Revolutions

128 - The Arbiter

"You will die by the hand of your blood."

The prophecy haunts me, its words weaving through my thoughts like a refrain that refuses to fade. At first, the melody of it thrilled me. A promise of my true destiny wrapped in mystery. But now? Now it grates on my nerves. Each repetition is a discordant note, a taunt. If I could, I would silence the voices that spoke those words and erase the memory of them from my mind. I would have the tongues that sang them cut out, and the hands that performed the song severed.

The cloying and sweet scent of burning incense seeps into my lungs with each breath. Smoke coils lazily in the dim light, swirling in thin, serpentine tendrils that weave through the chamber. The low flicker of torchlight casts long, wavering shadows that dance across tapestries depicting the bloodshed of forgotten wars, their woven threads now muted by time and soot.

The thick and pervasive smoke pools above the carved wooden map in the center of the room, drifting just above the intricate reliefs. Each ridge and valley on the map is subtly illuminated, the play of light and shadow making the landscape appear almost real, as if the mountains might rise from the wood and the rivers flow freely. The incense burns low in its bronze holder, releasing a final puff of smoke that curls upward. It mingles with the haze above the map, as if the spirits themselves were watching, waiting for the next move.

The map is a masterpiece of Qiapu craftsmanship. It's a collection of interlocking wooden slabs carved from the heartwood of sacred lumuli trees, each representing a different region of our vast land. The slabs are etched with intricate reliefs, depicting mountain ranges, winding rivers, and the sprawling cities of our people. Every feature is raised, allowing my fingers to trace the contours of the land as if I were a god looking down upon it from above.

What impresses me most is the functionality of the map. The slabs can be removed, rearranged, and inserted again to reflect the shifting borders, the conquests won, and the territories lost. It astounds me that these wooden slabs endured the tyrannical reign of the Timuaq—those relentless titans who sought to erase every trace of our identities, who razed temples and crushed every symbol of culture that made the factions of Pachil so distinct. Yet here they are, a testament to our resilience, defying the darkness that sought to consume us.

The wood is smooth under my touch, polished by the hands of generations of rulers before me who have left their mark on more than just the throne, but on all of Pachil.

I, too, intend to leave my mark. No matter the cost.

I glance over the map, my eyes sweeping over the various territories and suyus that each quraqa governs within Tapeu. Who among them could be my closest ally? Who can I trust? With rumors spreading from the various whisperers around the palace, there are quraqas who have pledged loyalty to the Qente Waila, or even devoted their spiritual lives to the Eye in the Flame. Perhaps the only one who can be trusted is myself.

The heavy wooden chamber door swings open abruptly, letting in the discordant noises of battle occurring just outside the palace walls. Though I could still hear the muted sounds, the disturbance strikes me like a forceful gale as the figure enters. To say I'm upset by seeing the appearance of the falcon crest on the breastplate is a severe understatement.

"Anqatil, report," I demand. "What of the rebel movements?"

She moves with haste, practically charging at me and the map with her unrefined and undignified movements. Her perpetual scowl tightens like she has smelled something offensive. Then, she shakes her head in disgust as she musters over the news she's about to relay.

"Sapa, the Qente Waila forces are gaining ground. They've taken the eastern sector of Qapauma and are rallying more support among the macehual—those common folk who have the most to gain from change. If we don't act swiftly, the city will be overrun."