My assailant abruptly pulls me back, returning us to the shadows as my shrieks are muffled by their hand.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” a familiar voice says behind me. When I can finally turn around to see my captor, Onixem glares back at me. “What did you think you would do, being one person against nearly a dozen? Those maniacs will flay you on the spot.”
“But we have to do something!” I plea. “They’re going to kill those servants!”
“We must see the valley from the mountaintop,” she says, her focus fixed on the figures in the garden clearing. “We place ourselves in danger if we interfere, and there’s not much we can do to stop the Eye in the Flame if we’re dead.”
Although she’s right in her reasoning, innocent lives are at great risk. Maybe I feel so impassioned and determined because one of those in danger is the person who replaced Yachaman, and I realize how close she was to facing death. But no matter what, I can’t, in good conscience, allow these victims to die at the hands of these cold-blooded lunatics.
My eyes quickly search the area, looking for anything to spark ideas to stop this ritual from occurring. With the sun dipping below the horizon, torches have been lit around the perimeter of these closed off grounds. Cast in the fire’s ominous orange glow, the silhouettes dance in jubilation as the sounds of their approaching forces grow nearer.
Hoping they’re too distracted, I tiptoe over to one of the mounted torches. Ignoring Onixem’s restrained protests, I slip behind the stand. Using what little muscle I have, I push against it with all the strength I can muster. It takes me many, many heartbeats, but eventually, I’m able to teeter the torch stand, toppling it over and setting a small patch of grass and flowers alight. The flames are insignificant, barely catching much on fire, but the event halts the celebratory cultists momentarily.
Before they can investigate, I dash behind a column, praying that I haven’t been spotted. I hold my breath, gripping the cold, stone pillar tightly. I dare not make a move nor a sound, willing them to inspect the fallen torch more closely so that I can sneak away. What did I expect to happen? I feel trapped, unable to escape. What do I do next?
Another crash, this time on the far end of the gardens opposite of me. Another fallen torch. But this one does much more harm than my pitiful effort. The fire catches the loose garments of one of the cultists. He flails and flaps his arms, eager to extinguish the flames. A few close by offer their help, but the initial efforts are futile. The man begins to yell, but his companions shush him, trying to silence his anguish.
Behind them, a figure flashes briefly as they sprint between two pillars. When they peek around the column to inspect their work, I see Onixem’s face partly exposed. Her intense eyes seem to signal to me to get moving, which I more than happily oblige. I quickly race to another post and hide. I sneak a look into the garden, noticing the two servants have been left unattended. Now’s my chance.
Throwing caution to the wind, I rush over to them. There’s panic in their eyes, but I place a finger to my lips, hoping to calm them. Lifting them up, we make our way toward the entrance to these ground. Their bound legs limit the quickness in which they move, and I begin to fear we’ll all be caught if we can’t leave fast enough. How can we get away?
In an instant, Onixem meets us, wielding a dagger. She crouches low and begins sawing at their rope bindings. This isn’t going fast enough! Then, I remember my satchel, buried deep within my robes. I swim through the folds and folds of fabric, patting around until my hand hits a hard, metal object. The ritual knife. I fish it out of my garment and join Onixem in cutting the servants loose. The ropes are thick and tough, made from tight, twisted braids of agave fiber. I struggle with the tumi knife initially, but finally make progress after a few forceful strokes. Onixem fares better, cutting the male servant free, then assists me with the bindings on which I’m working.
I’m jolted by the shouts, stopping in place. “Hey! Over there! The sacrifices!”
Onixem and I frantically hack at the ropes. They finally give, separating and dropping to the stone ground. We leap to our feet and take off without a word. I place a hand on the servants’ backs, urging them to run. They glance back, confused and wrists still bound, but eventually scamper away.
We rush, turning left down one hall, then head right down another passageway. Reaching the vast courtyard, a few nobles pivot their heads to see what the commotion is about. Upon seeing my neutral-toned robes, they return to their conversations, ignoring our plight. I usher the two servants toward the quarters, walking briskly and keeping my head down. As much as I want to shout and alert everyone to the cultists chasing us, we’ve now reached a location where I could be identified by those seeking to harm me, and thus, I must be inconspicuous.
While the music fills the open space, we shuffle to one of the stations serving roasted meats and regroup. Those in attendance are blissfully unaware of the chaos approaching Qapauma. How do I signal that our lives are in danger? Has Nuqasiq contacted the palace guards and members of the military in time to respond?
“You are a near-sighted fool,” Onixem scolds. She and I grab knives used to carve the roasted boar and cuy, sawing at the servants’ ropes tied to their wrists. “You put our lives at risk. What was your plan once the torch toppled over? Did you even consider they could have found you and–“
“They didn’t, and we’ve escaped,” I say somewhat forcefully. “Something had to be done, and now they’ve been freed. Praise the Eleven or whoever.”
As Onixem and I argue, the servants bow deeply, profusely thanking us for rescuing them. I wave away their gratitude, again trying not to draw attention to us. They persist anyway, but I maintain my stare at Onixem.
“Well, thank you for stepping in and risking your precious life,” I say, my appreciation unintentionally sounding more mocking than sincere. “I… didn’t know what to do after knocking over the torch stand. I just knew I had to intervene.”
Onixem scowls. “You were too focused on saving others that you ended up needing someone to save you. But, you’re correct. At least they’re safe, and the ritual was disrupted.”
