Fortress Marana was the home of operations for the military of Numa’nakres, an enormous stronghold built into the walls of the Iron Palace grounds which allowed access to both sides. It held a barracks for Rema’s garrison of the Royal Army in the lowest stories, and provided meeting place and training chambers for the martial arts and armaments of the elite fighting force on the upper stories, while overlooking the grounds and the city through four sturdy watchtowers. General Ro both resided and worked here, for three days a week. The other two were spent attending the First Court, of course.
Surrounded by men in ornate metal armour, it was ironic for Aralim to consider that the General and he were of similar professions on those days. They were both counsellors for the Emperor’s state. He leaned on his staff as he waited for the General’s retainer to reappear.
“How often do you see the General?” he asked one of the soldiers marching past. After all, Ro had been the only man among the First Court who had never come to visit Aralim after his meetings with the Emperor.
The soldier shrugged, sweat dripping across his dark, muscular arm. In Aralim’s homeland, people of his complexion were as rare as his ethnicity was here. The soldier spoke quickly, seemingly impatient or in a rush. “He inspects the garrison once every moon, but only the Captains speak with him regularly, sir.” The soldier idled a moment longer, but Aralim dismissed him. The man tipped his sculpted helmet, which made his face look like the center of a screeching monkey’s face, and went on his way.
Aralim had only interacted with the General when he had first arrived in Rema, when Miresh and he had stood before them and asked for training in magic. He rubbed his thumb and his index finger against his neck. He’d awoken with a sore throat the other day, and now enjoyed the faint ringing of a headache as well.
The Palace grounds were busy today, for it was the first day of the week. Hundreds came each week; some came every first week day, while some were occasional pilgrims from other cities in the land. The people came to see the Eternal Emperor and to pray to him. Cushions were distributed and the steps in front of the Palace were surrounded by the devout. Tag’na appeared for a few hours, bare-chested and wearing a silk robe around his shoulders, and spoke with them or heard their prayers and spoke kind words of blessing to them. Many claimed that his words were divine and his wishes were made nature, but Tag’na’s own words to Aralim disproved the truth of that.
“The General has agreed to make an appointment with you,” the retainer said, and Aralim turned back toward the Fortress Marana. The administrator held a clay tablet in his hand where he had made several markings in the common language. “Will you be able to meet with him in four day’s time?”
Aralim nodded. “I will,” he told the young bearded man. That would be the last day of the week, and the Iron Palace would be off limits for all but the Emperor, his Aura, and his invited guests if he so desired, so he assumed the meeting would be here at the General’s castle. He tipped his head to the retainer. “Good day to you.”
A gentle rain began to fall as Aralim walked home. It had been a few months since he had worn his thick travelling cloak, which would keep him dry in even a Numa’nakres thunderstorm. His thin grey robe was soon drenched. He passed the iron rail that ran through the center of the main street and was intrigued by the running stream of water in its path. There were no cracks to offer the water an escape; once, Aralim had heard Rattar and Aglo speaking about pouring molten iron into the cracks, every dry season. Aralim crossed the iron trail and along West Corid avenue, and, by the time he reached their estate in West Corid, he was soaked to the bone and had a dripping nose to confound matters.
Ko’nagar was already waiting in the foyer with a towel for the return of his master, but Miresh surprised Aralim by rushing down the steps from upstairs as he was drying out his loose brown hair.
“It happened,” she said, rushing toward him. He dropped down and embraced her shoulders as she stepped closer to him. “I had another vision,” she said, smiling as they looked face to face. The twelve-year old grinned proudly.
“Really?” Aralim asked. “I knew it was just a matter of time. What was it about?” He quickly dried his clothes as much as he could with the towel and hung it around his shoulders.
“It was strange, like every time,” she said. “I saw a man, a young man with short hair and a short beard. He was holding my dagger in one hand, and his shoulder in the other. His back is bleeding, but the line of the blood is a road, a really long road with thousands of bricks. He’s asking for help, but I can’t tell if the man he’s talking to will give it to him.”
