[https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1600/1*WsIVysgdRdUJwtQjHtaH2A.jpeg]

The vibrant magenta scarf stands out like a beacon as the sun crowns the sky, beckoning me to carry out my plan. I find myself lingering at the edge of Chalqo’s tent, having counted numerous breaths in the time spent here, savoring the crisp mountain air that has journeyed from the distant slopes and traversed the vast plains to grace this Atima refugee camp. What I’ve formulated will be difficult—that, I am certain. However, in speaking to Yachaman and Nuqasiq, I’ve become more determined than ever in seeking justice for how I’ve been wronged.

I’ve recognized that, up until now, I’ve merely gone along with whatever has been laid out for me, planned for me. My fate has been left for someone else to determine, without any regard for what I want. I never questioned my circumstances, feeling indifferent to the path that was selected for me. But after the recent revelations and developments, I refuse to go along with whatever anyone else has deemed for me any longer. Staring at the magenta scarf, I feel that, for the first time in my life, I’m making my own decisions and determining my own way forward. I will not let someone dictate how I am to live my life anymore.

“So, how do you suppose we will find the people you’re looking for?” Yachaman asks. And this is the first difficulty in my plan that will need to be overcome. I don’t expect the Qente Waila to be announcing their presence freely, especially while we’re still in Tapeu territory. The Jade Hummingbird has, quite sensibly, kept a discreet presence, operating beneath the surface in the most literal sense: they navigate Qapauma by utilizing the intricate corridors of the catacombs and convening in the secrecy of the shadows. It was only my persistence in encountering Onixem that I was able to discover their existence, albeit she wasn’t necessarily the most discreet about her membership. I highly doubt the other members of the organization would be so careless.

“Well,” I begin, searching for a response, “I think the first step for me is to rid myself of my old identity. Shed the garments of my prior life and emerge as a butterfly, existence renewed.”

“You mean the garments I hauled all the way to this wretched campsite?” Yachaman asks, clearly annoyed. I completely understand her frustration with this news, traveling all this way to have me thrust this unannounced change of direction upon her on a whim. Yet it’s been something I’ve pondered as I’ve been recovering from my injuries, and since I was informed that I am not, in fact, Achope. This discovery has shaken my foundation to the core. Everything I thought I knew about my identity has been a lie.

The thoughts occurred to me as I was sitting inside Chalqo’s tent, having rested for a lengthy amount of time on his bedroll. I gazed upon my torn and tattered dark purple and gold outfit, the shades of my prior life, and felt betrayed. How am I to carry on as though I am Achope? Where do I actually belong? Where do I go from here? It was in those moments when I decided I needed to remove myself from all of the identifying characteristics that made me Achope. It wasn’t until Yachaman returned my belongings to me when I saw the overwhelming number of dark purple and gold garments, and I knew for certain that a change was needed, that I had to physically part from my former life.

“I apologize, Yachaman,” I say—only slightly sincerely, if I may be honest. “It’s something that recently occurred to me, and it’s something I feel I must do. I hope you can understand and forgive me.”

She twists her mouth into various frowning shapes before rolling her eyes and sighing. “Yes, Lady Haesan, I understand. I can still be annoyed, however.”

“That, you may,” I grant her, to which she releases a spurt of air from her tightly pressed lips in a scoff and, if my eyes don’t deceive me, a hint of a smile.

“I believe we shall do some shopping and look for some new clothing,” I declare, proud of my idea—and a little excited, if I may add, as well. “We should remove any trace of our former lives; mine of the Achope, and yours of the ridiculous indentured servitude. If the Aimue are going to insist your service to me, then I will insist you will wear what you prefer.”

To this, Yachaman looks nervous and unsure. Perhaps she’s uncertain whether the new clothing is allowed under the conditions of the arrangement she’s required to uphold. I can also imagine, having been told for much of her life how to dress, how to act, what to wear, who to be, it would also be jarring to finally experience some personal freedom of self-expression. And then, on top of all this, I suddenly become self-aware that I have now just told her what to do, going against my desire of allowing one to express themselves how they want to.

“Erm, only if you would like to, that is,” I say, slightly embarrassed and feeling the urgent need to backtrack and clarify my proposal. I know I’ve offended her in the past, and I immediately regret imposing myself.