The servants scurry away, leaving us to our discussion as they return to the crowd. I inspect the scene for any trace of the cultists, checking if they followed us here and are preparing to ambush us if we get separated from the gathering. No crimson or ashen gray robes appear, no faces shrouded by blood red cloth. But my instincts tell me they’re biding their time in the shadows. We must remain vigilant.
“Why were you at the garden?” I ask, turning my somewhat discreet interrogation to Onixem.
“I could ask the same of you,” she responds sharply. “And in servants’ robes, nonetheless. It was certainly convenient that you happened upon a sacrificial ceremony.”
“Don’t turn this on me!” I say, my muttering tone almost evolving into a shout. “I asked you first. How did you end up at the garden?”
She glares at me. “I had it under good authority that something was taking place at the palace. I was tasked by the Qente Waila to monitor the situation closely.”
“But how did you–“
Before I can finish my question, a hand grabs my forearm. “What happened to you?” Yachaman asks, showing grave concern. “Lady Nuqasiq returned to the festivities, but you were nowhere to be found. I was worried that–“
“Who is this?” Onixem charges. “Why is a servant speaking to you as though you’re equals?”
I resist the impulse to admonish Onixem for such a statement. Taking a measured breath, I respond with a voice carrying the sharp, unyielding edge of obsidian. “She may have begun as my bonded servant, but Yachaman is my friend and valued ally. And as such, I insist—no, I require—that you treat her with respect. Her contributions to the Jade Hummingbird eclipse those of many who claim higher birth.”
The echoes of rumbling far off in the distance blend in with the music that permeates the air. Many of those gathered look around questioningly, exchanging glances as if to ask whether others had heard the noise, as well. They seem to inquire whether it’s part of the festivities, though leery about what else it might be. However, once Chalqo’s musicians ramp up the melodies of Atima and Aimue folksongs, the nobles return their attention to the conversations and celebrations.
For Onixem, Yachaman, and me, our understanding of what the noise indicates doesn’t let the matter drop so easily. We look at one another, acutely aware of the impending threat that approaches. There’s no more time to squabble. We must act, now.
“When I last spoke to Nuqasiq, she said she would speak to trusted advisors, and if that failed, then she would contact military officials herself,” I recall. “Where could we reach her?”
No sooner than when the question leaves my lips, Nuqasiq appears with an entourage of guards surrounding her. The music fades, and shrieks and shocked cries of alarm sound as countless other guards storm into the courtyard before the nobles. Each face around me is etched with incomprehension, a few demanding an explanation.
“Quraqas,” Nuqasiq announces, “please follow these palace guards to the throne room, where you will be protected.”
“Protected from what?” a few of the nobles shout.
Nuqasiq remains stone-faced and emotionless. “If you would please follow the guards into the throne room, we can explain there.”
A thunderous boom echoes throughout the grounds, startling those in attendance. It sounds as if the walls have tumbled, and tall-standing buildings begin to collapse around the palace. Like a terrified herd of peccaries, the nobles frantically scatter, darting aimlessly in all directions. The guards attempt to corral them, but the feat is more difficult than they likely anticipated.
I exchange glances with Onixem and Yachaman, stupefied about the developing situation. Ultimately, I regain my resolve and wave them toward Nuqasiq. “We must hurry to her,” I command. “She’ll best protect us.”
“But what about–“
“There’s no time,” I cut off Yachaman’s question mid-sentence. “We need to go, now. Before she rushes off and we’re separated from her.”
We dash over to Nuqasiq, who is now joined by several bewildered and panicked nobles along with her swarm of palace guards. Deeming us a threat, the warriors point their halberds at us and yell inaudible commands. Nuqasiq steps forward, splaying her arms out to disrupt the confrontation.
“Lady Nuqasiq!” the three of us call out simultaneously, waving our hands to get her attention. She notices our approach, but doesn’t react. There’s a lot of chatter among the nobles, while the guards maintain a tense posture, their eyes severe and unblinking.
“Let all of them join,” she declares. “We must hurry to safety.”
“But, two of them are servants, Queen Mother,” some of the nobles protest. “We can’t be seen with the servants! They shan’t mix with the likes of us!”
Nuqasiq turns to them and speaks through her scowl. “I said, let all of them join. Are you deaf? Daft?”
Although some cower at her intimidating and commanding presence, there are still a few who contest her proclamation. “We will not be seen with the likes of them,” many continue to remark. “We shan’t be responsible for–“
“One of them is my granddaughter!” she announces, yelling above the others and clutching me to her side. A hush falls over the nobles present as the protests die on their lips, looking at me in disbelief. Seizing the momentary silence, Nuqasiq adds with decisive authority and well-practiced regal composure, “And as for her attire, she dressed as a servant this evening for her protection, on my orders. Given the nature of recent events, I determined it was necessary to conceal her true identity. Is there anyone here who would question my judgment or the lengths to which I would go to protect my own blood?”
Her gaze pierces the crowd, daring them to challenge her further. Awestruck and confused, the nobles offer no further objections. I cast a glance at Nuqasiq, then notice that I’m receiving curious glances of my own. Yet her poise is unshaken despite my humble appearance as I stand next to her. The nobles back down, and though I can see them grasping for something to say, they are at a loss of words.
We begin to march toward the throne room with haste. However, the gathered Tapeu nobles balk at the sight of Yachaman walking alongside us. They appear to have regained their vocabulary as they voice their protests in loud, indignant tones.
