The sun prepares for its slumber behind the mountains in Qiapu, casting its glow across the rugged land. Yesterday, such golden hues were comforting and rejuvenating, but now they make me anxious about the event taking place once the colors fade and night falls in Pichaqta. There was such promise to the day, but now I dread what more could come amidst the embers of this day, hoping for the best, but bracing for the worst.
Pichaqta has been tense all day after the assassination of our Tempered—my brother—the day prior. The citizens shuffle their feet as they move about and hardly look at one another in the eyes, heads hung low in despair. The entire rhythm of the day to day activities is nonexistent, and everyone waits with abated breath for who the fires will choose as our new leader.
As the legend goes, the founder of the Qiapu, Aqxilapu, was upset that his brothers and sisters had kingdoms and he had none. After Pachil was created, each sibling selected a region to claim as their own. They were full of lush jungles, bountiful oceans, abundant grasslands, and dynamic ecosystems for a wealth of plant and animal species. Though jealous that he didn’t have any land for himself, Aqxilapu wasn’t dismayed and decided to create his own kingdom. He reached into the oceans and grabbed two pieces of land with his bare hands, then violently smashed them together, creating a wall of mountains to keep his siblings out of the newly-formed region. The impact was so forceful that a thunderous quake shook the land and caused various rifts that led to the forming of rivers and valleys in all of his siblings’ kingdoms.
Aqxilapu was proud of his accomplishment, but it wasn’t without its own fault. The reason his brothers and sisters avoided this part of Pachil is due to a fiery chasm that was contained by the rich minerals and rock formations. Disrupting this caused a huge fissure to split through his newly formed region, erupting and spewing ash and lava all over his creation.
Once again, Aqxilapu wasn’t troubled by this development, and determined he could funnel the lava flow, creating a volcano that he would call Xutuina. Eventually, he snuffed out the volcano, leaving mineral-rich soil that he could cultivate for farming, and the mountains produced metals that he could use for tools and weaponry. The land, forged by fire and determination, provided everything he needed to be self-sufficient, allowing him to isolate from his siblings and create new life in Qiapu.
The tale is nice to tell to youthful generations, to encourage them to be proud of our people, instill independence, and teach the lesson to persevere when faced with a challenge. Yet, even as a child, I was never convinced of the fantastical stories of magic and gigantic gods walking among the people. There are still those as recent as my generation who believe gods live among us, such as those professing the Eleven as deities, even though I feel they were just specialized and capable warriors. Either way, the legend is what shapes the ceremony to select the Tempered, as well as our society and how we live. The Qiapu are proud of our self-reliance and our ability to bend fire to our will through expertly crafted forgery.
A never-ending line of people wearing the ceremonial white hooded robes march in step as they make their way to Xutuina. The white cloth will inevitably turn an ashen gray, which the Qiapu declare is receiving a blessing from Aqxilapu. Scattered throughout are fathers carrying their young children on their shoulders, or mothers walking with their infants in hemp slings suspended around their torso. Every dozen or so people, someone carries a torch to light the way, illuminating a small area of the rugged terrain and gangly shrubbery. The long descent to a cavern within the dormant volcano requires a bit of physical exertion, but given the daily activities of the people who work in mines or forgeries, the trek is not as exhausting as it would be to the gilded people momentarily in power in Qapauma.
Shamans from Pichaqta have been preparing the area for the ceremony since it became known that we will urgently seek someone to replace Limaqumtlia, the previous and murdered Tempered. Their garments are not particularly elaborate: A robe made of cloth from hemp and not adorned with anything more than a rope at the waist to keep the clothing bound together. Each one wears a mask made from the skull of a puma, said to be Aqxilapu’s beloved animal—he kept one as a traveling companion, or so the legend says. The masks are the only distinguishing item for each individual, as each one has customized them with carvings and paint to represent where in Qiapu the shaman is from.
Approaching the ceremonial grounds, the path opens up to the vast, inactive volcano. The air during the walk was cool and crisp, but now the heat feels sweltering and suffocating. In the middle of the basin are large boulders the length of only a man or two, scattered throughout at various distances from one another, and only thin, stone walkways extend from the perimeter to the rocky platforms. They rest amidst a sea of black lava rock, with thick clouds of steam rising from the nearby fumaroles in the wide open area. Occasionally, cracks in the dark rock allow a faint glow of lava to peek out, adding to the encompassing heat. The arena is off to the side, and has been decorated with fine works of stone—the only items that could withstand the temperatures in the basin for a prolonged period. The surrounding terrain creates multiple tiered terraces from which people can look down and watch the ritual from a much more pleasant, and safe, distance. Given my familial proximity to the fallen Tempered, I am seated somewhere between the mass of people and the area for conducting the ceremony, getting a clear view of the arena floor.
One of the shaman motions to acknowledge all who have gathered. He wears the most elaborate mask, painted in a golden yellow along with ashen black shapes on the cheeks and forehead. If memory serves, the man should be Huaqila, the lead shaman from Pichaqta. He has served our people for dozens of seasons, even during the tumultuous times of Timuaq rule, when our rituals were banned from being conducted. Admittedly, I find many of them to be archaic and crude, and wouldn’t have minded if they had not returned. Once the Timuaq were conquered and vanquished, however, there was an eagerness to return to old traditions and practices.
Huaqila raises both arms to the skies and speaks with surprising vigor, addressing the spectators. Seeing the gesture, the crowd comes to a nearly abrupt silence and attentively awaits what he has to say.
“People of Qiapu,” he begins, “we have gathered tonight due to unfortunate circumstances. Limaqumtlia was a brave and valiant leader, however his flame was tragically extinguished too soon, and his vision of leading us back to the prosperity we enjoyed before the titans enslaved us could not be realized in its totality. We are forever grateful for what he has done, and we pray that he is worthy of residing by Aqxilapu’s throne.”
There’s a particular embellishment to his statement in an effort to meet the moment. He pauses for effect, letting the last part of his words hang in the stuffy and stifling air. The crowd responds in kind, bowing their heads in appreciation and respect, then nodding in acceptance.