To my relief, Yachaman chuckles and shakes her head. “It’s fine, Lady Haesan,” she says. “I would be happy to join you in shopping for new garments. To be honest,” she casts her eyes to her hands as she nervously intertwines her fingers, “I have never decided on my own clothing before. Everything I’ve ever worn has been selected for me.”

I swell with pride and confidence, saying, “Then we shall make sure you find the precise garment you desire that says, ‘I am Yachaman!’” She laughs again, shaking her has as though I’ve embarrassed her as a parent would their adolescent child. However, I’ve become determined to find us both garments that will display our true identities.

“We will put the garments you so dutifully delivered to me to use,” I say in another declarative statement. “I have but little currency to exchange, but I am confident my clothing will be more than enough to obtain what we seek!” There’s a slight relief in Yachaman’s pleased expression, which is the most comfortable and relaxed I feel I’ve ever seen her. With my satchel by my side, ensuring the ritual knife is never far from me, we both lock arms and make our way to the center of the campsite.

Before we make any progress, Qane approaches us from the direction we’re heading, and I notice a few distinct differences in his appearance. For one, though he still wears a bronze armor plate, his tight red and orange tunic—the palace guard uniform from Qapauma—has been replaced with looser-fitting clothing that flows more freely in the slight breeze. Additionally, he wears long, dark leather cuffs around his wrists that trace his forearms, as well as sharp-looking leather sandals that aren’t as worn out as his previous footwear was. The biggest distinguishing change, however, is the relaxed posture, the looseness in his shoulders in how he walks, and his hair, usually confined to a bun, now cascades freely upon them.

“Qur-, I mean, Lady Haesan,” he says nervously, as though I caught him in the act of committing a major crime. “I hadn’t realized you were awake! My apologies.”

He proceeds to place the viscacha he's been feasting on, skewered on a stick, down on the ground, but I abruptly stop him from dirtying his meal by placing my hand gently on his arm. I can’t help but chuckle at his uneasiness and trepidation, the expression on his face being the perfect distillation of anxiety over something so trivial.

“It’s okay, Qane,” I say, attempting to be more reassuring. He lets out a long, deep breath and nods frenetically, which only brings me to laugh more. I go to apologize, but he’s already explaining his behavior unprompted.

“I only stepped away for a brief moment to grab a meal at the campfire and… I got held up for a moment. Just a moment! I was only away briefly, I promise!”

“Again, it’s okay.” I try to convey how unaffected I feel toward this. “Everyone needs to eat! Besides, if I obtained a new outfit, leather aqitzals, and sandals, I’d want to show them off to all the pretty ladies of the village, as well.”

Qane’s cheeks immediately flush red, and I deduce I may be on to something. Not one to let go of my prey so easily, I continue to toy with him. “Is there a pretty lady that has captured Qane’s heart?” Yachaman’s eyes grow wide at the realization, and we both lean in closer to hear Qane’s response.

“The aqitzals and sandals are from Chalqo,” he sputters hurriedly and defensively, “as a thank you for assisting him with cleaning last night’s meal.”

“And the clothes?” I inquire, not letting him off the hook. He breaks eye contact and fixes his gaze upon his feet.

“The… seamstress’ daughter,” he struggles to get the words out. “She said my tight Tapeu garments made me jarringly stand out among the others. She offered me something that was a bit more… subdued.”

“Well, I like the new look,” I compliment, putting Qane at ease. “I’m sure the lucky lady…” I pause to allow him to offer her name, to which he initially misses the hint, but then eventually sputters, “Tz-Tz-Tzalanqil.”

“I’m sure the lucky lady, Tz’Tz’Tzalanqil-“

“J-just ‘Tzalanqil’,” he corrects.

“Ah, that makes more sense,” I tease. “’Unique Flower’, I believe it to mean. Very pretty, and very Atima, with the ‘tz’. Yes, Tzalanqil must have impeccable taste. You’ve retained your Tapeu red and orange, as well! She’s a clever girl to outfit you in such a manner!” Qane only blushes a deeper red, nearly matching the shade of his garment, and it elicits more lighthearted laughter from Yachaman and me.

