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Solain Morgeillin

Light, not again, Solain Morgeillin thought, as weaves of air enwrapped her arms, and forced her eyes closed entrapping her in darkness. She knew returning to Ebou Dar would prove to be a mistake, but in every city she passed through the Children of the Light and the White Tower seemed to be on every tongue. Twice, she’d nearly been caught for her thieving and hauled before a stuffy White Cloak in recent months. Twice!

Her first instinct was to embrace the source and fight, but such actions in Ebou Dar, with the Kin were punished far more harshly than in the White Tower. She’d hoped to find herself before the Knitting Circle, grovel enough to prove she wished to reform from her thieving ways and find safety among her non-Aes Sedai sisters, but then the itch to steal arose, she spied gold through the open door of the Inn, and she’d found herself in the room before she could think. Light, she was an idiot.

And this, she told herself harshly, is why you actively steal, so you aren’t tempted to wander headlong into a trap. She’d not found the opportunity to pick a pocket, to nick even the smallest items in days. Days.

The door closed and for a long moment, all she could do is listen as too loud footsteps scraped against the wood of the floor. Clumsy, oafish steps too harsh to not be tracked by normal folk not prone to wandering at night. “Thievery, Solain. You have not changed a bit over the years.”

She could not see her, but she knew that voice. Light, she felt the trap close around her neck. Better to be in the Kin’s web than the harsh, cruel Aes Sedai that made even the strongest novice and accepted weep from one cruel trick or another, but she was no longer a child to cower before her cruelty. “Did the Aes Sedai finally see who you are Minly and kick you from the Tower? Are you here to beg the Ki—” The words strangled in her throat as she realized the information she almost let slip.

A hand grasped her neck and squeezed hard enough to cut off her air. How many times in her youth had the woman cornered her and strangled her in retribution for one supposed nicked item or another? Even long after she’d turned to less volatile targets. As if Solain was stupid enough to continue to thieve from a mad woman who was one bad day away from pushing her off the White Tower to her death.

A tongue clicked and then a cold voice interrupted. “Release her. Your petty novice feuds serve no purpose.”

The hand released her and then as she hunched over, tears rolling down her cheeks, a hand twisted into her dark hair, her mouth was forced open, and hard steel was forced between her lips. Her panicked movements caused the sharp blade to cut her lip. Iron filled her mouth and blood rolled down her chin.

“I wanted to do that,” Talene said, sulky.

Panicked, the source filled her, she twisted the power into a—

A shield enwrapped around her and cut her off. No. Light, she felt the blade cut her with every panicked sob, every hitch in her chest.

“Light, control yourself,” the unknown woman ordered.

A weave of air hard as a rock rapped her across the back of her head, forced her closer to the blade and made her choke as the sharp point nicked the back of her throat. She choked again and the iron taste flowed like stale wine she stole on the bad days.

The hand around her chin tightened and caressed her in a manner that made her want to squirm away, but she forced herself still, forced herself to become small, silent as she did the few times she needed to hide when a caper came dangerously close to catastrophe. This was a catastrophe. Truly, it was.

Finally, when only the sound of her panicked pants and Talene’s complaints filled the room she felt a long cylinder with stylized letters carved into the surface forced into her hands.

“Now,” the unknown woman said, “The time for a decision has come. How much do you care for your skin, Solain Morgeillin?”

The words could not come as the hand forced her to hold to the rod. Surely, this was not what she thought it must be? No Aes Sedai would be granted access to the Oath Rod, not all the way in Ebou Dar. Clearly, a sisterhood that accepted Talene Minly into their ranks despite her cruelty and bullying bordering on abuse and rejected her for needing to steal, for being unable to shake that need would fall far enough to allow this type of violent behavior.

The mind can accept anything and rationalize anything. She knew that better than most. Oaths were worth as much as the person swearing them believed they were. Fine, Solain knew one thing—she always survived, and she always had. And no, fake oath rod would scare her into doing anything for this Aes Sedai monster.

“Will you swear,” the woman whispered.

A nod, as much of one as she could manage with a knife in her mouth. The knife retreated, cutting her tongue on the way out. Fuck, more blood. And then the woman named the oaths they expected her to hold to and Solain choked panicked. She dared not name what the women were; Light, she should have expected that Minly would find her way to the Black.

Solain knew enough fools in her circles that swore to the Dark Lord. They were expected to do little enough. A bit of coin was thrown about for greater riches. It’s not like the Last Battle approached anytime soon, but she suspected Minly would be a harsher master. Death might be kinder, she thought.

And then, Minly ducked down and began to whisper what she’d to do every woman she’d ever taken to bed. “I’ll track them down, gut them, make clear who is to blame for their pain. Starting with Seaine Sedai.”

No, the pair could not know they met once a decade or so to rekindle their relationship. They could not. The pair were discrete, only engaged well away from White Tower where no one would recognize a disgraced once Accepted.

Solain forced herself to snort and worked the wounds in her mouth with her tongue. “You think I care about good lays? You don’t need an excuse to torment and torture, Minly. Don’t pretend you do. Do as you wish, I care not.”

The hiss came and Solain turned in the direction of the woman who mattered, the one in control, who still held her hand firmly on the Oath Rod. “You need me or you would not have come for me. I will swear the oaths, but I have expectations and wishes I need seen to.”

“And what do you wish, little thief?”

“Safety, I want an oath that Talene Minly will not harm a hair on my head, for one, and I won’t be your murderer. My skills lie elsewhere. Not grisly murder.”

The angry shriek came from behind her, but she focused her ears, her senses on the woman before her and not the unbalanced Aes Sedai behind.

“That can be arranged.”

Solain felt a cold sense of triumph, but Light, the next she would hate. She’d find a way out; she would, but for now, she’d say the oaths fake oath rod or not.

The woman droned the oath: “I shall obey all commands given by those placed above me in service to the Great Lord.” The shield around her dropped.

“I shall obey,” Solain felt her stomach sink as the rod began to bind her. Not a fake, she realized with horror, but pressed on, “all commands given by those placed above me in service to the Great Lord save given by Talene Minly and acts of murder.”

Minly cut in, “You will be murdered for allowing her to deviate, Alviarin.”

“QUIET.” The scream caused her to cower and then muffs of air stopped up her ears. The hand released hers and she almost dropped the Oath Rod in surprise. She couldn’t help her lips ticking up in amusement as she realized that she’d not been meant to know who held the Oath Road. With great care, she smothered the amusement and waited patiently, listening to Minly howl in pain like a beaten dog. It felt like vindication after Solain spent years cowering under the then Accepted’s harsh treatment.

And then Alviarin Sedai returned to her, to finish laying oaths harsher than eternal torment on her mind. The oaths she amended, as she saw fit. “I shall prepare for the day of the Great Lord's return as long as it is not at Talene Minly’s command or through murder. I shall hold close the secrets of the Black Ajah, save for Talene Minly’s involvement if she hurts or betrays me, unto the hour of my death.”

The last oath she spoke knowing it might lead to her death, but she felt a small degree of satisfaction as the words dripped from her bloody mouth. The oath felt like the same tight, uncomfortable feeling she often felt when she did not steal some minor trinket every few days. Compulsion—she always felt it must be akin to what compulsion might feel like. The inability to help herself, but she could survive that and she would find ways to wiggle around this.

And then, two hands promptly enwrapped her neck again and began to squeeze. Giddy, laughter tried to squeeze out of her throat as Alviarin Sedai’s hand still remained locked around her hand on the Oath Rod and Talene Sedai tried to strangle the life from her. One bloody second. That’s how long Talene Sedai could control her impulses.

“Enough,” the woman ordered, and then the fingers loosened around her neck and she heard the thump of a body crashing into the far wall. “The oaths are accepted but do not test us, child. We will see you murdered if you do not do all we say, when we say, how we say.”

A weak cough escaped, as blessed air filled her lungs, as her mind spiraled considering why these women chose her, little more than a petty thief, but she supposed the dark had greater than of a thief than the light. “So that is why you have come to me, a master thief?”

The sulky words came from behind, “We should seek another; she was caught time and again.”

Solain shrugged. “I’ve had a century of practice. Tell me what you wish me to steal, heal me, so I don’t attract notice, but leave the planning of how to me, Aes Sedai.”

Alviarin hummed before murmuring her agreement. The healing magic stole over her in shuddering gasp of icy cold pain until only the remnant of iron remained in her mouth and then the task given her came.

“The women you call the Kin possess an angreal of interest; you will procure it and deliver to us without being caught.” The sister of the dark, the reasonable one described what the item was rumored to look like. Solain wished it were a simple ring or necklace, items easily stowed in pockets, but no, luck was not on her side. She should not have expected her task to be easy, and far worse, they wished for her to steal from the Kin?

“You set a difficult task, but I will see it done.” Solain did know where they kept the treasures. The last time she’d been among the kin, she’d filched a small, rather weak item that didn’t seem to do much of anything from their storage room where they stashed items of power like forgotten refuse. She would have made it out if she hadn’t pushed her luck and attempted to steal from the Eldest, Reanne Corly herself not long after. That had been a mistake she'd paid for with a twenty-four-hour watch for months on end until she'd managed to sneak away in the dead of night. “It might take time to make them trust me again.”

“Three days.”

“It cannot be done!"

“You should have ample distraction in the coming days. Our sisters wish to welcome the wilders and the rejects back into the fold in small, useless ways. We can always use more servants I suppose.”

“And new weaklings to torment,” Minly all but hissed.

A choked laugh escaped the once accepted turned thief. “You never were subtle, Talene Sedai, but please reveal yourself for what you still are. You would look pretty weeping over a power lost to you.”

The oath rod wrenched from her hand and nails dug into her jaw. The other Aes Sedai, Alviarin. “Do not test me, thief. Talene Sedai is still above you and will always be.”

The agreement came fervently. And then, the order came to remain for a time before returning to her room for the night. “We do not wish you to find more trouble tonight, child.”

The black sisters retreated then, leaving her encased in darkness for a few heartbeats past the snick of the door, and then light flooded into her once-blinded eyes. She snapped them closed as the light invaded and her eyes smarted over the discomfort, with the memory of the foul words that bound her. 

Seaine Herimo, her lover, would see her dead for this, but she'd betray the Light in small ways if it meant the only good person to overlook her deficiencies remained safe. She should drop the connection and refuse to rekindle the romance, but the Last Battle was surely centuries away. What harm would a once-a-decade connection cause? Novice, accepted, thief—she could only fight her worst impulses for so long before her control broke. The white sister was the only lover who felt like an itch that scratched at her mind until she fell into her once more in senseless, hopeless mad passion. 

Finally, when she could not kneel on the hard floor a moment longer, Solain rose, brushed blond hair over her shoulder, and marched from the room. She smiled at the maid that bustled down the hall; the maid blushed and smiled back. And really, the Aes Sedai had not commanded her to return to her rooms alone. She felt she might go mad if she sat in her room all night pondering her betrayal of the Light.

The suggestion she whispered in the woman’s ear was perhaps bolder, more upfront than her usual play, but she had little time before the Black Sisters might return. “Later,” the maid promised.

“I’ll be waiting,” she whispered, before retreating to her room. The maid arrived eventually, but she had hours to ponder the terms of the oaths. By the time she began a fast, frantic coupling, she felt no less settled at the idea of an invisible noose she’d tightened around her neck. Later, she could think about the matter when a beautiful woman didn't come apart under the pressure of her clever fingers and tongue.

Talene Minly

Seven times young Altaran fools savagely attacked each other as Talene Minly walked down the streets or traversed the canals of Ebou Dar. Talene Minly found the violence inspired. Four times rather than let the young, pock-faced fools bleed out on the cobble street, Narewin Sedai healed them. Two of the four young men rather than slink away in shame began following the yellow mouse with disgustingly smitten looks in their dark eyes.

How anyone, especially men as violent as Altarans found the short, squat, block-faced mouse in yellow enticing Talene would never know. The woman gazed at the men who lingered outside the Three Dagger Inn to catch her eye with a wide-eyed gaze. And now, she wanted to rip her eyes out as the ugliest and the scrawniest of the duo approached with an emaciated, one-eyed, sickly feline in his arms for the Aes Sedai to waste the One Power on.

Narewin smiled at the fool, gushed about the state of the feline, and insisted the man settle the beast on the stoop to be healed. The taller, broader of the two panted as he ran down the street, lugging a larger, mangy mutt that looked like it would be better off gutted once and for all to the woman. “Narewin Sedai, Narewin Sedai,” the boy panted, dark bangs falling into those eyes like a mangy mutt himself.

“I’ve been coaching the lads,” Kerene Sedai’s warder said, a man without much brawn himself. He leaned against the white brick of the inn, arms crossed, and dual axes framing his chin-length dirty-blond locks. “We could use the extra arms on the journey back to the White Tower.”

“Those children look too sickly to last more than a battle,” Talewin said, not bothering to lower her voice. The smaller of the two glanced her way, brow furrowed, upper lips quivering, shaking patches of haphazard, infantile mustache. She twisted her fingers, wishing she could embrace the source, and flick the boy with a weave of air to force him to lower his eyes. She settled on staring down her nose at the shorter boys that might become traveling companions until the two became felled by a white cloaks sword, a trollocs axe, or a stray fireball. Accidents happened—after all. Her hand shifted to the silver bracelet that encircled her wrist, fingers twisting over the small emeralds embedded into the finely braided metal.

The feline yowled as the healing weaves shook its body, stealing the boy’s gaze away. The warder frowned at her, disapproval, judgment not fit for a servant in that gaze.

Burn her, she hated to play these types of games. “I would not wish to see such a sweet woman overcome with warder grief.” That hurt to say, but she’d learned some tact over the years. Openly brutish behavior would not be tolerated of an Aes Sedai in the wrong circles, where it might be among her true sisters. The green ajah were do-gooders. She, at times, wished she had chosen the Red, but that would have forever tied her to Pevara Sedai. Bad enough that she’d spent her learning years with the light-blinded woman. Her friend, Seaine Herimon, chose horrid Pillow Friends. A telltale who abhorred secrets and wrongdoing, and a kleptomaniac who—

The warder's voice droned on, cutting through the fury at the thought of Solain Morgeillin, the thief, “—worry over that. I will see the lads trained. Both stood their ground in duels against men twice their size. That takes courage and if not Narewin Sedai, another might find them a good warder candidate with proper training.”

Courage or stupidity, but the light-driven sisters tended to find themselves in theatric throws of angst and sorrow after a warder died, so the death of a warder, no matter the cause was to be encouraged. The weakling Altaran’s seemed they’d last half a battle before the bond became severed by death.

“If my Percille still lived, he’d surely—” She cut herself off, forced a stiff, unease, a delicate coldness that aped the throws of pain and anguish of her more reserved sisters. Talene experienced a bond torn asunder in the past, but she grit her teeth against the superficial pain and moved the fuck on. The series of men that served as her warders would prefer she spend her time planning pain, anguish, and murders rather than weep over their corpses. Besides, they’d been the fools too slow to duck a trollocs axe, or a white cloaks sword, or a fireball. That last only occurred twice out of the five warders she lost. Pitiful.

The bumbling warder gazed up at her with empathy that made her want to squirm. “If Narenwin is not interested, maybe they might serve you...”

I’d rather bond a dying dog. Neither weakling would serve her purpose. Saving feral sickly animals—neither seemed the type to swear the oaths to the black and she grew tired of her mask among her own sisters. She would not live a lie before a man who must follow in her footsteps at almost all hours. “No, I cannot.”

“I am sorry, Percille, was a good man, a skilled warrior.”

Talene sniffed and nodded. Held to her bracelet as if to a lifeline, tracing the braided metal as if in comfort. She turned her gaze back to the horror of the yellow sister cuddling with what surely must be lice-infested disease-carrying beasts, the woman’s yellow dress darkened by dirt and other such refuse. Beyond disgusting, if they were novices or accepted, she’d have ensured all knew the woman likely possessed head lice and to beware.

The mantle of Aes Sedai required more subtly. Talene let her hand fall away from the bracelet, straightened, and turned her gaze to the yellow sister. “Narenwin Sedai, we are to leave soon. You cannot meet the wilders covered in refuse. I would not keep Kerene Sedai waiting if I were you.” Sickly sweet, be sickly sweet, she told herself as her addled sister started, shushed the crying beast, and did not move. The fact the woman just kept tending to the animals when a firm order was given from her better opened the door for an irritable, frank order. “Go, now, that is an order, sister.”

The young man helped the Aes Sedai lumber to her feet, accepted the beast into his arms, and then followed when the Aes Sedai charged into the Inn before she could order the foul animals left outside to slink back to the poor portion of Ebou Dar where they belonged. If she became infested with lice, she’d make the other Aes Sedai wish they were novices still.

She turned back to the warder. “Did Kerene Sedai mention when we are to leave?” The need to move, to finish the mission given to them by the Amyrlin Seat ate at her. She had better tasks to complete than running errands for the light. A day had passed since she’d joined Alviarin to recruit the thief rejected as a servant of the black ajah. They would recruit more from the Kin surely, but all would be less than a full Aes Sedai, less than a sister of the Black Ajah. Fury still burned at the amended vows that the woman dared to swear. I will kill her one day. For now, she needed to tread lightly lest she open herself up for betrayal.

The man accepted the change in conversation. “After she finishes consulting with Alvierin and Nisain.” The white and the gray were specifically chosen for this mission because of their negotiation and political skills. They were useless in virtually all other ways, but all Aes Sedai not of the black were that.

“Let us hope we do more than talk this day,” she drawled, light eyes narrowing on the two-story building before turning away to walk the small distance to the man-made canal just on the other side of the small path. The morning sun glinted off the water, small boats skimmed the surface causing ripples that shattered the otherwise calm surface.

She was tired of calm, peaceful moments. The time to cause chaos, cause pain must wait. For now, she was Talene Minly of the Green Ajah. One day that might change. For now, she stood in the light, a perfect Andoran statue who exemplified the best of her order, of her country.

The woman known as the Kin existed in filth, slums far worse than the ramshackle farm of Talene Minly’s youth. A people one bad season away from dying. The idea caused a giddy glee in the green sister. Farms and crops were oh, so, delicate—a sudden dry or cold spell at the wrong time could freeze or rot or infect entire fields of the crop that fueled the countryside and city alike. The slums in a city, like the one on the other side of the bay, would be particularly hard hit.

Talene sat perfectly still, fingers running through the salt water of the bay as Kerene Sedai embraced the One Power to speed the boat across the water. The boatman paid to ferry them across looked as if he did not know if he wished to throw himself into the water, far from the foul taint of the One Power. Out of curiosity, she asked, “How often do men get eaten by wild beasts in these waters?”

“Not your sorts, Aes Sedai.” Your sorts. As a child, a farmer’s daughter, her sort had been a lower class, mean, honest type. A century later, she’d ascended further than any of her ancestors could have dreamed. She’d done it her way, the hard way. And now, when famine came, when disease swept the land, and when wars between men destroyed thousands upon thousands of lives in the Westlands, she stood above the danger, smug in her safety.

“Your wisdoms must do what they can to save the poor victims. I’ve heard Ebou Dar has more healers than most and surprisingly fewer deaths than most cities.”

The man removed his hat, wiped his brow with his forearm, and muttered, “Don’t know much about that. Just a simple sailer, I am.”

The group fell into silence until they arrived. The sailor clambered from the boat onto a worn, wooden dock and helped tie down the vessel with fraying rope that seemed on the edge of becoming untangled entirely. Kerene Sedai as the leader of the delegation ordered the warders out first, and then the Aes Sedai. The channelers exited the vessel as they should—based on power level: Kerene Sedai first, Nisain Sedai last.

And then the women marched through the lower city, in their fine gowns, with the Great Serpent Rings flashing, demanding directions to the organization known as the Kin at every food stand, from every passerby. Talene fiddled with her bracelet as she walked, gems flashing, glinting from the sun overhead, daring anyone to steal from them. Try, come for us. Long days, too long, had passed since the last time she shed blood, since she ended a life. In our defense only, she reminded herself. It galled to play by a fool's rules in public.

Nisain Sedai studied the refuse-filled alleys, the old, worn towering buildings made from a dark, common brick. Like a blood-hound, the Aes Sedai skilled at reading residue left by the use of the one power slipped away from the group following tracks only she could see. The woman nearly tripped over the corpse of a middle-aged man who had been dragged to the side of the road and abandoned there.

Kerene Sedai excused herself from a conversation with a man who clearly knew more than he said. Talene would have pressed him until he squealed, but she supposed following the woman with a talent for reading weaves of saidar would prove a simpler, almost elegant solution.

“If they weren’t fools, they’d never touch saidar and lay weaves we can follow,” Alviarin drawled, holding her white skirt in a fist to prevent the fine fabric from trailing through unspeakable, smelly, ick that marred the chipped, cracked once well-cobbled road.

Men will hang themselves if you let them, her father used to say as he gazed longingly at the next patch of land he coveted that would expand their small farm. The man spoke truth; by the time the old crafty fox died, seven of his neighbors were driven to unfortunate, potentially self-inflicted accidents. What had been a small acre of land expanded tenfold into the largest peasant-run patch of land in Andor.

“Let us be thankful, that power might see us out of here without a skirmish,” Kerene Sedai said, dark eyes scanning down even slimmer alleys as they hurried along after the gangly, bronze-haired gray sister. The unconcerned charge onward as less reputable peasants eyed the gray might in different circumstances lead to a delicious murder or deserved ransom, but Stepin walked a step behind the sister and Narenwin’s young fools a step behind him.

Those seemed particularly inept at dodging fireballs...they would scream so prettily as their skin baked, as their fat bubbled. No one stepped from the alleys. The rough sorts saw their color-coded dresses, their male companions, and their rich, unhidden jewelry and slipped back into the shadows. Rough sorts that would serve as a better warder than the young pups that couldn’t even kill other boys properly.

Finally, after an Age, the sister stopped before a rundown, multi-story brick building that seemed not at all different from every other building in The Rahad slums, but even Talene could feel women actively channeling within. “Sloppy of them,” she noted, a satisfied curl to her lips. She loved when anyone gave her an excuse to cause pain, physical or emotional.

“We have our orders,” Alviarin cut in, claws curling around, digging into Talene’s arm, pushing the bracelet into her flesh hard enough to leave indentations of the fine chain links in her skin. The woman gave her a significant look, now. The distraction needed to be now, so the thief had time to plunder before the sisters could take an account of the hoard of powerful objects that was rumored to be held within.

This might be the only fun she’d be allowed to have in a while. “Let us finish this then,” she said, ripping her hand away to make the proper movement. And then before anyone could object, Talene Sedai blasted in the door in a weave of concentrated air. The boom shook the ground, the shoddily made buildings on either side quaked but held firm for one day more. One day, the buildings would fall, caving in, snuffing out hundreds of souls, but not this day. A shame, really.

Objections came from her weaker sisters, but greens did not linger, did not wallow when action must be had. Maybe one of the women within would attack her and she’d be able to retaliate. Talene marched forward, eager, the force of saidar dancing in her veins, pushing her onward, enhancing the delicious screams of the women within the building.

Before she could pass through the threshold, a fist pulled her back by the back of her gown. “Take the rear, Talene Sedai,” the other green ordered. The short, stocky, dark-skinned woman pushed her to the side, out of the way as if she were the weakest, the worst among the sisters. She held her fury close, hidden and wished for the day she’d be granted permission to hunt down and murder this warrior for the light.

The day would come. A woman of Kerene Sedai’s strength and devotion to the ideals of the Aes Sedai could not be tolerated. Talene would see herself at the head of the hunters, the woman to deal the last blow. For now, she gave a firm nod. “We will see this through.”

By the time, Talene Sedai entered the room, a half-dozen kin crowded into the main room; the women, all of them, glowed with the light of saidar, but did not dare grasp the strands and shape them as they saw fit. They might have, but they were not fool enough to not recognize an Aes Sedai.

Kerene Sedai started the conversation with a subtle threat, “You swore oaths when you stepped from the White Tower for the last time, Alise Tenjile.”

A dark-haired woman at the far side of the group with a jaw that jutted out past a stubby nose started and promptly dropped the connection to the source with a grunt of surprise. “Kerene Negashi,” the woman stuttered; she paled as if hearing the formality of the words and then corrected with a “Kerene Sedai.”

“Kerene Sedai,” one of the many gray-haired women croaked, hands resting on her chest, as if in the middle of a fright. As the seconds ticked by she hoped they still might decide to fight, to try to seize the right to claim the power denied them, but the women merely exchanged wide-eyed glances and waited. And with that one by one, obediently as dogs, the weaklings, the cowards, or the wilders ceased clawing at power forbidden to them.

The worn floorboards would look better splattered with blood, but the one who spoke bobbed into a curtsy, cheap wool skirts flaring out. The others followed suit, but even as they bowed and scraped the tension, the animal fear permeated the air, making her heart beat in excitement she knew would be wasted.

“I am Kerene Negashi of the Green Ajah.” Kerene Sedai gestured to the gray sister to step forward, to speak on behalf of the Amyrlin Seat, the White Tower. “This is Nisain a'Cowel of the gray. She speaks with the backing of the Amyrlin Seat, of the Hall of the Tower.”

Nisain Sedai stepped forward, past Kerene Sedai and gave her thanks for the introduction before pressing on. “Change has come to the Westlands. Already, Andor and Cairhien have embraced closer relations with the Aes Sedai. It is the White Towers hope that advancement of the Light will expand to all nations.” The woman spoke with passion, with fervor her lilting voice rising and falling with a dramatic flare that should be commended. “You might have heard the Whitecloaks have proclaimed all woman with the One Power must be put down for the good of the Light. Formal oaths must be spoken on the oath rod to practice even basic weaves of the One Power.”

The Kin exchanged nervous glances, bobs of their heads; they surely knew a few poor weak fools who’d been burned in recent days across the lands where the white rats infested doing the dark ones work in a roundabout way.

The Aes Sedai pushed on, “The White Tower has proclaimed all women, all sisters with any strength in the One Power may seek refuge in the Tar Valon. The time has come to forge a new path, a new way.”

“We will have a place,” one of the elderly crones asked, wonder in her voice. The woman shuffled closer, knees creaking as much as the old building.

“Even if we refused the test?” another asked.

None asked what oaths would be asked of them, the fools. “You will not be Aes Sedai, but with the required shortened training an honorary ring will be granted as has been a long tradition for some trainees.”

Dowdy, Narenwin Sedai stepped forward then, her yellow skirt flaring out. “Those talented in healing might find their way to Andor or Cairhien. We do not have enough yellow sisters to heal the sick in the healing wards the White Tower is opening in coordination with the Royal Thrones of Andor and Cairhien.”

“We can heal,” one of the kin said, eager, dark eyes wide.

“And if our girls do not have a skill in healing?” Alise Tenjile asked, voice harsh, abrupt. The woman paled and recoiled when she realized she addressed Aes Sedai in such a crude manner. “I...I...”

“There are talents beyond healing,” Alviarin Sedai cut in, dark eyes flashing to Talene. The expressionless, cold fact seemed to comfort the woman; it should not, yes, all women had a use to the dark, to the black sisters. The time had come to slowly, woman by woman, claim every woman the dark could safely.

The creak of the floorboards sounded from the hallway as Alviarin continued, “Uses beyond glorified Wisdoms. Threats are at our door, all of our doors. White Cloaks burn women and slaughter them without remorse. We offer safety and you in turn will find a place in the White Tower if you dare to live...”

Solain Morgeillin slipped into the room, pack thrown casually over a shoulder, eyes comically wide in horror at being presented with a room full of Aes Sedai. The woman tried to back out but nearly tripped over her feet as Kerene Sedai glared over at her.

Burn her, master thief? Surely, she could have slipped out a side door or a window. Clearly, they should have asked questions and demanded the plan be spoken. The woman had been an inept thief in their youth and clearly that had not changed.

“We won’t need to take the tests?” The oldest woman asked, frail voice shaking with fright. The Light-blinded fool didn’t realize danger more perilous than sa’angreal lay in their future. How very sweet. The gray sister answered in the negative to the clear relief of a few of the kin. Cowards, clearly, all of them. The Black Ajah would need to seek out prospective members elsewhere.

When the questions from all of the kin aside from the thief wound down, Kerene Negashi turned to the newcomer, the thief. Recognition gleamed in those dark eyes. “Petty crimes and thievery are not tolerated in the White Tower. Any who break that rule will find themselves put out, forced to face the dangers alone without protection.”

“I will ensure the woman behaves. She slipped away once; it will not happen again,” the woman Alise said. The woman eyed the pack set across the thief’s shoulders. Alise held out a hand for the pack, imperious. “The old rules stand.”

“Where’s the trust?” A nervous laugh pierced the air. The fingers twisted over the leather straps of the bag. Memories of the woman’s howling with her dear friend, polluting the air with her mediocrity burned through her. She shifted without thought, the objection on her tongue, dragging eyes to her. “That one will be thrown from the White Tower in a matter of days; No control, even when we were novices. I say we leave her to her fate.”

“Ahh, Talene, bitter and brutal as always. Still, making novices and accepted cry themselves sick? Don’t worry, one day the Aes Sedai will realize the brute they let into their ranks. I might let you tag along I suppose. We can survive—”

The Kinswoman grabbed the woman by the ear and dragged her forward. Expletives erupted. The thief tried to duck away, wiggle free, and the bag against her shoulder chimed with the heavy clink of ill-gotten goods.

She dared not look at Alviarin as the plan crumpled before their eyes. The once accepted should have never been trusted to steal anything with skill. She’d always been incompetent, or she would have been raised despite her deviant impulses. The woman stumbled forward and fell onto her knees before Kerene Sedai.

The Kinswoman ripped the bag from the woman’s shoulder and upended it onto the floor. Coins, jewelry, and silver spoons bounced against the pock-marked hardwood. Something larger, tumbled out and for a moment Talene’s heart felt like it stopped, but then the dull gray shape of a common, non-powered cup bounded across the floor and stopped at Alviarin’s leather shoes.

It wasn’t there—the sa’angreal the thief had been sent to find. The woman would need to be questioned later, but for now, there was hope.

“This will be the last time you steal, Talene Minly,” the kinswoman ordered.

“I like stealing and it seems to me that your order could use someone of my skillset.” The woman looked beyond the kinswoman to the Aes Sedai.

“Your skillset? And what would the Aes Sedai want with a petty, incompetent thief,” Alviarin asked, lips pulled in a severe frown.

And then, the woman smiled and began to list in detail every situation where a thief might be in order. The Aes Sedai and kinswoman seemed unconvinced—the idiots. Even if the Black Ajah allowed the Aes Sedai to become more inclusive, less stuck in the past, there were some do-gooder lines they would never cross. They would die for that. Die and a darker tower would rise in its place.

“Enough,” Kerene Sedai ordered. The woman turned to the kin. “I will trust you to ensure this one is kept in check until we reach the White Tower. First, you will all speak the last two oaths. And then, we prepare to depart for the safety of the White Tower.”

“It will take time to gather all of the Kin, to ensure they do not flee in fright at an Aes Sedai raid,” the eldest gray-haired woman said. “We will set out for the Farm tonight to prepare our sisters to depart.”

“I would be happy to ensure Solaine’s good behavior while you see to that,” Talene offered, sickly sweet.

“For now,” Kerene agreed.

The women lined up to give the oaths; not by strength in the power as any Aes Sedai would expect, but by how decrepit they looked. The woman did not flinch as the oath rod bound them to the Aes Sedai as lesser members, members that could lie to their heart's content. Why set them to follow all of the rules, when no one would see them as full Aes Sedai. The last two, to prevent harm with the power, were deemed the most vital, the most useful.

Before the kin departed for the land they called the Farm, the eldest told the Aes Sedai about the angreal they’d hoarded. “We’ve not used any of them,” the woman assured. “We remember enough to know the danger that can pose.”

“We will prepare them for safe passage back to the White Tower,” Kerene Sedai agreed.

After the Kin departed, some for the land they called the Farm, others to the homes of channelers in the city until only the Aes Sedai, the warder, the boys, and the thief remained. The other channelers huddled together speaking of the need to summon the Aes Sedai in the palace to help escort such precious items to the White Tower. Better for the Aes Sedai to ensure such treasures reach the tower safely than retain a political advisor to a relatively minor city-state.

Talene excused herself and walked over to where the thief stood against the wall spinning a gold coin she’d nicked from the floor between her fingers. The woman flashed her an infuriating smile. “Talene Sedai, do you wish to beat me again? Threaten to throw me from the top floor of the building, out the window to my death? It’s been so long since I’ve heard such sweet promises.“

“One day,” Talene promised, barely restraining herself from snarling.

The thief pushed off the wall, pressed closer, and acted as if she was going to embrace her, instead, she brushed past, fingers lingered on her waist, on her wrist, and then fluttered away. “Top floor, just out the window,” the woman whispered into her ear.

The woman need say no more. A quick stroll over to Alviarin, a few words between them, and then she offered to watch the door, to ensure no one unsavory attacked them. It wasn’t until she peered out the window and absently reached for her wrist and did not feel the fine metal braids, the intricately cut gems that she realized her emerald bracelet was gone.

That burning thief. I will gut that woman one day.

For now, she’d served her purpose, fetched the tool the dark lord wanted, but one day that usefulness would dwindle and she’d have her revenge. She thought about that as she watched out the window and ran her fingers over the bones of her wrist.

Egwene: The Hero

The Two-Rivers remained as rural and quaint as in the dream as in life. Egwene al’Vere, Hero of the Horn. The title should taste sweet, but the memory of metal encircling her throat, of the jarring horror of her warder bond rending seared her even still. The stories did not speak such tales—of the pain and the anguish and memories that trailed in a hero’s wake.

Egwene al’Vere did not cast a shadow on the door to the Winespring Inn. No nicks, no warping of the wood, no rusting hinges for Perrin’s blacksmith master to mend. Her grandfather, Jos al’Vere, must have installed a new one not so long ago. A man she remembered little aside from warm hands and the scent of tabac mixed with bread. The man had died not long after her grandmother, Rosie al’Vere, when break-bone fever swept into town.

Egwene half expected to glance behind her and see Rand’s scarlet locks, Nyneave’s braids, Mat’s rascal smile, or Perrin’s grim countenance. The months in Tel'aran'rhiod made clear time held no purchase on her in this realm. Time marched and Egwene waited, stagnant, frustrated, angrily bouncing from one side of the continent to the other, always searching for clues in the dream world: a note here, a letter there.

In the Three-fold Land, Tigraine Mantear did not wander from her dreams. Worse, Wise Ones safeguarded the area where the woman slumbered from twilight to dawn. She recognized some, abrasive Bair, old, wise Sorilea, and kind Seanna.

To a one, they’d disapprove of her lurking, of her searching out one who slept. A small spark of guilt pulled at her, made her restless wandering of the land from the Three-Fold Land to Arad Doman seem foolish, as foolish as Birgitte claimed. We are bound by laws, rules set down by the Creator, pulled by the pattern as needed, when needed, and not a moment before. We are not to interfere. Gaidel would huff and grumble not to play nice with the child. Birgitte would act calm, steady, forever talking sense when all Egwene wanted to do was scream.

The innkeeper’s daughter might have once found obedience. A shade of a memory of who she had been before departing in the dead of night, choosing adventure above safety, seeking more than life as a humble wisdom, as a farmer’s wife, as a mother bearing a darling child meant for greatness she’d never achieved herself. Greatness—the youngest Amyrlin Seat in history, the ouster of the Black Ajah, the reunitor of the splintered tower, the creator of a new weave that mended the pattern itself.

That woman burned in a blaze of saidar, her soul carried away in a beam of light before a quake in the pattern itself yanked, pulled, and twisted in a haunting agonizing eternity of confusion and pain. The pattern chucked her into her herohood, on the base of dragonmount, dazed and confused and very, very concerned to be once more in the dream world.

Three weeks she wandered until Artur Hawkwing found her. Three days, counted by the shifting of items in the Winespring Inn.

The hero of heroes called her a child too. Really, more heroes than she liked treated her as such. The youngest of us, many were want to say. We count by lifetimes, was explained.

Child, Egwene forced herself to turn away from the inn, from the tempting scribbles on notes that told a tale in small peeks and snippets of a family before she’d been born into its numbers. Children did not go beyond pleasure, beyond pain, when pain and pleasure became swept away by the knowledge of what must be done. The pattern lay on the brink of shattering, unraveling beyond repair and she’d done what no woman had done before.

The sturdy leather boots that encased her feet scuffed grass, as she walked to the river’s edge and gazed into its depths. Water clearer, bluer than she’d ever seen, and not a gently flowing river of the Winespring Water, ferried from the Mountains of Mists depths. This river did not flow, did not surge away from the land, watering distant crops, sustaining distant men and animals. The waters were still, quiet, not even a flicker of movement.

The frustration and the unease drove her forward, uncaring of the boots, of the sturdy Two-River woolen dress. Even the temperature against her skin remained balmy and bland. Not the boiling temperature of a good bath or the freezing chill of winter dip. She submerged until her dark locks fanned around her and then she floated, hair fanned around her, eyes trained on the deep darkness above, wishing she’d be able to see a single star.

Not even concentrating, demanding the dream realm change caused a single twinkle in the sky. Why bring me here if I am not to do anything? The words she wanted to scream at the sky, to demand answers from the Creator, but the feel of eyes on her, the odd feel of this realm, kept her mouth firmly shut.

Time bled around her, stretching far, but never far enough.

I’m almost at a year in this realm.

A year of wandering and nothing to show for it save for the infernal nagging of one Hero after another. No one bothered to greet her, to tell her the rules, and now months and months and months later one by one almost every Hero found themselves at her side, giving one tip or another, one rule that she should already know, that the initiation should have taught her.

Hawkwing was the worst among them, nagging and falsely upright and obsessed with rules and order. Rand’s dream-self she’d jumped off a cliff to escape happy she’d pried his description from Birgitte. The man with tightly cut salt and pepper hair rather than Rand’s scarlet knew how to brood; she could tell that from afar.

A splash startled her enough to drive her under the surface. She surged upward, dark hair blocking her vision. The feel of inhaling water did not hurt; the water merely exhaled without pain or trouble. Light, she didn’t think she’d ever get used to having this level of control, of safety in this realm. Wet hands brushed aside her hair.

A woman crouched before her, short, stubby hands flicking away drops of water. “Have they told you to find a hobby, to engage in activities to maintain your sanity?” The woman who looked Malkieri by descent asked with her raven-dark locks pulled into a top-knot, her moon-pale skin, and the less pronounced nose bridge. The woman had an odd curl to her tone, an accent not of the current time, the current turning.

Egwene thought about popping away, running to the next task, the next investigation, but she grew tired of tearing across the realm, spying, and scheming. “And who are you meant to be?” Her eyes trailed to the short sword that lay hidden in its sheath and wondered if a Heron had been engraved on the pommel. The Heroes of the Horn numbered more than she thought, more than the tales said. They all seemed fond of their distinctive, fancy weaponry and had seemed equally confused that Egwene did not possess such a tool. How are you to fight when the horn calls?

Maybe I was not meant to be a ghost, she’d wanted to say. Maybe I’m not meant to wait, breathe baited for some famed horn bearer to summon her to battle. Saidar was her weapon of choice, angreals her tools. The stone of man would not have been satisfied with that answer, so she’d not answered, merely blinked away.

“You have ignored Hawkwing, run from Theron, ignored and disobeyed Cain and Silverbow. Tell me who do you think I am, here, before you, after all of this time?”

“Amaresu,” the name came easily to Egwene one of the better-known, but rarely seen heroes in tales. A hero tied to every instance in lore and fancy of the Horn of Valere’s presence. A woman of steel and leather.

Egwene felt the urge to surge forward and climb from the water. Light, to find herself stood before such a legendary figure. One not tainted by ideas of slavery, of torture, of hatred, or childhood fondness and exasperation. One step forward, the push of water, and she stopped herself and felt a blush, unable to be hidden by the faint glow of this land blaze from her neck to engulf her face. Light, she’d not felt this way since...thoughts of Gawyn made her angry, of Galad mildly embarrassed. She pushed both men away.

The realm melded and she popped into place beside the crouched woman, standing too close. Water dripped from her dress, her raven locks onto that woman. She wanted to groan in embarrassment at the accident feeling like a maid, no worse a babe. I was the Amyrlin Seat, she reminded herself, and now I am one of them. “If you are here to lecture me—”

The Hero merely smiled, rose gracefully as a swan, idly brushing a drop of water from her cheek. “The Pattern rarely makes mistakes, rarely lays a thread out of line, al’Vere. Do you know what happens when it does?”

She could sulk in silence, let this hero shape the conversation, but—

I am no child. And so, from one blink of the eye and the next Egwene stood, dry, and a curl of embarrassment almost flushed her skin as the sturdy two-river garb switched to the fine formal dress, the rainbow stole of the Amyrlin Seat. It was at that moment, Egwene realized she towered over the hero, that she needed to peer down her nose to gaze into the shorter woman’s honey eyes. “I’d rather know why you are here. Does the Pattern not have a destiny for you? A purpose? It seems far too many of you Heroes laze around this realm, finding your pleasure as you will when the world is set to fall to—”

Amaresu set her fingers on Egwene’s lips, halting her words. The skin felt warm, like life in this barren land. A shiver of want, of the need for comfort speared through her, gutted her. It had been so long, so—no, hold firm. “You speak words you should not,” the hand retreated, leaving her almost bereft and the words continued, “cannot, never again. The ones gifted with glimpses of the future, feelings of the thread of time, of paths walked anew, once more, again...we do not speak of what is to come. Do you understand me, Egwene al’Vere?”

“Is this not what this is? Why I am?” Egwene whispered fiercely.

The silence and the deadpan expression could belong to a statue. Egwene huffed and felt like turning away, but curiosity burned. “You did not answer my question. Why are you still here, in this realm, one of the best-known Heroes, worthy surely, to be spun out, but Cain speaks as if you are rarely spun out, rarely given a chance to live.”

“We live or stand ready to fight at the Patterns will. I am rarely called and rarely set on a new path of life.”

Egweene shivered at the idea of eternity, endless hours in this almost lifeless place. She’d not thought she’d ever feel that sentiment until the long months alone, save for near immortals set on scolding her and lording over her.

“That seems unfair,” she whispered, eyes turning away, unable to stand staring into those eyes, discovering the soul-deep loneliness that seemed to drag at her, the anxious panic that left her chest tight, her—

A warm hand found hers, clasped hers, and the smaller woman stepped into her, almost touching. “I stand ready. To be spun out does not create legends not every time, but when I enter the world, when I am reborn, the world remembers from one Age to the next, the world remembers. Do you know why the world remembers, al’Vere?”

“You are one of the Heroes all know, not Hawkwing or Therin, but close enough...” And not them, not a man who she called a friend who is more kinslayer, not the father of a psychotic slaver who ruined generations of lives. The words felt wrong to speak with those intense eyes burrowing into her.

A quick, sly smile stretched, a finger crooked, beckoning Egwene closer. The impulse to resist held her fast for a mere moment. “This realm is mine, more than any other hero, more than men who can dip into its depths, more than the wolves.”

Egwene arched an eyebrow, “More than Hawkwing?” If her voice had a bite that could not be helped or curtailed...well she did not wish to. Not even this woman of legend would change that.

“Hawkwing does not decide proper order in this realm.”

“Then tell the man I do not wish to see him again...and call off his spies.” The constant parade of Heroes made her want to scream, made her want to, well, she’d prefer not to feel the eyes on her, to turn and find another man or woman waiting to ambush her.

“It will not be needed,” Amaresu said, hand flicking dismissively, long, slim sword encased in a sheath swaying with the movement. The gleaming golden sun embossed on the hilt, sun rays curving around the leather in sharp lines.

“And what, does that mean?” Egwene asked annoyed. Her eyes narrowed, but the calm expression held the secrets firmly. A bitter laugh escaped, “And I suppose you will give demands, lecture me like all the others too?”

She felt as if she was Rand al’Thor acting stubborn as a mule and set in his boneheaded ideas without a lick of sense to share the full thrust of those ideas with his supposed allies. The demand for answers sat on her tongue, but an odd almost weightlessness washed over her and the sense of herself in this realm seemed to fuzz. She thrust her hands forward, terrified, and her eyes widened. Her hands. I can see through them.

Desperate eyes glanced up and the Hero watched her, dark eyes calm, and the strong hand seized her own, strong and steady as stone, pulling her closer into an embrace that Egwene fell into. More comfort than she’d felt over the many, many empty, lonely hours wandering this land. Not alone. The last words Egwene al’Vere, Hero of the Horn heard as her senses faded were, “As I said, a lecture will not be needed. Fight bravely and try not to fight the tide.”

And then, she knew no more.

Rewl: The Hawk

The Diadem of the First fit ill on the raven locks of Rewl sur Paendrag Paeron. The blades in his boots he feared a sudden move would shear through the pale skin of his calf. The heron-marked blade hung from his side, mocking him with the golden insignia. Far worse, his brother’s widow. Your wife now, he reminded himself stood to the side, eyes spearing him, nails digging into the stone rail that overlooked the bay of Remara.

Ships, more than Tear had loosed on the city-state of Meyene, blocked the harbor and threatened to make landfall, to pour onto the land, seize the last vestige of the legacy of Artur Paendrag Tanreall, the last remnant of Hawkwing’s reign.

“Charon would not have allowed Tear to strike so,” his wife hissed, fury in those dark eyes, white teeth stretching in a snarl. “He would have seen and acted long ago.”

Rewl cursed the pressure to take the cold fish as a wife. The daughter of a lesser High Lord of Tear meant to provide allies, to ensure Tear ceased glancing covetously westward for a generation or two. Delay, that had been the tactic of Meyene, of the Sur Pendraeg’s since the grandson of Hawkwing, Tyrn sur Paendrag Mashera, fled assassins blade to the coastal city-state long ago.

“And your kin was meant to keep the leeches at bay, Selia. I am not the only one that has failed. I should cast you aside, leave you to your kin to collect.”

The chin flew up, proud even still. “I am the First Lady of Meyene. I had been that when you were a boy playing with your sword.”

“You are not,” he answered, fury shaking his voice. “This is not Tear and it never will be.”

“And what do you intend to do about that husband?”

Rewl turned and looked to the bay, to the rolling waves, the circling gull, and enough ships to massacre the city five times over. If he stood against Tear alone, the cowards, the lordlings would not dare brave a landing. Tieran lords were cowardly, overly scared, overly cautious peacocks. And the citizenry was too cowled, too starved, too abused to run facefirst into barrages of arrows.

The golden sun of the Children of the Light waved like an ill omen in the chill ocean breeze directly under the gold and red banner of Tear. The sun and the crescent moon united. Rewl rather hoped by the end of this the lords would find themselves cowering under the yoke of the snakes they let pour into their border, let fight their battles, win their wars

“I do what the sur Paendrags have ever done since the fall of the empire.”

“Abide? Cower in this hunk of stone until we starve to death?”

Rewl sur Paendrag Paeron glanced one more at the bay, at the waters where he spent his youth, inhaled deeply and tried to catalog the scents that he loved dear, and tried to hear anything other than his dear wife’s tirade. She spoke too loud, and waved too erratically for him to ignore her much longer; he so did love to ignore her when he could.

Rewl reached up, removed the heavy gold diadem from his raven locks, and felt relief to be free of the weight as his fingers cradled and ran over the wings of the hawk that formed the dramatic, elegant crown to remind all that Hawkwing's progeny still walked the Westlands. Not that any save those of Meyene care. He so loved running his fingers over grooves in the wings when he was a youth and the diadem adorned his mother’s long, beautiful locks.

Death found her too soon, his brother too, and the one after that, and the one after that, and somehow the fourth son found himself ill-prepared and with a city-state to lead. And now, he made the choice that any of his ancestors, what his mother, what his brothers would have done. The servants should have collected the bags by now, procured a series of guides paid handsomely, and kept on retainer for such a moment.

His wife clawed at his arm. “I will not be ignored, not by a child.”

A child? He was a man of twenty, worn his title, led his people, and survived the nagging of his wife for three years now. Rewl wished he could reach out, push her off the edge, and leave her body broken on the cobblestone below, but he would not waste more time, sully himself dealing with a woman so far beneath him. He’d passed into manhood three summers ago when he passed the tests of seamanship and scholarship expected of the fourth son of his family. Mere months later he found himself with a crown and wife he did not desire.

Staring at those dark eyes, heavily inked with coal dust to hide the fine wrinkles, at the hair carefully dyed to hide the fine strands of grey that had begun to show her age. Ten years she’d been married to his brother, two to him, and still, she’d yet to produce a single heir, and light did they try.

The time had come to make the second most vital decision of his reign. He turned to his steward who stood in the doorway. “Please escort my wife to her rooms for her safety, of course.” The man of middling age, with wire frame glasses, and spindly hair bowed and summoned two guards with a click of his fingers and with maybe a tad too much glee ordered the lady to be escorted to her quarters.

His wife shrieked and threw curses and threats of what her father would do to the guard’s hands as they grasped her firmly by the bicep and escorted her from sight. Her voice echoed down the castle’s walls long after his wive’s hateful face passed out of view. “You have changed the plan, my lord?”

“See that my wife is escorted to her family. Tell them I have no more need of her.”

“The people will celebrate, my lord.”

“That is no great feat.” Really, when a city-state lived adjacent to an ever-hungry, ever-expanding neighbor that brutalized their citizenry even mundane events became a reason to celebrate, for at least they were not ruled by Tear. Rewl cradled the diadem and began the long walk from the top of the palace to the very bottom. Men, women, and children stopped him time and again to seek reassurance, to touch his arm, and run their fingers over the symbol of the office trusted to his family all those years ago, the diadem.

