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Once more, I’m jolted awake before the sun has a chance to peek over the horizon. As my mind races with innumerable thoughts, I become jealous of the quetzals that sing outside my window, how they have no other care in the world other than greeting the morning with their song.
Recognizing I won’t be getting any more sleep, I fling the covers aside and sit up on my bed, letting my eyes linger on the world outside my window. I have yet to enjoy a peaceful night’s sleep since my arrival, despite the comforts afforded me at the palace. Too much has occurred in my short time here, but the events of last night disturb me to my core.
Removing the ritualistic blade from beneath my pillow, I gaze upon it as I hold it in my hands. The long, ornate knife appears crafted from another world, with its stunningly intricate design and shape, and the gold shimmers even in the dim light. What power does this item contain that would cause those two gangs to fight over it? What secrets does it possess that makes it so sought after?
I hear shuffling of feet and a clattering of dishes, and quickly hide the knife under my pillow before my door opens. The Aimue servant has come to expect me to be awake before she enters the room, and she brings in a display of fruits laid out on a tray along with a cup of juice that she places on a table by my bed. It’s only been a few days, yet she’s anticipated my favorite items, ensuring I’ve extra pieces of what I learned is called pitaya, this vibrant red fruit from the southern region in Tapeu territory. Surely it’s something only the Tapeu nobility can obtain, considering how even my family in Achope could never procure such a delicacy, and I savor the sour and sweet taste of each delectable bite.
“Qura–,” she catches herself before she corrects to say, “Lady Haesan, your presence has been requested in the sewing room after you finish breakfast.”
“I beg your pardon,” I say, reflexively retreating my hand when I realize I’m about to touch her wrist as I speak to her. Old habits I’m trying to shake. She halts from leaving the room and perks up, and I say to her, “I have been in Qapauma for a number of days, yet I don’t believe I caught your name.”
At my statement, she looks bashful and casts her eyes to the ground, hands folded in front of her. I’m aware I haven’t directly asked for her name, but now I’m self-conscious about making such a request, worried it may come across as a demand. I sigh at the thought of causing her discomfort and return to eating my breakfast.
“Yachaman,” she says meekly while looking from side to side as though she doesn’t want to be overheard. Are the servants in Tapeu supposed to appear nameless?
“Yachaman,” I say, trying out the name in my voice. She corrects my pronunciation—supposedly, it’s said with your mouth opening as wide as possible, giving it a staggered, abrupt sound when spoken.
“Two moons,” I say. “Well, if you’re Aimue, I suppose it’s something more detailed and longer in meaning, so…” I squint and stare at a corner of the room as though the translation will come to me from the walls. “One who has the spirit of two moons, I would guess.” At this, her face is pure shock, mouth slightly agape.
“How…” she starts, slightly shaking her head in disbelief.
“I studied many of the languages in Chopaqte. I suppose I possess only a rudimentary understanding of most of them, Aimue being one such language. However, I was always fond of how the Aimue said so much with so few words, as if each single word had such a complexity and wide range in meaning, and thus, must be chosen with care. It was always deciphering the contexts in which they were spoken that tripped me up. What appears to have one meaning could actually mean something completely different if you get just one emphasis wrong or misplace a word in the sentence.”
“It is quite a complicated language,” she confesses with a giggle. I can’t help but smile at finally seeing her toughened, stoic façade crack with a bit of emotion.
“It’s what I find absolutely fascinating,” I say giddily. “The language is so intricate and requires a firm grasp to master it. I’m very jealous I wasn’t born there to be able to speak and understand it from the offset!”
“It has its faults,” she says solemnly, and now I fear I said something to offend her. Her shoulders sag and she turns toward the door. Before I can stop her and apologize, she reminds me of being summoned and hurriedly escapes my room. Sun and sky. I’ll hope to pass her in one of the many hallways and ask for forgiveness, or do so at tomorrow’s breakfast.
With an exasperated sigh, I get dressed—now that I’ve upset Yachaman, I’ll have to do so myself—and make my way toward the sewing room, as requested, uncertain whom I’m to meet. A lot of activity has taken place there already, and I dread what I will find myself involved in this time.