“A man bleeding a road?” Aralim asked. Is there any connection to the other visions? He wondered. To the dark-haired woman, the islands, the four bodies by a river? Or to the man and woman swimming through the ocean to a land covered in grey trees?
Miresh smiled. “Like I said, it doesn’t make any sense.”
Aralim nodded and stepped out of his sandals to follow her barefoot into the living area. Hayan sat in there, reading a book. “I wish I had been near her,” he told Aralim. “But she was upstairs then. If there were words, like there were the first time, I did not hear them.”
“Describe the man more,” Aralim said. “Did he have white skin or dark skin? What about his hair?”
“He was young, so his hair was dark,” Miresh said. She’d never seen a person with blond or red hair, like sometimes occurred in Aralim’s homeland. “And I can not say for certain what his skin was like.”
“What about the blood? Was it an actual road or is that just a metaphor?” Hayan asked.
“Like I said before,” Miresh replied, “I have no idea!”
“Have you spoken with Rattar?” Aralim asked.
His young friend shrugged. “No,” she said. She grabbed her lantern staff from where it leaned against the couch, it’s dark orange shutters unlit, and looked at Aralim. “Should we go and speak with him?”
Aralim grinned and ruffled his soaked scalp. “I guess I’ll go grab a better cloak,” he said.
Despite the rain, Aralim and Miresh found the Grand Mage under his kapok tree, his bald scalp sheen with rain water and a thick robe wrapped around his shoulders. He stood up from his meditation when he heard the lantern staffs on the mosaic floor of his hall. “What’s the occasion?” he asked, as they approached.
Miresh waved her arm and smiled. “I had a vision today, at last!”
“Wonderful!” Rattar exclaimed, spreading his hands. “Was it last night or while you were awake?”
“Well, I woke up after it was done…” Miresh told him, “But it was just before lunch.”
“So it was a Foresight you summoned!”
Miresh raised her shoulders, and scrunched up her face. “I guess. I don’t really understand what I did…” After a moment, she recounted the vision to him, leaving no detail out. When she finished the story, Aralim explained that, if she had spoken words with the vision, no one had heard them.
“Well, the road made of blood is likely the Crimson Highway,” Rattar said, nodding. “It spans Radregar, maintained by an ‘order’ of bandits.”
Aralim leaned on his lantern staff, while Miresh repeated the name of that land. When she fell silent, he asked the Grand Mage, “I assume we don’t know much about the traffic of daggers on this road?”
With a chuckle, Rattar explained, “Certainly not. The road covers hundreds of miles of land. But we at least know with relative certainty that the dagger is in on the Continent… or will be, since nothing else in that vision denotes a specific period of time.”
“Or was…” Aralim muttered.
Rattar bobbed his head. He touched one of the folded tree roots and sat down on another. “And Miresh? How did you have the vision—did you learn anything?”
The small girl sighed. “I was doing some reading,” she explained. “And then I woke up from the vision. I guess I fell asleep right there. I don’t remember thinking anything else, or doing anything else. It doesn’t feel as though I caused the vision.”
Rattar nodded. “That is common, especially for a learner,” he explained. He tapped his temple with a wiry index finger. “Unlike making the flower grow and fixing the blade, Foresight is less about an active focus and more a state of mind.” He rose off the tree roots and paced around the area in thought. “I had a trip planned into the East, but I will delay it with this bit of news. If Miresh’s visions grow more frequent, it may warrant bringing the both of you with me in search of the dagger.”
“A trip? With Journeying magic?” Miresh asked.
“How else?” Rattar questioned, looking down.
Aralim tapped his staff against the ground twice, causing a poignant echo off the shiny mosaic tiles. “We tend to walk…”
“That would be a very long journey,” Rattar mumbled. “Ships would be required. My meeting is on an island there.”
It had been several months since their arrival in Rema, but Aralim was struck with a strange pang of nostalgia. Was it his sailing venture with Miresh, or his days as a first mate, two decades ago? He rarely remembered those earlier days. But, maybe it was just his cold.
Rattar bent at the waist to look Miresh in the eye. “Keep it up,” he said, with a smile.