One of the floors above Aralim’s quarters, in the Tenth Tower, was entirely dedicated to a meeting hall. The stairs wove around the exterior of the room, leading up to another floor above. The ceiling was high, but not as high as the meeting halls were built in the distant city of Rema. Aralim’s lantern staff echoed as he walked across the short span of floorboards toward the oval meeting table.
Queb Rionar began speaking before Aralim was situated. He sat at the other end of the table in an enormous throne. His feet rested on a stool, and two servants waited behind him. “Welcome to my tower, Ambassador,” he drawled in a rough voice. “I apologize that I have not had a chance to speak with you sooner.”
It took only a moment to realize why he had begun speaking prematurely. Queb Rionar was blind. His glazed eyes looked absently to Aralim’s left and did not move. Aralim felt it wasn’t right to stare, but if Rionar had had proper eyes, they would have looked at one another. “That’s quite alright. We arrived quite unannounced. And amidst such turmoil, no less.”
Rionar nodded. His grey hair was wiry, but similar to Aralim’s in its shoulder length. “Have you come to Tal’lashar for a particular business?”
“Just to learn,” Aralim said. The travellers had been in Tal’lashar for seven days now, each day seemingly sunnier than the last. “The Eternal Emperor grows curious about lands afar.”
“Ah, yes,” said the Queb, his words drawn into a long sigh. “The Eternal Emperor. How old is he now?”
“We celebrated his 276th birthday just before I departed.”
The old man let out a long whistle, his face turning toward one of the windows, though not looking right at it. “276? Gods, if nothing else, they do like to keep track, don’t they.”
“The Three Courts need to do something, after all.” Aralim smirked.
Rionar sneered. “Do you actually believe all that?”
Aralim blinked. “Which part of all that?” A step on the floor above scattered a small layer of dust into the air. Sunlight glowing through the window was slit into rays by the falling sand.
“The Eternal Emperor,” Queb Rionar leered. “It’s a hoax. A clever way to run the world’s second largest cult.”
“Hmmm… I imagine it would be hard to believe for an outsider…” Aralim murmured. He sniffed as the dust reached his nose, then he shifted in the wooden chair he had claimed. “I suppose if I told you a story on that note, you’d assume it was propaganda?”
Rionar held his hands out to either side. “What better reason for sending an Ambassador?”
“Interestingly enough, I argued with my fellow travellers most of the way here about that very topic,” Aralim told him.
“And what excuse did you….” The silver-haired man trailed off. He lowered his head for a minute, rubbed his temples, and took a drink from a cup. “Pardon me. My manners. Can we offer you a beverage?”
“Anything that’s easily available would be welcome….” Aralim leaned forward. “ ‘What excuse did you agree on?’ Was that going to be your question?”
Rionar waved a hand dismissively, while a manservant poured Aralim something from a large flagon on a stand beside the oval table. “I grow bitter in my old age,” he said. “And anyone who even claims to be healthy for over a hundred years has my jealousy.”
“There’s no fear of offending me. We never came to an agreement. I feel some form of goal would jade my experiences here.” Aralim tapped the table top.
The old man’s mouth formed an ‘Ooh’ and, with surprise, he said, “An open mind. You should speak with Nilless!”
Aralim smiled. The man’s mood changed so much swifter than the bored sun. “It would be my pleasure. But why? Who is Nilless?”
Rionar pointed his eyes as close to Aralim’s position as he good and gave him a sly smile. The Queb was missing a took, his left incisor. “My eldest daughter. We all appreciate knowledge here in Tal’lashar, but most of us attempt to discern truth from fiction. Nilless believes everything, she claims, and no declared fact is enough to stop her experimentation.”
“She sounds like an excellent person to talk to over a cup of tea,” Aralim said. He paused. “So, from your comment, are most of the Asha skeptics?”
“I would say most are skeptics, indeed,” affirmed the old man, with a nod. “We are a pragmatic people, not one that is deeply spiritual or pious. Most Asha would consider themselves seekers of information, but also shrewd and factual.”
