At least the Imperial Highway was direct. In some places, it was tunneled straight through the errant ridges of the Iron Mountains. The manpower involved must have been substantial, though Nilless—from her city of towers—was less impressed than Aralim. The Aura, like their quiet shadow, did not weigh in on the discussion.
Aralim missed chatting with Miresh along the way and hoped she had arrived in Rema safely—and on time.
As they neared the capital, gardeners’ villages and mining towns popped up more and more. Soon after leaving one, Aralim spotted iron-armoured soldiers amid the other varied travellers on the road ahead. Their group spotted Aralim’s lantern staff as they neared and one removed his helmet, though Aralim did not recognize him.
“My lord Ambassador,” the soldier intoned, with a stiff bow from mid-torso. “We are fortunate to have found you so soon.”
“What’s the matter?” Aralim asked, looking at Nill with concern. “Did Miresh precede me?”
The man dabbed sweat from his brow with a rag and nodded. “She did. Lady Miresh is along the highway a little farther. It was decided upon her arrival that you were near enough to set out in search of you. You see, Greatfather Athanu is on his deathbed. If we hurry back, you may catch him before his end.”
“Lead the way,” Aralim ordered, and fell into step with their brisk march. Nill hurried to keep up.
Just as the trooper had assured Aralim, they soon joined with Narr and Miresh, as well as a half-dozen more royal soldiers. They shared a quick midday meal before setting out for the remaining hours to reach Rema. Fortunately, it was well before sunset when they made their way through the crowded, noisy streets of the capital. Nill, exhausted from their journey, took their travel packs and headed for the estate, while Miresh, Narr, and the Aura accompanied Aralim to the Iron Palace.
Aralim sent the Aura on ahead to deliver a message to the Emperor. He told him, “I would like to meet with you to discuss my next steps, should you have it. If not, I plan to depart for Maykren in under a week’s time.”
If the ever-quiet Emperor had a response, Aralim did not receive it by the time they reached the open gates of the looming Palace. They walked under the archways of the outer wall and Aralim looked away from the guards and orange-robed watchers to again marvel at the size of the metal-encased pillars and their four-storey-high roof. How long has it been? Aralim wondered. Best he could figure, he had not spoken with his Ascendance in well over half-a-year.
Amid the iron pillars, a space had been arranged with partitions and storage trunks. In another clearing of columns, a number of Athanu’s many descendants were gathered—Aralim saw Miss Vas’vir Athanu and Councillor Raug’za among them. Miresh excused herself to visit with them while Aralim went ahead to the partitioned space where Greatfather Niyal rested. Aralim’s youngest friend had already visited with the aged advisor.
Greatfather Athanu rested on a raised cot, covered in a sheen blue sheet. Aralim set his lantern staff aside and then claimed one of the short stools at the old man’s bedside. Amid the wrinkles and wisps of remaining hair, Niyal’s closed eyes fluttered as though in a dream. That alone indicated the life that remained within him.
After a few moments, Niyal stirred, opening his eyes and looking around blankly. Then he sunk back into his sleep. Aralim wondered if he had stayed long enough, but before he rose from the cushioned stool, Niyal glanced at him once more. He tried to lift himself up higher on his cushions.
“Please rest. Stay comfortable, my friend,” Aralim urged him, gesturing with his hands to stay the old man’s movements.
Athanu settled a little more upright on the pillows. “They told me…you were gone…” he murmured, pausing to find his strength.
Aralim glanced around. Only the Aura—a few of them standing in the shadows near the partitions—were close enough to hear what was said here. Turning back to the elderly man, Aralim quietly said, “I wanted to see the land I’m meant to represent. And honestly, the Emperor was less than pleased with me.” He forced a chuckle.
“The Emperor…he is being a stubborn fool,” Niyal declared, loud enough to make sure the Aura heard. He gave Aralim a sly smile.
Aralim smiled. “We old men have a habit of that.”
“Do we?” Niyal asked, chuckling. His weak laughter shifted painfully into laboured coughing. The nearest Aura approached to help him sip some sort of herbal brew from a canteen. After the Aura returned to her posting, the Greatfather tried again, “And what did…you learn of this land you’re…to represent?”
“That the common folk are—on the whole—very happy with their lives, and that Magistrates do not appreciate surprise visits from Ambassadors,” Aralim explained, with a smile.
Niyal nodded with great effort. “Want to know…what I think about your predicament? What I’ve…been thinking?” He waved for Aralim to lean in closer.
Aralim complied, moving off the stool to put the side of his face close to the old man’s mouth.
Niyal’s whisper was so quiet that Aralim could barely hear it—the Aura, and therefore the Emperor, certainly could not. “You must always remember that your Path does not end here.”
