By the time Arn left the Inn it was already early afternoon. His journey to The Small Council Hall started off in the unsavoury Industrial section of Kalarhan where the Scholar’s Shack was. Arn stuck to the main road and hoped that it led to the town’s center. The road was wider and with more foot traffic than the smaller path, and the presence of people made him feel safer, though not by much. Each time he looked down one of the alleys off the main road his chest tightened and his heart beat faster. He wasn’t sure whether it was his unfamiliarity with the town, or the streets themselves that made him feel that way. He hoped to never have to pass through those alleys.
Unfortunately for him, the uneasy feeling persisted all the way to the central thoroughfare and remained strong until he saw the ornamented brick fences of the clan houses that faced the town’s center. Everything looked to be in better shape here, there were still cracks and missing cobblestones, but nothing like what he saw earlier. “You made it Arn, it’s going to be fine,” he mumbled and took a moment to breathe.
He approached the large stone structure of the Small Council Hall and entered through the doorless arch into the welcoming foyer. It was tradition to have no doors on the council halls, intended as a sign of trust and welcome towards all visitors. He crossed the small room and passed through heavy pelt curtains that served as a buffer against the cold and wind outside. Arn didn’t pay much attention to the town constable who stood nearby. He entered the reception area where the crisp winter air gave way to a stuffy aroma of dust and dampness. Arn started towards the reception desk, but the elderly receptionist pointed a bony finger towards the bench - Arn obliged. An hour or so later and at the end of his patience, he ignored the receptionist’s finger and approached the desk.
“Wait for your number to be called,” the man said before Arn had opened his mouth. His voice was deeper but no less droning than his colleague at the Inn.
“I don't have a number.”
The man looked up and slid his spectacles down his long nose. His mouth twisted and he sighed. “You’re supposed to take a number from the doorman - over there” he shook his bony finger towards the entrance to the hall.
“The doorman? He didn’t -”
“For ElarSaga’s sake, take a number and sit down,” the man barked and returned to his papers. Arn took a moment to recover and wondered how many complaints the council must have received about this ray of sunshine. The old man glanced up, surprised that Arn was still there, and knitted his brows. “I’m going,” Arn said.
The doorman wore a mischievous smile when he gave Arn the number. He must have known I’d come back, Arn thought. Is this some sort of a game for them?
It was another hour before his number was called - the old man looked almost disappointed at having to finally admit him. The receptionist spun and darted into one of the hallways as soon as Arn was up, and he had to jog to catch up with the man. The hallways looked very old - not the ancient and majestic kind, just old and decrepit. Small cracks and peeling paint covered the walls and Arn didn’t see a single intact tapestry. The floors, at least, appeared to have been cleaned recently. They passed several doors, then turned a corner, and Arn heard “hurry up!” before he followed the old man to one of the doors - which was already opened.
Arn walked through it and only just heard the quick footsteps of his guide as they disappeared in the distance. The door led into a small office - not much larger than his own room at the inn. There was a narrow slit of a window that cast a pale ray of light on a very messy table. Behind it sat a tiny old woman, nearly hidden by the piles of books, papers, charms, and things he couldn’t identify. She looked at him expectantly. There was no chair or couch to sit on, just the table and chair for the woman, and extensive shelving all along the walls. The old woman smacked her lips and then shook her head.
“What do you want?” she said.
“Sorry” he muttered, then remembering Ossagar’s words he admonished himself. “I mean, I’m not sorry, I didn’t do anything,” he quickly said, “I am here for the, uh - the scholar,” he trailed off.
The old woman chuckled. Whatever she expected, this wasn’t it. “What are you talking about?”
“Scholar, erm, studying -” Arn willed his mind to work faster, now wasn’t the time to forget the right term. “The...Lon, Lonthlarad,” he exclaimed triumphantly.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Hrm, well,” she said, suddenly having to look at some documents in front of her “I’m afraid that is not possible”.
“But - “
“I said no, didn’t I?” her earlier irritation was back.
