The Four Tribes: Fire and Water Ch. 1

The Drum of Kurâane sounded forth, sending vibrations throughout the cavern, announcing the entrance of the priests of the Four Tribes. At the center stood the Old Ones, high priests of each tribe, who chanted over a guttering flame. As one, they beseeched Everath to come into their midst and bind the children to a tribe, each according to their own innate character and ability. As the flame grew in intensity, so too did the chanting, until the Flame roared thirty feet high, just enough to lick the edge of the ceremonial drum.
Aren peered forth from the ledge that ringed the arena. The son of wealthy merchants, yet with no religious standing, he remained in the middle of the line of his peers. He stood ahead of those who came from poor families, yet behind the offspring of the priests. Picking at the collar of his quad-colored at his right stood his bonded slave, Quiva.
âMaster, why could you not have taken the time to properly prepare yourself?â Quiva berated him.
âI doubt Everath will pass over me simply for having an uneven collar,â snapped Aren, unable to restrain his fraying nerves, even with his lifelong friend and servant.
Quiva showed no reaction to his outburst. âYou do not know how He chooses. Perhaps the Silent One is the one with the straightest collar, and I have just saved your soul for all eternity.â
Aren had to laugh.
Just then, the Drum sounded again, and all became silent. The Old Ones stepped forward, and their voices rang out as one.
âPraise be to Everath the Everlasting, and may He choose those worthy to be among us, and discard those found without value to the Tribes.â
âMay He bless us with honor and strength to tend His crop, and to ever honor Him,â the assembled priests responded with the rhythmic chanting of oft-practiced rituals.
âMay He judge us justly and find us without flaw, so that we may serve our Tribe with honor. And if we are judged unworthy, may we strive to better ourselves in this life, that we may be stronger in the next!â The final response echoed around the cavern from the assembled hopefuls that stood upon the high balcony.
With that, all fell to their knees as a white figure entered from a fifth archway and approached the Flame. Two thin, curved swords hung in crossed scabbards on his ashen back, their simple ornament hiding the holiness contained within each blade.
The Silent One, with a single motion, drew both swords, placing the tip of each on the opposite shoulder. Without hesitation, he cut downwards, slicing the holy X upon his body. Instead of blood, oily black liquid burst from the wounds. Defying all forces of physics and gravity, the liquid flowed into the fire. The White Flame flared higher, and all felt its heat. After drinking its fill, the wounds closed without a trace, and the Flame returned to its previous height.
With a whisper that clearly reached the ears of all, the figure hissed, âMay the first step forward.â
With a confident swagger that likely masked great fear, Niâran, the son of a High Priest, descended the balcony and approached the Silent One. He stripped his robe and, clad in only a breechcloth, he stood before the White Flame as his bonded slave was led up to the high platform that towered above the Drum of Kurâane.
As he had with his own flesh, the ashen figure crossed his swords, laying the tip upon each shoulder.
Niâranâs slave stood at the edge of the platform, head high and chest proud. He spread his arms out towards the Flame and tipped forward, throwing himself to the drum far below. He struck with a bone-shattering crunch and rebounded off, his broken body thrown over the Flame. With a greedy snap, the White Flame exploded upwards, devouring the slave.
At the precise instance the Drum rang forth from the impact, the Silent One slashed. From the cuts, much like the One himself, no blood sprung forth. Instead, a blinding blue light shone from Niâranâs flesh.
âFlucti,â came the hiss.
The Old One of the Flucti came forward. Taking a vial of blessed water, he anointed his son, leading him to the congregation of blue-clad priests, one of whom presented him a blue tunic, even as his old clothes were discarded into the Flame. The son of an Old One, likely Niâran would again discard the tunic for a priestâs robes before the day was done.
Likewise, the heir of each high priest came before the Silent One, and each was found worthy of the tribe of their father. After them came the daughter of a high ranking priest of the Igitum, was came forward then, who was subsequently found worthy of the Soln.
âHer family will live with this dishonor for many generations,â Quiva whispered to Aren as the weeping girl was led towards the brown-clad priests.
Aren nodded his agreement, not trusting himself to speak.
Shortly after, an even greater dishonor came to the son of a Flucti lesser priest. Instead of the usual burst of colored light, blood came forth from his cuts. He screamed as guards dragged him off to a life of servitude, a life of dishonor and disgrace, unless he was bonded to a new candidate, his only hope for Life left to him.
Aren lost track as those ahead of him descended to be judged. He watched in disgust as a bonded slave brought the worst of dishonor upon himself. Unable to cast himself upon the Drum of Kurâane, he had screamed and tried to retreat, only to be forcibly thrown to the Drum, and most certainly to Death. The heir he was bonded to must have surely won some great honor before Everath, for even this grievous misdeed had not caused her to be looked upon with much disfavor, signified by the green light of the Ventix.
Heir by heir, the line before Aren slowly shrank. Finally, as the heir before him was pronounced Unworthy âan omen any knew to dread- he began his descent. Quiva gave his arm a last squeeze, a last touch among friends as she ascended to her doom.
Striving to ignore the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him, Aren stripped before the Silent One. As with every other, the Silent One placed a sword tip on each shoulder, digging in ever so slightly, the better to cut his flesh.
He risked a glance up to the platform, just in time to see Quiva give the guards a jaunty salute to the guards before backflipping off the edge. He knew her disrespectful actions likely would not sit well with the priests, but knew she did them for him.
He closed his eyes as she struck, and felt the swords slice his flesh.