“Well then, I shall leave you to your meal and cease my playful teasing, my ever-vigilant guard," I say, my words betraying the promise to stop the jesting. This time, Qane rolls his eyes and sighs, and Yachaman and I carry on about our business as he returns to Chalqo’s tent.

The camp is alive in the harsh midday sun, with the movement of its inhabitants coursing through the interwoven paths like blood in one’s veins. The low, white tents made from sun-bleached hides and grasses are clustered among the plains, utilizing wood from the region’s sparse trees as bones for the structure. Though I’m uncertain of the significance, their sides are painted with various shades of blue stripes on varying places upon the sides. The jubilant people engage in friendly banter as they encounter one another, while others march merrily toward the main campfire at the center of the tent village, with deer and capybaras tied onto long sticks that are carried upon their shoulders. The assortment of sikus and antaras flit their happy, airy tunes while the tinyas keep a steady, syncopated toom ta-toom doom toom beat that resounds throughout the site.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

We maneuver our way around the villagers until we reach one of the clearings that’s surrounded by tents and stalls that remind me of Achope marketplaces. The stands have been hastily constructed using whatever materials they had at their disposal: wooden planks from deconstructed carts or tanned leather hides stretched over sticks and branches. Woven reed baskets store a variety of root vegetables and grains, and dried meats are suspended on threads and string. It’s the stand toward the very end of this gathering, however, that Yachaman and I seek. Neatly folded textiles are sorted and displayed by color, gradually shifting and changing tints, shades, and tones. I pat Yachaman on the hand, and we gleefully skip over to the woman running the stand.

An unassuming middle-aged woman works a loom inside the nearby tent, weaving the shuttle between long strands of yarn with her weathered hands. She wears a long tunic of deep blue, with simple, shimmering silver jewelry draped along her chest. A few strands of gray intermingle with her long, black hair, which is tidily tied into a ponytail that drapes over one shoulder. As she narrows her eyes, her forehead is artfully stitched with lines of intense focus. Not wanting to disrupt her concentration, we look through the numerous sheets of cloth and colors, looking for something that catches our eye.

“Do you see something you like?” we hear a faint voice ask. “Is anything speaking to you?”

The woman looks over at us from her seat at the mechanism with a small smile creasing her face. Her eyes greet us warmly, and she gracefully clasps her hands in her lap, patiently awaiting our response. Yachaman continues inspecting the items, but I have my sights set on something particular.

“While I am enjoying the range of colors, do you happen to have anything in, say, magenta?” I ask. “Or perhaps red or bright purple? Perhaps something like a ribbon in which I can use to tie my hair?”

She regards me with a curious tilt of her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she endeavors to grasp the essence of my question. I understand my lack of subtly, selecting a color that practically screams for attention. In my mind, however, it’s not as though I’m selecting an entire outfit in jade green and magenta, or wearing a shawl made of hummingbird feathers. And my plan when confronted about any involvement in the Qente Waila is that it is merely a ribbon in which to tie my hair, which is entirely inoffensive. Yet my hope is that it will still get the attention of anyone who is part of the organization, and a discreet exchange can be had.

“That is a pretty color, certainly,” she says, her smile feeling wooden like a carved doll, perfect in form yet devoid of genuine emotion. “Perhaps you would prefer something like this fine orange or rich blue instead?”

Curious why she is suggesting different colors, I persist, “No, I believe magenta is the color I desire. It pairs well with my skin tone, my eyes, and, I’d argue, my spirit.”

“Well, I cannot argue with that,” she says with a nod. “Here…” The woman fetches a flint blade with a wooden handle and approaches a sheet of magenta-colored cloth. She cuts the sheet into a strip the width of my hand and as long as my arm, then walks over to her loom and finds a needle and red thread.

“I don’t need any–“

“Nonsense,” she interrupts my protest. “this will take just a few moments, but I believe this piece will need to better suit you. Please, continue searching through my goods at your leisure and I will have this completed shortly.”

I’m suspicious of her intentions with this garment, and grow leery as to what she could be up to. Is she attempting to sabotage me? Should I look elsewhere for my garments? This is suddenly beginning to feel like a misguided venture, and I turn to Yachaman to gauge her opinion on the matter. However, she’s enthralled with the selection of clothing, looking at each individual piece and pursing her lips as she determines whether or not the piece is what she envisions for herself. I don’t want to ruin her joy, but I’m beginning to grow concerned over my plan to be here, wondering if I’ve made a grave mistake and announced my presence to people who wish me harm.