Aralim smiled, feeling the old man’s warm empathy for him. “You are a true friend. As a friend…do you remember the question you once asked me? What always stirred your curiosity, concerning our friend Rattar?”
With a stirring light in his eyes, Athanu hissed, “The flawed Crux that…the General told to me?”
“It’s Tag’na,” Aralim whispered. “Rattar’s Crux is flawed because it is a living man.”
“It’s Tag’na…” Niyal repeated, confused. Then he began to understand it—that a Crux must be perfectly familiar and therefore unchanging, and that Tag’na was the most unchanging of all men, but also was not always present where Rattar could access him. Then, a little louder, he muttered, “Gods, whose idea was that?”
Another voice, a calm and clear one, spoke from behind Aralim. “I hope I am not interrupting anything?”
Aralim straightened up from Athanu’s bedside, mostly out of surprise.
It was the Eternal Emperor himself, standing just at the edge of the partitions. Tag’na looked as he always had, his youthful skin stretched over well-trained muscles, his shirtless physique unmarred by scars. His short black hair was held back in its clip and his earlobes were dotted with those small, square, iron earrings. The long, flowing red skirts he wore around his waist were dotted with beads and trinkets.
“Ah, your Ascendance,” Aralim intoned. “Just two old men sharing stories. You’re welcome to join, of course.”
Tag’na strode closer to the bedside. He did not seem happy to see Aralim—but he did not seem angry or unimpressed either. His expression was unreadable in the way that only his could be. “Have you any stories I don’t already know?” he asked, at last allowing the slightest quirk in his lips.
Niyal sighed with a loud, unimpressed, “Oh…”
Aralim held his breath, dreading how this would play out.
“You’re a stubborn fool, I say,” Athanu drawled
With a broad grin, Tag’na said, “I heard you the first time, Athanu.”
Aralim let out his breath. He leaned back, finding a seat once more on the comfortable stool. “Have you two been fighting in my absence? I didn’t know you were included in my diplomatic duties.”
Niyal interjected again, mercilessly taunting the oldest and most dangerous man alive: “He is your diplomatic…duties. In their entirety…”
Tag’na laughed heartily.
“Easy Niyal,” Aralim said, worrying as the old man strained himself. “I’d like to talk to you again tomorrow and you only have so much rage left in you.”
The old man sighed. “You’re right,” he muttered, and called for another sip of his soothing brew.
“How will I replace him?” Tag’na asked Aralim, suddenly seeming immensely sad.
Aralim snorted. “A man in Rema that’s willing to be this honest with you? It may be impossible.”
Tag’na looked back at the old man. “It’s not just honesty. Also, indifference. Even you, Aralim, have proven incapable of that.”
“Niyal was just reminding me of that, actually,” Aralim pointed out.
“Good work to the very end, then, Athanu,” Tag’na told the old advisor.
Niyal scowled. “Indifference?…no, I simply valued other things,” he said. Weary, he sank a little lower into his cushions, disturbing the tendrils of grey hair that remained on his scalp.
“And I love you for it, my old friend,” Tag’na assured him.
“You’re a true friend, Athanu,” Aralim told Niyal, and then glanced at Tag’na. “And you would try to be, if I had let you.” It was, after all, Aralim’s decisions which had invaded Tag’na’s privacy—even though Aralim often felt the Emperor had overreacted.
“Sounds rather indifferent…to me,” Athanu taunted.
“Apparently…” Tag’na mused, smiling.
Greatfather Athanu waved them away. “The wordplay has…been enjoyable, but…I really must rest, my friends.” When they hesitated, he mumbled, “…still not the day…something about stubborn old men…”
As they stepped away, Tag’na beckoned for Aralim to follow him. When Miresh appeared, Tag’na paused. The young magician bowed politely, then asked them, “How was he?”
“Very weak, but strong enough to scold the Emperor,” Aralim said, laughing. “Could you tell Nil that I will be a bit longer than expected?” He glanced at Tag’na and received a nod, but nothing to indicate how long, nor what was in store for him.
“Of course—see you later!” Miresh quipped. Then she nodded to the Emperor once more and said, “Your Ascendance.
“Thank you, Miresh,” Tag’na told her.
Aralim rubbed her hair playfully. “Thank you, master-teleporter.”
As she ran off, Tag’na looked at Aralim with the smallest hint of pride. “Quite a milestone, I believe.” He began to walk, and Aralim fell into stride just shy of abreast.
“I feel as though she is learning quickly, but I had never encountered magic in person before I met her…” Aralim explained.
“Do you want my perspective on that?” the Emperor asked as they approached one of the staircases that led out to the side of the Iron Palace. Tag’na glanced sideways at Aralim. “Or to maintain your own?”
“I can always choose not to listen, but I usually appreciate your thoughts.” Aralim felt the now-familiar twists in the lantern staff that the Emperor had given to him just before their lapse in communication.