He never felt more humbled and his reassurances felt like too little. “All is prepared,” he promised, holding his voice strong, steady as a strong keel on a ship; the one aspect of his office he could perform with excellence. Despite his wife’s raging, he’d not slept in weeks it felt save for stretches of stolen hours. When they passed into the bowels of the castle when he needed to procure a torch to light the dim, dank passage he turned to business anew. “The stores have been moved and secured?”

“As they ever have been during times of crisis, my lord.”

He felt a tension drain from him, but the nerves that roiled his gut still remained. The next months, maybe years would be the hardest his people had faced in centuries. “Make sure the people know their duty in the days to come.”

The older man shook his head and did not offer any more of a rejection. It had been foolish to ask, to demand such a task of him. His people were made of sterner stuff and the first lesson every child of Meyene, even the fourth son of the First Lady of Meyene, learned was what to do if the High Lords of Tear descended on their land. We abide.

The hall led to a secret passageway that he slipped into, the passageway led down, down, down, followed in a straight course, and then curved up. He felt the burn in his muscles, puffed air through his laboring lungs far more than his serving man. Finally, the passage opened to a wide room. He passed the torch, walked to the far side of the room, dug his fingers into the stone, and dragged a loose stone from the wall. The blazer with the hawk of his ancestors he peeled off and enwrapped the diadem in, and then he nestled the golden headpiece into the stone. He pressed the stone back into place and stood there, hand on the rough stone, heart pittering with fear that slowed to resolve.

He was no longer the fourth son; He had a higher duty. He did not look as the serving-man departed, torch in hand, leaving him in a patch of darkness that would slowly expand with each step back to the city the man took.

Rewl ran to the door, twisted the metal handle, and stepped into the light. He raised his hand, shielding his eyes, and squinted at the small group of men. Men with scars on their faces, skin tanned from long days in the sun, and packs upon their backs.

“The lady is not coming?” The words to Rewl’s amusement sounded hopeful from the sandy-haired man short an eye. His companion elbowed him in the side hard enough to keel him over.

The man stumbled but caught himself on the natural stone wall with a hand that was short three fingers. Rewl could not help but stare at the deformity. The man grinned and wiggled his remaining fingers. “A snake decided I would make a meal. I landed the final blow.”

The last man stepped forward; He stood smaller than his companions and his gaze quieted both men. “Gernie stepped where he should not, rested his hand where he should not. The snake departed with a meal before he could be felled. I would advise you not to make that mistake. I would see you through with your fingers intact.”

“I step where you step, as it has ever been,” Rewl agreed.

And then, Rewl accepted the bag prepared from him, stripped out of his finery down to his bare skin, and then dressed as the men did. The finery he packed away; He felt around for a small bag of coins and felt relief it had not been forgotten. Once dressed, he did what he’d been preparing to do since he ascended to First Lord all those years ago. He fled to secure his line, his future. He did not look back even when the rich green fields gave way to a treacherous swamp.

One day Rewl would return with allies, an army at his back. He felt for the first time in centuries Meyene stood at the cusp of victory or destruction. He knew not where the dice would land, but he knew where he’d place his bet. He’d heard much of the new Sun Queen that sat on the throne in Cairhien. If anyone could set the High Lords of Tear in their place, it would be she. Rewl placed his hand on the heron-marked blade. He’d offer his blade to her, his daggers. His wits were his own, but he’d lend them to her for a time, only for a time. A Paendrag bowed to no high lord or monarch. They chose exile instead.

Huan: The Fool

Huan could hear the distant crash of the waves further into the ocean than he liked to venture. Low tide could be tricksome, baring the ocean's bounty, its jewels one second and then hungrily reclaiming them. Sweat beaded his brow, his fingers shook, and his heart ran in his chest hard enough, fast enough he feared it would crash fiercely for the final time and then where would his people be?

The wrong liquid brushed against his bare feet as he walked, fiercely cold, but not enough to steal his toes. He licked his lips and tried to banish the taste of frothy malt from his mind. He fumbled in his pocket for the few precious last pieces of chewing tabac he could barter for. The act of chewing; the taste settled his nerves; it did not reduce the jitters, but it made him feel like a man rather than a fish gulping desperately for water on dry land.

The pack on his back thumped with the tools of an honest man’s trade. Fishing, he hated fishing. A Tieran hating the trade that was the lifeblood of Tear, but he unlike all around him was not mad enough to like the feel of gritty salt on his skin, the constant stench of slime, and the infernal rocking of a boat that unsettled his stomach.

Footsteps followed behind, heavy enough for him to focus on how bloody awful he felt. There was no wandering off, veering off to chase some shiny, or play in the dim ocean as if predators did not lurk even in the shallows. He’d not set out on the horrid, dank hours before dawn on a new moon to arrive without the girl, but today felt like a bad day, a day that might see him at the bar at the end of the day, weedling a lass for just a—

No, Tear was no place for a drunkard these days; It was not much of a place for a sober man, but drunkards made mistakes, stupid ones; the kind that saw a fella killed; Huan Sanche only made sensibly stupid mistakes. Like skirting curfew to set out to the ocean with one of his many cousins to catch fish with claws for hands.

Light, the footsteps had stopped. When had that happened? Huan turned, grunted at the thump of metal across his back, and peered into the darkness. “Norie,” he hissed, irritated, furious. That was the feeling thrumming through his veins, making his heart feel as if it might explode. No, the thrum in his veins wasn’t a weaker emotion. Huan Sanche didn’t fear anything save the ocean. His knees creaked as he stepped forward, carefully, mind already whirling with excuses, with lies that might need to slip from his tongue with an ease he’d always had.

The footsteps returned and he could barely see the girl’s dim shape from the light of the stars. “I thought I saw something in the water.” The girl’s voice shook with fear. He felt his pulse race anew. The waters were dangerous. He didn’t see how anyone could swim in that croc and shark-infested water. The water lapped against his feet and he felt the urge to shriek, but he needed to remain calm, to not cause too much noise and attract the wrong sorts.

Light, no one was supposed to be more fearful of the sea than him, but the girl was a second-generation Tieran. Her Pa and Ma for some absurd reason decided to immigrate to the shit-filled streets where the Great Lords took and broke what they wanted. Madness to choose to move here when Cairhien and Andor lay not far away.

“It’s nothing; the night plays tricks.” Just be thankful it's not a Fade, he wanted to say. Four drinks in he would have drawled that, he knew. A forsaken idiot he was. Dead by fifty before his knees really started aching. His sisters said that of him often enough, most times when he wasn’t in the room with a put-upon disappointed tone that burned, made his throat tighten with a need for drink.

He felt each time he walked this path a little closer to expiring before fifty. Nine years, a time yet.

“We don’t want you to be late, child.” He grasped her by the shoulder and nudged her forward. Clearly, even as grown up as a fifteen-year-old was, it had been a mistake to let her trail behind. He didn’t want to tell her ma and pa he let the wrong kind of sea creatures steal her away.

They walked for a time; he didn’t need to urge the girl to move faster. Now in front, she set a pace that left him on the verge of wheezing; his lungs felt strung out, his stomach roiled. He’d only needed to stop once to dry heave in the shallows; the girl shivering all the while, surely thinking she’d been given to the wrong sort.

At times, people wanted the wrong sort. There was no comfort in trusting the wrong sort though, there never was. Huan knew that better than most; he had to live with himself. Finally, the sand gave way to rock. “Here,” he said, voice low.

The girl stopped. He motioned for her to settle on the rock or the sand or wherever she wished. And then he shouldered off the pack, unclipped the bucket, and began to drag the metal cages to the shore. The only fishing tools left to the Sanche family after two months of surviving without their small fishing boat. The lords needed the ships to claim Meyene as they always dreamed. The poor fools would finally join the populace of fools insane enough to live under the lordling's uncaring chains. He waded into the water, carefully, cursing the turn that life had taken to find him here, at an hour he should be sleeping off his drink, catching fish.

His stomach churned with the type of hunger he’d not felt in years. Not since the Sanche’s lost their boat and he’d needed to spend all of his ill-gained earnings on food for his family. His sisters were happy enough to accept, pretended not to know where the money came from; Babes crying from hunger stomped scruples right out of a woman, he supposed.

He dropped the traps, careful not to lose the ropes securing them, and began the trek back to shore, kicking water up with every step, and shivering anew at the bitter bite of the chill water. He licked his lips and tasted salt.

He settled on a rock beside the girl, silent, mind sluggishly running over what must be done this day. The trek back to town, lugging hopefully a bucket full of stinking fish to drop with old Earn to deliver to the orphanage. Lots of children stuffed in the poor houses these days; Men were needed for war and women were needed to see to the White Cloaks encampment at the end of town.

No woman liked those sorts. They had to steal them in a manner not even the Tinkers would dare. The traveling folk at least made an honest pitch and, really, any Tieran woman that joined their ranks, that was the most sensible thing a woman could do as far as he figured.

“What’s it like?” The girl asked, voice small.

“Fancy as a High Lords manse, fancier I reckon. Lots of chores, but far fewer fish guts and enough food to fill the belly three times over.”

The exhale sounded like relief, like a hit of tabac in his veins, like the first sip of beer in the morning. It always came back to that; he thought it always would until the day he died. Nine more years. He could make it nine more years.

“You’ll be fine, lass. You ask for Siuan Sanche, tell her...” Huan sent you, he wanted to say, but that would mean nothing but trouble. He wasn’t the type to admit you know and have your reputation remain unblemished. He drummed his fingers on the rock below him, ignored how a sharp jagged edge caught on his finger and pulled in a manner that caused a line of pain. “Tell her you hail from Tear. She’ll see you settled.”

The girl gave her thanks and his gut twisted at the emotion in her voice, the tears; he bunched his fists and hunched over tried not to hear the sniffling. He hated when lasses, particularly young girls cried, but he wasn’t the sort to offer comfort. Not right for him to do so, not as he was, what he was.

The sound of oars hitting the ocean drew him to his feet. He placed his fingers in his mouth, ignored the taste of salt and iron, and let out a warble that mimicked a gull. He didn’t relax until the call returned.

“Up girl,” he hissed. “You remember what I told you?”

“Speak to Siuan Sanche.” He patted at his shorts and cursed himself when he didn’t feel the small bag in his pocket. He feared for a second it fell off into the ocean. And then, he remembered slipping the bag into his bucket. He scurried over to fetch the bag and then reached out to fold the girl’s fingers over rough fabric. The girl’s fingers were cold and free from the callouses that the folk who relied as fish as a trade had even at her young age. Coins clinked inside. Too many. Enough to name him a fool. “They won’t expect payment. You save this for after they deliver you to shore anew. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” the girl whispered.

I’m no sir, he wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He didn’t like the way people had begun to look at him. It made his insides squirm at the hopeful expectation, the gratitude, and something worse in those gazes he didn’t like to think of or name.

He cleared his throat. “You’ll be just fine.”

And then the boat scraped against the edge and he hurried the girl forward. Pleasantries were not exchanged. No, the seafolk didn’t much like him, but they wouldn’t leave any girl child to be brutalized by the White Cloaks. He could barely see the glint of jewelry no land dweller that temporarily sailed off onto the sea could afford, at least not one of Tieran descent.

“A fortnight?” he asked, the woman.

“If the weather allows,” the woman rumbled, in a voice deep as the ocean.

Light, he ran his mind over the girls he knew needed to be smuggled out and away from the White Cloaks hungry gazes. He dared not bring more than one at a time, but he would have to hope his luck would hold. He nodded and stepped back. The fewer words exchanged the better. He didn’t fancy his chances of not breaking under a questioner’s knife.

Huan Sanche had always been an honorless coward. How else could you explain how he watched the boat leave, with a heart beating too fast, with a mind that ran over every single event that could go wrong between now and a fortnight? Finally, when the sound of the oars faded, he promised this would be the last time he made the trip to this rocky outcrop. The families could find another fool to toss the dice, to chance death and ruin.

Nine more years. That’s how long he needed to live to prove his sisters wrong. It didn’t matter if they weren't around anymore to see him, to gaze at him with those worried, disappointed eyes. He’d seen them out. Used every favor he earned to smuggle his family out of Tear before it got bad. White Cloaks didn’t much like the family of channelers, either. No more than they liked the channelers themselves. He knew enough about White Cloaks to know that.

He could’ve went with them. Every day, he considered leaving, but where else would he go? This cesspit was his home. These people from the beggars to the fisher folk were his. Plus, the idea of traveling somewhere new left him jittery with nerves. A coward, that’s what he’d always be, but sometimes the Pattern needed a coward, he figured.

Huan settled down on a rock to watch the sunrise. And then, despite the way his shoulders dragged and his eyes kept slipping shut, he turned his mind to the rest of his long day. He had a woman to smuggle out of the city and deliver to a few contacts for safe passage out of Tear. The daughter of a wealthy shopkeeper who’d caught the eye of the wrong White Rat and uttered threats that no man of the cloak could allow. Not a channeler, so his nerves settled some. That was far less risky work. No one questioned a man of his reputation stumbling through town with a woman on his arm. He was a foolish, stupid cad, after all.

Elnore: The Wisdom

Braem Wood often felt a weak, stale copy of the Forest of Shadows that lay not far from Emond’s Field. Elnore sat upon the bench on her front porch, fingers wrapped around a tea cup far too fine for her farmer roots, for the part of her youth she’d spent as a Wisdom’s apprentice. The air had a cold bite of a winter in its last throws.

For once, she wished winter could last forever, blanket barren fields in snow drifts high enough and harsh enough to protect the out-of-the-way forest-enshrouded village in impassable safety. The gleeman and the traders that traveled to the small town of Jurene spread tales of the Children of the Light’s provocations, of the Sun Throne’s instability, and of an Almadicia, Tarabon, Ghaeldon, and Murandy alliance; an alliance that must herald the advent of a coming war. The modest home, larger than most in the village, she’d built with her husband’s modest inheritance more and more felt like a dream that might twist into a nightmare at any hour, of any day.

Three messengers her husband, Darin al’Meara, received from his distant relatives who’d only now decided to claim him. The Sun Queen wishes warm bodies between her and an assassin’s blade, her husband drawled the first time he received a letter before tossing the fine paper into the roaring fire of their hearth before returning to their daughter.

The second missive could not be ignored. Innloine Damodred warned of danger and urged their small family to find safety with them either at the Sun Palace or the Damodred Palace whichever they preferred. White Cloaks had murdered Innloine’s husband and claimed to have seized Paetrocel and Kiranen Damodred during their travels. If I believed my uncle and the White Cloaks would leave you be, I’d urge you to remain free of this madness. I’ve learned to my sorrow that disconnecting from the world does not ensure safety. Come home to Cairhien, Darin, please before another falls to our enemies.

We wait, her husband had said, nobles bluster and the Children of the Light rarely do more than talk.

Elnore agreed, how could she not when her daughter toddled around the manor house, innocent, curious, untainted by the outside world? Surely, a few months, one season more of freedom would be granted them even if she did not truly believe the world would continue to ignore them entirely.

Still, the words haunted her all through the winter. She could not even enjoy her daughter’s second Winter’s Night as the entire town seemed to talk of only the foul gossip delivered by the handsome golden-haired man who dressed and talked like a nobleman but could barely afford to stay at the Inn. The man acted enough like a gleeman that the innkeeper granted him free rent as long as the small village flocked to the inn.

They did; Elnore and her husband never cared for gleeman’s tales, so they contented themselves with each other. Daily chores and the care of their daughter left little time to wonder what tales the destitute noble spun.

The third letter, arrived the day before, carried by Odessa and Dalresin Damodred directly. The elderly man seemed more scholar than great lord with his hunched shoulders, his short-cropped unfashionable steel hair, and his ink-stained fingers. The man saw to the boy—the son of the former Daughter-Heir Tigraine Mantear—while his wife introduced herself warmly, delivered the letter, and then, rather than speak of the letter asked of Elnore’s daughter. Nyneave, I do believe my daughter said.

Her daughter ever curious, ever stubborn toddled forward and demanded the former prince play with her. “Nyneave,” she called, tried to contain the child, but her daughter, shook her head, dark braids flying. The word that spilled from those lips almost embarrassed her. “Now!” Nyneave ordered.

She’d not quite believed that the boy who might have been the First Prince of the Sword of Andor followed obediently, sat upon the dark red rug, played blocks with her daughter, or rather moved blocks as her daughter directed. And so, Elnore spent the night speaking of the children, watching them play on the rustic rug before the crackling fire, and feeling that the safety of winter had come to an end.

The door creaked open and Elnore started, tea almost spilling over the side of the cup. She turned to find the once-prince standing in the doorway, eyes trained on the forest. He wore night clothes of the finest fabrics and clutched a stick to his side. Odessa said he insisted on traveling with the stick everywhere. Not a sword, a spear. A commoner's weapon, at best. A barbarian’s, at worst. He will not hurt Nyneave, Odessa Damodred assured.

The boy seemed too much of a well-behaved mouse to hurt anyone, so she did not worry—

The howl of a wolf sounded, and then another and another and another. Light, that was entirely too close. The beasts did not often harm men, but they were still wild animals that were best not to tempt. Heart pattering, she settled the tea on the bench. When she turned the boy, stood at the edge of the wooden porch just shy of a thin layer of ice, bare feet peeking out from the dark blue fabric of his sleep clothes.

“Galad, child,” Elnore caught the boy by the shoulder. The fabric was a few shades lighter than her hands and felt far softer than her hands had been since she had toddled around her parent’s small cabin. “The forest is not safe. Come, I will make you some cocoa to drink with your morning oats.”

The boy’s head dipped into a dutiful nod, far easier than her child, to her relief. She led the boy back into the chilly house. The roaring fire in the large room did little to dispel the morning cold, but the boy did not complain despite the shivering that caused the stick clutched in that small hand to bounce off the wood floor. He settled into her side, fingers catching on her rough homespun dress, and didn’t do more than frown when she unwrapped his fingers around the stick and settled it against the wall.

She gathered a blanket, carried a chair into the kitchen, settled it down not far from where she would start breakfast, and urged the boy to sit. The blanket she wrapped around him. The boy sniffled and huddled into the blanket those dark eyes never leaving her. She asked as she always did to her daughter, about the boy's dreams, how he slept as she began the morning meal.

She thought he might choose to remain silent, too shy, but finally, the words came almost too soft to hear. “Mama wasn’t there again. He said he’d help me find her, but then the wolf came.”

Her heart pulled at the confusion in that voice, at the frown. Odessa Damodred explained that with a degree of embarrassment after the boy asked for his mother after dinner the night before. The boy months later still adamantly believed his mother was alive, merely lost.

Elnore should not be the one to push for the child to see reality; one day, that hope would die as it should, but not this day. Better to ensure the boy did not walk into danger than fruitlessly push against child-like delusions. “Wolves are dangerous. Promise me you will not seek them out.” The Damodred family did not need the child wandering headlong into danger in an attempt to find his mother when war and assassins seemed to encircle the family.

The promise did not come and the boy’s sudden interest in the wood floor meant it would not come. She’d need to speak to Odessa of the boy’s almost headlong walk toward a wild animal. The quiet, dutiful ones tended to be the ones to find trouble. She knew that much from her time as a wisdom’s apprentice treating just as many of those types as the rambunctious, wild ones.

“Tell me of her, your mother,” Elnore suggested, wary of starting a fight with the small child.

Galad Damodred began to speak of his mother, the Daughter-Heir; a woman that in another turning, another life might not have been murdered, and instead might have become the Queen of Andor; a woman that a simple wisdom’s apprentice from Emond’s Field would never have known beyond a far off ruler that technically claimed the land of the Two Rivers.

Careful prodding, prised out more details, enough for Elnore to be sure that the details derived from dreams rather than real events. The dreams of a grieving, confused child desperately seeking a mother lost to him. True or not, they seemed to be fond recollections. Any mother would hope a child regarded her that fondly after they passed from the world.

Her husband joined them as she finished the oats, a sleepy Nyneave on his hip. The child was all bundled up in layers of softer wool than she’d ever worn as a child herself. The sturdy highchair he settled the girl in did not creak or possess a single nick from decades of being passed from house to house as new children joined the community. She passed a small bowl of cooked oats and dehydrated fruit to her husband to settle before the child.

Elnore braced herself for a fight, as one always came in the morning when oat mush was placed before the girl. The girl’s cute little cheeks stretched, her dark hands curled around the fine metal spoon, those small braids danced angrily, and her small lips curled into a pout. She waited for the wail that would wake the rest of their guests, and then a cup thrust into the girl’s face.

“It’s good with the cocoa,” the boy said, firmly. “You can have the rest.”

The tantrum passed as her daughter’s dark eyes settled on the cocoa. Darin gazed at the boy as if he wished to engulf the boy in an enthusiastic hug for saving him from an hour-long struggle against a boarish child. Instead, he chose silence. A good tactic to use when their daughter behaved as they wish. She pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek as she settled a larger bowl of oat mush in front of him. He grasped her wrist in a caress, as she retreated.

The children ate in relative peace aside from her daughter’s babbling, her husband’s occasional re-directing the girl, and the boy’s occasional response to the questions and demands posed by their daughter.

The elder Damodreds arrived in the main room as the children finished eating. She settled the children into the living room as her husband saw his relatives settled with the meager meal offerings. A common meal, for folk better off than most, but by no means rich. She did not hear any complaints. Once Nyneave began lecturing Galad once more on the proper way to build a wall, Elnore returned to break her fast with some oats, fruit, and another cup of tea. She remembered the tea cup and letter left on the front porch. They did not possess enough cups to leave one of her nicer ones sitting on the porch. She slipped out and frowned as her feet kicked against something. A small jagged piece of polished clay slid across the ice-encrusted earth, it dipped into an indent in the ground, a footstep that she did not remember being there before.

She turned to scan the dark forest that encircled the house and wished for once they built closer to the town proper. She thought she saw a vague shape of a man at the treeline as she scanned, but when she backtracked she saw nothing save the dim, gloom of a forest not yet touched by the sun. A crunch came and her eyes darted to the side.

A wolf, large and black with golden eyes, stood a dozen steps away. The beast held her gaze unblinking and then darted away in the opposite direction that she thought she saw the odd shadow in the woods. Fetch the letter and then return to the safety of the house, she told herself heart speeding in her chest, but when she turned she found the letter gone. A quick scan found only puddles of spilled tea and broken pieces of clay that had once been a fine tea cup. She shivered, unease, settling into her bones. I know who I married and what he might bring. Danger driven by petty lords, by threats of inheritance he barely stood to claim.

“Damodreds are not dark-skinned,” her husband had said when he’d chosen to take her name. The man possessed lighter skin than her own; cocoa to her obsidian. A handsome, kind man who’d charmed her away from the lonely life of a Wisdom regardless of his fine looks divergent as they were from the rest of his family.

“You are,” she wanted to say, but what did it matter? He’d chosen her, a peasant and when they married, most of the Damodreds seemed content to forget her husband. And that, she had thought, might be for the better as every tale he’d told of his family had been dire.

Now his family had come to claim them and danger lay on the horizon for all of Cairhien, but most of all distant kin to the Sun Queen even if they answered to al’Meara rather than Damodred. She turned her gaze once more to where the shadow might have been and saw nothing. She shivered, turned away, and rushed into the house.

“No. No. Set it here,” her daughter ordered, irritated clearly at the boy’s inept placement. Safe, they were safe for now.

She entered the kitchen and ordered her husband, “We leave on the morrow.” And then to Odessa Damodred she said, “Queen Moiraine’s terms are accepted, all of them.” She wished she still possessed the letter, but years of memorizing healing remedies and illnesses meant she rarely forgot information of import. She’d see this Sun Queen answered for every term offered.

Odessa looked delighted. Dalresin seemed even more so, exclaiming over how her husband would just love the library. He’d see them offered a tour first above all else.

Elnore scooped some oats into a bowl and forced herself to eat. The food tasted like ash in her mouth; after breakfast, after the elder Damodreds excused themselves to spend time with the children, her husband cornered her with questions in the hall before their room.

She told him of the wolf, of her unease, of the tales she’d been hearing from her neighbor. “I will not see Nyneave an orphan because we are fool enough to miss the signs of danger. You are a Damodred, no matter how much you wish the world to forget the fact.”

The man that was Darin Damodred—would always be Darin Damodred—no matter how many new names he adopted closed his dark eyes and settled his forehead into the crook of her neck. He smelled of the herbs she’d been teaching him in the years after they’d wed.

“This need not be bad, my love,” she whispered, running her fingers over his lean back.

“You do not know what it means to be a Damodred.” The arms tightened around her, engulfing her in warmth she’d not truly felt since she stepped outside for a second time.

“Then we change what it means to be a Damodred. I have been asked to help with the children; that means something.” Few nobles would ask a peasant, a nobody, to help care for and help raise the noble children that would be the future of their noble lines.

“Are we to force them down a better path?” her husband muttered. “One day if we aren’t murdered, House Damodred won’t be murderous cutthroats?”

She pinched her husband’s side in reprimand. He squirmed away. “Galad seems kind.”

“The boy was not raised a Damodred.”

“And Innloine? You’ve spoken fondly of her, or was that a lie?”

A sigh, she pushed on. “We cannot stay, not with messengers from the Sun Palace showing at our door, and I will not carry trouble with us back to the Two Rivers.” Her kin there deserved better than hoards arriving at their doors because she did not care to claim the safety offered freely. We cannot be selfish, she wanted to push, but her husband seemed to crumple before her eyes. She could not like winning this battle, forcing this choice, but she feared lingering in this house as assassins, white cloaks, and foreign armies poured into their small forest home.

“Fine, but we cannot leave sooner than—”

“Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow.” They were Damodreds now, as much as they were al’Mearas; they could hire someone from the village to see the house settled and cared for.

A wary sigh answered her and then, “I will go feed the animals and then I will help you pack.”

“No,” Elnore said, fierce. The man could barely protect himself. A wolf lingered nearby. She trusted herself to ward off danger far more than her gentle husband. “I’ll take my bow while I feed the animals.”

“We’ll go together,” her husband, insisted. “You can protect me while I feed the hens.” That produced a laugh.

Light, her father would be distressed to know she’d bound herself to such a man: rich and helpless, a truly cursed combination. She kissed him and was reminded of how rare such moments were with a precocious toddler underfoot. The moment ended too soon, but a palace lay in their future. She imagined the occasional minder for Nynaeve to reign over could be procured far more easily than a couple living out in the woods alone. “Inform Odessa we require her to mind the children for the day.”

“She might rescind her invitation if we let Nynaeve terrorize her all day.”

The jest ripped free a laugh. “I don’t think even Nynaeve at her worst would sway a Queen’s order.”

“We will see,” her husband said in parting.

We shall see, Elnore agreed as she slipped into the room to fetch her bow and arrows. She felt better with the Three-Rivers style bow in her hands. She’d keep the bow close until she reached the safety that Cairhien offered. Light knew, her husband would offer poor protection. The Damodred guards that stayed at the Inn in the village would offer more protection during the coming journey, but guards could be bribed or overpowered. Better to keep her bow close.

If death came, she’d slip into it fighting for her family, Damodred or al’Meara.

Luc: Two-Halves In Shadow

I am not a hunter, Luc thought as he passed through the dark woods, sticks crunching underfoot, stones tumbling, and prey animals starting and scrambling out of sight. The wolves, for once, did not howl, did not stalk through the foliage, herrying, threatening death and worse.

Isam agreed, but a hunter was not needed that night or the older half would have slipped from the dream to walk as a man once more. They’d done that in recent months on occasion to cull the herd of wolves in the Braem Wood. The beasts seemed to track him, to know the gifts granted him; the foul power that conjoined two souls, two minds, melded them into one better whole.

Dead mangled wolf corpses flashed in his mind, more arrows than a pin cushion punched into its flank. A distant thrum of satisfaction came from Isam. Soon, they’d hunt that type of prey again.

For now, he crouched down as he came to the edge of the woods gazing out at the small collection of tents, at the small blazing campfire at the center, and the scant guards set to guard the slumbering nobles. The men stood together, chatting, but Luc could not decipher the words.

Luc waited tense, blood thrumming in his veins, willing the boy to behave, to do as he’d been ordered. Tigraine instilled in the boy a desire to follow orders, to be a good boy, an obedient dog. She taught the boy how to wander the dreams in her foolish, instinctive drive to cling to sentiment, to the past. The boy had followed her, instinctive slips into the world of dreams. More than once they’d needed to save the boy from nightmares made manifest, from wolves that seemed to be ever in the boy’s vicinity, and carry him back to his dream.

Good acts, trust-building acts, so they’d not scolded their nephew for his wandering. He was young yet, unlike their weakling sister. Isam stalked her, watched her, and forced a choice on her, a consequence. What life did his sweet sister prefer? What future did she choose? A mother murdered or a son betrayed...a far better choice than Isam received all those years ago. His sister squandered the choice, just as she had every other facet of life. His poor, cowardly, stupid sister who would have brought Andor to ruin in a single generation.

A flash of movement from one of the tents, Luc leaned forward, strained to see despite the dim gloom of night. He set his palm on the earth in front of him and froze as a twig snapped under his hands. The guards started, turned from each other, hands shifting to grasp the handles of the swords at their sides.

Be still, he told himself. And so, Luc Mantear did. The guards contented themselves with walking a few paces forward, peering at the gaps in the trees until one muttered that it must be an animal. The men returned to their previous station but did not continue to talk. They would be vigilant the rest of the night. Maybe Isam should have come, but Luc had been the one to cultivate, to woo his nephew. The boy knew his face well enough, from portraits if nothing else. I can take you to your mother, he’d promised.

The boy’s blubbering at such a prospect would need to be excised. Luc Mantear waited and waited and waited for the boy at the edge of the woods. He’d told the boy the exact tree to meet him at. He should be able to make his way there. Tentatively, Luc fumbled in his pocket and brought a wooden birdcall to his lips, and blew, once, twice. The guards straightened and turned toward his hiding place once more. They set their hands to their swords once more, but did not move. Not yet.

He waited and waited and waited.

And then the wolf howls started, too close, but still he held his ground. Until  the guards began to press closer to the woods, to where he crouched. Luc Mantear melted into the woods, furious that the boy inherited Tigraine’s ineptitude.

He turned and almost tripped over a small figure that crouched in the shadows, a wooden stick gripped in his fist, and his dark hair mussed. How long had the boy been there? Was he just going to let Luc crouch all night waiting? A dark amusement slithered across the bond. He could almost hear a dark laugh from his other half who knew little of humor.

The wolf howls seemed to be coming ever closer. Luc seized the boy's arm and stepped with him into the dream. The boy obediently followed. He did not even blink as the hands that gripped his arm shifted as Luc gave way to Isam. The first words the boy spoke were of his mother. “Are we going to see my mama now?”

“You need to grow strong enough to rescue her first,” Isam said, eyes on the stick clutched in that small hand. “To learn how to fight, to kill.” The boy gazed up at him wide-eyed, innocent still. Innocent eyes that had not seen Fades take his mother, hurt her, kill her at last. An innocent child who had not spent his childhood in The Town, an urchin scrambling for scraps, watching men and women die, or become monsters, or something far worse.

“Janduin taught me to fight,” the boy said, squirming away to execute a form with the stick. The motion was sloppy, without the years of practice such a move required.

“That is not enough,” Isam said, solemnly, “but you will be ready.”

A firm shake of that tousled hair. The howl of a wolf cut through the dream world. They stalked him, always one step behind. He was a hunter, but even hunters needed to be wary of certain prey. Isam hauled the boy into his arms and settled him against his side. Small fingers, free from blood, from the taint of death still, looped around his neck. He felt the stick press into his back.

Isam began to slip through the dream world, dark forests giving way to open fields, to small towns, and a dozen other sights. The pair did not linger in the world of dreams. Eventually, he stood in the woods once more, in front of a ramshackle cottage.

The small cottage deep in the Forest of Shadows once belonged to an old couple that were at death’s door. Isam delivered the couple a clean, fast death early. Luc dragged the bodies into the woods to bury. The cottage waited, abandoned, all through the winter.

And now as Spring approached, Isam carried Luc’s nephew into the small house in the woods. The walls were of a strong make, but the months of vacancy left the small cottage a mess of dust and dirt and animal droppings. The noble would need to see the small home cleaned if he wished. Isam lived in far worse conditions.

Isam became Luc as they slipped from the dream world into the living. Luc grunted at the sudden weight, muscles unused to carrying much more than a slim, dueling sword for short bouts. The boy peered around the small room with dark eyes, curious. The basic, cobbled-together furniture of a peasant's cottage populated the room: a small round table in the corner, a basic hearth, a square table, and a bed that the child would not use.

“Sleep,” Luc ordered, as he dropped him onto the ground with some relief. The boy was too big now to carry easily. He’d need to learn to walk on his own. He walked over to the boy, gathered the wool blanket off the surface, and tossed it into the adjacent corner. “We train in the morning.”

He turned to find the boy hugging his stick, huddling down, weak, small. Prey. The last came from Isam. “I’ll go see grandmama soon. You said if I came, I’d still—”

“Do you wish to see your mother, rescue your mother or not?” The boy flinched and his lips began to quiver. The words were perhaps a tad too sharp, too impatient.

A wan nod answered his question. Luc stepped forward and knelt on the dust-streaked floor, a slither of annoyance thrummed through him that he needed to sully his fine wool pants because his sister’s weakling child could not dismiss sentiment. “You will see your grandmama soon, but she would be so much happier if we returned with your mama. Now sleep, we begin your training in the morning.”

The boy blessedly listened and did not complain of the state of the blanket. Luc peered around the ramshackle, worn building and sneered. He did not look forward to cleaning this mess, to making it livable. He missed servants who’d do such tasks for him. His mind turned to Isam, maybe...

Isam, I could use a rest. How would you like to take over?

No reply came; He felt Isam bury himself deeper, hiding deep in the depths of his psyche. Pretending he did not hear Luc’s question. Luc’s generous offer. The Andoran half could try to force the switch, but the borderlander possessed all the skill, all the finesse in the dream world, in controlling the form of this creature they’d become.

Luc sighed and his eyes turned to the boy, curled into the corner like a mutt, already asleep. One day, Luc would be king of Andor and servants would conduct all of the mundane tasks. For now, Luc Mantear, once First Prince of the Sword began to clean, tomorrow Isam and Luc would begin turning the boy into a hunter and all the world his prey.

Chapter Text

Morgase

“Travel is not fit for the babe,” Lini tutted, old hands encased in a sturdy pair of gloves grasping at the edge of the large vessel. While Winter’s Night had long passed, spring could not be said to be in full bloom. A hard wind blew this day with a bitter bite that made Morgase shiver, even encased in layer upon layer of fine wool and fur.

Morgase stood tall, well as tall as she could, far too many months heavy with child. She could no longer see the fine leather boots upon her feet or ensure the hem of her travel dress had not attracted all manner of foul stains. The Daughter-Heir must have a certain gravitas she could no longer ensure.

She felt like a goose ready to be plucked and skewered on a spit. Her stomach roiled at the thought of her many nights neck-deep in cooking pans covered in slimy, poor-smelling grease, listening to the inane chatter of that warder-crazed novice.

Morgase Trakand was no longer a novice, no longer a subordinate to the sisters of the White Tower; she meant to stay well clear of the kitchens on this visit, well clear of any who might rattle on about warders and other such inane nonsense. The Daughter-Heir possessed higher, more pressing duties with war on the horizon in Cairhien and whispers of discontent in the far reaches of the country: white cloak incursions and common-folk uprisings, all remained troubles that lay in the shadows, more pressing, more dangerous than a trolloc invasion.

Better that. Trollocs I can rally the country around. Not an honorable thought perhaps, but there was no honor in maintaining control of a country as far-reaching as Andor. Honor was for warders, not for the Daughter-Heir of Andor. Her hand tightened around the rail, and she shuffled her aching feet, wincing at the pulse of pain, at the inability to click her fingers and summon a chair to her side. She had an image to maintain and would not sail into Tar Valon sitting upon a box that would then require a sailor to pull her to her feet like a babe.

The reed-thin voice of Lini broke through her thoughts. “You will lose the babe if you do not heed Lini’s words.” Her old nursemaid shuffled closer, short fingers wagging imperiously as a queen. The old woman’s hair had long since gone entirely grey and was collected into a low bun. Lini wore a warm, but serviceable, brown overcoat, masking her reed-thin frame. A gift from Morgase upon her ascension to Daughter-Heir that was dark enough to match those always-searching eyes. The once-nanny of a daughter-heir should wear finer cut garments than one of a mere head of a noble house. 

The sigh escaped explosively, and the wind carried the exhalation from her rosy lips, off into the distance to the white city of Tar Valon. “I travel with more ease than our Queen, Lini; as the heir, I must do what is best for Andor, for her future.” Morgase rested a hand on her belly and felt like a fool for wishing so desperately the child would be the right sex to inherit the throne. Might as well wish her way through Snakes & Foxes–both were nigh impossible. 

This peace with Cairhien must stand; she’d heard whispers of her sister-in-law's plans for the Sun Throne. Negotiations with the Builders to craft new city walls in the short term and a giant healing ward that would outstrip the healing wing of the White Tower once the war died. Enticing farmers from all over the Westlands to travel to Cairhien and start tending the barren land, not aligned with the Cairhienen and Andoran border. An expansion of the Great Library to include rarer tomes that would still attract the most sought-after scholars. The Cairhienen would soon be more than a mercantile city-state masquerading as a country.

That should be all the better. Strong allies led to strong alliances, but not even a babe of both bloodlines could sweep aside a century-old rivalry. Morgase Trakand, as Daughter-Heir, as the future queen of Andor, would not allow her great country to sink into mediocrity. A pale moon to their neighboring country's blazing sun. A rose garden plucked of all its thorns, left defenseless in the face of raiders at the border.

The High Houses had voted for her; it was time she proved her worth beyond the pretty, young barely channeler that Queen Mordrellen plucked from the White Tower at the approval of the Amyrlin Seat.

“You do look peaky, deary.”

I feel peaky, but the ship floated up to the docks, and the shouts of sailors arose. The ship’s deck became a mess of movement as bare-chested sailors descended onto the deck like lice to fasten the boat to the dock, lower the sails, and prepare for unloading the trade goods and Morgase’s luggage. 

Morgase looked to the side, standing on tiptoes, leaning casually against the rail, as close as she could with her bulging belly to view the docks below. Is he here? 

“You will not meet your king any faster if you plummet into the river. I will not be fetching you out. How many times has Linni told you–swimming is for the young and the foolish. I’d believed you were neither since you’d begun carrying your first babe.”

Morgase heels hit the deck with a soft thud, and she resigned herself to waiting for permission to disembark from the ship’s captain. I came here for him, the King of Murandy. They’d exchanged three letters in the long winter months since her late husband had met his end. The king had been short, insulting, and abrupt in his correspondence, but he’d agreed to meet in Tar Valon for a meeting being hosted by the Amyrlin Seat for the monarchs of the alliance. A collection of monarchs not eager to accept the rule of the Children of the Light.

The wait felt unbearably long, but finally, she disembarked with the aid of the First Prince of the Sword, Gareth Bryne. The man had accepted his elevation in station without even a bat of the eye, without the need to grovel that lesser men might feel. No, this was not a role he wished to serve for life, but rather one he would fill until a son she bore came of age as tradition dictated or she found a man that might fit the role far better.

He did not release her hand until she stood on the unsteady deck, and then he twisted, blocky face turned to the White Tower, to where the middle Damodred girl lay within, still a novice, still off limits to this man. Really, that would be unseemly for the First Prince of the Sword sullying his station with a novice. “You will not shame your Andor by pursuing a novice, Lord Bryne.”

The words fell harshly from her lips, without tact if the mulish tightness to that blocky jaw meant anything. The nobleman was not handsome in a traditional sense but possessed a keen intellect that compensated for the deficiencies in his form. Do not act like a trolloc. Her temper seemed to be shorter of late. Lini blamed the pregnancy, but Daughter-Heirs could not antagonize valued allies.

In apology, she caught the man’s forearm and waited until those dark eyes turned to her again. “I hear Lady Anvaere is advancing quickly in her study; it will not be long...I would be happy to speak of Queen Moiraine of an alliance between your house and House Damodred if you wish.”

With the loss of Taringail, further ties to the royal family of Andor would be advantageous, and she’d ensured the man would be a prized husband. House Bryne had been awarded further land after an ancient line finally died out as an award for his elevation to the First Prince of the Sword. The lord would be, if not the perfect fit for the sister of the Sun Queen, at least a better prospect than most.

“I have been told to wait for the lady to claim me, and so, I wait, Daughter-Heir Morgase, but I thank you for the offer.”

The feeling that roiled in her gut could not be jealousy, not over the ability to choose a lover based on desire, and not a mercenary need to secure the claim she’d meant to have pried from her rival's slimy hands.

Lady Naean Arawn was pregnant with a Damodred babe; Morgase could not afford to allow that woman to birth a girl-child and make her people re-evaluate their oaths to House Trakand to the Lion Throne. The right marriage alliance would strengthen her position even if the babe in her belly failed to arrive with the right parts.

Morgase could not wallow in such matters. She set off, Lini and Gareth Bryne trailing behind. The deck swayed under her feet with enough vigor for Morgase to falter, stomach rolling as her balance upended and she began to tilt, muscles straining to remain on her feet, but her balance felt off of late.

Strong arms seized her, arms wrapped around her back, and jerked her upright, into a strong, burly form encased in hard plate armor. The hands that enwrapped her, held her close, felt warm even through the coat. The man smelled nice. A musk that tickled her senses far more than her late husband’s more feminine scents. He didn’t seem to be releasing her. Surely, he should be releasing her, but if he didn’t, would that be so bad?

“Too much pride kills babes—Lion or not,” Lini interrupted, shuffling closer, seizing Morgase by the arm, winding her arms around the Daughter-Heir, tugging her free of the lord, who stepped back with a bow, gaze already set upon the White Tower once more. Disappointment settled in her gut at the quick, cool dismissal from Lord Bryne.

You are a fool, she reprimanded, even as she gave the expected niceties to her rescuer. The Lord did not react for a long second before he started and gave a rather abrupt, unflatteringly dismissive return of such niceties. The lord ran off to ensure that the sailors were prepared for them to disembark.

“He is a handsome man, Lord Bryne, is he not?” Lini asked, glibly as if she spoke of the weather.

“Lini,” Morgase hissed, mortified. Only years of courtly manners and Aes Sedai training kept a flush from betraying her. 

“Even animals know that one needs to sneak to mate with a desired male when a claim has already been laid. I would wait, dear, until after you depart Tar Valon, to attempt anything with Lord Bryne.”

“Lini!”

A hand patted her cheek as if she were still a child. Her old nanny’s voice lowered as if the entire topic had not been rather scandalous. “Monarchs are allowed their dalliances, but I hear Lady Anvaere is rather good with a sword and not concerned with noble niceties.” Morgase’s training betrayed her. She turned the shade of a rose. That was the part Lini felt the urge to whisper?

“I have no designs on Lord Bryne!” Morgase whispered back, light eyes darting to the tall, rather handsome lord. He suddenly seemed less plain. The clouds had parted, and sunlight glinted off his armor and made the bulges of muscle all the more prominent. Her late husband had been of a lean form without the physique of a warrior, even if he possessed a pretty face. Lord Bryne would surely be a generous lover, unlike her late husband...

A finger poked into her side. “I have known you since you were a squalling babe. I am not so easily fooled.”

“I do not even like him.”

Lini snorted, rather loudly, rather insultingly.

The lord hurried back, bowed, and ushered the pair forward, unaware of their conversation or the fingers poking into her side any time her gaze lingered too long on a new revelation—passionate eyes, strong hands, and a rather defined rear that would catch any woman’s eye who had an affinity for male lovers. Finally, Lord Bryne turned to offer his hand to help her walk over the plank onto the deck below. The deck swayed as vigorously as the boat above. She sought the lord’s arm for extra support, of course, not to feel the hard muscle under her fingers and to smell that musky scent once more.

Morgase could almost imagine a future where this man remained First Prince of the Sword, always at her side, for all of their days, finding each other when their mutual desire enraptured them, but without the mess of a marriage or a formal alliance beyond two people finding pleasure.

The lord gazed toward the White Tower, seemingly unaware of her hand upon his arm, of her warm, lush side pressed closer than proper to his muscled one. Her stomach roiled with a feeling that could not be jealousy.

A rather loud hrumph cut through the air. “Lord Bryne, only fools swim in this weather, but I am not a young lass able to balance on a wire like some circus fool.”

The lord turned away from his contemplation of the White Tower and pulled his arm from Morgase after carefully ensuring that the Daughter-Heir could keep her balance. She watched him offer his hand to Linni. 

Fool, she thought, as she turned away and walked carefully from the dock, hands spread in an undignified manner to maintain her balance. She’d never felt more relieved when her feet met solid ground. A small collection of people stood at the edge of the dock.

Three women in their middle years with delicately painted faces, hair as dark as the coal Murandy was famous for, and the finest cotton gowns money could purchase of a scarlet hue. The women bowed as one before her as if they’d trained their whole lives for this moment, delicate movements that seemed almost a dance.

They try too hard, Morgase thought, in amusement. These were women not known for frequenting such high circles. “Rise, please. I thank you for meeting me.” Morgase glanced behind, but only the city’s high walls, peasants, and a series of horses and carriages could be seen. The king had not seen fit to greet her.

“His Majesty, King Roedran Almaric do Arreloa a'Naloy sends his deepest regrets that he could not meet you in person; He is briefing a newly risen lady on what her lordship will entail when she comes of age.”

“If she can be found,” the youngest, the most sour of the three, muttered, thin lips pursing.

“It will not be an overly long conversation, my lady.” There was a glint of cruel amusement in that tone.

“Yes,” the one with the most grey at her roots agreed, “He will find the conversation cut rather short, I fear. I daresay, rather mangled beyond all repair.”

Titters from the other two greeted those words, delicate sounds muffled by fine doe-skin gloves. A vicious glint, cold as winter ice, radiated from the eldest, but amusement cracked the poised affect.

“You have a lovely voice, Daughter-Heir Morgase; our king will be captivated. You just might make the cut,” the youngest agreed. The snort that erupted scared off a nearby gull, who cawed and wheeled away, far, far away from these odd creatures who eyed her as if they expected her to laugh.

Her feet ached, and she wished not to stand here, listening to these women cackle and trade-weighted barbs that had a double meaning she did not yet know. She gestured to the side at Lord Bryne, as he joined them, Lini hanging onto his arm. The man stood, serious as a stone, hand resting near enough to his sword as he scanned the perimeter for danger. “Let me introduce the First Prince of the Sword, Lord Gareth Bryne.”

The man bowed, a succinct movement, armor glinting in the sunlight overhead. The man muttered his greetings and avoided the eyes of the younger woman who sashayed closer with a vigorous shake of her hips that did not draw those grim eyes. Satisfaction filled her that the lady was ignored; it removed some of the sting of the lord’s disinterest in her. The lord looked once more to the White Tower, as if he could see through stone and mortar to spy his lady love, Anvaere Damodred.

The noblewomen introduced themselves as Floria, Valerie, and Phoebus do Avriny a'Roihan, aunts of the new lord of the newly re-named a'Roihan province. The resemblance, Morgase realized, to Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan, seemed obvious now, and the pointed words fell into place with a rather breathtaking reality: cut short, mangled. She’d heard of the tragedy that had befallen the accepted, maimed by a sister of the White Tower, carved up until words became as absent as a field afflicted by rot.

Morgase could trade sweet words with monsters as well as any; she’d been married to Taringail Damedred after all. She did not wish to at this moment. “Then I call myself fortunate that I will be able to greet him all the sooner. Let us not tarry; I would like to refresh myself before I meet with your king.”

The waspish, borish a'Roihan ladies led the way to the nearby carriage. Lord Bryne jumped into the carriage and turned to guide her within. As she settled, Lady Phoebus cut in front of Lini to offer her bare hand to the First Prince of the Sword. The man frowned, “You’ve lost your glove.”

Lini elbowed the woman to the side, bit off her thick, almost mitten-like gloves, and shoved them into the finely dressed noblewoman’s chest. “Women who wander around without gloves to entice claimed men, even ones as dashing as our Lord Bryne, can find themselves short a few fingers.”

The woman fumbled for the gloves and furrowed her nose at them as Lord Bryne helped Lini into the carriage. He seemed amused and delighted, perhaps at the inference of being claimed. He did not linger to aid the other women into the carriage. Instead, he took the opportunity to hurry from the carriage, call out for the driver, and begin questioning the man about the state of the city’s streets. Only the safest routes should be taken. Not a hair on the ladies' heads could be out of place by the time they arrived at the White Tower. “Be sure to wear the gloves deary.” Lini leaned out of the carriage and shut the door in the lady's stunned face.

Morgase could laugh, but dared not allow any more offense than Lini might have already caused. Besides, she suspected the words were as much for her as for the detestable do Avriny a'Roihan. Not long after the carriages began to move, a jolting, uncomfortable ride, even with the rather pristine state of the roads.

The journey through the busy streets of Tar Valon had never felt longer, and it was not her heavy stomach, her sore feet, or the sun beating down overhead, or Lini’s knowing gaze, but the waspish words of the three newly risen nobles circling in her head. Better if the king had sent no envoy to greet her, but not even the Daughter-Heir could control all dictates of fate. Some matters must be claimed and forged down the right path.

It mattered not if this babe would be destined to be the First Prince of the Sword or the Daughter-Heir. It mattered not if she desired Gareth Bryne and could almost imagine a future with him. The future would be what she forged it into, and the only element that would be set in stone is House Trakand’s claim on the Lion Throne. The rest would be history.