I attempt to hurry Yachaman along, hoping she’ll understand my eagerness to leave this place. However, as if hypnotized by a spell from the days of the Eleven, she inspects every tunic, every quechquemitl, every dress, every skirt, every sash, every shawl, every huipil. Yet, as the woman suggested, she completes her task surprisingly quickly and returns to me and Yachaman, holding out the strip of magenta cloth.

“For someone with vision, tenacity, and perseverance, you deserve to have these strong traits symbolized in the piece,” she says, handing me the item. I turn the strip of fabric to face me and see, in red and purple thread, a soaring eagle rising up.

“Your craftsmanship is impeccable!” I remark, astonished by how quickly she was able to create such a masterfully woven work of art. “I’m afraid all I have to use as payment are my clothes. Initially, I intended to offer them in exchange for your services, but now I realize they scarcely compensate such intricate work.”

I hold out my meager, deep purple wrap dress and bow my head low, genuinely ashamed to even offer such modest clothing in exchange for her astounding work. She takes the outfit from my hands and inspects it carefully, as if investigating every thread. After a moment, her eyes grow as large as two moons, and she slowly returns her gaze to me, her mouth slightly ajar.

“I must confess, the work of this garment is significantly more impeccable than anything I’ve made,” she says. “The materials used for this… This is something intricate. Are… Are you quraqa?” She hesitates to make the declaration, but I lower my head even more deeply now in contemplation.

“No. Well, not really,” I answer. How do I respond to this question? I’m not sure how much I should reveal to this woman, this stranger. Reflecting on my current state of self-reassessment, I say, “I was raised among nobles, but I never truly belonged to their world.”

The seamstress considers my reply, narrowing her eyes as though she’s studying me, then nods agreeably. I realize that, during this time, I was holding my breath, and let it go once the woman turns toward her other garments that Yachaman is searching through. The seamstress holds up a few pieces, some excellent tunics and huipiles in yellows and greens, and offers them to her.

“Your items are too exquisite for me to fetch anything among the camp dwellers,” she says, “but I’m certain the traders that come through will pay a tremendous sum when they see these. Any items I have now, or anything you would like me to make for you in the future, are on me; just ask and it shall be yours.”

Both Yachaman and I stand with jaws dropping in unison. While I’ve had outfits tailored for me in Chopaqte before, there’s something about this proposition that has left me stunned. We express our sincerest gratitude for the offer, and though we attempt to object, she dismisses our protests with the wave of her hand.

I eventually come away with some rather simple garments, dresses in white and blue with blue patterns stitched upon them, and a light blue shawl for when the temperature drops. But the item of which I’m most proud is a long green huipil with magenta and red flowers stitched into the top across the chest. I’m too excited about the garments to merely look at them, and I suggest to Yachaman that we change into them right away and parade around the campsite to show them off.

To my delight, the dress fits perfectly, tapered at the waist and not requiring a hemp belt at all. I tie my hair back into a ponytail with the strip of magenta fabric, letting the long cloth hang alongside my hair and over my shoulder to reveal the eagle that’s been stitched onto it. Yachaman’s outfit, a yellow huipil with a subtle purple pattern throughout the lower half, is just a touch loose at the top and droops on occasion to expose a bare shoulder, but she looks resplendent nonetheless. After trying it on for the first time, she beams from ear to ear, and her light brown eyes twinkle in delight.

The evening dinner around the campfire presents the ideal moment for us to showcase our recent acquisitions, displaying them for all to see in the warm, communal glow. Around the fire, people carry on with lively discussions while hoisting large carafes, containing wine or chicha, if I’m to make a guess. The plethora of game caught earlier in the day have been skewered and rotate slowly over the fires, the smell of roasting meat blends with the smokey plumes that circulate among those gathered. Off to the side, Chalqo is preparing to play his quena when he notices Yachaman and me, and his eyes grow large as a smile extends across his face.