If his words, “choose not to listen,” struck a sore spot, the Emperor did not comment on it. “I am not at all unimpressed with Miresh or her gifts, but she is no Rattar. As a boy…a prodigy!”
They finished the steps and arrived on the cobblestone courtyard surrounding the Palace, though this was far from the public sector of the grounds. The main level of the Palace cast a shadow over the well-groomed fruit trees in the orchard, but the Emperor made a point of watching them while he collected his thoughts. Then at last, Tag’na looked Aralim in the eye and winced. “My moods do get the best of me, at times. I know you did not mean to pry, Aralim. I would ask you to follow me farther—but know that you cannot turn back…and you may wish to. Your deeds have asked a great trust of me…and I will ask that same trust be reciprocated.”
Aralim looked to the side, then back to his Ascendance. “I imagine it’s the most invaded you have felt in a century…the anger was understandable.” He paused. “One’s feet face forward, because that is the direction we are meant to walk. I cannot in good faith turn back now.”
A small smile—perhaps in relief—lit up Tag’na’s features. “Good. This way.” Then, he paused and, with mild awkwardness, added, “Whatever I say, know that I do regret how I’ve treated you these last few months.”
Aralim raised an eyebrow, but then followed the Emperor down the next flight of steps—toward the basement level of the Iron Palace. The door at the bottom of the stairs was guarded by members of the Aura, not metal-garbed soldiers. It admitted them to a cool corridor that ran parallel to the perimeter of the structure.
As soon as the door closed, the Emperor’s shoulders sagged visibly. “I let it get close, this time,” he muttered.
The dark, torchlit corridor seemed less ominous now, as Aralim began to realize what would unfold, what the Emperor meant to entrust to him. The walls were plain stone, not metal-plated and scrawled with carvings. This was the Emperor’s sanctum down here, not his showroom. They reached another doorway, this one leading into a larger chamber. As they crossed the threshold, the Emperor grunted and grabbed the doorframe for support.
Aralim was patient, uncertain how much strength to lend. This was happening much earlier than he had expected—most of the ignorant citizens beyond the Palace walls would only now be eating their dinner. He followed close beside the unaging ruler.
When Tag’na next looked at him, Aralim saw a slight weathering to his features—faint wrinkles and less definition from muscles. Tag’na looked a little thinner. He said, “I can’t have you knowing the truth, but not knowing it. We sit together by that old man’s bedside…the tranquility. To go that way…how I miss it—I long for it.”
The Aura was close around them, wordless robed men and women.
“I’d say I can only imagine, but…” Aralim trailed off.
The Emperor forced a smile, but quivered once more.
In the centre of the chamber was a few steps descending to a large iron basin, a tub of sorts. As Aralim reached the edge of the steps, one of the Aura touched his shoulder. He was not to proceed closer.
Tag’na unclasped his flowing red skirts and let them fall beside the iron tub before lowering himself into it. As the light from the braziers caught his features once more, Aralim saw deeper wrinkles—Tag’na now looked older than Aralim, not in his thirties.
Before his very eyes, Tag’na continued to transform. His features withered and cracked, his wrinkles creased even deeper and his muscles seemed to evaporate. His hair seemed to grow rougher and less nourished, losing some of its colour. The poor man was gasping and growling wordlessly. Then he locked his fading eyes on Aralim and forced the words, “You seek the truth for your own gain, your own Path—well, here it is. See this—this wretched truth you so seek. The Aura can take you back when you’ve had your fill.” His tirade continued into senseless babbling as his agony increased, but his anger and bitterness remained obvious.
Aralim looked around the room: four large braziers, several pillars to support the massive weight of the Palace above. Lacking furniture, Aralim sank down to the floor next to the steps. “You deserve to be seen,” he said, grimacing but not looking away from the grisly transformation. Tears filled his eyes.
The Aura began to pour various oils and liquids into the iron basin, though Aralim could not imagine they did much for the Emperor’s torment. It was one of the longest half-hours of Aralim’s life. As he approached Athanu’s age, Tag’na uttered a few more words—only “alone” and “endless” were coherent. Then his skin began to grey, drying out from anything resembling life. His eyes sunk in, and he began his nightly rest as a half-rotten corpse.
Like a vigil, Aralim sat at the Emperor’s side throughout the long hours of the sunset and the night that came after. When the prisoner of the Opal Valley had told him about Tarro, Aralim had not imagined that it was like this. It had been described that Tarro spent a few hours each night the age he truly was—but Tarro was far younger than Tag’na.
Soon, such analytical thoughts left Aralim. He had trouble looking away from the withered body of the Emperor, just as he had trouble wrapping his mind around the horror of Tag’na’s continued existence. He was sitting beside his friend’s grave.