WoT Fic: Shades of Grey

[divad]

point well taken I think it would be good if in the progression of the story he learns better, also something that he is over looking is that the prophecy doesn't say for example that no power can theoreticall if they choose to exercise that power could take tear until the people of the dragon come, rather it says that they wont it isn't impossible that he could raise and army equiped with cannons that could breach the walls and take tear but if he decides not to and the stone doesn't fall until the people of the dragon arrive then the prophecy is true, something else is that it is often impossible to understand prophecy untill the time actually arives or more often it actually takes place making it good to have a through famialarity with them but not lock on to any particular series of events as being the way it is going to play and be ready to roll with the punchs cause it will probably surprise you

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by divad

point well taken I think it would be good if in the progression of the story he learns better, also something that he is over looking is that the prophecy doesn't say for example that no power can theoreticall if they choose to exercise that power could take tear until the people of the dragon come, rather it says that they wont it isn't impossible that he could raise and army equiped with cannons that could breach the walls and take tear but if he decides not to and the stone doesn't fall until the people of the dragon arrive then the prophecy is true, something else is that it is often impossible to understand prophecy untill the time actually arives or more often it actually takes place making it good to have a through famialarity with them but not lock on to any particular series of events as being the way it is going to play and be ready to roll with the punchs cause it will probably surprise you

All true and agreed on. In fact, Tarmion will aid the prophecy in Book II of "Shades of Grey: Dances the Shadow". Which, as you most likely have realized, means the boys and girls from Edmond's Field will be featured at some points.

Anyway, as a treat, here are some plotpoints for the remaining chapters of Book I: appearance of a well known canon couple of a travellers; treason; Red Sisters; death and personal losses; synchronicity event; carnage and madness; Cadsuane.

[divad]

I've always wanted to strangel cadsuane

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by divad

I've always wanted to strangel cadsuane

Same here, but I'll actually need her alive, though I don't know whether, or how I'll implement her later on in Book II.

[divad]

one of the things that I would like to see, though I wouldn't want you to do it if it detracts from the over all plot is that a, the women realize that men give them plenty of respect but they give men none, often treating them as if the were big children and incapable of being anything else needing them to guide and instruct them, and b that their husbands need their respect before thier loving guiding hand not that they don't need love ofcourse but when they think the first thing they need from them is a guiding hand then they are doomed to constantly emasculating them by treating them like children

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by divad

one of the things that I would like to see, though I wouldn't want you to do it if it detracts from the over all plot is that a, the women realize that men give them plenty of respect but they give men none, often treating them as if the were big children and incapable of being anything else needing them to guide and instruct them, and b that their husbands need their respect before thier loving guiding hand not that they don't need love ofcourse but when they think the first thing they need from them is a guiding hand then they are doomed to constantly emasculating them by treating them like children

Even though that's one of my pet peeves with the series I'm not sure if I can or will put it into text.

[foamy]

Originally Posted by Posbi

Hm, then I'll look into it. Heh, funny unrelated fact: one of the places I stayed at in the US was called... Two Rivers.

It's not that uncommon a place name, really. Towns and villages are often built where a couple of rivers come together.

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by foamy

It's not that uncommon a place name, really. Towns and villages are often built where a couple of rivers come together.

I figured as much, but given that one of my excuses not to write for some time was that trip I thought it funny.

[Posbi]

14. Actio Et Reactio

South of the Jehennah Road and the Village of Tallan in Altara
The Third Week of Aine, 994 N.E. (New Era)

“My thanks for leading me here, child. If you wish so you may leave now.”

“Thank you, Mistress Alys,” the girl squeaked and curtsied, hurrying back down the slope of the hill, moving back across the plain on the dirt road that lead to the townlet of Tallan as fast as she could without appearing to be actually running. Standing under an overcast sky, the woman called Alys, a petite, dark-haired beauty of indiscernible age clad in travel robes in various shades of blue meticulously examined her surroundings, and with more than just her eyes and ears and sense of smell. The small blue stone fastened on thin golden chains against her forehead glowed in a dim light as she almost unconsciously used the weaves of spirit to survey the scene in front of her, to no avail.

Saidar, the female half of the One Power, had not been used here, and to her frustration there were no means to sense the residue of saidin, the dreaded male half of the One Power, tainted by the Dark One’s counterstroke at the end of the Age of Legends, except with special and rare ter’angreal. And even if the woman travelling by the name of Mistress Alys had called one of those her own the chances of it helping her find something would have been slim. She did not want to think about the possibility of a male channeler being the source of the events she had come to investigate, even though it was ultimately her most important quest to find a man who could. A very specific man. A man whose coming had been foretold in prophecy, and whose ascension would destroy the world anew. Finding this man, and guiding him so that he could fight in the Last Battle had been Mistress Alys’, whose true name was Moraine Sedai of the Blue Ajah, sole task for the past fifteen years.

And the idea of other male channelers using the One Power in the open would be a distraction from that search, for they needed to be found and stilled. Still, she mused, the Wheel weaved as the Wheel willed.