On a clearing of volcanic rock rests a funeral pyre, decorated in numerous bright feathers of yellow, red, and blue, laying about half the height of a man. On it lies Limaqumtlia, adorned in gold and silver jewelry embedded with all varieties of precious stones found in Qiapu. His face is peaceful, eyes closed as if he will awaken from this nightmarish slumber any moment now. The shaman says something, but flames of contemplation engulfed my thoughts, too many memories of my brother and what could have been.
After his speech is complete, the shaman walks to the pyre with a torch and sets it alight. His expressionless mask makes this ceremonial procedure feel businesslike, no emotion given to the circumstance. The glow of the fire barely adds its illumination the inside of this chamber, reminding me of the little time Limaqumtlia had to shine his light on the world as the Tempered. I can’t force myself to watch as he is turned to ash, casting my eyes to the side and fighting back the tears.
There are a few more words spoken before the flames begin dying down, and after the shaman steps away from the pyre, he pauses before continuing with the ceremony, either for emphasis or out of respect, though I’m inclined to believe it’s more the former.
“To proceed with our march toward prosperity,” Huaqila says, “we must seize the fleeting embers of time, and allow our next selected Tempered to guide us through these volatile times. We are the Qiapu, and we know such volatility will never ruin us—it only forges us into something stronger—for we have faced unimaginable hardship and overcome triumphantly.”
He pauses to allow the people’s cheering and raucous applause in agreement. If it weren’t for our primitive rituals—and his advanced age, I suppose—I’d argue he could make a solid case for himself to be the Tempered. He at least speaks like many of the lifelong politicians I’ve seen in my time, though Huaqila is nowhere near as corrupt.
“Who deems themselves worthy to lead our people, and seek acceptance by Aqxilapu himself to be selected by his guiding hand to be the Tempered?”
Roughly a dozen men maneuver from the crowd and proceed into the basin, casting their eyes downward, their faces fixed with a seriousness and focus. The candidates are not as fortunate to experience the comfortable conditions as those above: although it hasn’t erupted in generations, this chamber that sits close to the mouth of the volcano still brings sweltering heat and a dangerously hot floor of rough lava rock for those who enter it. The hopeful successors to Limaqumtlia range in physique and age: Short and brawny, tall and wiry, weathered faces or wrinkle-free. In Qiapu, the ruler is not determined through heredity; the only requirement to become the Tempered is to survive the ceremony and be the last one remaining.
“Are you to follow in your brother’s footsteps?” I hear a familiar gravely voice ask me. Saxina’s silhouette towers over me, and I have to shield my eyes from the glow to see the slight smirk drawing from the corner of his mouth. This topic always arose among the men huddled around a campfire in the rare moments of quiet during the War of Liberation, and Saxina knows my opinion on the matter better than anyone.
“I think Aqxilapu has a higher calling for me,” I say with a bit of sarcasm. Saxina’s expression turns serious.
“You know, this would be your chance to seek revenge for his death. You could lead a whole army after the Ulxa and finish the war they seem eager to start.”
I shake my head in disbelief, and a bit in irritation. Are we unflinchingly buying into this theory of the Ulxa affronting us? Perhaps there were further discussions at the palace I’m not privy to, but this feels irrational. I decide to pry, since Saxina seems fine in antagonizing me.
“Is that what you’ve discovered?” I ask. “The council and generals have determined, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Ulxa are behind this?”
Saxina looks dismayed, and begins to respond, but closes his mouth as he considers his reply. His eyes are cast low, and after searching the ground for a way to answer me, he eventually responds.
“A Qiapu diplomat recently returned from Qapauma with news that the Ulxa are aligning with the Auilqa in an effort to disrupt the rebuild and seek power for themselves. We aren’t certain if they are attempting to split from the alliance or take over the throne for themselves.”
My face must’ve telegraphed the sheer shock and confusion I feel because Saxina quickly attempts to placate me, patting the air with both hands and leaning in closer to me.
“That news cannot be said to anyone else,” he says with urgency. “I’m only telling you this because your brother is the slain Tempered, and you are my friend. We are still investigating the matter and plan to send spies into both regions to determine if the diplomat’s rumor has any merit. Qapauma is a city full of deceit, so we have to tread lightly.”
The news leaves me speechless. If anyone embraces their independence more than the Qiapu—which, let’s be clear, is a tall order and highly unlikely—it would be the Auilqa. No one had ever met a person from Auilqa until the War of Liberation, and the joke amongst the other nations was that, after the war, they would disappear into the jungles. Not only that, but parents in Qiapu tell their children stories of how primitive and savage the neighboring Ulxa are. It’s well known the amount they both abhor being ruled by the Tapeu, but this seems like a very strange union, and one I’d meet with immediate skepticism and suspicion.
No other words are exchanged between Saxina and me, and I can’t bring myself to break the silence. We watch the men stand in a line and face Huaqila. I look around the crowds to see if any others will present themselves to the shaman and notice that Qumuna, the well-respected general, is engaged in a passionate discussion with one of the council members. There appears to be a fervid argument between the two, then a couple more council members join; they were initially spectators, but now they’ve left the area where the council observe the proceedings and add their own opinions to the matter. The general’s brow is furrowed deeply, looking as though he is ready to strike any of the men surrounding him. After a few more words by a councilman pleading with hands clasped in front of him, Qumuna considers their case, shakes his head, then proceeds to march toward Huaqila.
“Is this all who gathers to seek Aqxilapu’s blessing to become the Tempered?” asks the shaman. The candidates search the spectators for any more movement, but no one else steps forward. A long pause follows, and just as Huaqila raises his hands to continue the ritual, someone from the group of councilman stands apart from the rest and shouts with a raised arm, “I nominate Saxina!”