“My, Lady Haesan and Lady Yachaman!” he exclaims. “The morning sun pales in comparison to the radiance before me!” He swirls around us as though he inspects fine art, and carries on in the way only Chalqo could. “Like flowers in full bloom, your attire blossoms with elegance and grace. The weavers themselves must have been guided by the hands of the gods to craft such beauty.” Yachaman’s gaze drops to the ground at the remark, and I’m unable to determine if she’s blushing from the compliment or from being called a lady for the first time in however long.

“Sir, you are too kind,” I reply, though not necessarily being one to turn down a compliment.

“I must warn you,” Chalqo says theatrically, “with such exquisite huipiles, you risk outshining even the most extravagant of my performances! How can one compete with such allure?”

“Then I suppose you shall let our presence be an inspiration for your next song,” I respond, my confidence lifted to heights I haven’t felt since leaving Chopaqte.

“A valid point made, Lady Haesan,” Chalqo says. “I have just the song that will honor both of your splendor. Please, do enjoy the staples of both Atima and Aimue delicacies while my merry band of players perform.” He graciously presents the scene before us, inviting us to dine and revel in his music. He turns to his fellow musicians, and they begin to play as the tinyas rumble quietly, allowing Chalqo’s quena to stand out and pierce the evening air. His song starts sweetly and gently, the flute’s notes echoing a soft, haunting melody that fills me with the memories of all the initial uncertainties and struggles I had once faced. Gradually, the others join in—the siku adding a soulful, harmonious depth, while the antara brings a delicate, almost mystical touch.

Yachaman and I move and sway to the rhythm as we look upon the decadent foods being prepared. Mounds of food are piled onto our wooden plates, more food than I recall ever seeing at the palace in Qapauma. We’re served what I’m told is an Atima staple, called Quinoa Pachamanca, a dish that’s cooked underground with hot stones, including quinoa, herbs, and various meats. To pair with it, we’re handed a traditional sweet beverage of Chicha Morada, made from purple corn, infused with the nutty aroma of cinnamon and clove. Then there are the Aimue specialties, such as the rustically grilled meats and corn tamales, the likes of which are a novel sight to me, having been raised in Achope. As Chalqo mentioned, it’s a combination of cuisines from both factions, each prepared exquisitely as though this was a feast for a celestial festival, and I begin to realize that the people of this camp, Qelantu Loh, celebrate and cherish every day they’re alive.

As Chalqo’s song progresses, the rhythm picks up with the tinya providing a steady, encouraging beat, as if to symbolize strength and resilience. The melody weaves between moments of contemplative softness and rising crescendos, as Chalqo's fingers dance across the quena with unmatched skill and emotion. Occasionally, his eyes meet mine and Yachaman’s from across the clearing, as though he plays to honor our spirit. The music builds to a triumphant finale, and they’re joined by whoops, yips, and hollers by their adoring listeners, reveling in the admiration.

From the opposite side of the fire, I spot the seamstress sitting with a man as they both feast on their meal. She occasionally glances at me and Yachaman, nodding her head as if to point to us, and it piques my curiosity as to what they could be discussing. Perhaps it’s innocently recounting our exchange earlier in the day, or it could be the clothing I handed to her that signals my proximity to nobility. I mention this to Yachaman, making her aware that there might be a potential issue rising to the surface.

“She did seem eager to offer us her wares for free,” Yachaman notes. “Maybe it was designed as a ploy to have us return to her stand more frequently, so she could parse more information from us. We should be cautious when interacting with her from this point forward.”

“I believe your insights may be correct,” I say, regretting my mention to the seamstress of my past and noting that I was raised by nobles. Have I unwittingly placed a target on the backs of me and Yachaman? How could I have been so naïve?

“Let us quickly finish our meals and find Qane,” I state. “We can return to Chalqo’s tent and devise a plan from there.”

I look up in an effort to locate the seamstress and her ally, but notice they’re no longer seated where they once were. Panicked, I frantically look around to try and find them, but I can’t see them amongst the overwhelming number of people gathered here.

“I’ve lost sight of them,” I alert Yachaman. We begin to get up from our seat and take our meal with us to somewhere safer when I hear a deep, hushed voice nearly whisper behind us.

“They say a single spark can start a wildfire,” the voice says. “But be wary, for not all fires burn for the right cause. What flame are you here to kindle?”