A gaggle of nobles shuffle their feet as they collectively glide down the hallway in their garish orange and red outfits. Each greets me with a seemingly obligatory “may Iptanqa light your path” and a curt nod as they pass, and I politely return the nod. Moments of receiving acknowledgement while on these grounds appear few and far between for me, so despite finding their salutations ludicrous, I can, at the very least, appreciate and accept their recognition.
As I enter the room, the early morning light casting long shadows of the looms and equipment onto the walls, a solitary person sits with a long piece of cloth draped over their lap. Bent over with unwavering focus, Onixem drives a needle through the fabric with a rapid intensity, her brow deeply furrowed. Try as I may to not startle her, my effort is futile, as she perks up in surprise, fumbling with her needle and thread.
“Were you working on something while you were waiting?” I ask, not certain nor wanting to assume Onixem is the person with whom I’m meeting. However, she assuages my concerns, nodding ever so slightly as she cautiously collects her sewing items. Looking down upon the fabric, she’s begun crafting a series of shapes at what appears to be the hem of a long, magenta dress, the vibrancy of the garment is truly stunning as it catches the glowing sunlight. For a person who hardly expresses any emotion other than disdain and annoyance with everything, she selects magnificently beautiful outfits.
“I received it from the dyer yesterday,” she says, looking longingly at the garment, “made from pitaya skins and juices. It’s perhaps my favorite color.” Small talk? Is she extending an offer of peace with such a gesture? I should graciously accept and take advantage of the opportunity.
“I had never had pitaya until I arrived in Qapauma,” I say, fearing I might sound ineloquent, yet I power through, knowing Onixem will judge me regardless. “Its color is amazing. You have excellent taste!” Did I see her crack a smile at this? I’ve complimented her before, yet, even though it appeared more of a smirk, there’s a warmth in her eyes I haven’t seen until now. Perhaps I’ve finally begun breaking through, though I won’t consider myself victorious just yet.
“My mother doesn’t seem to agree,” she says, sounding aggrieved. “She’s always loathed the way I dress, how I sew, everything.” At this, she returns to her sewing, fervently weaving the needle into more geometric shapes.
“Well, after what I’ve seen, if that’s her stance, then her wardrobe likely resembles the chaos of a tropical storm,“ I say, and we both exchange a chuckle. I’m astonished at how dainty her mannerisms are, how she places her fingers to her mouth to stifle her laughter and looks away blushingly. I never would have imagined Onixem acting in such a way, considering how she puts on this toughened exterior, but being honest, I find this side of her enchanting, and I take in the fleeting moment.
“May I inquire about your mother's whereabouts?” I ask, recognizing my inquiry may put an abrupt end to the pleasantries. However, my curiosity is piqued, and I hope learn more about her while her guard is down.
“Off galavanting around the region,” she says with a sigh. “She and my father like to intermingle with high society and politicians across Tapeu, leaving their children to fend for themselves.”
“You have siblings?”
“Yes, one brother,” she says, and leaves her statement at that, as if this subject is a burden to her. I’m curious to find out more, but I know this isn’t the reason she’s summoned me to meet.
“I have the knife, by the way,” I say in a hushed tone, in case these walls have ears.
“Keep it,” she says. “It’s part of what I wanted to discuss with you. Better you have it than me, for the time being. Because you aren’t directly affiliated with the Qente Waila, no one will suspect that you possess it and seek you out. It’s safest in your hands.”
It makes sense, yet having an item so greatly desired in my possession is a bit disconcerting. Sensing this, she says, “We will deliver it to where it needs to go, to a protected location. I am to meet with one of our liaisons shortly and will find out where we should bring the item.”
I’m still unsettled at having to hold onto this highly prized blade any longer than I want to, but I take slight comfort believing that the matter will be sorted later today, and I reassure myself that everything will be okay. I gesture my understanding and acceptance of the situation to Onixem, restraining myself from reflexively patting the satchel and giving away its presence.
“Go with honor,” she says, standing up and nodding before departing the room, magenta garment in hand. After she leaves, I reach into my satchel and grip the knife once more, running my fingers along its smooth handle. Though I’d prefer to be rid of this thing, Onixem’s reasoning is sound, and I know I can comply with her request.
