From the window where I stand, I watch the sunrise paint the Forgery of Pachil, nestled in the heart of the mountains, in magnificent hues of red and gold. The monstrosity of the palace that lords over Pichaqta is tranquil like the nearby summits. Being alone in the room is the only solitary moment I can cherish before the inevitable intense deliberations will begin down the road from the inn. Already at this time of day, the Qiapu people have begun their work, crafting tools and weapons and mining the resources that power the kingdoms of this continent. Our people are resilient and hard-working, recovering from the ruling Timuaq that wore us into the ground for their own selfish purposes. We are going to have to exert ourselves once more for a ruler not from our land, this “Arbiter”, in the name of keeping the peace and freedom in our newly formed sovereignty.
Catching myself washing the same spot on the table while deep in anxious thought, I stop and look out the window closest to the north of the room. Through the large opened gates of the palace rushes a flood of white and red tunics as the group leave the grounds. They are nobles and leaders, adorned in gold and silver bracelets and necklaces embedded with jade and onyx, precious gems and minerals mined from our own mountains. Our generals wear obsidian and have multiple piercings and geometric tattoos to signify their status and victory in battle. They all exit the courtyard and walk away from the gray stone building that houses the inner workings of our government while the guards around the perimeter remain as still as statues, their focus fixed forward and not reacting to the presence of the councilmen. The sentry have simple cloth tunics and only a single piercing or two, with the only elaborate part of their outfits being the bronze helmets worn by those ordered to protect the councilmen.
Gradual footsteps and light-hearted conversation of the gathering townspeople flare up as the rarely seen officials emerge through the main gate of the compound. The villagers pause their routines to catch a glimpse of the atypical spectacle while lining on either side of the road. Eventually, they begin clustering just in front of the large opening of the inn, and despite my best efforts to bob and weave my head, I can hardly make out what takes place outside through the sea of tan and unadorned leather outfits. I grab a nearby bench and trust it to support my weight as I drag it toward the front of the inn and place a foot on the seat, ready to hoist myself up.
“Does this mean you’ve finished cleaning for the day?” I hear a throaty voice say behind me. “Since you’ve got enough time to dirty up a bench and skirt your duties, after all.”
I sigh and, with slumped shoulders, lower myself back to the ground, turning to see Taqaiu’s round face frowning at me, hands firmly fixed on his bulging hips. He is squat and stout, standing no higher than to my chin if he rose to his toes. Though his scalp has become depleted of hair, I imagine it all became transplanted to his bushy eyebrows, furry knuckles, and back as he has aged.
“Just trying to see what the commotion is about, Taqaiu,” I respond in a way that sounds like attempting a concession. “The nobles have exited the palace grounds, for once, and it appears there will be some sort of important gathering. They must have finally come to an important decision. Perhaps this will indicate what our business will look like over the next few days.” Taqaiu rolls his eyes, and his mouth releases a quick humph as he shakes his head, his double chin fluttering about.
“We’ll find out soon enough, Paxilche,” he says. “For now, we clean up and make this place presentable for whomever walks through that entrance. I don’t pay you to stand around and gawk.”
“You don’t really pay me much of anything, to be fair,” I retort. I smirk a little in an effort to show that I’m (sort of) joking, but Taqaiu doesn’t find much humor in my remark—although, Taqaiu generally doesn’t find much humor in anything.
“Get off my bench and get back to cleaning,” he barks. He returns to the wooden service platform and resumes polishing the metallic carafes resting upon them, filled with various wines and spirits from our Qiapu region. The vineyards are a relatively recent addition to our lands, since the Qiapu people have always been forgers and mineworkers. However, the Timuaq knew how diligent we are and saw the land’s potential, so we were introduced to the capabilities of winemaking. Despite not having origins with our people’s history, the Qiapu have maintained the practice even after the Timuaq defeat. I suppose the idea of being able to produce our own intoxicating libations persevered, and the Qiapu are certainly proud at being the best at yet another craft.
Sporadic cheers and shouts pierce the growing noise and commotion outside. Unable to resist, I set the rag down on the nearest table, walk to the inn’s entryway, and, using my hands to pry an opening between two villagers, peek to see the display for myself. Parading down the street and approaching the flock of nobles standing just outside the palace is the Tempered, Limaqumtlia, decorated in lavish chains of gold and platinum, and both ears lined with multiple piercings. He’s tall and burly in stature, proudly and regally gliding down the road as if levitating above the ground. Flanked to either side of him by a duo of guards, he holds his chin up while his head barely bobs up and down from his footsteps. I try to will his attention to me and connect eyes as he inspects the surroundings, but he breezes past me while nodding to the other residents on either side of the pathway. With his neck purposely outstretched as he does so, he unintentionally displays the scars of burnt skin around his collarbone. What I know of him is that this posture isn’t out of arrogance, but confidence. The flames chose him to be our leader, and he has led our people out of the darkest period to be where we are now, rebuilding the continent amidst such tumultuous times.
From my vantage point, I observe one of the guards out of position, moving a little too close to the gathered crowd and just behind the Tempered with shifting, nervous eyes. The other guards against the palace walls remain still, acting as though nothing unusual is taking place while the group of councilmen bow their heads in acknowledgement of the Tempered’s arrival. Reflecting on the missed connection, my head subtly sinks at the slight disappointment, but I force a smile and shake the feeling away, turning my thoughts onto all that has happened with the Tempered and his proud accomplishments for the Qiapu in such a short amount of time.