It must be so, Morgase thought as the carriage passed through the inner gates and rolled to a halt. Linni jolted awake, dark eyes blinking rapidly, still half asleep. She could sleep through the breaking itself, her Lini.

The door to the carriage opened, and Gareth Bryne awaited, hand out, ready to help her descend. She accepted the hand with grace, only able to feel a remnant of warmth through the finely tailored leather gloves. A true procession, not the sad, three-woman welcoming party, awaited her.

Morgase scanned the courtyard before she rose to accept his offer from the secrecy of her carriage. Dozens of Aes Sedai, warders, and Tower Guards filled the courtyard. The Amyrlin Seat herself stood at the center, but could only be identified by the wide breadth of space the office granted. Tamra Ospenya wore a dress the shade of a wilted daffodil and a stole thin as a few ribbons stitched together about her neck.

A noose would make a finer fashion choice. Blue eyes skipped to the leader of the Light’s right. Gitara Moroso, the Keeper of the Chronicles, stood tall as a stork in a periwinkle gown encrusted with real silver lace, staff of her office clutched between jeweled fingers with far more gems glinting from her neck, ears, and wrists. If the Amyrlin Seat was severe austerity, her keeper was a kind of mean, newly ennobled gluttony.

The sisters around the leaders of the Aes Sedai seemed both too staid and too extravagant in comparison. An odd pair, Morgase thought, accepting Lord Bryne’s hand. The step from the carriage ended in a near fall that caused her cheeks to darken and her eyes to close in mortification. By the light, she wished the Aes Sedai had not seen to meet her with a procession worthy of her station. Still, the Daughter-Heir did not wilt with embarrassment—

A choked laugh broke through the courtyard, and Morgase’s blue eyes flew open and her gaze jerked toward the sound. Ire rose in her belly at the terribly rude exclamation.

A novice stood near the front of the courtyard, with wild dark hair, a sword at her side, and feline features pulled into a jovial grin. The gaze was not trained on the Daughter-Heir, but the short warder-crazy Arafellin that was all boast and little sense. The pair stood slightly to the side of the Sun Queen, jovial as a pair of children on Bel Tine.

Moiraine Damodred, the Sun Queen, draped in a gown of deep green threaded with silver in the Tree of Life sprouting from the hem. A newly forged crown sat atop, swept back dark locks, a single sapphire set upon the slim, unadorned metal. The ter’angreal gifted by the Aes Sedai encircled the elegant neck.

A gift fit for a queen more illustrious than Moiraine Damodred, not an ancient line already and recently sullied by merchant stock. And she did not train at the White Tower, did not scrub the tiled floor until it gleamed, did not scrape and bow and politic with the Aes Sedai.

I will be the queen that the minor, insignificant countries of the Westlands come to grovel.

Lini stepped forward to fret over Morgase, but she stepped forward away from Bryne and Lini both. The Daughter-Heir could be seen to grovel even among allies, even among friends.

She should perhaps approach the Amyrlin Seat first, but she would not be seen as a subordinate of the White Tower. The power balance of the Westlands stood on the tip of a pin needle. One slight push could transform Andor into little better than Amadicia—stripped of all power and ruled by an external martial force. And so, she approached her fellow monarch, red lips stretched into a faux-friendly smile, as her skirts swished around her legs.

“Daughter-Heir Morgase, I trust you traveled well in your delicate state?” The Sun Queen asked, not bothering to accompany the introduction with warmth or affection.

“She does look well for a woman ready to burst in a few moons,” Anvaere drawled, offering no more than a slight bow, not proper for a novice, but acceptable for the woman thought of as one of the Sun Queen’s potential heirs. The Arafellin novice jolted into a bow not much deeper than the sister of a queen.

Aes Sedai arrogance in training tended to flourish in their young. One of Anvaere Damodred's temperament in their midst would inspire even more lax attitudes. That would need to be addressed, loath as she was to do anything that might make either feel as if she owed them a favor.

Lord Bryne stepped apace with her, his eyes still focused as they should on the Sun Queen. The bow was all that was proper. The petty part of her rose. She set her hand delicately on his arm, casual as if such liberties were always taken with his person. “Lady Anvaere, Queen Moiraine, you remember my First Prince of the Sword, Gareth Bryne?”

The Arafellin’s eyes widened a fraction as her eyes ran over the brawny, muscled form. The face did little to capture the flighty, lustful novice's attention. A green that one, for sure. “Gareth,” Anvaere said, eagerly, stepping forward, calloused hand falling to the pommel of the sword at her waist. Before she could blink, the sword was half-unsheathed, and the full sun overhead glinted off steel and into her eyes.

“Sister, now is not the time to challenge Lord Bryne to a duel,” Queen Moiraine chastised. A casual wave of the hand and the weapon slammed back into its sheath.

“Our dearest sister-in-law doesn’t mind if I borrow her First Prince of the Sword for a time? Family is meant to share, sister.”

Morgase could not leave that escalation be, “I heard from Taringail how well House Damodred’s share.”

“We are letting you handle our dear Uncle Aldecain as you see fit; that seems charitable to me,” Anvaere whispered, teeth bared in a mockery of a smile.

The Lady Anvaere and the Arafellin novices’ names were called. A glance to the side revealed Jarna Sedai, in a prim green gown with the shawl of her Ajah set upon her shoulders.

“Trouble again, Anvaere?” The Sun Queen asked, before turning to the Mistress of Novices, but the grey sister cut her off brusquely.

“The girl is a novice until she passes the accepted test or chooses to forgo further training.”

The sister of the queen tarried, stepping closer to Bryne to whisper, until the Sun Queen asked, in a voice that carried. “Anvaere, sister, do you wish to break free of this tower?”

A challenge that surely would not be left to fester. The whispers from the various Aes Sedai factions ceased. From the corner of her eye, she could see the Amyrlin Seat visibly tense, although the Keeper of the Chronicles merely stared at her staff, fingers caressing the wood as if it were a favored pet or a lover. No correction came from the Amyrlin Seat to Morgase’s shock.

The unruly Cairhienen novice smirked briefly, fingers settling on Gareth Bryne’s other arm, calloused hand gliding down until she caught his fingers. “Meet me in the training courtyard on the morrow at first light?”

Lord Bryne, in the thrall of a pretty face, seemed on the brink of madness. Light, she could force the man to attend to her, but that could shatter the relationship far too soon. The decision maddeningly would not be hers. Fine, for now, she would cede control on her own terms. Better to give the sister of the queen the illusion of a win. “He is free to see you when there are not vital military meetings that require his attendance…sister.”

The novice departed with one last nod that caused excited chatter to erupt from the other novice, as well as a wild peal of bells as the Arafellin sprinted after the noble excited, inappropriate questions filling free.

The Sun Queen watched her sister depart before turning to Lord Bryne. “A moment, please, Lord Bryne. I would have words with your queen.”

The lord stepped away, and only then did the Sun Queen speak, “I would have a care, Daughter-Heir Morgase, the White Tower is a different battleground than when you wore novice white. Anvaere is merely one of many challenges.”

An elegant gesture toward the open path to the Amyrlin Seat set them walking in tandem. “You mean to see them wed, Lady Anvaere and Lord Bryne?”

“The Wheel Weaves as it wills—”

“Down one distinct pathway in this matter?”

“Perhaps,” the Sun Queen returned, “But you have a babe to birth and we have a war to plan before Andor and Cairhien are joined anew.”

And then, the pair stopped before the Amyrlin Seat. The incline of a head from the Sun Queen. As Daughter-Heir, more deference was owed, so she fell into the barest curtsey, a sloppier affair with the babe in her belly. Still, she would not let the Aes Sedai present see her unease.

“Welcome, daughter, to Tar Valon once more.”

“Not the first, nor last ruler to arrive, but even still, the talks between the alliance will begin in two days,” The Keeper of the Chronicles chimed, eyes distant, as if she could see that final attendee and was not simply staring at the white stone of the inner tower walls.

The Sun Queen cut in, before Morgase could ask any questions. “Seonid Sedai’s latest missive assures the prince travels with an honor guard fit for a king.”

“Chesmel Emery will see him safely to Tar Valon…or she will find herself on an even more extended vocation as a farm hand,” the Amyrlin Seat assured, lips a flat line. “We have already begun considering who might be a better fit for such that vital assignment in Cairhien, Queen Moraine.”

Morgase cut in, not willing to allow her rival monarch to dominate the conversation, “Andor has plenty of farmland and trusted agents to house a troubled Aes Sedai who needs to pay the proper penance, mother. I would be happy to spearhead such an effort.”

“We will speak on the matter, among others, tomorrow, daughter.” The dismissal came with a sting, but she merely pressed her pretty, pleasing features into a smile and resolved to spend the night scheming. Morgase was the right person to spearhead such an effort. The Amyrlin Seat and her Keeper of the Chronicles retreated, the Sun Queen keeping pace, conversation carrying on, as if she were not snipped away like a diseased branch.

The less important sisters of the White Tower flocked to her. Gareth Bryne stepped closer to whisper he would see the guards and servants settled. She dismissed him with a casual wave of the hand before turning to the Aes Sedai to flocked about her.

The daughter-heir accepted the greeting and the praise and the blatant politicking with the ease of a schemer. Aes Sedai who once stared down their noses at her and sent her to the Mistress of Novices for punishment groveled to curry favor. After some time, she delicately begged off, claiming a need to retire and refresh herself after such a long journey.

Morgase’s feet ached, her bladder begged for release, and her mind began to slow enough that her repartee had begun to be dull as a worn, rusted shovel. A few of the more eager Aes Sedai fell into step behind her. Only good manners kept her from turning on them and making her desire to be left alone clear as the strike of a weave of fire against flesh. Not that I could ever accomplish that.

The Mistress of Novices awaited her at the entrance to the White Tower, only a slight smile revealing her emotions under the otherwise emotionless visage. The smile cooled when she saw her eager followers. “I may not be your Mistress of Novices, but times are changing, sisters. You're tiring the Daughter-Heir and putting her babe at risk. Off with you!”

Jarna Sedai wasn’t one to intimidate, not with her slim figure and her kindly eyes and her deference for polite niceties, but there was command in the tone that caused the sisters to freeze, before scurrying away, not daring to step closer to the main entrance. The older sister turned her sharp gaze on Morgase, eyes not falling to her bulging stomach, but remaining firmly attached to her face. That was almost refreshing, after months of being little more than the babe in her belly. “Come, I have been given the honor by the Amyrlin Seat of escorting you to your quarters.”

The pair set off together. Morgase’s eyes trailed from tapestry to busts and pottery to the Ogier-grown walls that possessed their own striking duty as they passed through halls.

Lini trailed behind, grumbling of an old woman not having the vigor of youth and the rudeness of being left to wait while young misses swanned about.

Morgase ignored the dramatics and turned her gaze to the Aes Sedai. Powerful, in her own way, within the White Tower’s halls. Perhaps more powerful than most Mistress of Novices as she was raised to her position from a different ajah than the Amyrlin Seat. Better not to raise an obvious fuss, but a comment would not go amiss, a subtle reminder of Andor’s importance. “I appreciate such deference for the White Tower’s most ancient ally. Hundreds of Daughter-Heirs have walked these walls since the fall of Artur Hawkwing. I’d feared for a moment that closeness had been to…wilt away.”

The Mistress of Novices pursed her lips before carefully, oh so carefully, retorting, “If there is one daughter of lords and ladies that has walked these walls that I thought had a future that gleeman would sing of, it was you, Morgase Trakand, Daughter-Heir or not.”

Morgase paused and turned to look at the tapestry of a sister of the green, her three warders at her back, their gazes fierce even if their features were unfortunate. Perhaps more candor could be afforded, “I’d expected more.”

The sister stopped, considering the portrait.

“The closeness between Andor and the White Tower will never fade, but often green Amyrlin Seats needed reminding of old creeds, old tenets, old alliances, old priorities…you arrived at a tense time…the monarchs from the borderland have been more cantankerous than expected. Queen Moiraine has promised to aid in bridging the gap that has unexpectedly formed. I warned we were granting too much…Kingdoms not given more than a few crumbs for decades will see any kindness with ravenous eyes.”

That was true of lords and common folk, Morgase knew, and removed some of the sting from the quality of the greeting. Still, she would need to consider how to—

Jarna Sedai cut in, “The world is changing, and the countries are precarious…stability in Andor…will allow you to wrest some control from our vaunted, illustrious Sun Queen I suspect.”

“The country is stable,” Morgase bit out, too fast, too desperate. Her mind skipped to her rival, holed up in her castle, pregnant, ready to snatch all from her, ready to upend the alliances that were carefully negotiated.  

The grey merely raised her brow. This grey would not allow her lie to pass without at least hinting that she knew the true lay of the politics in Andor. “Perhaps, news of a daughter will allow you to begin planting the seeds for future harvests, Daughter-Heir Morgase.”

A laugh escaped unexpectedly, inelegantly. “Is an Aes Sedai suggesting I lie? Or perhaps you do not know how pregnancy works? Aes Sedai not of the yellow do not often need to contend with the process.”

The grey smiled. “We do not, so I set the yellows in the healing wing to work when I heard of your pregnancy and the war. Daughter-Heir Morgase, would you like to know if you will birth a Daughter-Heir or a First Prince of the Sword?”

The hall seemed to freeze around her, even as warders and servants and novices continued to scurry past. She reached out, clawing at the lady’s arm. “By the light, yes, if the One Power can grant such knowledge.”

Morgase set off for the Healing Wing without awaiting an answer, hands on her skirts, walking at as brisk a pace as a Daughter-Heir could without seeming uncouth. The Aes Sedai and Linni followed behind, speaking in too loud voices about House Trakand.

The knowledge she sought was refreshingly, surprisingly, wondrously close. With that knowledge would come the leverage to change the future of the entire world from ocean to ocean. Andor would unseat Cairhien as the White Tower's closest partner—not a subordinate, a partner in truth, but first a marvelous delving conducted by the best the White Tower had to offer.

The sister who conducted the delving was frightfully young, without a wrinkle or a grey hair or even the otherworldly youthful appearance of the Aes Sedai. Morgase lay on a hard cot, gazing at the plain ceiling, nerves driving her blood to thrum through her veins. Lini stood beside her, complaining of thwarting nature's course. “Like a fool of a man trying to raise a trolloc to be an obedient son.”

“This will not be a son,” Morgase cut in waspishly, hoping her words were true.

Lini harrumphed, took a breath to prattle on further, when blessedly the yellow sister opened her eyes.

“Well,” Jarna pressed, just as impatient.

The answer meant everything to the light.

The sister stammered so badly that the words were unintelligible. This child was raised to Aes Sedai?

“Be clear, child.”

Finally, the sister muttered one word that changed Morgase’s entire world: a daughter.

Morgase laughed, feeling as if she could dance until the early hours of the morning. A daughter. Morgase would birth an heir, leash Cairhien to Andor for at least a generation more, and have the fuel to ensure Andor would tower over all of its neighbors, even an upstart City-State recently found its footing. She did not even mind Lini’s new rounds of complaints.

She felt she could run through the White Tower to announce the grand news to all, but no, first plans would need to be laid. The grey sister dismissed the yellow after promises of secrecy until the knowledge could be revealed at the right time. Triumph made her bold. She swung her legs over the cot and sat with a huff of exertion. “Perhaps a spot of tea, Jarna Sedai?”

The sister hummed and gazed at her consideringly before finally nodding. “Yes, a spot of tea sounds delightful on such a night.”

Chapter Text

Elaida

Flee. The thought swirled in Elaida’s mind as harsh, finely filed nails dug into the back of her neck, as full lips claimed her in a harsh unyielding clash of lips and teeth. She held Saidar like a fool, grasping to it as desperately as she reached out to grasp at the whites of Katerine Alruddin’s dress. She felt as if she might disappear, fade away, become as obsolete as an Aes Sedai without a voice, but if she could just feel the warmth of skin, really feel it beyond the harsh press of lips, the firm stonework at her back, scraping against cuts and welts well-earned.

Clawed hands, batted her away, nails slid across her palm, threatening to draw blood, and then the warmth retreated entirely, and the hand on the back of her neck shifted just enough to dig into the scar tissue at the front of her neck with the sharp point of a nail, pushed her harder into the stone, aggravating the wounds her fellow accepted set into her skin over the last few days of training. Hard, unyielding eyes cut through her, making her want to whimper and flee and beg like a weakling.

You are a disappointment, Elaida, those eyes screamed. You fail always; you never listen; you would be better dead, thrown from the White Tower, dashed on the stones below, a corpse twisted until all that remained was pulp.

The apology spilled, but only a wheezy croak escaped. The effort no longer brought physical pain, but the reminder of her defect caused tears to build anew, for her throat to seize tight as a vice, restricting air to her lungs, as her body betrayed her. Time twisted and melded as her heartbeat to a rhythm faster than thought. She clutched at her chest, driving her fingers into bruises, fine woolen fabric bunching under her fingers; still she clung to saidar, used it as a lodestone, clasping to the power, weaves not yet grappled.

The raven-haired woman towered over her, seeming to grow and grow as Elaida shrunk as it always had been, surely it had, as it always would be. “Pathetic, broken creatures can never hope to be more.” The words echoed in her ears, curled around her, into her in this small haven she’d found herself between two shelves stacked with books.

A whine engulfed her, overran her, and then the harsh hands grasped her neck, pulled her close, a forehead rested against hers; sharp, vulpine features entrapped her. “But I’m here now, for you, always for you.”

When Elaida returned to herself, she lay like a child, dark-hear spread across Katerine’s lap, sharp fingernails, sweeping dangerously close to her scar, stopping just shy of touching before sweeping away, again and again. Sweat drenched her and she shook as if the cold bite of late winter invaded this far into the tower. Weak, Elaida had become weak as a child, weak as a novice freshly brought to the tower, one who had been beaten or worse all her life.

This was not meant to be. Not meant—

“I dream about that night, every time I close my eyes. The screams; you on the floor, moaning, desperate for me. The feel of the weaves, entering you, fixing you as much as the Pattern would allow. We were meant to be together. You feel it too.”

Elaida curled into herself, tight enough to slip from the lap, for her head to rest against the hard stone below her, somehow that felt more comforting than the warm lap had been, but she could not speak, could not do anything save think vile and true thoughts. I dream of it too, but it was not Katerine that towered over her, healed her, and comforted her with a soft coo that almost made Elaida feel something other than pain. She shied from that thought, from that dream.

The moments could be counted in the painful, harsh beats of her heart, in the puffs of air through her healed, but mangled larynx. The scoff cut her and then the just barely skirted warmth retreated altogether. Hard eyes glared down at Elaida; carefully polished leather boots pressed into the palm of her hand, set it flat against the stone hard enough to make a point of where the power lay in their arrangement. “We will talk of this again tonight.”

An imperious demand that made Elaida wish to balk, to spit a poisonous insult back, a firm rejection. She did not try to answer; No one pushed her as far as Katarine, pummeled her as firmly with the One Power as Saidar thrummed in her, as she pulled weaves from the source, one by one, each attempt a step closer to the arches, each a step closer to freedom from this prison.

Elaida uncurled herself, shifted upright, pressed her back against the rack of old tomes, and nodded, mute, her skin tugged painfully, trapped as it was between stone and leather, dark eyes falling short, unable to meet the woman that would be her better; strength in the One Power meant little when no commands could be uttered that could be understood.

The boot retreated and then weaves of air enwrapped her, forced her to her feet, pressed firmly into the larger, deeper bruises, and the woman who had become her lover over these last months, claimed her one last time, a seize of her senses, of her body. She lost herself once more.

A foretelling blazed through her, made her fall limp, disconnecting from her fellow Accepted, the woman who’d pressed her, pushed her, captured her. This I foretell. Two lands divided, held together by the thinnest of bonds, harried on all sides, picked at by shadows and darkness, this one will see it stand in the Light or cast it into darkness eternal. The words demanded to be spoken, but all she could do was a cruel mockery of speech, so she tried desperately to recapture those lips, only for Katerine to tsk and push her back.

Elaida’s chest hitched, but no comfort came. She was Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan; she was not her mother, taken by a pretty face, obsessed, unable to stand on her own, unable to think beyond someone so far beneath her. Liar

“I have a novice class to teach or I would remain with you.”

The words felt like a barb, a reminder of her place, but Katerine had never been needlessly cruel, not in these past months unlike many in the White Tower. I’m just so sensitive of late. She hated that almost all of the White Tower treated her as a broken, useless piece, no longer fit for much of anything. The ability to speak was a prerequisite to teach, so Elaida had been excused, from that and most other duties. Worse, many Aes Sedai found her difficult to mentor, so the number who agreed to try to mentor her more than once were only among the Brown Ajah.

The softest caress, until Elaida returned to herself and then the lightest of kisses. It was almost sweet in its gentleness and light. Could she not control her emotions at all of late? Poise, perfection, that is what she must be even more than ever. “You know you’re lucky. I can’t stand the brats.” The gentle, teasing words made her flinch away.

One last lingering kiss seemed like an apology for the crass comment. Katerine as sweet as she could be, did not often think before she spoke, did not often consider the barbs that wedged deeper and deeper into Elaida with each passing day, but sometimes she did. “I have an idea for tonight. You, me, practicing and if you reach the end, complete the hundred weaves; I have a surprise for you. We’re so close and once we’re Aes Sedai, I won’t need to teach brats and you, you can travel anywhere you wish, search out a power to fix you, and give you a voice again, but even healed you’ll always be mine.”

The promise felt as sweet as Saidar. Elaida rested a hand against the one that had curled around her neck, pressed firmly, but not pressing in, not constricting her air. Together. She’d agree if she could, but instead, she settled for a firm nod of her head.

Katerine beamed and stalked away, leaving Elaida desperately, miserably alone, as she had been often of late. You are a liability, she reminded herself. Siuan Sanche would be far better served by someone with Meidani’s temperament and abilities at her side. Elaida was the ivy, clinging to stone, dipping into cracks, mangling the walls, one day at a time. One day at a time, but Katerine seemed to want her, to seek her out, to put a claim on her that left her teetering, but feeling more right than she felt since that day when her world shattered.

We’ll find a way to mend what had been rended. She pulled Saidar in, deeper, hungrier, willed a foretelling to come to her once more. She needed to see the lines of fate for once in her life. Please, let me see. She begged for a sign. None came.

The thrill, the hope that filled her dwindled and the darkness began to encircle her once more. No one will miss me if I rest for a time longer. Elaida settled against the wall, huddled into herself, and lost herself to the imperfect darkness of her closed eyes and the steady pulse of pain from her many, many wounds. Tomorrow, I’ll be better tomorrow.

Not foretelling. A lie.

“You look like absolute shit.” Anvaere Damodred peered down at her, arms crossed, lips pressed firm, and those dark eyes seeing too much. Irritation pulsed in Elaida and then that too puffed out, smothered in the bone-tiredness that dragged at her. The middle Damodred child wore her novice dress with the sleeves rolled up, a sword sheathe slung across her waist, and the fine leather handle of a blade nestled within.

And you look like a miscreant the Aes Sedai should’ve banished long ago. The barb sat on her tongue.

Those sharp eyes settled on Elaida’s neck; Katerine did love to mark her, press dark bruises into her neck knowing Elaida would not move herself to remove the claiming mark. That would require speaking, communicating, and the need to beg other Accepted with chalk and paper to fix what she’d chosen to break—well that was humiliation she could not bear. Better to walk about branded. Better to not chance another barely trained channeler, so close to her neck, so close to any part of her. The thought caused a full-body shudder.

Elaida turned her eyes away, and settled them on the far wall; everyone left her eventually, all she had to do was wait.

The curse, foul as any she’d heard startled her enough to abandon the attempt. Anvaere removed the scabbard from the belt, and then knelt on the floor, sword across her thighs, and eyes solemn. “You’re not Innloine, not Moiraine. I know how to fight for them, how to care for them.”

The soft expression felt like a dagger to her throat anew. And so, she did what she did of late, she stumbled to her feet, nearly falling into the stacks, destroying hundreds of priceless books in a single foolish, cowardly moment, but she caught herself and darted around the kneeling woman and nearly ran into pretty, small for her age Liandrin who stood just on the other side of the stacks, large, fat white cat in her arms.

Beyond her, Alanna bounced; the chime of bells mocking her as much as the exuberant greetings. Ellid nodded at her, solemn, pretty, unmarred behind her. Pretty face, pretty neck, even if the novice chose not to speak most times.

Sunshine blazed in the middle of the aisle a good foot behind. Meidani with her golden locks and that inscrutable expression that seemed to comb over her always, before settling on the mark on her neck. Elaida blushed and opened her mouth to speak. She wished no sound escaped because the push of air produced a hard, hoarse sound not even close to the name, the tone she’d meant.

Meidani. The lover who’d hid while Elaida bled and then could not bear to gaze at her, to speak to her in the long, long months. That hurt more than most, but she had Katerine now. The woman Elaida deserved. In a blink, the soft concern shifted to the hard, narrow-eyed fury she’d grown so familiar with. “What in the Light are you doing Elaida? Katerine? She’s a nightmare, a trolloc, no a draghkar. She doesn’t even have the decency—” Meidani charged forward and clipped Alanna’s side with her elbow. Bells chimed and a furious outpouring of complaints erupted. “—have the decency to heal the damage she set into your skin.”

Elaida took a step back. No. The ache from wounds earned from hard training tugged at the motion. Meidani charged forward, set her hands on her jaw, and then the delving set upon her, poured through her, made clear every ache, every pain, every wound. The blue eyes widened and then fury stole the woman’s good sense entirely. “What has she done?”

Elaida stepped away from the warmth of that hand, turned away from that furious gaze, and waited, a moment, two, and then Meidani let her hand fall. Those eyes seemed to delve her, searching for something, but the weight of that gaze made her want to curl up and hide.

What Katerine did was right. It was, but she could not control the anxiety that made her light-headed, need to reach out to brace herself against the shelf, but found her arms settling on the shoulder of the youngest novice, fingers digging in, holding on as if the feel of the rough fabric on her skin would save her from this moment.

The wrong question, as far as Elaida was concerned. What have you done over these last months? The question would never be answered and she’d already spent far too much time among novices she could not teach. What use did they have to each other? None, none at all. By the time they became Aes Sedai, she would be long gone from this tower and would provide little value in an alliance. Katerine wants me even still. A part of her wanted to flee from that prospect. What happened when the need to train no longer bound them?

Meidani did not soften; she reached forward once more to touch her, to heal her, but Elaida shied away, flinching, losing herself, her emotional grounding entirely. A frantic shake of the head; that’s all she could do.

“I’ll kill her.” The claim caused a shiver, almost made her believe the woman might care, and then the golden-haired woman pivoted and charged away. A tense silence filled the small line between the stacks of books only broken by the occasional crystaline chime.

A hand brushed her shoulder and Anvaere passed by her. “I’ll ensure she isn’t cast from the White Tower entirely, but we will speak of this later.”

Alanna hesitated, before skipping forward to press a pomegranate into her hand. “Fruit helps when I’m sad.” And then she too charged off, accompanied by a slowly fading backdrop of bells.

Ellid hesitated and smiled wanly before hurrying away as well, and then there was only Elaida and Liandrin. It wasn’t until the younger girl squirmed that she realized that her fingers still carved indents into that slim shoulder. No complaints came; just patience until she found the will to release the child.

The girl shuffled her feet and pulled the large, fat cat closer to her chest. The beast purred happily, pink lip flicking out to lick at the lily-white neck. The time would come when Elaida would be alone again; she waited and waited and when the moment did not come the anxiety mounted until her feet moved and she fled again, down the halls, through twists and turns, until she pulled herself into a nook and pressed herself against the wall, exhausted.

The girl slid into the nook and the white cat followed, burrowing itself under the novice dress until only its fury rear and tail could be seen. The silence mounted and finally, the girl put her out of her misery. “I heard you’re the best at teaching novices to channel.”

Not anymore.

“I haven’t been able to channel at all, not since I arrived. I’d hoped you could teach me.”

The question should not hurt so much. Surely, this must be a prank, some kind of lark the other novices put the child up to?

“Please?” Desperation laced the word and made it vibrate with nerves, making it crack horribly. Hands rubbed at her eyes as if to carve out the unshed tears. And really, how could Elaida do anything else but agree? The beaming smile she received in return said far more than an outpouring of words could convey.

“I can’t,” Liandrin groaned, curled into herself, fingers bunched into fists where she sat enveloped in her novice whites. The girl was slim, lanky, but without the desperate pinched look she’d arrived at the White Tower with.

Elaida leaned back, the unforgiving wood frame of the old, dusty chair pressing into her bruises. The pain provided a comfort of a type. Katerine might not be in this dusty room in the bowels of the White Tower with them, but her presence had been carved into Elaida’s skin, the fat and muscle beneath day after day, one earned lash at a time. A distraction.

Lanfur prowled the room, leaving a trail of paw marks across the dust-ridden desks, cabinets, and chairs. More than a few deep nicks were carved into what had once been fine wooden furnishing, that had become pockmarked, worn through the ages first in Aes Sedai quarters, then Accepted, then Novice until the number of novices dwindled, until the number of worthy to be taught plummeted.

Her instincts were to blaze ahead, push and push and push until the block within the child shattered and her birthright as a channeler had been seized, but she was just so tired, too tired. Sleep came uneasily, nightmares danced across what had once been nights spent in blessed unconscious darkness. On the nights when Katerine shared her bed, there’d be a distraction from the horrid images, from the terror and the loss.

Liandrin fidgeted and the chair leg made a screeching sound. The child winced and muttered an apology, and then the most aggravating, loud caterwauling erupted from the corner of the room. Elaida twisted, already ready to loose weaves of air, as her heart pounded. The white, fluffy cat sat atop a high wooden cabinet, ears pressed down, tail flicking, and slitted eyes wide.

“Lanfur, don’t be so lazy. Jump down.” Only a pitiful meow greeted the reprimand and Liandrin rolled her eyes in response. “Every day she’s become lazier.” There was a fondness in the tone even as the beast continued to cry, but the girl slipped from the chair and hurried to the tall, tall cabinet. She stood on her toes to peer up before turning away to begin piling furniture to rescue the forsaken beast.

Bemusement kept Elaida stationary; it felt as if she were watching from afar, events that had little to do with her. Then the child piled a stool precariously on an old chair that sat on top of a rickety desk. Anvaere might kill Elaida if the child broke her neck. The last thing the White Tower needed was another cripple to ignore at best and find a way to quietly pawn off at worst.

A sharp reprimand could be given if Elaida had a voice, but Liandrin already stood on the desk, muttering to herself as it wavered back and forth, ready to make the next boneheaded ascension. Weaves of air came to her easily. The desire to seize the beast and ferry it to the ground with speed, scare the beast just a twinge out of her laziness tempted her.

Be gentle. Meidani would urge that, but she’d slithered from her life, disappeared like smoke, and today ran off to fight a battle that did not need to be fought. Katerine would urge her to trust that instinct, to delve deeper, to fight. Elaida could almost feel fingers skirting her throat, teasing at the scar tissue, with a gleam that made her want to flee, to fade into her lover.

Elaida stood and stepped around the chair. The weaves of air enwrapped the cat gently and ferried the fat, furry beast in a gradual, careful descent. Liandrin jumped from the desk, skirts flaring and held her hands out to catch the lazy beast.

Lanfur what a ridiculous name for a ridiculous cat. A feline that did not wish to be what her instincts drove her to be; hunts were abandoned for long naps on cushioned beds, for the most choice meats that Liandrin and Siuan could grant her. The fine meats had fattened up the feline, made her almost too much to be carted around by such a slim girl, but still Liandrin stubbornly held the beast like a babe all over the White Tower.

And so, Elaida returned to her quil and paper, set it deliberately into the ink, and scrawled simple, but true words, words that even a peasant girl barely learning to write could read: You do not want it. The paper she held aloft and waited as the girl shuffled her feet as she read seeming to shrink even smaller. And then, Elaida leaned back and decided to do the unthinkable—she waited. Silence had become a horrid companion of late and she knew it well, could sit for hours, just floating, barely thinking.

Liandrin hunched down; slim shoulders almost met her ears, eyes fallen to the white cat began to groom herself, even as she remained held like a babe.

The cat should not be allowed in the White Tower—should have been expelled as soon as the Mistress of Novices discovered its presence; the girl was borrowed time—few channelers with blocks were given the time and patience to learn, but the Aes Sedai seemed to be changing, one small pivot at a time while Elaida floundered, still unable to find a role in the organization despite the changes, despite the once bright future laid before her.

For Light's sake, she was one of the few women with any power born with foretelling. She should be more than this helpless, weak creature. Time bled again and finally, finally a soft voice broke the silence.

“It feels sickly to me, like, like—” The girl cut off and pulled the cat closer; it let out a meow of complaint before continuing with its grooming.

Elaida frowned, trying to orient again, trying to…

“I don’t want to think of before I came. Anvaere said I don’t have to, but I can’t not. I can’t.” The words tapered off in a whisper and the girl almost rocked over the cat, self-soothing, and smaller than Elaida had ever seen.

Her mind turned to that night of change, shying away from those last moments, from the knife to the throat, to the pain, to bleeding out, and then turned to the reason for the journey into the city that day. The medicine. The child was too young to be having assignations with anyone—even foolish, foppish peasant boys. There were implications there that Elaida didn’t want to think of, didn’t want to confront. She shivered. The pair were two utter messes, damaged horribly, engulfed in memories, in blocks of one sort or another.

“I don’t want to be sent back.”

Elaida snorted. As if Anvaere Damodred would let her charity project out of her sight without her future being accounted for. Liandrin stiffened and seemed to shrink forward. By the Light, were those tears? They would pass. Elaida’s own had passed often enough, moments of weakness, of shame that had no place, no purpose. Her gut roiled and really, there was no reason for such dramatics, not now, not for this.

The paper she flipped and she leaned over the table, moment tense as she dipped the pen, ink splattered across the white sheet, and then she wrote the only truth that mattered in the girl's future at present: “You’ve been named a Damodred.” That meant something.

The child shuffled forward, peered down at the paper and...didn’t seem to believe her, still sniffling, still frowning, so Elaida continued despite the frustration seizing her.

This would be a hard process, for Elaida due to her deformity, for Liandrin, so she had to know. “You do not need to be Aes Sedai. You are a Damodred. The Sun Palace is home.” Not all channelers needed to walk this path. A few words spoken to the Mistress of Novices, or well, written and she’d be able to convince the women to release Liandrin, send her home with the Sun Queen when the Cairhienen delegation departed the White Tower once more.

No answer came, not for a long time after, long enough for Elaida to contemplate escaping as she had no patience for little girls who did not know their minds. She did not move; her mind did turn to her what her night might entail: pain and pleasure, pleasant distractions.

Finally, the answer came, “I want to learn…from you.”

The request rolled over her, made her lips press tight with emotion and how could she not agree? She spent her days doing little beyond hiding in the bowels of the White Tower, practicing her hundred weaves, reading texts that Verin Sedai slipped to her each day, and sitting with Viki Sedai in silence, both unfit for much of anything before waiting for Katerine to find her, to sweep her away in a storm.

This, she could manage. “Very well,” she wrote.

Liandrin blinked at her, befuddled. “That’s it? We’re not going to start right now?” She’d never seen someone both look disappointed and relieved at the same time until this moment.

“Go rest; we start tomorrow.”

Liandrin shuffled her feet before nodding her thanks and then squeaking out an overflow of gratitude that made Elaida want to fade, instead she flicked left hand to dismiss the child and blessedly, the child ran from the room. She disappeared from the door frame with a flick of a white tail and a stream of partly braided golden locks.

Elaida sat for a time before collecting her writing supplies into a small bag. The time had come to return to duty, to stop wallowing, to stop fading. The notion made her stomach twist, made her throat seize, made her stop in the middle of the dim passageway, and—I can’t. She stumbled forward, a step, two, her sore arm clipping the wall as she turned a corner.

The arm smarted all of the way to the Mistress of Novice's office, but she kept walking.

The deep scarlet of the Mistress of Novices dress hugged the fine figure, but all Elaida could think of was blood, of her accepted dress dyed red long after she’d ceased bleeding. Anvaere had helped a shaking, sobbing Elaida strip the fabric from her shaking form, had cut the garment down the back when her limbs would not cooperate when panic had caused her to tug at the neckline with enough force to...well between that and the feel of steel on her skin as Anvaere resorted to cutting her free the rest of the night lay under a hazy veil.

Jarna Malari spoke, voice a soft croon, “I do not mean to hurt you, but I cannot allow you to teach novice classes again. The Sitters are adamant on the need for clear communication in all classes to prevent unfortunate accidents. I am sorry, Elaida.”

The Aes Sedai had enough courtesy to not stare at the ill-healed scar tissue on her neck, to not ogle her deformity like so many of the women meant to be her sisters. Elaida fought a flush as she wrote furiously, only to need to stop mid-sentence to apply ink to the tip of the pen once more. “I do not wish to teach novice classes. I know I cannot. I can teach ONE novice. Novice classes are failing Liandrin. She came to me for private lessons. Let me help, please.”

How foolish to not want anything more, to feel as if teaching one girl might be the difference between life and death, between living and sinking into the darkness.

The Mistress of Novices read the words, pushed strands of white and ebony hair behind her shoulder, before standing abruptly. The sister of the grey ajah had never been as tall or intimidating woman, but she had a presence that made sisters flock to her, made them listen, and eventually made her the first Mistress of Novices in hundreds of years not from the same Ajah as the Amyrlin Seat. Slow, gentle footsteps circumvented the desk as Elaida, desperately, scrawled one last line of words: a threat to depart she scarcely believed she had the nerve to write. The quill dropped from her quaking hand before she could finish the threat.

“Oh, child.”

Elaida flinched at the infantile phrase.

“The only reason you have not been punished for your last rogue private lessons is because I determined you had been punished enough.” The Mistress of Novice glanced at her throat before turning to pick up the parchment that lay on the desk. The quill rolled, smearing black ink on the wooden surface, before tumbling to the floor. “You know the rules well. Short sessions with students can continue after formal lessons for no more than an hour or two when extra help is needed within the approved curriculum, any lessons beyond that must come from Aes Sedai that the Mistress of Novices has approved.”

Objections came to her tongue, but she was a mute, paper seized, quill cast aside, without a means to communicate beyond base gestures and crude sounds, and so she sat in silence, dejected, wondering if she should follow through on her threat to leave the White Tower. She had no future here.

The sound of paper tearing in two cuts through the silent room. Elaida started.

The Mistress of Novices tore the parchment two more times before setting it ablaze. “I will pretend you did not make such demands of me, Elaida, for I know you act out of desperation, out of a need to contribute, to be more than the other Aes Sedai wish.” Weaves of fire set the paper alight and then the smell of smoke and ash filled the room.

“I would have acted sooner, not let you mope so, but I asked Verin Sedai to do so in my stead. She assured me that you continue to progress. Yes, or no, can you hold the hundred weaves under duress?”

She’d yet to accomplish such a task, but Katerine pushed harder than Meidani, harder than any other dared in the past, always as the final few weaves approached Elaida broke, unable to continue, the entire chain shattered in bliss or pain or tears that left her unable to function for a time after.

The time had come to test herself, in truth, to see if the Aes Sedai were capable of pushing as hard, of tearing her to pieces until her concentration snapped quite as efficiently. Many of the sisters were weak and gentle, and a small subset treated her as if she were a stilled woman—someone to be avoided, to flee from. They will not be able to break me. Many will not want to, easier to let her pass without a hard-fought test than to spend any amount of time thinking of the accepted permanently deformed within the White Tower in the presence of one of the guards; her bright future excised with a knife.

Elaida nodded, firm, eager for the first time in months.

“Very well, I will write a letter of recommendation. You will report to the Healing Wing for a delving and the Yellow Ajah’s approval to step into the arches.”

No. Elaida jolted to her feet, hands fisted, complaint spilling from her lips. She couldn't even be embarrassed at her failure, at the croak that escaped. I am capable; I am able. The thought couldn't find release. She did not need an inept yellow barely raised to the shawl to get anywhere near her, to decide for her if she was capable. Elaida could still channel better than most in the tower; a voice was not required for that particular path.

“It has been decided that the arches are too dangerous a test to send novices and accepted into the ter’angreal without the approval of the most skilled delver and the aid of the most skilled healer to decrease the number of women that do not return to us. The change has been approved by the Hall of the Tower and all must undergo the precautions...if you are not ready...”

Elaida swayed where she stood feeling foolish and afraid. The delving, the healing...

“I do not need to speak of this meeting if you require more time.”

No, no. She did not wish to spend another week as an Accepted; it might take far more to feel ready to undergo a delving, to be touched by the cold, hard, uncaring weaves that healed the body as the channeler saw fit.

Elaida shook her head and held out a hand to demonstrate she wished for the recommendation. The wait felt eternal, but finally, Elaida set out for the Healing Wing, writing implements in her bag, and a letter of recommendation held in one fist, her heart racing.

The Healing Wing turned from a fearful, sickly, experience that left her feeling clammy to one of blind rage as Yuan Sedai sputtered and fretted and acted insane, those light grey eyes wide with worry, little bells woven into salt and pepper locks quivering as she called another Aes Sedai, one that had not even a strand of grey in her hair, that looked as if she’d barely stepped from the arches to become full Aes Sedai to heal her.

Elaida held her hand to ward the woman off and shook her head. She’d not allow another unskilled channeler to set healing weaves on her, not to remove the superficial wounds that she’d earned, that she’d sought, that Katerine had set into her skin with intent.

“You will not tell me who hurt you, fine, but no one enters the arches with a superficial scratch, let alone bruising and scratches and burns that will take weeks to heal.” Yuan Sedai seemed to grow before Elaid in gravitas with each word that Elaida knew would end in a threat. Still, Elaida kept the yellow ajah meant to heal her in her sights, wary that she’d be granted no choice.

“Child, if you wish to heal naturally, I will allow this, but the Mistress of Novices will be informed, an investigation will be conducted, and you will not step a foot into the testing chamber until you are fully recovered. That will either take a month or a week: choose.”

Elaida hissed and looked between the two desperately; the pity in those wide, empathetic gazes made her want to slink into hiding, made her want to flee the tower altogether, but she’d not let them win. She’d not. Fine, but she’d not wait a week. Once healed, there is no reason she could not test this very night.

Elaida held out her hand, shuddered and shivered and wanted to retreat as the feel of the healing swept through her, and then she set about to get her way. A week was not an acceptable time to wait.

One hour later, Elaida stalked from the room, healed, exhausted, and with an ember of anger that she’d not felt since that night. Yuan Sedai would not relent. The paper in her hand to be delivered to the Mistress of Novices contained a report on the extent of her injuries, ridiculous, and an order to not allow her to test for the shawl for another seven days.

The Mistress of Novices questioned her about the injuries, but she held her silence. Katerine had been a lifeline, a rock in recent months. Her lover had only done what she’d been asked. Elaida could almost feel slim fingers encircling her neck, running over her scars, whispering words she—it did not matter she supposed; there was no way that Meidani would no gush all she knew under questioning, and there would be questioning. There were certain lines of violence and abuse that no sister was allowed to cross according to the Mistress of Novices.

The anger stayed with her as she returned to her room, exhausted, but her muscles no longer strained, tight, and cut, she reached her room far faster than she had of late. That too annoyed her, almost as much as glancing to the side and seeing one of the new novices of Tairen descent, standing in front of Meidani’s door, wrapping her knuckles on the wood, and waiting as Elaida had all of those months ago.

Pathetic, to stand her, to wait, feeling as if she might die if she did not catch a glimpse of those blond locks free from those internally annoying bells of her countrymen. I would not have cared if she did wear them. Those days had long passed.

The door opened; Meidani stepped into the halls and looked to the left before greeting the child, blue eyes caught and held Elaida captive. One step toward her and Elaida pressed into the room, feeling resigned at the words from the child: the mistress of novice requests your presence immediately.

Elaida halted, door open, and stared at the king, in his rich velvet doublet and fine woolen pants that sat at her desk. His majesty, Roedran Almaric do Arreloa a'Naloy, King of Murandy did not stand to greet her. The voice when he spoke, rumbled: “You have a shit chair to wait upon you all day, Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan. Only the fact I have heard you have sunken to inept weeping and wanton indulgence of late allows me to forgive the slight. Sit, we have much to discuss. I expect the need for theatrics has passed. I abhor a weeping woman.”

The old man, hair more white than brown, flicked a paper toward her. It floated to the ground in a rolling, winding arc. Elaida belatedly bowed, low and deep feeling steady. This podgy, kingly man she could meet on even ground. The rest of her problems could wait.

The King of Murandy watched Elaida as she fumbled with her paper, her quill pen, and her ink. The man smelled of a spicy fragrance that Elaida abhorred and he watched her with deep-set, dark eyes framed by bushy brows. Not a handsome man—not one that tempted young maidens even in his youth. He sat adjacent to the desk, hand resting idly on the pristinely polished surface.

Elaida tried not to think of being taken by Katerine on that surface, of needing to clean the room daily of the remnants of their passion. On a different day, they’d be ensconced in this room together, finding passion in pleasure and pain. She missed the burn in her muscles; the feel

“Your aunts are trollocs in human form, but all noble women seem to be that. Better a trolloc than a Myrddraal—that’s what I say. I’d have no use for them otherwise. I brought them, of course. They should witness your glory.”

My glory? Elaida arched her brow in question, frustrated that she remained bound to paper and pen and quill. He could not mean to name her a lord, elevate her into a position of power? Elaida could provide very little in terms of...well anything. Her hand strangled the pen, the metal held firm under her grip. It seemed such a silly question to write when facial queues would do, but she hated the lack of control; the conversation marched forward without her.

“The world is changing. Children of the Light posture and threaten—my lords do not like anyone stealing their power.” The small quirk of those lips, the humor in the voice said he found the change thrilling. “They’ve come to me begging in recent days. Lords who have refused the call to defend the border, to see to their king in past generations prostrate themselves before my throne. All it took was a few unfortunate deaths, a few lords felled...”

The king slapped his hand on his knee. The sound did not move Elaida.“Tragedy has left many areas of Murandy bereft of a High Lord. I name you Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan, High Lord of Rispan, your reign will be long and prosperous.”

The old High Lord had heirs, more than Elaida could count. There was a time when her aunts hoped to marry one of them. Surely, this would not stand? Lords had risen up in rebellion for far less. “The old lord's heirs?” The question needed to be asked if only so she knew what she dealt with when she ascended. An Aes Sedai would be a better, more stable candidate for any lord’s throne.

The protection they could provide a region; a long, stable reign that would outmatch any not born with the spark or the ability to learn to access the One Power. Yes, Elaida would be a better lord than any of the old lord's brats, but they would need to be dealt with and outmaneuvered. Her mind spun, so many possibilities, so many contingencies to put into place.

“Dead. White Cloak brutality.” All of them? Light, her mind almost couldn’t picture how many women, children, and men would need to be felled to make way for a new family to advance uncontested. It seemed to perfect to be actions taken by white cloaks. The words had that Aes Sedai simplicity, that slippery means of letting the hearer decide what they wished to believe. The man did not break, did not flinch, merely held her gaze, but she rather thought he would not be capable of straight truth. “The people will rejoice at possessing a protector of your particular skill set. Your king is happy to provide one.”

The man would expect obedience for such a declaration. A change from previous generations of Murandy monarchs that became ever weaker with each generation. Elaida could remain at the White Tower, forgotten, meant to bow and scrape to the few above her, never advancing, never being seen as anything beyond an Aes Sedai with a broken voice, or she could claim this new prize, wield power she’d not thought would be open to her. Better to bow before one than many.

And so, Elaida lowered herself to her knees and mouthed the words of fealty, careful to not let any sound escape and ruin the moment. The king stood, clumsily pulled a sword from a scabbard, and set it upon her shoulder. A private ceremony, but the world moved too fast at times for pomp and circumstance.

“Rise,” he ordered after. He watched coolly as she stood. “We will need to have a formal ceremony before I depart, for now, tell me, when are you to test for the shawl and then we can speak of what to do with your deformity.” Elaida forced herself not to flinch at the callous words. The king barreled on, “A lord cannot be without a voice entirely. The Aes Sedai remain stuck in the Breaking when it comes to certain remedies.”

Elaida gestured with a hand to stop the king’s words and set a ward to prevent eavesdropping upon the room. She wrote as much. The old king nodded his approval. “You are not the first to be made mute by a dagger, not the first to be afflicted with such a fate. I have brought a woman who knows the art of speaking with her hands. You will learn fast for we have little time before you must return to Murandy. I can grant you half a year to remain within this tower, to learn what you must.”

“It will be enough.” Elaida did not fail, not in channeling, not in learning this new skill that would relieve her sole reliance on pen and paper.

The conversation continued for a time until it shifted to the king’s other purpose for his presence in Tar Valon: Morgase Trakand, Daughter-Heir of Andor.

“She’s chasing me, eager to wed and bed an old man.” The king seemed more amused than interested in the act. Aes Sedai training allowed her to hide her grimace at the prospect of bedding any man, let alone one with a paunch, a large unsightly beard, and such a sharp, abrasive tongue that if rumors were to be believed had little experience in carnal acts.

The king leaned bac and eyed her. “You’ll be expected to bed a man, get with child. Duty comes before preferences.”

“I have nieces, nephews.”

A brisk shake of the head, gray hairs flew wildly about. “The One Power is the key to the future. I elevated you for your bloodline, for your womb, for your ability to provide an heir that will channel. That will be how Murandy drags itself up from the slop and the mud it's fallen into since the High Lords began to hoard their wealth, began to build ever more lavish castles while the country fell to ruin around them.”

