I’m frozen in place at the sight of Anqatil, the unwavering loyalist to Achutli—and my sadistic torturer. Her permanent look of disdain is fixed upon me, and I feel her staring daggers into me. My throat tightens and my mouth dries up like a drought. I fear looking up at her, worried she will identify me and signal my presence to Achutli. She clearly takes this as a sign of disrespect.
“Do they speak?” Anqatil snarls. “How dare they not address me when I’m present!”
Yachaman elbows me in the side. “Apologies, Great Falcon,” Yachaman says with a bow. I echo the statement, muttering low so as to not have my voice easily recognizable. Or so I hope.
“I dislike repeating myself,” Anqatil says, her teeth gritted, as she indicates her initial inquiry has been left unanswered.
“We are seeking a blessing from the temple,” Yachaman manages to stutter. “I am to strengthen the bond with whom I am bound to ensure the prosperity and protection of–“
“Yes, yes,” Anqatil says, waving her hand contemptuously. “Chasqa Quimi and all of that. I swear to the Eleven, these fanatics are exasperating.”
I keep my gaze fixed at her leather sandals, which are embellished with various gemstones running up the front of her feet. Occasionally, I glance over at Yachaman, catching her defiant stance that exudes confidence. Her comfort among nobles, especially one who is chastising us for being out of place, is impressive. For better or worse, it’s likely well-rehearsed. That thought hurts my heart.
“Servants can pray to their gods when festivities are not taking place,” Anqatil eventually states. “Hurry off back to your post before I report you to Iatuq.”
Yachaman bows multiple times, quickly saying, “Yes, Great Falcon. Thank you, Great Falcon.” She grabs my arm and pulls me away. Had she not, I would have perhaps remained in place in stunned silence. I keep my head hung low as we scurry away.
“You are terrible at being a servant,” Yachaman scolds. “One would think spending enough time around them, you’d be better practiced.”
The jibe stings more than I anticipated. While I consider Yachaman a friend and not my bonded servant, the distinction of our histories and upbringing has always influenced our dynamic, whether I’m willing to admit it or not. I hope to one day have Yachaman as my equal, yet I know how challenging it will be to achieve that; societies of Pachil place a significance on class and social standing, and moving up is nearly impossible, compared to falling down.
Yachaman’s remark echoes a discomfort I’ve known since childhood—a discomfort born from witnessing the rigid divides of our society firsthand. I’m transported me back to a chilly evening in Chopaqte. I was playing among the garden—some game only the imagination of a child can conjure up—when a loud crash pierced the otherwise quiet scene. Hidden behind the lush foliage, I remember watching as a young servant clumsily spilled wine over Suntu’s meticulously maintained garments. Fear washed over the boy’s face as Suntu approached, his presence as imposing as the stone statues that guarded the estate. The expected reprimand hung heavy in the air, a lesson in the harshness of our societal hierarchies I was all too familiar with.
The memory lingers as a stark reminder of the gulf between our worlds. It’s a world to which I can only relate tangentially, something I will never truly understand. Yet it fuels my resolve to bridge that divide, to foster a world where compassion outweighs the deemed significance of one’s birth.
As we hurry off, I reflect on something Anqatil mentioned. Iatuq… That name sounds familiar. Isn’t she one of the advisors to Achutli? ‘The Voice’, she’s called. Yes, that sounds right—it’s a name I’ve heard come up during discussions within the throne room. Each advisor to the Arbiter has some title like this, which is generally used by those whose place is directly beneath the esteemed noble. The advisors are posted throughout Pachil as the eyes and ears of the Arbiter. They report back after a number of moon cycles, returning to Qapauma on a short visit. It’s probable that Iatuq timed her return to the capital in conjunction with the festivities. My understanding from the whispers throughout the palace is that she can’t help herself from attending any celebratory gathering that could lift her status.
The musicians play a merry tune, something I haven’t heard before that must be Tapeu in origin. It’s a simple melody, and I find it completely lacking in substance. Perhaps I’ve been influenced greatly by Chalqo’s musicians performing the sweetly melancholy songs from the Atima, or the lively and energetic music of the Aimue. Noting this, I don’t see Chalqo performing just yet, and I start to wonder where he is while he and his band wait for their turn.
I’m dragged toward the far side of the grounds where a huddled mass of servants await instruction. It’s a collection of every beige tone ever made from alpaca wool, appearing like an enormous stone resting in the corner of the gardens. Yachaman’s head is on a swivel, checking for any sign of our target.
“We can lay low among these servants until Lady Nuqasiq appears,” she says in a hushed tone. “If we sneak about the palace, we’re more likely to be searched by guards if caught.”
“Let’s just hope we don’t get assigned a disgusting task like–“
Before I can finish the thought, a dark woman with wavy, dark brown hair in a slender, black dress glides toward the group of servants. She wears long, black feathers on each of her ears, and multiple golden necklaces hang about her chest. There’s a look in her dark eyes that means business as her gaze sweeps those gathered.
“You, and…” she points to one male servant, then looks about the dirty faces staring back at her, “you,” she points to Yachaman. “Quraqas Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel desire your assistance. Go to them—they are by the palace’s guest quarters. Now!” Her voice practically sings along with the music as she talks, reminding me of the typical Tapeu way of speaking. Do Achutli and Anqatil speak this way? I can’t recall in this moment, but there are more important matters with which to deal. I’m about to be separated from Yachaman!
