The trace of sunlight was stained with smoke from the thousand-fold lights of Rema, casting salmon and orange into muted shades of themselves. Aralim hoped it was late enough—he hoped that the Emperor, like the mysterious Tarro, would be trapped in his home, withered by the centuries he had endured. He hoped he might come home to Miresh before he faced the consequences of his journey.
They were waiting for him at the gate—two nervous guards and the brooding mass that was Karmawn, the Emperor’s Blade. Aralim was close enough that they had seen him before he saw them. They waited silently while Aralim continued along the road toward the city gate. Had they not seen him, Aralim was not convinced he would have turned away. His Path led back to Rema one way or another.
“You’re to follow us,” one of the smaller guards said, nervously. Of course, Karmawn said nothing.
Aralim shrugged. He had expected this possibility as much as he had expected to be stopped upon reaching the Opal Valley. He had figured sooner or later the guards would come for him. He waved a hand ahead and followed them wordlessly.
Karmawn went ahead, parting the nighttime carousers like the prow of a ship. One of the subordinate guards walked ahead of Aralim and the other walked behind. Their half-hour venture led them across the city, through the illustrious high-town of the district surrounding the Iron Palace and out the other side. In the neighbouring middle-class borough was built a small wooden temple, identified as a “Hall of Rest,” by the sign at the front fence.
Upon seeing the unassuming building, Aralim’s first thought was: Perhaps Tag’na rests here? He had assumed he was being brought to the Emperor—aged or not—now that the secret had been revealed. Now he wondered if the Iron Palace was a decoy; after all, the powerful attacker of 1478 had targeted the Palace, not an offsite location.
Aralim was led inside, and quickly changed his mind. The Hall of Rest was inhabited by a number of healers and infirm. Sick or injured citizens lay on cots in between wooden columns. Most ignored the arrival of the guards, though Karmawn drew a wary glance from one robed man. The Emperor wouldn’t pass all these people in order to rest during the night, Aralim decided. Was Aralim to be kept here—amid the dying—so that the Emperor’s secrets would remain thus?
They reached a door to a small side-chamber and paused in front of its lone Aura sentry. Karmawn stepped aside on cue, while the guard between Aralim and Karmawn awkwardly scrambled to bring Aralim face-to-face with the Aura. The middle-aged man presented Aralim with a note.
Aralim raised an eyebrow as he accepted the communication. It was a single sheet of parchment, folded once. Letters given to the Aura were rarely sealed or further concealed for privacy—the Aura did not lose things given into their charge.
“Aralim, have you not seen that I will trust you with time?” the letter began. Aralim blinked and kept reading. “Alas, your drive to Walk the Path has not instilled the patience of gods in you, and you have invaded my privacy.” Aralim swallowed heavily. The letter was not signed, but these were clearly the Emperor’s words, spoken through his Aura. “I am not Ovoe, so I will not ask you to take a life to prove your loyalty. Instead, you will enter here and make the man talk. This is the first step to regaining my favour.”
He’s angered—that’s clear, Aralim thought. He had hoped that Rattar’s instructions to seek out the prisoner of the Opal Valley had been approved by His Ascendance, but it was clearly not the case now. “Make the man talk,” the letter had said. Aralim stepped toward the door, and the Aura opened it for him.
Inside the small room were two chairs, facing one another. A man occupied one chair, slumped forward in sleep. A shackle at his ankle was bound to the wall by an iron chain—the Emperor’s iron. The man stirred as Aralim stepped into the room, lifting a bruised forehead and opening blood-shot eyes to regard Aralim. Behind all the bruises, cracked skin, and broken nose, it was Lord Sunaza that peered up at the Walker of the Path.
Aralim sank into the other chair in surprise. Behind him, the Aura closed the door. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the Aura had closed the door from within. The Emperor would have his own account of what transpired. Aralim turned back to Lord Sunaza.