“But, Queen Mother, that one,” one particularly stubborn noble remarks as they point to Yachaman, “is a servant. We cannot taint our refuge with those beneath our station. It’s improper, even in these dire times.”
Fearing a separation from my confidante and friend, my grip on Yachaman tightens. “She remains with me,” I demand. “She is a sister to me, not just a bonded servant.”
Nuqasiq’s eyes flash with frustration at the noble’s remark. “Enough,” she snaps. “Their lives are as valuable as ours. I will not be so dismissive of a person, no matter the origin of their birth.”
A tall guard with armor that’s been dented from recent skirmishes leans in to whisper in Nuqasiq’s ear. Though she nods curtly, her eyes betray the internal calculation of a seasoned ruler caught between compassion and tradition. “In these times, every individual must be counted, no matter what,” she announces resolutely.
A loud conch horn sounds, the blaring alarm indicating that trouble is near. Distant shouts and more chest-pounding booms from destroyed structures permeate the air. The battle is near, almost to the palace gates. Time is of the essence. Yet we are at a stand still, with no one budging from their beliefs.
Before the standoff can worsen, Onixem steps forward, cutting through the tension. “Queen Mother,” she addresses Nuqasiq with a respectful bow, “if I may offer a solution that honors both our need for unity and the nobles’ concerns.”
Nuqasiq, along with the others, turns to Onixem, inviting the young noble to speak. Onixem then faces me with a steady gaze. “Though Yachaman’s skills are invaluable, they need not be wasted standing silent in a chamber. Let her serve as a liaison, ensuring communication between the nobility and those who defend our palace. She can wield her intellect where it is most needed, organizing the assembly of barricades and directing our defenses.”
Nuqasiq considers the words for a dozen or so heartbeats, then, firmly, nods once. “Very well. You there,” she points to two palace guards, “assist her with her duties. Anyone who dares question you, remind them that she has been ordered by the Queen Mother. Yachaman,” she turns and looks at my Aimue friend, “take up this charge with honor.”
Now the nobles protest Yachaman’s aid in defending the palace. Unbelievable! Amidst the jumbled-together and stammered objections, many claim that no noble nor military personnel would dare listen to a servant. What is she to do? Stand around and await near certain death? This entire scenario is preposterous.
Nuqasiq raises a hand, silencing the burgeoning complaints with a stern look. “It is not the time for idle pride or class squabbles. Every person must contribute according to their ability,” she decrees. “If Yachaman has shown merit and has the trust of my granddaughter, then she shall be put to use where she is most effective.”
“Yachaman has shown herself to be more than capable,” Onixem asserts. “She has the resolve and acumen to bridge the divide between those who command and those who act. Questioning her role now, in our time of need, is questioning our very survival. We waste precious time debating such trite matters.”
At once, I regard Onixem with a renewed curiosity, my eyebrows arching in silent question. Mere moments before, had she not challenged Yachaman’s place at my side, her voice dripping with disdain for the notion of equality between us? And yet here she stands, extolling Yachaman’s virtues with a fervor that belies her earlier skepticism. It’s a sudden shift, like a tempest turning to a breeze, and it leaves me pondering the fickleness of respect out of necessity. Could it be that desperation lends us new eyes, seeing worth where previously there was dismissal? Or perhaps, in the face of looming threats, the tides can quickly turn when utility overshadows prejudice.
The nobles exchange uncertain glances. Nuqasiq’s decision stands as the final word, and eventually, the nobles come around, realizing the safety of the palace takes precedence over rigid social structures.
Turning to me, Nuqasiq says in a calm, soft voice, “Haesan, my child, Yachaman is no ordinary servant. She has a sharp mind and a keen eye, skills that are vital now. She will ensure the courtyards are secure and assist the palace stewards. They are less prepared for such an assault.”
“But she can’t leave me!” I plead. “What if something happens to her out there? We can’t toss her aside because she’s simply a servant!” To me, everyone sounds cold, businesslike. They fail to take into account that this is a life we are deliberating over, not some livestock that must be tallied on a quipu!
“I can do this,” Yachaman declares to no one in particular. Then, looking at me, she says with confidence, “I’ll be okay. We’ll find each other again, I promise. We’re bonded, after all.” A tiny, fleeting smile creases the corners of her mouth.
I still feel the protest rise in my throat, but the urgency of the situation robs me of my words as more tumultuous rumbling begins to shake the ground beneath us. Ultimately, I know Onixem is right; Yachaman can do more good outside the safety of stone walls. So I nod, understanding the necessity of the task at hand. Yachaman gives me a reassuring look, her eyes shining with the courage that has always defined her.
Yachaman is escorted away by a pair of young warriors as her figure soon melts into the chaos of the palace. I watch her leave, feeling the void of her absence. I should have fought for her more, demanded she stay by my side. This is madness, allowing her to part ways with me. Now, there is nothing more to be done, and I am ushered away to the throne room like a leaf being carried by the river’s current.
Warriors sprint in various directions, running every which way as though the battle is happening all around us. Maybe it is, judging by the sounds resonating throughout the halls. Loud booms, then bright, fiery lights erupt all around the palace just outside the walls. Have the Eye in the Flame entered Qapauma? How imminent is the danger we’re in? Will the throne room be secure enough to ensure our safety? It’s moments like this where I’d rather trade places with Yachaman; at least then, I’d feel I’m contributing to the city’s defenses.