I panic, gripping her arm as she steps away from me. She discreetly takes my hand and strokes it reassuringly with her thumb. I swallow the large lump in my throat. What is going to happen to her? What do these nobles want with these servants?
Yachaman steps toward the woman, her head held high. “Yes, Great Voice,” Yachaman says along with the other servant. Suddenly, she is in the throws of a tremendous coughing fit. She hacks and wheezes, covering her mouth with a fist. Has she been sick this entire time? How did I miss the signs? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own world that I didn’t know my own friend was ill! I’m entirely insensitive. I vow that, if I get the chance to right this wrong when she returns from her duty to the two Tapeu nobles, I must be better about caring for those I deem my friends.
“Um,” Iatuq says, displeased and disgusted. “That will not do. Revolting. How aboooooouuuut… you.” She points to another female servant, a young girl with a frightened expression and large, light brown eyes that sparkle in the torchlight. “Yes, fine. You, there. Go on!” She flits her hands, waving the chosen two away. The servants shuffle their feet, not eager by any stretch of the imagination.
“For the rest of you,” Iatuq commands, “Bring chicha and pulque to the quraqas. I don’t want to see any person without a full chalice in their hand. And get that one,” she points condescendingly at Yachaman, “to a healer. Absolutely grotesque... Well? Run along now!”
We scurry about like ants, hurriedly moving toward the various stations where the refreshments reside. Before we get too far, I touch Yachaman’s shoulder. She twists around to look at me, keeping pace and not disrupting her movement.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to her. “I had no idea you were–“
“I’m fine,” she says abruptly. “Chalqo is not the only one who can be performative.”
I’m confused. “You’re… okay?”
Yachaman looks at me as though I’m naïve. “Of course, I am! I wasn’t going to let her separate us. I pretended to be ill so that she’d pass over me. Although, I do feel terrible for the girl she selected in my place.”
“Yes, what is that about?” I ask. I’m beyond relieved to hear that Yachaman is healthy. And I admire her for her truly quick thinking on her feet. Would I have been able to do that? Either way, I’m impressed.
“No idea,” she says, the chicha’s fermented sweetness getting more and more prominent as we get closer. “It could be that they’re assigned to cater to the nobles. Some self-important quraqas believe they should have their every whims attended to at all times.”
Once more, I’m relieved. I had feared it could be for more nefarious purposes, but perhaps it’s my mind crafting more tales due to seeing those nobles wearing the blood red garments earlier. I can only hope the two selected servants aren’t going to aid them and are assigned to less-demanding nobles.
After a time, handing out chalices of chicha and pulque to ungrateful nobles, Yachaman rejoins me among the gardens. Her face gives away no indication of what she’s feeling. Her eyes race from one part of the grounds to another as she speaks.
“Off to the side, toward the main palace building,” she says discreetly. “No! Don’t make it obvious, Haesan! Anyway, over there. It’s Chalqo. And I believe that’s Lady Nuqasiq.”
I peek under my hood and over my shoulder—a feat much more difficult to achieve than I anticipated. Tilting my head just right, there they are. Chalqo is in a flamboyant, light blue tunic with a long, flowing light blue cape that swirls about him as he moves, like a trail of vapor or blue smoke. His headdress is extravagant as only Chalqo would wear, embellished with an assortment of blue, yellow, white, and red feathers that protrude from his scalp like beams of the sun. Dangling from his ankles and arms are more colorful feathers, as though he wears a macaw’s wings on each forelimb.
Next to him is Nuqasiq, who looks utterly extravagant. Wearing a bright purple dress, she stands regally, looking down her nose upon the attendees. In the torchlight, she shimmers from the countless gold jewelry cascading down her chest, ears and wrists, and a simple, gold crown embedded with turquoise and lapis lazuli surrounds her head. Occasionally, she subtly leans toward Chalqo and mutters something before standing upright once again, but I can’t read her lips to know what she’s saying.
“How do we approach them?” I ask Yachaman conspiratorially.
Yachaman’s eyes sweep the festive gathering. She spots something, then ushers me toward the jugs of chicha and pours two chalices full of the golden beverage. “Take this,” she hands me one of the cups, “and follow me.”
We navigate the crowd, making our way toward Nuqasiq. My heart begins to flutter the closer we get to her. She saved me from Anqatil’s torture, sparing my life. All so I can return to the pit of vipers, the city in which my life was in danger? I’m nervous, anticipating her scolding, yet I feel my heart taking flight at the sight of my loving grandmother. I know for certain I’ll be safe and secure in her presence.
“I’m not interested in any chicha,” Nuqasiq says dismissively, looking away as I attempt to hand her the chalice.
Before she steps away, I lift my head up to reveal only a sliver of my face beneath my hood, my voice just above a whisper, “Nuqasiq! It’s me!”
She looks at me more discerningly, inspecting my face before placing a hand over her mouth to mask her surprise, her jewelry jingles and jangles with her sudden movements. She quickly regains her composure, resuming her gaze upon the gathering.
“Sun and sky! What on Pachil are you doing back in Qapauma, child?” There it is, the scolding. Turning to Chalqo, she says, “This is the important matter to which you alluded? You should’ve spoken with more urgency!”
“There’s an important matter we must discuss,” I say eagerly. “It’s about the safety and security of Qapauma, of Tapeu, and all of Pachil.”
Nuqasiq studies what little of my face is showing, glancing over at Chalqo, who nods. She sighs a gust of air through her nose before saying, “I shan’t be seen speaking to servants. This way, follow a short distance behind.”
