For close to three months, Aralim and Miresh served as they could aboard His Fifth Vision, drifting across the seas of Gethra. Aralim was finding his way along the Path, he knew, for his trust in Miresh had given him a firsthand look at the Orrish. He wasn’t certain if he should feel disappointed or enlightened—the crew told him when they were above the great fallen star, but they never saw anything from the ocean’s surface.
After sailing across the Orrish, they crossed the Stormy Sea, the longest leg of the voyage. The Matriarch from Noress That Was departed soon after leaving the coast of the Great Isle, boarding a ship that waited there for them, and Aralim was left taking care of the Grey Brother, a man by the name of Threll, and a few other, lower class passengers. The Walker of the Path tried to stay out of the way of the Grey man; he was trying to do as Holla, the task master said, to respect the comforts of their guests. Part of that was not starting a religious debate, though Aralim wouldn’t consider it that. Followers of the Path had to be inquisitive, for who could say if the Grey Brother was ahead or behind Aralim on the journey towards power.
Miresh was having quite the voyage too. Her skin kept getting darker and darker, as the sun tanned her off the water’s reflection. She was handy with a rod now, and strong enough to pull up a net—with the fishermen of course. She picked up a few swear words from them, though Aralim was clueless. He just hoped she was content with it.
Just as the 10th Moon started to wax, low, dark islands appeared to the south, and rocky forest points to the north. By this point, Aralim was greatly impressed by His Fifth Vision. True to its description, the ship was a town on the ocean; they had not put to land or harbour since leaving Bellasa harbour. They grew a variety of foods and collected fish and water—which they purified—to keep a variety of nutrients in their dishes. Even the fish bones were put into vegetable stews with spices from their stores. The massive hulls of the coupled barge weathered even the worst storm they encountered, without being pulled very far off course. When storms drew near, the under decks of the ship became cramped with everything and everyone from the top deck. But a little discomfort was preferable to death at sea, in Miresh and Aralim’s opinions.
The city of Old Numa came into sight during the final hours of daylight on the third day of the month. During their spare time, which was scheduled for all workers with a little overlap when requested, Aralim and Miresh spoke with one of the sailors from top deck. He spoke with the slurred words of a true Numa, which he clarified meant he was from Numa’nakres in general, not necessarily the city they approached. “They’re Numanites, you see,” he explained. “Used to be the only ‘Numa’, about three hundred years ago. A king from the north fought a war, as it is said. He died as a middle-aged man, choked on his food, they say.”
“Was he a feaster, then?” Aralim asked.
“Not until after the war. Conquered everything in Numa’nakres save Old Numa herself. They say,” the sailor said, lowering his voice, “that that’s how it got its name, ‘all but Numa,’ or something like that.”
Miresh tilted her head. “I heard the fishermen say that Old Numa is part of Numa’nakres though.”
“It is,” the sailor said. “Two hundred and seventy five years ago, a man was born to that fat king. His name, Tageer itt Nagu… do not repeat that name.”
“Why not?”
The sailor blinked at Miresh. “The Immortal Emperor has a new name, only Tag’na the Eternal,” he said, with a thick voice.
Aralim inhaled. The Eternal Emperor. “And the Immortal Emperor conquered Old Numa?”
The sailor nodded. “It’s so.”
They had now drifted close enough to see the city, but then His Fifth Vision dropped anchor. There would be such a celebration, apparently, that the barge would wait for midmorning before approaching the docks. The ship became abuzz with energy, and Aralim and Miresh didn’t try turning in for the night until the moon was overhead. The torches and lanterns of Old Numa illuminating a city of light rock buildings, with multiple storeys. There were no walls, the city seemed to rise out of the ocean itself, with docks on all sides, and sloping streets to a hill in the distance, presumably the middle of the city. It was not until the following day that Aralim realized that the city followed the curving peninsula for miles inland.
As His Fifth Vision was rowed towards a dock, a crowd flocked out to receive them. It was unclear if they were family members, business contacts, or simply festivity-goers who knew a celebration would occur. Wine was poured before any passengers even got off the boat and a din of laughter, chatting, cheering, singing, and instrument-performance grew. A much different custom was observed here, Aralim realized, for apparent strangers kissed one another as the party grew, and there seemed to be no boundaries between self and other. In Tag’na’s kingdom, the only religion was his supreme and unquestionable power.