Everyone, from the candidates to the shaman to Saxina himself, looks stunned. It’s not common for someone to propose a candidate, since challengers generally nominate themselves. Also, although Saxina was a courageous warrior during the War of Liberation, it’s difficult to conceptualize him as a leader—not just a leader of a band of men on the battlefield, but all of Qiapu. Perhaps my bias is still strong from my history with him, and considering this, I try to shake the idea that it’s inconceivable for him to be the Tempered. I don’t know the person vouching for Saxina personally, except that he’s a relatively new and young member of the council. Who his family is and where in Qiapu remain a mystery to me, however. A few councilmen protest, particularly the members who adamantly pressed Qumuna, but the nominating member steps out and begins making his case to all within Xutuina.
“Saxina has served loyally to the Qiapu, devoted his life to protecting our people, and has led the effort for rebuilding Pichaqta. He can still do all of these tasks and more, also more effectively, from the throne, with a vision that aligns with our people’s mission of returning to past glory. While we have some excellent candidates presented to us, people such as Qumuna would be far more valuable should we need them on the battlefield with the possibility of war.”
The villagers are taken aback by the statement and concept of war, muttering among themselves. Meanwhile, there are nods in agreement as the councilmen and shamans think this over, and the protests soon die down. I turn to face Saxina and gauge his reaction to being nominated. Before I have a chance to ask, Saxina, appearing reluctant, takes a big sigh, nods his head, and accepts what fate will bring to him tonight when called upon by Huaqila. The way this entire event plays out confuses me when I take into account the number of small matters I’ve witnessed these councilmen squabble over, yet their almost immediate response to the nominating councilman’s explanation is complete acceptance after barely a moment of debate and deliberation. Shortly after, Huaqila sums up what I assume is their line of reasoning.
“So be it. The flames will decide if he is, in fact, worthy.”
The challengers gather their weapon of choice for the ritual: A stout bow staff or a cudgel and shield made of treated wood. Two men are paired at random and walk up the stone walkway onto opposite ends of the platform. Their goal is to force their opponent to yield, whether that’s by beating them unconscious, putting their opponent into submission, or other means, and the rules to do so are slim to none. If they are knocked off the platform, they drop nearly a man’s height into a pit of unbearably hot lava rock. The opponent is required to aid them and pull them back onto the platform, but only if the victim yields; otherwise, they have no obligation to assist. Other than the rulings involving the pit, everything else is fair game, with the idea that if you were truly worthy, Aqxilapu would show his favor for you through his protection.
Many fall quickly in the early stages of the contest. Most are nearly beaten to death in gruesome displays of gratuitousness, spared only at the mercy of the onlooking shaman. A few combatants meet unfortunate fates, falling off the platform into the pit, but losing consciousness after their screams in anguish from the hot rocks fall upon to deaf ears. Much of the spectacle is unwatchable, even for me, yet there are loud shouts and cheers from the entertained masses. It’s one of the few times I can recall feeling ashamed of our people.
Qumuna and Saxina fare well up to this point, progressing far to be two of just eight remaining nominees. Qumuna spares many of his opponents, choosing to forego a weapon and wrestle them into submission. Saxina, on the other hand, shows the same aggression displayed on the battlefield during the war. There’s a biting ruthlessness to his tactics that at one time was only unleashed upon the minions of the Timuaq, but formalities have been cast aside for tonight. He is taking in and embodying the seriousness and spirit of the ceremony, and he is certainly relishing this moment for someone who was initially reluctant to accept his nomination.
As Aqxilapu would have it, Qumuna and Saxina are drawn as the next pairing, and the crowd is euphoric in anticipation of the match. Glancing at the other six nominees, there is a visible expression of relief, knowing that after this duel, half of the toughest competitors will be eliminated.
Qumuna nods in acceptance of the challenge before him. He flexes and stretches, twists his torso and limbers up. Once again, he opts to go without a staff, waving a dismissive hand at a young shaman apprentice offering up the wooden weapon. During Qumuna’s warm up, Saxina is playing to the audience, raising his arms and shouting for encouragement to rile up those in attendance while walking a portion of the basin’s perimeter. When he finally tires of this, which goes on longer than his matches, he struts over to his weapons, picks them up and bangs the cudgel on the shield like a drum, exciting the crowd. It reminds me of the old Saxina I knew from the war, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t amused by his showmanship.
After the two are announced, I see Qumuna speaking to Saxina, but I can’t make out any of what they discuss. Saxina looks annoyed and makes a contemptuous gesture, then gets into a crouching stance, shield held in front with the cudgel lowered to his side. Qumuna takes a deep breath, then hunches into a grappling position, both arms extended forward with fingers splayed out. It seems like a risky endeavor to leave oneself exposed to the wooden instrument, but Qumuna looks poised and unfazed. After seeing his results, I’d say the tactic has worked well for him. However, this feels as though one of these two men will needlessly suffer an ill fate when both are valuable to what they provide the Qiapu.
To everyone’s surprise, Qumuna strikes swiftly, ducking underneath an overly ambitious horizontal swipe from the cudgel and kicking Saxina’s left leg out from under him. Saxina stumbles backward, but regains his footing in time to deflect Qumuna’s grappling attempt by suppressing him with the shield. He lands a few blows with the club and bludgeons an exposed Qumuna multiple times in his back. The general rolls out of the way and resets his position, putting Saxina in front of him.
A wolfish grin slides across Saxina’s face, and the warrior lunges at Qumuna with a flurry of blows. During his retreat, Qumuna’s heel slides off the lip of the platform, and he momentarily loses his balance, but eventually regains his balance and manages to get enough space between him and the relentless Saxina. He has to stay in continuous motion to avoid direct contact with the cudgel, walking dangerously close to the edge and giving Saxina a wide berth. Sensing his overconfidence, Qumuna uses Saxina’s momentum during an ill-timed swing, grabs the right arm, and flips him over onto his back. The impact knocks the cudgel out of his right hand and tumbles to the side, nearly falling off the platform.