“And with my part of the matter completed, I now must be off to rescue this lumbering festival from the torturous tunes of that Tapeu performer,” Chalqo says as though this was a laborious chore he must fulfill. He must have been responsible for this “chance” encounter. I mouth “thank you” to him before he rushes off toward the platform, his quena in hand.
Nuqasiq and I are whisked away to a secluded area of the palace while Yachaman stays back, serving chicha and pulque to the nobles. Compared to the jovial festivities occurring just outside these walls, it’s eerily silent. Nuqasiq waves away the palace guards trailing her, who promptly disband and exit the chamber. It’s a quiet room, used for storing various chairs, stools, and small tables, as well as torches, tools like wooden hammers, and other supplies. We’re crammed inside the space, wiggling around and through the stacked furniture, but secluded nonetheless.
“When Chalqo informed me you had vanished in the middle of the night, I feared the worst for you,” she begins. “I worried Anqatil or Achutli found you. How dare you betray my trust by leaving the safety of Qelantu Loh!”
I’m immediately disheartened and embarrassed, my eyes searching our feet. I’m ashamed for going against her wishes, being swept away by the Qente Waila and my determination to seek justice for the wrongs done to me by Achutli. I was blinded by rage, ready to confront my past for the sake of my future. But I hadn’t considered the costs, of seeking retribution and the possibility of harming my relationship with those who placed their trust in me. I’m left with no response to Nuqasiq’s reproach.
“What urgent matter brings you to risk your life and return to Qapauma?” she asks assertively.
I take a deep breath, preparing for my response. “The Eye in the Flame are preparing an assault on Qapauma, some time during Chasqa Quimi.” I choose not to tell her that I only discovered this due to my desire for revenge, seeking to depose her son—and my father.
“The cult involved in the skirmishes about the city?” she asks, confused. I nod. “How did you come across such information?”
I brace myself for more berating. “Through Onixem. I had encountered her at the market, where she informed me of the looming threat.”
She appears even more confused. “You spoke to her at some point during your time at Qelantu Loh? How did you–“
I cut her off. “I apologize, Nuqasiq, but the matter of the Eye in the Flame is most urgent. There is not much time before they attack the capital. They’re amassing an army and planning their assault tonight! We must inform Achutli and prepare the defenses!”
“How do we know this information is reliable, that Onixem speaks the truth?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“She is involved with the Jade Hummingbird, and they had infiltrated an Eye in the Flame outpost located in a destroyed and abandoned temple. There was a ceremony and terrifying beasts summoned, and–“
“Hold on,” she interrupts. “You’re telling me that Onixem is a member of the Qente Waila, the organization seeking to oppose my son and his claim to the throne? And that they just so happened to pin an attack on Qapauma on a delusional death cult? Achutli has received no such news of this attack—his whisperers and officials would have spoken to him otherwise. Do you understand how absurd this sounds?”
“I believe there are members of his council and the quraqa who seek to depose him,” I respond. “I don’t have much evidence other than what I’ve overheard, but–“
“So you have no proof that this will occur?” she derisively asks. She has a point, but I know what I’ve heard, and there was nothing I could sense from Onixem to indicate she was lying. However, Nuqasiq is growing more skeptical. I need to have her on my side and get the palace guards and Tapeu military ready. What do I say to achieve this, though?
I meet her gaze with unwavering seriousness, recognizing the crucial juncture of our discussion. “Nuqasiq, I understand the improbability of my claims, but I implore you to consider the potential cost of inaction. The Eye in the Flame has demonstrated a disturbing level of organization and brutality. I know you’ve seen and heard of such occurrences due to your proximity to the throne. The cult’s disdain for the current order and their desire for chaos isn’t just a threat to Achutli’s reign—it’s a threat to every citizen of Qapauma.”
I take a moment to let my words sink in before continuing, “My interaction with Onixem was unexpected, but her insights into the Eye in the Flame were illuminating. Despite the complexities surrounding her affiliations, the urgency and detail of the information she provided cannot be dismissed lightly. Regardless of its stance against Achutli, the Jade Hummingbird shares a common goal with us at this moment: the safety and preservation of Qapauma.”
I can see Nuqasiq’s skepticism lingering, her lips pursed as she considers what I’ve said. So I push further and emphasize the stakes. “Though I may have personal reasons for opposition, this matter isn’t about political machinations or thrones. It’s about the immediate threat to the innocent lives of those we both care for. The Eye in the Flame doesn’t distinguish between factions or loyalties. Their assault will harm everyone, indiscriminately.”
I draw another deep breath. “I wouldn’t stand before you, risking my life and the trust you’ve placed in me, if I wasn’t absolutely convinced of the danger looming over us. We have a chance to preempt this threat, to protect Qapauma from devastation. Let’s use this information to fortify the city, to alert the guards, and to prepare a defense. We cannot afford to wait for external confirmation—it may not come until it’s too late.”
I gently grab ahold of her hand and look deep into her eyes, concluding with a personal plea, “You took me in when I had nowhere else to turn, showed me kindness and protection. I am here now, extending my hand in trust, asking you to take a leap of faith with me. For the safety of Qapauma, for its people, and for our future.”
Nuqasiq pauses, regarding me with a newfound seriousness and perhaps recognizing the sincerity and concern underlying my desperation. “Questions still remain—don’t think I will forget about the circumstances that led you to depart Qelantu Loh and unexpectedly reconnect with Onixem.”