When Aralim and Miresh finally made it out of the harbour, jostled and sweaty, they looked at each other with an exhausted smile. They had talked to at least twenty people on their exit through that crowd. Holla had wished them well, and given them tips on how to get from Chant’s Isle to the mainland of Numa’nakres.
“Now what?” Aralim asked.
Miresh shrugged. It seemed to go unspoken, between them, that they would not press onward at once. Their journey was a meandering along the Path, not a striving for a destination. They needed to exist in each place they found, to learn from it, not dance past it. “I guess we find somewhere to sleep tonight,” Miresh said. “Right?”
“Sounds right to me,” he said, and they continued walking into the first streets of the disjointed, unplanned city. Old Numa was ancient, Aralim could tell; some of its buildings were falling apart, crafted out of rocks that had been laid generations before him. They found a market almost immediately, as noisy and hot as the crowded party in the harbour. Apparently, the arrival of a great barge was not a regular occurrence, or the Numanites were prone to celebrations.
“I love it here,” Miresh said. “There’s gardens up there, on the rooftops.”
They passed under one such garden, where a group of men and women shared drinks from a tin pitcher. Aralim saw women resting in the sun on the next rooftop, and he could see more of them than he was used to. Though the Followers of his Path were prevalent in his homeland, and the Path enforced no rules on its explorers, the heat had never influenced their culture in such a way. Clothing was to protect the body. Here, judging by his own sweaty robe, clothing was more likely to harm it.
Next they passed soldiers, wearing big feather plumes from their ornately carved helmets. Each looked different, but shared similar shades of grey armour and weaponry. The man in front had a flat mask over his face with two slits for eyes, while the man behind him had only a metal plate over his mouth, with a grotesquely wide mouth etched there instead. They did not seem threatening, despite their unsettling decor, and simply marched past, toward the market.
Aralim had heard many comments that the darkest skin tones on Gethra hailed from the Elder Coast and Numa’nakres, but Old Numa disproved that stereotype. There were as many olive-skinned citizens as there were dark skinned, and Aralim saw plenty of people who shared his white ethnicity.
Ahead, there was a two storey building with a man in darker clothes on its roof, and an open bakery across the street from it. Aralim had started to look at the source of the incredible smell, when he saw someone reach up behind the man on the taller building. Hands shoved him, roughly, and he tumbled forward, his arms flailing.
With a cry, the man plummeted off the building.
Aralim shouted, but the crowded street drowned out his words. Miresh had seen it too, for she was pointing one of her tanned hands up at the roof. Whomever had pushed the man off was hidden again by the angle of the balcony.
By the time Aralim pushed his way through the crowd, a cluster of people had stopped to stare at the scene. The man had landed poorly, his legs buckled and his head surrounded by blood. He was lying face up, his eyes pointing different directions. With a rasping breath, his life expired, and he lay still.
“Tag’s shadow,” cursed Miresh, and more than a few people seemed more surprised by the words that left her mouth than the dead man on the cobbles.
Aralim was just staring at the body. “Someone pushed him,” he said, just as a soldier came marching through the crowd. The man looked at Aralim, as he removed his helmet. He had dark skin and a brick-shaped jaw. Aralim answered his inquisitive expression: “My friend and I, we saw it from back there. There’s someone else up there.”
Another soldier had been drawn by the commotion and the two approached the door of the premises. “It’s locked,” said one. The other prepared to break it, while the first looked back at the crowd. “Everyone stay back please!” he ordered.
Aralim started to walk away, but noticed Miresh wasn’t with him. He looked back, and she was staring at the guards, watching. He realized he should probably be doing the same, and returned to her side.
The guards knocked the door in with his shoulder, and the two charged inside. There was no sound at first, then shouts and metal clanging echoed from the doorframe. A man cried out, almost a screech, and then the only noise was those citizens too impatient to wait for the dead body to be removed. Other soldiers were approaching, and one stooped to remove the body while another two entered the building.
All four soldiers who had gone inside soon emerged, with a line of captives between them. The people were of varying ethnicity and apparent wealth. Some were well kept, with smooth skin, others weathered and weary looking. There were both women and men, and some of both genders had clearly been abused, beaten, and, in some cases, stripped. They were slaves, Aralim realized soon enough.
