Juniper cones hiss and snap on hot coals, their embers spitting like dying meteorites into the gloom. Steam pours from four braziers - each manned by an acolyte robed only in sweat - and rolls like a thunderhead over the warm stone. In the centre of the room, a large, shallow pit of sand radiates the heat of the mound of flushing coals. Through the dense screen that is the right wall, the rhythmic chanting of shield brethren fills the sanctum.
The initiates are breathing as one. They rise, palms flat against floor, pushing themselves to standing, arching further, stretching taut limbs. All are equally disrobed, all glistening with oil and sweat and anticipation in the scant light. A horn sounds. The chanting quickens in urgency, and together the initiates turn their backs to the sand. A crack of thunder - so close it pounds into the chest like a fist - precedes the crack of the door, which splinters inward, buckles, then explodes before Balros, High Priest of Cuiraécen. Resplendent in full armor, he lifts a open hand to them and turns, leading the twenty naked men and women out into the blinding light of the noon day sun.
Balros’ spear catches the rays of the sun and Aerona almost stumbles. She kneels in quick benediction, rising barely in step with her fellow initiates as they emerge from the fragrant, dark womb of the sanctum and unto the terrace at the centre of the citadel. Below them the holdings of the Hidden Temple of Cuiraécen spiral outwards to towered walls. Balros raises his hands, spear aloft, as he descends. His foot touches the first stair and the two rows of drummers lining the great stairway begin their tempo. The initiates descend in lockstep. Great unlit pyres made of huge logs tied into pyramids have been erected along the walls and at the intersections of the training yards. The yards, normally kept exceptionally tidy, have been spread with soft white sand an inch deep. Musicians join the drummers: upending long cylinders fashioned from wood bark in deliberate succession: mimicking the coming of rain. The rain sticks’ cascade is punctuated only by the crack of expertly timed whips.
Above them, on balconies, terraces, or from the wide walkways atop the walls, acolytes, priests, and visitors watch with rapt attention.
The initiates stand in rows at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to be chosen. Balros stands before them, his expression grimly meditative, as he chooses.
The first match is a handy victory for Aeric. The tall Anuirean is built like an ox, and to his opponent's misfortune, as tricky as Eloéle herself.
The second bout ends in a draw - Roeva and Tannen have each other locked in grips, but both refuse to admit defeat. Afterwards, Roeva argues her snapped arm should count for nothing since Tannen is lame, but the Priests refuse to hear it.
Aerona is chosen for the fourth match. She, along with her fellow combatants, allows herself to be blessed and smudged with incense before taking he place atop the sand. Her back is to the Elder Priests. She prefers it this way.
Daene moves quickly; like a spider he scuttles low and fast. Both his arms grip Gael by the knees - she is unluckily nearest to him, her back slightly turned, so he comes as a surprise. Even as she struggles, he is shifting his weight to fall back unto his right shoulder. Gael, thrown from her feet, lands with a wet crunch. She holds her ruined hand up - but Daene is already pushing away from her, launching himself at Halmied.
Aerona breathes out, crouches low, and rushes to meet Paeghan’s charge. Paeghan has less reach and struggles in the grapple, but Aerona knows the smaller woman will outlast her. Paeghan slips her hands up, past Aerona’s guard, and grips her shoulders. Planting her feet, the smaller woman forces Aerona tumbling back into the sand. Aerona curls her torso, bending her knees to her chest, placing her feet on Paeghan’s stomach and thigh as she gripped her above the elbows, locking their arms. Momentum carried Paeghan most of the way - Aerona aided the hard landing by snapping her legs, propelling Paeghan hard into the stone wall, where she crumpled.
She gets ony a breath before Halmied has a hold on her from behind - his arms linked around her neck and under her arm, hands clasped in front of her chest, and now she is once again hurtled into the ground. She shares the sand she spits out with Halmied by throwing it into his face. He has the reach advantage this time, but Aerona is already on her feet and closing the gap. She’s too close too soon and he doesn’t land the right jab before he’s on his back, but this time she follows, raining blows. Halmied hits the sand a split second before her knees impact his chest. He’s dazed now, and can only hold off her attacks from her straddling position by keeping his hands and arms covering his face.
They’re both dehydrated, near exhaustion, but Aerona is determined. She rises to her feet, kicks Halmied to his stomach, and chokes him until he lies unconscious in the sand.
Ghesele wins the fourth match, and joins the other three in the baths. The others are tended to by the acolytes - their wounds tended or healed within the infirmary. It is impolite to ask after any of the initiates who do not reappear. To die during initiation is a dishonor, to leave the Temple something worse. Most will stay, to try again.
Robed in the red raiments of the Priesthood of Cuiraecen for the first time, Aerona sits in awe in the place of honor with her fellow priests upon the dias at the centre of the citadel. The feast is forgotten, wine and mead goblets held in hands but not tasted as all marvel at the Night of Fire. The towering pyres do nothing to dull the brilliance of the waves of blazing metorites - streaking like dying embers into the dark.
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