My heart sinks, fretting about the safety and security of Qapauma. Yet she continues, “However, if what you say is true—and due to the urgency with which you speak, I have a feeling in my chest that believes it to be so—then we must act swiftly. Acting on such claims requires careful consideration. I will consult with trusted advisors to formulate a response without precipitating unnecessary conflict. If they do not act, then I shall find another way. But no matter what, I will ensure our military is alert and ready. Our capital’s safety is paramount, and not a matter to be taken lightly.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Nuqasiq. We can discuss the other issues more after this night, I promise you.”
If we survive, I think to myself.
“Though initially questionable and foolish, your bravery in bringing this to our attention will not be forgotten, Haesan. Let us hope for a false alarm, but prepare as though it is not.”
We emerge from the chamber and, before parting ways, exchange a knowing glance. The situation is dire, and I’m grateful Nuqasiq believes me despite the myriad of emotions swirling within me. I was uncertain how the discussion would go, with my sudden reappearance in the capital city being brought into question. And I know that, should we see tomorrow, I will have to face her interrogation and the decisions that led me here.
But that’s something to worry about another day. For now, preparations must be made, and a stout defense must be formed. Our city, these people, and all of Pachil depend on it.
My mind returns me to that fateful moment with the servant and the spilled wine. While everyone expected Suntu to scold the poor boy, it was Polan who intervened with a grace that belied her quiet strength. Where Suntu’s shadow loomed large, Polan’s light shone brighter. Her approach was to console, not to chastise. She knelt beside the trembling boy and joined him with the cleanup.
“Mistakes are the waves that crash against our shores,” she had said in her perpetually soothing voice. “With each tide, they shape us, but they do not define us.” Her eyes met mine as if to silently acknowledge that this was a lesson imparted not just for the servant, but for me as well. The memory reminds me that our true strength lies in the compassion and understanding we extend to others, even in the face of adversity.
Armed with Polan’s wisdom, I step into the bright midday, ready to confront what lies ahead. Though she may not have been my birth mother, the planted seeds of her teachings now bloom within me, guiding my every decision. Feeling more reassured, I begin the walk to return to the celebrations occurring in the garden. The scent of roasted boar and cuy creep over the walls and permeate the air. The attendees are jubilant from Chalqo’s performance. Shouts and cheers erupt sporadically amidst the music. The tingas pound a steady rhythm while the people dance and sign along with the bright melodies.
There’s a discordant rhythm that catches my ears. Someone is playing off-beat, and I’m surprised that Chalqo isn’t correcting the musician. As I listen closer, I sense that the drum isn’t coming from the gardens, but rather, from somewhere else within the palace. Should I seek someone else to investigate? There’s no time, I determine, and stealthily tiptoe my way toward the beat.
As I draw closer, a droning chant overtakes the drum beat. Curious, I gradually step toward the opening to a large chamber adjacent to the sewing room. In my memory of my brief time residing within the palace walls, I recall this being located close to a small, isolated garden that stood across from the storage of all the looms, threads, needles, and fabrics. The chanting becomes more intense, with a severity spoken in each syllable. What is taking place?
I slide against the adjoining wall, slowly peeking into the garden. The thunderous drum pounds along with my heart. The chants become vulgar, horrible shouts, sounding of both anger and euphoria. Concerned, I take a longer look and am confronted with a revolting scene that sends shockwaves through my very being.
Several figures donning ashen gray robes stand in a circle, their faces shrouded by their hoods and a blood red cloth. One pounds a large, waist-high drum, and two others tower over two kneeling captives with their arms tied behind their backs. With a terrified look fixed on their faces, the two bound people wear the beige clothing of palace servants. Instantly, I recognize the light brown eyes of the one servant that replaced Yachaman, and my chest tightens at the sight, gripped by an invisible hand.
As the chant crescendos, the lead figure steps forward, taller than the others and draped in a blood red robe adorned with unsettling symbols. He holds aloft an obsidian dagger that seems to absorb the light, casting an ominous shadow across the ground.
“To Eztletiqa, we give these sacrifices,” he proclaims, his voice a terrifying mix of fervor and malice, “to invoke Your power and usher in the dominion of the Eye in the Flame over all Pachil!”
My hand stifles a gasp, pressing so hard against my mouth I can taste blood. The air around me thickens with dread, and for a moment, I’m overcome with fear and disbelief. I feel compelled to act, to do something, but what? The very thought of intervening directly could also risk my life, yet the idea of standing idly by while innocents are slaughtered for some dark, twisted ritual is unconscionable.
The ceremonial leader raises the dagger high, and the chanters’ voices reach a fever pitch, their words a cacophony of darkness that threatens to drown out all light. I can’t watch this happen. I can’t let these servants be killed in such a vile manner. My heart races, my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, but a resolve hardens within me. I must find a way to disrupt this ceremony, to save them, or at the very least, create a distraction.
Just as I’m about to leap from my hiding spot, a sudden noise—more loud drumming coming from a distance away—catches the attention of the robed figures. The leader flashes a sinister smile at the sound.
“Our brothers and sisters have joined us!” he revels in the moment. Rejoicing resounds as the robed figures exchange pleased glances.
A distant rumble trembles the ground beneath us, like a stampede charging toward the city. My breath hitches, caught in my throat. Panic grips my heart. The sounds are the harbinger of something dark, dire.
The assault is beginning.
There’s no time. I must rescue those innocent victims from a terrible fate. I need to stop whatever dark deeds are taking place here. I must–
I gasp as a hand covers my mouth, pulling me backward.
