a noblewoman,” the man with silver hair says, “but we’ve heard such declarations before. Every well-fed Achope speaks of change when it suits them. You claim to seek justice, but what have you actually done to challenge the power you were born into?”
I peer upon his snarling, disgusted expression with disdain of my own. Looking about the others, the black-haired man continues with his statuesque appearance while the woman and seamstress watch me with curiosity as to how I’ll respond. Though I was nervous entering this tent, there’s something in this man’s words and his intent that gives me a resurgence of energy, of confidence, to take on his efforts to dismantle my argument for being here. Yet it also feels more than that, as though his words are a direct affront to my existence. He’s intimidated by me, I can see it clearly, fearing that I will usurp whatever small grip of power he has within this group. I can’t determine how I know, but… it’s as though something is speaking to me, informing me of his thoughts and emotions.
“My very presence here isn’t it proof enough?” I challenge. “I’ve left behind the safety and privileges of my birthright to embrace a struggle against the prevailing order. I’ve endured torture and betrayal, not shielded by my noble status, but exposed to the harsh realities of those who wield power without conscience. My journey here is a testament to my commitment to seek something more meaningful, something rooted in justice and truth.”
The tent falls into an unsettling silence after hearing my words. The silver-haired man grumbles and utters something incoherent to himself while the other three exchange knowing glances. I stand in defiance of their judgement, no longer fearful of what outcome awaits me. If they want to strike me down, so be it—they will not succeed without a fight. I’ve faced worse than death.
The silver-haired man tests me once more, “You talk of injustice and the pursuit of change. Yet here you stand, an Achope by birth and upbringing. The ideals you claim to reject have shaped your very existence. Our cause requires more than just a change of heart. How do we know this isn’t just another whim of a bored noble?”
Is that the best he’s got? He is but cornered prey, lashing out once more before being consumed by the more dominant predator.
“You continue to address my Achope heritage,” I say, gradually approaching and towering over where he sits, “yet I don’t see myself wearing their colors, do you? I may not have led rebellions or spoken out in courts, but I have shed the illusions that were fed to me since birth. I’ve seen the suffering caused by those ‘noble’ ideals and chose to reject them, choosing instead to align myself with those who dare to make a real difference. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake coming here, believing such people existed inside this tent. My actions from this point forward will eclipse any past inaction and outshine the mere bluster and theatrics that seem to suffice here.”
With my face but a breath away from his, I say with a growl, “Watch closely, for I’m not just here to talk—I’m here to act, to make a tangible difference.” I turn my back to him and return to Yachaman, whose wide smile says all I need to know as to how my words have been received.
“You arrived to Qelantu Loh with a Tapeu palace guard,” the seated black-haired man says, finally speaking, whose voice is deep and resonant, carrying a commanding presence that belies his youth. “What is your affiliation with the Tapeu?” Each word he speaks is imbued with a sense of purpose and unwavering confidence.
“My association with the Tapeu is a product of circumstance rather than loyalty,” I respond. “The guard you saw was more a guardian against common threats than a symbol of allegiance. My journey has crossed many paths, and with each, I’ve sought allies who share a common vision for change and justice, not bound by the territories that claim us. My commitment is to the people of Pachil, in all its diversity, not to the crowns that seek to rule them.”
“But there is an association with the Tapeu, correct?” the woman asks.
“While I have allies within the Tapeu court, my allegiance is not to the court itself, but to the ideals of justice and equity they represent,” I answer. “My connections are guided by common goals for the betterment of all in Pachil, transcending mere political alliances.” She nods slowly at this, then turns to the seamstress, who gives a quick nod as if in confirmation of something spoken prior to this engagement.
“You speak of justice and change, qualities we value deeply,” the woman says with a touch of hesitancy. “If your actions prove as strong as your words, then perhaps there is a place for you among us. But beware, our cause demands more than mere intent.”
“I still don’t understand what the Qente Waila is about,” I say. “What ideals guide you, what goals burn in your heart, and what do you aspire to achieve? How do your beliefs resonate with my own? And why should I lend my support to help you realize your plans?”
The silver-haired man scoffs, apparently offended that I dare question them. However, the woman appears more receptive to my inquiries, shushing him before speaking with a soft, yet commanding tone, her eyes reflecting the fire’s glow as she addresses me.
“In many of the cultures of Pachil,” the woman says, now slowly pacing about the tent behind her compatriots, “the hummingbird symbolizes vitality and resilience—two characteristics the continent’s people have needed after the defeat of the Timuaq. It thrives where others falter, embodying the spirit that drives the Qente Waila. Like the hummingbird, we, too, are small but unyielding, ever adaptable in the face of adversity.”
While the man with silver hair fixes his stare to the ground, the others look upon me during the woman’s reply. She gestures towards the flames of the torches, and her voice takes on a deeper resonance.
“But there’s another side to the hummingbird often forgotten, yet equally vital—its association with Sualset, the member of the Eleven who represented the Atima, and the warriors she commanded. In its agility and ferocity, it mirrors the qualities we hold dear in our struggle. Our warfare is not of brute force, but of agility and adaptability, confronting the entrenched powers that suffocate our lands.”
She places her hands on the back of the chair and leans forward slightly, her expression intensifying. “The Arbiter promised change, yet what we witness is a return to the shadows of old, where the few thrive at the cost of the many. Under his rule, we see the echoes of the Timuaq’s tyranny, masked under the guise of an oligarchy. This… cannot stand.”