With thoughts of the knife and events from last night swirling about my head while I step through the hallway, a significant commotion crashes into my senses as clamoring takes place inside the throne room.
Not this time, Haesan, I tell myself. You nearly got yourself in trouble the last time you were eavesdropping. You can’t afford to get caught this time, especially after unnecessarily getting yourself involved in potentially risky matters. And your curiosity regarding Onixem nearly got you in danger at the marketplace. No, you must ignore what’s occurring in the throne room, for your own good.
Stolen story; please report.
I briskly pass the open entryway into the expansive room so as to not allow temptation to persuade me. Yet I take one quick peek inside as I walk by, and I see numerous figures, their tight-fitting tunics colored in a wide array of shades of orange, red, and purple.
Nobility? That’s a lot of men gathered in one place to see the Arbiter. What could be the purpose of this meeting?
I stop in place just past the opening and wrestle internally with myself.
To gather this many nobles this quickly must mean the matter is urgent. Could it involve the events of last night? Am I and Onixem in danger? I’m sure I can find out another way… except the meeting is taking place this instant.
I look around the entrance and notice, just inside the room, are numerous large sacks piled haphazardly a few paces away. Inspecting them further, they appear to contain parcels of clothing, slightly disheveled in appearance as though the sacks were hastily tossed to the floor without much care. I’m assuming the men who dropped them here were summoned without a moment’s notice and had to leave their belongings behind. However, the sacks are as tall as my waist and placed such that I could crouch behind them and be fully shielded from view while still being close enough to hear the discussion. This is a much better vantage point than the last time I happened to pass by the room.
Seizing the opportunity and relishing in my good fortune, I slip inside the room and duck behind the large bags. I shift my weight back and forth to peek between two of the sacks, studying all the attendees of this impromptu meeting. Upon the throne sits the Arbiter, once again wearing the huge golden headpiece and little else, while the rest remain many, many paces away. The men in the tight tunics kneel before him and lower their heads, keeping their gazes at the floor and never looking the Arbiter directly in the eyes. While some wear a confident expression, there are others who shiver and quake, beads of sweat slowly dripping from their foreheads and eyes wide in panic.
A gathering of approximately half a dozen men encircle them, clad in the standard vibrant hues of orange and red, yet intriguingly punctuated by a black and white checkered motif that unmistakably marks them as military officers. Adorned with gleaming bronze helmets that partially veil their appearance, an air of authority emanates from the stern scowls that pierce through. Gripping spears that meet the stone floor, they stand unwavering as they resolutely stare ahead, their attention undeterred by the groveling nobles at their feet.
“Your explanation is worthless!” the Arbiter exclaims, his shouted remark reverberates throughout the chamber. “There was no new information gleaned from your drivel, Aqulisu. If none of you whimpering imbeciles says anything of value, I will behead you all!”
“Sapa!” one of the obsequious nobles in orange squeaks, hopping forward slightly and attracting the officers’ attention, with two of them rapidly pointing their spears at the shriveled man. His face is cluttered with wrinkles, giving the sweat that slides down his cheeks a difficult obstacle course to traverse, and his balding head glistens in the beams of light cast inside the room. The Arbiter snarls and awaits his response, leaning forward in his seat with narrowed eyes fixed on the speaker.
“S-S-S-Sapa, my whisperers have told me—“
He’s cut off by two of the nobles, shushing him and telling him to say nothing further, one of whom is the “Aqulisu” that was scolded from before. At this, the Arbiter signals for them to be carried off and orders them to be thrown into prison cells. They’re immediately seized and dragged out of the chamber, shouting and pleading for forgiveness, but the ruler’s focus remains on the one who initiated the dialogue. Once the shrieks have faded out of earshot, the Arbiter commands him to speak.
“My whisperers h-h-have told me there is a treacherous faction that seeks to depose you, Sapa.”
The remaining nobles stare blankly at a spot on the ground in front of them, refusing to lift their heads as this brave—or naïve—nobleman talks. The Arbiter darts his eyes about the bowed heads, then stares viciously at the original speaker.
“Go on…” he says with a low, ominous rumble.