I’m frozen in place at the sight of Anqatil, the unwavering loyalist to Achutli—and my sadistic torturer. Her permanent look of disdain is fixed upon me, and I feel her staring daggers into me. My throat tightens and my mouth dries up like a drought. I fear looking up at her, worried she will identify me and signal my presence to Achutli. She clearly takes this as a sign of disrespect.
“Do they speak?” Anqatil snarls. “How dare they not address me when I’m present!”
Yachaman elbows me in the side. “Apologies, Great Falcon,” Yachaman says with a bow. I echo the statement, muttering low so as to not have my voice easily recognizable. Or so I hope.
“I dislike repeating myself,” Anqatil says, her teeth gritted, as she indicates her initial inquiry has been left unanswered.
“We are seeking a blessing from the temple,” Yachaman manages to stutter. “I am to strengthen the bond with whom I am bound to ensure the prosperity and protection of–“
“Yes, yes,” Anqatil says, waving her hand contemptuously. “Chasqa Quimi and all of that. I swear to the Eleven, these fanatics are exasperating.”
I keep my gaze fixed at her leather sandals, which are embellished with various gemstones running up the front of her feet. Occasionally, I glance over at Yachaman, catching her defiant stance that exudes confidence. Her comfort among nobles, especially one who is chastising us for being out of place, is impressive. For better or worse, it’s likely well-rehearsed. That thought hurts my heart.
“Servants can pray to their gods when festivities are not taking place,” Anqatil eventually states. “Hurry off back to your post before I report you to Iatuq.”
Yachaman bows multiple times, quickly saying, “Yes, Great Falcon. Thank you, Great Falcon.” She grabs my arm and pulls me away. Had she not, I would have perhaps remained in place in stunned silence. I keep my head hung low as we scurry away.
“You are terrible at being a servant,” Yachaman scolds. “One would think spending enough time around them, you’d be better practiced.”
The jibe stings more than I anticipated. While I consider Yachaman a friend and not my bonded servant, the distinction of our histories and upbringing has always influenced our dynamic, whether I’m willing to admit it or not. I hope to one day have Yachaman as my equal, yet I know how challenging it will be to achieve that; societies of Pachil place a significance on class and social standing, and moving up is nearly impossible, compared to falling down.
Yachaman’s remark echoes a discomfort I’ve known since childhood—a discomfort born from witnessing the rigid divides of our society firsthand. I’m transported me back to a chilly evening in Chopaqte. I was playing among the garden—some game only the imagination of a child can conjure up—when a loud crash pierced the otherwise quiet scene. Hidden behind the lush foliage, I remember watching as a young servant clumsily spilled wine over Suntu’s meticulously maintained garments. Fear washed over the boy’s face as Suntu approached, his presence as imposing as the stone statues that guarded the estate. The expected reprimand hung heavy in the air, a lesson in the harshness of our societal hierarchies I was all too familiar with.
The memory lingers as a stark reminder of the gulf between our worlds. It’s a world to which I can only relate tangentially, something I will never truly understand. Yet it fuels my resolve to bridge that divide, to foster a world where compassion outweighs the deemed significance of one’s birth.
As we hurry off, I reflect on something Anqatil mentioned. Iatuq… That name sounds familiar. Isn’t she one of the advisors to Achutli? ‘The Voice’, she’s called. Yes, that sounds right—it’s a name I’ve heard come up during discussions within the throne room. Each advisor to the Arbiter has some title like this, which is generally used by those whose place is directly beneath the esteemed noble. The advisors are posted throughout Pachil as the eyes and ears of the Arbiter. They report back after a number of moon cycles, returning to Qapauma on a short visit. It’s probable that Iatuq timed her return to the capital in conjunction with the festivities. My understanding from the whispers throughout the palace is that she can’t help herself from attending any celebratory gathering that could lift her status.
The musicians play a merry tune, something I haven’t heard before that must be Tapeu in origin. It’s a simple melody, and I find it completely lacking in substance. Perhaps I’ve been influenced greatly by Chalqo’s musicians performing the sweetly melancholy songs from the Atima, or the lively and energetic music of the Aimue. Noting this, I don’t see Chalqo performing just yet, and I start to wonder where he is while he and his band wait for their turn.
I’m dragged toward the far side of the grounds where a huddled mass of servants await instruction. It’s a collection of every beige tone ever made from alpaca wool, appearing like an enormous stone resting in the corner of the gardens. Yachaman’s head is on a swivel, checking for any sign of our target.
“We can lay low among these servants until Lady Nuqasiq appears,” she says in a hushed tone. “If we sneak about the palace, we’re more likely to be searched by guards if caught.”
“Let’s just hope we don’t get assigned a disgusting task like–“
Before I can finish the thought, a dark woman with wavy, dark brown hair in a slender, black dress glides toward the group of servants. She wears long, black feathers on each of her ears, and multiple golden necklaces hang about her chest. There’s a look in her dark eyes that means business as her gaze sweeps those gathered.
“You, and…” she points to one male servant, then looks about the dirty faces staring back at her, “you,” she points to Yachaman. “Quraqas Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel desire your assistance. Go to them—they are by the palace’s guest quarters. Now!” Her voice practically sings along with the music as she talks, reminding me of the typical Tapeu way of speaking. Do Achutli and Anqatil speak this way? I can’t recall in this moment, but there are more important matters with which to deal. I’m about to be separated from Yachaman!