We enter the throne room, joining another dozen or so nobles cowering behind any stone structure or pillar they can find. As if that’s going to protect them. Fury begins boiling within me. Am I to waste away here, left to twiddle my thumbs and be at the mercy of the invaders?
A series of loud thumps reverberate throughout the chamber. Palace guards have secured heavy, wooden doors with large, long planks. Though it may give the illusion of securing the door, I’m not so confident. These cultists could have other means of penetrating our defenses, leaving us vulnerable and exposed.
I’m restless. This entire situation makes me feel useless. I want to go out on the streets of Qapauma and join the Qente Waila to help those in need, to protect the defenseless. Yet I’m now cowering along with other futile nobles who have probably never picked up a sword, let alone a knife to cut their own food? The preposterousness of this has me fuming.
I storm toward one of the secured doors. “Allow me to leave,” I demand, yelling at a hapless, young guard who looks at me doe-eyed. “I cannot be stuck here, idling, while a battle rages outside.” Nuqasiq attempts to calm me, placing a consolatory hand on my shoulder, but I brush it aside and continue my tirade. “What good are we in here when Qapauma is under attack and needs all the fighters it can have?”
“Haesan,” Nuqasiq says sternly, but I ignore her.
“Young warrior,” I address the terrified individual standing before one of the exits from the throne room, “would you not rather fight alongside Achutli, the self-professed great warrior and leader of the Tapeu and all of Pachil, instead of protecting a bunch of useless, needy, incompetent, ineffectual wastes of air?”
“Haesan,” she now shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the petrified guard. Somewhere among the gasping nobles, I hear Onixem chuckle. Nuqasiq then spins me around to face her, glaring down at me. “That is enough! We let the capable warriors of Tapeu defend our lands from any invaders, while we live to see another day. I assembled our defenses as best I could under the short notice, and our officials are doing what they can, given the circumstances. We are more useful from here than endangering our lives amidst the calamity by joining them.”
“But Yachaman is useful out there?” I point toward one of the walls. “Why is she any different? And what if the invaders conquer the city and come in here, prepared to do their worst to us?”
“Then that is the fate Iptanqa has decided for us,” she says.
“You’re going to leave everything to chance? To fate?!” I’m completely incensed by Nuqasiq’s response. A woman who has taken matters into her own hands on countless occasions—including rescuing me from certain death at the hands of Achutli’s advisor. And now, she’s going to merely wait for matters to resolve themselves? This whole situation continues to become more and more ludicrous.
I begin pacing around the chamber, trying—but failing—to calm myself. My gaze falls on two nobles dressed in deep crimson, standing apart from the rest. Their demeanor strikes me as odd, especially in this context of fear and uncertainty. There’s a calmness to them that doesn’t match the chaos enveloping us. They speak conspiratorially to one another, almost as if plotting rather than panicking. I recall seeing them earlier, noticing their subdued, almost muted crimson attire was a stark contrast to the sea of vibrant colors worn by the other nobles during the festivities. Now, in the dim light of the throne room, their choice of color seems almost prophetic—ominous, even.
A moment later, their conversation ceases. In one swift movement, they draw concealed daggers from their robes. Before any of us can react, they leap towards the nearest nobles. Apprehending them, they place the obsidian blades at their victim’s throats.
With pure vitriol in their eyes, they shout, in unison. “For Eztletiqa, may our blades clear the way for His might to cleanse this forsaken place!”
Screams shatter the tense silence as the blades find their marks, slicing through with precision. Blood, as red as their garments, stains the stone floor. It spreads in dark, expanding pools around the victims. The sheer brutality of their violence is indescribable, causing me to feel nauseous at the grizzly sight. But the two nobles clad in crimson continue the slaughter, grabbing the nearest helpless noble and repeating the act over and over and over again, taking delight in their vicious deeds. The nobles hardly put up a resistance, kneeling and begging to be spared. Yet mercy doesn’t befall them, and they are sacrificed one after another to this evil entity.
At this, a score of palace guards begin attacking their own. Swords drawn, they hack and slash at their comrades as if crazed and taken over by some dark, external force. After slaying their fellow warriors, they raise their swords and exalt their praise for Eztletiqa. Are they followers of the Eye in the Flame? Are they possessed by a spell?
Nuqasiq’s grip on my arm tightens. Her face is like a mask of horror and disbelief. “What madness is this?” she mutters, her voice barely audible above the ensuing chaos. Around us, panic erupts as the remaining nobles scramble for cover. Their previous postures of defiance now crumble into fear.
As I watch the chaos unfold, an unfamiliar feeling surges within me. I’m frozen, not by terror, but by a sudden understanding—a realization of the depth of betrayal and corruption that has infested the Tapeu nobility. Garbed as nobles, these assassins have turned the sanctity of this refuge into a killing grounds. The ritual sacrifice I thwarted outside pales in comparison to the massacre unfolding before my eyes.
I must do something, find a way to turn the tide of this dark moment. Yet how can I be of any use when I’ve never wielded a sword? But before I can determine a course of action, Onixem steps forward. Her voice cuts through the tumult with a clarity that arrests everyone’s attention. “Enough!” she cries, and the room falls into a stunned silence, all eyes turning toward her. “Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo—mother, father. Enough!”
