Insects filled the air with buzzing as they zipped by on tiny wings. Aralim walked along the quiet, mossy brook as he headed toward the Monastery of Illumination, where the Forest Seers held their meditation. It had been a long day already, but Aralim walked with a spring to his step. The Emperor’s Aura had not stopped him from exploring the Opal Valley, so it was only a matter of time before he learned more about the Emperor’s Path, or his own.
The Shrine of the Old Gods had not held any answers. It was little more than the Yoreen Square where Miresh trained in her martial arts, and the priests there only spoke of ancient superstitions. No doubt some great spirits had fostered such traditions, but their footsteps were likely too far removed to follow now. Aralim sought the way to that greatness in the modern age.
The Valley was large, but not too large. Aralim figured he could reach two destinations each day, unless he chose to loiter at one. The Shrine had been built on a rice-patched hill to the east of Vagar village. Now Aralim headed north—deeper into the Valley—toward the Monastery of Illumination.
Perhaps the Forest Seers would show him a way forward.
Their hall was a medium-sized building. It’s wooden roof, seemingly composed entirely of vines that grew up the walls, was larger than any of the village’s structures, but would have been of similar size to many buildings in Rema—Aralim’s home included.
“Good day,” called the first man that Aralim passed. The man wore a dark green robe that was cinched under his armpits, leaving his burly shoulders bare as he walked toward a small orchard nearby. Aralim bowed and returned the man’s kind wishes.
A few huts surrounded the large green-blossoming monastery. Aralim absently wondered if one housed the “prisoner,” but the area was fairly empty aside from a few children kicking around a goat bladder ball and a farmer unloading sacks of rice from a wagon.
Aralim strode into the Monastery proper, to find nearly fifty people in its circular, central room. They sat or squatted in broad circles around a deep pond. A stream dribbled down the far wall, turning the thick vines a dark brown—likely the small waterfall was fed by the rocky slope that directly flanked the Monastery. From the pond, the waterway split off into a few narrow creeks, winding across the floor of the shrine toward the walls. Aralim was uncertain if clever engineering or magic was involved.
Of the Seers, there was little more to be observed than the priests he had already seen. Even the handful of women in their ranks were dressed as the man who had wished Aralim “good day,” with dark blue or green linen wraps cinched beneath their shoulders. Among the meditating Seers were a number of pilgrims, marked apart by their travelling clothes, or even by loose linen tunics that did not match the styles of the devout Seers.
Aralim noticed that most were barefoot, though he waited until a rising monk approached him before changing his apparel. “Welcome to the Monastery of Illumination,” the younger man said, quiet enough that Aralim had to fill in the bubbling syllables of the shrine’s name himself.
“Thank you,” Aralim offered, bowing his head. “Should I remove my sandals?”
“We walk barefoot to connect and commune with the land,” the monk explained. It seemed his volume had not led to Aralim’s trouble, but his thick Numa’nakres accent. Likely, many of these Seers had never left the Valley. “Many outsiders choose to do as we do to honour our tradition, but it’s not necessary.”
Aralim shrugged and knelt to unlace his sandals. I might as well commune with the land, he thought and smiled. He put his sandals with a pile near the door. When he rose, he saw that the monk was still waiting politely. “May I ask you a question about the Seers?”
“Of course,” the man said, bowing. His shaved or prematurely bald head bobbed.
“What separates you from the Followers of the Eternal Emperor?” Aralim asked, making up a word for those that believed His Ascendance was a god. He was not sure if the religion had a formal name or not.
“A very insightful question,” the man said. He pursed his lips, but looked entertained by the prospect of explaining it to a newcomer. “It is also a common one, at least for those that journey this far. The devout of the Great Smith worship him as their God and as the most powerful God among his peers. While the Seers will not deny his power and his active role within Gethra, we believe in a far older tradition. The Old Gods are said to be of the land, divine personifications of the various aspects of Gethra. We here worship the land itself, as well as all its scions.”
Aralim nodded. “An important distinction. I read earlier that the Seers taught the Emperor much in his youth. Were those religious teachings?”