I panic, gripping her arm as she steps away from me. She discreetly takes my hand and strokes it reassuringly with her thumb. I swallow the large lump in my throat. What is going to happen to her? What do these nobles want with these servants?
Yachaman steps toward the woman, her head held high. “Yes, Great Voice,” Yachaman says along with the other servant. Suddenly, she is in the throws of a tremendous coughing fit. She hacks and wheezes, covering her mouth with a fist. Has she been sick this entire time? How did I miss the signs? I’ve been so wrapped up in my own world that I didn’t know my own friend was ill! I’m entirely insensitive. I vow that, if I get the chance to right this wrong when she returns from her duty to the two Tapeu nobles, I must be better about caring for those I deem my friends.
“Um,” Iatuq says, displeased and disgusted. “That will not do. Revolting. How aboooooouuuut… you.” She points to another female servant, a young girl with a frightened expression and large, light brown eyes that sparkle in the torchlight. “Yes, fine. You, there. Go on!” She flits her hands, waving the chosen two away. The servants shuffle their feet, not eager by any stretch of the imagination.
“For the rest of you,” Iatuq commands, “Bring chicha and pulque to the quraqas. I don’t want to see any person without a full chalice in their hand. And get that one,” she points condescendingly at Yachaman, “to a healer. Absolutely grotesque... Well? Run along now!”
We scurry about like ants, hurriedly moving toward the various stations where the refreshments reside. Before we get too far, I touch Yachaman’s shoulder. She twists around to look at me, keeping pace and not disrupting her movement.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to her. “I had no idea you were–“
“I’m fine,” she says abruptly. “Chalqo is not the only one who can be performative.”
I’m confused. “You’re… okay?”
Yachaman looks at me as though I’m naïve. “Of course, I am! I wasn’t going to let her separate us. I pretended to be ill so that she’d pass over me. Although, I do feel terrible for the girl she selected in my place.”
“Yes, what is that about?” I ask. I’m beyond relieved to hear that Yachaman is healthy. And I admire her for her truly quick thinking on her feet. Would I have been able to do that? Either way, I’m impressed.
“No idea,” she says, the chicha’s fermented sweetness getting more and more prominent as we get closer. “It could be that they’re assigned to cater to the nobles. Some self-important quraqas believe they should have their every whims attended to at all times.”
Once more, I’m relieved. I had feared it could be for more nefarious purposes, but perhaps it’s my mind crafting more tales due to seeing those nobles wearing the blood red garments earlier. I can only hope the two selected servants aren’t going to aid them and are assigned to less-demanding nobles.
After a time, handing out chalices of chicha and pulque to ungrateful nobles, Yachaman rejoins me among the gardens. Her face gives away no indication of what she’s feeling. Her eyes race from one part of the grounds to another as she speaks.
“Off to the side, toward the main palace building,” she says discreetly. “No! Don’t make it obvious, Haesan! Anyway, over there. It’s Chalqo. And I believe that’s Lady Nuqasiq.”
I peek under my hood and over my shoulder—a feat much more difficult to achieve than I anticipated. Tilting my head just right, there they are. Chalqo is in a flamboyant, light blue tunic with a long, flowing light blue cape that swirls about him as he moves, like a trail of vapor or blue smoke. His headdress is extravagant as only Chalqo would wear, embellished with an assortment of blue, yellow, white, and red feathers that protrude from his scalp like beams of the sun. Dangling from his ankles and arms are more colorful feathers, as though he wears a macaw’s wings on each forelimb.
Next to him is Nuqasiq, who looks utterly extravagant. Wearing a bright purple dress, she stands regally, looking down her nose upon the attendees. In the torchlight, she shimmers from the countless gold jewelry cascading down her chest, ears and wrists, and a simple, gold crown embedded with turquoise and lapis lazuli surrounds her head. Occasionally, she subtly leans toward Chalqo and mutters something before standing upright once again, but I can’t read her lips to know what she’s saying.
“How do we approach them?” I ask Yachaman conspiratorially.
Yachaman’s eyes sweep the festive gathering. She spots something, then ushers me toward the jugs of chicha and pours two chalices full of the golden beverage. “Take this,” she hands me one of the cups, “and follow me.”
We navigate the crowd, making our way toward Nuqasiq. My heart begins to flutter the closer we get to her. She saved me from Anqatil’s torture, sparing my life. All so I can return to the pit of vipers, the city in which my life was in danger? I’m nervous, anticipating her scolding, yet I feel my heart taking flight at the sight of my loving grandmother. I know for certain I’ll be safe and secure in her presence.
“I’m not interested in any chicha,” Nuqasiq says dismissively, looking away as I attempt to hand her the chalice.
Before she steps away, I lift my head up to reveal only a sliver of my face beneath my hood, my voice just above a whisper, “Nuqasiq! It’s me!”
She looks at me more discerningly, inspecting my face before placing a hand over her mouth to mask her surprise, her jewelry jingles and jangles with her sudden movements. She quickly regains her composure, resuming her gaze upon the gathering.
“Sun and sky! What on Pachil are you doing back in Qapauma, child?” There it is, the scolding. Turning to Chalqo, she says, “This is the important matter to which you alluded? You should’ve spoken with more urgency!”
“There’s an important matter we must discuss,” I say eagerly. “It’s about the safety and security of Qapauma, of Tapeu, and all of Pachil.”
Nuqasiq studies what little of my face is showing, glancing over at Chalqo, who nods. She sighs a gust of air through her nose before saying, “I shan’t be seen speaking to servants. This way, follow a short distance behind.”