“Th-they call themselves Qente Waila, Sapa. They—“
“‘Jade Hummingbird’?” the Arbiter says mockingly. “What kind of idiotic, childish name is that? It better not be proven that you are lying to me, Ilusisqa.”
“No! Sapa, I-I-I would never!”
“Yes, yes, you would never. All of you would never, am I correct?”
Heads nervously bounce up and down to nod in agreement, uttering a garbled mess of panicked words.
“There were two groups fighting in my streets,” the Arbiter says brusquely. “Who was the other side involved, wearing red?”
“M-My whisperers say they’re a new faction. Recently emerged. I’ve instructed them to seek more information, but more intelligence has been gathered pertaining to the Qente Waila.”
“So tell me now or I will rip your eyes from their sockets and make you watch as I carve out your guts: who are they and where can they be found?”
“Sapa,” he begs, “I implore you to understand– Sapa! Sapa, wait!”
Before he can finish his statement, two other officers grab him by his arms and begin lifting him up, ready to remove him from the throne room. A puddle forms at the noble’s feet, and the unmistakable, acrid scent of urine wafts about the chamber, stinging my nostrils. I cover my mouth to stifle a gag so as to not give away my presence.
“The Qente Waila have a secret meeting location by the marketplace!” he shouts, causing the officers to halt their progress. Jumping on the opportunity, he continues, speaking fast and frantically. “Th-the entrance to the meeting location at the marketplace collapsed from a cave-in, but they use the catacombs to travel in secret!”
“Travel where?”
“I don’t know—only their members know the exact locations, but– Sapa, wait! There are members in your court who serve the Qente Waila!”
He says this so quickly, I almost miss what was stated. Did he just reveal that people serving under the Arbiter and living in his palace want to usurp the ruler? This is immensely worrying, as it will unquestionably cause a search for any traitors within the palace walls.
“Names,” the Arbiter says coldly. “I want names, or you die.”
“Aqulisu is one, but I d-don’t know of the others,” he says with a quiver in his voice. “But i-i-if you search the rooms, they wear green, o-or an item with a green hummingbird sewn onto it. You can find them, I know you can!”
“XAQILPA!” the Arbiter yells abruptly, scanning the group of nobles. After a long and uncomfortable pause, a silver-haired man emerges from an alternate entrance. Flanked by two palace guards, he strides into the room, chin lifted and pointed nose raised upward. Unlike the Tapeu nobility, he wears a long, flowing white robe adorned with orange shapes and patterns. On its back is an intricately stitched image of an orange and red canine—possibly a coyote? It seems to be a family sigil, though to which house it belongs remains a mystery to me. The loose garments inform me he is not Tapeu, but his colors seem to indicate otherwise. I listen attentively for any further clue as to who this ‘Xaqilpa’ is.
“Pusaq, remove these men from my sight,” the Arbiter commands. The military officers usher the nobles out of the room, but as they walk away, he shouts, “and place Ilusisqa in a cell. We will continue our conversation shortly.”
Cries for mercy—I assume coming from Ilusisqa—echo throughout the room and gradually fade as the chamber empties, leaving the Arbiter and this ‘Xaqilpa’ remaining.
“What is the meaning behind the display last night?” the Arbiter asks, barking the question. “What caused your men to act so recklessly?”
“It is nothing that will be of concern to you, I assure you, Sapa,” the other says. His voice is a hiss like a serpent, off-putting with sporadic consonants jarringly staggered. This dialect is not familiar to me, but having been taught numerous languages and cultures from around Pachil, I’d assume it was Auilqa or Ulxa, or maybe even that of a faction destroyed by the Timuaq long ago.
“It is a matter of concern to me when it occurs on my streets, in plain view of quraqa and people of influence,” the Arbiter says through gnashed teeth, lifting himself from his thrown and pointing accusingly at his subject. “There are men here with their whisperers seeking to uncover such secrets, and if they unearth yours, they trace it back to me. So yes, it does concern me.”
“My apologies, Sapa,” he says and modestly bows his head.
“Now I have to take care of one such nosy quraqa, thanks to this brazen and reckless display. Once again, I must tie up your loose ends.”
“My sincerest apologies, Sapa.”
