The Eternal Emperor’s 278th birthday was celebrated even here in Keb’kres, hundreds of miles from the capital. With musicians wandering the streets and a chorus of cheering and conversation, the new year was rung in properly. Nill—who had yet to experience His Ascendance’s day—found herself eagerly brought along by Aralim and Miresh. The entire party departed from the Wayward Stead just after lunch.
While the madness of the festivities did not reach the same wild pitch as it had in Rema and Old Numa, certain customs from the region of Keb’kres were more prevalent. Aralim had seen many a woman in what some might consider scanty clothing before the festivities—it was a city of sweltering forests, after all—but the dress that Dullah had once worn to intimidate him seemed to be the most reserved of outfits on the birthday of the Emperor. Many artists of the brush had joined the musicians in the street to paint men and women with various patterns and designs. In some cases, Aralim was certain he had spotted people wearing nothing but the paint.
Nill found such customs uncomfortable, while Miresh was eager to get her face and arms painted like a colorful frog or other such amphibian.
A few times during the day, Aralim and Nill paused to listen to the musicians recount a myth or fictional tale, usually accompanied with the beats of a drum or the strumming of a harp. These performances were more pleasing to Nill as she could compare them to stories told by her people on the Torn Shore.
Velad’na favoured a smoked fish platter for dinner, so the group sat out on a crowded dock while they ate. Miresh made small, gentle swirls in the water with her magic, earning her applause from the passersby.
Later, as the sun was setting, their tour of the celebrations took them down a street of taverns and alehouses. One throng of shirtless men and women proved particularly rowdy, where brawlers had set up a fight-ring for their athletic bouts. Aralim and his friends barely approached before the duelists spotted Narr—a warrior of near unbelievable brawn.
The group began calling out to Narr, begging for him to fight them. Narr, of course, was as wordless as the Emperor’s Aura.
“He a mute?!” demanded a muscular fellow in the group.
Another blocked Aralim’s path, sizing him up and down before drunkenly slurring, “How ‘bout you? Learn some moves in the alley where you live?” He raised his hands before him, mockingly preparing himself for a bout.
Aralim—whose well-worn traveller’s cloak deserved better than such insults—passed his lantern staff to Miresh before asking his opposition, “Is this going to be a fair fight? Or are you all just going to come at me at once?” It had been a year since his training with Grendar, but he was confident he still could take a few of these day-drinkers.
“We don’t all want to fight you, old man,” guffawed the man in Aralim’s way. “We want to fight the big fellow!”
“Narr doesn’t fight for fun. Only work. I’m sure you understand,” Aralim explained.
“I’m sure he’ll fight for you!” shouted another in the crowd and came forward giving a violent shove in Aralim’s direction.
The Walker side-stepped quickly and jabbed the man in the jaw, sending him skittering off-balance into the table and chairs of the nearby tavern porch.
The crowd sank into a stunned silence, and then in rushed the fighters. The second who could reach Aralim was instead spun across the cobblestones by the Aura, whose orange robes had been replaced by a casual blue tunic at Aralim’s behest. Narr gave out light taps to any who came near him—taps that knocked the assailants out cold. The brawl was over long before it got started.
Aralim helped up the man whom he had knocked into the table.
Half-smiling while he nursed his bruised cheek, the man muttered, “Quite the group you have…” He stared at the Aura more than Narr. The group had expected Narr to be dangerous, but the Aura looked even softer at the edges than the road-wizened Walker.
Aralim gave the man a pat on the back. “Well, you’re not the first group to want to fight us. Now…let’s get you another drink. There are better ways to celebrate the Emperor’s birthday than fighting with his Ambassador.”
“His…his what?!” The man regarded Aralim with shock and a fair measure of guilt.
Aralim offered introductions all around, while the man he had struck named himself: “I’m Hernan. Carpenter. Uh, er, if it pleases you, Master Ambassador.” His former wrestling companions—those still conscious—were eager to offer their names as well.
“Aralim is fine,” Aralim insisted, with a laugh. “I had a good friend who was a carpenter once. Naton, right, Miresh?”
Miresh nodded—she had mended Naton’s broken arm as a part of her training.
“Ah, bless you sir, er, Aralim,” the carpenter muttered. He pulled out his coin pouch and offered Aralim a drink. Aralim agreed to have one.
After they were a few sips in, Aralim asked the man, “So, how is life here, for the common man? Your nobility seems…deflective?”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” Hernan offered. “We’re happy enough—as you can see. We work long days—always have—but we’re safe.”
The man who had initially opposed Aralim’s route through the crowd said, “More than can be said of the rest of the world.”
“I can attest to that,” Aralim said, and raised a cheer to them. It got a resounding response.
They socialized with the former fighters for nearly half an hour before moving on down the torchlit street.
That evening at the Wayward Stead, Aralim brewed a small pot of tea for himself and the Aura—they shared quarters, after all. Once the hot drink was ready, he poured for the Aura first. “Drink some tea and relax,” he urged the odd, tranquil man. “I suppose it’s your birthday as well, in a sense.”
They drank a few sips in silence before Aralim put to words something he had been thinking about all day. “278 years old…age does change the way we see the world. When I was a young man, my first voyage at sea lasted 2 months. I can still remember—it felt like an eternity. Yet now—the four years that I have known Miresh feel like the blink of an eye. I can only imagine how you view time.”
The Aura said nothing, but mimicked Aralim’s next sip of the steaming beverage.
“All of Rema is out celebrating your immortal youth,” Aralim murmured, “but I know that you are not. I wonder this often: you’re no magician—did you know what pain you had agreed to suffer, all those years ago?”
The blue lantern light fought eerily against the shadows, while Aralim and the quiet man drank their tea into the night.