In two long strides, Qumuna quickly pounces on top of Saxina and begins punching away at his head and torso before the shield can be raised for protection. Saxina desperately tries using his legs to fling Qumuna off of him and create some space to slip out, but the general is persistent, his right arm brushes Saxina’s legs aside while swinging multiple hooks with his left. Loud cheers erupt while Qumuna strikes blow after blow. Saxina does well enough to eventually get his shield up to protect part of his face, but Qumuna is undeterred, spinning Saxina into a position where he can land knees into the rib cage while swooping punches beneath the wooden shield like a predator clawing into a burrow to reach for its prey.
Frustrated by the shield's feeble strikes that fail to make an impact on Qumuna, Saxina abandons the futile weapon, casting it aside in a burst of determination. Saxina twists and turns, flinging his body to escape, but Qumuna’s grip is like a boa constrictor, wrapping tighter and tighter with each wriggling motion. He eventually gets his right arm underneath Saxina’s chin and begins strangling him. The fight appears to be won, and looking over at the shamans, there is relief on Huaqila’s face as he is about to approach and declare the victor. I’m relieved, too, seeing as Qiapu will need both men in the wars to come, and we will need both alive and healthy.
Huaqila stops advancing and stands still on the walkway leading to the platform, which draws my attention back to the combatants. Saxina has managed to flip onto all fours and has Qumuna on his back, still in a chokehold. Saxina slides Qumuna onto his side, but the general retains his grip, wrapping one arm around Saxina’s right arm while using his other goes around the head, locking both arms together in a knot of limbs. Saxina uses his legs to lift his backend up and gets Qumuna to loosen his grip just enough to escape, and Saxina returns to his feet. Those in attendance let out a tremendous yell in approval, knowing the fight will go on with the two fairly even-matched competitors. I, on the other hand, let out a dispirited sigh.
Qumuna shoots at Saxina, striking while his opponent regains his breath, but Saxina takes the impact to his ribs and brushes him off. His eyes scan the platform and spots the cudgel, resting on the opposite side. Ever the savvy warrior, Qumuna catches the look in Saxina’s eyes and realizes what his plan will be, so he positions himself between Saxina and the weapon. Saxina feigns to his left and Qumuna bites, shuffling to his right and lunging for another takedown, throwing his arms around Saxina’s legs. Saxina is able to twist out of the initial attempt, but Qumuna transitions into a single leg grab and flings the warrior to the ground like a rag doll. Remembering what happened to him moments earlier, Saxina hurriedly uses both legs and springs Qumuna off of him before another barrage of blows comes for his head. The general stumbles backwards, then urgently picks himself up.
This was all part of Saxina’s plan, in the end. With the general no longer between him and the cudgel, Saxina rolls off his back and onto all fours, propelling himself toward the cudgel and beating Qumuna to the weapon. Except the weapon wasn’t the end goal of his plan. In a reversal from before, Saxina uses Qumuna’s momentum toward the cudgel—a tremendous error on the general’s part, with the inability to pick up on the trap—and, while planting his feet in a wide stance, gets Qumuna to run into his left shoulder. Saxina grabs Qumuna with both arms and tosses him like lumber, sending him flying into the pit.
The crowd collectively gasps, fearing for the general’s safety. Qumuna lands with a loud thump onto the hot rocks, searing and singeing his back and feet. Eyes wide in shock, Qumuna immediately thrusts himself to his feet, yelling in anguish. The audience shouts for mercy and pleads for Saxina to help the well-respected general. I can’t be certain if Saxina doesn’t make out what the crowd is hollering or if he is being willfully ignorant, but he plays up to the spectators and starts celebrating with triumphant yells. The crowd gets more restless, their pleas growing louder. Saxina cups his ear as if he awaits Qumuna’s cry to signal that he yields, then looks down to see a set of fingers gripping the edge of the platform. Saxina lets out a bellow of a laugh and casually strolls over to the lip of the makeshift stage. He lifts his right leg up and slams it to the ground, stomping fiercely onto Qumuna’s fingers.
By now, I’ve had enough. I sprint toward the platform, racing up the walkway, and shove a gloating Saxina aside, toppling him over and away from the ledge.
“He hasn’t yielded!” Saxina roars in fiery protest. “You’re stealing my victory! This is an outrage!”
“The outrage is your actions,” I yell, lowering myself to grip the general’s forearm and lift him to safety, pulling with all my might. Qumuna’s weight is heavy, and with a quick glance, I see he doesn’t have much energy left to help me. From the corner of my eye, I spot Saxina, picking himself up off the ground and marching toward me. There’s a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before, one of a man possessed by an evil determination to destroy everything. Even on the battlefield, I never saw him look as intense, and a panic floods my nerves with an urgency to rescue Qumuna.
Aqxilapu’s mercy finally descends upon the basin. Huaqila grabs Saxina by his shoulders and spins him around, stopping him from advancing to my position. Worried what Saxina will do to the old man—even if he’s an honored shaman—I heave Qumuna onto the platform and we both tumble to the ground. Qumuna is exhausted, collapsing on the dirt and rock and swallows large mouthfuls of breath into his lungs.
I leap to my feet and turn to face Saxina, ready to defend myself and Qumuna. Instead, I hear an overwhelming cheer and watch as Saxina’s arms are raised, basking in his victory. I’m left with no words, astonished at not only the bloodthirsty adoration from the fickle people of Qiapu, but the actions of a man I thought I knew. Someone with whom I shared so much of myself during the rare quiet moments between battles. He would break up arguments with his candor and light-heartedness, and only fight when it was necessary, against enemies seeking to end our existence. Now I’m not sure what to believe, whether that was all a ruse or some coping mechanism for the stakes we were facing.
After the spectacle, the remaining challengers immediately yield, having seen enough. They lay their weapons down and briskly walk to the audience, seeping into the crowd and blending in with them. Huaqila proudly proclaims Saxina is the Tempered, and the Qiapu people chant their acceptance of him as the new leader, seemingly paying no regard to Qumuna’s condition—how quickly we move on, I think. Saxina fiercely beats his chest as if to taunt anyone who would dare consider contending his claim to rule. In the morning, he will gain the turquoise, obsidian, and jade piercings of the Tempered during the coronation. For me, however, it has already been decided: I refuse to bear witness.
