The princess is vitality and mimicry. It’s a combination too impossible to believe.
But I believe it now. It is only logical that the child of an Inka of this strength wields incredible power too.
The Inka’s hair is black, and her curls are barely contained in two long braids falling over her shoulders. They’re longer than the physical years she’s lived could produce. The sideways glimpses I caught of her hair during the ceremony didn’t do it justice. It falls past her belly button, from the little I can tell from the baseline of her blood red tunic.
That is the ultimate show of divinity.
She has no need for mimicry anymore when she has such a powerful army protecting the empire. We defend this family and this land. Mimics and non-mimics alike gather under her orders. We fit together seamlessly, precisely aligned stones like those that currently surround me.
She is the opposite of the False King’s human sacrifice after human sacrifice to the Guardians to ensure the prosperity our empire is known for. He spilled the blood of hundreds at once to beg the Guardians for help in times of drought and poisoned crops to no avail. That all changed once our Inka came in. She refused to perform sacrifices, and life began to flourish once again in the empire.
That’s the story her hair tells.
Like a statue coming to life, she moves. She shifts her head to one side and tilts slightly forward to take a full look at me below her.
Her husband, Panaka Harawi, follows suit, and I brace myself to hold the weight of their attention.
The man does not have curly hair. It is straight and thick. His hair is held back by a single ornate gold clip resembling a feline. Out of the feline’s head, the canines are emphasized. It piles his hair into a roll on top of his head, but just like the Inka, it is barely contained. Its thickness and the humid sea air make it expand outward in a wild frizz. It is a mystery to me how a single fist-sized clip keeps it in check.
The clip is positioned in such a way that it looks like the fangs are moments away from crushing his skull with a single, effortless bite. It is yet another show of closeness to our Guardians, the physical manifestation of their connection. It is trust and fear, respect and deference.
It is a privilege to have your teeth dig into my skull, and it would be a privilege if you bite down. That is his message, divine in its own way.
I know from past projections that his hair is at least to his pecs, a reminder of the fact that he only became Panaka recently, only two decades prior, fathering the legendary princess but not the Inka’s oldest two sons. It is as long as his rule so far.
I am tired of waiting. I am tired of this intimidation act. The diviner declared it, and I’m filled with nothing but the impulse to force the same words out of the Inka’s mouth.
Guardians’ Hero.
It is when I stand taller, as if they’ve been waiting for me to react, that they speak.
“You are Sinchinrei,” Panaka Harawi begins. “How did you know to take action today?”
From what I can tell from the steps below them, Panaka Harawi, unlike the Inka, has no freckles. His wrinkles are more pronounced, though, with many plunging into the deepest layers of skin around his mouth. They are evidence of his jovial good nature as rumored among the empire.
Their wrinkles, their posture, their relaxed mouths. I haven’t seen anyone so assured other than my mother.
“The princess,” I say, and I know they know which princess I mean out of all their children, “she noticed the danger before anyone else. Once I saw her alarmed, I could not help but…”
But what? I need the right word, just a single word, to encompass the magnitude of what I felt. I can’t ramble in front of them. I have to make them understand.
“I could not help but protect her.”
They don’t respond. They’re the right words, but they didn’t satisfy their needs.
“I do not mean any disrespect to the Inka and her power, but I was the only,” and that word floods me with pride, “one who could have helped in the moment.”
Then I get down on one knee and bow my head. It is natural in the face of power, but my muscles burn in rejection. Respecting authority isn't a weakness, my aunt always used to say, but it’s a lesson I’ve always struggled to follow. Still, I kneel, to show the beginning of my sentence is true.
My fingernails scratch at the stone ground.
I look up to see the Inka’s lips split. “Stand up.”
I snap up like a barely constrained spring. I need to relax. I have nothing to prove. I know I’m the Guardians’ Hero, and they know it too. So why are we playing these games? My shoulders are up to my ears, but I force them down and down. It turns my body into a solid wall, impenetrable.
Though who am I to say what the Inka can or cannot break through?
“You are now a representative of the Inka, and you will not, if you do not wish to disgrace us, kneel for anyone. If you are unable to perform that simple task, then there is no reason to continue this,” the Inka says.
