A storm rattled the Chapel of Peace throughout the night, but Aralim slept through most of it. He remembered waking up once, in a layered linen bunk, to listen to the pounding rain. There were no currents; the storm was not soft then hard. It was fierce the whole time, an incessant torrent. Rainwater collected in a few puddles on the floor, even though the bunks were in the basement of the small church.
Miresh had been sitting up, the whole time that Aralim peered through the dreamy haze of his restless sleep. She was awake, listening to the rain like she had the day of her first vision. He could remember that day well, the downpour that flooded the deck of the Cloud Smuggler, many moons ago. Aralim had through to call out to her, so he opened his mouth.
And he awoke that morning, to the plop, plop of left over rain drops and the glow of ambient daylight.
Naeen and Hayan were discussing whatever debt Hayan might owe the company he borrowed the sound magnet for, while Miresh carefully folding up her blanket. They carried their packs with them still, because the Chapel was a public place. Aralim knelt by his friend. “Everything good?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I’m excited. I hope Mistress Athanu can help.”
Aralim nodded. “I am too. Did you have another vision?”
“No sir,” she piped. She tucked the folded blanket into one of their cloth packs and then started folding Aralim’s, while the older Walker picked up his lantern staff.
Naeen was their guide once more. She had shared with them that she grew up on the Ake’ma River, travelling back and forth between the villages upon it, and the cities at either end. She still didn’t tell her whole story—but Aralim did not ask for it either. She knew Rema enough to help them, and right now, that was enough.
It was a long march across the weaving streets of the city. There were walls in random places, like there had once been distinct districts that fell to the sprawling chaos of overpopulation. None of the city seemed in squalor though, not compared to anywhere Aralim had ever been. These were the wealthiest people he had ever seen, and even the old, unmanned walls were built of enormous white or grey bricks, like a fortress’s wall.
Aralim glanced back at the Iron Palace. They were walking the wrong way: the enormous supported structure lay behind him, and to the right.
Mistress Athanu’s house was uphill, he soon realized. They followed a street that climbed up the slope of one of Rema’s two mountains, on the north side of the metropolis. Mansions dotted the cliffs and ridges, hidden amongst rocky points and ancient green trees. Naeen stopped in front of a three-storey estate, surrounded by a hedge-wall and a small battalion of guards in bright iron armour, not the matte grey of the royal army.
“This is her estate?” Hayan asked. There were two-storey wings on either side of the main building, and small pointed towers on each vertex of the outer wall.
“Look,” Naeen said. There was a smooth wooden sign nearby, with the words, ‘Athanu Fifth’, etched delicately upon it. She smirked and led the way toward the front gate, while saying, “I’m certain this is it.”
The guards on duty bowed as they approached. “Welcome to the estate of Mistress Athanu. Have you business with our superior?” Their identical armour was shiny in the sunlight, and without any markings, carvings, or blemishes. They all wore swords at their waists, with a knife on the opposite side. All of their gear was made from iron, it seemed.
“I am Aralim, and this is Miresh. Mistress Athanu has invited us to her estate today,” Aralim explained.
“Of course, master,” the same guard replied. His face was hidden behind two hinged cheek visors. Only his eyes, the tip of his nose, and the prong of a brown beard were visible. “This way.”
The guard led them through the manway of a twelve foot wooden gate, and escorted them into the main building. The first room was a great hall, of sorts. Less like a feast-hall, more like a gallery. Tapestries hung from all the walls, only absent where paintings or framed maps were displayed. Though two wide dining tables ran perpendicular to themselves, the room was almost entirely abandoned, and the emphasis seemed to be the art.
“Mistress Athanu will be with you momentarily. Please, make yourselves comfortable,” the guard said, before tromping away on his metal boots.
“Greetings,” came a voice from one of the adjoining hallways. Aralim hadn’t even noticed where the room led, he had been so taken with the degree of its decoration. Mistress Athanu was, in fact, with them immediately.
“Good morning,” Aralim replied.
The Selected strode into the room, wearing a tight fitting linen robe, a vibrant shade of sky blue, and a black vest to conceal her curves. She looked like an artist herself, now, with long sleeves despite the heat of the city. “I’m glad you found the estate easily enough. I was skeptical of your introduction, yesterday, but this conversation should help to shed more light on your situation,” she said. She stepped closer, and Aralim realized her black hair was actually a dark shade of blue. She tucked a strand of it behind her ear, and regarded Aralim with bright blue eyes.
“I am Aralim,” he said, quietly. “And this is Miresh, Hayan, Naeen.”
“I’m Vas’vir Athanu,” she replied. Aralim placed her at around thirty years of age. “Are you truly from a land so far away?”
Aralim nodded. “I hail from a city called Trell, far south of the Great Isle. Miresh hails from Lantern Town, if you have heard of it. I did not lie about our origin.”
“But you do not claim to be a magician?” Athanu asked.
Aralim bobbed his head. “Not usually,” he said. “Miresh is. We know it. I follow the Path, a belief in enlightenment and power. We seek it always, but Miresh… she has found her way along it in leaps and bounds. We would not be here, if not for her choices.”
Miresh blinked and bowed stiffly. She was growing accustomed to Aralim’s attitude about her, but she was standing before someone who’s opinion of her mattered, and she was visibly nervous. “Mistress,” she said, quietly.
“Young one,” Athanu said, kneeling. “Is she your daughter? No, I didn’t think so.” Then, the Selected turned back to Miresh. “I would like to determine the truth of your friend’s claims. Do you mind if I take your hand?”
“That’s fine,” Miresh said, and stepped closer. “What do you want to do?”
“I just need a moment to focus,” Athanu said. “Then, I’ll know if she has the gift, as you say.” She took Miresh’s hands and closed her eyes, while Aralim realized with surprise, that he stood in the presence of yet another magician. He bowed, awkwardly, and Mistress Athanu didn’t notice. A moment later, she opened her eyes, and her lips parted in a smile. “It’s true,” she said. “You are a young magician. You have had dreams, like he said?”
“I have,” Miresh said. “Two. We drew some images from them, and wrote down some details…”
“It’s not necessary, yet,” Athanu murmured. “Best to keep things like that to yourself. Every magician has their own focus, after all.”
“We do?” Miresh asked. She blinked, and looked at Aralim, who shrugged. Then she looked back at the wealthy sorceress. “I want to understand what it means, though. I want to know why I’m having these dreams.”
“All in due time, child,” Athanu said. She stood up and turned back to Aralim. “You came here seeking the Emperor. Why?”
“He is the most powerful man we have heard of,” Aralim said, at once. The Path was clear, the lesser followers sought the wisdom and power of the greater ones. He looked at Naeen and Hayan, then back at Athanu.
“Some would call you a blasphemer for calling him a man,” Athanu said. “But not I. My family has been in Rema since the start, and you are right to seek a man like Tag’na the Eternal. I will give you what you seek. Two days from now, when the Palace opens again, you may address the Second Court with my patronage. You may stay in my estate, as long as you need, and I look forward to your company at my table. Let us see what the god king will give to the eleven year old mage, let us see.”