The others continue to monitor me, their eyes not once breaking their focus upon me. The woman pauses, allowing her words to sink in before continuing. “Our vision is clear: to return power to the people of Pachil. Each faction should govern its own, under a confederacy where voices are heard and respected. The Jade Hummingbird seeks to be the guardians of this balance, ensuring no one seizes power for selfish gains.
“Yet in this quest, we must remain vigilant. Power can corrupt the noblest of intentions. We strive not for glory, but for a future where every individual in Pachil can soar as freely and as high as the hummingbirds themselves.”
“It appears we envision the same future for Pachil,” I agree. “All I’ve known is life under Timuaq rule, so to see it fall into the hands of someone who is effectively continuing their tyranny is disheartening.”
“Then let us join forces and test the depth of your commitment to our mission,” declares the man with dark hair. “We need insight into the Arbiter’s next moves, to aid us in our strategic planning. Our group based in Qapauma is still regrouping after a skirmish with a terrorist organization there, which depleted our resources and ability to collect information. Your ties with the Tapeu nobility could be instrumental in propelling our cause forward.”
“How do you propose I achieve such a task?” I ask, nervous about the possibility of having to return to Qapauma.
“We will allow you to assess the situation on the ground on your own,” the woman says. “We need to understand the Arbiter’s current political standing, military capabilities, alliances, potential weaknesses… anything you can discover and provide to us. Texani,” at this name, the woman points to the dark-haired man, “will travel with you and your servant to Qapauma, where you can exchange information with our group located there. You will depart at dawn’s first light, to ensure you will arrive before the roads become treacherous.”
I wince at Yachaman being declared my ‘servant’, yet I must remain calm and proceed without showing too much emotion, lest I want to be perceived as someone who can’t be even keeled.
“And what of my housing while I’m in Qapauma?” I ask. “I’m not exactly welcomed there, which is how I ended up in Qelantu Loh, after all.”
“You will be in the capable hands of our group and should not face any difficulties in having your living situation arranged,” the woman says flatly. “The rest will have to be navigated by you.”
Before I can ask any of the multitude of follow-up questions I have, the meeting is adjourned, and, other than the seamstress, each member goes their separate ways. The silver-haired man scowls at me on his way out, but I pay him no mind as I lock eyes with Yachaman and depart with her.
“Well, that was certainly something,” Yachaman says in disbelief as the two of us walk down the uninhabited path toward the center of the campsite. The music is still being performed, as singing and hollers of elation continue to resound throughout the grounds. “Are we seriously going to return to Qapauma?”
“I’m apprehensive of the tasked that’s been assigned, most definitely,” I say, gravely concerned about what challenges lie before us. “When I departed the capital city, I had no intentions of returning unless it was vitally necessary. Is this such an occasion? I believe I have no choice if I want to join the Qente Waila and prove my worth.”
“But is there another way to achieve that?” Yachaman asks. “Couldn’t you, I don’t know, work the loom and craft clothing with the hummingbird insignia stitched in? Serve them their meals or something?”
I look at Yachaman with mild amusement before responding, “You and I both know I have the unique position of accessibility to the Tapeu nobility that could prove invaluable to the Qente Waila. Besides, I don’t believe I need to ask your opinions on being a servant to others.”
Yachaman sighs and nods. “And what about Qane?”
“What about Qane?” I ask in response. “His attention seems to be consumed by the seamstress’ daughter, so I doubt we’ll be much of a concern to our ‘loyal guard and protector’.”
Yachaman chuckles at the thought and shakes her head. Then, spoken more as a statement than an inquiry, she says, “So we’re doing this, then.”
“I am doing this,” I say. “You’re under no obligation to join me in undertaking such a risky mission. I refuse to needlessly endanger you.”
“You’ve given me the gift of being able to make my own decisions,” she says, “and I am choosing to join you in this fight. You’re not the only one who wants to spread freedom and justice throughout Pachil.”
Despite my concerns about risking her life, I’m still comforted by the notion that I won’t be alone in this journey. Though we were initially tethered to one another through some archaic ceremony, I feel in my heart that we’ve become tethered as friends through our own care and admiration for each other, something I will never take for granted.
The celebrations have escalated into a whirlwind of raucous and fervent exuberance. People dance wherever there is space for them to occupy, and Yachaman and I swerve and twist and turn to avoid the flailing limbs and flinging bodies. Occasionally, we’re smacked in the face with various colorful sashes as the dancers twirl, but we can only laugh in response to everyone’s delirium.
After escaping the festivities, with the music and singing beginning to fade into the background, we eventually reach Chalqo’s tent, much to our relief. The night has settled into the camp, and there’s a much-welcomed peace and tranquility in this area of Qelantu Loh. I feel I can finally breathe and relax as Chalqo’s tent comes into view, but just then, Chalqo flings open the flap and emerges with a look of surprise.
“Lady Haesan! Lady Yachaman!” he exclaims. “Your extravagant beauty was greatly missed during the celebrations! Ah, but perhaps you found the night’s other offerings more... enlightening?”
His eyes twinkle with a mix of mischief and hidden knowledge. “The campfire’s glow can reveal much, don’t you think? Or perhaps cast deeper shadows where secrets like to dance.”
A panic jolts through my bones. To what is he referring? Is he aware of what I’ve involved myself in?