“They nearly exposed the identity of your Eye in the Flame, Xaqilpa. You best control your dogs, or I shall do it for you.”
“Certainly, Sapa,” Xaqilpa says.
The Arbiter stares him down for what feels to be an eternity, but the white robed man never flinches, his face and demeanor remaining calm and still as he looks on defiantly. After a moment, the Arbiter grunts and returns to his throne, snatching a chalice set by his seat and takes a long swig. He sits back down and takes one more gulp, then hurls the metallic goblet off somewhere to the side, the clatters resonate off the stone walls.
“What can you tell me about this ‘Qente Waila’?” the Arbiter asks, more calmly and businesslike this time.
“They have recently sprung up from the catacombs of Qapauma. There are certain nobles that have covertly joined their ranks, as well as various residents throughout the city. My men are seeking where they are hiding and exterminating the vermin upon discovery, hence the unfortunate event which occurred last night. It was revealed that there was an outpost by the marketplace, but we have ensured its destruction. Again, my apologies for the disturbance to your peaceful reign, Sapa.”
“Since they believe I should be deposed, what are their demands, their beliefs?”
“They stem from impatient and petulant nobles unhappy with having to comply with your demands, Sapa. The spoiled houses are angered at their temporarily languishing profits and have begun spreading rumors about your governing prowess.”
“What are these… rumors?” The Arbiter says this as though biting into something distasteful.
“There are questions in your methods concerning the reconstruction of Pachil, that there is a lack of transparency in how the resources are being distributed among the factions. Some suggest resources and wealth are being hoarded or distributed among close associates, rather than being done so evenhandedly.”
The Arbiter slams his fists onto the arms of the throne before taking a deep breath and leaning back into the chair. His reaction takes me by surprise. Did these purported rumors strike a nerve? Is he, in fact, withholding resources and wealth? Something to keep in mind and recount later.
“Do you know who specifically has spread such lies?”
“No, Sapa—only that such lies have been circulated amongst the nobility. My sincerest apologies, Sapa.”
The Arbiter grunts in frustration, stroking his chin as he looks to the side, away from me. Eventually, he returns his attention to Xaqilpa, tensely gripping the arms of his throne.
“These quraqa, these conspiracies against me!” the Arbiter shouts. “They act as if I've not bled for this land, as if I've not sacrificed enough.”
“In the realm of power, enemies are always close, waiting for the right moment to strike,” Xaqilpa says. “You must be the unwavering stone against the current, Sapa, for only then can you endure.”
For a moment, the Arbiter appears deep in thought, then says, “Have your men surveil the Qapauma quraqa. Be subtle this time, would you?”
“Certainly, Sapa,” Xaqilpa says with a bow. The silver-haired man quickly spins and marches away from the throne toward the entrance, his robe cascades behind him like billows of clouds. Left in his wake, the Arbiter stews on his throne, arms crossed while a scowl is etched on his face.
There is a lot to consider, and I have to slowly review everything to ensure I understand it all. So this Xaqilpa person is in charge of the Eye in the Flame, the group that attacked Onixem’s Jade Hummingbird. By the sound of things, they must be a secret organization of guards the Arbiter deploys for unscrupulous tasks that normally require subtlety to avoid association. Perhaps the Eye in the Flame discovered the Qente Waila and had hoped to eliminate them before the Arbiter learned of them, hence the attack last night.
Furthermore, and judging by his reaction, there must be some legitimacy to the rumors regarding his hoarding wealth and resources from factions and families in need. Who is he leaving out? And what purpose does he have for doing this, other than greed? Onixem had told me he has been using the Ulxa as a scapegoat for wrongs suffered during the War of Liberation, so maybe he’s justifying their exclusion of such resources with this misguided reasoning.
Speaking of Onixem, if the Arbiter is sending out these dangerous Eye in the Flame people to surveil the nobility, she needs to be informed, and perhaps she can notify her contacts and people. Every movement, every action, every conversation will be monitored closely, and with the Arbiter’s recent revelations, another such instance can’t be afforded. I’ll have to find her and–
“Have you heard anything of interest?” a voice says from behind me. I let out a tiny gasp and quickly turn to see who it is, finding Anqatil glowering, towering over me.