Bed a man. She’d never heard anything more repulsive. Her thoughts went to Katerine and Meidani, women she’d prefer to bed, women incapable of impregnating her. The words must be written. “You need me. You cannot force this.”

“I or my heirs will not approve any heir that is not an Aes Sedai or a gentled man, royal or noble. Do you think I wish to bed that chit? I’ve remained unwed by choice, chose not to take a royal mistress by choice. I’d happily go to my grave never bedding anyone—man or woman, but the nobles demand a king once more and I will make the peacocks pay one seized perk they’ve captured for themselves at a time. Do you understand me?”

A knock came at the door. The hard, demanding rhythm that Katerine used, knowing the sound would travel, knowing that Meidani lay not far away in her own quarters and could hear the coming assignation. Elaida twisted to stare at the door, at the elegant stylized wood sung to existence by Ogier. She found herself on her feet, swaying as she stopped herself, as she remembered the king and the Mistress of Novices, and the Yellow Ajah.

A week. Seven days and she must remain in peak health or she would not be able to become Aes Sedai for a time longer. I must act as if I am Aes Sedai in this. Aes Sedai did not bed Accepted. Aes Sedai did not let them control them: body, mind, and soul. Aes Sedai did not let them set welts into their skin, demanding she break to pieces before their might.

Desires and duty fought. The King of Murandy watched her, eyes narrowed, but he did not speak even as his expression suggested there was one correct answer.

Elaida sighed, fell into herself before forcing herself to straighten. No, she’d not be like her mother, a weakling, falling into ill-thought relations for a lover who would not bring the prestige that she deserved. One day, when Katerine became Aes Sedai that door would open once more, but for now she let the pounding from beyond continue.

Elaida sat, primly, resolved to be Aes Sedai. Aes Sedai did not have children, but queens, high lords? They did their duty. The White Tower would only benefit by having more Aes Sedai in positions of power around the Westlands, but she would not give men all of her. Taking one to her bed on occasion until the task had been seen to is one thing, but tying herself to one? No, she’d not do that. “I will not wed a man.” Her hands did not shake; the ink did not run.

The man snorted. “Do as you will on that front. I certainly do not plan to live with my lady-wife. Keep the men on retainer until you're filled and then see them to the door, never to be seen again if you prefer. Queens are not as easily shaken, but half of Andor and Murandy will lay between the future Queen of Andor and I.”

The pair remained for a time, speaking long into the night to the soft glow of candlelight, until she showed the king from her room with one last bow. “The formal appointment will occur after you become Aes Sedai. I depart immediately after. The interpreter I paid handsomely to teach you to speak will remain. You will be expected to pay the woman.”

The king of Murandy departed. Elaida shut the door and rested her head against the wood. Light, she felt as if the world shifted overnight as if she could breathe for the first time since that fateful day when her world seemed to end with the sharp point of a knife. A lord, to learn to speak in a different manner...well it made up for the need for heirs. Maybe she would have a need to speak to the apothecary once more to speak of fertility. She’d prefer to limit the assignations required to see tasks seen to, but for now, she retired eager to see another day.

Chapter Text

Morgase smeared strawberry jam across expertly toasted wheat bread. A fully boiled egg sat adjacent, meticulously peeled and sprinkled with a slight coating of spices. The egg turned her belly, but Lini sat nearby, dark eyes honed like a lioness, single persimmons carefully sliced set upon a plate, and a glass of honey wine clutched between her claws. She seemed intent on ensuring Morgase filled her belly with the proper nutrition while enjoying a more decadent breaking of her fast.

A hefty bite of the bread delayed the expectation to devour the dreaded egg. Lini knew she hated boiled eggs, but a healthy babe is more vital than petty concerns and preferences, according to her old nursemaid. Engorging with child seemed to have clawed away the freedom she’d been granted in the small bit of time between her dismissal from novice training and her pregnancy. After hundreds of eggs consumed, Morgase feared she’d birth a chick rather than a human babe. Slow, deliberate bites, as if she were afraid of meeting an untimely death from choking, delayed the task of consuming the dreaded food.

The crackle of the fireplace. The sound of chewing and the distant sound of the wind rushing around the windows filled the small room. The thick woolen nightgown and overcoat kept the chill whistling wind from seeping into her bones. Her toes curled in the fur-lined slippers tailored from the finest mink skin.

Fire glinted off the honorary Great Serpent Ring that encircled her finger. The fine gold was dreadfully bare of gems, but it made her feel closer to her late mother during this trying period of her relatively young life. Childbirth was exciting and dreadfully nerve-wracking. Daughters of Andor for generations had lost the battle of the birthing bed, leaving houses under weakened temporary leadership, or ripe for a usurper.

I will have a daughter, now I just need to see the babe born safely. What better place than the heart of the White Tower for such an effort? Aes Sedai might eschew childbirth in the modern era, but there was a time further back in history when such was not the case, and the sisters of the yellow possessed ample motivation to hone their midwifery. Morgase would ensure she received that level of care. Now, if only Lini would leave this absurd love of poultry eggs behind.

Morgase glanced at the woman from the corner of her eye. The old woman seemed not at all ready to fall back into slumber this morning. A rarity, as the Daughter-Heir insisted on rising well before the sun broke the horizon. The duties of politicking did not take into account the Daughter-Heirs' delicate state despite Lini’s grumbling about proper rest, but naps served her well enough. And if half the time, Lini was not conscious to see her disposal of the egg…well, that served her far better than a good night's rest.

Not all is lost, she’d arranged interference just in case this was one of Lini’s vibrant days. Still, her heart began to beat faster as she wondered if Jarna Sedai remembered to make the proper arrangements.

The last bite of bread lay on her plate. A traitorous sight. Reluctantly, she delicately picked up the piece between her fingers. The knock came to the door. Morgase hid a smile as she raised her voice to command the visitor to enter.

The girl in novice white’s with a kitchen apron possessed yellow hair threaded into a long braid down her back, pale skin, and a slim, pinched face. A large white cat slipped out from under the novice’s skirt and plodded into the room uninvited. Slim hands carried a tray possessing little plates of delicacies that smelled of fish.

Morgase vaguely recognized the child, but she felt that way about most of the younger novices. The daughter of a High House with little channeling ability was not kept in formal channeling classes long when teachings on history, oratory, negotiation, and politics would be of far more use.

And she figured, perhaps foolishly, why bother cultivating relationships with novices and accepted who might fail to become Aes Sedai? Far better to develop ties with full Aes Sedai…unless her fellow novices were of noble stock in their own right.

The child slouched in a manner that no noble would, and her eyes settled demurely on the floor as she curtsied. Not a noble. Not worth the effort, except…

The nursemaid pursed her lips and snapped out, “The Daughter-Heir’s diet is well in hand, child.”

The golden-haired novice rose slowly, and the food tray that smelled wonderful remained distressingly far away. A delicate sniff. Was that salmon and trout? Morgase’s mouth watered. The large white cat seemed to agree on the agreeability of the delivered food for it raised onto its hind legs, rested its paws against the girl’s knees, and meowed pitifully.

Birthright could be excused when it granted her access to appealing nourishment in such a trying time. “Oh, what an adorable cat,” Morgase exclaimed, hands sweeping out as she rose, deliberately knocking the egg from the table. The white oblong globe rolled from the table onto the off-white tile until it rested near the white fluff ball. Slitted eyes stared down at the Linni-approved food, before seeming to wrinkle its nose, and turn its large eyes back to the novice to beg once more. The Daughter-Heir possessed far more tact than pitiful begging.

Lini glanced from the egg to Morgase suspiciously, but she paid the look no mind. There are no ploys to be ashamed of in politics or procuring the desired breakfast, especially when a demanding older woman was involved in either. “Oh, Light, I am lucky the kitchen thought to send up such scrumptious offerings. Please, set it down and sit, child, join us. I would hear how the novices I knew so well at the White Tower are faring!”

The novice stepped forward, stiff as a slab of steel, to set the tray on the small, circular table. She slipped into the free chair, and Morgase followed suit. The white cat missed no time leaping into the novice’s lap, and slim hands wrapped around the small creature. Wary sapphire eyes stared at her and feline eyes gazed covetously at the food which spelled a disastrously muted conversation with the possibility of pilfered food.

As she helped herself to a generous serving of salmon, trout, and crisp crackers, she smiled winningly at the girl. “Please, you can address me as Morgase. I do not stand on ceremony when I am breaking my fast in such intimate—”

Lini snorted into her honeyed wine, and Morgase glared at the dreadfully irritating woman. She much preferred when Lini let her opinion remain a non-vocal judgement. “Lini, peace, a moment. I was about to introduce you. This is Lini, a long-serving nursemaid and life advisor of House Trakand. She has been with me since I was a babe myself and often forgets I am no longer in swaddling.”

Lini sniffed and plucked a piece of fruit from her plate. Morgase ignored the sound and nudged the tray closer to the girl. “Please, help yourself.”

The cat’s whiskers quivered and the creature set its paws on the table, and went to stand, but a slim arm swept it from the table. “Mind your manners Lanfur,” the girl ordered, before carefully selecting a morsel of salmon and presenting it to the white feline, who ate delicately from the slim fingers.

“Lanfur…” Lini said, “As in…”

“Well, she’s white, isn’t she, and a fine lady with a penchant for massacring vermin…when she isn’t lazy as the Dark One’s—” The novice cut herself off.

Lini’s nostrils flared.

“It was either Lanfur or Lanpurr…Anvaere agreed Lanfur was better.”

Anvaere Damodred, Morgase thought between bites, mind finally catching onto where she saw the slim, sunny-haired girl before. That meeting by the new Mistress of Novices on her last day as a novice at the White Tower. The elder Damodred claimed a peasant girl with a gift for the White Tower for House Damodred whe she clearly wasn’t one by coloring or nation. “Liandrin Damodred…the newest member of House Damodred. The family has greeted you with their usual charm, I expect. My late Damodred husband was all that was gracious…”

“They have been nothing but kind,” Liandrin muttered, eyes suspicious.

“You are fortunate you have not met the elder Damodreds. One is currently stirring up a continental war, and the other is a political thorn I would sooner see cast from Andor’s borders. I have high hopes the rest of House Damodred will be far better allies…”

Liandrin merely shrugged, eyes pulled away as the cat pressed its claws demandingly into her hand. There was something there…some knowledge. Perhaps a tidbit that Anvaere’s loose tongue had let spill. All rumors from Cairhien named that looser with her tongue…an ally that would need to be managed far more carefully than she could like for a future wife of her First Prince of the Sword.

Morgase considered pushing, but far better to lay out seeds to harvest later with this one. The golden-haired Damodred remained stubbornly stiff and not indulging in a single cracker or shred of fish. “Please, there is plenty, and I can always request more to be sent. A woman with a child is eating for two, and you are a growing girl for a few years yet.”

Lini chose the moment to return to the conversation. “I will need to speak to the kitchens. I deliberately told them exactly the meal the pregnant Daughter-Heir of Andor required.”

Liandrin furrowed her brows, clearly confused, so Morgase cut in, “Do not harass the kitchen staff. They must be run ragged with imperious demands from so many monarchs in one place.” She lowered her voice, as if she were sharing a great secret, “We can be an imperious and impatient group.”

The words earned the slightest of smiles. A small win. The next hour was spent in a meandering, deliberately vague conversation that the child kept deliberately light and obtuse, but was still useful from the inferences that could be made.

Yes, Liandrin was enjoying her studies in history and languages, but snapped closed when any talk shifted to channeling. Yes, technically, Jarna Sedai was the Mistress of Novices, but the Aes Sedai was endlessly busy with new ventures. Yes, Anvaere Damodred claimed her as a sister, but they were in different class groups and saw each other only perhaps as much as she should expect.  

Morgase, in turn, spoke of what could be expected of a noble-claimed Aes Sedai. Prestigious positions in either their home country or allied countries. Noble and royal invitations to tour royal courts from Arad Doman to Cairhien. “You are, of course, as my unborn daughter’s aunt, welcome in Andor at any time.”

The deliberate use of the gender caused Lini to stare at her like she was mad, but better if the news spread subtly before the talks with the other monarchs. The Aes Sedai had both sworn themselves to secrecy before the test, so it would be up to her to ensure the right ears heard the news.

The invitation was greeted with a closed-mouth smile that seemed not as open as she’d wish, but not entirely closed. No, courtly accepting of the shift in conversation by asking the expected questions. Fine, as Daughter-Heir, she more than had the skill and drive to push the conversation forward.

The next natural venture is to speak of her hopes and dreams and plans for the child…until it became clear that the conversation caused the child to look decidedly uncomfortable. Blue eyes leaping, desperately to the door for an out.

The plates were clean of food, and the sky outside was beginning to lighten. Morgase walked the girl to the door, keeping pace, careful not to trip over the white cat who strutted without a care for anyone or anything but herself. The walk felt more like a waddle, not the elegant, careful stride of a royal, but the child was barely a noble herself.

Before they parted, Morgase offered, “It was pleasant to speak to you. Come again on the morrow. You are always welcome.” Uncomfortable blue eyes dipped to her stomach. No agreement came. Merely a short, clipped thanks followed by a bob of a bow.

“Oh, and about the child—” Morgase said, as if it were a sudden thought, hoping to leave the news foremost in the novice’s mind. Anvaere Damodred had been friendly with the gossips among the novices. Just one word to the right ears and the news of her good fortune would be all over the White Tower without her seeming to spread the tale.

“Congratulations, Daughter-Heir Morgase. I would not spread tales of such news. You have my word as a…future Aes Sedai.”

The girl curtsied and hurried down the hall, the feline of lies following in her wake, and the Daughter-Heir staring after, screaming inside. Was it not possible to find one woman or child with loose lips? The Aes Sedai had both sworn an oath of secrecy themselves.

Morgase sighed and turned to re-enter the room, resigned to the fact she’d need to try once more to spread the news after her meeting with the King of Murandy. Lini stared at her from the table, lips pulled into a disapproving line, and Morgase resigned herself to another lecture.

“I care not about the Andoran throne. Nor about silly girls who believe they can bat their eyes and capture me with their wiles. Now, shall we talk of thrones or should I send for some dollies to entertain you while I speak to your nanny?” The king of Murandy waited, eyes dark and gleaming, a brute clearly, even if he seemed likely to be murdered rather than be the murderer, soft as he appeared in his gilded velvets that did nothing to hide a slight gut. The king stood on the balcony, gloved hands set upon the stone barrier, his chin shifted just enough to gaze at her. He acted as if he had not kept her waiting an entire day to meet with her.

Morgase Trakand waited in a perfectly acceptable sitting room with dark mahogany chairs, expertly carved, and a darling tea set steaming upon the table. To join him or not? They stood at a stalemate, each watching warily, awaiting the other's first move. The gall of this man, as if Murandy possessed the power and prestige that even minor nobles in Andor possessed. Andoran mercantile families are of better stock.

Taringail, may he be reborn as a peasant or worse. The prince had died and abandoned her to the perfidy of her enemies. He did not even have the grace to wait until Morgase was installed on the Lion Throne and the next Daughter-Heir was of an age to inherit without a regent.

Her feet ached, and she felt like a berry ready to burst. The idea of sparring while standing on a balcony hundreds of feet in the air, shivering from the brisk morning breeze, sat ill with her. No, she would not be the one to move from her place before the fire.

The gown she wore was of a hardy Andoran wool, and the cut was not flattering, heavy with child that she was. A warm gown that warded off the chill that derived from the bitterly cold gusts that invaded the once cozy sitting room. “I will not yell barbs at a brute who insists on lingering in the frigid morning air when refreshments have been provided by the Aes Sedai.”

She leaned forward to snag a persimmons, still full from her breakfast hours before, but eager to fill the time. The strain to reach the teapot caused her stomach to jostle the edge of the table and the dishes and cutlery to clatter.

“Barbs? I speak truth as I see it. A girl of nineteen? Twenty? Not far off from dollies.” The man nearly hollered to ensure his words reached her, carried as they were by the wind out, away from the tower, toward Dragonmount beyond.

Old enough to be with a child. To birth an heir that you will have no part of. There was satisfaction in that notion. The chance was slim that she’d lose this child, and the Daughter-Heir would be of Murandy heritage…but perhaps even still, she could arrange the politics to unite the countries in a century or two. No nation since the days of Hawkwing spread so far. Andor will be the first with careful tending. And so, she turned away and busied herself pouring tea while she tucked away her smug smile.

Her soon-to-be husband seemed stubbornly set upon yelling rather than conversing like a proper noble. Morgase decided to wait, enjoying her tea with just a dollop of honey while the kingly brute whiled away the precious time they possessed before the Westlands descended into war, loitering on the balcony. If anyone needed a Lini to order him about and talk sense, it was King Roedran Almaric do Arreloa a'Naloy, but the woman seemed intent on bullying the Yellow Ajah into spilling their credentials to care for the Daughter-Heir of Andor.

Morgase Trakand was long passed the days when the old nurse needed to rule her life, but if the old Andoran was there, she wasn’t here, interfering in official political machinations of the Daughter-Heir.

The stalemate broke after a sudden gale poured from the sky, sending the Murandian monarch fleeing indoors, droplets of water soaking his greying beard and hair. Morgase observed the theatrics coolly over the rim of her teacup, watching water droplets fly, peppering the fine stonework with puddles of moisture that would remain until after the meeting. The now damp king tromped over to the fireplace, removing his gloves and letting them fall to the tile. He collapsed into the chair. It groaned under his girth and skidded back a step. “I would be happy to summon my nanny to fetch fresh garb for you, King Roedran.”

The man eyed her for a long moment and then huffed a laugh. He used a cloth napkin to wring out his beard and then threw it to the ground as well. “No man in spring ever keeled over from a little water, but if you feel you need her by all means summon your Lini.”

The pair gazed at each other for a long moment before the king reached far too easily across the table to serve himself tea. He did not even have the grace to refill her cup when she neared the bottom, but maybe that was for the best. The babe pressed upon her bladder and made long periods without a trip to the chamber pot far too frequent.

“You were less rude in your correspondence, your majesty.”

“I am never less than the proper amount of rude. You created a fanciful notion if you expected me to be the perfect prince like your late Taringail.”

No one in the world would call a Damodred male perfect. They had more imperfections than most—even young Galadedrid. Always running about with that peasant’s stick and clinging to his grandmother’s skirts, whining for his mother. The boy was little more than a babe, at least.

Her husband had not been a babe. What he had been was as stupid as he thought he was clever. This man seemed to be smart and sour all in one package. He would not be easily handled. The thought curdled her stomach. No, if the gleam in his eyes, the slight curl to his lips meant anything, the man played with her like she’d seen the Sun Queen’s cat play with a spider in the orchard attached to the White Tower that morning when she stretched her legs before this meeting. “You’re not a prince,” she offered, a slight acknowledgment of their similar status. The king of Murandy was what Taringail wished he had been.

The king did not cease stirring his tea, but he inclined his head to her.

Morgase pushed on. “Let us speak plainly, your majesty. The White Cloaks encroach; nearly all of our collective neighbors are preparing to join the march to war, but even that has proven a conversation filled with strife. Every source I’ve spoken to says as much. The last of the snows are melting; now is not the time to delay, to speak in riddles, to trade barbs over tea. I propose a marriage alliance to create an unshakable wall between us and our enemies. Together we will push our enemies from our borders, soundly rout them so they are too weak to attempt another push for a century or more.”

“Let us speak truth,” the lord muttered to himself, idly tilting his teacup as if he could divine some message in its depths. He gazed up at her, eyes intense and words grim. “The lords of my realm have beggared Murandy. You will have your wedding, but know I will require enough aid to set that right. Call it a gift to the future heir of Murandy, call it whatever you will, but that will be required if we are to find victory. The lords have been dealt with; I would see my heir, our heir, reclaim every scrap of power the lords stole over centuries of poor management.”

“If Murandy were to be integrated with Andor, joined into one country upon our marriage...”

“Will you set aside your eldest if you birth a girl? Would the Sun Queen of Cairhien bear such an insult to the babe in your belly?”

She considered lying about the gender of the babe, but no, she could either spread the rumors or not. Do not be a fool. Her legitimacy lay in her connection to Cairhien, to the powerful alliance it provided. Trouble might still brew. She did not trust Lord Aldecain and Lady Naean to not attempt an usurpation. The alliance with Murandy would further strengthen her position, layered on top of the Cairhien connection, not instead of it. Yes, let us speak truth. “That I cannot offer. The Yellow Ajah assures me I will birth a daughter. I will not disinherit my firstborn.”

Surprise did not alight on that craggy face. He did let out a rumble of a chuckle. “I do not let the petty lords wrest Murandy from me. I have planned too long to hand it over to a foreign chit, even one that seems smart and clever enough to succeed. I will not let an Andoran and Cairhienen Daughter-Heir steal my birthright. The unification of Murandy and Andor will not happen in this Age.”

“The Age has been long, my lord; another might be around the corner.”A clever line, but without any real teeth. No, the end of the Age would not be in their lifetime, or the one after, or the one after most likely.

“The end of the Age? Bloody hell. Fuck that. Let another contend with a Dragon and the Dark One. Let us forge our empires in peace.”

“Empires,” Morgase repeated, the slightest smile curving up. Perhaps, not an empire. The Daughter-Heir was not content to give any title higher than high-lord, but she did like the idea of expanding the borders of Andor. No one would even blame them, for borders were often redrawn by the winners after a civil conflict.

“Altara and Illian have proven poor neighbors to our nations.”

“And poor stewards of the land, poor protectors of their citizens,” Morgase suggested, innocently.

“It’s perhaps too much to hope to stretch as far as Amadecia,” the older man said, voice a rumble.

That was a thought to consider…

Morgase inclined her head. What would it take to take over Amadecia? The home of the White Cloaks. The religious order tearing the nations asunder? “Andor possesses enough wealth to win any battlefield with able men who know the land at their side. Our combined wealth perhaps does not stretch far enough to claim the supposed city of the light, but we can assure they pay enough war indemnity to beggar them for a few generations.”

The king laughed and let out a vicious grin. “Perhaps on occasion, send a few mercenary groups in to teach them their place. Destabilize them enough that they cannot rise again.”

The Daughter-Heir merely sipped her tea, staring at the lord from beneath her brows. He was not pleasant to look at, but that mind—yes, he would be a fine father to her children and a fine partner to ensure Andor and Murandy both flourished. “You will have the funds to stabilize your kingdom, set it on the path to success.”

Talks of joining two lands could wait for a generation or two down the line, or perhaps by then her children’s children would be more focused on finally bringing Amadacia into the fold. Either way, she would need to see that the subtle work was done to ensure the cultures slowly fell more in line until the unification seemed inevitable. A bloodless conquest would be preferable, but not a necessity.

She would pull one last concession. Funds could not be handed out without a price. “I will expect updates on what you will do to ensure the country's success if we are to continue ruling separately. I would see our child inherit a thriving country.”

The king bristled, tea sloshing over the rim of his cup. “Can I expect future updates from you, Daughter-Heir Morgase?”

A dismissive wave of the hand. “Andor thrives and will continue to thrive.”

“Does it? The lords have voted to affirm your position as Daughter-Heir, chosen House Trakand to rule and yet...” The king ran a finger along his cheek, a mocking reminder of the dragonfang carved into Taringail’s cheek after his death.

“I know what the rumors say, and the matter is firmly in hand.” Lord Aldecain and his lady wife had not moved yet from their beloved castle. The moment they did, her contacts would take flight to warn Queen Mordrellen of a potential rebellion, for it would be that. Not a succession war, a rebellion that would make the eradication of the Arawn line expected. She almost wished they would take up arms. The crown could use more land after House Mantear clawed back far more than she’d like for her husband’s first boychild.

Irritation loosened her tongue, made it sharp. “Shall we speak of heirs instead? Shall we wait five, six years to try for an heir to Murandy? A First Prince of the Sword? Or should I fear an untimely death, a push towards senility that will lead to you being unable to perform?

A long pause. Morgase sipped her tea, a soft, soothing tea with a dollop of honey that did little to settle the anger, soften its edges. The idea of waiting a larger span of time appealed. The last months had been uncomfortably horrid. The process of bedding this old man seemed liable to be just as horrid, but such a suggestion was impractical. Fools beat a hunting dog black and blue when kindly words will suffice, Lini would say.

The king laughed and slapped his thigh. Her anger blew away like a winter storm at the mirth. “Wait? Best not. I am old and wasn’t liable to perform when I was twenty years younger. I would advise you to find a lover to help ease your end, as I do not have the skill or drive to prepare you as you should be for our dalliances.”

Morgase goggled, cup nearly slipping from her fingers. She’d finished the tea, so not a drop slipped onto her. “A lover? You do not care if the child is of your blood?” Her mind immediately turned to Gareth Bryne; The man was handsome, strong, and already the First Prince of the Sword...and hopelessly devoted to another, but if she asked he would do his duty by his Daughter-Heir.

“Don’t be absurd. You can engage in activities that won’t impregnate you until after each pregnancy has been confirmed, and then you can fuck as you will. I don’t much care to hear of your dalliances, but I will insist on some sense when it comes to how you sleep with whatever lover you find until potential heirs and spares are secured. My heir will be a channeler if you can manage; if not, I will name the most suitable, and they will wed a channeler. Murandy will be a land ruled by channeler lords.”

“The White Tower must be thrilled at your decision.”

“The Amyrlin Seat has been most solicitous. Irritatingly so, but I see the future, and I will not flee from the influence such power will grant, not in a world where the White Cloaks will become a remnant of what they had been. At least the Aes Sedai can offer skills and improvements to Murandy. The children offer nothing save murder and puppet subjugation. I am done groveling to lesser men.”

The king of Murandy was no fool. For the first time, she knew that, not just suspected the fact. The time may come to implement a similar system in Andor, but for now, the system they had served them well enough. “That is…wise…I suppose…and will you be sojourning in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn while we try for a babe?”

“For as little as I can manage. The lords have just begun to cower; better if I am not away if the crown is going to claw back the power for good the fools have forsworn. The fools are giving me ample reason to see them headless, so I can claim back castles for our heirs.”

The claim was crude, but she herself would be looking for ways to legally wrest land away from traitors in Andor. Perhaps the time has come to fund the building of castles in the areas without a High Lord. If Andor was to expand then the areas on the outskirts would need to be fortified and the peasants on the borders would need to be reminded what nation they belonged.

Well, Morgase supposed she could have expected far worse than an old man uninterested in sexual dalliances and equally uninterested in being married to her in more than a political sense. And he did seem to have a head for politics and a refreshing drive to expand the holdings their children would inherit.

Really, this seemed a far more tenable situation than her subtle manipulations of Taringail had proved to be. “Then we will have to see the seed catches the first few times, so you can return to your own country posthaste between pregnancies.” Morgase settled her hand on her stomach, smiling with pleasure at the thought she’d be rewarded for the entire ordeal with the old man’s absence from her life and the ability to semi-openly have dalliances without political fallout...well, that was worth celebrating. “And I will find a lover to make the experiences bearable for us. Thank you for your—”

The king flicked his hand at her dismissively. “I am not here to hold your cunt hostage for the next three score years until I die. That seems a liable way to be assassinated before my time.” The crude words cut through the air, but they had little bite, not when the worry and weight of what her life might be like for the next decades had been alleviated. 

“We will marry before you depart. I do not require a grand ceremony, but I would see us tied before the war parts us for a time longer.” The political ties would do some small amount to stabilize their countries.

“Then we are in agreement. The Amyrlin Seat would be thrilled to host the wedding, to join two monarchs for the first time in centuries. To power and legacy,” King Roedran said, holding up his teacup. He tipped his head to her.

“To new beginnings for both our houses,” Morgase agreed, her lips rising. The babe kicked in her womb, forcing her to squirm, and caused a flare of pain that had her clenching her teeth. The sooner she birthed the required babes and could enjoy her pleasure without the prospect of months of inconvenience, the better, but really, she needed to confirm, to hear the words once more. Men and beasts could be monsters when thrones were involved. “You really care not if I birth a healthy daughter-heir of Damodred blood.”

The man huffed, rolled his eyes, and rose. “If my duty is to fill you with a child one less time, all the better. We would both prefer that, yes?”

Looking at the king with his lined, aged visage, his graying hair, and his deep-set, hooded eyes, agreement came to her easily, but she merely smiled and stood. “I will have a contract procured.”

The king of Murandy rose. “I’ll order my butler to deliver the terms I had drawn up. Review them and request changes as you see fit.”

The babe in her belly seemed to be a fragile, but vital duty. One less babe to bear this man. Andor, even with this new political tie, benefited far more with a Damodred by blood if not by name on the throne. Yes, each day ushered them closer to war. The peace held on by the thinnest of threads, and a sick queen currently sat the Lion Throne. 

She could not like entrusting a fragile, sickly queen to manage the crown's affairs and a budding war, but Gareth Bryne would return to handle the war, and she could be the representative of Andor within the White Tower until she successfully gave birth.

The lord’s imminent departure should not be so disappointing. He’s not for you. The separation from Lord Bryne would be good. Perhaps she could find a viable lover from within the warder stock. A man not all but claimed by an important ally. She’d have ample time to find such a man. Departure for her would not come until her daughter was born.

“I will remain here for a time. My fastest, most trusted messenger will send the details of the deal to the queen of Andor, and if you have any matters you wish to discuss with the Aes Sedai, let me be your advocate, for our future heirs.”

“I will consider your offer.”

“We should meet once more with Lord Bryne before you depart. Lord Bryne is a skilled strategist and will one day be named one of the Great-Captain, before the century has ended. He can advise your initial strategy and what we can provide you in the defense of Murandy.”

“Good. I already ordered spies to gather information on my border lords to report which must be stripped of their land and which can be coaxed over with promises of safety and wealth. A united strategy beyond that would be wise. We gain little if we act recklessly. On the morrow? The season of war creeps closer as the snows melt. I will be required far from here very soon.”

“I will advise Lord Bryne that we meet tomorrow, and I will speak to the Amyrlin Seat about our wedding.”

The meeting ended with a clumsy curtsy on her part; her bulging belly allowed little more than almost graceful from her these days. The Murandian king did not see her out, and did not rush to open the chamber’s door for her. Instead, he turned away and trod to the window to stare out toward Dragonmount. Light willing, the coming war would be the only one she’d see in her lifetime. The Dragon Reborn would surely wait a few centuries before joining the world once more and ushering in more chaos than even she could account for.

Chapter Text

Moiraine

The quest continued, as it ever did. Moiraine shivered. The cold ate at her, bit at her fingers through her thick gloves, at the scarf wrapped tightly around her cheeks, and at the hood pulled low over her dark eyes. The Mountains of Mist towered overhead, snowy peaks dotted with skeletal dormant trees. The mare she rode plodded, gait unsteady on the trail blanketed in a sea of snow. The sun gleamed overhead, reflected off the snow, forcing her eyes into slits.

The warder rode on a pale beast, long, thin limbs encased in dark robes with a hood pulled low, veiling the long, thin slash of a face, the sharp eyes, and the sharp chin. Lan, she wanted to say, but an unnatural quiet quickened her blood, made her wary of breaking her silence. Decades of travel, surely her worry would be noted from the tenseness of her posture even if the bond…

The bond. Moiraine’s cheek smarted from a casual backhand that morning; a reprimand for not cloaking the connection, for daring to peek into the warder’s privacy. Twenty years bonded…what had changed? The man felt riotous, wild that morning with a thirst, a passion directed at her she’d not felt ever before.

Pale blue eyes settled on her. A moment of stillness, then a cocked head and a slow, sharp smile. The warder let out a bark of laughter, slapped talon capped hands against pale leather pants. The man wore a jerkin that left long, slim arms uncovered that had been layered with overlapping scar tissue, gouges and bites set into flesh over and over until little skin remained unmarred.

Moiraine twisted the reins, her leather fur-lined gloves were stiff, unwieldy. A quick glance behind revealed two shadowed figures on horseback trailing first at a slow plod and then in a charge that risked their mounts on such terrain. Stay and fight or flee?

Two men on horseback against an Aes Sedai? A novice, a poor one, could face such a trial and win. Damodreds did not fall to such pitiful challenges. “Run, little witch,” the warder howled, lashing out with a leg to jam her horse’s side. “Lose, I will not.”

The horse screamed and reared. Moiraine fell, reaching desperately for the source. The power remained lost to her, leaving her barren and empty and…she continued to fall, unable to right herself. The snow cushioned the landing, made her hit with hardly an ache. She kept falling, sinking into snow, until she lay in a cold tomb, awaiting death.

Lan, she wanted to scream, but snow fell into her mouth, forced its way down her throat, pooled into her lungs with the fluidity of weaves of air. If she sank into Saidar, she could save herself, burrow herself an air pocket, melt the snow around her.

The world shuttered before her eyes, one moment a snowy tomb, the next an ancient stone one. One moment, the warder on horseback, the next odd sharp-featured creatures mounted on pillars. “What do you wish?”

The words were sly, hungry, tempting. Moiraine felt the burn in her lungs, a fuzziness in her mind. She’d made her vows, set her terms. Her cheek ached. Lan, her warder, would save her.

A price and a boon.

A lupine figure crouched on a stone pillar, and leaned forward, as if ready to spring upon her. A macabre statue. His brethren with the flicking tongue of a serpent hissed, “The payment offered is not accepted. Three boons you ask, great powers you covet and you offer a beggar's payment.”

Images warped blending, twisting, merging—warder and lupine creatures, horse and snake creatures—until claws grabbed her by the throat, piercing skin, and jolted her up, up and out of her snowy tomb. Moiraine flew once more and landed on a soft, warm form. Sun blinded her, her fingers jostled against wet fur. Red blood marred her fingers and the horse’s corpse she sprawled upon lay half-sunken into the snow.

“They come,” the warder hissed. “They come to rip and tear and kill. What do you wish, little witch? I can save you from this torment. From what is to come.”

He towered over her, cloak thrown back. Her slitted eyes tried to see past the blazing, blinding light. Not Lan. Not with the slimmer face, the sandy hair, and the inhuman proportions. The relief ripped through her. Her jaw smarted still from a blow given by this creature. Not Lan. Lan never hit her, never hurt her. Her mind felt hazy, confused, but she knew that much.

 “Tell me, which will you trade for a calm, pleasant visit to our lands? To see the crystal shorelines beyond this tower? To find the pockets of pleasure, of good beyond the pain?”

Silence. She’d not answer this beast. Retreat, run, fade away. The paths once set by the warders bond blazed to life. “Paths set can be easily followed, reforged, Little Witch,” the creature whispered in her mind. “Tell me, you can speak this once. Which will you forgo? The toy you sought? The journey planned? Or the last?”

Sharp claws seized her head, and a single one dug into her forehead. “Yes, the last might be more easily foregone, most easily switched. What good is protecting a mind that has already been shattered?”

The creature hovered over her, blocking out the sun, granting one moment of relief from the overwhelming daylight, from the rapid approach of more of its kind. The excited yipping broadcast that much. One last moment of peace, of safety despite the claw digging into her skin, causing the skin to break, for her blood to leak.

Do as you will, she returned.

Sharp, hot anger met her words, a hiss of fury and then the world twisted, her eyes watered from a sudden influx of light, and then…

Moiraine Sedai scrambled slippered feet against polished tile of the Damodred palace ballroom as a tall, slim man held her by the throat. Morressin Damodred wore a cruel sneer, but he’d lost muscle mass in her years away. Pale-blue eyes glared at her.

The warder connection sat hot between them. How long had he been her warder? The ache in her bones, in her muscles, in her head screamed the sentiment: too long. The threats had been real, the bond that had come after too, and…she’d sworn vows hadn’t she? Received promises?

To return, to redo if all failed. A sa’angreal to restore what had been lost, and...

Moiraine fell. The world spun before her eyes, spinning images faster than her taxed mind could register. Her knees hit a hard surface, an eerie creak. The man stood tall as a tower, but not light, not with the otherworldly purity of the stonework of the White Tower. No, this was darker, almost oily. Taloned hands curved around her head, dug into her skull, pressed deep, deep enough, hard enough to threaten to punch through hard bone.

“Uncle…” The word croaked out, garbled, painful. Figures danced all around her, bare feet kicking up off-white powder, and whispering, ever whispering. She flinched from a chunk of hard bone kicked by roughly tailored leather boots. The pale leather flaked with white.

 The man-creature loomed over her. He smelled acrid like death, but with undertones of cedar. “If you wish to keep your mind, to safeguard your precious skull…”

No, Moiraine answered.

The world twisted.

Moiraine Sedai dangled over the edge of the White Tower. Liandrin Sedai stood to the side, not as she is, but as she was, of the Red Ajah, of the Black, while a man with pale-blue eyes and tawny hair held the rope that served as Moiraine’s last connection to safety. The source lay very far away. Her heart raced. A connection, a bond blazed between herself and the man. The blue-eyed man stared flatly, unconcerned.

“Mistress, says you must make new vows, new promises.” The man did not turn to the Black sister. The snarl exposed sharp, pointed teeth. One deliberate step forward and Moiraine dropped by an inch, but a quick twist of the rope around the creature’s taut forearm stopped her momentum.

The image of Liandrin Sedai flickered, one moment there and the next Elaida Sedai towered in her place. The deep voice cut through the air, “Harder, no one ever learned from soft hands, from mere threats without teeth.”

The cacophony of sound arrived as a murder of crows descended from above, flying in a tight formation. A black cloud against the white of the tower. The beasts circled overhead, diving past, raking claws down her form, ripping at flesh, until her feet dislodged. For one heart stopping moment, she fell amongst the cloud of death, and then she hit the side of the tower with a jolt that created a new ache amongst the gashes. The beasts continued to peck and tear and drive their small forms into her.

Across the bond, from far, far away, a manic voice snarled, “Say the words! What will you shed to escape? To find safety? To rest?”

Moiraine Damodred did not fear death, did not fear pain. Taringail, her own blood, had tormented her far worse as a babe. She let the sentiment travel across the bond, her contempt for such an effort, and her amusement at the creature stealing the dark ones' creatures to torment her so.

The moment lingered between the two and then a third presence joined the connection, an older one. A stronger one. The deep, drawl of Elaida’s voice invaded her mind, Release her. It is time we cease our playing. It is time she learned what the best of us can do.

The creature hissed and released the rope. Fear skittered through her as she began to fall.

The world twisted.

Moiraine stood on an icy lake that creaked under her feet. Fine, cracks spread over outward. The ice made eerie bangs that promised ruin. Aes Sedai’s weaves to not feel the cold would not save her from an icy death. A red-haired Aiel man stood on the shoreline, with a flat, smooth boat that promised safety.

He awaited vows with an impatient snarl. For once, Moiraine Sedai felt like herself, remembered more of herself. “I faced harsher treatment during my testing for the shawl.”

The Eelfinn casually stepped forward, stomped his feet onto the ice. One final crack cut through the air, the ice shifted, and Moiraine plummeted down, through shards of ice, into frigid water. Her body seized, sunk, and an instinctive inhale choked her, set her body aflame once more. Icy tendrils beckoned darkness, carved her mind, shifted it, altered it, ruined it.

Moiraine jolted awake, blinked past the fear and the lingering pain. The dream lingered and would linger for a time longer, but she could not afford to wallow. Politics did not wait for a night of calm, dreamless sleep, and for her that time would never come. Put it away for now, she told herself, even as she shook, as the dream, the memories pressed closer to the present. You survived that trial for this.

A meow cut through the air. Moiraine rolled to her side, looked toward the door. Jenny stretched, claws batting at the doorknob, seeking release. Moiraine flicked the covers off with a weave of air and rose. The day started with one task and then another until sleep beckons once more. She let the chill linger in her bones, a remembrance of her sacrifice, and a reminder of the urgency of forging new alliances.

“I have male relatives enough to fill an army thrice over, men needed to arm my people against the threat of shadowspawn in the Blight,” Asuga Togita, the Queen of Shienar retorted. A queen by marriage rather than birth, but one with the cunning and gravitas to play politics while her husband fought the shadow.

The hands that grasped the fine porcelain were calloused, with faint, faded scars from decades of battle training. The queen wore her steel hair a topknot, oiled in a manner to allow no flyaway hairs, and highlighting a puckered scar that dragged across the wrinkled brow and disappeared into the hairline. An elaborate velvet cloak, capped with white fox fur, framed a long, thin neck. A crown, with enough sapphires to put Moraine’s to shame, glinted in the candlelight. The woman’s brittle smile said clean what the Cairhienen would mask: I am no fool, you arrogant pup.

Moiraine Damodred did not flinch and did not allow her gaze to waver. The pair sat in her sitting room at the White Tower, a weave set to prevent interested ears from spying on the room, and the scent of fragrant spices in the air from the tea. The Sun Queen’s day started early, almost as early as the sun rose. Sleep did not come easily to her, not without nightmares chasing her sleeping self.

The first meeting was a semi-formal tea and bread with the most important monarch of the newly formed borderlander alliance. The borderland nations, already loosely aligned through necessity, used the long trip to Tar Valon to firm alliances, to create a united front to demand concessions from the White Tower, from the in-land nations—respectfully, of course.

If Queen Asuga agreed to her negotiation, all of the other lands would fall in line even if they were independent factions, but Moiraine did not plan for a betrothal between herself and another leader to be a means of negotiation. Foolish and hypocritical perhaps, but she already sacrificed her peace, her sanity, and her pain for the Westlands.

Betrothals, sexual assignations spurred by political motives were lines she would not cross. There would be no other partners, no other lover than Siuan Sanche, if the Pattern allowed that dalliance. Years would pass before that question would be answered. Years until Siuan grew, learned, matured, and courted other lovers.

Her once lover was currently a child. A child, who must be this very moment waking up to set off into the city to fish. Not a hobby she’d had the first time around, but endearing in its way. Yes, best to shift the subject because there would be no replacing Siuan Sanche. “I had heard that the excursions along the border have been particularly active of late...men, even Shienaran men, easily find themselves outmatched. I would think your kin would be safer facing off against the White Cloaks and my uncle’s forces than such dangerous prey.”

“Safer, yes, but the dark does not sleep because we wish to keep our men safe. Sacrifices must be made, by the sons of kings, by queens even.”

Moiraine hummed, ran her finger along the rim of the teacup, and regarded the elder queen...well the queen with not quite as many years physically as Moiraine, but physically older. The years held captive by the Finn made her older than most Aes Sedai, made her older than some kin, but those years, those memories were a twisted and jagged jumble. The shiver was instinctive, and she forced her mind to the present. No good came from lingering on those memories, not when she had a mission to accomplish.

How to handle this? Barbs could be traded, and the topic talked around and around till long after lunch but the day possessed too few hours, and the number of meetings crammed into her day far too many. No, she’d not spend the next hour trading barbs, dancing around the point. “Let us speak the truth, Queen Asuga, you wish for a marriage alliance. I have been granted access to a prophecy that infers my own direct blood will not sit on the Sun Throne after me. You will be granted little by allying your son—”

“I also have a nephew, a brother, a brother-in-law lately widowed, a cousin. You can take your pick, Queen Moiraine, but alliances are made with blood, not rocks, not metal, not over cups of tea...with blood. I care not if you have been told by Gitara Sedai herself that a rival will inherit the Sun Throne and that the very same rival will kill every last Damodred. We are talking about the here and now. We are talking about an alliance I can trust.”

“Have you heard what the late Sun Queen did to her husband?”

The other queen tilted her head, brow raised.

“She chased him from the kingdom, declared him dead, and set a dead commoner, likely dead of natural causes in an open casket. Declared to all the king was dead and no one, not kin, not Aes Sedai, not lord, not peasant contradicted her. Marriage ties mean little and I, for one, do not feel the urge to claim a hostage of your kin.”

The room fell silent save for the crackling of the fireplace and the rustle of Jenny, her black and grey cat stretching before the fire, mouth open in a lingering yawn, as if she found the conversation exceedingly tedious. The queen’s dark eyes darted to the side, trained on the cat, before honing in on Moiraine once more. “That is not an endorsement of House Damodred’s character; its trustworthiness as an ally.”

“I have been told, on many occasions, I am no true Damodred, but my line is true, as decorated as any High House of Cairhien. That line, through my sisters, my brother’s son will be the future of House Damodred.”

The old woman nodded. Her eyes sharpened, coy slyness pulling at her lips. “Your sister, the Lady Anvaere, she wields a sword? Rides a horse? Hunts with skill? My son spoke of her prowess in the practice yard. We see strength. If you refuse to wed, surely there are other options...marriages need not be an exchange of hostages.”

“The Lady Anvaere is to be Aes Sedai and her hand is all but spoken for if she consents to take Lord Bryne of Andor to husband.”

“You have another sister...”

“Who is recently widowed. I will not dictate another match when she has birthed three potential heirs for House Damodred and the Sun Throne already. She will decide if she takes another man to husband. Any man I’d invite to woo her, but I will not force my sister to the alter.”

“You will have a portrait provided for me of the princess?”

Moiraine held back a sigh, “I will, but talk of future marriage means little without an alliance now. Shienar will not benefit from one of Moressin’s temperament on the Sun Throne, but we are not here to speak of my uncle, but of what I can do for you...”

The other queen gestured for her to carry on.

“I need men. You need something more than men. I will speak to the Amyrlin Seat on your behalf and you will send to your husband to begin the march for Cairhien to aid in the brewing conflict. I know what you need...” Moiraine paused, letting the moment build.

“I am not a green girl, child. You mean to tell the Amyrlin Seat, the flock of colorful birds to march to the borderland’s aid, to fight, to bleed the shadow for once.” A bitter laugh broke the moment and startled Jenny to her feet. The queen stood, cloak billowing around her, dismissal clear. “The last time the borderlands relied on Aes Sedai, a kingdom fell.”

“You traveled far to court a hopeless, unreliable organization.”

“It has been many generations since the borderlands met and resolidified our alliance, one to another. Many marriage alliances will be formed and many warriors traded to learn new skills, to fill gaps in the ranks of warriors that bleed for the inlands. The White Tower is still neutral ground.” The Queen deliberately set her cup down and glanced toward the door. She rose. “If this is all you can offer...send the portrait of your sister if you survive. Perhaps an alliance could be considered then.” The queen nodded once and then turned and began to exit the room.

Moiraine didn’t move from her seat, even as Jenny sauntered over and leaped into her lap. The stroke along the warm body, the rumble of a purr kept her captive. Her fellow monarch stopped before the door. The privacy was still in a place until the door opened. Now, she would set the full deck on the table. “The White Tower is not as weak as they were; although no Aes Sedai will admit that. Malkier was a failure, but are you able to defend every volley along the border? The White Tower’s presence in Malkier was little enough, even with way gates and portal stones—no one could have foreseen how fast that country fell. It is folly to expect any ally to reach a distant battlefield in time without forewarning. That is why I invited the Aes Sedai into Cairhien, into the very heart of the Sun Palace, even if they dare ask too much.”

The queen paused, twisted to glance back at her, and so she continued, “Aes Sedai—enough to mount a defense, to push back the hoards, enough to rebuild fortifications that had been shattered long ago. That is what the White Tower can offer. The halls have more novices than there have been since the days of Artur Hawkwing, soon, very soon, there will be enough Aes Sedai to be stationed close enough to prevent another Malkier for as long as you wish.”

“You will create vassal states of us all with the White Tower at the center,” the queen replied, scarred brow furrowed, distaste clear.

“Is that not statecraft? A new problem to be solved by a clever queen or king?”

“You consider yourself that?” The queen looked genuinely amused, dark eyes trailing over her, landing on the cat that gleefully nibbled on Moiraine’s fingers, pink tongue rough. The Shienaran queen thought her a fool; a young one with an overinflated sense of her abilities.

“I know the White Tower to be weak.”

A dismissive wave, “My youngest niece could tell me that and she’s yet to be trained not to soil the bed.” Despite the words, the queen returned to her chair, swept out her cloak, and sat. “Tell me of these houses of healing you are opening in Cairhien.”

Moiraine smiled and did just that. Speaking of the expansion of the healing that the advisor to the Queen had already been allowed to implement. The plans to expand to a new building, constructed by Ogier, outside the current walls of Cairhien. Good fortune found an Ogier stuck in Cairhien over the long winter, better fortune sent him home to his stedding with a proposal. One she still needed to negotiate, but she would see that happen.

The conversation circled once more when the Shienaran queen said, “An ambitious plan for a queen with a succession war about to erupt.”

“I will win that war and with a little time; we can speak of the border nations' need for healers. I will have more skilled in the craft and enough wealth to fund diplomatic aid missions to treasured allies...even without a nagging husband or brother-in-law.”

The last produced a laugh, a genuine one. “I will speak to my fellow border lords on this matter, but we do not speak as one.”

“I can expect a Shienaran contingent?”

“I will send my nephews and sons with armies at their back—the unwed ones. You will find them of use and your sister might find them more to her taste. Do encourage the suit.”

“I will inform Princess Innloine of your relatives’ intentions to court her.”

The queen nodded. “I have a few nieces and daughters I can send as well...if that might entice you more. You might need to indulge their urge for children, but they’re all skilled in court politics, in political intrigue, and a few have no desire to bear children if you do not wish to be bothered to be nagged so.”

The offer shocked Moiraine, but she’d long since ceased being startled. “You are welcome to send them, but I make no promises. I will speak to my allies, Andor and Murandy, about the aid that can be expected. I suspect Lord Bryne will wish to speak to you about our needs.”

“The king dictates war and allocates troops, but I will have my military advisor speak to Lord Bryne about his expectations.”