Arn’s thoughts raced, he didn’t have many options - he couldn’t be refused, he didn’t have the chance to inspect anything yet. He didn’t know what the Inspectorate would do if he were kicked out before getting anything done. Whatever it would be, he didn’t want to find out.
“How can you refuse a Lonth -”
“Easy!” the woman stood up - which now brought her to about shoulder height with him.
Arn took a step back. The small woman’s intensity surprised and stunned him. He wondered how such a tiny woman could have such a booming voice. “But - it’s the law; the small council can’t refuse a request for Lonthlarad; it’s one of the ancient pac -”
The woman shushed him and waved a dismissive hand, “bah, don’t tell me about the ancient pacts, child - I have forgotten more about them than you will ever know!”
Arn clenched his fists, but his hands stayed at his sides - his jaw tightened, and he glared at her. The woman paused and looked him up and down curiously. Silent for a moment, she chuckled and sat back down “you have the bear’s piss in you, boy!”
“I have what?”
“Doesn't matter what,” she took a deep breath and held the air in her lungs for a couple of seconds before letting it out. “I’m going to regret this,” she muttered.
“I promise -”
“Child,” the old woman smacked her lips again, “silence is golden, as they say," she kept his gaze for a long minute, then shushed him. “What’s the subject, and how long do you need?”
“Six weeks long.”
“That’s not too bad” she smiled and Arn noticed that much like in Ossagar’s case, it didn’t look right on her face.
Bear nuts! Should I have asked for more time? He thought in a panic.
Another deep breath, and she pulled out an official looking parchment with a couple of pre-written paragraphs. She dipped her quil in the inkwell and noted some numbers before looking up at him once again.
Arn tilted his head in response and then remembered what she was waiting for, “border town history”.
“What else,” she exclaimed before signing off and stamping the parchment with a wax seal. “Come closer, I won't bite!” she motioned him towards her. "Give me your token, and you have your Tjoreal on you, do you boy?"
Arn hastily gave her the token, "yes, I do - but what is that for?" he said.
“This is no inn by the side of the road, we need to properly process you.” She took out a stone tablet with an indent the shape of a token. It was covered in writing which Arn couldn't read - like all inscriptions of this kind it must have been the old tongue. The woman put his token in the indentation and passed the device to him. "Channel." she said.
"What?"
"Channel your Esarel into the Tjoreal bracelet and then into the token register. Do it and hurry up, my patience is wearing thin," she said.
Arn approached the table and put his hand on the token registry stone, he concentrated on the Esarel energy that flowed through him and focused it into the stone - he felt it flow from him and into the Tjoreal bracelet around his left wrist, and then into the token registry. The etched symbols glowed blue and faded.
"Very well," she said, then returned the token to him and handed him the parchment. “Give this to the nice man at the reception, he will know what to do with it. You’ve got six weeks from today - go on now” she shooed him away. Arn backed out of the room and made sure to never turn his back on the woman.
The process of getting out of the council hall took even longer than getting in. The old man at the reception was decidedly not nice, neither before nor after Arn’s meeting with the council woman. He had Arn waiting for over an hour before a doorman - a different one from this morning - came to Arn and announced that all was completed, and he could leave.
Dusk fell upon Kalarhan, his stay at the Small Council took longer than expected and Arn’s fears of having to trudge through the town in the dimming light were coming true. The cold wind sent a chill up his spine, though it could have been the lengthening shadows that seemed to crawl towards him with every minute. The dark alleys to either side of the main road seemed empty though every now and then he had the feeling that someone was watching him.
Arn breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the “Scholar’s Shack” sign as it swung in the wind upon creaking hinges. At first glance much of Kalarhan bore close resemblance to his hometown. The residential quarters were criss-crossed with small paths and alleys but unlike Nysaros, an uneasy air hung about every corner. Arn did his best to convince himself that the feeling was due to the poor state of repair, or the fact he’d never been anywhere aside from Nysaros. He would have believed it too, if not for the people - everyone he passed on the main street seemed to be appraising his every move.