The sun prepares for its slumber behind the mountains in Qiapu, casting its glow across the rugged land. Yesterday, such golden hues were comforting and rejuvenating, but now they make me anxious about the event taking place once the colors fade and night falls in Pichaqta. There was such promise to the day, but now I dread what more could come amidst the embers of this day, hoping for the best, but bracing for the worst.
Pichaqta has been tense all day after the assassination of our Tempered—my brother—the day prior. The citizens shuffle their feet as they move about and hardly look at one another in the eyes, heads hung low in despair. The entire rhythm of the day to day activities is nonexistent, and everyone waits with abated breath for who the fires will choose as our new leader.
As the legend goes, the founder of the Qiapu, Aqxilapu, was upset that his brothers and sisters had kingdoms and he had none. After Pachil was created, each sibling selected a region to claim as their own. They were full of lush jungles, bountiful oceans, abundant grasslands, and dynamic ecosystems for a wealth of plant and animal species. Though jealous that he didn’t have any land for himself, Aqxilapu wasn’t dismayed and decided to create his own kingdom. He reached into the oceans and grabbed two pieces of land with his bare hands, then violently smashed them together, creating a wall of mountains to keep his siblings out of the newly-formed region. The impact was so forceful that a thunderous quake shook the land and caused various rifts that led to the forming of rivers and valleys in all of his siblings’ kingdoms.
Aqxilapu was proud of his accomplishment, but it wasn’t without its own fault. The reason his brothers and sisters avoided this part of Pachil is due to a fiery chasm that was contained by the rich minerals and rock formations. Disrupting this caused a huge fissure to split through his newly formed region, erupting and spewing ash and lava all over his creation.
Once again, Aqxilapu wasn’t troubled by this development, and determined he could funnel the lava flow, creating a volcano that he would call Xutuina. Eventually, he snuffed out the volcano, leaving mineral-rich soil that he could cultivate for farming, and the mountains produced metals that he could use for tools and weaponry. The land, forged by fire and determination, provided everything he needed to be self-sufficient, allowing him to isolate from his siblings and create new life in Qiapu.
The tale is nice to tell to youthful generations, to encourage them to be proud of our people, instill independence, and teach the lesson to persevere when faced with a challenge. Yet, even as a child, I was never convinced of the fantastical stories of magic and gigantic gods walking among the people. There are still those as recent as my generation who believe gods live among us, such as those professing the Eleven as deities, even though I feel they were just specialized and capable warriors. Either way, the legend is what shapes the ceremony to select the Tempered, as well as our society and how we live. The Qiapu are proud of our self-reliance and our ability to bend fire to our will through expertly crafted forgery.
A never-ending line of people wearing the ceremonial white hooded robes march in step as they make their way to Xutuina. The white cloth will inevitably turn an ashen gray, which the Qiapu declare is receiving a blessing from Aqxilapu. Scattered throughout are fathers carrying their young children on their shoulders, or mothers walking with their infants in hemp slings suspended around their torso. Every dozen or so people, someone carries a torch to light the way, illuminating a small area of the rugged terrain and gangly shrubbery. The long descent to a cavern within the dormant volcano requires a bit of physical exertion, but given the daily activities of the people who work in mines or forgeries, the trek is not as exhausting as it would be to the gilded people momentarily in power in Qapauma.
Shamans from Pichaqta have been preparing the area for the ceremony since it became known that we will urgently seek someone to replace Limaqumtlia, the previous and murdered Tempered. Their garments are not particularly elaborate: A robe made of cloth from hemp and not adorned with anything more than a rope at the waist to keep the clothing bound together. Each one wears a mask made from the skull of a puma, said to be Aqxilapu’s beloved animal—he kept one as a traveling companion, or so the legend says. The masks are the only distinguishing item for each individual, as each one has customized them with carvings and paint to represent where in Qiapu the shaman is from.
Approaching the ceremonial grounds, the path opens up to the vast, inactive volcano. The air during the walk was cool and crisp, but now the heat feels sweltering and suffocating. In the middle of the basin are large boulders the length of only a man or two, scattered throughout at various distances from one another, and only thin, stone walkways extend from the perimeter to the rocky platforms. They rest amidst a sea of black lava rock, with thick clouds of steam rising from the nearby fumaroles in the wide open area. Occasionally, cracks in the dark rock allow a faint glow of lava to peek out, adding to the encompassing heat. The arena is off to the side, and has been decorated with fine works of stone—the only items that could withstand the temperatures in the basin for a prolonged period. The surrounding terrain creates multiple tiered terraces from which people can look down and watch the ritual from a much more pleasant, and safe, distance. Given my familial proximity to the fallen Tempered, I am seated somewhere between the mass of people and the area for conducting the ceremony, getting a clear view of the arena floor.
One of the shaman motions to acknowledge all who have gathered. He wears the most elaborate mask, painted in a golden yellow along with ashen black shapes on the cheeks and forehead. If memory serves, the man should be Huaqila, the lead shaman from Pichaqta. He has served our people for dozens of seasons, even during the tumultuous times of Timuaq rule, when our rituals were banned from being conducted. Admittedly, I find many of them to be archaic and crude, and wouldn’t have minded if they had not returned. Once the Timuaq were conquered and vanquished, however, there was an eagerness to return to old traditions and practices.
Huaqila raises both arms to the skies and speaks with surprising vigor, addressing the spectators. Seeing the gesture, the crowd comes to a nearly abrupt silence and attentively awaits what he has to say.
“People of Qiapu,” he begins, “we have gathered tonight due to unfortunate circumstances. Limaqumtlia was a brave and valiant leader, however his flame was tragically extinguished too soon, and his vision of leading us back to the prosperity we enjoyed before the titans enslaved us could not be realized in its totality. We are forever grateful for what he has done, and we pray that he is worthy of residing by Aqxilapu’s throne.”
There’s a particular embellishment to his statement in an effort to meet the moment. He pauses for effect, letting the last part of his words hang in the stuffy and stifling air. The crowd responds in kind, bowing their heads in appreciation and respect, then nodding in acceptance.