My assailant abruptly pulls me back, returning us to the shadows as my shrieks are muffled by their hand.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” a familiar voice says behind me. When I can finally turn around to see my captor, Onixem glares back at me. “What did you think you would do, being one person against nearly a dozen? Those maniacs will flay you on the spot.”
“But we have to do something!” I plea. “They’re going to kill those servants!”
“We must see the valley from the mountaintop,” she says, her focus fixed on the figures in the garden clearing. “We place ourselves in danger if we interfere, and there’s not much we can do to stop the Eye in the Flame if we’re dead.”
Although she’s right in her reasoning, innocent lives are at great risk. Maybe I feel so impassioned and determined because one of those in danger is the person who replaced Yachaman, and I realize how close she was to facing death. But no matter what, I can’t, in good conscience, allow these victims to die at the hands of these cold-blooded lunatics.
My eyes quickly search the area, looking for anything to spark ideas to stop this ritual from occurring. With the sun dipping below the horizon, torches have been lit around the perimeter of these closed off grounds. Cast in the fire’s ominous orange glow, the silhouettes dance in jubilation as the sounds of their approaching forces grow nearer.
Hoping they’re too distracted, I tiptoe over to one of the mounted torches. Ignoring Onixem’s restrained protests, I slip behind the stand. Using what little muscle I have, I push against it with all the strength I can muster. It takes me many, many heartbeats, but eventually, I’m able to teeter the torch stand, toppling it over and setting a small patch of grass and flowers alight. The flames are insignificant, barely catching much on fire, but the event halts the celebratory cultists momentarily.
Before they can investigate, I dash behind a column, praying that I haven’t been spotted. I hold my breath, gripping the cold, stone pillar tightly. I dare not make a move nor a sound, willing them to inspect the fallen torch more closely so that I can sneak away. What did I expect to happen? I feel trapped, unable to escape. What do I do next?
Another crash, this time on the far end of the gardens opposite of me. Another fallen torch. But this one does much more harm than my pitiful effort. The fire catches the loose garments of one of the cultists. He flails and flaps his arms, eager to extinguish the flames. A few close by offer their help, but the initial efforts are futile. The man begins to yell, but his companions shush him, trying to silence his anguish.
Behind them, a figure flashes briefly as they sprint between two pillars. When they peek around the column to inspect their work, I see Onixem’s face partly exposed. Her intense eyes seem to signal to me to get moving, which I more than happily oblige. I quickly race to another post and hide. I sneak a look into the garden, noticing the two servants have been left unattended. Now’s my chance.
Throwing caution to the wind, I rush over to them. There’s panic in their eyes, but I place a finger to my lips, hoping to calm them. Lifting them up, we make our way toward the entrance to these ground. Their bound legs limit the quickness in which they move, and I begin to fear we’ll all be caught if we can’t leave fast enough. How can we get away?
In an instant, Onixem meets us, wielding a dagger. She crouches low and begins sawing at their rope bindings. This isn’t going fast enough! Then, I remember my satchel, buried deep within my robes. I swim through the folds and folds of fabric, patting around until my hand hits a hard, metal object. The ritual knife. I fish it out of my garment and join Onixem in cutting the servants loose. The ropes are thick and tough, made from tight, twisted braids of agave fiber. I struggle with the tumi knife initially, but finally make progress after a few forceful strokes. Onixem fares better, cutting the male servant free, then assists me with the bindings on which I’m working.
I’m jolted by the shouts, stopping in place. “Hey! Over there! The sacrifices!”
Onixem and I frantically hack at the ropes. They finally give, separating and dropping to the stone ground. We leap to our feet and take off without a word. I place a hand on the servants’ backs, urging them to run. They glance back, confused and wrists still bound, but eventually scamper away.
We rush, turning left down one hall, then head right down another passageway. Reaching the vast courtyard, a few nobles pivot their heads to see what the commotion is about. Upon seeing my neutral-toned robes, they return to their conversations, ignoring our plight. I usher the two servants toward the quarters, walking briskly and keeping my head down. As much as I want to shout and alert everyone to the cultists chasing us, we’ve now reached a location where I could be identified by those seeking to harm me, and thus, I must be inconspicuous.
While the music fills the open space, we shuffle to one of the stations serving roasted meats and regroup. Those in attendance are blissfully unaware of the chaos approaching Qapauma. How do I signal that our lives are in danger? Has Nuqasiq contacted the palace guards and members of the military in time to respond?
“You are a near-sighted fool,” Onixem scolds. She and I grab knives used to carve the roasted boar and cuy, sawing at the servants’ ropes tied to their wrists. “You put our lives at risk. What was your plan once the torch toppled over? Did you even consider they could have found you and–“
“They didn’t, and we’ve escaped,” I say somewhat forcefully. “Something had to be done, and now they’ve been freed. Praise the Eleven or whoever.”
As Onixem and I argue, the servants bow deeply, profusely thanking us for rescuing them. I wave away their gratitude, again trying not to draw attention to us. They persist anyway, but I maintain my stare at Onixem.
“Well, thank you for stepping in and risking your precious life,” I say, my appreciation unintentionally sounding more mocking than sincere. “I… didn’t know what to do after knocking over the torch stand. I just knew I had to intervene.”
Onixem scowls. “You were too focused on saving others that you ended up needing someone to save you. But, you’re correct. At least they’re safe, and the ritual was disrupted.”