All present are witnesses to what happens next. Gasps and yells erupt, shaking me out of my daydream, and we watch our slain leader fall forward to his knees. The guard who drew my earlier suspicions is being apprehended by two of the generals while the Tempered is on the ground, fighting for breath as blood shoots from his neck. I force my way through the crowd, shoving bodies aside as I attempt to rush to the side of the Tempered. Before I can get within steps of our slain leader, two nearby guards use their halberds to halt my progress. I drive my feet into the dirt and keep moving my legs, the adrenaline forcing both guards to slide back on their heels for a moment before they regain their footing and shove me onto my back. They shout something at me, but my hearing is stifled by the throbbing of my rapid heartbeat. A darkness creeps into the edges of my blurred vision, and while I attempt to hoist myself up, I hear a gruff, gravely voice bark an incoherent command. Whatever was said has caused the guards to look at each other for a moment, then help me to my feet.
Without sparing another moment, I sprint toward the Tempered. Red has covered most of his adornments and tunic, and he’s laying on his back with his arms extended as if he’s reaching to the heavens for mercy. His eyes are wide with shock and I feebly attempt to calm him while pressing on his neck in a futile effort to stop the bleeding. It is no use: There is too much blood to contain, and I feel helpless as I watch the life drain out of him.
I hear a commotion beside me as the assassin is able to throw off one general, reach for their sword, and slash at him, piercing a large hole through his tunic. In one fluid motion, the assailant spins around, anticipating an attempted strike from a nearby guard and dodges it, then strikes low into the stomach before the guard’s halberd can reach him. One of the men in the group stabs the assassin deep into his side with an obsidian blade while two others apprehend the attacker, preventing him from doing any more carnage.
The traitor drops to his knees and reaches for his wound, which gives the guards an opportunity to grab his arms and constrain him, allowing the mayhem to subside. I look up and recognize a familiar person standing over the nearby assailant, crimson dripping off the obsidian dagger held in his right hand. His face is boxy with a rugged jaw and many wrinkles and scars across both cheeks. Despite the tough exterior, it is a disarmingly welcoming sight. Our eyes meet and he manages to remark while taking sharp, deep breaths.
“This isn’t how I had hoped our reunion would go,” he says to me. My eyes follow his as he looks down upon the body of our leader, who has stopped breathing by this point. I remove my useless hands from the Tempered’s neck and close his eyes, his eyelids and upper cheeks streaked with his blood. Everyone is gathered around me as he lay across my lap, and guards stand around rudderless until one of the generals commands four of them to carry the leader to a safe location inside, then orders another to fetch our shaman. My friend extends his hand with a consoling look as he helps me up. I’m still astonished by what has happened, but manage to gather enough wits to accept his offer and grab his forearm, looking back to watch Limaqumtlia being carried away by our warriors.
“It most certainly is an unfortunate set of circumstances, Saxina,” I tell him, the words leaving my lips on their own volition as my body slouches in defeat. It’s been many lunar cycles since I’ve seen my friend from the war academy, and I’m relieved that he’s here, despite the tragic situation. We were two of only a small number from Qiapu to attend, and a friendly rivalry stemmed from this, but we always had respect for each other. During the War of Liberation, we talked of plans to reunite back home in Pichaqta when it was all over, and every day we were alive, we vowed to drink until we couldn’t stand. As with anything, however, some were summoned to heed a higher calling: Saxina has been coordinating the rebuilding efforts , traveling frequently between here and the land’s capital of Qapauma, much to my dismay. Even more disappointing is where we find ourselves now.
Our top general, Qumuna, abruptly turns to the attacker and, after striking him with a right-handed cross to his jaw, grabs the assailant by the collar of the tunic. The palace guards continue to stave off the rabid crowds to allow the general to interrogate the assailant. Though I, too, wish nothing but harm to come to this man, I’m surprised to see this done publicly. The perpetrator looks young, almost childlike, with a soft, round face and short nose. He looks half asleep with his drooping eyes, and he might not survive much longer after seeing the tremendous loss of blood from the untreated stab wound.
“Who ordered the assassination?” Qumuna shouts inches away from the murderer’s face. “How did you infiltrate our palace grounds? Who do you work for?” The kid doesn’t respond, head flopping as the general shakes him in an effort to keep him alive and awake. He glares and yells his series of questions a couple more times, but there is never an answer. After the third or fourth attempt, the kid replies with a mere smile, like recalling a funny memory. His eyes are cast to the ground the entire time, and eventually he slouches and falls completely limp. Qumuna attempts to revive him with more shaking and yelling, but Saxina turns from me and rests a hand on his shoulder, causing the general to stop what he is doing and release the youth, discarding him like a meatless bone onto the ground.
The group of men look at one another with baffled expressions, some of anger, some of confusion. Finally realizing where they are, a few of the generals shout orders to the guards and secure the area from anyone not associated with the group as the nobles are ushered to safety back within the palace walls. There is a sense of panic and outrage permeating every discussion as everyone tries to figure out what to do next.
