Of Love and Valor

66: Commission

Sixteen volunteers to serve in Kedar-Jashun, bathed in the golden light of a glorious sunrise, stand in the middle of the main courtyard of the Yrivvior's palace. Jorabij and Cezaiya stand among them; they wear their Orenzhanim dress uniforms, as each volunteer wears the dress uniform from the city they left for this opportunity. Flowers and fabric of purple and gold and white tastefully drape their surroundings, including the tiered seating where the salori and the volunteers' families (at least, the family members who came to Orenxiao for this ceremony) struggle to wake themselves up for the ceremony at hand. An honor guard of Orenzhanim are stationed among them, as well as the Orenzhanim's corps of musicians.

I, along with my whole squadron, am serving as Viorzhanim today. Other Viorzhanim and Fiorzhanim are also present, creating an impressive bloc around the platform on which the Yrivvior, the Yrivvilon, the Orenfior, Kazmiohni Meskaiavin and Ruokharismet, Sozunkarit Gymaraelshek, and Firohn Tanarin all stand to officiate today's proceedings. At least from my vantage point, at one side of their platform, they all look wide awake and alert, and almost all of them seem proud to be here, proud to be doing this. Only the Yrivvilon looks somewhat displeased or ill at ease.

What has he found to sulk about? I wonder. The air is pleasantly cool and perfumed by the abundance of floral decorations, and not a single cloud mars the sky. This ceremony should be relatively short, from what the Kazmiohni have said. We've been standing here for a little bit, waiting for everyone else to take their assigned places so that the ceremony can begin, which is a bit unpleasant, but at least he's allowed to move a bit, unlike the Viorzhanim around him. Certainly I would be speaking to one of my friends rather than paying him any mind, if any of them were standing close enough and if I were permitted to do so.

Out of boredom and mild curiosity, I follow the Yrivvilon's gaze and find the zaikarit, with the rest of those who accompanied him from the Molongun tribe, amongst the salori and other civilians, and I understand his disdain all too well. Still, I suppose it's only fair that they were at least invited. Do they know that Cezaiya and Jorabij have been assigned to their tribe, to retrain their warriors? If they have not learned this already, perhaps today's ceremonies will contain a measure of entertainment, in addition to the requisite pomp and circumstance.

The drummers begin to play a solemn, heavy cadence, and then the trumpets and flutes join them with a stirring melody, calling all of us to attention. The music seems mostly meant to set the tone for the ceremony and jolt the civilians present into wakefulness; it only lasts a few moments before someone on the platform—presumably the Yrivvior, but I am staring straight ahead at the volunteers, as protocol demands, and cannot tell for sure—waves an arm to silence the musicians.

"Good morning, and congratulations to all of you, valiant volunteers who will lead our efforts to defend Kedar-Jashun against the scourge of the Erivim," the Yrivvilon's unmistakeable voice greets us grandly. "When we sent out the call that the northernmost regions of Yrivvenna were in need, you were among those who answered that call, for which you deserve our gratitude and great respect."

Smatterings of applause emanate from the gathered civilians. The volunteers seem to be both thankful for the praise and anxious to get on with things.

"Ze sixteen of you are ze first of tree vaves ve vill send to Kedar-Jashun," the Sozunkarit continues. "You have convinced both Firohn Tanarin and myself of your readiness, in every regard, for ze tasks ve have set for you. Your patts vill not be easy, but ve know zat you are more zan capable of bringing much-needed support and protection to our most vulnerable citizens."

Another break for applause. This time it's louder and perhaps a bit more heartfelt.

"Without further ado, we will officially commission each of you to the tribe and duties we, as a group, have determined you are best suited for," Kazmiohn Meskaiavin announces. The volunteers already know their commissions. Is this for the benefit of their families, or is it not actually official until it is announced here?

Our Kazmiohn proceeds to read each volunteer's name, in alphabetical order by clan name, followed by that person's assigned tribe and duty, whether firohn or warrior. When each volunteer's name is called, he or she steps forward and bows to those assembled on the platform. The Orenfior has a basket of scrolls, presumably containing each official commission, and when a volunteer's name is called, he hands the Yrivvior a scroll, which the Yrivvior makes a great show of signing, sealing with wax, and imprinting the seal with his signet ring. He then hands the sealed scroll to Firohn Tanarin or Sozunkarit Gymaraelshek—the two seem to be alternating in this duty—who then deliver the scroll to the volunteer, at which point the volunteer bows again and falls back into line, and then Kazmiohn Meskaiavin reads the next name and the process repeats.

I would honestly prefer to be in one of the Yrivvior's meetings with the salori than watching this. It's unbearably dull, at least until Kazmiohn Meskaiavin calls Madirozkan Jorabij and Madirozkan Cezaiya together.

"Molongun tribe. Combat advisors to warriors," our Kazmiohn continues. The zaikarit's eyes threaten to burst out of his skull.

"VHAT?! Begging your illustrious pardons—" he protests, but the Orenzhanim nearest him move closer to him, hands moving towards their weapons, and he abruptly falls silent, sullenly swallowing his torrent of futile unpleasantness. So they did not know. So much the better for us. I was beginning to fear I would fall asleep on my feet.

At long last, the ceremonial distribution of scrolls comes to a close.

"Congratulations, once again, to all of you. Warriors of your caliber are rare indeed, and we have no doubt that your skills and valor will be much appreciated by the tribes to which you are going," Kazmiohn Ruokharismet intones, trying with some success to keep his considerable disdain for all things ceremonial (revealed to me in meetings leading up to this event) out of his voice. He might have said more, but the breeze carries to all of us the sounds of distressed macaws, as imitated by humans, and almost without thinking, every person present who has served as Orenzhanim in the past few moons takes up the same call.

The call that means an unexpected, potentially hostile group is approaching Orenxiao.

Panic rises in my chest. My weapons are suddenly in my hands. I look to our Kazmiohni for orders.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Yrivvior demands.

"The end of your reign is at hand," an unseen upstart responds ominously.

All around the courtyard, several people clothed as Orenzhanim, Fiorzhanim, and even Viorzhanim draw curved, serrated blades.

The Erivim are among us.