Interlude I
AYA RUNA
Cashan is dying, but on the throne, he looks like a real flesh-and-blood king. He looks like the king he was, is to us, no matter how much he denied the ironic title from his troupe of thieves.
He’d deny it now, too; I’m sure. Though I can’t confirm it.
It’s been three days since I last reached him, when he was deep in the Serpent’s domain and only my mimicry specialty could reach him.
Three days ago, he went deeper than language could travel.
Still, the Serpent is kind to me. I can see some images, sometimes colors, sometimes memories.
I know he still has samay left. It’s just trapped within that damned human body.
There’s barely enough for the Serpent to claim, but it’s not gone.
No. It can’t be. As long as there is a single drop of samay within him, we have hope.
My power is a mere mimicry of what our Serpent can do, a strong one, but still a counterfeit. I’m not surprised at the fading connection, but that doesn’t soothe the shame every time I’m asked about his state.
Paria must feel the same. She’s in charge of his physical health, the way I am of his communication. It’s the two of us, with our Serpent’s guidance, that have the privilege to exist in a static state alongside him. We are the connection that others depend on.
They are all too busy stabilizing the Inka’s palace to bother either of us now.
Tutay, in particular, is ignoring us in favor of the guards piled on the floor, tightening all of their binds past what’s practical.
I hear some of their muffled gasps of pain through the rotting textiles we shoved in their mouths.
The sound is a welcome change to the occasional gagging and choking I’ve had to hear all day.
Plus, Tutay is getting a kind of peace from her acute acts of violence.
I see it in the way her shoulders loosen up with every pull on the straps around their wrists.
The soldier Tutay is playing with now has barely flinched despite the existing wound festering on her right arm.
The biggest sign of her pain is the sweat coating her dark skin and wetting the edges of curly baby hairs around her face.
I stare at her a moment longer, but she never looks my way.
Her gaze stays resolutely on the door, as if waiting with blind faith for someone to burst in and rescue her.
The girl must be as pathetic as the rest of them, but we’re keeping all the soldiers around for a reason.
“Clean that wound for her before it gets infected. She might still be useful,” Qajay says, reading my mind.
Tutay does the opposite. She grabs the girl’s arm with a crushing fist, and I taste the mimicry in the air as Tutay enhances her hand to shatter the girl’s already broken bone.
Blood drips down the girl's chin. She bit her lip open to stop her scream.
“I’m doing something more important here, Qajay. This little soldier is much less likely to cause trouble now. I’m enacting preventive measures,” Tutay says, though her sentence is punctuated by a frown. She’s disappointed the little guard didn’t put on more of a show.
I know how people see us. The dreaded Aya Runa.
We’re thieves, criminals, killers. We’re sadistic.
We’re immoral. We’re trash to a society that only values gold.
Fine. I’m fine with others thinking that, but I hate it when we start to think it about ourselves.
Tutay is falling back on old stereotypes, acting as an evil caricature because she thinks she has nothing else to offer.
Cashan never believed that. He never thought we were too vile to save when he depleted his samay to protect us. Except, what do I know? He’s not awake to explain a damn thing.
“Izhi needs help moving the bodies outside,” I croak, seeing the need to address the issue head-on before a fight breaks out.
If Tutay feels useless, then we’ll all suffer for it.
Tutay’s head snaps to me in shock, and she begins to walk my way.
I wet my cracked lips before continuing, but the bleeding girl speaks before I can muster the energy,
“Don’t bother stopping her. She needs to feel some control, to feel useful.
We’re probably the best qualified to take it,” the girl gasps out, word by painful word.
She’s breathing hard, no doubt going into a state of shock at the trauma her body is trying to survive.
Yet she still spoke up, still taunts us, or…
The girl looks genuine, an authentic defiant expression on her face, so out of place with the rest of the cowards tied up around her.
But Tutay won’t see that when she’s blinded by anger.
