Ellas and his troop of Highwaymen set out early the next morning, and Aralim and his friends continued along the Crimson road for many more days. They saw forests, they saw fields, and now, at last, they saw hills. The first ones were little bumps, where a single copse of trees here or there seemed to grow taller than the rest. Before they reached the Crossroads, the bumps had become rolling hills with rocky spines, scattered many miles apart at times, but growing fiercer nonetheless.
There was a town of sorts, they learned, at Crossroads. Aralim had kind of expected it, but he had imagined it differently. He had imagined it with more homes. The only houses in Crossroads were taverns and bunkhouses and the only castles were warehouses and shipping yards. A hundred wagons and a thousand horses, Devran assured them, in amazement. Everywhere they looked were crimson badges and banners, with knives and spades, and crimson harlots with red-faced babes suckling at their breasts, and stowaways with rotted purple flesh hanging in cages from the tallest burgundy-bricked storehouses.
There were guards where the cobblestone road reached the settlement. They demanded to see Aralim’s red coin, and he showed it to them. When they asked for his destination, he showed them the papers that the Highwayman named Coren had written for him. From Crossroads, they would journey far to the north, along the edge of the Expanse and the Torn Shore. “Have you had any issues on your trip so far?” they asked him. “Can the Highway offer anything else on the next leg of your trek?”
“We’ve been fine,” Aralim said. “We encountered Ellas of the Blood Sky, and an evening with him raised our spirits.”
One of the guards tapped the thick parchment document with a knuckle. As he passed it back to Aralim, he muttered, “Aralim… something familiar.”
“Are you an ambassador?” asked another one, a man with a black grease smear under one eye.
His comrade’s eyes lit up. “That’s it. You’re Aralim the ambassador.”
Had his progress on the Path become so widely known? Perhaps it was because of Ellas, but he had already mentioned that to these men. “It’s true,” he said, while Dullah and Grendar watched the guards warily. “Why?”
“You should stop by the Quill House, before you go. Strange story that—letter just appeared on his desk, addressed to you,” explained the first guard, as Aralim took his documents back.
Aralim shrugged. “I can’t say it’s the strangest story I’ve heard. I’ll head straight there.”
Following directions given to them from the guards, Aralim and his companions entered Crossroads together. Before they reached the building in question, they had to move aside for troops of soldiers and marching Crimson-men battalions. The Quill House was identified by a sign post in the front yard of a two-storey wooden barn. As they approached a door between two windows, they glimpsed a study area and a few bookshelves inside, but the front door accessed only a hallway.
Somehow, Aralim’s lantern staff, scuffing the dusty wooden floorboards, wasn’t enough to alert the man that sat behind the tall wooden desk so he cleared his throat when he reached it. Three of their guards had taken up dutiful posts in the front yard of the Quill House, so when the grey-haired man behind the desk looked up, he saw only Aralim, Grendar, Devran, and Dullah.
“Ah,” the man said, fluffing a long grey moustache that obscured his lips. “Mail to send?”
“Excuse me,” Aralim said, noticing the man was reading from a thick tome. “I was told a letter had arrived for me. My name is Aralim.”
The man’s face brightened. “Ah, yes! With powerful friends, it would seem. Not too often that some sorcerer sends me correspondence.” With a key strung to his wrist, the scholar opened a nearby cabinet. “Normally I charge some silver for delivery of letters, but this didn’t exactly cost me…”
When the man slid the page across the desk to Aralim, Aralim slid an iron coin back. “For the convenience then,” he said with a smile. The man bowed his head with a small smile.
As they walked back through the front door, Devran anxiously asked, “Has something happened? News from the capital?”
Aralim hadn’t even opened the letter yet. He stood with his back to the sign post so they couldn’t read what he read, and he broke the wax seal, which was orange and bore a tree sigil that he thought was likely Rattar’s. He recognized the writing instantly and didn’t even need to double check the signature, though he did nonetheless. Miresh. ‘Aralim, you’re probably wondering why the letter. Rattar is teaching me the magic of Journeying—it’s a very gradual thing to learn. I did not send this letter, but Rattar did. Using just magic. It’s amazing! I hope your own journey has been as smooth as it has been so far, though I know some time will pass in transit.’
It was probably sent before that incident with Mulio, Aralim thought, and rubbed his thigh reluctantly. The scar tissue was itchy, but it was almost fully healed.
‘The biggest change,’ Miresh had written, ‘is with Rattar. He speaks frequently of things ‘he cannot speak of’, and seems quite anxious with news he sometimes learns. He’s been acting strangely, fidgety, stressed, and even mumbling to himself. He often has Master Enarrin train with me, instead of handling it all himself. Rattar has also been developing some entirely new spells, from scratch.’
Aralim rubbed his bearded chin and kept reading. He didn’t like the sound of that.
Miresh quickly changed topics. ‘Tag’na often visits me. We just go for walks and talk. I don’t hear much about the Courts, nonetheless. Hayan seems to have a bigger smile everyday. He is enjoying the Third Court, has been cast in a new play, and is getting quite serious with Arrith, whom he performs opposite on stage.’
A wagon full of Highwaymen recruits nearly hit the sign post, distracting Aralim. The iron-armoured guards gave glares to the driver as the man waved and urged his horses away, down the road. The Walker looked back at his letter, illuminated blue by the staff in the crook of his arm. He wondered if Hayan would be wed by the time he returned to Numa’nakres. Despite all his time in Rema, he hadn’t the faintest for their marriage customs.
‘Seeing Hayan so happy makes me a little lonelier, somehow. I miss having you around. I think you’ll be surprised when you get back—I’ve been growing so quickly now! I made a new friend named Riela. She’s the daughter of one of the Selected. I’ve gone with her to a martial combat group she’s a part of. It’s sport and self-defence, they said. I love feeling stronger and more capable, but, between growing pains and bruises, I spend most of my time sore. Looking forward to your stories, Miresh.” The signature was a concise arrangement of characters that hinted at an improvement in her writing skills too. She really was growing older.
Aralim folded the letter and slid it into the waist pocket of his robe. He looked at Devran who waited eagerly. “Just a letter from Miresh. Rattar sent it as part of her training. Nothing noteworthy.”
Devran looked crestfallen, but Dullah just smirked. “Do you miss her?” she asked Aralim.
“It feels strange travelling without her, I’ll be honest, but she’ll join me when she’s able and that’s comforting.” Aralim smiled to the Aura, who could tell the Emperor that he had received the letter, and even what he had said.