“And with my part of the matter completed, I now must be off to rescue this lumbering festival from the torturous tunes of that Tapeu performer,” Chalqo says as though this was a laborious chore he must fulfill. He must have been responsible for this “chance” encounter. I mouth “thank you” to him before he rushes off toward the platform, his quena in hand.
Nuqasiq and I are whisked away to a secluded area of the palace while Yachaman stays back, serving chicha and pulque to the nobles. Compared to the jovial festivities occurring just outside these walls, it’s eerily silent. Nuqasiq waves away the palace guards trailing her, who promptly disband and exit the chamber. It’s a quiet room, used for storing various chairs, stools, and small tables, as well as torches, tools like wooden hammers, and other supplies. We’re crammed inside the space, wiggling around and through the stacked furniture, but secluded nonetheless.
“When Chalqo informed me you had vanished in the middle of the night, I feared the worst for you,” she begins. “I worried Anqatil or Achutli found you. How dare you betray my trust by leaving the safety of Qelantu Loh!”
I’m immediately disheartened and embarrassed, my eyes searching our feet. I’m ashamed for going against her wishes, being swept away by the Qente Waila and my determination to seek justice for the wrongs done to me by Achutli. I was blinded by rage, ready to confront my past for the sake of my future. But I hadn’t considered the costs, of seeking retribution and the possibility of harming my relationship with those who placed their trust in me. I’m left with no response to Nuqasiq’s reproach.
“What urgent matter brings you to risk your life and return to Qapauma?” she asks assertively.
I take a deep breath, preparing for my response. “The Eye in the Flame are preparing an assault on Qapauma, some time during Chasqa Quimi.” I choose not to tell her that I only discovered this due to my desire for revenge, seeking to depose her son—and my father.
“The cult involved in the skirmishes about the city?” she asks, confused. I nod. “How did you come across such information?”
I brace myself for more berating. “Through Onixem. I had encountered her at the market, where she informed me of the looming threat.”
She appears even more confused. “You spoke to her at some point during your time at Qelantu Loh? How did you–“
I cut her off. “I apologize, Nuqasiq, but the matter of the Eye in the Flame is most urgent. There is not much time before they attack the capital. They’re amassing an army and planning their assault tonight! We must inform Achutli and prepare the defenses!”
“How do we know this information is reliable, that Onixem speaks the truth?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
“She is involved with the Jade Hummingbird, and they had infiltrated an Eye in the Flame outpost located in a destroyed and abandoned temple. There was a ceremony and terrifying beasts summoned, and–“
“Hold on,” she interrupts. “You’re telling me that Onixem is a member of the Qente Waila, the organization seeking to oppose my son and his claim to the throne? And that they just so happened to pin an attack on Qapauma on a delusional death cult? Achutli has received no such news of this attack—his whisperers and officials would have spoken to him otherwise. Do you understand how absurd this sounds?”
“I believe there are members of his council and the quraqa who seek to depose him,” I respond. “I don’t have much evidence other than what I’ve overheard, but–“
“So you have no proof that this will occur?” she derisively asks. She has a point, but I know what I’ve heard, and there was nothing I could sense from Onixem to indicate she was lying. However, Nuqasiq is growing more skeptical. I need to have her on my side and get the palace guards and Tapeu military ready. What do I say to achieve this, though?
I meet her gaze with unwavering seriousness, recognizing the crucial juncture of our discussion. “Nuqasiq, I understand the improbability of my claims, but I implore you to consider the potential cost of inaction. The Eye in the Flame has demonstrated a disturbing level of organization and brutality. I know you’ve seen and heard of such occurrences due to your proximity to the throne. The cult’s disdain for the current order and their desire for chaos isn’t just a threat to Achutli’s reign—it’s a threat to every citizen of Qapauma.”
I take a moment to let my words sink in before continuing, “My interaction with Onixem was unexpected, but her insights into the Eye in the Flame were illuminating. Despite the complexities surrounding her affiliations, the urgency and detail of the information she provided cannot be dismissed lightly. Regardless of its stance against Achutli, the Jade Hummingbird shares a common goal with us at this moment: the safety and preservation of Qapauma.”
I can see Nuqasiq’s skepticism lingering, her lips pursed as she considers what I’ve said. So I push further and emphasize the stakes. “Though I may have personal reasons for opposition, this matter isn’t about political machinations or thrones. It’s about the immediate threat to the innocent lives of those we both care for. The Eye in the Flame doesn’t distinguish between factions or loyalties. Their assault will harm everyone, indiscriminately.”
I draw another deep breath. “I wouldn’t stand before you, risking my life and the trust you’ve placed in me, if I wasn’t absolutely convinced of the danger looming over us. We have a chance to preempt this threat, to protect Qapauma from devastation. Let’s use this information to fortify the city, to alert the guards, and to prepare a defense. We cannot afford to wait for external confirmation—it may not come until it’s too late.”
I gently grab ahold of her hand and look deep into her eyes, concluding with a personal plea, “You took me in when I had nowhere else to turn, showed me kindness and protection. I am here now, extending my hand in trust, asking you to take a leap of faith with me. For the safety of Qapauma, for its people, and for our future.”
Nuqasiq pauses, regarding me with a newfound seriousness and perhaps recognizing the sincerity and concern underlying my desperation. “Questions still remain—don’t think I will forget about the circumstances that led you to depart Qelantu Loh and unexpectedly reconnect with Onixem.”