“Everyone move along,” the first guard said, his angular jaw set expressionless. “Some slaves killed their slaver. Back to your jobs, citizens.”
Aralim brushed past Miresh now, instantly captivated by this turn of events. The slaves had proved to have power over their masters. “What’s happened here, specifically? I’m a Walker of the Path, and I must understand the dynamic that you have just now brought to light.”
The guard raised an eyebrow, but then shrugged. “They’ll be freed, of course. Slavery is illegal here, foreigner. In accordance with the Eternal Emperor’s laws, this murder is justified.”
“I don’t care about that,” Aralim said. Miresh stepped up beside him as he continued to bother the soldier. “I want to speak with them!”
The guard sighed and put back on his helmet. Though his eyes and nose were left open, raised lines of metal shot out from where they would meet above his eyes, like carvings of metal light. He drawled, “Talk to them after they’re processed and released. In the morning or something. We need their accounts. Unless…” The man held out his hand for Aralim’s money.
Aralim blinked. “I’ll meet them first thin in the morning.”
The guard closed his fingers onto his palm and walked away without another word. Aralim and Miresh followed the slaves and their escort down a side street to the next main thoroughfare of Old Numa, where the guards entered a barracks of theirs with the group of rescued persons. The Walkers of the Path awaited the empowered slaves outside the small fortress for a while.
Within fifteen minutes, the metal door to the barracks swung open and a few of the slaves appeared. A scribe of some kind came running after them, asking, “Is there anything you’d like to state? We can’t detain you, of course, but we would like as much information as you can—” The man trailed off as he realized it was hopeless. These men and women were having no more confinement after their rescue. They were free.
Aralim eagerly approached them as soon as they separated from the building. “Good day,” he said, “Could you speak with me?”
They stared at him.
“I’d just like to know how it happened,” he said to them. Miresh smiled. She understood, Aralim thought. “Who planned it, and how did it work? And, most importantly, when did you realize you were capable of killing your masters?”
The slaves continued staring at Aralim. Finally, a man in front of the group, a short fellow with wide shoulders and skin suggesting mixed parentage demanded, “You ever been a slave? Or even a servant?”
Another cringed at the short man’s temper and interrupted. He was thick arms and worn skin, and Aralim could tell he had done a lot of work in his days. “Don’t mind him. There were two slavers in the house, and others were said to be coming later. We knew we wouldn’t have a chance then… I couldn’t bear to see how they were treating the women again, so I just stood up and rushed our watcher on the roof.”
Aralim nodded intently, and looked at Miresh. She was frowning—despite all her life on the streets, did she know what the man was talking about? Could she really know it?
The man continued. “The guards killed the other man when they came up to free us…”
Miresh nodded. “I’m glad,” she said.
“You are right,” Aralim said, to the first man, “to be abrasive with me. While i have known great pains, I have never been a slave and do not know what you have been through. But you must understand. Using your own power to… correct such an improper use of power in your life represents leaps and bounds along the Path. And frankly, a strength I wish I can come across sooner in my life…”
The short man blinked, in surprise. He had not expected such words from some man in the crowd. Aralim was not a man in crowd, he was Walker on the Path.
Aralim said to the second man, who had been more talkative, “I would like to speak with you, at length, about your life. When you are willing.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “You would.” His voice was flat.
Aralim nodded. They held secrets about the Path, lessons toward enlightenment.
The freedmen shook their heads in disbelief. “We’ve no place to go, sir, but perhaps find a shelter…” said the short man.
One of the others left impatiently, while the two men that had spoken remained with Aralim, as did a badly bruised woman who had not spoken at all.
“They should come with us,” Miresh said to Aralim. “Their progress on the Path will help us reach the Emperor, won’t it?”
Aralim nodded. “It will… but we haven’t found shelter either, I’m afraid. Regardless, you may join us if you like… I am still interested in your stories and lessons.”
The woman nodded first, but still didn’t speak. Then the other two voiced their approval. The one who had spoken first made an awkward bow and said, “Lead the way, friend. What should I call you?”
“I’m Walker Aralim,” he said to his fellow new companions, with a smile. “And this is Walker Miresh.”