"Ao e! Ao e!"Â
On this day the city was resplendent in color and awash in sound. The Way of the Visage was no longer a road, but a river of people: people in rich robes and torn hides alike, the enyali beside their masters, the dreygasimai amid the crowds of commoners with their bronze-tipped spears held above their heads. All of Ashuba, it seemed, had erupted into a cacophony of praise: it was cazdum adal aumebye, the "madness of worship."Â They called his name, and Naurob knew they were his.
"Ao e! Ao e! Mira Naurob ao e!"Â
The procession slowly pressed its way through the teeming throng of people. The thousand men of the honor guard formed the van and the rear, in perfect order but clearly astonished; they marveled to each other at this sight, the heart of Pharesaa coming out to greet them and their master. Many had never been to Ashuba, and even the great cities of the Opalas had been poor practice. Ashuba, the Good Harbor, was the great gem of Pharesaa, and on this day all Ashuba sung in praise.
"Ao e! Ao e!"
Behind the van proceeded fifty chariots, their frames gilded and their animals draped in fine cloth for the occasion. The charioteers, loyal nobles all, looked on with less obvious enthusiasm but infinitely more satisfaction at the proceedings. Those who would not be ruler could still have his ear, after all, and they would surely sit at the right hand of He Who Is Divinely Manifest; the Inmaryol, or the one who would soon ascend to that status. Their glittering bronze lamellar coats were all that the crowd saw; their faces, wizened and battle-scarred, were hidden underneath their silken veils. Such faces belonged to very different men than the heroic bronze statues seen by the crowd.
"Ao e! Ao e! Mira Naurob ao e!"
Drawing up behind the charioteers was the sight of the procession. A hundred men marched silently behind the chariots, but they were somehow unlike soldiers. Their discipline was perfect - every last face, each covered by a beaked bronze mask, pointed straight ahead - but they had no uniform save their masks of mysterious menace. The Falcon Guard was no military unit, though the great crescent axes on their shoulders hinted at it. Even the most vocal of the crowd drew a bit quieter when they passed. These men were Redbinders, always feared and once despised - until this day, a Redbinder in Ashuba would have been seized and executed. These Redbinders, paradoxically, were the new household guard of their new leader, the man whose name they chanted.
Mira Naurob ao e!Â
And there he was, at last. Eight Falcon Guardsmen carried his palanquin in the midst of their formation. It seemed impossible that one man, neither giant nor god, could command this great celebration, but there he sat. Naurob was dressed in simple, loose white clothes, a polished bronze breastplate upon him, and his shaved head unadorned by veil or mask. This would be the last time any of the masses would see his face, but for now they reveled in it. This countenance would soon be their god. This man had been chosen.
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Though they could not see the procession, the three people who stood at the Altar of the Sun in the great Gilded Basilica, the Temple of Pharakiye, could certainly hear the events transpiring outside. They seemed somewhat less enthused than the crowd. On the right was a wiry, elderly man dressed all in green, his doubled robe and cloth hat edged in gold cloth, and a forked staff in his hand. On the right was a short, plump man, his features round and wrinkled, dressed in orange and white silk and wearing a golden skullcap upon his balding head. Between them was a middle-aged man who dwarfed them both, with a stern look in his eyes that was not made any gentler by his fine robes of white and gold. His hair was white at the temples, and by his cold expression one wondered if the white was not spreading by the minute.
"I had hoped I would never need to plan for this." The plump man, sweating at the forehead, looked distinctly unhappy to be here. Of course, all three of them looked vaguely uncomfortable, though they stood in what most considered to be one of the eight wonders of Jadanar itself.
"If you're still planning, it's too late,"Â remarked the man in green. "The idea was, I believe, to be bringing plans to fruition now, not making them."
"He's certainly done that. And I don't envy you... I'm sure his plans for the former Household aren't going to be generous."
"Don't deceive yourself,"Â snapped the man in green. "As if the Goldsmiths are going to come out unscathed from this!"