I watch Saxina crouch beside the child assailant and investigate his tunic. Searching with his hands, he moves the cloth and feels around for something, anything. After a few moments, he stops in surprise, quickly turning to the group.
“It’s the Eye in the Flame,” Saxina says, revealing the left pectoral of the assassin. “He is marked with the symbol.”
Looking at the mark on the chest, I can see the appearance of a simple, twisting flame, and inside it at the rounded base is the shape of an eye, branded into him by a prod. His garments are all standard issue for the guards of Pichaqta, and he doesn’t have any other markings on him, nor does he appear to carry any other identifying items. Realizing the severity of this revelation, urgency washes over Saxina’s face and he demands the deceased assailant be brought into the palace grounds, not just for further inspection, but to mitigate how much information leaks to the villagers.
“I regret that I have to hurry away, Paxilche,” Saxina turns to say to me. “I hope we can reconvene soon.” His mouth is agape as if he wants to say more, but he blinks a few times and abruptly darts toward the palace. With a few sweeping motions of his hand in the direction of the grounds, the guards pick up his signal and accompany him on his walk to the building.
I’m left on my knees, stupefied. All that’s taken place hasn’t hit me, and I remain in a daze, looking down at my now-blood-soaked garments. As I stare at the smattering of red painting my palms, the only thing that snaps me out of my stupor are the shouts of infighting among the agitated crowd.
“That was the mark of the Ulxa,” a man in the group exclaims, surprise in his tone. “Did you not see? He was sent by the cult infesting that land!”
“We never should have allowed them to fight alongside us!” exclaims another.
“What do they want to achieve by assassinating our leader?” questions a different person.
“We must gather our forces and march to Ulxa,” another remarks. “They cannot get away with this treachery!”
The restless group begins murmuring and occasionally yells remarks at one another until an elderly gentleman raises his voice. During the entirety of the argument, he had been deep in thought, quietly contemplating what this all means.
“Already with this? Before the blood has dried?” he says. “Should we not perhaps think rationally about this before jumping to conclusions? A lot of questions remain to be answered.”
“Our union has only just begun and there is already such deceit and breach of trust!” a shrill anonymous voice remarks.
“The elder is right,” booms Qumuna. A grizzled veteran of many battles, he towers over most of the people gathered, both from his natural, tall stature as well as successfully commanding warriors throughout his long military experience. His muscular build and broad shoulders finally come into my focus, nearly entirely black from the tattoos, and I identify the numerous gold and obsidian piercings along his ears and bottom lip. Perhaps because of the condition I was in, I hadn’t initially noticed him standing with the guards, looming with the furrowed brow of concern he regularly wears on his face while monitoring the crowd. “We mustn’t be rash and reactionary. That is how you fall into traps and ambushes.”
“Sun and sky! You saw that the assassin bears the mark of the Eye in the Flame. Ulxa has just declared war!” The squawking man begins riling up others amongst the crowd, and soon there are mutterings throughout those gathered.
“Would that be what the Tempered would want us to do?” Qumuna rhetorically asks the gathered masses with sternness. “Immediately plunge into a war without gathering all the facts and considering the consequences of what such actions will do to our people?” The crowd utters in contemplation of his statement, though there are still a few eager to shed blood for what just occurred.
“We have multiple matters to discuss before we can even speak of retaliation,” Qumuna says. “We need to find out how the assassin infiltrated the ranks of our guards and had such easy access, our leader has been killed and we will need to conduct the ceremony to appoint a new one. I will not allow the citizens of Qiapu behave like animals and react feverishly—that is not who we are.”
There is grumbling among the crowd at the parental scolding they received. However, looking about the faces of the young and old, men and women, rich and poor, there was a general acceptance of his words. A few more speak out in defiance, and I leave the petty squabbling among the crowd to return to the inn, dispersing with the majority of the people. Though I never served under him, I always held Qumuna in high regard, for all he accomplished on the battlefield. I didn’t expect to see him abate a mob so diplomatically and like a politician, although perhaps I should know better.
Returning to the inn, Taqaiu is nowhere in sight. A few unattended patrons help themselves to the unguarded carafes of wine and chicha, and though I hoped to have left it behind me, many of them are engaged in heated debates about the future of Qiapu. They espouse conspiracies as to why everything took place as it did, embellished further and more elaborately thanks to the alcohol. If this has been going on the entire time, I can’t blame Taqaiu for walking away from it. Still, a job is in need of being done, so I attempt to throw myself into the work to help me get past my feelings. But every table is discussing the assassination and who the new Tempered will be, which becomes too much to bear, and ultimately I make my way outside and stand in front like I’m a support for the wall.
There’s an apprehension and trepidation to the way people carry on with their business, unsure how to conduct themselves with the news of the passing of the Tempered. Myself, I find it extremely difficult to even comprehend working at a time like this. I spend the better part of the day ignoring my duties at the inn and, instead, studying the movements and actions of the people: Either consoling one another, weeping resoundingly, or shouting angrily in frustration from where we all find ourselves now. Amidst the drones milling about, a familiar face emerges. Marching down the street away from the palace is Saxina, striding with a red cape almost horizontally flowing behind him. It’s difficult to gauge what his face is outwardly displaying—concern? Confidence? Contemplation? I can only imagine what he’s feeling internally.
