Revolutions

45 - Haesan

As the whirlwind of recent events casts a disorienting haze over my thoughts, the intensity in Qane's eyes tells a story darker than the approaching dusk. Fortunately for me, the young Tapeu palace guard, assigned to me by Nuqasiq, is nervous enough for the two of us, allowing me to focus on not exerting myself unnecessarily. Though I've gradually regained my strength the further we get from the Qapauma palace, each step still requires an extraordinary amount of effort. Yet believe me when I say that I cannot move fast enough to get away from that haunting, dreaded place.

My confrontation, and subsequent abuse, at the hands of Anqatil leave me reeling, both physically and emotionally. I have difficulty discerning whether the encounter was in reality or a terrible nightmare. With the exception of our introductions in front of my father in Chopaqte, Anqatil's attitude and demeanor toward me has been cold ever since we've met each other. Even so, her vitriol and complete disgust for me would make one believe I had done something irreparably to her and her family.

Then my mind recalls a comment seemingly thrown away, as though it was common knowledge to everyone inside the prison cell:

"So you know this is your granddaughter," Anqatil had said to Nuqasiq, as a statement of fact. And that there was an arrangement between Achutli and my father, Suntu. Except... he's not my father after all; it's Achutli. Anqatil spoke of a prophecy, that, supposedly, the Arbiter will be betrayed by his own blood and lose his throne. Am I what was prophesied?

Reflecting on the matter causes my head to spin, and the lightheadedness makes me stumble over my own feet. Qane is there to catch me, his perpetual look of concern now focused on me.

"I'm fine," I say, trying to convince him—and, apparently, myself.

"We're almost to the gate," he says breathlessly. "Do you know this person we're supposed to be meeting?"

I shake my head. "Unfortunately, no. It's probably for the best, in case anyone is curious why a young Qapauma palace guard is carrying a wounded Achope girl."

"No disrespect meant, quraqa," he says, his voice a bit strained while he supports me as we walk, "but I'll be relieved when I don't have to lug you around out in the open."

"Disrespect taken," I quip, trying to infuse some humor into the situation. Although I aim for a light-hearted chuckle, the pain makes even breathing a chore, leading me to a fit of coughs instead.

The Gates of Ipa are just beyond the limits of Qapauma, standing four stories high and made of large, jagged, gray stones. The humongous opening is fortified with two thick wooden doors that, thanks to Atima ingenuity, require an elaborate chain mechanism to open and close. On either side are stone walls that stretch in opposite directions: One heads to the west toward the mountains, while the other stretches toward the shore far off in the distance to the east. Mirroring the formidable breadth and might of a mountain, they are virtually impregnable. With a narrow pass to the west and Timuaq forces concentrated to the south, the only way the rebels were able to attack Qapauma was by ship—an arduous task, but one that surprisingly resulted in a major success for the people of Pachil.

Now that the war is long over, the northern gates remain open, permitting traders to travel freely to and from Qapauma. The guards stationed here seem to be drowning in sheer boredom. They entertain themselves with impassioned debates or telling one another jokes, enjoying the calm, cool evening and not paying any attention to those making their way on the nearby path. I'm grateful for this, allowing Qane and me to walk relatively unnoticed by any curious onlookers.

After traversing the dense wooden door and passing through the grand gates, a man wearing a dark blue cloak stands, barely illuminated by the torches nearby, an unmoving presence amidst the bustling traffic that flows around him. His facial features are shrouded in shadow, and his physique is masked by his loose clothing. As we approach, he remains as still as the base of the stone structure upon which he casually leans.