The plump man smiled smugly. "Yesou Pharaeshaha, we have always come out in the end, scrapes or no. I wouldn't be surprised if you ended up facing down a Redbinder on some... unfortunate evening."
"You'll see 'unfortunate' when he gets a mind to deal with your men's favoritism,"Â the green man snarled, though there was an edge of fear in his voice. "He controls the mines, not your pet nobles. Your vaunted cabal is at his mercy!"
"Silence."Â The man between them, himself silent until now, spoke softly but with a voice full of authority. "There is always time to plan. For now, we plan for the future."
The plump man looked impatient. "And what of now?"
"Now, he is here." The two men on the sides looked forward to the great door of the Temple, just as it began to open. For a moment, backed by the glare of the sun outside the door, the men in the doorway appeared as silhouettes. As three of them drew closer, their faces became slowly more clear, until the door closed behind them and all could look upon each other. Facing the three men at the altar were three men of the procession - Naurob, no longer atop his palanquin, flanked by two of the charioteers, whose veils were lowered.
Naurob spoke. Though he was the shortest of any of them, save the plump man with the skullcap, his voice betrayed no fear or inferiority. "I am here for my right."
There was no further need for true conversation. The man in white and gold, the high priest of Pharakiye, knew exactly how the exchange went from here; he had done this twice before. He recited what needed to be said.
"Who claims this right?"
"Naurob, son of Guoma and Isoban, a true son of Azia."
"What right do you claim?"
"Only the privilege to be tested."
"If found unworthy, Naurob, you will die."Â
"I submit always to the wisdom of Pharakiye. My life is already his."Â
"Come to the altar, that you may be judged."
Naurob drew close, and the two men beside the high priest stepped away to the sides. Despite their age and experience in all things a high-born man should know, the two nobles who held back from the altar still wore expressions of awe. They were, they presumed, about to see the manifestation of a god.
Naurob stepped up to the Altar, illuminated by the noon sun, which shone down in a pillar of light from the hole in the center of the dome above. Upon the altar, brilliantly glowing in the light, was a sun mask of pure gold. It looked up at Naurob, and he squinted as to not be blinded by it.
"Has he been selected by the arbiters of the sacred metal, the Pharaeshaha, to take this test?"Â
The plump man bowed his head and responded in a hesitant, low voice. "He has, High Priest."Â
"Does his name appear in the records of the worthy castes?"Â
The man in green bowed and responded in an even tone, "It does, High Priest."Â
"All things spring forth from the Face of Gold. All are bound by the will of Pharakiye. The Sky-Spheres, the Disc, the Infinite Caverns below; all these things are his domain. His eyes pierce every obstruction; through him all gates are open. He speaks and the world is made anew. What displeases him turns to dust and ash, as it began. Naurob, faithful of Pharakiye, submit yourself to his judgement, and tremble for your spirit."Â
Naurob reached out to the mask, took it, and placed it upon his face. No one breathed. For a slow eternity, everything was still. Even the noise of the crowd outside seemed to fade away. Then, Naurob turned, the sun mask upon him, and spoke the word.
"Inmaryasi."Â I am manifest.
All but him sunk to their knees. Their god walked among them once more.
"Aumevyasi meisal sou, Inmaryol."Â They murmured this in unison - We worship you, you who are divinely manifest.
Naurob said nothing further to them, and walked up the stairway to the balcony that faced the Way of the Visage. The two nobles quickly rose, and ran to the gates, which they threw open. An enormous, expectant crowd awaited them.
"Bow!" They called out to the crowd, voices strained and anxious. "Bow before your god, you who love life and fear your rightful lord! He comes!"
As they said this, Naurob stepped into the light of day, atop the balcony of the Gilded Basilica. The people fell to their knees, and their earlier chatter became one chanted hymn.
"Ao e! Ao e! Mira Naurob ao e!
Phara Ephayri iye,
Inmaryolai maa mei,
Mira Naurob ao e!"
Greatest one! Greatest one! Holy Naurob, the greatest one!
As magnificent as the golden griffon,
More powerful than all his predecessors,
Holy Naurob, the greatest one!