“Speak like you know a damn thing about me again, and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Tutay growls, brandishing her knife. Tutay won’t wait for the girl to make the same mistake twice.
“Feline strength and speed will be really useful these first few days. We need you, Tutay.” Every word burns my throat. I hate the soldier girl. I hate that she saw through Tutay enough to force me to de-escalate.
Tutay cracks her knuckles and finishes her walk to me.
The hot touch of her calloused hand on my cheek is always welcome.
I know Tutay, though, so I’m not surprised when the touch turns bruising.
She was acting like a caricature before, but this level of violence is authentically her.
She grips my face with one hand, her fingers so tight they cause my teeth to cut into the skin of my inner cheek.
“The plan is to get out of here in less than a few days, and I refuse to hear anyone imply anything else. Even if it’s you, sumaq,” Tutay says, the soldier forgotten.
She loves to taunt me with that word. Sumaq. Beautiful. I should be the one calling her that. Her lips, plump from a bleeding cut and as dangerous as the rest of her, are close enough to mine that I inhale the deep breath she releases as she lets go of my face.
“You need to rest, not worry about organizing this mess or acting as some misguided hero. I’ll behave and go help Izhi just for your sake.
” Tutay pats my right cheek twice, then walks out, winking at the mouthy girl still bleeding on the floor right before disappearing into the winding hallway system we’ve yet to fully map out.
“You’d think since she’s so desperate to be done with this, she’d be the first in line to do some real work instead of wasting time,” Qajay says, quiet and out of nowhere.
I almost forgot he was here. He’s a silent watcher, never engaging in the drama but always ready to jump in and break up a fight.
He angles his body a single degree toward me. That’s all I need to know that he’s addressing me and not just talking to himself despite his soft voice. Qajay never whispers, but his words have a way of disappearing as soon as they’re spoken.
“She believes the only real work is the thing she wants to do but can’t,” I explain.
Qajay shakes his head, but that doesn’t stop me.
It’s been two days since my throat has been strong enough to keep up a conversation like this.
Being able to say what I think out loud is a privilege.
I plan to take advantage of it. “The soldier was right. She needs to remind herself she’s strong enough to be useful.
She did it by proving another’s weakness.
That time wasn’t wasted. I’d go as far as to say she used it efficiently. ”
He hums, then turns to face me head-on. I memorize the slight uptick of his mouth. It’s the prelude to a laugh I’ve only heard twice in the decade of knowing him. It’s my favorite expression on him, strong and real. With Qajay, I never know when I’ll be blessed with one again.
“I’ve missed your voice enough these last few days that I won’t make fun of you for immediately using it to defend her. Again,” he says.
This time, I smile, and he rolls his eyes and turns back to his work. I open my mouth to talk, but he shushes me despite not looking my way.
“I know. I know. You spend your time defending all of us from each other. I’m just saying, she always needs defending more than the rest of us.
” His feet are no longer turned toward me, his way of ending the conversation.
He’s not mad, though. That small uptick is still there, only visible from the side because his shoulder-length dreads are tied back.
I close my eyes and slide down the north wall, succumbing to the strain in my legs.
I lasted a long time. Paria’s been on her knees at Cashan’s side since we took the throne this morning.
Hours have passed since we took the palace, and I know she hasn’t moved.
The image of her forehead on the throne’s armrest is burned into my eyelids no matter how much I try not to stare.
We’re both Serpent mimics, but she’s the healer.
I’m expending as much samay as I can to communicate with him, but when the others force me to take a break, like now, I’m not haunted by the fear that resting could mean his death.
When Pucaru tried to move Paria an hour ago, Paria replied that she’d never lain on a finer fabric and she’d enjoy it to the end. What she doesn’t say is that she’d rather never lift her head, much less stand, if it means she’ll have more energy to keep him stable.
It doesn’t need to be said that the crushing weight of guilt over his sacrifice hangs above all of us. She knows we know and, despite how much we argue about it, that we agree. I hate that we agree. I know that Cashan hates that we agree.