The servants scurry away, leaving us to our discussion as they return to the crowd. I inspect the scene for any trace of the cultists, checking if they followed us here and are preparing to ambush us if we get separated from the gathering. No crimson or ashen gray robes appear, no faces shrouded by blood red cloth. But my instincts tell me they’re biding their time in the shadows. We must remain vigilant.
“Why were you at the garden?” I ask, turning my somewhat discreet interrogation to Onixem.
“I could ask the same of you,” she responds sharply. “And in servants’ robes, nonetheless. It was certainly convenient that you happened upon a sacrificial ceremony.”
“Don’t turn this on me!” I say, my muttering tone almost evolving into a shout. “I asked you first. How did you end up at the garden?”
She glares at me. “I had it under good authority that something was taking place at the palace. I was tasked by the Qente Waila to monitor the situation closely.”
“But how did you–“
Before I can finish my question, a hand grabs my forearm. “What happened to you?” Yachaman asks, showing grave concern. “Lady Nuqasiq returned to the festivities, but you were nowhere to be found. I was worried that–“
“Who is this?” Onixem charges. “Why is a servant speaking to you as though you’re equals?”
I resist the impulse to admonish Onixem for such a statement. Taking a measured breath, I respond with a voice carrying the sharp, unyielding edge of obsidian. “She may have begun as my bonded servant, but Yachaman is my friend and valued ally. And as such, I insist—no, I require—that you treat her with respect. Her contributions to the Jade Hummingbird eclipse those of many who claim higher birth.”
The echoes of rumbling far off in the distance blend in with the music that permeates the air. Many of those gathered look around questioningly, exchanging glances as if to ask whether others had heard the noise, as well. They seem to inquire whether it’s part of the festivities, though leery about what else it might be. However, once Chalqo’s musicians ramp up the melodies of Atima and Aimue folksongs, the nobles return their attention to the conversations and celebrations.
For Onixem, Yachaman, and me, our understanding of what the noise indicates doesn’t let the matter drop so easily. We look at one another, acutely aware of the impending threat that approaches. There’s no more time to squabble. We must act, now.
“When I last spoke to Nuqasiq, she said she would speak to trusted advisors, and if that failed, then she would contact military officials herself,” I recall. “Where could we reach her?”
No sooner than when the question leaves my lips, Nuqasiq appears with an entourage of guards surrounding her. The music fades, and shrieks and shocked cries of alarm sound as countless other guards storm into the courtyard before the nobles. Each face around me is etched with incomprehension, a few demanding an explanation.
“Quraqas,” Nuqasiq announces, “please follow these palace guards to the throne room, where you will be protected.”
“Protected from what?” a few of the nobles shout.
Nuqasiq remains stone-faced and emotionless. “If you would please follow the guards into the throne room, we can explain there.”
A thunderous boom echoes throughout the grounds, startling those in attendance. It sounds as if the walls have tumbled, and tall-standing buildings begin to collapse around the palace. Like a terrified herd of peccaries, the nobles frantically scatter, darting aimlessly in all directions. The guards attempt to corral them, but the feat is more difficult than they likely anticipated.
I exchange glances with Onixem and Yachaman, stupefied about the developing situation. Ultimately, I regain my resolve and wave them toward Nuqasiq. “We must hurry to her,” I command. “She’ll best protect us.”
“But what about–“
“There’s no time,” I cut off Yachaman’s question mid-sentence. “We need to go, now. Before she rushes off and we’re separated from her.”
We dash over to Nuqasiq, who is now joined by several bewildered and panicked nobles along with her swarm of palace guards. Deeming us a threat, the warriors point their halberds at us and yell inaudible commands. Nuqasiq steps forward, splaying her arms out to disrupt the confrontation.
“Lady Nuqasiq!” the three of us call out simultaneously, waving our hands to get her attention. She notices our approach, but doesn’t react. There’s a lot of chatter among the nobles, while the guards maintain a tense posture, their eyes severe and unblinking.
“Let all of them join,” she declares. “We must hurry to safety.”
“But, two of them are servants, Queen Mother,” some of the nobles protest. “We can’t be seen with the servants! They shan’t mix with the likes of us!”
Nuqasiq turns to them and speaks through her scowl. “I said, let all of them join. Are you deaf? Daft?”
Although some cower at her intimidating and commanding presence, there are still a few who contest her proclamation. “We will not be seen with the likes of them,” many continue to remark. “We shan’t be responsible for–“
“One of them is my granddaughter!” she announces, yelling above the others and clutching me to her side. A hush falls over the nobles present as the protests die on their lips, looking at me in disbelief. Seizing the momentary silence, Nuqasiq adds with decisive authority and well-practiced regal composure, “And as for her attire, she dressed as a servant this evening for her protection, on my orders. Given the nature of recent events, I determined it was necessary to conceal her true identity. Is there anyone here who would question my judgment or the lengths to which I would go to protect my own blood?”
Her gaze pierces the crowd, daring them to challenge her further. Awestruck and confused, the nobles offer no further objections. I cast a glance at Nuqasiq, then notice that I’m receiving curious glances of my own. Yet her poise is unshaken despite my humble appearance as I stand next to her. The nobles back down, and though I can see them grasping for something to say, they are at a loss of words.
We begin to march toward the throne room with haste. However, the gathered Tapeu nobles balk at the sight of Yachaman walking alongside us. They appear to have regained their vocabulary as they voice their protests in loud, indignant tones.