Saxina makes his way through the dense crowd, with an occasional person bowing out of courtesy and respect for his position, and upon seeing me, he strides toward the inn. A tiny, consolatory smile barely creases the corners of his mouth, and when he reaches me, he lets out a long, tired sigh.
“Paxilche, I…” he starts to say somberly, before dropping his gaze to look at our feet. After a pregnant pause, he shakes his head to regain his composure, and resumes looking me in the eyes.
“I’m really sorry about the loss of your brother, Paxilche.” He’s the first—and only—person to express their condolences to me. “I understand you two weren’t exactly close, but he’s still family, and it hurts all the same, I’m sure.”
I hadn’t spoken to Limaqumtlia since before the start of the War of Liberation, but Saxina is correct that the loss still hurts. When I had heard he became the Tempered, I was proud of him, and frankly wasn’t surprised he would emerge as the leader of our people; he’s always had a knack for taking charge and commanding people. Even as a child, he would direct and order adults around as if they were his subjects. Not to mention he was tremendously outspoken. Over time, I began thinking of him less as my brother and more as the Tempered. He seemed like a destined leader, and now he was gone, before he could see out all the plans and projects he set in motion to rebuild our corner of the continent. Before it all even started.
“I’m still processing everything, I think,” I say. “I’m not really sure what I should be doing with myself.”
Saxina nods as if he understands, and from our time served together, I am confident he does. While he was always a moderately skilled warrior, where he really excelled was being a brother in arms. He defuses situations with his light-hearted personality first before resorting to anything physical, and in a manner that’s a bit foreign to the Qiapu, he’s highly empathetic. In a manner that is largely a Qiapu characteristic, however, he doesn’t physically console me.
Moments pass before either of us speaks, looking everywhere except at one another. The bustling villagers carry on without ever acknowledging our presence. The sun drifts lower, beginning its descent behind the pointed peaks of the mountains. As if conceding a lost wager, Saxina rubs the back of his neck and breaks the silence with a sigh.
“The ceremony will take place tomorrow at sunset,” Saxina says. “We are to bury the Tempered and have the flames choose a new one immediately after.”
“Was a decision made that quickly?” I ask, partially confused. “That seems a bit sudden. I would’ve assumed deliberations and planning would take some time.” Reluctantly, Saxina nods, not saying or doing much else other than that.
“Shouldn’t we allow time to mourn our loss?” I say, fighting to remain calm after learning this news. “He was responsible for our freedom and negotiating our independence, after all.”
“These are tumultuous times, I’m afraid,” Saxina says, a bit downtrodden. “If there is, in fact, an assault coming from the Ulxa, we should be prepared and have someone who can lead us through this. There was some resistance from a few council members at first, but I was successful in asserting the point that selecting a leader who can focus our needs and give our people direction gives us the best chance to persevere.”
“Wait, so you determined this course of action?” Now I can hear myself getting more worked up as the revelation sinks in. Saxina appears to notice my indignation, as well.
“Since when do you care, Paxilche?” Saxina remarks. “You had your chance to become the Tempered, or to even be a tiny part of the rebuild of the continent as a council member, and you chose to be a whipping boy to an innkeeper.” I perceive a tone of condescension in his voice, which I take offense to. Before I can state my resentment, he raises his hand, palm facing me, in an effort to pacify, and continues his thought.
“You made your choice to remove yourself from politics, so why show concern for Qiapu politics now?”
I want to erupt and yell at him that my brother was just assassinated, and now everything that happens because of that involves me. That the person killing my own blood attacks me, too. That the only family I have remaining in Pachil is now dead, and my entire world has been destroyed. That I want revenge on whomever affronted me with this senseless murder of a good man—I don’t need to speak to my brother daily to know that much. Sure, we had our disagreements, but that doesn’t mean I love him any less than–
“If it means that much to you, you’ll have your opportunity to learn more at the ceremony,” Saxina says, interrupting my train of thought. “I’ve already begun coordinating arrangements for the burial and the ceremony, and I’ve put Qumuna in charge of spearheading the directive to investigate. We will get to the bottom of this, Paxilche—you just have to give me time to sort everything out so Qiapu can get its justice.”
With that, Saxina briefly extends his hand out as if he wants to pat my shoulder, but thinks better of it, nods, and walks hastily back to the palace. The guards separate for a brief moment to allow him to pass, then abruptly rotate to follow him.
Something about his demeanor today feels different in some way that I can’t quite place my finger on. Perhaps it’s his new responsibilities in the Qapauma that have made him more focused, but to see him taking charge is new to me. During the war, Saxina was a reliable second in command, giving much-needed support to a general on the battlefield. To hear of him maneuvering around career politicians and military leaders is impressive, but unexpected. I suppose people can mature and grow into their roles when times become dire and the need for someone to lead arises.
I won’t have much time to grieve our leader—my brother—since the flames will select a new Tempered to lead Qiapu in the matter of just a single day. I can only hope the chosen one will have the same steadfastness as our previous Tempered, but as I think about the disturbing events of the day and how it happened extremely suddenly without making a lot of sense, I am overcome with a great sense of unease. All the Qiapu want is a peaceful, solitary existence, but it appears that must wait for another day.