The conversation trailed down, but she must address one more issue. “The last king of Malkier, al’Lan Mandragoran, is he expected to arrive in the coming days?” Moiraine felt an ache that almost surmounted her ache for a restored, of-age Siuan Sanche. Her lover and her warder. Two halves of Moiraine Damodred that had been home far longer than the Sun Palace or House Damodred. She felt a nagging emptiness facing this new mission to save the Light alone.

She’d hoped the soft-spoken warrior of the light would find his way to her naturally, as fate intended, but two weeks she’d been to the White Tower and one by one, other monarchs had arrived, and none had been the last king of Malkier. She had forgotten how much the pair had fled their duties, their families, and their countries in their early days.

The queen answered her fear with a shake of the head. “The young man will not come. No Malkieri man will ride into the den of a Cairhienen lady—that one least of all. Is he the one you mean to call husband? No man is finer, fiercer than a Malkieri, but that one is untamed, wild as of yet. A decade, perhaps two before I’d take him to husband, Queen Moiraine.”

The inference that she’d take advantage of Lan, that she’d let any of her countrymen run over his desires, take him to bed when he did not feel like he could say no made her gut twist. That would not happen, even if she had to stake a claim that implied far more than she intended. “He has no fear of me on that front.”

The older woman laughed, before leaning forward, earnestly, “Really, my kin are men and women grown, even the ones young enough to be unscarred. They would make much better matches. I saw to that.”

And what could Moiraine say to that, but nothing at all? She untangled her fingers from Jenny’s claws and used weaves of air to carry her tea to her. The Queen watched the skill with some interest.

“I’m sure the White Tower would be eager to test any of your nieces, your daughters, your cousins.”

“Perhaps,” the queen replied, eyes distant. She came back to herself, began to say her farewells, and rose once more. The queen's parting words did not bring her joy: “Tread carefully, Queen Moiraine. You and al'Lan might just catch each other if my niece or daughters do not catch you first.”

The warder practice grounds fluttered with a flurry of movement. Novices did not stand on the outskirts, ogling the men’s well-turned calves and glistening muscles, waiting to swarm and flirt and other such activities. A few Aes Sedai who possessed the look of the newly raised clustered together, gazes only briefly cutting to Moiraine before they returned to their hunt for the ‘right’ warder.

Foolish to choose green boys for so many on the practice ground was that. Second, third, and fourth sons from the merchant or noble stalk whose parents tired of their loafing about, or brothers free from their mother’s sway cut them loose. Younglings with spotty beards and erratic swings who paid more attention to the Aes Sedai that ogled them than the practice bout. The Aes Sedai were no one of note, not influential enough for, nor of the right age for her to know them, or know of them.

Moiraine stood off to the side, short as a Cairhienen queen should be with a crown upon her brow, four looming guards behind her. Polished fingers smoothed down full skirts, glad that the train stopped well above the muddy terrain of the practice ground. Her maids would frett over the state of her shoes, but some hunts were better commenced on the practice grounds. The finery of her garb would distract from the mud upon the polished black leather of her boots until she received a new pair.

No Aes Sedai save the Amyrlin Seat would dare to dress with such decadence, even if they could afford such luxury. The stipend from the White Tower was beyond generous, but few dared to flaunt that wealth beyond reason.

An exchange of weak swings that clanged dully together with barely a clatter of steel on steel passed, until the taller of the two, a blond Andoran, caught the edge of the dulled blade on his hand, cursed, and dropped the blade to the dirt. No arms master stood nearby, preoccupied as they were with a flock of novices clustered together at the far side of the courtyard for their morning lessons.

Her guard Tal Black grunted in disgust at the poor showing. The taller man stood at her back, a looming presence that cast a shadow long enough to overtake her own. The guard bristled with pent-up energy that had only been heightened by their return to the White Tower.

“You should challenge the pups, show them they are not as skilled as they think,” Moiraine suggested, eager to give him a task, to put him off his looming for even a moment.

“I have a duty, your grace.”

Moiraine turned, needed to gaze up at the towering man. Not a handsome man, not with that hanging scar or the weathered, lined visage left to bake in the elements first as a soldier and then as a beggar. He’d not taken to life as a queen’s guard with ease, unused to the eyes upon him, unused to the expectations that drove his queen from one task to another with hardly a break.

His lover, Frej, engulfed almost entirely in dark cloth to protect his too-pale skin from the sun watched from further back in the shade of the wall, eager to hide in the few moments that were allowed him. Karwin, of a size not to loom, kept her gaze on the courtyard, eyes ever watchful, but otherwise at ease. The final guard, Darron Heln, a man trusted by her grandfather, for nearly forty years, trailed further back, an unassuming axe at his side, and a much larger one set upon his back.

“And I have four guards this day and one has been testy of late. Go, work out that aggression. The day will be long and we cannot afford any mistakes.”

“You chose the wrong guards if you wished no mistakes, your grace.” The words were glib, but bitterness hid poorly on that honest visage. She was tired of the back and forth; this was not the light tension between a warder and Aes Sedai in sync, but not in perfect alignment. This was more treacherous—the push and pull of two forces set to pull each other apart. I should celebrate his temperament; his nerve has returned to him. In some way, she did, but she grew tired of the tension in her inner circle when hounds and rats and crows circled all around and dreams granted no peace.

“If you wish to be a warder, court another. Those green could use a skilled man; they can afford one of many to be compromised.” Light, the warder connection abused by the Finn sat too close in her mind for comfort this morning. The tart words carried by the wind traveled further than she’d wished and drew the eyes of the flock of green. Regret came immediately at the inference that the taint, that the longing to touch the source was an unsurmountable flaw.

Only the sa’angreals set around her neck and the other secured around her wrist allowed her to channel with any significant power. She kept the latter buried under navy sleeves, always away from prying, envious eyes. The price for both had been steep. Scars upon her mind and a weave set into her flesh that felt like fire under her skin even still, months past its settling. The last oath on the Oath Rod had been uncomfortable, but that discomfort had faded and become almost nonexistent within months. She should be long past that moment. Long past that time.

The jaw merely tensed further, those hard eyes speared before skipping behind, to his lover, before a sharp nod came and the taller man marched off, his path set to the boys. Karwin said not a word, but the loosening of her stance spelled a relief of tension that should have happened long before. Most guards that served House Damodred or the Sun Palace knew their place and preferred all maintain their place unless those actions interfered with their charge's safety (within reason). The fear of losing a head quieted more than one tongue over the centuries when faced with the force of a stubborn, mercurial Sun King or Queen.

Darron Heln sidled forward, bobbing his head briefly in deference, before boldly noting, “That was poorly done, lass.” The elder man, perhaps remembered too much of her as a youth, when he’d haul her from one of Anvaere’s ill-thought schemes or another. She always seemed to trudge back, covered in mud, fretting over the state of her dress.

“Poorly, no. Ill-timed? Yes,” Moiraine answered. The conversation needed to happen, but in the middle of a practice ground, in public, surrounded by potential enemies? Yes, she should have spoken on this matter before this moment. The desire to run, to put off conversations that caused her problems remained an ever-present temptation.

The flock of green Aes Sedai watched Tal march forward eagerly. One of the trio of greens broke off and circled the yard, eyes set upon Moiraine rather than the exchange between the younglings and the guard. The Andoran boy handed over his practice blade and Tal stepped back and swung the blade, testing the weight, and the balance before falling into a practiced fighting stance. The first exchange ended with her guard’s combatant on the ground, sword skittering across the dirt, and a murmur of surprise from the watching Aes Sedai.

“Your man is skilled, Queen Moiraine,” the young Aes Sedai noted as she joined the queen. The Aes Sedai possessed rounded features, darker than her Siuan’s complexion, and close-cropped coiled hair dyed a vibrant white.

“Not my man, but yes, he is a skilled warrior.”

“His vocation? Not a brigand, surely?”

“A soldier. The scar was from petty theft, brought on by need, not desire. And you are?”

“Hmmm...oh Josaine Sedai. Josaine Vallar from Illian. He wishes to be a warder?” The Aes Sedai gazed toward the practice fight, watching Tal lug the boy to his feet.

“He does, but he would fare poorly in the place he had been stilled and he has a lover he will not be parted from.” The woman seemed not bothered at all by the mention of gentling, but she did not linger on the concept. Gentling and stilling were horridly close to each other. Aes Sedai preferred to avoid such horrifying thoughts. “This lover is a woman?”

“A man.” The answer produced a smile. The answer any green would wish to hear, whether they wished to bed the warder or not. Moiraine did not care to consider if the interest was carnal. No answer came after that, as all of Josaine Sedai’s attention became captured by the fight starting anew. This time the green boy’s slashes were more focused, but the sweeps were still shaky, still easily countered. The practice sword tore from a weak grip once more and the boy scurried after before returning to face off again.

“Persistent, at least,” Josaine noted, as instead of falling into another fruitless fight, Tal fell into the role of arms master, correcting the grip, and demonstrating a few basic forms for the boy to practice. The pair watched the boys eagerly fall into one form after another. “Are you sure, he will not do well here? The White Tower is changing. The Aes Sedai are changing.” There was enthusiasm in that young face that had yet to settle into the ageless look, enthusiasm unmatched by many of the older Aes Sedai. The tension she’d noted immediately upon her return, so similar to the scant days she spent at the White Tower in the year before the tower schism.

The fact the changes all seemed to derive from Jarna Malari, an Aes Sedai with a reputation for tradition and conservative values produced some surprise. The woman might be skilled enough to succeed where Siuan failed. There had been many surprises this turning and she suspected many more would continue to surprise her.

The wheel weaves as the wheel wills, but Moiraine was not above ensuring its course when possible. She possessed a problem. Josaine Sedai had a desire.

Moiraine’s gaze flitted to her guard. He looked like a man forged anew, standing before a group of green boys, more boys than he’d started with, leading sword forms with ease. And Tal, he seemed so unhappy of late. The former channeler needed a change. He had more options than remaining a servant, a bodyguard of a queen if he would only see it. Tal and Frej would do well here, supported by an eager young green Aes Sedai, training budding warders, and creating a support system for any newly gentled men, and this enthusiasm should be cultivated. “Tal Black follows his lover. You can try to woo them, but I would not expect to take either to your bed.”

“I don’t sleep where I serve, Queen Moiraine. I abhor messes.”

Her mind caught on a memory. Siuan griping about an Aes Sedai of the green who kept falling into affairs with other Aes Sedai’s warders. “Oh, it all starts with all parties in agreement but ends with verbal spouts that threaten all-out war within the halls. Why doesn’t Josaine Sedai simply find a warder to sleep with like a normal Aes Sedai? Burn her.”

“Oh, and we sleep with ours?” Moiraine had teased, pulling her lover close and distracting her from the messy theatrics of other affairs. Years had passed since her lover tried to fix their faltering relationship by arranging an ill-thought threesome with Lan. Then, muted by time, the thought had amused her. “I’d prefer to engage in our affair than talk of another,” Moiraine whispered, before pulling her lover close, effectively ending the conversation.

Yes, this might be a good match. Josaine needed tempering, warders to smuggle her away from her various messy affairs, and the gentled men needed a place to land safely with less heightened scrutiny. If the Aes Sedai found herself in verbal spouts within the White Tower, Moiraine imagined the fallout from parties outside the White Tower had been equally as explosive.

Josaine has likely not pissed off too many of her sisters yet, not as fresh-faced as she was. That could be of use. The Amyrlin Seat would need to be told of an unused piece that could sway the temperature of the tower for the better. Perhaps when Kerene Sedai returned steps could be made to set the young green on a less fraught path.

Moiraine stepped closer and tilted her head to the side. “You see that man, garbed in dark cloth, against the wall?”

The sister followed her gaze.

“That’s Frej Norn, the lover. He’s skittish around women but enjoys sweets and warm beverages and quiet retreats away from bustle.”

“I know just the place.”

“I will be here for a time longer. You have time to plan a proper courtship...”

The sister was already gone, a bounce in her step, and arms waving eagerly.

Moiraine sighed, as she watched the spectacle of the Aes Sedai barreling too close to Frej who skittered away. The Aes Sedai vibrated with youthful excitement, with an intensity that would scare off stouter men than someone as skittish as the albino guard. “...rather than just...” Moiraine trailed off, exasperated.

Light, save her from excitable youth. She’d thought she’d escaped that for at least a decade more, other than the young Damodred scions. This felt like Nynaeve returned to her, too eager and too stubborn to listen to reason, and too young to realize her flaws.

“They’ll figure it out, lass. The young’uns always do...or they don’t,” Darron noted.

Moiraine turned away as the group of novices at the far corner began to file onto the field. The young channelers dressed in trousers and jerkins, weapons of choice clutched in unsure hands, listening to the old warders with more grey in their beards than white ramble about form and movement and the art of the fight for a time longer.

Moiraine recognized none save sunny-haired Liandrin, who stood on the outskirts of the group, closer than any other. The child wore well-tailored, near-pristine practice britches and a blouse, better fitting at least than any of her peers. The sunny hair had been pulled into a tail, sharp chin shifting this way and that at each new voice or clash of steel from the practice yard.

She’d learned, of course, about the new Damodred through a missive from the Mistress of Novices, assuring her that Liandrin Damodred was in good, capable hands, that her sister Anvaere promised that the proper funds would be provided to take on another Damodred and such a young one at that. The bribe had been sent, as well as a short, succinct letter that listed all of the expectations of one newly brought into House Damodred. Her mother, hearing of her newly adopted daughter, for what else could she be considered, insisted on sending a care package. “She is your sister now, daughter, at least all will see her that way.”

Seeing Liandrin now caused unease and made her feel once more like an overly tired, out-of-her-depth Aes Sedai ferrying a group of farm folk to safety as they caused mischief at every juncture. I should have waited and killed this one instead. The thought did not bring joy. The culling of Sheriam did little save cause mayhem with another likely dark friend pulled close enough to be called kin by her sister, all her efforts had been thwarted.

Better Sheriam than Liandrin. Really, what had Sheriam accomplished in her tenure as a dark friend? Liandrin in the last turning successfully abducted three novices and delivered them to the Seanchan before leading a group of sisters to storm the tower's vaults to steal powerful angreal before escaping, leaving broken bodies in their wake. This novice could become a threat in a manner that Sheriam never could.

How do you neutralize a threat? Kill them or keep them close, close enough that they are not tempted another way.

The sunny-haired Damodred seemed to shrink as the grey-haired armsmaster stepped closer, and began to dictate instructions, but Liandrin stood, wide-eyed on the verge of fleeing. Anvaere’s one letter, her succinct words on the matter returned to her: Don’t be upset Moiraine. Liandrin is one of us. She’s had it hard, survived as only a Damodred could. you’ll see, she’ll be more use to our house than I will be.

As if summoned, Anvaere Damodred’s rather loud bark of laughter cut through the yard. A hunt completed, her query had come to her as she’d thought, but first Liandrin. The child contained her fear well enough, but only a fool would think any words being spoken registered and that she was not one sudden movement away from fleeing. Damodred did not flee in such a base, obvious manner. They made strategic retreats, or they changed the game entirely.

“Darron, with me. Karewin, can I trust you to show my new sister Liandrin the basics of self-defense? I do believe tactics to inflict debilitating damage and then make a retreat would best serve her. I will speak to the Mistress of Novices about excusing her from arms lessons while we remain. You’ll teach her in the mornings.”

“I—but my duties...”

“I will assign one of the night guards onto morning duty until you can return to me so my safety is not compromised.”

Still, the guard lingered, uneasy.

“I will remain near Gareth Bryne and my sister until you finish. I’ll not have my new sister ill-prepared for the assassins that will come, once news of her adoption travels. I think she’d prefer a more feminine arms trainer.”

The woman nodded, gave her agreement, and marched away. Liandrin noticed the approaching woman immediately, eyes widening, but maintaining her position. The guard spoke to the older man, who shot a gaze at her, nodded in acquiescence, and moved back to the other novices. She did not do more than glance at her new sister before turning away, setting off across the training yard, setting a pace to finally track down her elder sister.

Moiraine cut through the practice ground, steps sure, eyes idly tracking warders, young boys, and novices at battle, careful not to tread too close to flashing blades and lunging bodies. As the morning stretched on, the grounds filled, chaotic with life in a manner the White Tower had not seen in centuries. A stark contrast to the barren emptiness of a tower in decline during her years as a novice. Novices were training, an influx of refugees from Children of the Light controlled lands, and men with a renewed sense of purpose as the White Tower turned its gaze outward once more. The first steps to a new altered future.

Her older sister idled at the far side of the ground. Anvaere Damodred changed little in the half-a-year she’d taken to novice white it seemed. The noble novice pressed daringly, brazenly close to Gareth Bryne, fingers entwined in his sword belt, sharp chin pointed up, words too soft to travel, but the lord’s cheeks flushed and his eyes held a heat that warned of shattered oaths to come, of passions that could lead to censure within the White Tower.

Still, the flirtation could only be for the good. The Damodred-Trakand alliance and Andor’s future rested on the birth of a royal child. Rested on the possibility that Morgase would birth an Elayne rather than a Gawyne Trakand. Foolish to plant such importance on gender, but custom did not change easily, and new regimes must confirm in some ways. Only fools left the future to chance, foreswore careful planning for a gambler's luck. Moiraine Damodred was no fool…even if she did refuse to make such plans for her own future.

Moiraine slowed as she approached, not eager to interrupt such an intimate moment, to shatter the building of a future that must be, but one she would not force. Just as she approached, her sister seized Lord Bryne’s sword, drew the heron-marked blade, and pivoted in a flurry of wild hair and dust. The moment passed in a blink, instinct kept the Sun Queen rooted, sinking into the power, and casting weaves outward.

The sharp point of a sword pressed into Moiraine’s throat. “You’re dead sister—"

A push of wind sent Lord Bryn stumbling back, confusion, and alarm set into his craggy face. Anvaere’s head jerked to the side. The blade did not move, held steady by a strong, muscled arm encased in a white practice tunic.

Moiraine moved, almost faster than thought, moving on instinct. It felt odd to be able to respond with Saidar after so long existing in a realm without. A twist away nicked skin, but instinct kept her twirling, almost dancing as she channeled. Fire in the shape of foxes and snakes and leaping fish encircled her sister, twisting ever inward, air giving way to grey smoke.

A gasping, rattling choking sound erupted from her sister, but she did not fall. The light of Saidar radiated from her sister, weaves of air pushed outward, clearing an area above curly locks. Wind blew inward, buffeting air to battered lungs, and then with a jerking motion the earth beneath Moiraine’s feet moved, unbalanced her, and sent her flying into the air as a chunk of rock propelled her upward.

Light, Moiraine thought, as she flew up, up. High enough to glimpse over the walls. Once she hit the zenith of her flight time seemed to freeze. In the distance, the looming form of Dragonmount overtook her vision and stole her attention. The Last Battle approached. The Last Battle approached and relived hunts in her mind and lobbied instinctive serious assaults on her kin who she’d lost long ago, even before her death at a rival house’s coin.

The fall began, skirts flaring up, shielding the rapidly moving landscape from view. Moiraine Damodred, Sun Queen of Cairhien would not know enough to halt her path, so she trusted the Aes Sedai present could ensure her injuries could prevented or mended upon her landing. Hard bands of air caught her, pounded hard enough into her skin to bruise and force breathlessness. The skirt returned to its rightful place obscuring her undergarments once more.

A glance down revealed a foot gap between her feet and the burned earth. She followed the weaves to the Aes Sedai that cast them. Moiraine blinked, not an Aes Sedai. Liandrin stood, arms outstretched, teeth gritted, and blue eyes slit with fury contained, barely.

“Gareth, catch the Sun Queen before Liandrin sends her falling on her ass,” Anvaere ordered, amused. There was a lazy lightness to her tone. The sword rested upon her shoulder; the wicked sharp blade edge precariously close to her neck.

The lord hurried forward, hands seizing Moiraine around the waist, pulling her close as the weaves retreated. He held her aloft easily and set her upon the ground. Moiraine turned away immediately and gazed briefly at Liandrin before turning to her blood kin. “Only a fool attacks a queen with a modicum of power, sister. Grandmother would have seen you tried for such an insult.”

“Grandmother did not need a reason to try anyone. Liandrin, you are fortunate you did not meet the old crone. Mean as a trolloc. Could sear your eyes right out of your skull with how horrid she looked at the end.” Anvaere flicked a finger across her cheek as if to trace the warped skin caused by the lotions and powders the old queen had so enjoyed. Not even the Yellow Ajah could fix all afflictions.

The golden-haired Damodred curled her arms around herself, visibly shaking, visage entirely washed of color, almost as pale as her guard, Frej Norn. Belatedly, the rabid pound of feet and her errant guards converged from all sides. Karwin first, then Frej, and then Tal. A glance showed the Aes Sedai trailing behind. The three guards fell into position around her, Tal in front, the two others to the side. Her grandfather’s old friend, Darron, watched the frantic movements unconcerned, pipe in his hand, and an amused almost twist to his lips at her sister’s antics. He idly shrugged when he caught her eyes. “Oh, I’ll not get between women of House Gorwan and their squabbles. You lot can scorch a man even as you barely graze each other. Can you help a man out, lass?” He held out his pipe; the scent of Two-Rivers Tabac filled the air.

Moiraine turned away without granting the wish. Careful fingers checked the state of her crown and straightened the off-center kesiera upon her brow. Anvaere sent a large weave of fire that scorched the pipe, burnt off the hair on the fingers, but set the tabac to burning. The old man hissed in surprise before setting the pipe between his lips with a happy hum.

“As you can see sister, I am not defenseless even without my guards. Not as our brother proved to be.”

“Our brother was a fool,” Anvaere ground out. “A fool better off in a grave than polluting the living with his vices.”

Taringail Damodred had been a fool in life, would still prove a fool in death, and surely would continue to remain a fool in whatever form the Wheel chose for him in the next turning. Dead to a cutthroat’s knife after a night of carousing when enemies still lingered in Caemlyn. A man raised in the Sun Palace, in Cairhien, should have known better. He had become weak and arrogant in his years dominating a court left to flounder, battering a woman without the steel or the allies to see him dead for his trespasses.

Lord Bryne did not comment too enamored with returning to her sister to pay much mind to the conversation. Anvaere pressed into his side immediately and set her arms around his back loosely, pulling him into her side. Neither seemed in a hurry to part, content perhaps in the excuse to continue their flirtation. Green, her sister would choose that for passion had been a constant companion all of her life.

Her sister continued, a lazy drawl, “But a winter’s training as a channeler is not enough to see a queen safe from all of the dangers of this world. You will not have Liandrin in reserve to save you when you depart this tower.”

Moiraine was not defenseless, but better to ape weakness to some extent. Even Graendal, with a love for compulsion would find her a difficult mark, at first. I wish to keep my mind when faced with madness, compulsion, and torture. The last boon she’d asked of the Finn. A boon granted if she survived the Finn with her mind intact. The world could not afford one such as her to fall prey to the Shadow in such a base manner. The last line of defense must remain the last pillar as all else crumbles.

The practice grounds were still, she noticed as all eyes turned to them: curious, awed, and ultimately irrelevant. Slowly, ever so slowly, when it became clear that no further theatrics would be enacted, the courtyard came to life once more.

Anvaere turned, fluidly resheathed the sword in its hilt upon Lord Bryne’s waist, let her fingers linger, digging into the muscled side for a long moment before retreating entirely. She turned to seize a wooden practice sword, tossed it in the upward idly before catching it with her other hand before tossing it to Moiraine’s feet. A clear challenge Moiraine did not intend to accept. “I came to practice the blade. If you wish to talk, talk, but this is my turf, my rules.”

“Karwin, my sister desires a bout. Entertain her, will you?”

The guard hesitated.

“No harm will be considered done if she requires an Aes Sedai’s healing,” Moiraine assured, nudging the blade closer with a shoe.

Anvaere barked a laugh, delighted by the turn-around. “I am not the Damodred that demands hands or heads or feet in recompense for injuries obtained in a fair fight.” Gareth Bryne pressed a practice blade into her hand. Her sister set her left hand over his own and gave a soft order, “Go, entertain my sister’s guards. I fear she wishes to badger me about bequeathing my hand to you and I do not offer free entertainment to any, even you, Gareth.”

Lord Bryne stepped closer and whispered, “I would not see you cage yourself, even for me.”

“Is that a rejection, Gareth Bryne?” The sharp laugh drowned his return words, but they seemed earnest enough to steal her sister’s amusement, to capture-

Hurried steps interrupted. “By the light, novices channeling,” Josaine Sedai muttered, as she hurried closer, bypassing her guards to step abreast of Moiraine. The Aes Sedai smiled sweetly at Tal who blinked at her in confusion. “There will be no more channeling this morning. You are novices still and I will be required to report any further instances to the Mistress of Novices.”

Anvaere turned from Bryne, gave an exaggerated bow in acceptance of the order. Liandrin nodded fiercely, still looking as if she might faint. Moiraine gave no answer and none would be required. She was no novice. The price she paid for the ability to channel in the open burned through her veins even now, a low constant ache in her muscles and bones.

As the others made way for the bout, Moiraine set herself against the wall. Liandrin joined her, meek as a mouse, eyes skirting to her and away. Not the actions of an Aes Sedai or a noble of House Damodred. Light, she had enough to see to without a maybe dark friend requiring her attention.

Anvaere swung the sword casually, as she readied herself for the duel. “Sister, have you met your savior, Liandrin? She has surpassed you as favorite sister this past year, as you have once more been absent.”

“I’ve been ruling a kingdom, Anvaere.”

Anvaere bowed to Karwin, who returned the gesture and then the practice bout started with a fairly pathetic slash of the guard’s blade. Anvaere rolled her eyes and quickly danced forward, traded the sword between hands, and seized the guard’s wrist. One jerk dislodged the blade and sent it tumbling in the dirt.

Karwin’s started, eyes following the sword’s trajectory. “I am not a maiden playfighting with my cousin.”

The guard flushed and scurried to fetch the blade. Anvaere turned away, and continued the conversation as if it had not been halted. “A foolish decision, but we all can’t be as impressively flighty as Innloine.” Anvaere turned to Liandrin. “Our eldest sister married the first man she could to flee to the countryside with an impressive speed. You could learn much from Innloine, Liandrin. No one is better at escaping family drama, well, save for our dear distant cousin. Married a peasant from Andor last I heard.”

Liandrin shifted uneasily, hands set behind her back, clenched into tight fists.

“The time for fleeing, for separation is passed. Our sister returned the Damodred Palace and I’ve sent mother and father to fetch our distant cousin and return him to Cairhien. House Damodred cannot afford to be divided.”

“You should leave Darin be, Moiraine. He is happy outside the cesspit.”

Moiraine merely raised a brow and tilted her head in answer. It wasn’t Darin she desired, oh he’d been a convenient excuse to delay her return to Cairhien before she’d ascended to Sun Queen, but she’d maybe left him to his hiding. Once Innloine mentioned who he married, a wisdom-in-training from the Two Rivers, that changed the tenure of her plans.

The Old Blood. A small piece of the puzzle that was the heritage of the Dragon Reborn. Perhaps it was folly to manipulate prophecy, but she’d not leave the raising of the savior of the world to chance, not when the last time he failed. She’d have sent Innloine to fetch the couple, but her elder sister had been run ragged as temporary House Seat in recent months. A vocation she hated. “Innloine might riot, throw her lot in with Moressin if I call mother off her search.”

“Innloine? Our sister doesn’t have the drive to riot.”

Karwin returned and the fight began anew, this time with an earnest effort that quieted the conversation. Her sister possessed skill, but she could not match an experienced swordswoman without careful attention and effort, and so, Moiraine turned her attention to Liandrin. The display of channeling earlier had been impressive, but the once red ajah’s problem had never been displays of the One Power. “Your control of Saidar is impressive for a novice barely inducted into her training.”

Liandrin didn’t falter, nor did she answer. Her eyes tracked the movement and an amusing and obvious shift in the conversation came with an abruptness of a tidal wave. “I met a merchant from Cairhien not so long ago.”

“Most Cairhienen are merchants, noble stalk or not, child.”

Anvaere hit the ground with a thud and promptly rolled to her feet with a briskness Moiraine would never be capable of. “And who was this merchant you met not so long ago?”

“He called himself Master Gorwan.” The words were innocent enough, but the girl glanced away.

“You met my grandfather on your travels and then arrived at the White Tower only to be claimed by my sister…” The work of the pattern or deliberate scheming? The girl shifted uneasily, one hand strangling the other wrist.

The next words, when they came, were barely audible. “He was kind.”

“He is kind, too kind for Cairhien perhaps…” Moiraine paused, caught on the coincidence, on the opportunity laid before her feet. Her kin laid down a good foundation, cultivated a relationship that could prove fruitful if carefully tended. The death of one dark friend proved little worth. A new pattern had been set. The time had come to seize this new pattern and guide the line in a fruitful direction.

Liandrin would live, until she proved to be untrustworthy. The least one of House Damodred granted their kin. “Liandrin, welcome to House Damodred. Expect a summons very soon. I will need to receive special permission for you to leave the White Tower, so it might take a few days.”

“A few days for what?”

“You are of House Damodred now. The time has come to set up an account for you to access your annual stipend. I trust you to not exceed the generous allotment to a daughter of House Damodred.”

Liandrin gaped at her like a fish. The sputtered confusion did not seem to come in the form of legible words, but inarticulate sounds almost drowned out by the sound of mock battle.

Anvaere paused in her bout long enough to yell out a helpful, “Pay her no heed, House Damodred is rich enough to buy as many pretty shoes or pretty gloves or pretty nightgowns or a million other such items to buy a pretty girl’s favor…even from far, far away.”

Moiraine’s polite smile dropped and her scheming mind halted. She turned. Anvaere casually bent back far enough for the practice blade to slip passed her. The last was muttered low enough to not travel, “even if she is a few years too young for you.”

Liandrin flinched from the words and Moiraine forced the smile to remain. Of all the insufferable…how had she known? Elaida would not have told her sister of their arrangement, surely? Anvaere continued as if she had not said a word. The words once spoken would be followed with every increasingly more obvious jabs about her thoughts on Moiraine’s favor of Siuan Sanche. Light, that would be a disaster.

“Karwin, leave us.”

The guard halted mid-swing, bowed, and then hurried away, dark hair trailing behind as she fled. Anvaere watched her sparring partner depart with a frown before turning to Moiraine. Liandrin began to slip away, movements slow, as if to not draw the eyes, depart unseen. “I was not done sparring, Moiraine.” Irritation caused the words to travel to curious ears, visitors and inhabitants of the White Tower both.

Moiraine set a weave to maintain their privacy. “Let me make one matter clear. You will not endanger House Damodred with public accusations, even veiled.”

Anvaere set the wooden blade into the dirt and rested the length against her leg. “Then don’t court scandal by opening a bank vault for a commoner from Tear in secret as if she were—.” Anvaere’s eyes darted to Liandrin before she swallowed. “Tell me why, Moiraine. The truth, if you will.”

I love some other version of her. I paid dearly to be given this opportunity and have the funds to see my once lover comfortable, happy. She paid too dearly to utter those words to anyone save perhaps Siuan or Lan when the time was right.

“Siuan Sanche is smart enough, powerful enough to be a force for the Light in the Westlands. As you said, House Damodred has the funds to see she achieves that aim.” The words were a truth that even Moiraine Sedai would be able to speak, but they were not the complete truth. Anvaere stared her down and the bullish, protective expression faltered. The next words exploded. “Don’t be bloody weird and secretive about the arrangement.”

Moiraine blinked.

“I will bloody marry Gareth Bryne for my house, but you—”

“I will not stop—”

Anvaere rolled her eyes. “You will select a number of promising novices and accepted to set up to award a stipend above what the White Tower provides while they are training and bloody let Siuan know what you’ve been up to. I tire of her complaining that Elaida keeps showering her with rich folk bribes, months after she ceased.”

“That’s not the worst idea.” Really, Anvaere should not look so offended at that statement. Her sister rarely put herself out there to provide anything bordering on a good idea.

“I want to be there during the betrothal negotiations. I do not plan to spend the next twenty years heavy with child. Three children. If we fail to produce a girl, we have an ever-growing collection of nieces that can inherit.”

“I will speak to Morgase and will send you a missive with the time and date.”

“You will not arrange a betrothal for Liandrin without her approval…and mine.”

Liandrin nearly choked and her eyes widened with horror at that notion. “Be-trothal…mair-riage?” The girl looked as if she’d seen a fade. Normally, Moiraine would parry back with a glib response about how many nieces and nephews they already possessed, but that reaction warranted a more concrete answer.

“No one is required to marry in House Damodred without their explicit, enthusiastic consent. Don’t let Anvaere fool you, she’d wed Gareth Bryne today if given the chance.”

Her sister glanced at the muscled, mountain of a man with covetous eyes. “He’s a fine man who will let me do what I want when I want and happens to possess a very kissable face.”

Moiraine snorted, but the fear and unease did not disappear from her new sister’s expression. The level of fear she’d seen enough in her long life to diagnose the probable cause. Her sister wasn’t wrong to question her actions toward Siuan. Nobles often enough didn’t care much about the youth of the commoner they desired. Such predilections weren’t bragged about, but few countries thought to outlaw the detestable practice. Few monarchs could afford to waste their political capital on laws designed to protect commoners from the abuse of nobles if they possessed such sympathies.

Tentatively, Liandrin forced a smile.

The world seemed to tilt around her. Moiraine hung by a rope from the White Tower, fingers grasping desperately at a rope tied around her chest. The red sister loomed overhead, expression almost bored, almost…

Hands grasped her hand. “Moiraine?”

Confusion lingered for a moment and she clung to the hand that grasped her own. Dark eyes blinked hazily and she forced them to focus. Anvaere, her sister, alive, not left for dead by assassins. A gentle wind brushed unruly dark curls across a delicate brow dotted with sweat from a rigorous workout. The other, Liandrin, possessed the rounded, semi-chubby cheeks of a youth well-fed.

A recent development, she could vaguely recall Liandrin when she’d first arrived at the White Tower. Not when she’d signed the novice book at fifteen, but when she’d arrived the first time at twelve, fearful and desperate and too young to be admitted that first turning.

“What is it?”

“I remembered a dream, a nightmare, really.” Moiraine turned her eyes up to the White Tower. Somewhere up there, lay the balcony the Finn plucked from her memories to dangle her from the edge time after time. Moiraine shook her head. Queen’s could not indulge in such weakness. A polite smile of a noble, not quite as blank as an Aes Sedai face settled upon her. “All is well, Anvaere. I must depart for my second meeting  of the day. Come Liandrin, walk with me. Tell me what you require beyond a stipend.”

Reluctantly, Anvaere let her depart. The march from the practice grounds occurred surrounded by her guards with a once-enemy trotting by her side tentatively speaking of her needs, with prompting, one pulled thread at a time.

By the time she reached Daughter-Heir Morgase’s quarters she couldn’t help but think scheming with the Andoran would be far easier than speaking to any of her sisters—blood or not. Morgase Trakand greeted her with a grim countenance, letter grasped in her hand with the sigil of the Lion Throne of Andor.

“Is it begun?” Moiraine asked, mind roiling? Had Aldecain moved faster than they’d thought? Her uncle schemed with care and should not have made such a bold move until Morgase’s unborn babe died or came to term. Thom should have warned them if the man was prepared to strike. Too soon, she couldn’t help but think.

“Galadedrid went missing on the road to Cairhien.” The Daughter-Heir uttered her most sincere apologies.

Moiraine stood just in the doorway, shocked, moved more than she thought she would be by her nephews…what? The boy could be dead or alive or held hostage or sold into slavery or found refuge in one of those traveling circuses. Tigraine had trusted the boy to her, to raise right, to protect, to—he was to be the next Sun King. No Cairhienen would agree to name a set heir, but the man he had been in the past turning guided in the right manner could have been a wonderful king for noble and commoner alike. He—was a distraction.

Moiraine forced herself to move forward, to sit, to pour herself tea with hands that did not shake. Galad Damodred was alive or he was not. Searchers, she’d send out covertly. A reward would be offered for his return, but no country would remain for the boy to return to if she lost the upcoming war. Already, she could hear Anvaere’s furious rant about leaving the boy to the pattern's whims.

Morgase watched her curiously, blond hair falling in long curls around her slim shoulders. The Daughter-Heir seemed to be waiting for theatrics or tears or some other such useless emotion. Somewhere, deep in her mind a small piece of herself weeped, but that part had long ago been beaten into the slimmest shadow. “My sister has agreed to a betrothal with Lord Gareth Bryne.”

“I am so sorry. You have my sympathies of course. Andor will do everything we can to find your nephew…” Morgrase trailed off, practiced sympathy falling to obvious surprise.

“The Wheel weaves as it wills, Daughter-Heir Morgase. Let us discuss a matter that will see both of our heads attached to our necks. My nephew will be better off lost if we lose this war.”

Morgase straightened and the confusion gave way to respect.

“My sister wishes to be present to discuss the particulars but let us save time. I know Anvaere well enough to lay out a contract she will find worthy of her signature. Andor nor Cairhien can afford to haggle like fishmongers with negotiations and war planning beginning on the morrow.”

“…very well… should I call for a scribe to take notes?”

“That will not be necessary,” Moiraine answered, pulling an inkwell, pen, and paper closer. The negotiations began once more. Later, she’d deal with her nephew's disappearance. For now, she had a sister to betroth, and then a meeting with the Amyrlin Seat, and then a collection of border lords to woo with promises of future alliances.

Moiraine Damodred was born and bred for such politics. The Aes Sedai taught her to push through adversity. The Finn—they taught her painful lessons too, but those were not worth pondering over, especially not on a day after a nightmare-fueled night. For now she schemed for a future preserved and that would have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Siuan

The fishing line caught in the breeze and flew wide on the cast and Siuan cursed. The bloody worm fell off and into the clear waters of the river Erinin below. The rain, thank the light, had passed, leaving clear skies and clear water that allowed sharp eyes to spy the shadows of a solid breakfast.

A fish, plump and fat, leaped from the water into the chilly morning air. Bloody baiting her. Siuan wanted to stomp her feet and throw the rod into the sea, never mind the bloody stick had been a present from an admirer who arrived months after she’d passed through the arches. Never mind that she didn’t have the funds to purchase a new one—unless you hawk one of the many pairs of shoes that Elaida gifted her over the past months. Infuriating woman.

The rod felt solid, expensive under her fingers. No Sanche in the last four generations had been able to afford one as fine a make.

A hiccupping giggle, exuberant and honestly a tad dopy cut through her angry shaking of the rod and her mutterings under her breath. Siuan turned. Cabriana Mecandes laughed a bright, if not musical sound. Siuan grinned sheepishly, slowly beginning to reel in the line. The hiccupping turned to snorting. The Tairen Accepted could never be called elegant or refined or any other lordly word, but she liked her laugh well enough.

Late at night she’d often think on what she liked about the other girl and her mind would inevitably pull to Moiraine Damodred. A silly concept. How could a simple Accepted from fisher folk catch a girl of the Sun Queen’s magnitude? Moiraine Damodred sounded like a songbird, pretty and rich and the ruler of lands only peppered with small rivers and the occasional lake. Cabriana Mecandes sounded like a gull, in all ways really, and fisher folk dealt more with seabirds.

The pair stood out of the way on a dock at the very tip of the North Harbor well away from the rather small ships that had waited to enter Tar Valon. Her eyes expertly scanned over the colors set above the sales. None seemed of a make with the Sea Folk. A relief, as she’d need to quit her fishing and rush down there to claim the cargo.

The ways of Tar Valon were hard for fisher folk of Tairen descent. The inland port didn’t smell of the sea, didn’t carry that heavy feel of moisture that coated the skin, and possessed far too many rules that normal folk didn’t consider worth minding. Better if Siuan pounded into their heads before the Mistress of Novices got her elegant claws on them.

A shoulder met hers and Siuan wished they were not forced to wear the long-sleeved, chaste Accepted gowns. If they were home, sleeveless, light weight jerkins would be the style they’d wear. If they were home...they wouldn’t be home. The last letter from her Pa came from Cairhien of all places. A landlocked country with very little for fisherfolk to do. Her hand jerked as the line snagged against the top of the rod. And each new novice her uncle Huan sent her to the White Tower told an ever grimmer tale.

“I miss home too,” Cabriana whispered.

“No home to return to now,” Siuan muttered, using the source to better sight the dark shadows of fish under the water. She bent, grasped a worm, and speared it through with the hook, and then swung her arm to cast again. The line carved out, shooting toward the dark shadow of a rather plump fish. A sudden breeze blew her tight curls and the line jerked off course. “Fish guts.” Reel in the line or let it sit? The wind still bloody blew this way and that, so what was the bloody point? Her hands tightened around the rod, her fingerless gloves providing some protection from the chill air.

“They can’t stay forever—the White Cloaks. We’ll be able to return one day.”

Siuan thought that was beyond foolish. Like stuffing your head in the sand when your bloody eyes and hands were needed to find buried clams for dinner. Don’t chum the water unneeded. A press of her lips together, a grunt, and she turned her eyes to the river once more. The pair stood in silence for a time, only the screech of river birds, the splash of fish, and the sound of Tar Valon awaking behind her reached her ears.

Cabriana pressed closer, set her hand with distant remnants of callouses atop her own. “Reel in the line, Siuan.” The order was firm, oddly firm for the usually quiet, timid girl. Well, Siuan wasn’t bloody making any progress, so if Cabriana wanted a go well no loss there. Upon reeling in the line, smiling with satisfaction with the worm still attached to the end, she turned to pass the rod to the blond Tairen, but the girl turned away out toward the water, the light of Saidar suffusing her, lightening her features, but the expression, fierce, determined well Siuan’s heart skipped and stalled and—

“Cast again.”

—her hands felt suddenly sweaty within the fingerless gloves and—

Cabriana Mecandes turned to her determination giving way to confusion and then an uncertain excitement. A sharp inhale from Siuan or Cabriana? Really, it had to be Cabriana since Siuan seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. A figure pressed closer to her, gloved fingers curling around her wrist, pressing firm, skimming from her gloved hands to the polished wood and back again. “There, dead ahead, near the swarm of bugs. Aim for that fish. For me?” The voice dipped in a distracting way, but Siuan pressed her lips tight, straightened and bloody hell, those fingers skimmed higher, dipped under the sleeve of her dress onto her skin, warm and soft, and then retreated.

The touch had been bold, bolder than she thought her fellow fisherfolk had in her. The scarlet on those cheeks matched her own flushed feel. The giddy, open smile almost made Siuan set her pole down to explore other more, exciting activities, but nerves set her to turn away, toward the water. Instinct drove her to sight the commanded fish and cast again. A wall of air slammed in place across the river, from the bank to the sighted fish. The line landed successfully for the first time that morning and Cabriana dropped the fairly large weave of air with a sigh of relief.

Siuan wanted to crow in success. That was genius. The type of fishing trick that saw her family dominate in Tear for so long. Celebration came later. First, she had a fish to catch. The power strengthened her sight and made each flick of the fish's tail clear: its sighting of the bait, its timid nibbling. A nibble, back, another nibble, and with a jerk the hook was set. The fish bloody fought, but she reeled it in, muscles straining, relishing the fight, until it plopped from the water, its silver scales, glinting in the sun.

Siuan removed the fish, set a spike into its brain to end it, and set it in the basket at her feet. The cook didn’t much care if she cooked a fish, if she brought others to be added to the menu. They had further fish to catch and she needed to master that series of weaves. Siuan excited, jumped up from kneeling by the basket, and threw herself into Cabriana’s arms. The pair jumped together like fools and if it ended with Siuan pressing a kiss into a dimpled cheek, well, such innovative brilliance deserved kisses.

“For that the next catch is yours. A few more and we’ll eat good today.”

“We?” Cabriana asked, a shy shuffling of her feet as she accepted the fishing rod. They ate together a few times, but usually Anvaere or Alanna and Ellid or Liandrin joined them. Cabriana usually disappeared once the group descended, scuttling to safety right fast. The novices couldn’t venture out of the White Tower yet, so fishing remained a Cabriana and Siuan activity.

It suddenly seemed a delightful idea to eat with Cabriana without her friends scaring the girl off. Maybe she’d feel daring enough to press another kiss to that cheek without the rush of adrenaline. Siuan caught her eyes, pressed their fingers together around the pole. “We caught the fish together, we’ll eat it together, but the cook will claim it if we don’t catch at least one more.”

“We will,” Cabriana declared, suddenly unusually fierce.

The pair continued fishing for a time, until four fish lay in the basket, and the morning had truly begun. The boats set to enter the harbor grew in number and soon the dockmaster would scare her off future Aes Sedai or no, so Siuan reeled in for a final time, handed the pole and small bag of tack and bait to her friend and picked up the basket of fish with a grunt.

The pair scrambled around sailors and dock workers until they entered a line to gain access to Tar Valon proper. The guard, an old fella with a drooping mustache waved the pair in as soon as he saw their garb.

The pair whispered together, pressing close, closer than ever before as they walked. When Siuan stopped again, it wasn’t before the gates of the White Tower, but in front of a small building with a needle and an inkwell on the sign.

For a Tairen, Siuan possessed few tattoos for her age. Two small ones inked in a dark blue upon biceps. Home. She missed Tear and her family horribly. Her stomach rolled. The fish in her arms, a Tairen at her side, and a tattoo shop in her sight. What more did she need...for now. She turned to Cabriana as the girl adjusted the fishing pole on her shoulder. The wood jostled the blond locks left to frame her oval face. “We should get inked together!”

The words cut through the muted early morning crowd and drew glances, but no one pressed closer. “A tattoo? I don’t know, Siuan. My Ma always says its mad to get inked before marriage. What if our husbands hate the design?”

Siuan reeled back, horrified, fish almost leaping from the basket despite their being good and dead. “Husbands? We’re training to be Aes Sedai, Cabriana. What would we need husbands for?”

Cabriana blushed, ground her leather shoe against the cobble. “I—warders then? Maybe we should—”

Really, of all the mad concepts. Letting a warder dictate the ink she set into her body. Even if she planned to sleep with the mystery man, the idea of any lover controlling such an intimate, sacred act seemed mad, but she forced herself not to explode into a rant that might scare Cabriana off. Well off houses of Tear and recent transplants had odd ideas of being inked. Instead, she cast one gaze back, longingly, and jerked her head toward where the tower loomed overhead.

The pair set off again. Cabriana ducked her head, fingers twisting around the pole. Walking in silence seemed odd, so she asked the only question she could think of, “You’re gonna be a green then?”

“A green? Oh, oh.” Cabriana gulped, fluttered her hands, sending the pole tip rising high in the air. “The battle ajah?”

Siuan re-adjusted the basket, gloved hands suddenly sweaty as the conversation ran away, but she pressed forward.

Cabriana cut in before she could speak, “Y-ou don’t think they’d force me?”

“Force you?” Siuan scrunched her brow. “To...sleep with your warders? Light, no. Seonid Sedai is a green and she’s not slept with a warder once, let alone a man as far as I know.”

“Seonid Sedai? No, force me to join the Green Ajah?”

Siuan blinked, came to a halting stop. Cabriana continued for two steps before turning. They stood in the center of the path, street traffic cutting between them, stealing their connection for moments at a time. What had the girl been doing for the past years when the Accepted and the Mistress of Novice spoke of the process of becoming Aes Sedai? It was well—as simple as tying a knot. “What do you think happens after you earn the shawl?”

“I—”

“You’re holding up traffic,” a Cairhienen nasal voice drawled. Siuan turned, a trade wagon idled behind them, a small bespectacled man glared down at them. He didn’t seem to care much that they wore Accepted robes. Siuan might swing her arms upward to make clear her station, but the line of wagons seemed to enlarge with each second she stood in the center of the path.

Besides, Anvaere’s family were traders. Siuan hated when royal fools clogged the harbor, so she could not be a menace on a different front. Siuan turned and hurried on. Cabriana fell into step beside her. “We get to choose our Ajah, Cabs. That’s what happens when you pass the test for the Shawl.”

“Oh,” she said, relief lightening her voice.

They had a bit further to walk, so Siuan pressed onto the most obvious next question. “What Ajah do you reckon you’ll join?”

“What Ajah?” The usually deep voice arced up, up, up. “I—I haven’t given it much thought?”

Siuan hurried to assure the girl. “It’s an important decision, but Jarna Sedai says we don’t need to rush it.”

“Jarna Sedai...” The wince was obvious, but what the hells was that about? Did she know somehow about the oddness of the bloody cloth in Jarna Sedai’s room? Should be subtly question her about the matter? Maybe over breakfast? The question of the Mistress of Novice’s trustworthiness kept throwing her about like stormy waters.

The gates approached and Siuan nearly exhaled in relief, happy she’d be able to address the question soon privately. Over fish, seemed a good time for that. Fish made all better.

Cabriana quickened her stride, nearly running, blond hair trailing behind her. Clearly, just as eager to eat, to continue talking before duty called them away.

Siuan beamed, glancing down at her haul of fish. Her Pa would be proud. Siuan quickened her own strides as much as she could with an armful of fish which wasn’t by much. Cabriana entered the courtyard first, skirting around the horses, the influx of noblemen, the serving boys, and the few novice and accepted. Siuan ignored all else as she followed, relieved that the girl waited before the steps into the Tower. “So about breakfast.”

Cabriana shuffled her feet. “I remembered I have a thing.”

“A thing?”

“A very important thing. Jarna Sedai told me to do this thing.”

“Did she?” Siuan asked, dazed wondering if she shouldn’t address her suspicions of Jarna Sedai with her friend. What if she didn’t believe her? The suspicion seemed mad.