“We did teach him of his spiritual heritage, but it is said that the Seers of those days were well-versed in a number of sagely topics and, on account of Tag’na’s father, had access to a number of books, both historical and factual,” the monk explained.
Aralim nodded again. He glanced around the monastery. A few of the Seers were eyeing him, though the man he was speaking to had not suggested going outside.
“While the Seers do not purposefully damage any aspect of nature, the design of your staff intrigues me,” the man continued, quietly. “It looks like vines or well-cared for branches. Might I say that you have fine taste, by the standards of the southern cities.”
Aralim supressed a loud laugh. “Thank you,” he said. He didn’t have anything else to ask, so the man invited him to join the meditation and then went to sit back down. Aralim noticed a second arched door on the left side of the room. He couldn’t tell if it led to a yard outside or another room, so he started across the room toward it. With caution and mumbled apologies, he wound between meditating men and women until he reached the archway—it was only a storage closet. More robes hung from hooks, their bottom hems draped across a stack of wooden crates.
He shrugged and turned away from the alcove. Another, older priest was standing. The man had had his back to Aralim upon his entrance, but now had seen him and rose to speak with him. “Can we speak outside?” he asked, when Aralim got close.
“Of course,” Aralim said.
They strode out into the sunshine, the muted sound of the bugs returning as they emerged from the Monastery. Aralim squinted at the priest as the man took another pace away from the arched entryway.
“Pardon me: are you the Emperor’s new Ambassador?” the bearded old monk asked.
Aralim nodded. “I don’t know if I can still be called ‘new’ after a year, but yes.”
The man smiled and nodded. “I have heard of you from the messenger boys that run around the Valley. They tell me all sorts of stories. A bearded man of Orrene complexion—we don’t see many of your kind in these parts.”
“I am a very rare complexion, in these parts, yes,” Aralim said with a chuckle. “It makes traveling interesting. When did the boys see me? In the village?”
The old man grinned widely, revealing yellowed teeth. “I did not describe it right. When news comes to the Valley, they eventually share it here also. We heard about you some time ago, as you pointed out. Are you on the Emperor’s Courts, then?”
Aralim nodded. “Yes, but I’ve missed travelling alone since I joined the Court. A friend recommended I come here as a way of study.”
“I’m glad you were able to get away,” the chatty monk said. “Many say the Valley is quite relaxing. Are you familiar with Grand Mage Rattar? He often came here for times of rest, before his departure last year.”
Aralim breathed a sigh. At last! he thought. “He was the friend I mentioned. I can see why he liked this place.”
The priest’s expression grew troubled. “He seemed so agitated when last he visited. I hope his quest is successful, or at least brings him some solace.”
“He’s actually somewhat trapped in Starath at the moment,” Aralim explained. “That’s part of the reason I chose now to visit—to see if I could help him.” He leaned on his staff, hoping this priest could direct him.
Unfortunately, that didn’t seem the case. “I’m not familiar with Starath, and I fail to see how you could help him from a great distance. Perhaps one of the Old Gods will provide? You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need. Master Omiar from Maykren has been here for nearly a year now.”
Aralim nodded. “Thank you. I’m not sure how I’ll help either, but I have to try. Do you know where Rattar tended to spend his time?”
“He often meditated here or would find some secluded slope with the guidance of the Aura,” the monk recounted. “As one of the Great Smith’s trusted servants, he was protective of his privacy as much as he was dedicated to observing our customs.”
A slope?! Aralim thought. That could be anywhere! He imagined a random hole in the dirt, hiding the “prisoner of the Opal Valley” from view. But, Rattar had instructed him to come here and to “seek the prisoner”, so surely there was a way!
“I’m sorry I could not be of more help,” the priest said.
Aralim waved a hand to dismiss the apology. He just needed to do some thinking. “Can I rest here this evening? I have my own rations, if necessary.”
“By all means,” the man said. “All are welcome—and any friend of Rattar’s is a friend of ours.”
Aralim followed him toward one of the huts to prepare his dinner. The sun was already setting on his second day in the Valley and he felt a little closer to the secrets of the Grand Mage’s mysterious quest.