The beaten and clearly dishonoured Lord peered at Aralim as though not recognizing him. At last, he said, “You? What are you going to do that all his soldiers and torturers cannot?”
Aralim rubbed his sweaty forehead. “Maybe get you out of here alive. Maybe just give you company in suffering. We’ll see where the Path leads us.”
“There is no way I get out alive,” Sunaza mumbled. His thick brown hair hung about his head like a used mop; it quivered in unison with his shaking head.
“So, you’re keeping your secrets… for your dignity?” Aralim asked. He paused, but when Sunaza regarded him quizzically, he went on, “I assume you conspired with the gang? I’ve been… out of town…” He glanced back at the Aura, who—of course—said nothing.
“They have my daughter,” Sunaza gasped, drawing Aralim’s attention back as he hung his head. He looked up again with tears in his eyes. “The Emperor has endured worse. My deeds or that of this petty gang have done nothing to phase him, so I decided to keep my daughter alive—to do as they told me!”
Aralim pursed his lips. “You’re right. The Emperor has endured worse. So why would you not tell him everything you know, so that he can stop them and find your daughter?”
“Would you risk it? With your young daughter?” Sunaza asked. “By the time I was involved, I had already heard of a dozen casualties. He didn’t save them.”
Sunaza was probably be clueless—he had probably assumed Miresh was Aralim’s daughter. But it brought up memories of ash for Aralim. Ash and blood. “I had a daughter once…. She was killed by bandits many years ago, before I left my homeland.”
“Would you not have died for her?” Sunaza asked, intent on Aralim’s distant expression. “They will release my daughter when I am killed. They will have no use for her—she will survive this.”
“You’re a fool for thinking that. Why would they release her? They’re the kind of people to threaten your daughter’s life to get your help, but you think they’re the kind to release people they no longer need?”
Sunaza desperately defended his belief. “That is more of a chance than trying to stop them before they kill her. She isn’t even in Rema anymore!” he blurted. He blinked, eyes bulging despite his bloody eyebrows, and quickly covered it up: “What does it matter what I decide? They’re random criminals—what are they to you?”
Aralim shrugged. “To me? Just an obstacle to my progress on the Path—but to you, they’re the people who have your daughter. So, am I to understand that you want us to kill you, so that they’ll free your daughter?”
The beaten lord opened his mouth to answer, but then stopped. It was not a choice that a sane man could make—not after Aralim had pointed out reasonable doubts that Sunaza’s daughter would ever be released unharmed.
Aralim smiled. “It doesn’t sound like it would work, does it? I have an alternate idea, if you’d like to hear it.”
Sunaza closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the top of the wooden chair. He rested in such a way for a few breaths, then looked weakly at Aralim once again. He gave a slight nod, almost in defeat.
“There are dozens of ill people in the Hall of Rest,” Aralim explained. “I’m sure you saw them. You tell us everything, so we know where to look. And I mean everything—your daughter’s life depends on it. Then we use one of those people to fake your death. And with your information, we’ll know where to look to watch them react.”
He could see the battle boiling chaotically within the deposed lord. He could see the man wrestle with his many vain choices. Aralim waited intently for a confession—or he would continue explaining the man’s predicament until one came.
Sunaza took a few deep breaths and then locked eyes with Aralim. “Swear that you will get my daughter back,” he said.
Aralim thought that was all he was going to say, so he opened his mouth to swear it. When Sunaza added more, he closed it.
“If you fail, swear that you will give me mercy from that torment. You, not some guard or Aura. You will succeed, or our blood will be on your hands. Swear this or I will tell you nothing.” Though the words were chosen by a man used to speaking with power, Sunaza’s throat uttered them hoarsely, severely. He had finally reached a point of surrendering his mental burden to another.
Aralim paused for a moment. To ensure he had Sunaza’s trust, he needed to bond with the man. He needed to match the man’s desperation. “I swear on my daughter’s grave,” he said.
The room was quiet save for Sunaza’s relieved exhalation. “I shall tell you then…” he murmured.