“So I won’t be able to eat breakfast with you.”

“Oh,” Siuan said, disappointed, mind scurrying over the previous conversation, stuck still on Jarna Sedai. She forced her mind away from her suspicions. The morning went so well at least. They caught fish, practiced the one power, spoke of home, and of the future, Siuan clarified a few facts for Cabriana. She shuffled her feet. “We could meet for lunch?”

“Oh, no. I have a...class…to teach.”

Siuan perked up. “The Mistress of Novices is letting you teach classes already?” Jarna Sedai wouldn’t let her teach a single class. Not one. They required a more seasoned teacher, she said. Siuan was seasoned. She was. Practically pickled or brined, but if Jarna began letting Cabriana teach, surely Siuan was not that far behind.

“Oh...yes?” Cabriana shuffled her feet and looked to the side. “Oh, there’s your friend.”

Siuan turned and sighted Anvaere stalking toward them a tall, mountain of a man following close behind her. The Damodred woman wore her training clothes, had a blade hanging from a belt, and a wolfish expression. The man was a tall Andoran with a block-like face that seemed weathered by the fight and the sun. Not a handsome man, but a strong one that had a certain appeal.

“Anvaere,” Cabriana said in greeting, before thrusting the pole and bag into the novice’s hands. “I really must be going. I fear I’m late.”

Siuan nodded despite her disappointment. They were Accepted with duties and tasks. “Tomorrow, same time?” Siuan asked.

Cabriana brushed her hair behind her ears and nodded, blush painting her face. “I, I’d like that.”

Siuan smiled. Cabriana smiled back. Anvaere watched the pair, lip curled, sharp face amused. Siuan pointedly glanced away from the Damodred woman, and from her male companion. She wished she could catch Cabriana’s arm, feel the warmth radiate from beyond the stupid sleeve. Instead, she smiled and said, “Good luck teaching your class.”

“What? Class...yes. It will be easy as tying knots.” Cabriana smiled faintly, clearly concerned with her skill, her ability to teach the novices.

“You’ll do splendidly. Later, we’ll celebrate!” Siuan smiled, thrilled that she knew someone else who thought of the One Power that way. What was the One Power but a series of ever more complicated knots with the same base rules? The novices could do far worse than an Accepted who understood that concept.

Cabriana smiled, shuffled her feet, and then ran away. Siuan would have done the same if she had a lesson to plan. “She’ll be a splendid teacher, don’t you think, Anvaere?”

Anvaere didn’t answer until Siuan turned around and asked again. “Cabriana, a teacher? Sure, Siuan.”

What did that bloody mean? Siuan opened her mouth to demand answers, but then Anvaere turned her eyes to the fish. “You’re cooking again this morning? I was telling Bryne of your skill. Come, if we don’t eat soon, I’ll have classes and Bryne will have a meeting he needs to attend.”

Siuan sighed and nodded. It was pitiful to eat a fresh-caught fish alone. She’d hoped to dine with Cabriana, but her friends would serve just as well even if they did seem to goggle at each other with a heat that made Siuan envious. At least, Cabriana was an Accepted. Two accepted could explore that heat in a perfectly, acceptable, even expected way. Her friend would need to settle for long looks with her own male companion.

Yes, her morning could have started far worse she thought as she set off to her first lesson with Gitara Sedai, of the Blue Ajah. The Keeper of the Chronicles plucked her from the rest of the Accepted and mandated lessons…now that Elaida was no longer capable.

A part of her squirmed at the unfairness of the shift, but the Aes Sedai’s regard set her free of Jarna Sedai’s interest a tad. The Mistress of Novices was skilled, but she always felt the need to watch her tongue as well as learn new weaves. Yes, she was ever so happy she’d have at least one day without attending Jarna Sedai for lessons.

Chapter Text

Jarna

The Hall of the Tower stretched up, up, up far beyond the strength of eyes not enhanced by Saidar. Sitters, all of them, sat upon their little, paltry thrones. Little flocks of color clustered together, whispering or reading or staring blankly ahead. The best the Light could offer: pathetic. Centuries upon centuries to strengthen the Light, to prepare for the Last Battle and THIS was the best and the brightest the Creator could place on his Stone’s board?

Jarna Malari stood in the center, upon the floor below, awaiting the arrival of the Keeper of the Chronicles and the Amyrlin Seat. A gray stole crossed her shoulder despite the dark gray, almost black dress she wore. The red embroidery in the form of the most common fire weaves decorated the cuffs. Unusually modern for her, unusually patrician, but this next step would set the stage for the downfall of the Light.

No more, approaching the weaker, more beaten down sisters one by one. No more assigning those same useless sisters to form ‘hearts’ because they could not be trusted to know their true sisters. One sister recruiting two more, and on and on. That had been the way of the Black Ajah for centuries until Jarna Malari ascended to her proper place. The mute seer’s last prophecy must be fulfilled.

The Black Ajah would become the White Tower, the soul of it, and change would need to come to ensure that future. Prophecies are not always what they seem, but they can be valuable guides, and Jarna Malari was the sister to ensure the future was black. The work of three lifetimes that would mark her for distinction with her master. Not just a black sister or the latest head of the black ajah, she would ascend much further, to dreadlord or beyond. Forsaken—she could become that, wiggle out of the yoke of fire eyes, and any other of the thirteen that managed to loose their prison.

A whisper of her name from above cast her gaze upward once more. Few sisters or novices remained of the dozens who had populated the floors above for the past hour of waiting for the Keeper and Amyrlin to appear. None of the watchers who leaned over the edge in their novice whites were ones marked of particular interest...or ones who’d made a nuisance of themselves. She relaxed, pleased to be able to commence her plan in peace, with the proper focus.

How much longer would this take? Plans could wait, but every second that slipped by courted disaster. Recent political wrangling between Cairhien and the border nations meant Tamra Opsenya rarely arrived at the Hall of the Tower promptly when the hall had been called into session, but this one candlemark late tested even her blue’s patience. Sitters were not nameless, faceless, powerless lackeys to be slighted so, well, all save the Browns and the Blues usually.

That did not hold true, Jarna thought, as she shifted to the side enough to watch a momentary flicker of anger twist Eadyth Sedai’s rounded features. They stood, crowded in a circle, flocked like carrion birds, drawing the eyes of all others within the Hall. The occasional angry word reached her ears: unacceptable, power-hungry, trample, tradition. The whispering had started at the half-a-candlemark point and had continued with no sign of stopping.

Good, Jarna thought. A battle approached. One that might find the newly installed Amyrlin Seat thrown from her pretty rock chair. How to maneuver so the turmoil, the political battle, crippled the Light, but maintained the power structure? Jarna could not lose her position as Mistress of Novices, it was her path to greatness. Mistress of Novices had maintained their positions from one Amyrlin to the next, but the changes she made already and continued to make did not make her immediately popular among many sisters.

Jarna gazed upward, not many sisters ringed the viewing platforms above, but all who did, their gazes fell upon the spectacle of the Blues. None of the watchers who leaned over the edge in their novice whites seemed of interest. She returned her gaze to the Blues. There might be some discord to provoke there; the smallest thread to tug, to unravel the foundation of the Tower for the shadow, for the glorious future where Black proved to be the most populous order. Jarna could smile, but she did not. Careful, she would move ever-so-carefully in the coming months. She would—

And then the chime of bells came from above. Her eye twitched and her lips curled down, control entirely abandoned. It might not be. Near a dozen channelers from Arafel arrived over the past months as the threats of White Cloak and all-out war approached. Pretty, young, and with those internally loud bells screaming as they walk. And then a rather loud, familiar voice exclaimed, “It’d be criminal as the mad Damodred brother if Jarna Sedai didn’t call for us to go through the arches today.” Alanna Mosvani—her most obnoxious and dubiously determined novice—spent much of her free time scurrying after her with the zeal of one of her master’s hounds.

Jarna stepped forward and twisted around to scan the audience again. The bells started in earnest as that young voice exclaimed, “Jarna Sedai, Jarna Sedai.” Her eyes honed in on the child. Alanna Mosvani sat on the lowest level, straddling the stone railing of the balcony, her right arm flapping. Ellid Abareim, the pillow friend, enwrapped the smaller Arafellin in an unusual demonstration of public affection, but she knew better than most the effects of terror on propriety. Did the child wish to break their neck? If she wasn’t surrounded by the leaders of the Aes Sedai on all sides, she might be tempted to let the child break both their fool neck.

Alanna Mosvani and Ellid Abareim—the duo had become her bane in recent months. One, an overeager novice so very dedicated to the light following her like a rabid pup, taking each reprimand as a perverse, infuriating expression of interest. The other, with a sapphire gaze that saw too much and possessed a distrust that seemed to grow with each interaction. Jarna killed fools for less, but she could not afford another hunt for a killer when the recent betrayal of an Aes Sedai and the maiming of an Accepted provided the right type of distraction, the right level of distrust.

Madness and insanity could justify one sister's betrayal of all they knew. More than one? That she would not be able to maneuver with any deftness. Jarna stared them down, imperiously, “Get down from there. I will not have you break your neck due to foolishness.”

The nuisance shrugged, bells tinkling. She set her hand upon the balcony and leaned out further, partially braided locks, rolling over her novice whites and hanging free. The Andoran let out a distressed sound that was distinctly ignored. The maddening conversation continued. “There’s plenty of Yellows about, Jarna Sedai. I’m thrilled to provide further experience. Healing weaves are so very important to learn and practice, you know...for the Last Battle.”

Lanky, Suana Dragand, Sitter of the Yellow stirred. The Shienaran leaned forward to peer up at the nuisance, frown enhancing that rather large chin. The disapproval was clear, but the woman did not interfere. As Mistress of Novices, a novice’s behavior fell to Jarna to correct. A pity corporal punishment had been put to bed a generation before. Alanna Mosvani might react far better to a switching than she did to verbal lashes or chores heaped upon chores, or extra lessons as punishment.

This was yet another reminder that the current state of the novice roster severely hampered her ability to function in both her official duties as Mistress of Novices and her unofficial ones as the leader of the Black Ajah. The chatter from the Sitters snuffed out as all eyes turned to Jarna and the novices above (for the ones in a position to see the novices).

“You will wait for me outside, Alanna Mosvani. I will not have this conversation here, yelling like uncouth savages.” Jarna turned to point to the entrance of the hall. “Await me outside this door and we will talk again of proper comportment for an Accept—”

A shriek drowned out the peal of bells. Alanna shimmied, wrenched back upright, and turned to her pillow friend. “Did you hear that? Finally, we’re to be tested! Light, how very exciting.” A squeal made Jarna wince. She could gag at the enthusiastic, thankfully brief kiss the pair shared in the nuisance’s excitement.

“Alanna Mosvani!” Jarna felt this must be what madness from the Taint felt like. The poor fools. She almost had sympathy for them...almost.

A manic laugh, the chime of bells as the pair separated, ceased their unseemly cavorting in public. Those eyes found hers, and Jarna pointed silently at the door. The command would not be spoken thrice.

“Of course, Jarna Sedai.” Alanna turned to the yellow-haired Andoran, delaying again. “She must want us to speak before the hall. Demonstrate our skills, maybe.”

The Sitters around her began to whisper anew. Disapproval in the hard, stiff lines of her sisters. Most learned not to emote, but few truly learned the complete control of their body and mind. Disapproval at worst began to build. Already, the Blue sisters muttered, whined really, about one of theirs being overlooked for Mistress of Novices; she did not need more questions of her fitness to control the novices.

Light, she’d never been more tempted to hold the nuisance back for another decade, but then this would continue for a decade more if she didn’t toss the Arafellin to the next level to remove the infernal peal of bells from her orbit, she might murder the child herself in a fit of rage. That would be a more pressing problem. At least, the child could not sneak with those bells threaded in her hair, so Jarna knew when she could engage in her more covert work. A remedy would need to be implemented to fix the other problems the child creat—

The leg began to swing over the rail toward the safety of the overlook, but then Alanna froze and gazed downward with an expression Jarna could not like on her young face, considering something... The Arafellin blazed with the light of Saidar. The child was strong, but not the strongest of the new generation.

“You have not been authorized to embrace the s—” Words died as thick weaves of air came easily to call. And then in a seamless movement, the novice swung both legs over the side and jumped into the open air.

“Alanna!” Ellid called, fear practically a physical force, diving forward to try to cease the fall. Her fingers missed. Sitters threw themselves to their feet, exclamations of shock and distress echoing through the hall. All the while, those bells tolled energetically. The Arafellin fell, a good dozen weaves of air mixed with earth, thick as a fist, roiled under her feet, amazingly slowing the plummet to the hard stone below. Still, the novice crumpled as she met the stonework in a heap, still, no snapping of bones joined the cacophony.

No words came to any in the hall or above. Her mind still reliving the last half a minute. Her heart beat a horrible rhythm. Suana Dragand lifted her skirts to hurry forward, and then a whinny ‘owwww’ broke the surface as the crumpled form rose easily, form shaking, bells tinkling. Worry or fury? What would be the proper reaction here? What would—

Suana Dragand fell into step with her, already infused with the power, hand reaching out to complete a delving of a skill no other within the tower would manage. The novice leaped in the air, little weaves of air underfoot giving her leap height, fists thrown in the air in triumph. “It worked! I told you it would work.” The weaves disappeared and return to the ground Alanna Mosvani did. “Jump, Ellid. As we practiced, I’ll catch you!”

As we practiced? That little trolloc. To announce the fact, Jarna still did not have order and obedience from her novices in front of the most powerful women in the tower. I will kill her. If only she could not afford the mess.

The little fool raised her hands as if to physically catch her fellow novice. Of all the foolish tests of a weave she’d seen, this was the worst. There were times to return to the old ways. This, this insanity was that. And so, she rapped the child on the back of the head hard. Bells and a grunt of annoyance erupted from the foolish novice. “Neither of you will embrace the source until I bid you to. Suanna Dragand wishes to delve you. After, you will wait outside, both of you. Ellid, there will be no jumping from great heights. None. You will walk sedately. If I hear your feet have left the ground, we will have words.”

“Yes, Jarna Sedai,” both girls chorused. The blond ducked out of sight. The Arafellin grinned at Jarna as the Yellow Sitter delved her.

“All is well, no injuries or illnesses. This time. What you did, child, is very dangerous. Death is inevitable if you continue down this path. I will speak to the Mistress of Novices to ensure such reckless behavior does not continue.”

Mulish, not obedient. That would describe the novice at that proclamation. A refusal to listen, an objection would surely come. Quickly, Jarna cut in, “I will take this from her, Suana Sedai. She will not attempt such weaves while a novice or accepted. Yes, Alanna Mosvani?”

A shrug and averted eyes were all the answers she received. Suanna Dragand departed with that practiced Aes Sedai mask, but her gaze lingered on Jarna too long. The time of theatrics, of nuisances, must come to an end. If death could not be that end, the arches must be. And skilled or not, safety and survival could not be assured. Maybe the arches would solve her problem once and for all. “There is one correct answer. If you cannot speak it, then I might need to rethink my decision...”

That produced the vibrating, bell-chiming excitement once more. “We’ll both smash the Accepted test, and I’ll wait for permission to test those weaves again. You won’t regret your choice. You’ll see.”

“I suppose not,” Jarna said with a sigh, gesturing for the child to depart.

The wide, stylized doorway swung open, pushed with the power of Saidar as Alanna barrelled toward the exit. Tamra Ospenya, with her great staff in her jeweled hands, startled at the unexpected presence. A slim hand reached out to snag the child’s arm as she passed. “Alanna Mosvani,” the Keeper of the Chronicles whispered, ever so far away. The next words Jarna needed to embrace the source to hear. “...will lose them all. One by one. Until only one remains to you. One of your choice. Grief and pain—that is your future, Alanna Mosvani. Three choices and only one that leads to life.”

The Arafellin stood entirely still, not a chime of the bells rang. Standing, as she did, half-facing the door and the Keeper, all she could see was the wide, wide extension of those dark eyes. “Tamra Sedai, what—” Alanna began to say, voice trembling, but the Keeper straightened, pearls slipping across that slim neck, and turned away to continue her march into the chamber. The novice did not move, frozen, except to shift her head far enough to track the progress of the elegant Keeper.

How very nice to see the panicked fear in those dark eyes. Fear and silence. That was the type of behavior she’d needed to instill in the novice, but she could not. Certain niceties, Jarna must pretend to cling to. As the Keeper tapped the staff onto the stonework, she clasped her silver gown and hurried over to the novice.

“Out with you, Alanna Mosvani. Wait in the hall, I have much to prepare, much to plan before you can meet your future.” Alanna flinched. Not tonight unfortunately. The waiting period she’d put into place must be ensured, Jarna decided, but she'd need to ensure the angst from the Tamra’s prophecy was roused before the testing. Foul, wretched experiences often fed into the intensity of the voyage through the ter’angreal. Such a horridly delicious future for her future sister brought her pleasure, but she’d also accept a life cut short.

Jarna lowered her voice, “Report to the healing wing, take your friend with you. I require a full delving of Ellid before she can test. Tell them that Suana Dragand saw to your delving.”

A flick of air powered by saidar sent the novice spinning away and fleeing as the Amyrlin Seat, in her intricate golden silk gown stepped into the room. Jarna curtsied, lower than warranted, before stepping aside. The slow progression to the stone seat allowed her to collect herself.

“Shall we begin, daughters? Jarna Sedai tell us of these changes you wish to introduce in the training of my daughters?”

Jarna stepped forward and curtsied once more, before starting. “First, I have three I wish to nominate to pass through the Three Arches. Alanna Mosvani, Ellid Abareim, and Anvaere Damodred are ready to advance in their training. They are skilled with the weaves, have as much self-control as we expect of a novice, and the fortitude to pass through the veil.”

“You are sure, daughter, about Anvaere Damodred?” The Amyrlin Seat leaned forward, eyes sharp, combing her for answers that her expression and body language would not unveil. “The Damodred child is a crucial link between Cairhien and Andor. I will not risk a part of that alliance.”

“My answer does not change, Mother. Anvaere Damodred is as ready as she can be. As you say, she is a link that we cannot let dally in classes that she’s outgrown. She will not fail.”

The Amyrlin Seat turned beyond Jarna to her Sitters. If a quarter of the room voted to reject her suggestion, she’d need to spend a week collecting evidence and references demonstrating the novice's readiness. None moved for a long moment. Scanning the women, none seemed particularly concerned. Why would they be...they were only novices, not worthy of their attention until they passed the first test.

Just as she began to turn around, Suana Dragand cleared her throat. “I have no concerns over Anvaere Damodred. Of Alanna Mosvani, she has exhibited a recklessness that is unseemly in an Accepted. The jump from the balcony above—”

“What is this foolishness about jumping from the floors above?” The Amyrlin Seat interrupted, hands strangling the armrests, eyes darting up far past the place where the Arafellin novice had leaped.

“The child decided to try to fly,” One brown said, peering up from their book.

The other brown set her book aside and interjected, in a dry scholarly voice. “Really, it was more of a controlled fall using the weaves as she did. Once she passes through the arches, I would volunteer to mentor the child. Not in centuries has someone dared such a weave. How splendid to witness such a feat. A smashing success.”

“You don’t suppose—” the first brown cut in, novel entirely set aside as well. Viki Sedai, sat between the two and decided to stand. The brown sister tutted and guided her back to her seat before looking as if she wished to continue the academic discussion.

Suana Dragand threw the browns a scathing expression before turning her gaze to the Amyrlin Seat. “The child did not injure herself, but the incident proves she is skilled, but lacks proper sense. That can be taught by the right mentors. I will vote yes if we can dictate who will take our young sister in hand to temper her whims.”

Agreements came to Jarna’s satisfaction. “I have one other change I wish to implement in the teaching of novices.” The Amyrlin gestured for her to continue. “The influx of new novices has left the few Accepted experienced enough to teach novice classes woefully overwhelmed.”

“The few Accepted experienced enough?” Eadyth Sedai asked with displeasure in her tone. “All Accepted without an affliction are required to teach novices. If they cannot, they should not be elevated.”

“That is how the White Tower has handled the training of our sisters for centuries,” Jarna admitted. “It has led to poorly trained Aes Sedai with poor temperaments and over-inflated or under-inflated senses of their worth. We will very soon have a very rabid influx of new novices, new trainees inducted into the novice book. Ten to thirty years that is the current length it takes to become Aes Sedai. It is a waste of resources we can no longer afford as we expand our reach to new territories, as we bring in new, less educated sisters.”

“What do you suggest, daughter?”

“I wish to recruit full Aes Sedai whose sole duty will be teaching novices full-time. Once an Accepted reaches a certain skill, they will be required to teach one class per week to determine if they might be a good candidate to recruit to teach our young sisters once they become full Aes Sedai. The time of half-skilled mentors must end.”

The suggestion conjured a firestorm of conversation, as the various Sitters fretted or gushed or finessed her proposal. This change would take place, she knew that with certainty. The White Tower was not entirely filled with fools, just mostly. If presented with a good change, a smart change, that change could be implemented. The number within the Aes Sedai ranks powerful enough (in position or saidar) to present such a change was few; the ones the black ajah let thrive within the tower were fewer. The Black Ajah deemed Jarna’s proposal a worthy endeavor.

Jarna waited patiently as the conversation ran its course, as a few small changes were implemented: any Aes Sedai chosen to teach must be approved by half of the sitters, accepted could be deemed unfit for teaching, and new, faster courses of study must be introduced moderately to prevent accidental stilling.

Jarna allowed herself a satisfied smile as the Keeper of the Chronicles ratified the change with a greater consensus. The session ended not long after, and Jarna found herself pulled into one conversation after another by Sitters eager to chatter about the novices and the new classes and who among their ajahs might be a good candidate to teach.

Finally, she excused herself, eager to start the day. There were too few hours and far too much for her to accomplish this day, starting with sending a novice to order Anvaere Damodred to report to the healing wing for a delving and ending with escorting the three novices one by one to their testing.

It was near the kitchens that she spotted Siuan Sanche with a fishing pole and a bag slung over her shoulder, almost running through the halls. They’d both been far too busy to speak overly much over the long winter months. Jarna hesitated; the desire to cultivate, to continue growing a valuable asset, clashed with the need to implement her broader plans for the Tower. I can spare a half-hour. And so, she called the Accepted to wait.

Siuan skidded to a stop, shoes once again tied around her neck, cloth wrapped around the soles to prevent mucking up the Accepted whites. The child had shot up a few inches, her youthful face possessed a bit more fat, and the fingers adjusting the pack possessed a few less callouses. A duck of the head in deference, a quick smile came. “I would grovel, but my fish catchers make such manners unwise.”

“Then remaining standing. You are not one whose obedience and judgment I question. You were having a meal with young Miss Cabriana Mecandes? I’ve been pleased with how you’ve inspired her to progress in recent months. You do the White Tower proud.”

The shy smile flickered, pride and pleasure, but not as free as it once was. Jarna had not quite been able to put her finger on the distance that had grown between them. Perhaps it is my new station? Novices and Accepted were meant to show a certain level of deference to the Mistress of Novices. This one might be lost to her. No, not lost. Decades, she would have decades to rebuild to where they had been.

“I’d heard you’d allowed her to start teaching.”

“Teaching? She’s not quite there yet. I’d say with the proper work, her current level of dedication, she might be a good candidate for teaching a novice class in a year or two.”

“A year or two...why...” Siuan’s brow furrowed, and her lips turned down.

Jarna meant to push, but then Anvaere Damodred wandered from the kitchens, pressed close to the tall, stocky Gareth Bryne, too close to be considered proper for a novice or an accepted.

“I’m sorry, Jarna Sedai. I have a mentorship I cannot be late to and must return my gear to my quarters.”

Gitara Moroso. She wished she could have foreseen the Keeper of the Chronicles taking such an interest in the channeler. What did she see? Moroso made no move without some prophecy laying the path. Perhaps Siuan knew? A mystery for another day, as Siuan shifted uneasily, gazing away. “Go then, the Keeper of the Chronicles time must be respected.”

A muttered farewell, and the Tairen novice hurried down the hall, not quite running, but close. The sound of feet pounding on stonework came as the Accepted turned the corner. Jarna turned then relieved that her first task would be accomplished without delay.

Anvaere Damodred and Gareth Bryne stood close, too close. She was leaning against the wall, fingers gripping the back of a beefy neck firmly. The manner in which his broad hand brushed against a defined cheekbone, curled over her, almost blocking the heavy-lidded gaze from view. No, not quite coquettish, but laced with unmet desire. The flirtation was not strictly prohibited, but this flirted perilously close to breaking customs.

“Anvaere Damodred,” Jarna Sedai called, as she approached. Bryne straightened and turned. The blocky face flushed, but he bowed as a gentleman would as if he were not caught one poor choice away from fucking an Accepted of the White Tower. Anvaere sighed and rolled her head to gaze at her with those dark eyes. “Gareth Bryne, how was the fish this morning? A proper respite before Queen Morgase calls you to your duty?”

Words were exchanged, niceties and the tension in the air did not lower to a simmer until after the temporary First Prince of the Sword dismissed himself with one last bow over Anvaere Damodred’s hands. He did not kiss the hand, or any part of her. There was open regret on that blocky face. The Amyrlin Seat would be pleased by the developments despite the impropriety and the blurred rules against male dalliances. The dark, well, the breaking or formation of the alliance would benefit her either way. Either the strings between Andor and Cairhien weakened, or she’d possess another generation of channelers, noble ones, to corrupt in two decades time.

“You have decided then? To bind him to yourself to Lord Bryne after you become Aes Sedai? A good choice, if one wishes to spend a decade fat with child.”

No answer came, as the younger woman watched the man depart with hungry eyes. Finally, when he turned the corner, she answered. “There are teas to prevent my becoming ‘fat’ with child if I do not will it, Jarna Sedai.”

“And do you?”

“It will be expected.”

“He wishes it.” The words were not quite resigned. “You will not find our offspring any more easily cowled, Jarna Sedai.”

Jarna smiled. The ones worth recruiting, worth breaking were that. All she needed was another chance and she had two decades to prepare. The woman needed a fire put under her to make that happen all the sooner. Maybe... “I do not expect perfect obedience from nobles, from petty, spoiled children who treat this tower as a holiday. In the end, they see reason, see sense.”

“I’m giving my best years to the White Tower, to this training, Jarna Sedai,” Anvaere said. The easygoing posture stiffened, anger burned in those eyes, rebellion. The woman kicked off the wall and swung around, not quite going for her blade, but her hands did twitch toward the handle. She controlled herself. “But I suppose most Aes Sedai don’t care much about romance and passion and silly hobbies that do not align with the One Power. I stand here for me, and I can leave here for me just as easily without a ring and a stone upon my finger.”

The silence stretched between them. Jarna smiled and smoothed out her skirts. “I have found, in my many, many years in this Tower, that there are rules and there are rules. It is my duty to enforce the rules, not to force perfect dedication to them, not to prevent hobbies or passions or other such activities. You have spoken no oaths, simply given promises. Promises, if broken, a price must be paid, but promises nonetheless.”

The heat of the anger died. The other woman fell against the wall once more, hand running over the pommel of the blade. “You are a fairly poor Mistress of Novices, as far as the White Tower would be concerned.”

“Poor no, this, is the way of the White Tower. A tenant, every Mistress of Novice served under since the formation of the role. Rules are laid, novices and accepted do as they will, and harsh punishments are inflicted when lines are crossed and if women are caught. Then I will make them weep for all of their other mentors.” The promise, the threat felt oh so sweet after so long of being kind and nice.

A low chuckle, “Like you made Alanna Mosvani weep?”

Jarna froze. The desire to strike the smirk away pulsed in her, but no. “I had thought you made a poor Damodred. I see I was wrong.”

The younger woman flinched. That Jarna did smile at. “See yourself to the healing wing. We will see if the first Damodred becomes Accepted this night.”

Jarna turned away, furious at the exchange, forcing her mind to shift to her next task for the day. She would enjoy corrupting Anvaere Damodred’s children when the time came. That would be punishment enough. Later, she told herself, no one will dare taunt me. Jarna Malari had a future far grander than Anvaere Damodred could ever dream of achieving. A future as the broodmare of an Andoran lord lay in the noble's future.

Chapter Text

Siuan

Politics—all Gitara Moroso cawed about was the current political machinations of the nations of the Westlands. Siuan expected to learn from her, real tangential weaves, secrets that only an Aes Sedai in her final years could impart. She did learn that—once every ten times.

The Aes Sedai looked rather like a bird with her bright blue gown, many shinnies set upon her fingers, around her long, thin neck, and woven into her hair long since gone white. Ancient, almost skeletal might describe the Keeper of the Chronicles—the kind of woman that thugs would love to thieve from in the back alleys of Tear.

Tear—her uncle Huan remained in the capital city, smuggling out channelers, their families, and other such dissidents that the White Cloaks might find of too much interest. Always they spoke of other countries, other city-states, Siuan didn’t quite care to remember the difference, not when only one country really mattered to her. “What is the White Tower doing to reclaim Tear? To push out the White Cloaks? To force the lords to accept us.”

Gitara Moroso paused, eyes as merciless as the ocean captured Siuan. She forced herself to not sink, to not scuttle under the fancy table that had not a single slither waiting to poke and prod and dig into skin. The entire sitting area possessed a myriad of hidey-holes to flee. Blue curtains tall enough to form nets upon nets, dressers with cabinets deep enough for a slim girl to hide, large patches of space wasted behind furnishings, and a deep, deep closet with as much fancy clothes as a lord or lady.

“Tell me, child, who are you?”

Siuan shrugged and forced herself not to tug at the tightly braided hair. Alanna Mosvani might be insane, but she knew how to braid hair like no other. “You know who I am.”

“Hmmm, remind me.”

“I am Siuan Sanche, born of Tairen fisherfolk, recently sent to the White Tower to learn to be an Aes Sedai.”

“Siuan Sanche, daughter of fisherfolk...” Gitara Moroso’s lips curled.

Siuan clenched her fists. “I am that.”

“I am not here to teach Siuan Sanche, daughter of fisherfolk. I am not an old fisher-marm droning about the past, to be tolerated, to be paid half a mind to while a young girl dreams of fleeing to the water once more, to cast a line, to catch fish the old way, the common way.”

“I never asked for this!” The spring to her feet sent the cushioned chair screeching against the stone floor. Panicked, she looked behind. She’d not been able to be so careless at home. New furniture required her Pa or aunties or uncle to forgo food. And the wood of the floor had been old, cheap enough to be easily gouged. Not a mark. Light, even the stonework was magical, resistant to scuffs and marks from careless actions. She hated that this place, this island demanded no price besides a slow, wearing away of the girl-child from Tear. The chair moved, jerked up with bands of air, and then found it set upright without a wobble.

“The Pattern has demanded little of you.”

Little. Siuan wanted to laugh. She’d not seen her family in almost a full year. She wanted to be Aes Sedai, but sometimes the path laid before her feet did seem like facing down a wave as a girl before her powers manifested. “The Pattern no—Jarna Sedai, you, and Elaida—” Siuan cut her words off. Not since before the accident had Elaida troubled her with one demand or another. She almost missed the irritable Accepted’s constant interest. “Why would I wish to be a gray or a blue with a passion for court life? Surely, you could find a better Accepted to teach if not Elaida...she was meant to be in fancy courts, in fancy dresses, talking to fancy folk who don’t care a drop about fisherfolk from Tear.”

“Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan’s future has been written—not by the pattern, but by royal decree. She is also not woefully deficient in Westland politics. Tell me, child, what is the political standing of the City-State of Mayene?”

Siuan shrugged, “Everyone knows they fish in Tairen seas when they shouldn’t, that they steal fish from honest folk and have schemes to take over Tear through marriage or theft...”

The Keeper of the Chronicles held up a hand. The Great Serpent Ring glinted in the lamplight. Siuan swallowed and shuffled her feet, hating the feel of the leather shoes, even if the leather wasn’t as stiff as the ones that Ellid owned that she‘d borrowed that one time she’d not had enough time to return to her rooms to fetch shoes she’d forgotten. Gitara Moroso pointed to the chair and Siuan held her ground and refused to sit.

“Is that the words of a soon-to-be Aes Sedai or the words of a child of Tear?”

No answer could be given to that, but to squirm under the gaze, to try and fail to not fall into a petulant frown.

Gitara Moroso sighed, “Your future is set, much like Elaida do Avriny a’ Roihan. You can either go blind, spending your days in an incompetent laze, a fisherman’s daughter struck with good fortune, or you can learn what needs to be known to excel in a royal court, for that is where you will be sent upon achieving the shawl.”

The idea of being land-locked trapped in a castle, surrounded by royal or noble eels for the next three centuries caused a fission of panic. Surely, they’d not send her, a young, newly raised Aes Sedai to an important court. Light, they’d likely ship her off to Kandor or Shienar or worse, Mayene. The rejection came before she could fasten it away, leaking from her, in a deluge that caused the Aes Sedai’s eyes to widen minutely. “I will be Aes Sedai, but I will not—”

“Sit, now, Siuan Sanche, Accepted of the White Tower.”

Siuan Sanche, Accepted of the White Tower, bowed, muttered an apology she did not mean and fled the small room that suddenly seemed too small, like a small cabin suddenly sprung a leak. She ran and ran and ran, only stopping long enough to remove her shoes, to drop them next to a bust of an Aes Sedai with pretty, features, with more jewelry than she’d ever hoped to wear. Metal rusted in water, so such shinnies she’d never coveted.

The White Tower once a maze, passed below her feet with an ease that she’d once scampered through the winding, cramped roads of Tear. In the end, she slipped into the once-abandoned room now filled with nets and poles and string. Siuan pulled at the bracelet around her wrist; the weaves held strong, with the skill of an expert craftsman. The beads felt comforting under her fingers; she felt if she tried, she could almost feel the pulse of the weaves set into the bracelet of string and wood.

A royal court? What did Siuan Sanche know of royal courts? I do not want that future. Away from the Keeper of the Chronicles, surrounded by the trappings of her youth, she felt shame nestled in the bowels of opulence for even the forgotten, abandoned cast-offs of the Aes Sedai was finer than could be found in a fisher-folk hut.

The Sanche family lost their boat, lost their ability to fish, and could not return to Tear, not now, maybe not for years to come. What would her Pa say if he knew she fled a position that would see her family fed, not just survive, but thrive? Her Uncle Huan walked the hard path, remained in Tear, in the heart of danger to fight against the evil that had swept in on the tide and she...

I’m not a coward, not a selfish, selfish coward who flees sacrifice.

Siuan paced for a time, each touch of her bare feet on the perfectly smooth stone mixed anger and fear and sadness until she felt she knew what madness must feel. She’d not return home again, not for a long, long time. Her mind turned to the one person who was meant to understand, Cabriana Mecandes.

The accepted lied to Siuan that morning; lied right to her face in a manner friends did not and Aes Sedai could not. The knowledge soured the bubbly excitement of the morning and tainted the dozens of memories of early morning fishing jaunts. The thoughts did not improve her mood, did not soothe the anger and fear and sadness no matter how she paced or tried to turn her thoughts away.

And so when Cabriana Mecandes slipped into their hideaway with a happy skip to her steps, well words slipped from her with the ease of casting a line on a perfect, wind-free day. “You lied to me.”

The light-haired Tairen froze in the doorway, hand not even absent from the stylized doorknob. Light, even the doorknobs in this place were worth more than the entire Sanche family people and objects. “Lie? I never lied, Siuan. I do not know what you speak of.”

“What class did you teach then? Which novices? Their names, Cabriana. I can ask how you performed, see if we can improve your—”

“I never lied...I just...” Cabriana fiddled with the sleeve of her accepted gown, picking at the colored thread that ringed the cuffs of the sleeves. Blue thread pulled loose. Blue as the ocean, as the sky on a clear day, as a crab’s blood.

“You just...”

Cabriana glanced behind, out the door, likely wishing to flee again, like a coward, like a selfish coward, like a— The Accepted slipped into the room. The door closed behind her, and she leaned back against it heavily. “I am not like you. This tower, this life, surrounded by nobles and royals and the danger they bring. I just want to go home.”

Not like me? Siuan laughed, a sharp bark of a sound. Not like me. Light, she’d just...no, this wasn’t about Siuan, not about her own deficiencies. “You would just give up? Run away? What of your family, duty, the power granted you? Does that mean nothing?” The words rolled from her and she didn’t know who she addressed herself or her friend, if they were that still.

Cabriana rolled those pretty eyes, let out a sniff of disapproval before skirting around the edges of the room like a crab steering clear of a gull. The evasion just made the anger build. “Not everyone wishes to be Aes Sedai. Some of us just want to live, to fish, to have a family, not mere sisters.” The words came out a sneer, pretty face twisted, lips fluttering with upset. Those pretty eyes gazed at her, hopeful that Siuan would understand.

Siuan felt the fire fizzle, and then words leaked out that blew her emotions to a fury anew: “I just...I just want to go home.”

“Home? Home is gone Cabriana. Have you talked to the novices that fled here? Fled from our home, from burnings and worse?”

“I don’t have to. It’s all you gripe about. How are the White Cloaks any different than the Tairen lords? Tell me, Siuan Sanche? Before it was just a dagger in the night, a dragonfang smeared in blood on the door.”

“The White Cloaks—”

“Are honest about what they are and Tear is only a muddy pit on the ocean.” Fingers fumbled to a pocket and drew out a folded paper. Steady fingers unfolded it, smoothed it out. The paper crinkled. “My family is leaving Tear, all of them, packing up and moving to Illian. You could come too, you, your family, start anew.”

“Illian isn’t home.”

“Home isn’t a place, Siuan.”

That seemed both mad and logical. Yes, her Pa and her aunties and her cousins were home, but so was the ocean and the mud that lined the roads and the common folk living united, griping about the nobles, and of all places why Illian? The only place worse would be Mayene. Siuan wrinkled her nose in disgust.

The sound of the door opening, registered, vaguely, but all she could see was red, all she could focus on was her fellow blasted Accepted—the fool who meant to throw away all that was offered. “Illianers. They’re fools. Spend half their time chasing fancies rather than doing honest work.” Everyone in Tear knows that of Illianers. The fools lived on the sea and yet their most important lord chose bees as a sigil? That wasn’t even an animal of the sea, wasn’t anything fisherfolk would find worth in.

“Honest work? You’re to be Aes Sedai. That’s not honest work. You know what you are? A noble in training with the ability to call wind and flame. That’s what you are Siuan Sanche, friend to queens and nobles.”

“And what does that make you, Cabriana Mecandes? You know just as many nobles. Breathe just as much of their air.” Siuan stomped her foot, and could continue to blaze on, but even speaking of the topic reminded her of the future that loomed over her: a lifetime spent in one royal court or another, backwater or not. She was no what Cabriana claimed, would never be what Cabriana claimed. “I don’t even bloody care about that! You lied to me these past months. I thought we were rowing to the same outlet.” Siuan palmed away tears. The traitors.

“You don’t listen. You never listen. Jarna Sedai thought you could fix me, make me a proper Aes Sedai candidate. Ordered me to—”

“Stop,” Siuan said, unable to bear hearing another word. The ground between them disappeared, as Siuan reached out to do something, as the source poured into her body, making the roaring of blood through her veins seem all the louder. It would be so easy to reach out and steal the words from the other girl. She shied from the thought, Cabriana was a friend, a foolish, infuriating friend.

A bitter laugh. “Light, I grow tired of this. I liked you despite your self-indulgent obsessions with the Aes Sedai, yourself, Jarna Sedai, and Moiraine Damodred. I liked you.”

Still, she could not bear to hear another word. I thought I liked you. Now I think I did not know you. A truth and lie entangled together, drowning Siuan. Her stomach twisted ever tighter. “Stop.”

“I was here the whole time, Siuan. I was here and you saw—”

No, she wouldn’t use the One Power to silence her, but she could...and so Siuan darted in for a kiss, not to the lips, but just shy. Cabriana bloody fell silent with a gasp and then the moments stretched and the grazing kiss became a full-on one, all passion and fire and pushing against hard edges of furnishings as fingers wandered, hindered from seeking direct contact by the long, constricting Accepted gowns.

It wasn’t until Cabriana began to tug her gown up with whispered pleas that Siuan tore herself away with a gasp, glanced to the side to see young, wide-eyed faces frozen in the doorway. Her novices...the children she was meant to mentor.

Julias, the newest novice, her uncle smuggled from Tier gazed with eyes as large and almost as dark as a seal, shock and nerves plain. The room, meant to be safe and a remnant of home, suddenly seemed too small, stifling, as did the confusion and concern in the other novices. The expectation felt like too bloody much. “I—I can’t,” Siuan muttered, gaze darting to the far side of the hall.

“Siuan...” Cabriana started, exasperation sharpening her tone to a knife.

Siuan fled the room, head ducked down, body shifting to wiggle past the novices who shifted away, as if by a tide. Her feet moved as if they possessed their own mind. Eventually, she found herself on a balcony, a brisk breeze touching her face, and distinctly absent of any sisters or guards or workers that would spot the harsh breaths; the raw emotion that twisted through her. Siuan’s clutched at her bracelet, for comfort, even a lonely one.

The small stone bench free from a cushion, thank the light, pushed against the wall. Siuan turned and stopped. There sprawled on the stone, drinking in the light lay two cats: Lanfur and Jenny. The animals sprawled in a mess of white and black and grey fur, lazing about instead of doing proper work for a cat that didn’t want to be tossed out on its ears. Lanfur never did proper work. Jenny was rather scrappy if Anvaere’s boasts of her prowess were true.

Rather than upset the cats, Siuan settled on the ground and rested her back against the leg of the bench. She sat for a time and tried not to think about Cabriena or Gitara Moroso or being an Aes Sedai in full. For the first time, the prospect of the shawl seemed more like a trap. She’d been racing to the Aes Sedai test, to the unknown future Elaida prophesied, and now she had a long, long future she might hate in the future.

The sun moved overhead, the cats lazed, and Siuan sat and thought, free from expectation, but not from the discomfort of her own mind. Maybe I am a coward. Eventually, the sun began to sink and the cats jolted upright, triangular faces stretching into a long, sharp yawn that exposed a pink, cute tongue. Jenny jumped from the chair and began a slow pad to the entrance as footsteps reached her ears, multiple footsteps.

Moiraine’s guard, the tall one with the hanging scar, stepped onto the balcony hand on the pommel of his sword, eyes hard. He didn’t linger on her, dismissing her as a threat even as Siuan scrambled to her feet, almost tripping on the hem of her white gown. Dirt clung to the fabric, Siuan batted at the dress to dislodge the bigger pieces.

When she looked up, Moiraine Damodred, the Sun Queen, the first channeler queen in centuries stood in the doorway. Light, she’d never seen a prettier girl what with her petite form, her dark locks swept into an elegant bun, and the resplendent dark purple dress that enwrapped it all. Light, she’s a queen now. They’d spoken in passing since the Cairhienen queen arrived a week prior, but never alone and never for any significant time.

She’s a queen, you fool. Siuan rose and fell into a clumsy curtsy that would make Gitara Sedai tut in shame before forcing Siuan to try again, over and over, until she didn’t nearly trip over her own feet.

“Please, no, never you, not while we are alone at least.” Moiraine stepped onto the balcony, hand held out for Siuan to clasp. Siuan stepped forward, dark eyes darting to the other people present. The tall guard stood near the edge of the balcony. The albino, short squirrelly guard, scurried over to him. The last, a woman she’d never seen before, of an age with her aunties, but with the shorter physique of the Cairhienen and a wicked-looking short sword strapped to her hip, gazed over the balcony as if an assassin could scale the outside. “Karwin, Frej, Tal—if you are happy with my safety, give us some privacy.”

Frej scurried to the other edge of the balcony, the taller fella’s hand on his dark uniform to prevent him from plunging to his death. He hadn’t been practicing weaves to slow down a fall. She doubted even Alanna could survive such a plunge. “I’d feel far better if one of us could remain,” Karwin began, her voice level.

“No,” Moiraine answered.

“If not them, I would volunteer, your majesty.”

“We will speak of this again at a later date. Now if you are satisfied, please, some privacy.”

Karwin met the men’s eyes with a grim determination that she didn’t think would lead Moiraine to cave on whatever they desired. The guard ducked her head in a bow, before stepping from the balcony into the hall. The men hurried past without a bow, stepping over an affectionate Jenny who slipped from the balcony right before the door closed.

Moiraine Damodred sighed and rolled her shoulder causing the gem set upon her brow to sway. “They are determined to be bonded before we set out for Cairhien once more.”

“Bonded, you’re not Aes Sedai.”

“No, I am bound as one in my own way and face more danger than most save the reds and greens.”

Lanfur jumped from the bench, stretched its rather chubby body, and slinked over to the queen, who knelt and held out her hand to sniff. “She’s the White Towers mouser.” Siuan’d never admit anything else save that.

“Mouser? Are the weaves set into the tower failing?” Lanfur purred, loud, almost desperate as long, lithe fingers scratched under an arcing chin.

“Don’t know much about that.”

“Hmm,” Moiraine said in answer, lips twitching up in amusement. “And does the mouser have a name?”

Siuan scuffed her feet against the stone and wiggled her toes, happy they were free, even if she herself was not. The name caused Moiraine to pause, quirking an eyebrow up, and glance down at the cat once more. “It doesn’t suit her. This sweet creature.”

“You don’t share a bed with her,” Siuan muttered. The creature was a bed hog, started at the very edge, and by the end of the night slept dead center in the middle and got clawy over any attempt to move her. It's why she didn’t much care that Liandrin catnapped her half the time.

“Not a courteous bed partner?”

“The worst.”

Moiraine gave one more stroke before beginning to rise. Light, that looked like a nightmare in such billowing gowns. Siuan scurried forward and offered her hand. Pale, impossibly soft skin met her own darker, rougher skin. A year in the White Tower couldn’t undo a youth doing mean, hard work that mussed the hands something rotten.

She found herself flushing at the smile of thanks that she received. “Come, sit, I have a delivery.” Moiraine reached into her pocket as she walked and pulled out a long, slim envelope, thicker than any letter she’d received from home. “I collected letters from your family before I departed from Cairhien. They’ve settled in just fine.”

“You didn’t need to—”

“Integrating them into the Sun Palace’s staff—well I do not call that a favor, not when the number of servants I can trust to not be reporting to my uncles is slim.”

Siuan wanted to believe that, but still, it stung to be in anyone’s debt, even a friend. “I’ll make it up to you one day.” Siuan hunched her shoulders, waiting for a fight.

“If you must,” Moiraine replied, easy as still water, as she passed on the letter.

“Did your Ma or Pa write the letter for them?” Her family weren’t the best writers; They knew the basics, but knowing how to write more than the bare minimum was for nobles and merchants with time to waste.

“I found the time to visit, briefly, before I departed. As I said, they looked happy enough, if a tad sad to be bereft of the sea.”

“We’re Sanches,” Siuan said because really, she felt that longing too, suspected she always would. The letter she settled beside her, she’d read it later.

“I would be happy to deliver any messages you might wish to convey when I depart for Cairhien.”

“When are you departing?”

“A few weeks out at most. Not soon enough, I fear, but the lost time can be mitigated with some small risk if I can convince the Amyrlin Seat of the need.”

“Oh,” Siuan said, relieved. Lanfur trotted forward and jumped onto her lap, before circling around claws out, the blasted beast, and settling down, a white ball of fur. “That’s good.”

“Yes, I have a few matters to settle concerning my sister and nephew before I depart, but that is a problem for another day. I heard you ran this way ages ago, long enough I had hoped I would not find you here.”

Siuan fell silent, scratched Lanfur’s neck, and enjoyed the comforting rumble that emanated from the feline. The question tumbled out of her, “Am I horrid?”

“Horrid?”

“An accepted I thought I liked…she’s not brave, as dedicated to the Light, to the training, to the future. She doesn’t want to be Aes Sedai...” Siuan swallowed, fishguts, that wasn’t the worst of it. She peeked over to Moiraine who simply waited, expression open, encouraging. “I ran off on Gitara Sedai today because she means to ship me off to some noble's court to play politics. I want to be Aes Sedai, but not like that, stuck in some backwater, landlocked brick building for centuries in a role I do not want, even if it serves the light, and then I got into a fight for Cabriana Mecandes because she lied to me about training novices and we fought and then I kissed her and fled here.” Light, Siuan couldn’t even look at the Sun Queen. She felt hot like the sun’s warmth radiated from her and her companion might be able to tell. Surely, that would make the entire situation far worse.

Siuan kicked her feet. Lanfur let out a rumble of complaint and dug her claws into her leg just enough to make her own displeasure known. The beast. “I fear I am horrid and cowardly and fleeing from duty just as much. Cabriana said I didn’t listen…and I…” maybe she was horridly self-absorbed. Maybe.

Moiraine hummed and looked away, looking suddenly horribly, horridly uncomfortable. “Horrid—I would not describe you thus. You’re fellow Accepted, you are not a coward for wishing freedom from all this.” A wave of the hand. The queen stood, walked to the edge, and gazed toward Dragonmount. Siuan wished she could join her, but Lanfur held her in place, dozing already; the fat cat on her lap. The wind caught a few strands of raven hair, freed them, and caused them to dance free. “There are times I wish I could set aside this crown, leave the fight to another, just live…in another life maybe I would have...as an Aes Sedai...”

“You would have been a good Aes Sedai.” Siuan tried to imagine Moiraine Damodred by her side these many months, learning, scheming. The image was easy to conjure. Siuan would have liked that. Perhaps, they would have been better together. Perhaps, not. Cabriana would still have been Cabriana; they had more in common and no great futures or legacies to live up to.

