Four days after Aralim’s appointment with the Third Court, he received a courier at his home to inform him that he had been chosen to be one of the Selected. He wasn’t to start for a week, he learned. The courier looked at him in confusion when he asked if there were no training days or preparation to be done before that date approached.
He felt as though the news should change his plans for the day, but it really didn’t. He crossed Rema on a rather long walk to the tavern known as the Evening Lion. He examined the exterior of the establishment first. Two enormous white wood beams supported the tall roof of the three-storey inn. The windows on either side of the bright entrance were painted, not stained glass, rather a thin layer of stylish paint through which the flickering lights of fireplaces and candles could be seen. On the left was the painting of a lion’s face, surrounded by a mane of red hair. On the right-side windows was a nearly identical caricature, but that of a woman. A few tables on the deck were occupied by clusters of citizens and one by a group of soldiers. Their ornate and diverse helms seem to occupy their very own, second table.
Aralim entered the inn without further ado. He was greeted by a woman with white skin and more jewelry than he’d ever seen on a woman. She grinned, and leaned over a small entry desk in an effort to entice him. “Good day, Master. Here for a drink or for a friend?”
“A friend, I suppose,” Aralim said. “Her name is Zarru.”
“Get lots of requests for her,” the woman said, settling with her back leaning against the wall of the anteroom. “Only a few can afford it. Can you?”
“She’s more of a mutual friend, I suppose. I actually came because I’m concerned for her. I was only hoping to speak to her during her hours off,” he explained.
“I see,” said the bargirl. She didn’t seem impressed by the information. “You don’t really seem like one of her friends. But I’ll leave your name for her, if you’d like?”
“Alright,” Aralim said. “I’m Aralim. I live on West Corid Avenue.” That, at least, got a raised eyebrow from her. “And tell Zarru that this concerns the Emperor.”
The woman blinked and leaned forward again, her neckline of loose sky blue silk dress plunging. She wrote a note down on a page on her desk. “I’ll make certain she gets this.” She smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?”
“No thank you,” Aralim said.
After leaving the Evening Lion, Aralim decided to check in on the smith who was fashioning the replica knife from Miresh. Her was one of the master smiths in Rema, and, as the first city to discover iron in the Yurna Mountains, there were many. He had even asked Rattar about the expense first, just to be certain. The replica was one of the most expensive things he had done with the Emperor’s money since being granted the estate on Corid.
Big Barrasa’s Smithy was built on Iron Way, the main street from the Ake’ma to the Iron Palace. The property was lavish in a very industrial way. There was no garden, but a lot of grass for such a downtown location. A big tree rose over nearby roofs on the corner, draping vines and dropping nuts onto the street below. A column of smoke rose behind it—the forge was active today. Aralim entered the shop through the open double doors.
“Master Aralim!” Big Barrasa exclaimed. He set down his hammer, having been banging on an anvil when the Walker arrived, and sat down on a stool nearby in joking shock. Even seated there, the enormous man of Raderan descent met Aralim eye-to-eye. “How did you know? I finished the little poker yesterday afternoon. Hadn’t sent for a messenger yet.”
“I have my ways,” Aralim said, though it was either luck or the Path this time.
Big Barrasa wiped his greasy hands clean on a brown towel and then opened a small chest on the table nearby with a tiny gold key. His fingers were as thick as Aralim’s toes, and it was a wonder he would work such a small contraption. “It’s here, Master.” He passed Aralim a folded purple cloth and Aralim unfolded it to find the knife made. “I burned the diagrams in the forge already, as you requested. No one else saw them.”
“Excellent,” Aralim said. The knife had a small silver handle and a blade as thin as one of his fingers. There were loops in the metal handle for grip, and a diamond shaped lump at the end. He wrapped the cloth around it again and smiled. “Thank you, Barrasa.”
“You know where to find me next time, right Master Aralim?” the blacksmith asked. His neck was thicker than his jaw, but his smile somehow seemed ear-to-ear.
“Of course,” Aralim said.
It was a shorter walk home than his first venture of the day was. The Evening Lion was a little out of the way, while West Corid avenue branched off Iron Way not nearly as far away. Miresh was already home, and food was already on the table by the time he met Ko’nagar at his front door.
After they finished dinner, Miresh and he retired to the living room. Hayan joined them. He seemed oddly sombre that evening, but said he was just tired. Aralim procured the knife and gradually unrolled it from the purple cloth wrapped around it.
“What’s that?” Miresh asked.
Aralim smiled. “It’s for you. To help with your visions,” he said. He pulled the small scabbard free of the decoration and passed her the knife.
Miresh held the knife in her hands and stared at it in awe. “How’d you get it?” she exclaimed.
“Oh,” Aralim said. “That’s not the knife. I have no more idea where the real one is than you do. Less even… I had a replica made from your drawings to give you something to sense or whatever. You told Rattar it was hard because you’d never actually held an item like the one in your visions. Well, now you can carry it around with you if you really wanted.”
“It’s incredible,” Miresh breathed. Hayan mumbled agreement and gave Aralim a nod of approval. The young magician pulled off the scabbard. The blade was only as long as Aralim’s hand but it was polished and bright. The young magician turned it over and over in her hands. She shook her head gently in disbelief and, when she looked up at Aralim, he saw her eyes were full of tears. They dripped down her cheeks as she stood up. “No one’s ever been so nice to me,” she mumbled with a wrinkled lip and stepped over to Aralim’s seat. Her arm’s snaked around his neck and she put her head on his shoulder.
Aralim hugged his young friend gently. He resented the task Ovoe had given him and he sought another means to resolve the issue. He kept this burden from his young friend, for fear she might resent him for taking part in such grim alliances. He would do his best to go about things the good way, since that was how Miresh seemed to walk the Path. And, after the deaths of his first family, it was how Aralim preferred. He held Miresh close and smiled.