My heart sinks, fretting about the safety and security of Qapauma. Yet she continues, “However, if what you say is true—and due to the urgency with which you speak, I have a feeling in my chest that believes it to be so—then we must act swiftly. Acting on such claims requires careful consideration. I will consult with trusted advisors to formulate a response without precipitating unnecessary conflict. If they do not act, then I shall find another way. But no matter what, I will ensure our military is alert and ready. Our capital’s safety is paramount, and not a matter to be taken lightly.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Nuqasiq. We can discuss the other issues more after this night, I promise you.”
If we survive, I think to myself.
“Though initially questionable and foolish, your bravery in bringing this to our attention will not be forgotten, Haesan. Let us hope for a false alarm, but prepare as though it is not.”
We emerge from the chamber and, before parting ways, exchange a knowing glance. The situation is dire, and I’m grateful Nuqasiq believes me despite the myriad of emotions swirling within me. I was uncertain how the discussion would go, with my sudden reappearance in the capital city being brought into question. And I know that, should we see tomorrow, I will have to face her interrogation and the decisions that led me here.
But that’s something to worry about another day. For now, preparations must be made, and a stout defense must be formed. Our city, these people, and all of Pachil depend on it.
My mind returns me to that fateful moment with the servant and the spilled wine. While everyone expected Suntu to scold the poor boy, it was Polan who intervened with a grace that belied her quiet strength. Where Suntu’s shadow loomed large, Polan’s light shone brighter. Her approach was to console, not to chastise. She knelt beside the trembling boy and joined him with the cleanup.
“Mistakes are the waves that crash against our shores,” she had said in her perpetually soothing voice. “With each tide, they shape us, but they do not define us.” Her eyes met mine as if to silently acknowledge that this was a lesson imparted not just for the servant, but for me as well. The memory reminds me that our true strength lies in the compassion and understanding we extend to others, even in the face of adversity.
Armed with Polan’s wisdom, I step into the bright midday, ready to confront what lies ahead. Though she may not have been my birth mother, the planted seeds of her teachings now bloom within me, guiding my every decision. Feeling more reassured, I begin the walk to return to the celebrations occurring in the garden. The scent of roasted boar and cuy creep over the walls and permeate the air. The attendees are jubilant from Chalqo’s performance. Shouts and cheers erupt sporadically amidst the music. The tingas pound a steady rhythm while the people dance and sign along with the bright melodies.
There’s a discordant rhythm that catches my ears. Someone is playing off-beat, and I’m surprised that Chalqo isn’t correcting the musician. As I listen closer, I sense that the drum isn’t coming from the gardens, but rather, from somewhere else within the palace. Should I seek someone else to investigate? There’s no time, I determine, and stealthily tiptoe my way toward the beat.
As I draw closer, a droning chant overtakes the drum beat. Curious, I gradually step toward the opening to a large chamber adjacent to the sewing room. In my memory of my brief time residing within the palace walls, I recall this being located close to a small, isolated garden that stood across from the storage of all the looms, threads, needles, and fabrics. The chanting becomes more intense, with a severity spoken in each syllable. What is taking place?
I slide against the adjoining wall, slowly peeking into the garden. The thunderous drum pounds along with my heart. The chants become vulgar, horrible shouts, sounding of both anger and euphoria. Concerned, I take a longer look and am confronted with a revolting scene that sends shockwaves through my very being.
Several figures donning ashen gray robes stand in a circle, their faces shrouded by their hoods and a blood red cloth. One pounds a large, waist-high drum, and two others tower over two kneeling captives with their arms tied behind their backs. With a terrified look fixed on their faces, the two bound people wear the beige clothing of palace servants. Instantly, I recognize the light brown eyes of the one servant that replaced Yachaman, and my chest tightens at the sight, gripped by an invisible hand.
As the chant crescendos, the lead figure steps forward, taller than the others and draped in a blood red robe adorned with unsettling symbols. He holds aloft an obsidian dagger that seems to absorb the light, casting an ominous shadow across the ground.
“To Eztletiqa, we give these sacrifices,” he proclaims, his voice a terrifying mix of fervor and malice, “to invoke Your power and usher in the dominion of the Eye in the Flame over all Pachil!”
My hand stifles a gasp, pressing so hard against my mouth I can taste blood. The air around me thickens with dread, and for a moment, I’m overcome with fear and disbelief. I feel compelled to act, to do something, but what? The very thought of intervening directly could also risk my life, yet the idea of standing idly by while innocents are slaughtered for some dark, twisted ritual is unconscionable.
The ceremonial leader raises the dagger high, and the chanters’ voices reach a fever pitch, their words a cacophony of darkness that threatens to drown out all light. I can’t watch this happen. I can’t let these servants be killed in such a vile manner. My heart races, my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm, but a resolve hardens within me. I must find a way to disrupt this ceremony, to save them, or at the very least, create a distraction.
Just as I’m about to leap from my hiding spot, a sudden noise—more loud drumming coming from a distance away—catches the attention of the robed figures. The leader flashes a sinister smile at the sound.
“Our brothers and sisters have joined us!” he revels in the moment. Rejoicing resounds as the robed figures exchange pleased glances.
A distant rumble trembles the ground beneath us, like a stampede charging toward the city. My breath hitches, caught in my throat. Panic grips my heart. The sounds are the harbinger of something dark, dire.
The assault is beginning.
There’s no time. I must rescue those innocent victims from a terrible fate. I need to stop whatever dark deeds are taking place here. I must–
I gasp as a hand covers my mouth, pulling me backward.