From the window where I stand, I watch the sunrise paint the Forgery of Pachil, nestled in the heart of the mountains, in magnificent hues of red and gold. The monstrosity of the palace that lords over Pichaqta is tranquil like the nearby summits. Being alone in the room is the only solitary moment I can cherish before the inevitable intense deliberations will begin down the road from the inn. Already at this time of day, the Qiapu people have begun their work, crafting tools and weapons and mining the resources that power the kingdoms of this continent. Our people are resilient and hard-working, recovering from the ruling Timuaq that wore us into the ground for their own selfish purposes. We are going to have to exert ourselves once more for a ruler not from our land, this “Arbiter”, in the name of keeping the peace and freedom in our newly formed sovereignty.
Catching myself washing the same spot on the table while deep in anxious thought, I stop and look out the window closest to the north of the room. Through the large opened gates of the palace rushes a flood of white and red tunics as the group leave the grounds. They are nobles and leaders, adorned in gold and silver bracelets and necklaces embedded with jade and onyx, precious gems and minerals mined from our own mountains. Our generals wear obsidian and have multiple piercings and geometric tattoos to signify their status and victory in battle. They all exit the courtyard and walk away from the gray stone building that houses the inner workings of our government while the guards around the perimeter remain as still as statues, their focus fixed forward and not reacting to the presence of the councilmen. The sentry have simple cloth tunics and only a single piercing or two, with the only elaborate part of their outfits being the bronze helmets worn by those ordered to protect the councilmen.
Gradual footsteps and light-hearted conversation of the gathering townspeople flare up as the rarely seen officials emerge through the main gate of the compound. The villagers pause their routines to catch a glimpse of the atypical spectacle while lining on either side of the road. Eventually, they begin clustering just in front of the large opening of the inn, and despite my best efforts to bob and weave my head, I can hardly make out what takes place outside through the sea of tan and unadorned leather outfits. I grab a nearby bench and trust it to support my weight as I drag it toward the front of the inn and place a foot on the seat, ready to hoist myself up.
“Does this mean you’ve finished cleaning for the day?” I hear a throaty voice say behind me. “Since you’ve got enough time to dirty up a bench and skirt your duties, after all.”
I sigh and, with slumped shoulders, lower myself back to the ground, turning to see Taqaiu’s round face frowning at me, hands firmly fixed on his bulging hips. He is squat and stout, standing no higher than to my chin if he rose to his toes. Though his scalp has become depleted of hair, I imagine it all became transplanted to his bushy eyebrows, furry knuckles, and back as he has aged.
“Just trying to see what the commotion is about, Taqaiu,” I respond in a way that sounds like attempting a concession. “The nobles have exited the palace grounds, for once, and it appears there will be some sort of important gathering. They must have finally come to an important decision. Perhaps this will indicate what our business will look like over the next few days.” Taqaiu rolls his eyes, and his mouth releases a quick humph as he shakes his head, his double chin fluttering about.
“We’ll find out soon enough, Paxilche,” he says. “For now, we clean up and make this place presentable for whomever walks through that entrance. I don’t pay you to stand around and gawk.”
“You don’t really pay me much of anything, to be fair,” I retort. I smirk a little in an effort to show that I’m (sort of) joking, but Taqaiu doesn’t find much humor in my remark—although, Taqaiu generally doesn’t find much humor in anything.
“Get off my bench and get back to cleaning,” he barks. He returns to the wooden service platform and resumes polishing the metallic carafes resting upon them, filled with various wines and spirits from our Qiapu region. The vineyards are a relatively recent addition to our lands, since the Qiapu people have always been forgers and mineworkers. However, the Timuaq knew how diligent we are and saw the land’s potential, so we were introduced to the capabilities of winemaking. Despite not having origins with our people’s history, the Qiapu have maintained the practice even after the Timuaq defeat. I suppose the idea of being able to produce our own intoxicating libations persevered, and the Qiapu are certainly proud at being the best at yet another craft.
Sporadic cheers and shouts pierce the growing noise and commotion outside. Unable to resist, I set the rag down on the nearest table, walk to the inn’s entryway, and, using my hands to pry an opening between two villagers, peek to see the display for myself. Parading down the street and approaching the flock of nobles standing just outside the palace is the Tempered, Limaqumtlia, decorated in lavish chains of gold and platinum, and both ears lined with multiple piercings. He’s tall and burly in stature, proudly and regally gliding down the road as if levitating above the ground. Flanked to either side of him by a duo of guards, he holds his chin up while his head barely bobs up and down from his footsteps. I try to will his attention to me and connect eyes as he inspects the surroundings, but he breezes past me while nodding to the other residents on either side of the pathway. With his neck purposely outstretched as he does so, he unintentionally displays the scars of burnt skin around his collarbone. What I know of him is that this posture isn’t out of arrogance, but confidence. The flames chose him to be our leader, and he has led our people out of the darkest period to be where we are now, rebuilding the continent amidst such tumultuous times.
From my vantage point, I observe one of the guards out of position, moving a little too close to the gathered crowd and just behind the Tempered with shifting, nervous eyes. The other guards against the palace walls remain still, acting as though nothing unusual is taking place while the group of councilmen bow their heads in acknowledgement of the Tempered’s arrival. Reflecting on the missed connection, my head subtly sinks at the slight disappointment, but I force a smile and shake the feeling away, turning my thoughts onto all that has happened with the Tempered and his proud accomplishments for the Qiapu in such a short amount of time.