On a clearing of volcanic rock rests a funeral pyre, decorated in numerous bright feathers of yellow, red, and blue, laying about half the height of a man. On it lies Limaqumtlia, adorned in gold and silver jewelry embedded with all varieties of precious stones found in Qiapu. His face is peaceful, eyes closed as if he will awaken from this nightmarish slumber any moment now. The shaman says something, but flames of contemplation engulfed my thoughts, too many memories of my brother and what could have been.
After his speech is complete, the shaman walks to the pyre with a torch and sets it alight. His expressionless mask makes this ceremonial procedure feel businesslike, no emotion given to the circumstance. The glow of the fire barely adds its illumination the inside of this chamber, reminding me of the little time Limaqumtlia had to shine his light on the world as the Tempered. I can’t force myself to watch as he is turned to ash, casting my eyes to the side and fighting back the tears.
There are a few more words spoken before the flames begin dying down, and after the shaman steps away from the pyre, he pauses before continuing with the ceremony, either for emphasis or out of respect, though I’m inclined to believe it’s more the former.
“To proceed with our march toward prosperity,” Huaqila says, “we must seize the fleeting embers of time, and allow our next selected Tempered to guide us through these volatile times. We are the Qiapu, and we know such volatility will never ruin us—it only forges us into something stronger—for we have faced unimaginable hardship and overcome triumphantly.”
He pauses to allow the people’s cheering and raucous applause in agreement. If it weren’t for our primitive rituals—and his advanced age, I suppose—I’d argue he could make a solid case for himself to be the Tempered. He at least speaks like many of the lifelong politicians I’ve seen in my time, though Huaqila is nowhere near as corrupt.
“Who deems themselves worthy to lead our people, and seek acceptance by Aqxilapu himself to be selected by his guiding hand to be the Tempered?”
Roughly a dozen men maneuver from the crowd and proceed into the basin, casting their eyes downward, their faces fixed with a seriousness and focus. The candidates are not as fortunate to experience the comfortable conditions as those above: although it hasn’t erupted in generations, this chamber that sits close to the mouth of the volcano still brings sweltering heat and a dangerously hot floor of rough lava rock for those who enter it. The hopeful successors to Limaqumtlia range in physique and age: Short and brawny, tall and wiry, weathered faces or wrinkle-free. In Qiapu, the ruler is not determined through heredity; the only requirement to become the Tempered is to survive the ceremony and be the last one remaining.
“Are you to follow in your brother’s footsteps?” I hear a familiar gravely voice ask me. Saxina’s silhouette towers over me, and I have to shield my eyes from the glow to see the slight smirk drawing from the corner of his mouth. This topic always arose among the men huddled around a campfire in the rare moments of quiet during the War of Liberation, and Saxina knows my opinion on the matter better than anyone.
“I think Aqxilapu has a higher calling for me,” I say with a bit of sarcasm. Saxina’s expression turns serious.
“You know, this would be your chance to seek revenge for his death. You could lead a whole army after the Ulxa and finish the war they seem eager to start.”
I shake my head in disbelief, and a bit in irritation. Are we unflinchingly buying into this theory of the Ulxa affronting us? Perhaps there were further discussions at the palace I’m not privy to, but this feels irrational. I decide to pry, since Saxina seems fine in antagonizing me.
“Is that what you’ve discovered?” I ask. “The council and generals have determined, without a shadow of a doubt, that the Ulxa are behind this?”
Saxina looks dismayed, and begins to respond, but closes his mouth as he considers his reply. His eyes are cast low, and after searching the ground for a way to answer me, he eventually responds.
“A Qiapu diplomat recently returned from Qapauma with news that the Ulxa are aligning with the Auilqa in an effort to disrupt the rebuild and seek power for themselves. We aren’t certain if they are attempting to split from the alliance or take over the throne for themselves.”
My face must’ve telegraphed the sheer shock and confusion I feel because Saxina quickly attempts to placate me, patting the air with both hands and leaning in closer to me.
“That news cannot be said to anyone else,” he says with urgency. “I’m only telling you this because your brother is the slain Tempered, and you are my friend. We are still investigating the matter and plan to send spies into both regions to determine if the diplomat’s rumor has any merit. Qapauma is a city full of deceit, so we have to tread lightly.”
The news leaves me speechless. If anyone embraces their independence more than the Qiapu—which, let’s be clear, is a tall order and highly unlikely—it would be the Auilqa. No one had ever met a person from Auilqa until the War of Liberation, and the joke amongst the other nations was that, after the war, they would disappear into the jungles. Not only that, but parents in Qiapu tell their children stories of how primitive and savage the neighboring Ulxa are. It’s well known the amount they both abhor being ruled by the Tapeu, but this seems like a very strange union, and one I’d meet with immediate skepticism and suspicion.
No other words are exchanged between Saxina and me, and I can’t bring myself to break the silence. We watch the men stand in a line and face Huaqila. I look around the crowds to see if any others will present themselves to the shaman and notice that Qumuna, the well-respected general, is engaged in a passionate discussion with one of the council members. There appears to be a fervid argument between the two, then a couple more council members join; they were initially spectators, but now they’ve left the area where the council observe the proceedings and add their own opinions to the matter. The general’s brow is furrowed deeply, looking as though he is ready to strike any of the men surrounding him. After a few more words by a councilman pleading with hands clasped in front of him, Qumuna considers their case, shakes his head, then proceeds to march toward Huaqila.
“Is this all who gathers to seek Aqxilapu’s blessing to become the Tempered?” asks the shaman. The candidates search the spectators for any more movement, but no one else steps forward. A long pause follows, and just as Huaqila raises his hands to continue the ritual, someone from the group of councilman stands apart from the rest and shouts with a raised arm, “I nominate Saxina!”