“But, Queen Mother, that one,” one particularly stubborn noble remarks as they point to Yachaman, “is a servant. We cannot taint our refuge with those beneath our station. It’s improper, even in these dire times.”
Fearing a separation from my confidante and friend, my grip on Yachaman tightens. “She remains with me,” I demand. “She is a sister to me, not just a bonded servant.”
Nuqasiq’s eyes flash with frustration at the noble’s remark. “Enough,” she snaps. “Their lives are as valuable as ours. I will not be so dismissive of a person, no matter the origin of their birth.”
A tall guard with armor that’s been dented from recent skirmishes leans in to whisper in Nuqasiq’s ear. Though she nods curtly, her eyes betray the internal calculation of a seasoned ruler caught between compassion and tradition. “In these times, every individual must be counted, no matter what,” she announces resolutely.
A loud conch horn sounds, the blaring alarm indicating that trouble is near. Distant shouts and more chest-pounding booms from destroyed structures permeate the air. The battle is near, almost to the palace gates. Time is of the essence. Yet we are at a stand still, with no one budging from their beliefs.
Before the standoff can worsen, Onixem steps forward, cutting through the tension. “Queen Mother,” she addresses Nuqasiq with a respectful bow, “if I may offer a solution that honors both our need for unity and the nobles’ concerns.”
Nuqasiq, along with the others, turns to Onixem, inviting the young noble to speak. Onixem then faces me with a steady gaze. “Though Yachaman’s skills are invaluable, they need not be wasted standing silent in a chamber. Let her serve as a liaison, ensuring communication between the nobility and those who defend our palace. She can wield her intellect where it is most needed, organizing the assembly of barricades and directing our defenses.”
Nuqasiq considers the words for a dozen or so heartbeats, then, firmly, nods once. “Very well. You there,” she points to two palace guards, “assist her with her duties. Anyone who dares question you, remind them that she has been ordered by the Queen Mother. Yachaman,” she turns and looks at my Aimue friend, “take up this charge with honor.”
Now the nobles protest Yachaman’s aid in defending the palace. Unbelievable! Amidst the jumbled-together and stammered objections, many claim that no noble nor military personnel would dare listen to a servant. What is she to do? Stand around and await near certain death? This entire scenario is preposterous.
Nuqasiq raises a hand, silencing the burgeoning complaints with a stern look. “It is not the time for idle pride or class squabbles. Every person must contribute according to their ability,” she decrees. “If Yachaman has shown merit and has the trust of my granddaughter, then she shall be put to use where she is most effective.”
“Yachaman has shown herself to be more than capable,” Onixem asserts. “She has the resolve and acumen to bridge the divide between those who command and those who act. Questioning her role now, in our time of need, is questioning our very survival. We waste precious time debating such trite matters.”
At once, I regard Onixem with a renewed curiosity, my eyebrows arching in silent question. Mere moments before, had she not challenged Yachaman’s place at my side, her voice dripping with disdain for the notion of equality between us? And yet here she stands, extolling Yachaman’s virtues with a fervor that belies her earlier skepticism. It’s a sudden shift, like a tempest turning to a breeze, and it leaves me pondering the fickleness of respect out of necessity. Could it be that desperation lends us new eyes, seeing worth where previously there was dismissal? Or perhaps, in the face of looming threats, the tides can quickly turn when utility overshadows prejudice.
The nobles exchange uncertain glances. Nuqasiq’s decision stands as the final word, and eventually, the nobles come around, realizing the safety of the palace takes precedence over rigid social structures.
Turning to me, Nuqasiq says in a calm, soft voice, “Haesan, my child, Yachaman is no ordinary servant. She has a sharp mind and a keen eye, skills that are vital now. She will ensure the courtyards are secure and assist the palace stewards. They are less prepared for such an assault.”
“But she can’t leave me!” I plead. “What if something happens to her out there? We can’t toss her aside because she’s simply a servant!” To me, everyone sounds cold, businesslike. They fail to take into account that this is a life we are deliberating over, not some livestock that must be tallied on a quipu!
“I can do this,” Yachaman declares to no one in particular. Then, looking at me, she says with confidence, “I’ll be okay. We’ll find each other again, I promise. We’re bonded, after all.” A tiny, fleeting smile creases the corners of her mouth.
I still feel the protest rise in my throat, but the urgency of the situation robs me of my words as more tumultuous rumbling begins to shake the ground beneath us. Ultimately, I know Onixem is right; Yachaman can do more good outside the safety of stone walls. So I nod, understanding the necessity of the task at hand. Yachaman gives me a reassuring look, her eyes shining with the courage that has always defined her.
Yachaman is escorted away by a pair of young warriors as her figure soon melts into the chaos of the palace. I watch her leave, feeling the void of her absence. I should have fought for her more, demanded she stay by my side. This is madness, allowing her to part ways with me. Now, there is nothing more to be done, and I am ushered away to the throne room like a leaf being carried by the river’s current.
Warriors sprint in various directions, running every which way as though the battle is happening all around us. Maybe it is, judging by the sounds resonating throughout the halls. Loud booms, then bright, fiery lights erupt all around the palace just outside the walls. Have the Eye in the Flame entered Qapauma? How imminent is the danger we’re in? Will the throne room be secure enough to ensure our safety? It’s moments like this where I’d rather trade places with Yachaman; at least then, I’d feel I’m contributing to the city’s defenses.