All present are witnesses to what happens next. Gasps and yells erupt, shaking me out of my daydream, and we watch our slain leader fall forward to his knees. The guard who drew my earlier suspicions is being apprehended by two of the generals while the Tempered is on the ground, fighting for breath as blood shoots from his neck. I force my way through the crowd, shoving bodies aside as I attempt to rush to the side of the Tempered. Before I can get within steps of our slain leader, two nearby guards use their halberds to halt my progress. I drive my feet into the dirt and keep moving my legs, the adrenaline forcing both guards to slide back on their heels for a moment before they regain their footing and shove me onto my back. They shout something at me, but my hearing is stifled by the throbbing of my rapid heartbeat. A darkness creeps into the edges of my blurred vision, and while I attempt to hoist myself up, I hear a gruff, gravely voice bark an incoherent command. Whatever was said has caused the guards to look at each other for a moment, then help me to my feet.
Without sparing another moment, I sprint toward the Tempered. Red has covered most of his adornments and tunic, and he’s laying on his back with his arms extended as if he’s reaching to the heavens for mercy. His eyes are wide with shock and I feebly attempt to calm him while pressing on his neck in a futile effort to stop the bleeding. It is no use: There is too much blood to contain, and I feel helpless as I watch the life drain out of him.
I hear a commotion beside me as the assassin is able to throw off one general, reach for their sword, and slash at him, piercing a large hole through his tunic. In one fluid motion, the assailant spins around, anticipating an attempted strike from a nearby guard and dodges it, then strikes low into the stomach before the guard’s halberd can reach him. One of the men in the group stabs the assassin deep into his side with an obsidian blade while two others apprehend the attacker, preventing him from doing any more carnage.
The traitor drops to his knees and reaches for his wound, which gives the guards an opportunity to grab his arms and constrain him, allowing the mayhem to subside. I look up and recognize a familiar person standing over the nearby assailant, crimson dripping off the obsidian dagger held in his right hand. His face is boxy with a rugged jaw and many wrinkles and scars across both cheeks. Despite the tough exterior, it is a disarmingly welcoming sight. Our eyes meet and he manages to remark while taking sharp, deep breaths.
“This isn’t how I had hoped our reunion would go,” he says to me. My eyes follow his as he looks down upon the body of our leader, who has stopped breathing by this point. I remove my useless hands from the Tempered’s neck and close his eyes, his eyelids and upper cheeks streaked with his blood. Everyone is gathered around me as he lay across my lap, and guards stand around rudderless until one of the generals commands four of them to carry the leader to a safe location inside, then orders another to fetch our shaman. My friend extends his hand with a consoling look as he helps me up. I’m still astonished by what has happened, but manage to gather enough wits to accept his offer and grab his forearm, looking back to watch Limaqumtlia being carried away by our warriors.
“It most certainly is an unfortunate set of circumstances, Saxina,” I tell him, the words leaving my lips on their own volition as my body slouches in defeat. It’s been many lunar cycles since I’ve seen my friend from the war academy, and I’m relieved that he’s here, despite the tragic situation. We were two of only a small number from Qiapu to attend, and a friendly rivalry stemmed from this, but we always had respect for each other. During the War of Liberation, we talked of plans to reunite back home in Pichaqta when it was all over, and every day we were alive, we vowed to drink until we couldn’t stand. As with anything, however, some were summoned to heed a higher calling: Saxina has been coordinating the rebuilding efforts , traveling frequently between here and the land’s capital of Qapauma, much to my dismay. Even more disappointing is where we find ourselves now.
Our top general, Qumuna, abruptly turns to the attacker and, after striking him with a right-handed cross to his jaw, grabs the assailant by the collar of the tunic. The palace guards continue to stave off the rabid crowds to allow the general to interrogate the assailant. Though I, too, wish nothing but harm to come to this man, I’m surprised to see this done publicly. The perpetrator looks young, almost childlike, with a soft, round face and short nose. He looks half asleep with his drooping eyes, and he might not survive much longer after seeing the tremendous loss of blood from the untreated stab wound.
“Who ordered the assassination?” Qumuna shouts inches away from the murderer’s face. “How did you infiltrate our palace grounds? Who do you work for?” The kid doesn’t respond, head flopping as the general shakes him in an effort to keep him alive and awake. He glares and yells his series of questions a couple more times, but there is never an answer. After the third or fourth attempt, the kid replies with a mere smile, like recalling a funny memory. His eyes are cast to the ground the entire time, and eventually he slouches and falls completely limp. Qumuna attempts to revive him with more shaking and yelling, but Saxina turns from me and rests a hand on his shoulder, causing the general to stop what he is doing and release the youth, discarding him like a meatless bone onto the ground.
The group of men look at one another with baffled expressions, some of anger, some of confusion. Finally realizing where they are, a few of the generals shout orders to the guards and secure the area from anyone not associated with the group as the nobles are ushered to safety back within the palace walls. There is a sense of panic and outrage permeating every discussion as everyone tries to figure out what to do next.