Everyone, from the candidates to the shaman to Saxina himself, looks stunned. It’s not common for someone to propose a candidate, since challengers generally nominate themselves. Also, although Saxina was a courageous warrior during the War of Liberation, it’s difficult to conceptualize him as a leader—not just a leader of a band of men on the battlefield, but all of Qiapu. Perhaps my bias is still strong from my history with him, and considering this, I try to shake the idea that it’s inconceivable for him to be the Tempered. I don’t know the person vouching for Saxina personally, except that he’s a relatively new and young member of the council. Who his family is and where in Qiapu remain a mystery to me, however. A few councilmen protest, particularly the members who adamantly pressed Qumuna, but the nominating member steps out and begins making his case to all within Xutuina.
“Saxina has served loyally to the Qiapu, devoted his life to protecting our people, and has led the effort for rebuilding Pichaqta. He can still do all of these tasks and more, also more effectively, from the throne, with a vision that aligns with our people’s mission of returning to past glory. While we have some excellent candidates presented to us, people such as Qumuna would be far more valuable should we need them on the battlefield with the possibility of war.”
The villagers are taken aback by the statement and concept of war, muttering among themselves. Meanwhile, there are nods in agreement as the councilmen and shamans think this over, and the protests soon die down. I turn to face Saxina and gauge his reaction to being nominated. Before I have a chance to ask, Saxina, appearing reluctant, takes a big sigh, nods his head, and accepts what fate will bring to him tonight when called upon by Huaqila. The way this entire event plays out confuses me when I take into account the number of small matters I’ve witnessed these councilmen squabble over, yet their almost immediate response to the nominating councilman’s explanation is complete acceptance after barely a moment of debate and deliberation. Shortly after, Huaqila sums up what I assume is their line of reasoning.
“So be it. The flames will decide if he is, in fact, worthy.”
The challengers gather their weapon of choice for the ritual: A stout bow staff or a cudgel and shield made of treated wood. Two men are paired at random and walk up the stone walkway onto opposite ends of the platform. Their goal is to force their opponent to yield, whether that’s by beating them unconscious, putting their opponent into submission, or other means, and the rules to do so are slim to none. If they are knocked off the platform, they drop nearly a man’s height into a pit of unbearably hot lava rock. The opponent is required to aid them and pull them back onto the platform, but only if the victim yields; otherwise, they have no obligation to assist. Other than the rulings involving the pit, everything else is fair game, with the idea that if you were truly worthy, Aqxilapu would show his favor for you through his protection.
Many fall quickly in the early stages of the contest. Most are nearly beaten to death in gruesome displays of gratuitousness, spared only at the mercy of the onlooking shaman. A few combatants meet unfortunate fates, falling off the platform into the pit, but losing consciousness after their screams in anguish from the hot rocks fall upon to deaf ears. Much of the spectacle is unwatchable, even for me, yet there are loud shouts and cheers from the entertained masses. It’s one of the few times I can recall feeling ashamed of our people.
Qumuna and Saxina fare well up to this point, progressing far to be two of just eight remaining nominees. Qumuna spares many of his opponents, choosing to forego a weapon and wrestle them into submission. Saxina, on the other hand, shows the same aggression displayed on the battlefield during the war. There’s a biting ruthlessness to his tactics that at one time was only unleashed upon the minions of the Timuaq, but formalities have been cast aside for tonight. He is taking in and embodying the seriousness and spirit of the ceremony, and he is certainly relishing this moment for someone who was initially reluctant to accept his nomination.
As Aqxilapu would have it, Qumuna and Saxina are drawn as the next pairing, and the crowd is euphoric in anticipation of the match. Glancing at the other six nominees, there is a visible expression of relief, knowing that after this duel, half of the toughest competitors will be eliminated.
Qumuna nods in acceptance of the challenge before him. He flexes and stretches, twists his torso and limbers up. Once again, he opts to go without a staff, waving a dismissive hand at a young shaman apprentice offering up the wooden weapon. During Qumuna’s warm up, Saxina is playing to the audience, raising his arms and shouting for encouragement to rile up those in attendance while walking a portion of the basin’s perimeter. When he finally tires of this, which goes on longer than his matches, he struts over to his weapons, picks them up and bangs the cudgel on the shield like a drum, exciting the crowd. It reminds me of the old Saxina I knew from the war, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t amused by his showmanship.
After the two are announced, I see Qumuna speaking to Saxina, but I can’t make out any of what they discuss. Saxina looks annoyed and makes a contemptuous gesture, then gets into a crouching stance, shield held in front with the cudgel lowered to his side. Qumuna takes a deep breath, then hunches into a grappling position, both arms extended forward with fingers splayed out. It seems like a risky endeavor to leave oneself exposed to the wooden instrument, but Qumuna looks poised and unfazed. After seeing his results, I’d say the tactic has worked well for him. However, this feels as though one of these two men will needlessly suffer an ill fate when both are valuable to what they provide the Qiapu.
To everyone’s surprise, Qumuna strikes swiftly, ducking underneath an overly ambitious horizontal swipe from the cudgel and kicking Saxina’s left leg out from under him. Saxina stumbles backward, but regains his footing in time to deflect Qumuna’s grappling attempt by suppressing him with the shield. He lands a few blows with the club and bludgeons an exposed Qumuna multiple times in his back. The general rolls out of the way and resets his position, putting Saxina in front of him.
A wolfish grin slides across Saxina’s face, and the warrior lunges at Qumuna with a flurry of blows. During his retreat, Qumuna’s heel slides off the lip of the platform, and he momentarily loses his balance, but eventually regains his balance and manages to get enough space between him and the relentless Saxina. He has to stay in continuous motion to avoid direct contact with the cudgel, walking dangerously close to the edge and giving Saxina a wide berth. Sensing his overconfidence, Qumuna uses Saxina’s momentum during an ill-timed swing, grabs the right arm, and flips him over onto his back. The impact knocks the cudgel out of his right hand and tumbles to the side, nearly falling off the platform.