We enter the throne room, joining another dozen or so nobles cowering behind any stone structure or pillar they can find. As if that’s going to protect them. Fury begins boiling within me. Am I to waste away here, left to twiddle my thumbs and be at the mercy of the invaders?
A series of loud thumps reverberate throughout the chamber. Palace guards have secured heavy, wooden doors with large, long planks. Though it may give the illusion of securing the door, I’m not so confident. These cultists could have other means of penetrating our defenses, leaving us vulnerable and exposed.
I’m restless. This entire situation makes me feel useless. I want to go out on the streets of Qapauma and join the Qente Waila to help those in need, to protect the defenseless. Yet I’m now cowering along with other futile nobles who have probably never picked up a sword, let alone a knife to cut their own food? The preposterousness of this has me fuming.
I storm toward one of the secured doors. “Allow me to leave,” I demand, yelling at a hapless, young guard who looks at me doe-eyed. “I cannot be stuck here, idling, while a battle rages outside.” Nuqasiq attempts to calm me, placing a consolatory hand on my shoulder, but I brush it aside and continue my tirade. “What good are we in here when Qapauma is under attack and needs all the fighters it can have?”
“Haesan,” Nuqasiq says sternly, but I ignore her.
“Young warrior,” I address the terrified individual standing before one of the exits from the throne room, “would you not rather fight alongside Achutli, the self-professed great warrior and leader of the Tapeu and all of Pachil, instead of protecting a bunch of useless, needy, incompetent, ineffectual wastes of air?”
“Haesan,” she now shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the petrified guard. Somewhere among the gasping nobles, I hear Onixem chuckle. Nuqasiq then spins me around to face her, glaring down at me. “That is enough! We let the capable warriors of Tapeu defend our lands from any invaders, while we live to see another day. I assembled our defenses as best I could under the short notice, and our officials are doing what they can, given the circumstances. We are more useful from here than endangering our lives amidst the calamity by joining them.”
“But Yachaman is useful out there?” I point toward one of the walls. “Why is she any different? And what if the invaders conquer the city and come in here, prepared to do their worst to us?”
“Then that is the fate Iptanqa has decided for us,” she says.
“You’re going to leave everything to chance? To fate?!” I’m completely incensed by Nuqasiq’s response. A woman who has taken matters into her own hands on countless occasions—including rescuing me from certain death at the hands of Achutli’s advisor. And now, she’s going to merely wait for matters to resolve themselves? This whole situation continues to become more and more ludicrous.
I begin pacing around the chamber, trying—but failing—to calm myself. My gaze falls on two nobles dressed in deep crimson, standing apart from the rest. Their demeanor strikes me as odd, especially in this context of fear and uncertainty. There’s a calmness to them that doesn’t match the chaos enveloping us. They speak conspiratorially to one another, almost as if plotting rather than panicking. I recall seeing them earlier, noticing their subdued, almost muted crimson attire was a stark contrast to the sea of vibrant colors worn by the other nobles during the festivities. Now, in the dim light of the throne room, their choice of color seems almost prophetic—ominous, even.
A moment later, their conversation ceases. In one swift movement, they draw concealed daggers from their robes. Before any of us can react, they leap towards the nearest nobles. Apprehending them, they place the obsidian blades at their victim’s throats.
With pure vitriol in their eyes, they shout, in unison. “For Eztletiqa, may our blades clear the way for His might to cleanse this forsaken place!”
Screams shatter the tense silence as the blades find their marks, slicing through with precision. Blood, as red as their garments, stains the stone floor. It spreads in dark, expanding pools around the victims. The sheer brutality of their violence is indescribable, causing me to feel nauseous at the grizzly sight. But the two nobles clad in crimson continue the slaughter, grabbing the nearest helpless noble and repeating the act over and over and over again, taking delight in their vicious deeds. The nobles hardly put up a resistance, kneeling and begging to be spared. Yet mercy doesn’t befall them, and they are sacrificed one after another to this evil entity.
At this, a score of palace guards begin attacking their own. Swords drawn, they hack and slash at their comrades as if crazed and taken over by some dark, external force. After slaying their fellow warriors, they raise their swords and exalt their praise for Eztletiqa. Are they followers of the Eye in the Flame? Are they possessed by a spell?
Nuqasiq’s grip on my arm tightens. Her face is like a mask of horror and disbelief. “What madness is this?” she mutters, her voice barely audible above the ensuing chaos. Around us, panic erupts as the remaining nobles scramble for cover. Their previous postures of defiance now crumble into fear.
As I watch the chaos unfold, an unfamiliar feeling surges within me. I’m frozen, not by terror, but by a sudden understanding—a realization of the depth of betrayal and corruption that has infested the Tapeu nobility. Garbed as nobles, these assassins have turned the sanctity of this refuge into a killing grounds. The ritual sacrifice I thwarted outside pales in comparison to the massacre unfolding before my eyes.
I must do something, find a way to turn the tide of this dark moment. Yet how can I be of any use when I’ve never wielded a sword? But before I can determine a course of action, Onixem steps forward. Her voice cuts through the tumult with a clarity that arrests everyone’s attention. “Enough!” she cries, and the room falls into a stunned silence, all eyes turning toward her. “Aluxeqwel and Teqotlo—mother, father. Enough!”
