The dry parchment pages of the tome turned as stiffly as Aralim’s blinking eyelids. He was exhausted. Three days ago, Master Rattar had observed that Miresh’s flower was growing faster than Aralim’s, which meant she was affecting it with her abilities. For two days they barely slept, and Aralim watched in amazement as the tiny stalk grew taller and sprouted leaves. It had a bud at the top, but had not yet bloomed. The third day involved a lot of sleep, and Miresh had sunken into a deep frustration at her inability to finish the task faster—likely due only to her fatigue.
Even now, she was asleep. Aralim was continuing to read the description of what made plants grow. Nutrients from the soil and moss supported the seedling until it could sprout leaves. At that point sunlight took over, which made sense to Aralim because of how scarce shadowed foliage was in the rainforests he had seen. But despite his understanding, his plant did not grow.
“You awake?” Hayan asked.
Aralim started up, his cheek a little chalky from the page he had slumped on. “What is it?” he asked, flustered.
Hayan smiled calmly. “Miresh is getting up at last.” He was wearing a long cloak that hung like a vest around his shoulders hiding most of the thin tunic he wore beneath. His chin was sporting small scruff now, more brown than the dark rows of hair on his head.
Aralim glanced at his lantern staff, still casting its blue light throughout the room. The other light, a wide candle on the shelf of the wall, was still flickering and he couldn’t tell how much of it had burned. “What time is it?”
Hayan chuckled. “Sunrise. She said she’s going to go finish growing Rattar’s flower today.”
Aralim nodded. He slammed shut the dull treatise on the growth of foliage and picked up his lantern staff from against the reading desk with a clatter. He started to walk past Hayan, but his friend held him up with a hand.
“Will you go with her all the time?” Hayan asked.
“I haven’t decided, but I also haven’t encountered any reason not to. When Ovoe the Keeper visited us, I was glad to have been there for Miresh,” Aralim said. “And when we meditate on small plants in a dewy glade, I am glad to have been there also.”
Hayan nodded. “I’m going into the north district today,” he said. “I’ll be back this evening, but the man I borrowed that sound magnet from asked to meet with me. Probably to discuss terms of payment at last…”
Aralim nodded and looked around. “I think we should be able to handle that.” He smirked, but saw Hayan’s seriousness. “Bring Naeen if you want. She knows her way around and has spent the last month enjoying life here while stuffing her pockets with their silverware, I think.” With that, he lurched forward on his lantern staff and exited the small study on the first floor of their West Corid estate.
Miresh sat alone in the dining hall, dipping a slice of bread into a small bowl of jam and spice. Aralim sat down across from her and helped himself to half a loaf from the nearest breakfast platter. The servants usually set out a handful of options and left them out for the inhabitants irregular schedules. “Can I share yours?” Aralim asked, pausing his first slice over her bowl.
“’course,” she said, around a mouthful.
“How do you do it?” he asked Miresh. “Grow that stem, like you have been?”
Miresh stopped chewing and smiled. She put her hand on her lantern staff. “This,” she said. She swallowed heavily, and then explained more. “It’s not quite the same as saying the Crux is a tool or an extension of my arm or something. Rattar has taught enough people, so I don’t know why he wouldn’t say how it is better.”
“How is it?” Aralim asked, and took a bite of the berry jam bread in his hand. It filled his mouth with a rich flavour and a the cozy draw of nostalgia. When was the last time he ate berry jam?
“If I can life this bowl simply by deciding I want to and then applying my muscles to do it, then my staff is like the muscle I use for magic.” She grinned after her explanation, proud of it. “I tired myself out trying too much at once, but I think I’ve got the practice of it now.”
Aralim pursed his lips and felt the lantern staff resting in the crook of his right arm. Muscles, he imagined. He tried to flex his staff, at least, mentally. Then he shrugged and kept eating his bread.
A few minutes passed as they talked about Rattar and the other apprentices they had seen. None were Rattar’s formal trainee—there were a dozen other master sorcerers that attended the meditation house on the Iron Palace grounds, but they were all in their twenties or thirties. Miresh was the youngest.