I watch Saxina crouch beside the child assailant and investigate his tunic. Searching with his hands, he moves the cloth and feels around for something, anything. After a few moments, he stops in surprise, quickly turning to the group.
“It’s the Eye in the Flame,” Saxina says, revealing the left pectoral of the assassin. “He is marked with the symbol.”
Looking at the mark on the chest, I can see the appearance of a simple, twisting flame, and inside it at the rounded base is the shape of an eye, branded into him by a prod. His garments are all standard issue for the guards of Pichaqta, and he doesn’t have any other markings on him, nor does he appear to carry any other identifying items. Realizing the severity of this revelation, urgency washes over Saxina’s face and he demands the deceased assailant be brought into the palace grounds, not just for further inspection, but to mitigate how much information leaks to the villagers.
“I regret that I have to hurry away, Paxilche,” Saxina turns to say to me. “I hope we can reconvene soon.” His mouth is agape as if he wants to say more, but he blinks a few times and abruptly darts toward the palace. With a few sweeping motions of his hand in the direction of the grounds, the guards pick up his signal and accompany him on his walk to the building.
I’m left on my knees, stupefied. All that’s taken place hasn’t hit me, and I remain in a daze, looking down at my now-blood-soaked garments. As I stare at the smattering of red painting my palms, the only thing that snaps me out of my stupor are the shouts of infighting among the agitated crowd.
“That was the mark of the Ulxa,” a man in the group exclaims, surprise in his tone. “Did you not see? He was sent by the cult infesting that land!”
“We never should have allowed them to fight alongside us!” exclaims another.
“What do they want to achieve by assassinating our leader?” questions a different person.
“We must gather our forces and march to Ulxa,” another remarks. “They cannot get away with this treachery!”
The restless group begins murmuring and occasionally yells remarks at one another until an elderly gentleman raises his voice. During the entirety of the argument, he had been deep in thought, quietly contemplating what this all means.
“Already with this? Before the blood has dried?” he says. “Should we not perhaps think rationally about this before jumping to conclusions? A lot of questions remain to be answered.”
“Our union has only just begun and there is already such deceit and breach of trust!” a shrill anonymous voice remarks.
“The elder is right,” booms Qumuna. A grizzled veteran of many battles, he towers over most of the people gathered, both from his natural, tall stature as well as successfully commanding warriors throughout his long military experience. His muscular build and broad shoulders finally come into my focus, nearly entirely black from the tattoos, and I identify the numerous gold and obsidian piercings along his ears and bottom lip. Perhaps because of the condition I was in, I hadn’t initially noticed him standing with the guards, looming with the furrowed brow of concern he regularly wears on his face while monitoring the crowd. “We mustn’t be rash and reactionary. That is how you fall into traps and ambushes.”
“Sun and sky! You saw that the assassin bears the mark of the Eye in the Flame. Ulxa has just declared war!” The squawking man begins riling up others amongst the crowd, and soon there are mutterings throughout those gathered.
“Would that be what the Tempered would want us to do?” Qumuna rhetorically asks the gathered masses with sternness. “Immediately plunge into a war without gathering all the facts and considering the consequences of what such actions will do to our people?” The crowd utters in contemplation of his statement, though there are still a few eager to shed blood for what just occurred.
“We have multiple matters to discuss before we can even speak of retaliation,” Qumuna says. “We need to find out how the assassin infiltrated the ranks of our guards and had such easy access, our leader has been killed and we will need to conduct the ceremony to appoint a new one. I will not allow the citizens of Qiapu behave like animals and react feverishly—that is not who we are.”
There is grumbling among the crowd at the parental scolding they received. However, looking about the faces of the young and old, men and women, rich and poor, there was a general acceptance of his words. A few more speak out in defiance, and I leave the petty squabbling among the crowd to return to the inn, dispersing with the majority of the people. Though I never served under him, I always held Qumuna in high regard, for all he accomplished on the battlefield. I didn’t expect to see him abate a mob so diplomatically and like a politician, although perhaps I should know better.
Returning to the inn, Taqaiu is nowhere in sight. A few unattended patrons help themselves to the unguarded carafes of wine and chicha, and though I hoped to have left it behind me, many of them are engaged in heated debates about the future of Qiapu. They espouse conspiracies as to why everything took place as it did, embellished further and more elaborately thanks to the alcohol. If this has been going on the entire time, I can’t blame Taqaiu for walking away from it. Still, a job is in need of being done, so I attempt to throw myself into the work to help me get past my feelings. But every table is discussing the assassination and who the new Tempered will be, which becomes too much to bear, and ultimately I make my way outside and stand in front like I’m a support for the wall.
There’s an apprehension and trepidation to the way people carry on with their business, unsure how to conduct themselves with the news of the passing of the Tempered. Myself, I find it extremely difficult to even comprehend working at a time like this. I spend the better part of the day ignoring my duties at the inn and, instead, studying the movements and actions of the people: Either consoling one another, weeping resoundingly, or shouting angrily in frustration from where we all find ourselves now. Amidst the drones milling about, a familiar face emerges. Marching down the street away from the palace is Saxina, striding with a red cape almost horizontally flowing behind him. It’s difficult to gauge what his face is outwardly displaying—concern? Confidence? Contemplation? I can only imagine what he’s feeling internally.