Moiraine twisted enough to meet her gaze, dark intense eyes that stole Siuan’s words. “Aes Sedai…do you know what I wish, Siuan Sanche, fisherman’s daughter?”

The words blessedly came, loosed as if by quack from far, far away, and thankfully not too mortifying to let slip. “A palace beside a pitifully small lake with servants to fetch you the small lake fish with no fight?”

The lips curled up and made Siuan’s heart beat rapidly. Her eyes become caught on those lips softened by fancy folk cream, darkened with a smear of make-up also sold to fancy folk. The words that left Moiraine’s lips escaped her entirely, and ran off with the bait too.

“Does that shock you?”

Oh…light, how to answer that? “Well, how could it not?” Siuan felt caught, shifted her bare feet on the ground, and glanced away.

A low chuckle caused her stomach to flip. Moiraine did not glance away. “Tell me you would not be happy living in a small house on the sea? Fishing by day, indulging with a chosen partner by night. A long peaceful life.”

“It’s a hard life. Ask my Pa.”

“Would you be happy?”

Siuan tried to imagine it and she could. Fish guts, the power would surely still be at her fingertips to indulge, she’d spend her days fishing, her nights with someone like Cabriana or Moiraine for a time until the expected time she find a man or maybe not even until then…maybe long after. “Would you?”

“I’m not been bred for happiness. Sinew and bone—that’s how far duty goes. I have a higher purpose…maybe one day decades in the future if the Wheel wills I live past my destiny, but that life isn’t for me, not here, not now.”

Siuan felt the words nestle into, deep, deep within. They rang true. The Shadow lay not so very far away, some distant in time battle with the Dark One too, and Siuan Sanche possessed powers that demanded greatness and would be wasted fighting fish. “Yeah,” Siuan whispered, in agreement. The understanding came with a grief that ate at her. She’d been clinging to the remnants of a life that could not be.

“Siuan,” Moiraine waited until their eyes met, across the balcony. The distance seemed too great. She yearned to be closer. “Do not blame you’re fellow Accepted. Someone needs to pick up the pieces, be strong enough, and sound enough of body and mind to carry the burden of reforging the world once strife has passed, once the heroes have passed into memory. We all serve as the Wheel wills. Those who choose not to fight, not to serve—their time will come.”

Siuan frowned. “I can’t be that. Not to fight, to wait and hope another will know how to row proper.”

“Then we find peace after, in this life or the next.”

“A fisherman’s hut by the sea…not some sad lake?”

Moiraine hummed in agreement. Siuan swallowed, heart beating like a seabird's wing. “I’ll catch the fish,” Siuan offered, further words desperately held at bay. Light, a fisherman’s daughter, and a queen. What a ridiculous notion.

Moiraine smiled and reached into a pocket to reveal a hand-forged bracelet. The crossing of the balcony seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. Delicate fingers removed her old bracelet, which seemed to linger a moment too long, but surely, she was imagining that and replaced it with the new bracelet. This one a thicker chord without beads or pretties. “I had your father show me how to weave this.” It would unravel, Siuan knew, to become a rope usable to climb or tie items down, or used as a fishing line in a pinch. “The same protections are in it, of course.”

Siuan shivered and wondered what it would feel like to kiss the other girl. Her lips looked soft, soft as the hand that lingered on her wrist even still, tugging at the bracelet, ensuring the knot held. Be brave, Siuan thought, but then the door opened to the outside and Moiraine retreated.

The tall guard stepped in. “One of Cadsuane Sedai’s warders is here.”

Moiraine sighed and rose, in a ripple of skirts. “I am sorry; I’d hoped to have a time longer.”

“You’re a queen,” Siuan noted, with a wan smile, feeling like the tide had rushed in, concealing a bounty she’d unearthed. The setting sun glinted off the crown and she hesitated before saying. “It’s fine, you know, to enjoy someone who will only row with you for a time. Life is far too short and I would see you happy even—” The words stopped, true pain seemed to be there for a moment, and then that too disappeared, hidden away better than an Aes Sedai’s stillness. “Talk to your friend, tell her you understand, and in time, you will always have a place at the Sun Palace in whatever capacity you desire, backwater castles are not in your future.”

Moiraine departed as the sun dipped leaving Siuan in darkness, her heart ran and she needed to remind herself sternly that lowly Aes Sedai were not meant to stand beside Sun Queens. The feelings stayed with her until she started to return to her quarters, stayed with her as she returned to where she abandoned her shoes before returning once more to the secret room she shared with Cabriana. Cabriana, was pretty and available if lacking in a sense of duty, but Siuan’s own sense of duty was maybe not as strong as she wished.

Cabriana sat at the table, shoulders hunched, and fingers working steadily at a net. The apologies spilled from both of them at the same time. “I could listen more,” Siuan offered, aware of the burning in her veins, with each moment that passed, with each press closer, memories of eager fumbling in their secret room not so long ago.

Cabriana stood, tentative, shy. “It would be foolish of me to leave in a war…and I am sorry I lied to you, even if I’m not sorry I don’t want to be Aes Sedai.”

“I’d not see you hurt, Aes Sedai or not.”

“I—did you mean it; The kiss?”

Siuan stepped further into the room and closed the door behind her. She hesitated. Moiraine Damodred was beyond a fisherman’s daughter, beyond a mere Accepted of the White Tower. Cabriana was here, pretty, fun, and kind even if she didn’t want to be Aes Sedai. She wouldn’t mind rowing together for a time, only a time.

The thought of pressing forward, of being rebuffed mid-kiss after she’d fled not so long ago made her anxious, so the words spilled. “I don’t care if you plan to leave, spend the rest of your life in Illian—or even if you ended up in Meyene of all places...” People of Meyene were an even odder, more uppity bunch who wandered into Tieren waters far more than Illian. Siuan pushed on, a blush creeping from her chest, “And I’d like to kiss you again.”

No words greeted her. Instead, Cabriana cut the distance between them with eager steps, flatteringly eager. The brush of lips felt like a good cast of a fishing pole. They pressed together in a manner that felt exciting and right.

“More?” Siuan asked, eager, all else forgotten. Cabriana dragged her away, giggling, whispering together as they ran for the Accepted wing. The future would come, but for now, Siuan had a Pillow Friend for the first time and she would enjoy that. Pillow Friends are not meant to be forever. She rather thought Cabriana Mecandes would agree with that, but that was a sentiment that did not need to be voiced.

“When you leave, you’ll be safe? You’ll not leave before then?” The question was asked as Cabriana closed the door to her room. The press of lips against her own seemed answer enough. She rather thought, as the dance began anew, she was passed listening anyway.

Chapter Text

Siuan

The summons arrived as Siuan stood in the doorway of the White Tower, pole resting against her old, worn Accepted whites, hands roughened by continual chores and self-imposed weaving of nets clasping a basket to haul her catch, and her shoelaces threaded and thrown around her neck, leaving her shoes dangling.

She stood in the archway, of course, gazing out the open door, too annoyed to enjoy the slight breeze upon her cheeks. Vibrant pinks and oranges from the sunrise could be seen over the smooth inner walls that acted as the last line of defense between the Aes Sedai and danger—at least external threats. Guards in the chain and helms of their usual uniform walked the courtyard and manned the walls.

The messenger wore plain servants' garb and possessed an effect that made his mouth gape like a fish. He kept looking at her bloody shoes and at the patch of old, faded blood that stained the fabric of her dress. The boy’s own shoes looked like torture devices, so she could understand the envy...

“What, do you want the shoes?” Siuan snapped, impatient. A release of the basket freed her hands to uncoil the shoes and shove it into the servant boy’s chest. The boy gaped harder it seemed, his eyes bugging out as he scrambled to catch the shoes as they began to fall. He failed, of course. Not a warrior or warder; This one was weedy and weak. Not worth a lick of salt, but perhaps worth a horrid pair of shoes.

“I...” he began, then truly looked at the shoes and snapped his mouth shut, no doubt by the horror of wasting that much leather on shoes.

Siuan waited as long as proper, but the fish were biting and her fingers itched to cast her rod, so she turned away to stomp out the door. Two steps into the outer courtyard, and the boy found his voice, “The Amyrlin Seat summons you to her quarters.”

“Fish guts, now?” Siuan exclaimed, wishing she could stomp her feet, but such overt gestures of disgust were inappropriate for a future Aes Sedai according to Gitara Sedai. Why the bloody hell did the summons need to come during her morning fishing time? Irritation and disappointment cohabited together, familiar bedfellows.

“Yes?”

Siuan stared at the boy...mind running over a possibility... “No time was specified.” Not a question, although the boy seemed ready to treat it as one.

“No...but—”

The Tairen Accepted didn’t wait to hear the rest of the response, bounding down the steps, eager to escape before the open request turned into a time-dependent command. Far better to do and ask for permission after. The guards in the tower sprinted down to open the gate, prompt in a manner that spoke of good training. They didn’t start that way.

As Siuan set off into Tar Valon proper, the wind carried the sputters of the servant to her ears and the highly inappropriate gossiping of the guards. Siuan Sanche was not as demanding as a noble. When they moved proper and acted proper, well, Siuan didn’t need to gently correct their behavior. How else would they learn?

The fisherman’s daughter hunched on the dock, dark hair tightly bound in braids, and her features fuzzed by the rippling water. Before Tar Valon, before the Aes Sedai, brief snatches of her reflection in the ocean, a puddle or a bowl of water, warped by the rippling of the weaves or the reverberations of the earth, was all she knew.

Dark eyes, tightly coiled hair, often pulled practically into braids, long, dark limbs, but not as dark as some fisher-folk. That was Siuan Sanche, fisherman’s daughter. The image seemed so far away...decades...ages. A fin cut across her reflection’s head, diagonally, disrupting the image, forcing her eyes away.

The rod lay beside her, untouched. The basket was filled with the odds and ends she needed for fishing. The final ships were just beginning to enter the harbor. Siuan picked up the fishing rod, held it in her hands, and wondered what it would be like to swear the three oaths on the Oath Rod ter’angreal.

“I swear to speak no word that is not true,” Siuan muttered to herself, uneasy as the words left her lips. The tricksy play of words did not always come easily to the fisherman’s daughter. The truth seemed less scary if words could veil the truth, if words could obscure and protect.

“I swear to make no weapon with which one man may kill another.” Well, that one seemed easy enough. Fisherman carved weapons and tools to kill fish, not people. Rope and fishing line could easily be transformed into a garrote when faced with sea raiders or coastal bandits, but she’d not be alone on the coast or at sea in need of protecting herself...and who ever heard of a garrote imbued with the one power? That was for the swords that noble folk and really good killers inherited.

“I will never use the One Power as a weapon...” Siuan trailed off, realizing she didn’t remember the exact phrasing. That one possessed a lot of exceptions and really was more of a feeling. From what Leane Sharif implied, really scared or cowardly Aes Sedai could attack far sooner than others. Siuan didn’t think she was cowardly or easily scared and didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.

What about the Aes Sedai like Cadsuane Melaidhrin, who surely grew past petty fears? How did they manage to navigate the line between an offensive attack and a defensive one?

A sigh escaped and her shoulders drooped. Careful hands settled the rod gently beside her. She would have decades after the oaths were sworn to figure out the nuance—at least that’s what an exasperated Leane snapped at the end of the questioning. Perhaps she should speak to Jarna about the topic. The next meeting with the woman would surely be soon and she needed a safe topic to while away the time. The three oaths seemed a safe topic.

A quick glance to the left, towards the harbor's entrance, showed the last of the line of boats passing into the gate. The time to return to the White Tower for her personal lessons had long since passed and yet Siuan Sanche remained on the dock, feet submerged, mind running. Was there a way to become both Aes Sedai and retain what she had been? Embrace what Gitara Moroso lectured, but not lose the fisherman’s daughter when she swore the oaths?

The two seemed dreadfully incompatible, like a...fish living and thriving on dry land. The fisherman’s daughter will drown surely. Drowning on dry land, there was an irony in that. A tragedy only lived by the elderly and the young of folk rich enough to have tubs that overflowed with water. The rest of the Westlands need to have their head shoved in a bucket deliberately to drown on dry land.

Siuan inhaled, opened herself to the source, and allowed the power to spill into her, filling her lungs, but she forced herself to just be, to allow the louder, more distinct voices to carry to her.

The barest scuff of footsteps on the dock, close, within a few feet, drove her eyes open. She turned. A child crouched, eyes dark as the sea's depths, black hair scuffed and pale skin pink and splattered with salt, bare feet wiggling against the wood, as if from a long journey. A small pack slung over her rags.

The embracing of the source allowed Siuan to sense something different...a well of power that seemed bright as the sun.

“You are Siuan?” The girl asked, eyes incredibly wide, voice seeming to quake with nerves.

A scan of the shoreline showed the Seafolks' ships, sails already lowered, cargo being unloaded by the strong, burly men. Well, there would be no fishing today, it seemed. Her uncle had saved another channeler, and it was time for Siuan Sanche to do her part. “You should have waited on the ship,” Siuan scolded, pulling her feet from the water and pushing herself up by the hand. The white fabric of her dress clung to her wet skin. Ocean water dripped down her lower calf and feet onto the hard dock, forming a puddle.

Real disappointment settled in her gut. She always enjoyed the conversations with the sea folk, even if the Mistress of the Ships had a baffling penchant for bringing cousins or sons or nephews for her to marry—one day, when she grew and earned the command of a ship of her own. No amount of blushing and stammered refusals put the Sea Folk matriarch off.

She was curious, though, which lug of a relative had been dragged along this time, “What family member did the Mistress of the Ships bring this time?” The confusion was plain, but not surprising. Often, the girls her uncle rescued were too scared to interact with the Sea Folk much during the long journey. Would it kill the girls to try a little? How hard was it to open ones mouth and talk? Siuan bloody managed all the time.

“Never mind, can you at least tell me your name?”

Siuan stooped to fetch her basket and fishing pole.

“I am called Mieral,” the dark-haired girl chimed, words accented by a nervous giggle.

Siuan stood and studied the girl, pursing her lips. This one looked rough. “You look like the sea folk dragged you behind their ship in a net.” She had enough marks to purchase a quick bath at The Blue Cat Inn for her fellow Tairen. None of her novices would arrive looking like a beggar. Bad enough to go from hating or fearing or feeling nothing for channelers, only to find out you are one.

The smaller girl’s nostrils flared in irritation, passion, the angry kind flashed in those black eyes. An angry retort would follow.

“Aes Sedai don’t much like overt displays of anger.” The warning was greeted with a snort of ridicule.

“I know it’s burnin’ ridiculous, but they’ll not let you test to become Accepted if you can’t at least pretend to control your temper.” Siuan jabbed her chin out in the direction of the gates into Tar Valon proper before leading the way. Mieral followed behind, quiet as a horse fish before it sprang on prey.

Siuan let silence fall between them as they stood in line to enter the city between a worn, scared refugee and a fair-skinned trader from Andor. Conversation bubbled around them about the upcoming war disrupting certain trade, but allowing others to flourish, about the violence of the White Cloaks that were carving across the land.

Mieral cut in at that, voice threaded with nerves, “Are these White Cloaks close?”

“They’ll not breach the walls, lass,” the guard manning the gate assured her, as they stepped closer. Mieral seemed...disappointed by the answer.

If Siuan thought the walls were their only protection, she’d be disappointed too. The assurance was easy enough to give: “The Aes Sedai will help protect the walls.”

The guard nodded. “Right you are, you’re coming to the luckiest city in all of the Westlands. The White Tower has never fallen, nor have the outer or inner walls been breached. With so many Aes Sedai in the city that day, it will likely never come.” The guard’s gaze turned to the empty basket. “No luck today, Siuan?”

Siuan shrugged, “Figured I’d give the fish another day to gather their nerve for the next fight.”

The guard laughed and waved them in, and Tar Valon proper unfolded around them. Siuan scanned the streets. The city was blooming odd at first sight. Beasts and people from all over the world, exotic spices and perfumes creating a cacophony of new scents, and the accents were as numerous as the fish in the sea. The streets were relatively clean, aside from newly expelled dung from camels, donkeys, and horses.

“It is so...” The girl wrinkled her nose and shook her head, shaggy hair flying.

“Just focus on me and it’ll be a bit until you’ll need to brave the city again. Novices aren’t allowed out of the tower ‘cept for special occasions under direct supervision of the tower guard or an Aes Sedai.”

The lips curled, Siuan expected a complaint, but instead a question spilled out: “How many Aes Sedai are in the tower?”

“More novices than Aes Sedai these days,” Siuan noted, “But enough to protect the tower.” The assurances barely produced a flicker of an expression in black eyes. Then the next question came: How many novices are there? And the next: how many accepted.

The questions about the tower and the Aes Sedai and the training to be expected carried as they wove through the crowds, around carts, and under or through little decorative gates until the pair arrived at the inn in the shape of a cat.

Siuan ordered a lukewarm bath for the girl and hoped for a bit of silence, but the questions continued until she, ready to return to the sea and throw herself in, snapped a need to find a drink. Siuan ordered honey wine, wishing to indulge in something harder for the first time. Light, the new novice would return soon with ever more questions. Burn it, she wasn’t the Mistress of Novices, even if she had formed a pod with all of the youth that her uncle rescued.

Usually, new members of her pod sent by her uncle were a tad more timid. She missed that. Wished perhaps Mieral would have been that, as unfair as it seemed.

The fisherman’s daughter leaned against the bar top, listened to the distant murmur of voices. Three others sat upon, nursing drinks. A couple (a man and woman) sat close together. The other a young man with fair skin, half-hidden by a patchy beard and mustache with dashing blue eyes, and chin-length hair the color of night, who lounged between the couple and Siuan.

“I’d sooner believe a bloody gleeman,” the woman exclaimed, curled crop of blond hair shaking vigorously. Tipped fingers reaching out to snag the edge of the man’s overcoat.

Her mouse-like companion rolled his eyes and shook her off, ale nearly sloshing over the edge of the glass with the motion. The fine mustache rippled as he let out an irate huff. “Not no Gleeman, but truth is truth. Heard it from Old Fay, who heard it from the cloth vendor who heard it from a Cairhienen trader. The Sun Queen swore the oaths; she can’t lie.”

“She ain’t no trader,” the woman snapped back.

The man with the blue eyes glanced over to her, brow raised, lips twitching in amusement at the interaction. Siuan pursed her lips, thoughts so very close to the surface. All Cairhienen nobles were merchants, to some degree. She’d heard Anvaere complain about the matter often enough. The High Houses just hoarded enough wealth to hire other merchants to run the caravans.

“Oh, and the news that the White Cloaks and the High Lords of Tear are conquering Mayene is wrong?”

“Conquered?” His companion noted, “Conquered implies a fight. That prince they had fled as the ships were landing. Nothing to conquer if the lords open the gates and let the hoard in.”

The words ripped from Siuan. Any fool knew Mayenners were cowardly sneaks. “What else can be expected from Mayene? Not a brave bone bred into that lot.”

The pair swiveled to stare at her. The humor fled from the blue-eyed man. She’d expected a response from the mouse or his companion, but the lone man spoke, soft, cultured, “A daughter of Tear would say that. What is the saying? Better to be beaten and left for dead in the mud of Tear than to live among puff fish in Mayene...”

Siuan bristled.

“Tairen scum would say that,” the woman said, lip curled in disgust.

The mouse stood, hands falling to his side, brushing against a dagger's hilt. “What’s to say she isn’t here to open the gates? Give us to Tear? I’ve heard lasses will do anything for the High Lords there. Even murder their children, even give over their own young for sport.”

“That’s bloody lies,” Siuan retorted, hand pushing off the table, rainbow cuffs on display, but given no mind. No one in the many months of traveling the city had acted so outwardly aggressive and rude. She opened herself to the source, power filled her, and the ability to weave sat at her fingertips. One simple knot.

“A bloody spy would claim that, right?” The woman beside him nodded firmly while finding her feet.

“The only scum I see here is you,” a smooth, lilting voice cut in from behind. Siuan jolted and upended some of the drink over the edge of the cup. The new novice, not a girl she realized now, but a young woman. She seemed a tad older, not covered in salt and dirt, not stinking of long captivity in the communal quarter of the ship. Mieral cleaned up well enough. Dark locks were wet and slick across her brow, almost falling into dark eyes, and her face was a tad plain, covered in a light sheen of burnt skin, but otherwise free of scars that marred many a face of her fellow Tairen’s from one accident or another. Oval-shaped, dark moons created crescents under the eyes in shades of violet, demonstrating a bone-deep tiredness that the early day wouldn’t be able to remedy for a time yet.

The couple shifted at the newcomer, noting the similar accent, and their expressions darkened. The knife came out. Siuan twisted a weave of air between her fingers, readying herself to collect more weaves. She’d not let her new companion be injured.

The blue-eyed man seamlessly rose, twisted the dagger from a firm grip, and kicked his stool into the woman’s knees. “Tower Guard will not like citizens attacking Accepted in Tar Valon. I will keep this,” the knife waved between fingers, “so no foolish ideas are tried.” Blue eyes skittered to Siuan, “And I’d release the weaves, too many delegates in Tar Valon for the Tower to overlook brawling in a public tavern, even one as charming as this.”

Siuan allowed the weave to slip from her fingers, but did not close her connection to the source. The couple cast one last menacing glare before collecting their drinks and wandering into the tavern proper to claim a table. The insults continued to flow, low enough that no normal hearing range should be able to register.

The blue-eyed man examined the knife, fingers running over the pommel, pressing against the edge of the blade. “A frightfully ineptly made blade. I hope this isn’t the best Tar Valon has to offer.”

“Plenty of places for rich Mayene to purchase decorative pieces weighed down by gemstones the size of a sea serpent’s eye.”

Those eyes fell to the fillet knife set into the fish basket. “And where does a Tairen Accepted procure her blades?” The idle, almost playful tone made Siuan want to show him she knew how to use that blade months into her knife training. Instead, she hissed, “Not anywhere that would serve you!”

“Then you wouldn’t mind saying, surely.”

“The White Tower armory.”

The hum made her eyes twitch. The man put down his drink, and Siuan turned away, disgusted. Mieral stood slitted eyes honed on the couple across the room, a slow curling anger set into her bones. Siuan understood that emotion.

The rich high lords thought they owned Tear, thought they defined every aspect of the country, but the fisherfolk, the merchants, the innkeepers, even the channelers driven from the muddy shores belonged to Tear as much.

“They don’t know us,” Siuan muttered, catching the girls eyes, “But we can’t force a price, not here, not now. Not as novices and accepted at the White Tower.” The words seemed to settle in her gut and coalesce into a nerve she’d not felt since she’d plunged into the arches during the Accepted test for the first time, but even that feeling was vague. “One day we will be Aes Sedai and we’ll have the power to make them see us and accept us...from Mayene to Tear to the far past the White Tower.”

The Mayenner, he must be that, for no other would bother to defend such a hopeless people. A prince whose first instinct was to flee to safety and save his own skin? Siuan tried to imagine Moiraine Damodred or even Morgase Trakand acting so cravenly and could not. One last shake of the head.

The time to depart had long passed. Siuan nodded to the wary innkeeper, stooped to pat the innkeeper's shaggy dog on the head, before nabbing her basket and settling her pole on her shoulder. She led the way from the inn.

A glance up to the sky showed the sun at its zenith. Fish guts, I might be gutted for being so late, new novice or no, but there's no help for that now. Still, it would be better to hurry. The main roads would be clogged this time of day, but the side streets seemed too dangerous to risk after such an aggressive interaction.

The door to the inn opened and Siuan turned, wary that the couple followed them out to cause further trouble. The blue-eyed Mayenner strode forward, pack over his shoulder. He fell into step next to her and raised a brow, “You are returning to the White Tower, yes?”

“And? I won’t request you be rewarded for thieving a dagger off of a slip of a man.”

“Would you have preferred I wait until it was in your gut?”

Siuan huffed and didn’t bother to answer. “Come,” she commanded Mieral. The girl stared at the Mayenner like he was a multi-colored, feathered bird who knew how to caw a few phrases. The first few stomps felt satisfying; the next few shamefully childlike.

The rapid sound of a bound met her ears before the lithe man fell into step beside her. He loomed over her by barely a few inches that felt like a yard. He twirled about, arms flamboyant, blue eyes drinking in the exotic sites, nearly ramming into wagons and horses and honest folk over and over until he did. The horse kicked out, and the man threw himself back with a hurried apology to the beast.

“Can you bloody stop dancing about?” Siuan demanded, stepping forward and grabbing the man by his arm. “It’s a wonder you aren’t a bloody corpse at the side of the road. I thought Mayenners at least were supposed to be graceful!”

“The one redeeming quality?” The flirtatious tone made Siuan roll her eyes, hard.

“Is that a compliment?” Siuan asked Mieral, oh so sweetly.

“Swans are graceful, butterflies are graceful. They end up prey all the same,” the child chirped.

“Cold,” the young man complained.

“Honest,” Siuan replied before leading the way once more.

The rest of the journey through Tar Valon was uneventful. In the end, the fisherman’s daughter returned to the White Tower late, not with fish, but with a novice and a runaway with enough raw power to perhaps make up for her tardiness. Perhaps.

It was not.

“The Mistress of Novices orders you to report to her office,” the guard said as soon as she passed the threshold. Siuan grit her teeth, curled her fingers at Mairal to follow.

The Mayenner stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, as if he were a man of import and not a peacock without sense. That smile was not charming. “I don’t suppose I can be blessed with a name for the Accepted who escorted me to the White Tower? Tar Valon is dangerous.”

Siuan huffed in disgust.

“The ruffian did possess a rather dull dagger and a look perhaps only half as deadly as yours. I am called Rewl.”

Rewl, what a bloody stupid name only a Mayenner would inflict on their child.

Siuan rolled her eyes, “Mieral, come.” She stomped away, fishing pole swaying, and basket thumping against her side. The fishing knife glinted in the lamplight temptingly. If this Rewl continued to follow her, well, surely the Mistress of Novice would understand.

The outsider remained in the courtyard. The fisherman’s daughter turned Accepted, led her newest pod member to the next stage in her life, safe in the White Tower, far away from the perils of war and occupation by an overzealous religious group that claimed to serve the Light.

Siuan turned to Mieral as they turned a corner. “Next time, we’ll lose him in the sea.”

Mayenners swam like a land tortoise dropped into the deep ocean.

Mieral’s dark eyes roamed over the pristinely white walls, the rich tapestries, the carved artisan-crafted doors, and the wall sconces holding torches and candles that left the white corridors without even a patch of darkness. “No ocean here and these corridors are poor battlefields...perhaps deeper, further in...”

Siuan raised a brow, not a weak, gentle sort then. Perhaps destined for the green or red one day. Finally, someone who could perhaps stand on their own without her needing to worry. Perhaps today, no matter the punishment, would not have been a complete waste.

Chapter Text

The Mistress of Novices office melded soft frivolity, with a mean pragmatism. Lush weavings decorated the walls, scenes depicting the pastoral setting the White Tower had been built upon. Aes Sedai on the bank of a river, what must be an Ogier at their side, gazing upward toward Dragonmount, toward what could be the continent's doom. A fanciful weaving of past and present.

As Siuan wandered, ears turned to the door, straining to hear the conversation between the Aes Sedai and the soon-to-be novice. The elder stately woman ordered Siuan to remain while she stepped into the hall for a quick questioning of the potential new novice.

The tone had been cool, collected—all an Aes Sedai should be. The tightness in the eyes reminded her of her uncle would stagger home after a night of gambling and carousing, stinking of ale and tabac, and high enough to miss the subtle clues for what they were.

Siuan wasn’t fool enough to miss the obvious signs of punishment incoming. A scolding and perhaps worse...she didn’t know what would be worse...

A monsoon raged in her, a storm of emotions: anger at the delay, irritation at the reminder of Rewl, and concern at what punishment might fall on the girl she’d escorted into the White Tower. Surely, she’d not be turned away.

Rather than settling in the cushioned chair patient as fisherfolk learned in their early days—fish didn’t just jump into nets, after all—Siuan wandered the room, senses enhanced, searching for anything out of place. The small quarters were immaculate; dust thoroughly purged from old punishment stools that were stored in a glass case: paddles and belts of various sizes. A bookcase contained well-worn ancient books and on top a woven basket.

Curious, Siuan reached up and caught the basket with a finger and pulled just enough to see inside. Finely woven handkerchiefs, scarves, and shawls intermingled sloppily. Worn, dirty cloth awaiting a novice's hands to ferry it to the washing room. The more delicate pieces would be regulated to professional laundresses; the more common pieces would be cleaned directly by the novices.

Siuan gazed at the door, heart beginning to thunder in her chest. What if the blood on the cloth wasn’t a one-time incident? If Siuan couldn’t trust the Mistress of Novices, how could she trust her with the pod, with her friends, and every other novice?

Quickly, she pulled the basket down and began rooting through the fabric. The weaves were fine and almost glided through her fingers as she searched. A few possessed dirt, one an unknown grey stain, and plenty of perfectly clean-looking cloth. No fisherman would bother to clean clothes that clean. All the way at the bottom, red on white caught her eye. She snatched the fabric, shook it out, and studied the stain.

A pink blot with small...what were those small oblong shapes? Seeds, perhaps. A quick smell unveiled a fruity scent that made Siuan’s stomach growl. Nothing...She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not.

Still, to be safe, she scurried to her feet and cast a squint-eyed gaze behind the shelf. There. A lump of something against the wall. Siuan, heart beating, glanced back at the closed door before throwing herself to the floor, wedging her arm into the gap, and straining to reach. A grunt erupted as the tips of her fingers pressed against cloth, but she couldn’t gain enough traction to pull the object free.

“Fish guts,” Siuan hissed, irate that her bloody arms failed her. It wasn’t as if she were as tragically short as the Cairhienens or some of the poorer folk in the Tairen slums. Fisher folk had enough to eat, enough to grow, as long as the fish kept biting.

A quick, simple weave bounced the cloth just close enough to clamp down on the fabric with her hand to pull—

The door opened. Siuan froze. The door closed.

Jarna Malari’s voice filled the room. “You’ve collected quite a collection of novices...there is a subtle power, a subtle control in binding your sisters to you. That is how Amyrlin Seats are forged, not in strength in the power, but in the ability to call on your sisters in your hour of need...” A pause and then the dreaded question, “Why are you sprawled on the floor and riffling through my laundry?”

Siuan’s hand snapped back as she rolled back on her heels and seamlessly rose, eyes falling to the cloth in her hands. A white handkerchief inscribed with the symbol of the Aes Sedai. A red stain started on the white and spread onto the black of the symbol. Disappointment bloomed in her gut. She’d hoped to be wrong.

Bloody cloth means nothing...unless a decapitated head rolled from a bed, unless a lily-white throat had been sheared...

“Siuan Sanche, I thought you more than a back-alley snoop, riffling through a lady's garments.”

Think, damn you. Siuan snapped to attention, words tumbling from her mouth, “I thought my punishment might be laundry duty, and I should just accept my fate.”

The hardness in the expression smoothed... “That is very mature of you Siuan.”

“A woman accepts her fate if she ventures out on stormy waters, Jarna Sedai.” That sharp-eyed gaze fell to the handkerchief in her hand. She snapped her hand closed, gathering the cloth close, hiding the stain, and quickly shoved the cloth against the edge of the basket.

“Put that away. We have a discussion to be had that encompasses more than soiled laundry. Let me just—” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see weaves pulled in, delicately, with the skill of centuries that Siuan usually loved to watch, to pick apart. This woman could teach her so much...if only she could be trusted.

She busied herself, picking up the basket and slipping it back onto the top of the shelf. As she was about to turn, a foul curse split the air and not from burning Siuan Sanche, fisherman’s daughter, often known for her foul tongue.

Siuan turned around and blinked, dumbfounded. The feel of Saidar still held, some sort of privacy ward, but the Aes Sedai clutched at her face, smears of red dripping through the seams of her fingers, and dripping—one drop at a time onto the fine sea-weed-hued dress. Red on green. The hand not clutching her nose dropped to the desk and began to root around until fine, red smeared fingers snagged a piece of cloth.

“Siuan, can you please fetch the jug of water and the bowl on the far shelf?” The Mistress of Novices requested, words muffled behind the pinch of the cloth clamped down.

She surged into action, feet moving while her mind whirled. As doubt set in, a bloody nose? What was the bloody chance the same circumstance would happen over and over and over? Siuan could count on one hand the number of times she was inflicted by a bloody nose and most of those were from scuffles between cousins or being hit in the nose with the end of a fishing pole or being plowed into by a flailing fish on the line.

The jug she grabbed with her right hand and the bowl with her left. She twisted on her heels, bare feet sliding over polished tile.

The older woman sat behind the desk, cloth firmly set around her nose, streaks of blood dripping down pale skin. Dark eyes caught hers, and a finger crooked at her in a silent command.

Could this woman really have murdered Sheriam or any of the others who have been murdered or gone missing of late? The thought swirled in her mind, doubt where suspicion once curdled. Quick feet almost caused the water to slosh over the edge. Still, she kept onward, plonking the jug on the desk and sliding the bowl adjacent. A quick tilt filled the finely made pot with clear water, free from the impurities in the water she’d drunk her entire life.

“I think it might be slowing. Can you fetch me a hand towel from the far drawer?”

A firm nod, and she scurried off to complete the task. She yanked open a drawer to find writing implements, another to find various knick-knacks, and a third to find nothing but air. “Which drawer, Jarna Sedai?”

The woman shifted, “That is the right...” Eyes trailed to the basket of mostly clean cloth and sighed. “The laundry has not been cleaned as of yet...please bring one of the cleaner-looking ones, will you?”

Siuan did as ordered. By the time she returned to the desk, Jarna Sedai removed the cloth from her nose and delicately began dabbing at a nostril, as if to see if it still bled free.

“Doesn’t look like it's leaking, Jarna Sedai.” Siuan chirped up.

“Leaking,” The woman seemed amused by the word. “I suppose I do leak often. Not the type of leaking that causes long-term damage, thank the light, but it is inconvenient when I suddenly start bleeding from my nose at a meeting with the Amyrlin Seat and her Keeper of the Chronicles.”

Siuan passed over the cloth and winced when she realized she had snagged the one she’d tried to hide away. The one with what was likely blood...if the bloody nose was any indication. “Fuck, sorry, I’ll just—”

“Wait.” The order came, and Siuan halted, upper body swaying with the sudden order. “It has been too long since I taught you a new weave.”

Siuan turned slowly, and those eyes fell to the fish blood stain on Siuan’s Accepted dress. The woman, even covered in blood, somehow looked elegant as a lady. It was the prim, proud posture. The upward tilt of the chin. The straight, exact set of her shoulders. “Neither of us can be seen wandering about the White Tower looking as if we just returned from a battle against trollocs.”

She followed that dark gaze to the shoulder of her accepted whites to the faint stain. “You tried to clean that yourself with the cleaning solutions given to the novices?”

A flush climbed her cheeks. “Yes, ma’am. I have other dresses. More than I know what to do with. Elaida keeps gifting me bloody more, each of a nicer material.” She rolled her eyes.

“Ahh, yes, the gifts.” An amused tilt of an eyebrow. “Come, watch,” Jarna commanded, before setting the freshly bloody cloth on a patch of space on her desk not covered in parchment. Then the hand movements came. The deliberately slow gathering of overly large weaves of the One Power to demonstrate a new weave.

Siuan Sanche’s duty was to learn. She stepped closer, eyeing each shift of the weaves, each little intertangling to form deliberate knots.

The weave met the blood-stained towel, drenching the cloth, and then the movement retreated, pulling the water free with just the smallest amount of air and earth interwoven. A ball of pink-tinted water hung in the air and a perfectly clean, dry cloth sat upon the desk. Weaves of fire spinning around the pink-tinted fluid turned the fluid to steam.

“You are to remain until every cloth in that basket, as well as your accepted dress, are all clean and free of stains.”

“What will you—”

“I have correspondence to write. The upcoming war and my shift in position have left me woefully behind on my correspondence with old friends and allies. After you finish, we will speak of what must be.”

The punishment started slowly; her mind running over the weaves, trying to mimic each twist, each precise formation of knots, but her mind failed her. Thrice Jarna pulled herself away from her letters to demonstrate the next steps, agile fingers moving faster, weaves deliberately smaller to force her mind to focus. Still, Siuan pushed through, teeth gritted, eager to learn, until she’d managed to remove the fruit stain from the handkerchief.

Twice she needed to make the journey from the Mistress of Novices' quarters to the water storage room to refill the jug, but finally, mind tired, but satisfied all the same, she knelt on the floor, dress clean, braids dripping water from her overzealous weaves, and a satisfied smile at a task successfully completed.

“To think Merean Redhill would have wasted years of your potential learning alongside less gifted channelers.”

Siuan folded the final cloth and set it neatly in the basket. “I would have survived well enough.”

“Yes, years to snoop through baskets of Aes Sedai and spend your free time scurrying through the bowels of this tower finding mischief that would land you here.”

“I am here, all the same. My uncle says trouble is a talent.”

“A pity to be granted that rather than foretelling or the ability to see ta’veren.”

Siuan wrinkled her nose. A gold shimmer around ta’veren was barely a better talent than an ability to find trouble would be. Anyone with eyes and sense in their head could say Moiraine Damodred was bound for greatness. She was the bloody Sun Queen.

“You do not agree?” The Aes Sedai leaned back, eyebrow raised. A gesture to the cushioned chair before the massive desk caused Siuan to clamber to her feet and obey.”

“It’s just a golden sheen. It does tell anything of note.”

An amused chuckle slipped from quirked lips. “It is said that Artur Hawkwing was Ta’veren. We know Lew Theron Telamon was. The Wheel, The Pattern, The Creator grants such beings influence that rivals the power of Saiden and Saidar. The One Power can allow the deliberate subjugation of a mind. A dark power that we Aes Sedai do not use, but the power of Ta’veren can force choices upon others. Would the Ogier have agreed to work with Cairhien? Or did the pattern push the Ogier to an easy agreement?”

“Moiraine wouldn’t.” The objection spilled free, a harsh, loud objection that caused the Mistress of Novices to lean away. The expression shifted from surprise to pity.

Siuan’s jaw worked; her chin rose stubbornly.

“Child, she’s a Damodred.”

“She’s not one of the bad ones.”

A hard stare. The next words were slow, quiet enough that Siuan needed to lean forward. “Nobles are like Aes Sedai without the guardrails of the Three Oaths. Untold power of life and death with an incentive to murder and commit violence to maintain their positions. The nobles gather to solidify alliances, yes, but also to scheme over the spoils of war. Continent-level clashes rewrite borders, beggar some kingdoms, and allow others to rise. Your Moiraine has been speaking often with the Amyrlin Seat about expanding towards Tear, claiming more tracts of land to award loyal nobles and grant her growing collection of nieces and nephews' estates.”

Tear—her home. The land of fisherfolk and swamps and proud people who didn’t much like uppity inland nations. Moiraine wouldn’t, couldn’t. The very thought felt like a betrayal.

“You need to work on your Aes Sedai mask, child.”

“It’s wrong,” Siuan hissed. She couldn’t believe it. Not of the girl who wove her bracelets, not of the girl who took the time to teach Siuan her letters when she didn’t need to. “You’re wrong.”

Siuan had to look away from the blatant pity in that delicate, timeless face. “You will grow to understand the games of politics that the nobles you will walk among play. You are no longer a fisherwoman from Tear, but an Aes Sedai, one bound for the Sun Court if the Keeper of the Chronicles has her way.”

The proclamation clamped around her neck, feeling tight as a vice, but she forced the words bubbling inside out of her lips. “I bloody tire of Aes Sedai claiming who I should be, how I should serve the Light. What if...all I wanted was to be sent to some backwater fishing village to administer healing. Would I be left to my mending and tending?”

“You would waste such potential on broken bones and winter chills?” The stately Aes Sedai radiated disappointment.

Siuan thrust her chin up, unrelenting, unconcerned. Why should it matter if she fell short in this woman’s mind? Bloody secrets may not lie in her past beyond nose bleeds, but she was not the Creator, not even ta’veren, to sway her path.

Ta’veren...

The fisherman’s daughter clambered to her feet and clenched her fingers into fists, eyes falling to where the bloody stain once lay on her right shoulder, now clean as if the fish had never bled on her. Perhaps the time had come to be daring, to ask for truth of a sort.

“Did Moiraine Damodred demand I be assigned to the Sun Palace?” The reassurances that she would always have a place in the Sun Palace possessed a darker, more twisted bent.

“Demand? Queens do not make demands of the Amyrlin Seat, child.” The words were delicate, in that cunning manner of Aes Sedai with centuries of life, centuries of internal Aes Sedai politics. “The request was firm and promises were made...promises of donations to be extended past what she has been providing to you...”

Siuan‘s hand shifted to the bracelet. The fine thread, expertly woven, weaves of safety set into every twist of the knot.. The bracelets were a small enough offering, and she’d started to send her own in return. She went to ask for clarity, but the sister just went on talking. “...why she thought to go through an Accepted rather than the Mistress of Novices is beyond me, but that has been corrected. The novices will get their allotments monthly to spend as they need. I will be escorting any accepted to the counting house to access your funds directly to spend as you will.”

Siuan felt as if she were pummeled by a rogue wave. Elaida? Her funds? Those bloody shoes. She felt...too many emotions. This was beyond gratitude for a friend saving her family. This was wrong, like she had been slowly subtly bought for months and months and months. Scum in the rougher parts of Tear would give gifts, free of course, just enough to keep the poor sucker hooked, but one day the bill would be due. Gifts weren’t free.

“No,” Siuan said, firm. “I won’t accept.”

“Child, you already have. Months of accepted gifts...I fear our Sun Queen's reaction to you, to the White Tower. Your Pod, is it? Damodred funds will see them set with winter clothes, with sturdy shoes, and with all of the small objects that you have taken for granted these many months. And if not for them, for your sisters, the Aes Sedai, the White Tower. Not since Artur Hawkwing have we been granted the chance to change the narrative. To change the minds of fools like the High Lords of Tear. You do wish to return home someday? Yes?”

Siuan felt as if a noose set around her neck encircling her tighter. The fury from the sneaky showering of gifts, for going behind her back, for lying to her, on top of the pressure to what? Become a liar herself? To accept a woman she thought she knew, but clearly did not. No, she would not. Could not. A shake of the head sent droplets of water flying.

“Sit, now,” Jarna ordered, before standing to circle the desk.

Siuan followed orders, belligerent, annoyed.

The sister leaned against the desk and leaned closer, voice soft, “Nothing is certain save Saidar, Saiden, and the inevitability of an end, but now is not the time to stir up questions, not as the Aes Sedai are at the precipice of more power than we’ve known in centuries, not as war is on the horizon that could endanger every channeler on the continent.”

A snort erupted from Siuan, disgust filled her. “Power...is that all the Aes Sedai care about?”

“Living in a world where fools who claim to serve the light cannot behead, burn, or drown us in a misguided sense of jealousy and fear? How does that fit in a fantasy of rejecting one of the most powerful kingdoms in the nation and becoming a country wisdom or some other such folly?”

Siuan stood, furious, done.

“You will sit down?”

“Is this why you’ve been shirking your duties, running from messengers, and putting only half the effort into your lessons? A misguided effort to become just another sister? One to be forgotten. And now you discover what was before your eyes all this time.”

“I did not earn—”

“Earned? What of the power you were born with? Power that Moiraine Damodred could only fantasize. You, Siuan Sanche, have been claimed by queens. The Sun Queen has specifically requested you be part of her court upon attaining the shawl. A lowly fisherman’s daughter, risen higher than any other poor channeler from Tear. You can leave now and I will know you are not the right fit for any position of power—even a village healer. You will be regulated to lazing about, entrapped in this tower, left to dream of palaces and exotic coasts...”

The threat caused Siuan to shake. “You cannot.”

“No, I fear I couldn’t. Not when a ta’veren has claimed you, so flee, see how long the pattern lets you off the leash before you are reeled onto the proper path.”

Not a threat, far worse. Siuan fell into the chair, grunting as it skidded back. Siuan felt her stomach sink and twist. Not at being hoodwinked, at being wrong about who Moiraine Damodred must be, there was relief in that. Better to know than to wander into a storm blind. How many others had she chummed the water to pull to her?

Elaida only paid her any mind because of Moiraine Damodred. Surely, she’d set Anvaere on her path as well? And really, what did an Arafellin and Andoran bound for the Green Ajah have in common with a fisherman’s daughter? And Liandrin, only around because Anvaere Damodred blatantly claimed her for House Damodred? How far did the web go? Who could she trust?

Pa always said those types were always the most dangerous, the most methodical, even if they didn’t have the instinct for cold-blooded murder. The slow, methodical schemes that pulled you in until you were too deep off the coast to swim to safety.

Grovel, act close, a loyal dog until you can flee.

Siuan palmed the back of her neck, let her eyes fall, so she could not see the fury until it could be contained. “And if I do not wish to be bound to Moiraine Damodred?”

No smile. No immediate rejection. Just a thoughtful expression. “I—”

The feeling of fury banked, and suffocation eased. Not as hardline as she’d feared. Carve a different path. She learned forward, “What can I do? Please, Jarna Sedai.”

“It would need to be a subtle shift, so as not to cause alarm in the Keeper of the Chronicles or the Amyrlin Seat. I am considering creating a program to apprentice accepted to Aes Sedai in foreign courts or on foreign missions...perhaps you could be one of our first.”

“Yes,” Siuan exclaimed, leaning forward. That sounded splendid after a half-year of being lied to and manipulated from the time she stepped into the White Tower. Time away, to regroup, to discover herself away from the pressure, the manipulation of others.

“I’m afraid if we are to accomplish this. If I am to recommend you above other, more senior accepted, you will need to be seen following all of the rules, dedicating all of your time to your education. That means no fishing in the morning, no secret meetings with your little pod of novices, and no sneaking or mischief.”

Siuan flinched at the proclamation. No fishing? The thought brought despair. She’d never felt closer to home, closer to her Pa than when she was fishing. Her eyes trailed to the pole leaning against the wall near the door. Fancier than any she’d ever known. A mysterious present...

From Moiraine, of course. The morning journeys suddenly felt tainted, but the novices, all saved by her uncle. How could she forgo helping them settle? Ensuring they entered this new, scary stage of their education, not woefully behind. Siuan had received her own help, now in retrospect, with ulterior motives, but she couldn’t imagine not receiving those early lessons, that early support.

This time, untainted by secrecy and lies. “Jarna Sedai, I would like to formally request helping with the beginner lessons for the novices. If I can’t meet with my pod informally, while I’m here, can I—”

“You are skilled in the One Power, skilled enough to be a fine teacher, I suspect. I will add you to the roster and assign your novices to the class, as well as a few others who are struggling.

“Will they be alright after I’m gone, Jarna Sedai?”

A long pause, a small, warming smile. “I will see to them all personally, Siuan Sanche.”

“Thank you, Jarna Sedai.” A bow, deeper than she ever granted to any beyond the Amyrlin Seat. The dismissal came with the barest flicker of the hand. The steps to the door felt like an Age. Once in the hallway, Siuan paused to speak a few words to Mieral, but the Mistress of Novices' voice floated from the room, “Mieral, child, come.”

The soon-to-be novice nodded to Siuan before slipping into the room. The door swung closed, but not before the kindly, charming voice of Jarna Malari filtered out, all that was flattering and gracious and kind. She’ll be fine, Siuan thought.

The halls of the White Tower felt stifling around her. The long trek to one of the many rooms she’d fashioned into a small piece of Tear passed in a blink. She stood in the doorway, blinking back moisture, wishing to pretend the wetness on her cheeks was the ocean’s spray, but dry land bound her as surely as her soon-to-be oaths to the Aes Sedai, as surely as the webs that Moiraine Damodred meant to leash around her person.

She won’t have me.

The purge began—weaves of nets and ropes set into handwoven baskets. Siuan picked up a piece of parchment. Jagged, malformed attempts at writing by a few of her pod who never learned their letters made her smile. They’d improved over the long winter months, transformed closer to women who could one day be Aes Sedai.

A rap on the door drew her glance up. Meidani stood on the threshold, her bright eyes studying her as if she were an exotic specimen. Siuan placed the parchment down, feeling suddenly foolish to feel sentiment over something so stupid. “What are you doing?”

“I want to be Aes Sedai, but not the type the Keeper of the Chronicles wants me to be...”

Meidani, golden-haired, pretty, a tad older, knew what it meant to be conflicted, knew what it meant not to want to be Aes Sedai. “What do you need?” The question was soft and curled around Siuan. This woman, she could trust. This woman hadn’t been set on her trail by Moiraine Damodred.

“Help me clear this up? Jarna Sedai said she could help, but...”

A simple nod without a single objection, as if she hadn’t just announced the eradication of a small piece of Tear in the White Tower. She doesn’t want to be here or in Tear. The thought stung but was also a small comfort. It meant she chose Siuan for well, Siuan, and would continue to choose her for as long as she remained. Quietly, the two daughters of Tear returned the room to what it had been: an empty, forgotten chamber deep in the bowels of the White Tower.

Siuan hoped one day, with the influx of new novices, it might return to what it had been meant to be—not a hideaway, but an integral piece of the Aes Sedai. Siuan would need to find her own path and would not see its return to glory, but better that than to be reeled into another's net.

Chapter Text

The morning started well before the sun illuminated the distant peaks of Dragonmount for the Sun Queen of Cairhien. Delicate, careful steps through halls that seemed too small. This tower has not been my home for hundreds of years.