In two long strides, Qumuna quickly pounces on top of Saxina and begins punching away at his head and torso before the shield can be raised for protection. Saxina desperately tries using his legs to fling Qumuna off of him and create some space to slip out, but the general is persistent, his right arm brushes Saxina’s legs aside while swinging multiple hooks with his left. Loud cheers erupt while Qumuna strikes blow after blow. Saxina does well enough to eventually get his shield up to protect part of his face, but Qumuna is undeterred, spinning Saxina into a position where he can land knees into the rib cage while swooping punches beneath the wooden shield like a predator clawing into a burrow to reach for its prey.
Frustrated by the shield's feeble strikes that fail to make an impact on Qumuna, Saxina abandons the futile weapon, casting it aside in a burst of determination. Saxina twists and turns, flinging his body to escape, but Qumuna’s grip is like a boa constrictor, wrapping tighter and tighter with each wriggling motion. He eventually gets his right arm underneath Saxina’s chin and begins strangling him. The fight appears to be won, and looking over at the shamans, there is relief on Huaqila’s face as he is about to approach and declare the victor. I’m relieved, too, seeing as Qiapu will need both men in the wars to come, and we will need both alive and healthy.
Huaqila stops advancing and stands still on the walkway leading to the platform, which draws my attention back to the combatants. Saxina has managed to flip onto all fours and has Qumuna on his back, still in a chokehold. Saxina slides Qumuna onto his side, but the general retains his grip, wrapping one arm around Saxina’s right arm while using his other goes around the head, locking both arms together in a knot of limbs. Saxina uses his legs to lift his backend up and gets Qumuna to loosen his grip just enough to escape, and Saxina returns to his feet. Those in attendance let out a tremendous yell in approval, knowing the fight will go on with the two fairly even-matched competitors. I, on the other hand, let out a dispirited sigh.
Qumuna shoots at Saxina, striking while his opponent regains his breath, but Saxina takes the impact to his ribs and brushes him off. His eyes scan the platform and spots the cudgel, resting on the opposite side. Ever the savvy warrior, Qumuna catches the look in Saxina’s eyes and realizes what his plan will be, so he positions himself between Saxina and the weapon. Saxina feigns to his left and Qumuna bites, shuffling to his right and lunging for another takedown, throwing his arms around Saxina’s legs. Saxina is able to twist out of the initial attempt, but Qumuna transitions into a single leg grab and flings the warrior to the ground like a rag doll. Remembering what happened to him moments earlier, Saxina hurriedly uses both legs and springs Qumuna off of him before another barrage of blows comes for his head. The general stumbles backwards, then urgently picks himself up.
This was all part of Saxina’s plan, in the end. With the general no longer between him and the cudgel, Saxina rolls off his back and onto all fours, propelling himself toward the cudgel and beating Qumuna to the weapon. Except the weapon wasn’t the end goal of his plan. In a reversal from before, Saxina uses Qumuna’s momentum toward the cudgel—a tremendous error on the general’s part, with the inability to pick up on the trap—and, while planting his feet in a wide stance, gets Qumuna to run into his left shoulder. Saxina grabs Qumuna with both arms and tosses him like lumber, sending him flying into the pit.
The crowd collectively gasps, fearing for the general’s safety. Qumuna lands with a loud thump onto the hot rocks, searing and singeing his back and feet. Eyes wide in shock, Qumuna immediately thrusts himself to his feet, yelling in anguish. The audience shouts for mercy and pleads for Saxina to help the well-respected general. I can’t be certain if Saxina doesn’t make out what the crowd is hollering or if he is being willfully ignorant, but he plays up to the spectators and starts celebrating with triumphant yells. The crowd gets more restless, their pleas growing louder. Saxina cups his ear as if he awaits Qumuna’s cry to signal that he yields, then looks down to see a set of fingers gripping the edge of the platform. Saxina lets out a bellow of a laugh and casually strolls over to the lip of the makeshift stage. He lifts his right leg up and slams it to the ground, stomping fiercely onto Qumuna’s fingers.
By now, I’ve had enough. I sprint toward the platform, racing up the walkway, and shove a gloating Saxina aside, toppling him over and away from the ledge.
“He hasn’t yielded!” Saxina roars in fiery protest. “You’re stealing my victory! This is an outrage!”
“The outrage is your actions,” I yell, lowering myself to grip the general’s forearm and lift him to safety, pulling with all my might. Qumuna’s weight is heavy, and with a quick glance, I see he doesn’t have much energy left to help me. From the corner of my eye, I spot Saxina, picking himself up off the ground and marching toward me. There’s a look in his eyes I’ve never seen before, one of a man possessed by an evil determination to destroy everything. Even on the battlefield, I never saw him look as intense, and a panic floods my nerves with an urgency to rescue Qumuna.
Aqxilapu’s mercy finally descends upon the basin. Huaqila grabs Saxina by his shoulders and spins him around, stopping him from advancing to my position. Worried what Saxina will do to the old man—even if he’s an honored shaman—I heave Qumuna onto the platform and we both tumble to the ground. Qumuna is exhausted, collapsing on the dirt and rock and swallows large mouthfuls of breath into his lungs.
I leap to my feet and turn to face Saxina, ready to defend myself and Qumuna. Instead, I hear an overwhelming cheer and watch as Saxina’s arms are raised, basking in his victory. I’m left with no words, astonished at not only the bloodthirsty adoration from the fickle people of Qiapu, but the actions of a man I thought I knew. Someone with whom I shared so much of myself during the rare quiet moments between battles. He would break up arguments with his candor and light-heartedness, and only fight when it was necessary, against enemies seeking to end our existence. Now I’m not sure what to believe, whether that was all a ruse or some coping mechanism for the stakes we were facing.
After the spectacle, the remaining challengers immediately yield, having seen enough. They lay their weapons down and briskly walk to the audience, seeping into the crowd and blending in with them. Huaqila proudly proclaims Saxina is the Tempered, and the Qiapu people chant their acceptance of him as the new leader, seemingly paying no regard to Qumuna’s condition—how quickly we move on, I think. Saxina fiercely beats his chest as if to taunt anyone who would dare consider contending his claim to rule. In the morning, he will gain the turquoise, obsidian, and jade piercings of the Tempered during the coronation. For me, however, it has already been decided: I refuse to bear witness.