Saxina makes his way through the dense crowd, with an occasional person bowing out of courtesy and respect for his position, and upon seeing me, he strides toward the inn. A tiny, consolatory smile barely creases the corners of his mouth, and when he reaches me, he lets out a long, tired sigh.
“Paxilche, I…” he starts to say somberly, before dropping his gaze to look at our feet. After a pregnant pause, he shakes his head to regain his composure, and resumes looking me in the eyes.
“I’m really sorry about the loss of your brother, Paxilche.” He’s the first—and only—person to express their condolences to me. “I understand you two weren’t exactly close, but he’s still family, and it hurts all the same, I’m sure.”
I hadn’t spoken to Limaqumtlia since before the start of the War of Liberation, but Saxina is correct that the loss still hurts. When I had heard he became the Tempered, I was proud of him, and frankly wasn’t surprised he would emerge as the leader of our people; he’s always had a knack for taking charge and commanding people. Even as a child, he would direct and order adults around as if they were his subjects. Not to mention he was tremendously outspoken. Over time, I began thinking of him less as my brother and more as the Tempered. He seemed like a destined leader, and now he was gone, before he could see out all the plans and projects he set in motion to rebuild our corner of the continent. Before it all even started.
“I’m still processing everything, I think,” I say. “I’m not really sure what I should be doing with myself.”
Saxina nods as if he understands, and from our time served together, I am confident he does. While he was always a moderately skilled warrior, where he really excelled was being a brother in arms. He defuses situations with his light-hearted personality first before resorting to anything physical, and in a manner that’s a bit foreign to the Qiapu, he’s highly empathetic. In a manner that is largely a Qiapu characteristic, however, he doesn’t physically console me.
Moments pass before either of us speaks, looking everywhere except at one another. The bustling villagers carry on without ever acknowledging our presence. The sun drifts lower, beginning its descent behind the pointed peaks of the mountains. As if conceding a lost wager, Saxina rubs the back of his neck and breaks the silence with a sigh.
“The ceremony will take place tomorrow at sunset,” Saxina says. “We are to bury the Tempered and have the flames choose a new one immediately after.”
“Was a decision made that quickly?” I ask, partially confused. “That seems a bit sudden. I would’ve assumed deliberations and planning would take some time.” Reluctantly, Saxina nods, not saying or doing much else other than that.
“Shouldn’t we allow time to mourn our loss?” I say, fighting to remain calm after learning this news. “He was responsible for our freedom and negotiating our independence, after all.”
“These are tumultuous times, I’m afraid,” Saxina says, a bit downtrodden. “If there is, in fact, an assault coming from the Ulxa, we should be prepared and have someone who can lead us through this. There was some resistance from a few council members at first, but I was successful in asserting the point that selecting a leader who can focus our needs and give our people direction gives us the best chance to persevere.”
“Wait, so you determined this course of action?” Now I can hear myself getting more worked up as the revelation sinks in. Saxina appears to notice my indignation, as well.
“Since when do you care, Paxilche?” Saxina remarks. “You had your chance to become the Tempered, or to even be a tiny part of the rebuild of the continent as a council member, and you chose to be a whipping boy to an innkeeper.” I perceive a tone of condescension in his voice, which I take offense to. Before I can state my resentment, he raises his hand, palm facing me, in an effort to pacify, and continues his thought.
“You made your choice to remove yourself from politics, so why show concern for Qiapu politics now?”
I want to erupt and yell at him that my brother was just assassinated, and now everything that happens because of that involves me. That the person killing my own blood attacks me, too. That the only family I have remaining in Pachil is now dead, and my entire world has been destroyed. That I want revenge on whomever affronted me with this senseless murder of a good man—I don’t need to speak to my brother daily to know that much. Sure, we had our disagreements, but that doesn’t mean I love him any less than–
“If it means that much to you, you’ll have your opportunity to learn more at the ceremony,” Saxina says, interrupting my train of thought. “I’ve already begun coordinating arrangements for the burial and the ceremony, and I’ve put Qumuna in charge of spearheading the directive to investigate. We will get to the bottom of this, Paxilche—you just have to give me time to sort everything out so Qiapu can get its justice.”
With that, Saxina briefly extends his hand out as if he wants to pat my shoulder, but thinks better of it, nods, and walks hastily back to the palace. The guards separate for a brief moment to allow him to pass, then abruptly rotate to follow him.
Something about his demeanor today feels different in some way that I can’t quite place my finger on. Perhaps it’s his new responsibilities in the Qapauma that have made him more focused, but to see him taking charge is new to me. During the war, Saxina was a reliable second in command, giving much-needed support to a general on the battlefield. To hear of him maneuvering around career politicians and military leaders is impressive, but unexpected. I suppose people can mature and grow into their roles when times become dire and the need for someone to lead arises.
I won’t have much time to grieve our leader—my brother—since the flames will select a new Tempered to lead Qiapu in the matter of just a single day. I can only hope the chosen one will have the same steadfastness as our previous Tempered, but as I think about the disturbing events of the day and how it happened extremely suddenly without making a lot of sense, I am overcome with a great sense of unease. All the Qiapu want is a peaceful, solitary existence, but it appears that must wait for another day.
