“So what next?” Aralim asked. They sat on a broken wooden bench that had been dragged into the public garden area near the sewer entrance. It was a small area where the homeless gathered; sometimes the local inns and shops left food here, so there was almost always a group of bearded, tattered men here. There were one or two women, but not many, and no other children that Miresh.
“I don’t know,” she replied. She was playing with a nearby fern, pulling at the leaves until one stalk had nothing left. “I want to know more about my gift.”
“We could seek out another magician, then.”
Miresh shrugged. “Just a random one?”
Aralim smiled. “Yes, there’s probably several in a big place like Bellasa.”
“Shouldn’t we look for a special one though?” Miresh asked. “If we’re walking the Path, shouldn’t we find the best one we can?”
Aralim bobbed his head back and forth, considering what she said. His lantern staff, though not lit, rested in the nook of his arm. They had eaten a small loaf of stale bread a few minutes ago. The sun hadn’t risen high enough yet to invade the small alley behind city blocks and three-storey houses. “Walkers of the Path go all over. I came north of my homeland to see where the Path might take me. I planned to seek out the spot where the star fell. But my Path led me to you, pretty promptly.”
“I don’t have any answers though,” Miresh said. “I just had a dream, that’s all.”
Aralim smiled. “You have to trust yourself,” he said. “The answers are in there somewhere. I believe that. So, are we going to find a random magician, and chances are it will be the right magician?”
Miresh frowned, and stopped picking at the plant beside her. The air now smelled a little bitter, from whatever herb she had been pulling from it. “I think we should. But I don’t know any. Do you?”
Aralim shook his head. “No, I know less about this land than you do… We’ll have to ask around.”
Miresh nodded and stood up. Before Aralim moved, he readied his lantern. His joints grew stiff some nights, after sleeping on the hard ground with not but a cloth beneath him. He was a man of forty-six, with greying brown hair and a fair share of scars and tanned wrinkles in his creases. He glanced at the beggar nearest him, a man with far more wrinkles and a small pipe clenches between his teeth. “Friend,” Aralim said, “Do you know who the greatest magician in the land is?”
The man shrugged. “I do not,” he said. “But I know who cares for us the most. Bellasa’s Wise Man. He helps us all over at the Den on Ailo Way.”
“Helps how?” Miresh asked.
The man puffed up a big cloud and said through clenched teeth, “’e heals the sick, buys food when he can. That sort.”
Aralim nodded. “Might be a good start,” he said, and stood up with his staff.
With directions from the lost folk of Bellasa, they reached Ailo Way after an hour’s walk through the winding streets of the city. Most of the buildings in Bellasa were constructed out of a sandy white stone, and the roofs shingled with a dark green clay or a rich burgundy wood. The Den was no more than a shelter near one of the city’s waterways. Boats navigated past, guided by huge wooden poles, while the roof of the shelter was no more than half of an upturned ship’s bottom, curving over to protect the gathering spot from rain and sun.
“Welcome,” said a middle-aged woman.
“Good day,” said the teenage boy that sat on the other side of the shelter. They were the only two there, at the time. “He’ll be back later.”
Without anything more, Miresh sat down, and Aralim sat next to her. They didn’t speak much, as they waited. The woman had a bad cough; she was probably here for healing. The boy didn’t seem to have anything wrong, and Aralim suspected he might work for or with the Wise Man.
About two hours after noon, the Wise Man arrived from the main street of Ailo Way with at least ten others—beggars, prostitutes, even a few sell swords—in tow. He was a middle-aged man, likely several years younger than Aralim, with a lighter shade of black skin and a shaved head. He had a grey-flecked beard, bound with a small leather string, and big bone earrings.
“Good afternoon, to all of you,” he said, as he approached. The Wise Man wore no shirt over his somewhat heavy gut and wide, robe-like green leggings. Over one arm swung a basket, which he opened as he walked into the Den. A few steps had been carved into the hard dirt. As he stepped down them, he handed out loaves of bread to be broken and shared. “I am Cirtho, a humble servant of the gods.”
“The gods?” Aralim asked, started. “Which gods?”
“Any of them,” Cirtho replied. “All of them, perhaps.”
Aralim looked at Miresh, and they both smiled. There was room for every religion on the past. What concerned Aralim more was that the man helped people, despite his claims to be able to heal mortal wounds. Every Walker of the Path knew that the Creator did not ask, nor care, for servants. The more enlightened the Spirit, the less interaction it required or desired with the inhabitants of the world. The Creator had long since gone inside the world.
Cirtho attempted to clarify: “I desire only to help. Do you need food? Or is your daughter in need of healing?”
“He’s not my father,” Miresh said, rolling her eyes. Most of the people in Bellasa were white skinned, but Aralim knew they’d be more frequently assumed to be family as they travelled north into stranger lands.
“Oh?” Cirtho asked. He glanced back at Aralim.
Aralim looked at Miresh, and let her answer. The young girl crossed her arms. “We’re looking for a magician. An enlightened one,” she said.
“Enlightened?” asked the teenage boy, but Cirtho raised his hand to stop any criticism.
“A powerful one,” Aralim murmured, with a small smile.
Cirtho raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“We’re looking for the right mentor,” Aralim said. “One that we’re supposed to meet, to further our passage on the Path.” Miresh smiled at Aralim; he guessed it was because she felt understood by him. Just seemed like common sense to him.
“A powerful magician,” Cirtho muttered. He leaned against the old wooden boat frame of his shelter. “Everyone knows of the Eternal Emperor, of course. You haven’t? In the distant west, in the jungles of Numa’nakres reigns the man who discovered iron. He has reigned for 270-something years, and still holds public audiences.”
“That’s incredible,” Miresh said. “He’s a magician?”
Cirtho shrugged, and cautiously said, “Most people believe he’s a god.” He took a bite of the bread he had brought, and held a bit out to them, as though asking if they were certain. Miresh took a bit, but Aralim was satisfied after their measly breakfast. “Much closer to the Great Isle is the Isle of Dusk. There, it is said, magicians gather for some unknown purpose. In the north they claim it is fowl magic, and the disappearance of boats nearby might be proof of that. On Keth, the tribes welcome pupils of magic and spirit. The Shamans would ‘mentor’ you, most certainly.”
“But just any shaman?” Miresh asked. She shook her head. “How far is…” She took a deep breath to pronounce it. “Numa’nakres?”
The teenager scoffed again. “Much further than you’ll ever get,” he said.
“Boy!” retorted the Wise Man. “This girl knows more about this world already than you ever will. Next time you want to talk, bite your tongue.”
Aralim smiled. “It’s alright,” he said. “Miresh can handle your cynicism.”
Cirtho smiled and turned back to Miresh. “It’s a long voyage, on a fast ship. But the men from that place, the Numa, they drift along in big barges, that draw out the journey. They value a luxury and a security over speed.”
“A good setting for meditation,” Aralim said. “If we can afford it.”
“We can work, too,” Miresh said. “Like you did on the Cloud-trader.”
Aralim thanked the Wise Man, and gave him one of their few coins as a courtesy. Miresh and he wandered out of the Den on Ailo Way into the main street. The sun was started to burn, blasting the cobblestone streets with waves of heat. Aralim leaned on his lantern staff. He would need to get her one, sooner or later.
“Guess we ought to find one of these barges then,” Aralim said.