At this time of the evening the inn was manned by a skeleton crew as most of the workers were at the dinner ceremony in the Great Hall. After the day he had, he didn’t mind the peace and quiet at the usually busy tavern. He briefly considered going back to the center of town and to the Great Hall but decided to delay it ‘till tomorrow. It’s not a new moon so I’m not missing any of the ceremonies - not the important ones at any rate, he thought as he entered the Inn. The quiet eased his earlier worries and the warmth of the inn washed away most of the day's tension.
The patrons that stayed at the tavern were few, but many were quite interesting. Arn watched as a strange looking man with round eyes was shoved out of the hall by the barkeep herself; he held a wooden item of some sort which Arn’d never seen before. It had a large hollow body and a shaft with stretched wires, and it made noise as the man tried to shield it from the barkeep’s shoving. A foreigner! Arn had to look away or his staring would draw the man’s attention. No one will believe me back home, he thought, and that thing he’s holding; could it be a sound instrument?
Arn watched several people shuffle into the tavern from outside and by the looks of it the weather turned for the worse - each had more snow on their coat than the other. Some of them went straight up to the rooms, while others sat at a table in the tavern. The barkeep kept shaking his head as a woman - clearly frustrated - pointed at the people one by one. To Arn’s surprise, the barkeep nodded as she pointed at him, she sighed with relief and made her way towards Arn’s table. Arn scrambled and sat up in his seat.
“Arnyrath?” she said as soon as she was close enough.
“That's, erm - Arn please,” he replied.
“They never do note the preferred names, you know.” She sat down across from him.
“Oh, it’s ok,” he replied.
“I’m Rana,” she said and offered him her hand, “I am your appointed mentor from the small council."
“Oh, right, of course," he said and shook her hand, relief washing over him. Who else would it be?
"I'll still need your token," she said.
Is that why she offered him her hand, he wondered as his face heated up. "Right," Arn fumbled in his pocket and gave her his scholar's token. She touched it briefly and nodded.
“Well, that's a relief, by your reaction I thought you're the wrong Arn - how many scholars of that name could there be though?”
“No no, it's me - just a bit of a long day, that's all.”
“Aren't they all! Border town history, eh,” she said, “I suppose you’re in the right place then!” she motioned around them with her hands and smiled at Arn. Rana then stood up and took off her light brown coat with a big black bear pelt over the shoulders. She threw it on a nearby chair and returned to her seat.
“That’s much better,” she said, “shall we?”
Arn nodded. The two of them sat in silence for a few seconds until Rana leaned closer “Are you alright?” she asked.
"Yes, sorry - I was just thinking," he replied, "you must be working in the archives, right?”
“I do work at the archives,” she said.
“I suppose that I will shadow you there for a while,” he said.
“I have to warn you though, you won't have access to anything beyond public use”. A serving girl arrived with her cup of wine, Rana nodded and picked it up. “I know you young scholars, always with the questions and curiosity.”
"Questions and curiosity," he said "I am curious to see your archives."
"You will see them a lot during your stay, believe me. Aren't you sick of cleaning up archives?"
"Why would I be sick of that? We haven't even started."
Rana chuckled "well at least you've got a sense of humour. We'll need it down there."
“Yeah” he laughed nervously. Some of the tension he'd felt earlier melted away, Rana had a different air to her than the rest of the town. She seemed impervious to the gloom and chill and reminded him of the way things were back home in Nysaros.
Rana ordered another drink for herself. They spoke for a little under an hour and then said their goodbyes for the evening.
“Be honest - you must be regretting your choices now that you're facing six weeks of archives?”.
“No, I really -”
“Good enough for me!” she exclaimed and smiled “I’ll meet you here after breakfast and we’ll go to the archives.”
“Thank you, see you tomorrow!” he said as she walked out into the dark snowy night. Watching her leave and disappear in the darkness he wondered whether he'd imagined some of the hostility in town. Perhaps he was simply unaccustomed to the way things were, and that was that. The wind howled and pierced Arn’s clothes with sharp needles, he shivered and got back inside the inn. Perhaps Kalarhan just doesn’t like me specifically, Arn thought.