The place the village girl had lead her to was a crater, at least five paces deep and maybe twenty wide from the outermost points on each side. Brackish rainwater sat in a puddle in the middle of it, and only scarce blades of yellow grass grew around the edges. The soil all around here looked blackened and burnt, as if all vegetation had been flayed off the ground, and it felt rocky and hard beneath the soles of her riding boots.

People stayed away from it if they could. It meant bad luck being there, they said, and anyway, what use was being there now? The fields around the place were ruined, and the grove of oaks just next to it still looked like a festive procession of obscure, grey skeletons. The villagers also claimed it was colder up there, as if the snow and ice of that winter night were still stuck in the ground. Most were convinced that ever since so many people had lost their lives at that crater the place had been cursed. While all that was nothing but superstition, the actual conclusions compelled Moraine to furrow her brows in a deep frown. She fixed her gaze on a group of low trees who carried only the barest cover of leaves.

“I will have to talk to the villagers again, Lan,” she said in a conversational tone that would have convinced everyone but him. Through the bond shared by warder and aes sedai he could feel her doubts, and the feeling did everything but putting him at ease.

“What is it, Moraine?” the stone-faced last descendant of the royal line of Malkier stepped out of the underbrush, his colour-shifting cloak billowing in the brisk breeze blowing over the edge of the foothills of the low rolling lands between Altara’s great central forests and the more desolate farthings to their north. “This looks like an Aes Sedai’s work,” he commented calmly. “Most the trees have been aflame, and boulders and debris have been hurled several hundred paces far. A wilder?” The only indication of his curiosity was a slightly raised eyebrow.

“Maybe.” Moraine pulled her cloak closer after glimpsing the gathering clouds above. “We should hurry, Lan. I’d prefer being back at the village’s inn before it starts pouring,” she remarked with dry humour.

Nodding, the stoic man with the weathered face gave the blasted spot a last glance. Birds rose into the air in the grove ahead, but as fast as he had tensed he relaxed again as he saw that it were only sparrows. Turning around, a breeze carried a faint yet biting smell into his nose.
“Wait!” he told Moraine as he descended into the crater and knelt besides the puddle. He gathered some of the water in his cupped hands and sniffed at it, scowling a bit at the smell. Still he took a sip – and almost instantly spat it back out.
“Sulfur,” he told the expectantly looking Aes Sedai. “The rain’s been washing it from the sides of this hollow,” he looked back up to her. “Does this mean anything to you?”

The woman with the commanding presence returned his steady gaze and sighed.
“Let us get back to the village, shall we?”

Tallan was a mile away from the crater, to the north. The Jehennah Road crossed right through it, and its function as a market place for the outlying hamlets and farmsteads had secured it some wealth. Smoke rose from faded red brick chimneys sticking out like stumps from thatched roofs and others made from tarred wooden shingles. North and south Tallan's fields and meadows spread out, divided by brown thorny hedges and low river rock walls. Behind them, northwards, came the downs, while to the south the central woodlands of Altara went further than the horizon.

In the place of some of the houses only rubble and burnt wooden beams remained, and when Moraine and Lan had arrived at Tallan they had not missed the fresh graves at the village's small cemetery. The WHitecloaks had let out their anger on the people of Tallan after it had happened.

The village inn, the “Queen's Honour”, was the largest building, as it often was the case in villages away from larger centres of civilization, a strong, woodframed house two stories high, built from washed-out red brick and covered by a rood of red tiles. Milky windows made from leaded glass allowed just enough sunlight inside not to force the innkeeper to light oil lamps and candles every hour of the day. A stout door framed in rusty iron lead inside. The “Queen's Honour” was well-attended, for wheat and corn had already been sowed and pigs and sheep and cattle was looked after by the younger ones. That, and the village wisdom had said it would rain today, so there was no reason why one should not sit together by a mug of ale or a pipe and ponder what news and rumours there were. Moraine would have to talk to that wisdom to see if she could really sense the weather. Most women who could were wilders, more often than not oblivious to the fact that they were wielding saidar, the female half of the One Power, to listen to the wind.

Arlyn Sorana was handing mugs over the bar when Moraine and Lan entered the inn. He was excessively tall for someone from Altara, exceeding 6'3”, with broad shoulders, thick, greying hair and a close-cropped beard and observant dark brown eyes. He was in good shape for someone of his age and position, and until the Whitecloak incursion this past winter he had been the undisputed source of authority within a range of fifteen miles around Tallan, for he was also the village's mayor. That combination was as pervasive in the Westlands as was the one of carpenter and undertaker, Moraine mused as she stepped into the hazy twilight of the inn's taproom, but thinking about it, the arrangement made a lot of sense to her. As innkeeper, he was wealthy enough to be independent, he was privy to any new outside information and he was always in the know about village affairs for his establishment served as a hub for talk and rumours.