An hour later, they finally reached the Palace and the Aura let them pass without a second glance. Aralim wondered how the seemingly faceless plethora of servants could keep straight all the regular comers and goers of Rema’s courts, but they did so accurately as far as he could determine. It got under his skin though; the longer he spent in the yards of the Iron Palace the more he felt that the Aura was genuinely a magical cloak for his Ascendance, an extension of his senses and willpower. As he watched Miresh sit cross-legged before the taller flower stalk, he wondered if the Aura could actually be a force of magic.
Rattar joined them twenty minutes after they entered his grove. This time, Rattar was bare-chested, revealing his folded and wrinkled dark skin. He was a small man who had never given his age to them, but Aralim suspected he was about seventy, and likely the oldest man Aralim had ever met. He looked away from the Great Mage of Rema and regarded his tiny green seedling before correcting himself. The second oldest man. Emperor Tag’na was the oldest, if it was to be believed.
“Aralim,” Rattar said. “Would you like to speak today, instead of… focusing?”
Aralim stood up quietly. He didn’t want to disturb whatever magic might be coursing from Miresh into the budding flower. The tiniest hint of blue had appeared at the top of the plant, but Miresh looked at it calmly, with open eyes and a small smile. “What is it, Master?”
Rattar smiled. “Please, I am not training you. Rattar will suffice. I caught you looking at me, just now. Surely, you have questions.”
“No questions,” Aralim murmured, “But I seek knowledge and the Path always. Whatever you may share of yourself or his Ascendance would always be appreciated.”
Rattar nodded quietly and paced away. Aralim was uncertain what to do, until the Great Mage raised two fingers to beckon him to follow. They walked a few steps away, to an opening in the grove where they could see the tendrils of smoke above the nearby meditation yard. “I was once an apprentice here,” Rattar said. “To Great Mage Veeran Arsu, favour to his spirit. Veeran was apprentice to Ascendance Tag’na and Great Mage of Rema for 94 years.”
“He lived to 94 years?” Aralim asked. He had heard of one or two people reaching that age, including the Wise Woman of Trell who had passed away peacefully at 97.
“He lived to 123 years of age,” Rattar said.
Aralim couldn’t believe his ears. “How?” he asked.
“Skilled magicians treat even their smallest ailments like masters of medicine,” Rattar explained. “A large part of our age is due to this incredible health. Another part is on account of Journeying, the primary form of travel with magic, which robs the world for us for months, even a year at a time.”
Aralim leaned on his lantern staff. “How old are you—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”
“Hah, that’s normal, Aralim. It’s a matter of public record, actually,” Rattar said, with a smile. His teeth had hints of cavities, but his breath did not stink. “I am 116, but will be 117 next Moon. But hear me—both my predecessor and I are two of the oldest magicians on record. Even in the East, none who visit the Isle of Dusk rival such years save Gravagan and Pralla Maga-sha, that I know of.”
“Except his Ascendance,” Aralim corrected, again.
Rattar smiled. “Except his Ascendance. He alone holds the secret of immortality.”
“Why wouldn’t he grant it to his loyal servants, like yourself?” Aralim asked. He turned to look back at the looming roof of the Iron Palace.
Rattar chuckled. “That is a story for another time, friend. I can only ask you to not allow that to change your impressions of our Emperor, for he is the greatest man I have ever met.”
Aralim shrugged. Part of him longed to understand what mysteries lurked here, but if Ovoe the Keeper could not know everything, than neither could Aralim the Walker. He would, instead, be content to follow the Path for all his days and know what it taught him. And how unusual it was, to follow the Path here, to learn from the men and women of Rema a thousand miles from his home. He began, “In all your years in his service, have you encountered travellers such as myself and—”
“Master Rattar,” Miresh called. Leaning on her lantern staff, she reclaimed her feet and dusted off her pants from the soil she’d rested on. “Aralim! I did it!”
Rattar smiled. “I knew you soon would! Your gifts are undoubted and quickly improving, young one!” Aralim led the way, and they rushed back across the orchard to the young sandy-haired girl’s side.
Before Aralim’s eyes, a large blue and violet blossom reached skyward. Each of its petals was shaped like a fingernail; around the outer ring were large rectangles, while smaller ones folded inward to a squat, black pistil. A breeze gently swayed the stem, but the foot-tall flower held to its roots, proudly displaying its beauty to them a month prematurely. Miresh looked at her two mentors and brimmed with happiness.
“What’s the next lesson?” she asked.