Home had been a man and their horses. Home had been the little cottage she secreted away to with her lover. Home had not been in this tower at the heart of the Westlands since Gitara Sedai proclaimed the Dragon born again. A singular moment that altered the path she would walk for hundreds of years.

Four guards surrounded her, not warders. Skilled warriors without the enhancements granted by the bond. The thought of another touching her soul, chaining her, caused a full-body shudder that could be disguised as a chill from the brisk morning air.

Moiraine Damodred followed a familiar path, down corridors, up flights of stairs, expression serene despite the discomfort in her bones. Pain pulsed with each step, but she’d experienced far worse and did not have the luxury to linger in bed until the pain settled.

Each step was a battle, but she forced her mind to plan, to consider contingencies upon contingencies. She stood before the last flight of stairs that led to the floor with te Amyrlin Seat’s quarters.

What if the Cairhien fell once more? What if the Borderlanders did not fall in line? What if Anvaere fled the prospect of marriage? What if Siuan, never became her Siuan? The last should not cause her heart to twist and her feet to stall before the last flight of stairs. She settled a hand to her aching chest, pressing into the pain as if to staunch a wound that did not bleed.

The plain, honorary Great Serpant Ring only served as a reminder of the new path she walked. One where the end of her path would not take her to Siuan Sanche, the Amyrlin Seat. At this time, Siuan Sanche should be safe in bed within the Accepted quarters.

Years too soon. There was pride in that. Her Siuan had a quick mind, but the practices of the Aes Sedai and a personality prone to mischief had delayed her passage from Novice to Accepted. And she wished to remain by your side. In the last turning, the pair had not entered the White Tower at the same time, but their passage from Novice to Accepted to Aes Sedai synchronized. She could have ascended earlier if she wished. She chose you.

Moiraine wished she could remember more of those years, but time wore away at them until only flickers of memories remained.

A cleared throat, jolted her into movement. The stairs were a battlefield, but she’d survived far worse. Eventually, her steps led her to the intricate Ogier-carved door that led to the Amyrlin’s Study.

Moiraine waited, as a queen should, for Tal to step forward and announce her. The tall once channeler was prickly of late. Perhaps, the time had come to cease delaying the inevitable. The other guards shifted uneasily. Not even balefire could erase the tension. No, she feared that would linger even amidst a pitched battle. A dangerous prospect. One that sent a chill down her spine. Cut him loose.

The words were cool as they escaped her lips, “Do you know the true worth of an Aes Sedai and her warder?”

No words, just the sound of grinding teeth that her enhanced hearing from embracing the source could sense. Moiraine shifted on her heel, her gown, a voluptuous, deep blue cotton enhanced with silver thread, flared around her, brushing against Frej’s leg. The petite man was already enwrapped in a veil that obscured his albino pale features. He shied away as if she’d struck him.

No response from any of her guards. Darron, the eldest, idly ran a hand through his shaggy gray locks. Karwin twisted away, hand on her sword, eyes scanning the hall for danger.

No danger came. Not that she could hear with her enhanced senses at least. The dark would not send grey men after her. Not yet.

Moiraine continued, “Enough trust to fill an ocean. A melding of minds that means when one moves. The other can counter flawlessly.”

Threads of fire came to her easily to form into the mini figures of a warder and an Aes Sedai in the midst of battle. The figures twisted around each other, back to back, battle weaves flowing outward from one, and a sword slashing from the other. A wall of fire protected the warder. A sweep to the side by the warder saved his Aes Sedai from the slash of a blade.

“Trust is built,” Tal said, voice tight, intense eyes following the shifting figures of fire.

“Unless it's been shattered.” A slight deviation caused the figures to move out of tune. A slight deviation caused the fire warder to step into the path of a battle weave and puff out. Leaving a lone figure of the Aes Sedai to huddle in agony.

“And whose fault—?”

“Neither of us. We are a poor fit, Tal. We always have been, but the White Tower is changing. If you wish to take up the honor of serving as a warder, go to the warders' practice ground. Find you’re Aes Sedai.”

“And if we—”

Frej stepped forward, placed a hand strengthened by archery on his lover’s bicep. “Tal, please. Let us go.”

The taller man seared her with his gaze for a moment longer before turning away. Moiraine waited, watching as the pair descended the corridor. She hoped they found themselves at the warder practice grounds. Yes, a poor fit. For him, more than her.

A man who had been stilled and an Aes Sedai who had sacrificed most of her power only to reclaim it for parlor tricks. They should be a perfect fit, but—

The slow, constant thrum of uncomfortable pain flared, blazing through nerves, stealing the ability to breathe, whiting out her vision. For a moment, she thought she found herself back with the Finn. Hunts within the White Tower were a favored location. Physical pain was a favored, easy tactic for beings that were more beast than man.

Moiraine staggered. A hand caught her, wrapped around her back, and held her steady. She released the source, blinking bleary eyes, fighting off the blackness at the edge of her vision. Karwin held her steady, her short, but muscled form holding her weight with ease. The chain armor was a hard, unyielding pressure against skin that felt too tight and nerves that felt inflamed.

Light.

The moment felt like an Age, but then the worst of the pain retreated, awaiting the next moment to strike.

“Lass, perhaps the time has come to see the Yellow Ajah,” Darron began, cautious, dark eyes scanning her still quaking form.

Control. I am still Aes Sedai. Trained if not by title, then by memory.

“No,” Moiraine rejected, sharp enough to cause lesser men to flinch. The old guard merely tightened his jaw and squared his lean shoulders, “I swore a vow to protect you, to protect Cairhien. Your people need you to be healthy and safe. You invited the Aes Sedai into Cairhien for a reason.”

To strengthen Cairhien and the White Tower. To force both to change. Because the Pattern made a demand, and Moiraine Damodred answered. “The Westlands need me strong.”

Still shaky, she found her feet and stood tall, straight as the trunk of the Tree of Life. The next flare-up should not be for a few hours yet. Time to scheme. Time to set the foundation for a future where the Light could triumph. “I will not fail,” Moiraine proclaimed, eyes flashing, daring the old guard to say any more. “Now, please announce me.”

The old man shook his head in disapproval, grey hair shifting across his brow, eyes drooping from the late nights and early mornings. He rapped on the door with blocky, scarred knuckles. The once merchant had been wild in his youth, nearly set off the caravans by her grandfather twice, but very extended bonds of kinship gave him more chances than most. The impertinence, she could live with in men she knew wouldn’t be swayed by the shadow.

She shifted to address Karwin. The woman stood close enough to catch her once more. A necessity she tolerated. “Go, fetch the replacement guards, tell them to report here in an hour. Then go break your fast and see to my sister's training.”

The woman bowed before jogging after the men. If she used weaves of air, she could track the progress, hear the men’s distant words. Time was short to personally spy on allies without political power, and soon, to be away from her direct influence, but it was far better to be safe.

“Darron?” A silent question, part of a familiar routine.

The old man settled against the wall, heel against the stone, casual as they waited. “I will ask about, but I’ve sensed more dangers from the lasses I tangled with than those lads and that lass.”

Moiraine smiled. “If you ceased attempting to seduce Maidens...”

The man brushed a finger over a thin scar at his neck and chuckled. Eyes distant, reminiscing over the lasses he’d chased.

The door opened, revealing a Tower servant, her eyes demurely lowered as she fell into a polite curtsy, “The Amyrlin Seat will see you now.”

“Wait outside,” Moiraine ordered her guard, before stepping into the entryway. Blood had wetted this floor once, future and past. Siuan’s warder felled by a betrayal. She’d not been there to ease that pain. The wheel had demanded they walk different paths.

The blood that stained the floor from the prior's Amyrlin’s murder had been washed away, but much of her design choices remained. Lavish furniture, elegant tapestries with nature motifs upon the walls, and figurines of animals. Tamra had never been an Amyrlin Seat to demand superficial change. The murder was a deviation in the pattern that portended more than mere elimination of a threat.

Merean Redhill had been a dark friend, so she supposed the murder could be at her feet. They are not bound by truth. “Did you serve the prior Amyrlin Seat?” Moiraine asked.

“No, your majesty. I served the Blue Ajah, Tamra Sedai, more than most.” A wise move. As queen, she’d shifted many of her uncle’s royal servants to positions that required less trust.

“Even queens are fools to leave the Amyrlin Seat waiting upon receiving a summons.” Cadsuane Sedai’s sharp words caused the serving girl to jump and release a small squeak of fear. “Girl, run to the kitchens to fetch a pot of tea and some morning refreshments.” A quick nod and the girl fled the room at a brisk walk.

The Aes Sedai of the green ajah turned and re-entered the Amyrlin’s Study, hair already entrapped in a bun, her golden hair ornaments with her angreal bobbing with each stride.

Moiraine followed.

The Amyrlin Seat, Tamra Ospenya, awaited at a small table, facing the door, dressed modestly without the Amyrlin’s Stole framing the strong shoulders. Hair dark as shadow had been left to flow over slim shoulders in the stole’s place.

Cadsuane settled into one of the high-back chairs set around a small table with wisps of steam curling from the spout and three cups set before each seat. “You will learn little from that maid. She is irritatingly circumspect with information.”

“One could say that is the mark of a good servant, daughter,” Tamra Ospenya responded, cup of steaming tea in her hands. “I hope you ordered my servant to fetch a different blend?”

Cadsuane ignored the question and barreled on, “She is better than some of the tower-trained chits that I’ve needed to take in hand after the latest incompetent Mistress of Novices vocation is through with them. I found it a wonder that there is someone semi-competent in charge. Cease your looming, child,” Cadsuane ordered.

Moiraine started into action. The sudden movement caused her nerves to flare to life, but she did not falter. When she reached the chair closest to the fire, she gathered her skirts and joined the informal conference.

“The training of our future sisters is a sacred duty that cares not for the color of the sister in the position,” Tamra Ospenya said. The phrase had an air of one said, over and over. The Blue Ajah is not happy with their newly installed Mother.

Cadsuane’s sharp eyes turned to Moiraine, the order vague, but routine, “Like I taught you.” A quick glance at Moiriane made clear the order, before the woman, barrelled on, “Jarna Sedai is a better choice than Merean Redhill was even before she lost her mind.

Long practice allowed easy setting of the weaves to seal the room from curious ears. Moiraine cut in, as soon as the weave fell into place, “How certain you are about the fate of Noane Masadim?”

A long look between the Amyrlin Seat and the Aes Sedai. The Sun Queen, even one with the Great Serpant Ring, should not be demanding answers about such an embarrassing topic.

“Merean Redhill confessed to that crime among many others.” The Amyrlin Seat shifted, discomfort clear. “The type of insanity that Merean Redhill displayed is not common, but upon occasion, there have been incidents that were as rigorously addressed as the problem of male channelers.”

“And if you cannot trust the truths she spoke?” The question caused both Cadsuane and the Amyrlin Seat to pause, to exchange glances once more. “I heard there are weaves to compel actions, to gloss over memories, potentially reshape them...and if she was as mad as you imply...”

“I will inquire, speak to trusted contacts with the various ajahs about the possibility. I will not hear a word about the possibility spread to anyone outside of this room. Is that clear, Moiraine Damodred?” The Amyrlin Seat commanded, and Moiraine graciously accepted the demand.

Cadsuane did not even blink at the command, “You would do well to keep your own Mistess of Novices in line. Jarna Sedai might be a competent Keeper of the Chronicles, but she has shown both a refreshing and worrying disregard for tradition. If you have not a care, it will be Tamra Ospenya who all say wears the stole.”

The stoleless shoulders straightened, “I am not the type of Amyrlin Seat to disregard necessary changes.”

“Then perhaps the time has come to suggest some of your own innovations,” Moiraine suggested, meticulously pouring tea into the cup. The fragrance of jasmine filled the air anew.

Cadsuane snorted, amused, “Does the Queen of Cairhien have a suggestion that the Amyrlin Seat can claim as her own?”

“Jarna Sedai has a suggestion I have heard tell of from a source I trust.” Darron’s desire to flirt granted a few extra advantages on occasion. The Mistress of Novice had not bothered to ensure her new servant's loyalty or clear out her staff for more trusted servants. “A more direct apprenticeship program for Accepted that would allow the more skilled Accepted to receive experience outside the White Tower, to provide a more seamless shift to the duties expected of them as an Aes Sedai.”

Cadsuane scoffed, “Are we to expect a single Brown to instill proper order and diligence in our young sisters? They cannot even manage to dress some mornings.”

“And yet they are the sisters, I have heard, that are most likely to be in the White Tower, instilling their values, their lessons into new Aes Sedai.” Granted, the brown sisters, when she was Accepted, often found creative means to escape mentorship duties. A flauting of duties the other Ajahs overlooked because, really, who would want a brown like Vicki Sedai to mentor anyone?

“A logical point,” Tamra noted, hiding a smile behind her teacup. “Achieving the shawl is a multi-year effort. Perhaps, a series of personal mentors carefully chosen rather than just one. I will need to carefully consider the first Aes Sedai and Accepted pairing.” Eyes turned furtively to Cadsuane, who firmed her jaw, took a sip of her tea, and wrinkled her nose.

A simple fire weave from the Amyrlin Seat heated the tea enough for faint trails of steam to rise from the top. Cadsuane sighed,“I suppose change is here whether we will it or not, and until all is settled, I will be unable to return to my roses.” Cadsuane firmed her jaw, “But I will choose which Accepted I will prune.”

Moiraine supposed she could let the matter shift, but Anvaere’s warning rang in her ears. “The influx of novices must be straining the White Towers' coffers. When I was here last, I saw potential in one of the novices and arranged for a bank account to be set up in her name and for the funds to be used for odds and ends the White Tower does not pay for...I would like to extend that patronage to a few more novices in training who do not have the funds for the necessities.”

The words were spoken, as if there was no inpropriety, no sneaking. Queens did not apologize. Moirane Damodred would not apologize for ensuring Siuan Sanche had been cared for.

The Amyrlin Seat glanced at her warily. Tamra Ospenya’s next question fell sharply—a ruler demanding an account of a potential wrongdoing. “Which novice?”

Cadsuane Sedai merely stirred sugar into her tea, unsurprised. “I’d say the Accepted known for leaving her expensive, pristine shoes that still smell of fresh leather all over the White Tower without a care for the servants eager for better-fitting footwear.”

The Amyrlin Seat sighed, “Should we speak of the impropriety of the interaction first? The secrecy of the interaction? The little trail of clues that anyone with half a brain could trace back to you?”

“I will not apologize for doing what is right.”

“Right, yes, that is how we explain this.” Cadsuane insisted, setting her teacup down. “The original interaction was approved, with the promise of further funding if the patronage went well. Lots was learned from that test...like ensuring the novice cares for the goods provided...like putting in a more formal process, so the one woman assigned to the task cannot be maimed.”

“It is a potentially lucrative program to encourage,” the Amyrlin Seat mused.

“Speak to Daughter-Heir Morgase, House Trakand will set up a sponsorship if you mention House Damodred donated first.” The suggestion brought some amusement for Moiraine.

Cadsuane sighed, “A pity I cannot take that child in hand. Jealousy does not serve any sister, noble, or monarch.”

“I will broach the topic with Daughter-Heir Morgase...and I will summon the Siuan Sanche, so she knows what should and should not be spoken about the patronage.” The Amyrlin Seat pursed her lips, mind already moving over the conversations that would need to be had.

“I should be the one,” Moiraine cut in.

“You have done enough, Queen Moiraine. An oversight that, as allies, I will forgive, but I cannot have queens be seen forming Tower policy.”

The objection sat on the tip of her tongue, but a solid knock on the door came. Likely, the servant returned with the tea and refreshments. The Amyrlin Seat bid the girl enter. The servant bustled in, carrying the scent of chamomile and fresh-baked pastries.

When the servant exited, Cadsuane Sedai made her play. “It is best Siuan Sanche is out of the White Tower. I will claim her as my first apprentice.”

“She is young still...” Jarna cautioned while reaching for a pastry.

“She is too skilled and too powerful to leave for another to ruin. I will lay down the right foundation. She would do well to have a mentor who has not been acting in a wildly, recklessly deviant manner like your Mistress of Novices.”

“I will arrange a meeting with Jarna Sedai tonight. We will present her with the idea and make clear who the first mentor and mentee will be.”

Cadsaune nodded, angreal shaking with the movement. “I would be happy to help guide this idea to a place of sanity.”

“If Cairhien can aid the transition in any way...” Moiraine said.

“It is best for Cairhien and the White Tower for tower business and royal business to remain entirely separate.”

To that, Moiraine could agree. A change of topic was in order. “Then let us speak of the Borderlands.”

“Are they willing to fall in line?” Tamra asked.

Moiraine nodded. “They are intent on claiming a betrothal, but yes, generally, with a little push back to assert further concessions.”

Cadsuane used weaves to remove the tea from her cup before burning the liquid to steam before pouring herself a fresh cup from the new pot. “It is unseemly for a queen not to take a husband or wife. It is another form of power to be wielded. The Trakand girl understands that at least.”

“Amyrlin Seats have managed to rule from this tower for thousands of years without intimate partners,” The Amyrlin Seat said, lips quirked, eyes dancing with amusement.

Cadsuane waved a hand, “That is not the argument you think it is. How many ended executed or stilled by daughters eager to see them unseated.”

The Amyrlin Seat froze and cast a furtive glance to Moiraine before glaring at Cadsuane, “Daughter, that information has been sealed...”

Cadsuane ignored the warning, continuing to settle her tea.

Jarna Malari sighed, “I will NOT hear a word from you about that either, Moirane Damodred.”

“The White Tower’s secrets can remain that. We are allies, are we not?”

“A more formal alliance with Mayenne could serve you well,” Cadsuane cut in, as imperious as the Amyrlin Seat should be.

“There will be no husband or wife. My kin have provided heirs enough for any monarch,” Moiraine said firmly.

The moment stretched. An exchange of a glance once more for what reason she could not say.

“I was sorry to hear about the boy. He seemed a good lad, a tad overenthused about that stick of his.”

Moiraine blinked at Cadsuane’s condolence.

The Amyrlin Seat quickly cut in, “I have formally requested the Ajahs send out notices to their Eyes and Ear networks to keep an eye out for the boy. Whether common brigands or kidnapping by our enemy, we will find him.”

Moiraine waved off the offer, “Gitara Moroso has spoken prophecy about his future. The wheel weaves as it will and will lead my nephew where he needs to be.”

“Prophecy is a truth that can cut as easily as it can guide the path,” Cadsuane cautioned.

“He is out of my hands unless I intend to go house to house, stone to stone, to find a black-haired child across all of the Westlands.”

“Ta’veren that you are, you might be able to discover him that way,” Cadsuane said.

“That will not serve Cairhien or the White Tower. And I suspect, Ta’veren that I am, I would be pulled from such a hunt. Send the notes if you wish, but Galad will find himself home. Of that I am certain.”

The meeting ended not long after, and Moiraine set off to complete her next task.

She had a brown sister to track down. Her steps were quick, eager to put space between herself and the meeting. The later hour caused the halls to be filled with tower and foreign servants intent on tasks, Novices and Accepted hurrying to the breakfast hall before lessons, and tower guards patrolling.

Alanna Mosvani pranced through the halls, a trickle of bells accompanying her large, flamboyant movements. Dark hands waved enthusiastically, as if she did not address a queen. Ellid hurried behind, fingers reaching, but not quite capturing a hand that moved wildly. That same expression of helplessly devoted love drenched the Andoran’s features.

That romance ended poorly. One lost to the Aes Sedai test. The other left to pretend the love had been nothing.

Would this turning be different? So many small changes already altered the course of the timeline. Would Ellid survive the testing?

Pain pulsed, and she resisted the urge to press her fingers into her chest. The pair turned down the corridor and disappeared. Perhaps to see Siuan?

Siuan would be told, soon, very soon.

Her reaction? Likely akin to a saltwater fish plopped in river water. Her Siuan did not like charity, nor the subtle manipulations that had become their life. They were as honest as they could be with each other, even if some secrets were too dangerous to be spoken even in private.

The pain hit her suddenly, sharp enough to steal her breath, sharp enough to cause her to stop and stagger to the side, fingers landing on the wall, and digging in, as if to find purchase. Not the first incident. The most public and with the highest intensity. A close of the eyes, an intent to ride it out.

Fire in her blood, nerves wrung tight. She could almost hear the sound of jackals haunting her steps. Then darkness.

Chapter Text

Moiraine

The Aes Sedai knelt, power stripped from her. The Dragon’s second-hand loomed, dark patrician cheeks bathed in the light filtering through the canopy above. The man wore a cloak of pale, muted pink. The sigil of the Children of the Light equally stained as the cape billowed in the wind. Eyes dark as the shadow, but slitted like a cat glared down at her. A sword pressed into her neck. The sharp edge of a bloody blade nudging against delicate skin.

“Yield,” the cool, emotionless voice growled. The voice grated against her senses like ice shattering underfoot.

Aes Sedai served until the light abandoned them. Until the wait before turnings called to them. They faced death and betrayal and torture with poise, with grace, with a serene serenity.

Tears mapped the hallow cheeks of Moiraine Damodred. Each streak of wet a betrayal, but time had become an endless loop of pain and fear. How long had the nightmare stretched? How long had she been running? “Galadedrid, please.”

The man had been little more than a boy, tugging at his mother’s dress the last time she’d seen him. He’d been shy and good. A better child than her brother Taringail deserved. Not the heir the realm needed. A mistake turned cast off.

“Now you beg? You abandoned me, aunt. Abandoned me for what? The White Tower?” A harsh laugh. “I hear you even ran from your duty there! Duty and honor. You have none.”

Moiraine flinched, shoulders caving. The point of the knife sliced her neck, but the pain did not register, not with her pulse pounding in her ears. The answer to the hurt, to the pain, to the betrayal had one answer and this man lost all right to guilt.

“I live my vows, Galad Damodred.”

Animalistic eyes narrowed as the traitor quaked with rage.

A new voice cut in, “Enough.”

A figure stepped from behind a towering tree trunk. The ancient bark covered in sickly, black moss that killed. The Dragon stood before her, scarlet hair shorn short enough to mask the true color in the gloom, pale cheeks slashed through with a scar that bisected a dead eye. “You made a vow to your Dragon, did you not? To obey?”

Moiraine shook. Did she? Light, she couldn’t remember. Recent days of running, of fleeing, of pain was all she could remember beyond the memories of meeting her nephew and the Dragon so very long ago. “I call on that Oath to be filled.”

“She will not listen, brother,” Galad replied, tone icy. “Let me—”

“Enough, dog.” The words were clipped, harsher than she’d ever been with the boy.

Galad’s jaw clenched. For a moment the three stood on the precipice, two dangerous agents of the shadow playing with their prey. Predators. The man reared around. A jerky movement that caused the edge of the sword to slice deep into a delicate neck.

Moiraine gasped, hands flying to her neck. Blood flowed across the blue stone set into the Great Serpent Ring. Far worse, blood flowed down her throat into her lungs. Her chest convulsed as she choked. Pain engulfed her. Through slitted hazy eyes, she saw two figures tower over her. Their familiar faces twisted into the pointed chins and sharp cheeks of her captors.

“That was poorly done,” one hissed to the other, idly brushing blood from pale leathers. “You have lost us our chance.”

“I failed—” the other shouted, incensed, but then all faded.

Moiraine Damodred opened her eyes, letting out a haggard gasp, clutching at her chest. Her chest ached. A hand adorned with her plain, honorary Great Serpent Ring grasped at her neck, feeling soft, unbroken skin. A deep, unsettling nausea filled her. She rolled to the side, until she hung over the cot she lay upon, heaving. Bile climbed up her throat, and she couldn’t find it in herself to force control. Hair escaped from her upsweep shielded her face.

The moment passed with sick on the chamber’s floor and a hand carefully settled on her shaking back. Traitorous tears leaked free and trailed down cheeks caked with a film of something hard and dry. Her head pounded fiercely.

With shaking hands, she reached up to probe the source of the pain on her forehead. Her fingertips met a jagged wound and became coated with what must be blood. Idly she pulled her hand away. Yes, blood. Deep red. How very odd. Lan should have protected her...he’d caught her often enough when she’d overexerted herself. She could almost feel those strong arms enwrapping her.

“You’re a bleeding idiot,” the voice of her sister drawled. Calloused hands, pushed her upright, forced her to lay down. Harsh hands pressed a cloth into the wound. “Hold this,” she ordered. Moiraine took a moment to move, but when she did her sister batted her hands away. “Not you, for fucks sake.”

Ellid Abareim, pale Andoran skin looking even more washed out, filled her vision, slim hands reached out to hold the cloth in place.

Moiraine blinked, hazy, confused. “You’re meant to be gone. Disappeared into the arches. I’m sorry I wasn’t...” The girl stared down at her, blue eyes the size of full moons.

That had been the beginning of the end of her carefree days. The moment she knew nothing would ever be the same. The guilt didn’t come from the disappearance. Moiraine knew enough to tell when someone else was drowning, but how could she save someone else when the world had already begun slipping from beneath her own feet? And so she’d said nothing and an Aes Sedai was never made. A pity, truly.

“Don’t pay her any mind, she’d bloody delirious, clearly,” Anvaere cut in.

The hand shook that held the cloth in place. “Perhaps, we should let Vicki Sedai heal her? She’s bleeding a lot.”

“Are you mad? Where the bloody hell is Gareth?” Her sister twisted out of sight, stomping away.

Moiraine blinked, trying to orient herself. “Anvaere died...” Mother had been furious she’d missed the funeral, but the quest for the Dragon Reborn, still in its more crucial moments came first. The longer the search continued, the colder the trail would grow. She couldn’t delay the search even for poor dead Anvaere.

No answer came from the once missing Accepted that held a cloth in place with a pressure that felt not quite hard enough. Yes, blood seeped beneath the cloth, down her cheeks, into her hair. She moved her hand, blinked as the appendage wavered in front of her, and forced herself onward. Her own hand somehow landed over Ellid’s. “Harder. Head wounds bleed out fast.”

The pressure increased enough to cause her to wince. There was a pained, subtle grimace that felt heartachingly familiar on that pale, otherworldly beautiful face above her.

She pulled her hand away, swallowing hard. She could’ve done more. She couldn’t let the moment pass, and so she said the thing she wished someone would have said to her during the dark days where Siuan flitted off to chase other lovers because they’d never defined what they’d both wished to be. “She does love you, would choose you...you just need to tell her what you want.”

“I’m just her friend. She’s made herself clear.”

Moiraine snorted, “And the Aes Sedai wish me to become the next Sun Queen...I chose my fate. Siuan chose her fate. Let her choose.” Moiraine didn’t know why she bothered.

The world swam enough for her to not be able to read the expression, but the words came out choked, “I—I can’t.”

The woman was a ghost, a figment of her imagination. Moiraine didn’t know why she bothered. “Foolish,” she told herself, before closing her eyes and letting herself drift. Beyond foolish.

The hands pressed harder into her head wound, as if in answer. She floated in a haze until hands seized her and her entire body sputtered from the cold, icy feel of an Aes Sedai healing. She blinked open her eyes.

Suanna Dragand’s blocky face towered over her, left hand pressed to her forehead, eyes closed. The familiar feel of a delving brushed through her. The lips pursed. Blue eyes flew open; confusion swam in them. “Clear the room...”

Moiraine eyes flitted away from the Aes Sedai Ellid stood at her head, hands red with blood. Anvaere hovered behind the Aes Sedai, hands on her sword as if to battle off enemies. The tall, blocky form of Gareth Bryne stood behind him, chest heaving as if from a deep exercise. An equally out of breath, Verin Sedai and Yuan Sedai crowded the doorway to the small chamber.

“Now!” The words cut through the room and caused Ellid to jump and flee. Anvaere stubbornly stood her ground, but whatever they’d found Moiraine didn’t wish for her sister to hear.

“Anvaere, please, listen to Suanna Sedai.”

“We will speak of this later.” The threat worried Moiraine not at all. She’d be distracted by her soon-to-be lover fast enough. Damodred’s did not worry overly much about... “I am not moving until I hear the words, Yes, Anvaere, we will speak of this later.” The words dipped from her sister's normal tone to what must be a mockery of her own voice.

Moiraine Damodred could lie, so such a talk should be little more than a child’s game. “Yes, Anvaere, we will speak later.”

Her sister after one more distrustful glare spun on her heels and stomped from the room, elbowing past Verin Sedai. The Aes Sedai merely patted the girl on the shoulder, “Off you go, dearie.”

Moiraine closed her eyes, feeling an ever-present exhaustion suddenly fall upon her head tenfold. The energy from the healing demanding its due...but she had too much to accomplish. The final negotiation with Morgase, hunting down Siuan to explain herself, and meeting with the monarchs to ensure the war effort was not hurt.

“Yuan Sedai, delve her,” Suanna ordered, serenity entirely lost.

Moiraine’s eyes snapped open at the oddity.

“I am particularly adept at delving,” Verin cut in, her rotund form bustling into view, curiosity blazing in those dark eyes. Yuan Sedai nodded at the shorter Aes Sedai to see to the delving.

“We often call upon Verin Sedai in the healing ward if our more talented delvers are out of the tower.”

“Yes, it's almost enough to make me flee the tower...but my books...” A hand settled on Moiraine’s shoulder. The delving began, “Hmmm, how very fascinating. Your organs seem to be in a state of decay...but there is no set reason...”

“Can we heal it,” Yuan Sedai asked, stepping forward.

“The healing of the head wound should have done just that,” Suanna Dragand said. “When did you first notice a change, Queen Moiraine.”

The news did not change anything. What did it matter if she knew exactly what the vow was putting her body through? The sa’angreal upon her neck allowed her to reach channeling heights in the open that she’d not be able to with her weakened power level. A few years until the danger passed and then she could set her vow aside. “It matters not,” Moiraine said, sitting up, dislodging the hand upon her shoulder, and disrupting the delving.

The room spun around her. The three Aes Sedai’s forms fuzzed before her eyes. Moiraine took a deep breath and closed her eyes in an attempt to settle the room. She would be free of the vow soon, but what of all the other channelers they’d begun to have swear vows upon the Oath Rod? Some, surely, were just as weak or weaker than her in the One Power?

“Matters not,” Suanna Sedai repeated, words slow, mocking. “The first Channeler Queen in a thousand years and you say it matters not.”

“Morgase Trakand will be queen soon enough,” Moiraine answered, opening her eyes, relieved that the room seemed to have settled a little.

“Should I tell that to the Amyrlin Seat when she asks why we left the Queen of Cairhien to slowly expire when we are on the brink of a multi-nation succession war? Yes, that will go over well with the other monarchs who have no doubt heard of your collapse by now...”

“Suanna,” Yuan cut in, wary. The taller woman raised a hand, as if to ward off the fury that bled from the Shienaran Aes Sedai.

“There is nothing to be done. Not now,” Moiraine replied. “Not until I renounce my oath on the Oath Rod and return the sa’angreal to the White Tower. I will survive a year or two under its yoke.”

“The Oath Rod...what is this madness?” Suanna snapped.

Verin hummed, dark eyes widening, and quickly stepped forward to begin delving again, words flowing free idly, as if she did not quite register what she spoke, “We never tested the effects of the Oath Rod ter’angreal on weak channelers or non channelers, but perhaps...ahh...yes...”

Moiraine fought the urge to pull away.

“Yes?” Suanna prompted, but Verin merely continued delving, humming to herself, vibrating with what could only be described as excitement. “Yes, you can feel it here and here and here. The oath burrowing in and the body attacking the foreign intrusion. This is a marvelous discovery...and to think we’ll soon have a wider pool of channelers to study very soon. I would be thrilled to guide the research on the effects of the angreal on those with different power potential.”

Yuan Sedai looked suitably horrified, thin hands ringing.

Verin paid her no mind, merely continuing to delve. Moiraine let her, too exhausted to call her off the hunt.

Suanna Sedai shook her head, dark hair shifting over broad shoulders. “No, you must be mistaken...we would surely have known if the Oath Rod had such an effect. Perhaps, this is an anomaly. One poor reaction does not—”

“It is the Oath Rod,” Moiraine cut in, “The weeks that followed the oath, my skin felt uncomfortably tight, then the tightness led to exhaustion and pain, but nothing I cannot handle if it gives me an edge in the coming conflict.”

“I would not suggest that,” the Yuan Sedai asserted, stepping forward, “Suanna, we cannot let her leave without removing the oath.”

“No,” Moiraine rejected.

Suanna crossed her arms and pressed her lips together, “The Oath Rod is not within the White Tower. We will need to inform the Amyrlin Seat and the Mistress of Novices, of course.”

Yuan opened her mouth to agree, but Verin cut in, dark eyes almost feverish. “What is the Oath Rod doing to the rest of the Aes Sedai if this is the effect on a channeler with almost no potential? Why there are ethical questions about whether the White Tower should be subjecting any Aes Sedai to interactions with the Oath Rod...questions, this brings up so many questions...”

Suanna rolled her eyes, “One could say the same about the ter’angreal used to conduct the accepted test or Aes Sedai tests. We utilize all three angreal for a reason.”

Verin blinked, glanced away from Moiraine at Suanna, “I merely ask questions, Suanna Sedai. Fascinating questions, is that not the role of the Brown Ajah?”

“So they say,” Suanna responded, dryly.

Moiraine cut in, “It seems a question worth asking. Artur Hawkwing is long dead, the monarchs are pulling closer to the White Tower than they have in centuries. This might be the time to bring the notion of the Oaths before the monarchs. They are here and we do have a continent-level war against a highly trained organization intent on eradicating the very organization with the power and skills to fight the last battle.”

The three Aes Sedai stared at her. Yuan Sedai aghast at the notion, Verin Sedai dark eyes curious, and Suanna Sedai disapproving. “The people will not trust us if we foreswear our oaths...”

Moiraine’s next words were soft, with an ancient truth and a more ancient power behind them, “They already distrust you. What is the point of vows if all believe you break them?”

She was Aes Sedai enough to be uncomfortable with the thought as well. The Three Oaths were what made Aes Sedai. It’s what separated Aes Sedai from dark friend, what separated the Aes Sedai from the forsaken, but that did not feel right. The Aes Sedai were not bound by oaths before the breaking or after. Not until Artur Hawkwing conquered the world and made the Aes Sedai kneel.

This change, if it did come should not be Moiraine’s to influence. She was not Aes Sedai, even if she was bound in almost all the same chains, but the words had been spoken and she could see the slow, unravelling of the very ground the Aes Sedai stood.

“Fascinating,” Verin said, nearly vibrating with a manic glee.

“Yes,” Suanna Dragand responded, with the tone of a woman facing the unraveling of their entire life. The woman’s once proud shoulders dropped, “I—I will bring the issue to the Amyrlin Seat to set before the Sitters to consider. Those dark eyes turned to Moiraine. “You will travel with a sister of the Yellow Ajah until the oath has been resolved. We will see what can be done to forestall the worst effects.”

“No,” Moiraine rejected, and that too fell with the force of a maelstrom. “I will not hear of the matter again. Do you understand?”

The answer dragged from the three Aes Sedai, all tripping over their tongues to assure their compliance. The sisters blinked in surprise moments after the new vow left their lips. The Oath would not let them attempt to foist another yellow sister upon her at all hours. That, she could not allow to be. Not if she was to successfully scheme. Not if she planned to spirit away the Dragon Reborn.

The world changed this day and Moiraine feared not for the better. She fell back against the bed, yearning for Lan, her Lan. Instead, an excitable Verin flitted around her asking questions that she wished not to answer, but she sensed she could not forestall the woman even if she wanted.

The Pattern wanted this woman on the trail of the Oath Rod. She must trust the results would be in the lights favor. She’d given far more for her cause than dealing with an overeager, tactless, sister of the Brown Ajah pestering her.

That, she could bear...until she needed to rise and see to her day, starting with a displeased sister looming in the doorway. “Anvaere, I really am far too busy...”

“You will tell me what the bloody hell is going on.”

Moiraine opened her mouth to deny her, but Verin very happily began rambling about the fascinating case of the Oath Rod’s effect on weak channelers. She tried to rise and cut the woman off, but Anvaere hurried forward, pushed her down before sitting on the edge of the bed and turning to Verin. “That is very fascinating, Verin Sedai. Please, tell me more. How long has this been going on?”

“Anvaere, we really must meet Morgase Trakand for your betrothal negotiations.”

Her blasted sister ignored her. “In your opinion should Moiraine be resting, Verin Sedai?”

“After that head wound? I would recommend at least a day of bed rest.”

“Then perhaps you can escort my sister to her quarters?”

“I can easily continue my experimentation there.”

“Wonderful...”

“But the meeting,” Moiraine cut in weakly.

“It is my betrothal. Gareth and I can handle the negotiations.”

Moiraine stubbornly, tried to prop herself up, but her stomach twisted uneasily at the motion. She fell back and gave her reluctant agreement, but not before laying out the terms that had already been tentatively agreed upon. “If she attempts—”

“It will be fine Moiraine. Now be a dear and let your big, tall guard carry you to your quarters.”

Tal loomed in the door, looking less strained than before. “I’d come to resign my post—”

“You can do that after you ferry my sister to her quarters, yes?”

Moiraine sighed and reluctantly agreed, relieved at least the problem of the tension with her guards had been resolved. The day could have went far worse, she supposed. She’d experienced far worse days in the service of the Light.

Chapter Text

Morgase

The Daughter Heir of Andor did not upend a teacup over a lady of Murandy’s carefully styled coal-black curls, or onto her companions' staid, matronly velvet dress—even if her guests were more swine-like than her soon-to-be kingly husband. The slim, elegant handle of the tea cup remained clenched between her fingers until she delicately brought it to her lips.

“Perhaps, your serving woman...or the novice could fetch us refreshments fit for a Daughter-Heir and her guests from the kitchens?” Dark eyes cut to the side.

Morgase followed the gaze to where Lini sat in her chair, old fingers braiding the sunny-haired novices' hair, berating her to keep still. The old woman was bundled in heavy cotton as if Winter’s Night hadn’t long passed. The girl’s kitchen smock had been cast aside, left to hang over a dividing partition at the far end of the room.

The novice dragged a bit of scrap closer with her feet, careful not to disrupt the braiding, before nimbly snagging the bit of knotted cloth. A toss across the room sent the cat, the one not named after a Forsaken, chasing.

Jenny, she thought, this one was called. The Sun Queen’s feline companion traveled wherever she went. The white one lazed before the fire, pointed chin, tilted toward the toy. The lazy beast would not stir.

Lini merely muttered under her breath, causing the novice to shake with a gaiety that seemed foreign.

Silence provided an opportunity. She’d invited the trio of nobles for only one reason. “I’m afraid I’m on a strict diet to ensure the health of my soon-to-be daughter...”

Days of attempts to reveal the gender of her child and every Aes Sedai, every servant, every bloody guard seemed intent on keeping the secret. Really, Morgase feared she could shout it from the walls, and no one would bother to gossip about the matter.

“We are not pregnant,” Floria do Avriny a'Roihan said, scrunching a rather large nose in disgust. The three sisters wore gowns of velvet this day, similar in hue and style, save for the embroidery and lace around the collar and cuffs. “It is only polite to provide the proper refreshments for guests.”

“A most discourteous oversight,” the eldest, Phoebus, agreed. The lady shook her head, sending delicate curls tumbling about her shoulders. The grey at her roots spelled a woman far past her childbearing age. Perhaps this had been a miscalculation to expect three ladies who’d failed to catch husbands to spread gossip of a pregnancy.

Daughter-Heirs did not stand up and scream, she reminded herself. “Do ladies in Murandy have a means to announce a pregnancy to her husband?”

Three sets of hers dipped to her stomach. The eldest looked at her as if she were daft. “Fear not, he knows you are not fat, Daughter-Heir Morgase.”

“We would be happy to, discreetly of course, assure him you intend to shed the weight after the babe is born,” the youngest offered.

Morgase arm froze halfway to returning the cup to the saucer. Must she make it all clear? Whatever happened to the subtle play of words? The art of scheming? Morgase abhorred playing with imbeciles—unless they had been her late husband. “It is just…I have recently learned I carry a daughter…”

A pauce. A long silence. Then the middle sister, Valerie, reached out to settle her clawed hand on her sister’s arms. She leaned forward and whispered, “Oh, what horrid news! She fears the king will be furious with her. A Damodred on the Lion Throne rather than a proper Murandy Queen.”

Morgase stilled, well that was closer to what she wished.

The three ladies glanced at each other before their eyes fell to the evidence of her advanced pregnancy. The eldest sighed, “You should have come to us sooner, Daughter-Heir Morgase. It is far too late to solve the issue, but you do have plenty of estates to send it. Your court does not need to be marred by the reminder of a cad like Taringail Damodred.”

The fury burned in Morgase, but only the fact that she made progress prevented her from flinging them from the room, out the door, or off the balcony. A pity she did not possess a sa’angreal to accomplish the task.

The youngest nodded, “We should have done so with all of our brother’s brood. Perhaps, the king would have elevated a lady of worth.”

“A lady of worth,” Morgase repeated, confused.

Valerie nodded firmly, curls jittering angrily. “It is unsightly for our new lord to flail about so in formal meetings.” The lady set down her cup to wave her arms up and down in a parody of hand talk.

Phoebus sighed, “I have attempted to address the issue. I fear we might have been misinformed, and she is dumb and mute.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Liandrin jerk toward them, blue eyes dark with fury, her braid tugging from Lini’s hand. The old woman chastised the girl for moving and caught the braid to continue. She did not miss the disapproving glare at the Murandy ladies.

Forget spreading rumors. If she possessed the gift of foretelling, she’d be tempted to utilize it to excise House Avriny a'Roihanan from her person.

Lady Valerie reached and caught her hand before beseeching, “Perhaps, my lady, you can speak to the king about the matter?”

Oh, Morgase would speak to him of a matter. Morgase smiled and sweetly assured, “Oh, yes, I will have words with him about the unseemly behavior I have observed.”

Lini snorted. Liandrin shone with the light of the source, but no weaves spun around her. The three ladies' heads swiveled to stare at the old woman with the same disgust plain.

Annoyance stirred in her gut. A pleasant smile, yes, she can serve them a pleasant smile. “Remind me of your lord husbands? They must be high lords to afford such fine velvet gowns...and those gems at your throat...”

None of the women had married, or at least not for long. The eldest had been betrothed thrice, each time the lordling abandoning her before the vows could be read. The youngest, each has been younger sons with little wealth and the good sense to drop dead a mere fortnight after the marriages.

Before the ladies could answer, the door swung open. Without even a knock! The nerve. Were the White Tower servants so ill-trained? Morgase would have words with the Amyrlin Seat about proper protocol if she were to remain.

Morgase shifted uneasily, slowed by her bulging belly. Anvaere Damodred, hair a mess, novice whites wrinkled as if she’d picked them up from the floor, stalked into the room. Dark eyes scanned the room, nodding at Liandrin before sweeping right the three a’Rhaihon sisters. “I fear the White Tower has developed a rat problem. I would offer the services of the novice's prize mouser, but she has been lax of late…spoiled rotten.”

“I have seen no rats…” Valerie muttered, eyes shifting to her sister, confused.

A long moment passed before Anvaere’s gaze sharpened. The next words would be a dire insult. An insult that would disrupt her own plans. Light, a few foul words, and all of her hard work would be for naught!

Morgase threw herself to her feet, hand flying out to grasp the table to stabilize herself. “Perfect timing, Lady Anvaere. Forgive us, I had planned a meeting about Lady Anvaere’s betrothal to Lord Bryne. Lady Phoebus has ample experience planning ceremonies. If you wish for any tips, Anvaere.”

The three women rose, expressions stiff.

Anvaere raised a casual hand to wave off the suggestions. “I fear time is short for the planning of the ceremony.”

The dismissal was far nicer than Morgase hoped, with more tact than expected for the wild child of House Damodred, but she seemed a moment from turning a snide insult into a plain one.

The three ladies stiffly curtsied before departing in a line, eldest to youngest.

Morgase watched the procession leave, hand on her stomach, mind already whirling through plans to ensure her lord husband sent the women back to Murandy, but not before, “My ladies, a favor.”

The eldest turned, “Fear not, Daughter-Heir Morgase, your secret is safe with us. We would never spread words spoken in privacy.”

The sigh she expelled was all frustration. The sisters would surely misinterpret that as relief. A pox on them. The sisters filed from the room. The door shut behind them.

“I will murder them if they remain,” Morgase muttered to herself.

“I will help,” Liandrin said, glare still on the door.

Lini tugged on the braid until Liandrin scooted closer. “You will leave the murdering to cads and thugs. Murder is unseemly for a genteel lady. Blood is horrid to remove from velvet.”

Anvaere snorted. “You choose easy marks at least.” Jenny the cat rubbed against the elder Damodred’s legs.

Unsteady, Morgase carefully lowered herself onto the cushioned chair. The morning had been an abject failure. At least she could look forward to a negotiation with a woman skilled at the game. “It is not worth the coin, I fear. Thank the light, you arrived early. I can call for some more tea while we await Lord Bryne and Queen Moiraine.”

“No need,” Anvaere said, “Moiraine explained the terms. I spoke to Gareth about what had been decided, and he agreed to the terms with a few extra clauses I did not bother to look too closely at. We both agree there is no need to involve House Trakand in House Bryne matters.”

Morgase blinked, flummoxed. But she negotiated the terms, laid out the clauses, did all of the bleeding work, and now the lady had no need of her intellect.

Bryne dared to undermine her? He was her First Prince of the Sword! She elevated House Bryne. She forced calm. She failed, “I will speak to Gareth about his disregard for royal—”

“Liandrin, I do believe they miss you in the kitchens.” The girl waited for Lini to tie off the braid before fetching her apron and fleeing for the door. With the barest of curtsies, she fled. The cats followed, slipping through the door as it closed.

Lini hummed to herself as she turned to the fireplace, old hands reaching out to bask in the warmth. Acting as if she didn’t possess ears. All the better.

This woman could be just as much of a bane on her plans as Taringail Damodred. The pair grew from the same bush; she should not expect more. She could at least demand proper courtesy. “Ladies curtsy to the Daughter-Heir of Andor, Lady Damodred.”

The relaxed posture did not falter. “The Daughter-Heir should know I will not share Gareth Bryne with you. You can look elsewhere for dalliances. He has agreed to remain First Prince of the Sword, and I have no need to push the issue. I do not wish to live in the countryside any more than you wish to fuck your soon-to-be-king.”

The entire teapot was in her hand, and she found her once more and upended it over the dark, wild curls without a thought. Of all the nerve.

The exasperating Damodred woman didn’t even sputter. Just reached out to move her wet locks out of her eyes. “That was deserved, I suppose.” The novice dress, white and finely made as it was, was sheer enough to reveal the toned lines of the woman’s torso.

Quick movements rang the tea from the dress with Saidar, leaving it dry. Then the woman turned to stroll away.

“Where are you going...”

“To see about my wedding,” Anvaere called back.

Morgase swore under her breath and hurried to follow, passing through the door into the hall. “The wedding will be in Andor, so I ask again, where are you going?”

Anvaere slowed her pace, “I suppose you might be useful with my sister taken ill.”

Morgase’s stride faltered. “Queen Moiraine is ill?”

“She fainted, but the yellow ajah says she will be hale enough with bed rest. Verin Sedai is experimenting on her as we speak.”

Morgase shuddered at the prospect of catching any brown’s attention. “Then where are we—”

A turn of the hall set them amongst novices, Aes Sedai, and servants navigating the main halls. Anvaere curtsied as proper for a novice to an Aes Sedai, slowing their progress. She did have manners on occasion. Perhaps this woman wouldn’t make her life too unbearable in the years to come.

At one point, Anvaere hollared like a merchant hawking his wares, “Laras, come meet the mother of my niece.” A few heads turned, but she knew even that wouldn’t garner much attention. She’d die before the world knew she was pregnant with the next Daughter-Heir.

The unreasonably pretty kitchen assistant garbed in a kitchen apron wandered over.

Anvaere stepped forward and guided the kitchen worker closer. The servant stunk of grease and onions. A scent that turned her delicate stomach.

“Laras, you know Daughter-Heir Morgase?”

Those blue eyes ran over her form with disinterest. “The novice incapable of cleaning a pot properly. I always needed to redo her work.”

Morgase sputtered.

“The daughter-heir wishes a favor.”

Shrewd eyes settled on Morgase, trailing down to the fine gown. “Yeah…what’s it to you? I’m far too busy with all the lords and ladies asking for special favors and stealing our kitchen help.”

Morgase didn’t even blink at the veiled accusation. She could read envy well, could turn it to her favor, perhaps. “A custom dress fit for a lady.”

“Five custom dresses with jewels and shoes fit for the Daughter-Heir,” Laras returned.

Of all the unreasonable…

“Three dresses and shoes to match.”

Laras smiled, lighting up a face that noblemen would die for if the body attached didn’t stink of onions. “Deal. Now what nugget do you wish to spread?”

Morgase stepped forward to give exact instructions. To her great distress, the servant seemed to lose focus halfway through the instructions. Her rather calm reprisal at the loss of attention received a pitying look and not a word more before Laras swept away, leaving the sour odor of the kitchens behind.

“I will not be supplying the dresses if she fails—“

Anvaere rolled her eyes and darted away, leaving Morgase waddling behind as fast as she could. “Slow down.” The troublesome Caurhienen novice slowed. “Where are we bloody going?”

The answer was maddening, “No need to be crass. I am going to seek out the woman capable of seeing me wed before the next decade. You are welcome to accompany me, I suppose.”

“The wedding was planned for after you attain the shawl—”

“I am a Damodred,” Anvaere said, as if that changed anything.

Perhaps it did.