Aralim pursed his lips. His beard whiskers pricked his bottom lip. “That’s a respectable philosophy. So how do the Asha consider things that can’t be explained? We share this world with all forms of wonders.”
“Every phenomenon can be explained. Many have not yet, but that is evidence of human failure, not supernatural success,” explained the old man. “For example, most of those in Tal’lashar accept the existence of the Gods that created Gethra. Magic is comprehensible, quantifiable, and explainable, and so to are the creators. The great sage, King Prathar, wrote of his encounters with such a deity and he is considered one of the most credible sources on many ancient topics. Nonetheless, we are not a spiritual people, for even such a being can be comprehended.”
Aralim’s jaw had dropped partway through the monologue. He didn’t know where to begin—a culture that valued science without dismissing the idea of gods? Or the credible scholar-king who had met one? “This King Prathar… he has writings detailing his encounters with deities? What came of him?”
“Yes, King Prathar’s texts are widely accessible in Tal’lashar, but they are written in the As’ra language, the father language of common Asha.” Rionar wiped his mouth with a kerchief. “He ruled for sixty years, I believe, before passing of old age.”
Aralim sighed. “A shame on both counts. You see, the land in which I was born believes that such people might be capable of eventually joining the deities.”
“Have any done so?” Rionar questioned, scratching his scalp.
“Not in my lifetime, but imagine the rarity of accumulating power such as your own, then compare it to the even rarer occurrences of people who might have had the opportunity to begin that transition: King Prathar, the Eternal Emperor, the sorceress Maga…” Aralim trailed off.
“Each was only ever what they were,” Rionar told Aralim with a low voice. “Reasoning leads to the simplest explanation more often than the complex—Maga was a magician, Prathar a wise man, and your Emperor might be one or the other. Nothing I have read or heard has ever led me to believe that men can become gods.” He coughed and rubbed his temples. “I didn’t expect a fanatic when I extended my hospitality to a foreign ambassador.”
Aralim was the least fanatic person he knew. It was a stretch to even think of how to reply—
“Father, don’t be rude.” The door closed with a click. It was a brown-haired woman who had entered behind Aralim. She looked at him with big brown eyes and the features of a 35-year-old. “I apologize for his behavior.” In a lower voice, she added, “The old grump.”
The Walker smiled, but Queb Rionar growled, “I heard that.” Then, he lifted a hand toward the two and said, “Ambassador, my eldest and my heir: Nilless.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” said Aralim. “And it is quite alright. My curiosity has been taken as worse than fanatical ramblings before.” He finally took a sip from the cup the servant had brought him; it was a thin ale with a foreign taste he did not know.
Nilless smiled. “Then we’re fortunate. My father has offended many a guest, before.”
“Oh, Nill, there’s nothing wrong with offence,” said the Queb.
“I suppose a tower of this size has frequent guests,” Aralim murmured. “Personally, I prefer offensive to dishonest.”
Queb Rionar slapped the table with his palm. “Every time I make up my mind about you, Ambassador, you put me back on the fence.”
Aralim was again lost on how to reply. He waited for Nilless to explain her entrance, if it had a reason.
The wealthy woman stepped further down the table. “Father, Queb Irtu is arriving, downstairs. I could delay him if you have more to discuss with the Ambassador.” She wore a white linen robe with a wide neck; its black trim dragged on the floor as she moved.
Lord Rionar shrugged and held out his fingers to Aralim.
“I’m sure you could use a break from my fanatical ramblings. I’m sure we’ll speak again,” Aralim said. He grabbed his lantern staff from beside the table as he stood up. Its blue shutters were dark and reflective.
Nilless turned toward him and grinned. “Well I should hope so. Those are my very favourite kind of ramblings and I wasn’t invited this time.” Rionar let out another flabbergasted sigh while the Walker smiled to his daughter.