Moraine thought a lot about these 'small' things when she travelled outside the White Tower, a peculiarity she was sure not even her faithful Lan knew of. As a child born into Cairhien's ruling family her training even before entering into the service of Tar Valon had been extensive, and it was this kind of curiosity which had made her the seeker in the quest only three people knew of: Siuan Sanche - the Amyrlin Seat -, Lan and herself. Her old friend from her teenage years as a novice and accepted surely would have had a fishing metaphor ready for that, but with a bit of dry humour Moraine had settled into thinking of herself as a very patient, very intelligent bloodhound. A hunter who could not link the clues was worthless, and one only was good at that if one treated one's mind like a good knife: always sharpened, always ready to draw. She smirked at the thought. She really was spending too much time with Lan, his mannerisms were rubbing off on her.

Arlyn Sorana politely smiled and bowed his head when he saw her enter, but his smile did not reach his eyes when he looked at Lan. The stone-faced warder did not bring forth people's trust, even though they did not know he was gaidin. But this was a market place along one of the great, continent crossing trade roads, and most people had enough sense not to get into the way of someone who was clearly dangerous.
“Welcome back, Mistress Alys. I hope my daughter has been of help to the queen's advisor?”

“Thank you, Master Sorana. Your daughter has shown us all we asked for,” Moraine answered evenly. “Still, there may be more, and I would greatly value any information you or the other good people of Tallan might give me,” she turned halfway to the rest of the taproom. There had been quite the commotion inside when she had first arrived, and most villagers usually did not care too much for the ordinary traveller or merchant. However, Moraine was neither ordinary nor a merchant. Even under her disguise as 'Alys' her presence was commanding and enticing, for even in her travelling attire she looked more like a queen than a normal woman to most the men and boys (and womenfolk) here, and her voice carried that seldom serene grace that made people cling on every word that crossed her lips.

"Meaning no offense, Mistress Alys, but those words would carry more weight if the queen did something to keep Ghealdaner mercenaries and Whitecloaks from Amadicia out of Altara," an old, gnarled men shuffled to the front, a long pipe pinched into the corners of his mouth. "What exactly did you say you were doing here?" he asked politely, but his voice had an edge. Moraine saw that Lan had stiffened a bit, not enough for the casual onloker to notice, but she knew the man like no other.

"I've given advice to the good queen Tylin Quintara Mitsobar," she answered in a calm, melodic tone and withdrew a letter from one of her coat's many pockets. The sealed parchment bore the mark of the two golden leopards of Altara. "Strange rumours about what has happened here have reached us, that is why I have come, good man." It was not a lie. Aes Sedai who had sworn the oaths could not tell actual falsehoods, but had learned over the centuries the craft to twist words and truths so much that the act of lying itself had become pointless. Yes, Moraine Damodred had once 'advised' Queen Tylin of Altara - advised the buoyant woman to keep her hands off one of Moraine's cousins who had been a bit too young to warrant the attention in her opinion. And yes, the letter was from the royal court in Ebou Dar, but it was just a leftover she had aquired in the White Tower's safehouse in Lugard. It was testament to what had occured at Tallan that she had to prove herself like that to gain the acquiescence of the small folk.

The old villager harumphed at the letter, but nodded and silently shuffled back to his place at a table where a mug of ale was waiting for him.

"Well, ask your questions, Mistress Alys," the tall inkeeper stated confidently. "None shall be able to claim the people of Tallan weren't good subjects of our queen," he claimed, looking around the tap room as if to challenge the other villagers.

So far in the north of Altara as Tallan was Moraine doubted even half of the people had known the queen's name before she had mentioned it, but she took the opportunity nonetheless.
"Again, my thanks to you, Master Sorana. Did you notice any unusual men riding with those Ghealdaner mercenaries?"

That caused quite the murmur to erupt inside the “Queen's Honour”. Arlyn Sorana handed Moraine and Lan cups of mold wine from a tray and eyed the two of them curiously, a quizzical smile on his lips.
"Why, there were plenty of them, Mistress Alys!" he put the tray away and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "There was the silent guy who never showed his face," he began, nodding at the rest of the crowd in the tap room. "You remember him, the one with the wooden mask. Never strayed far from their leader. Then there was him, their leader. Auburn hair, rather tall guy, pale skin. Looked like someone from a northern nation to me," he shrugged and continued his enumeration. "The innkeeper was strange, too," he frowned. "I mean, he clearly was an inkeeper, knew all the tricks of the trade, but he always ran around armed and armoured as if he was riding into battle. And he liked it that way," Sorana shook his head in disbelief. "'s name was Mallen, ... Mellan... something like that."

Some more were named, among them a 'loud mouthed cut-purse', and Moraine had already hoped to bury her worries when the old villager spoke up again.

"You fo'getting the old coot, the crippled one," he snarled. "Had no ears, and only a couple of fingers left, and always looked as if he was daydreaming the whole time."

Moraine felt Lan's eyes on her, and felt a cold sting in her stomach. She would have to write a letter after all.


Around the same time in Far Madding

Ox-drawn carts and wagon trains lead by two pairs of strong horses clustered the wide road across the Goim Bridge, with masses of men and women and children finding their way between the angry shouts and curses of merchants and teamsters. A cold, steady breeze blew from the lake in whose centre Far Madding proudly stood, a walled city, a true city, only accessible over one of three bridges. Marek Reen felt it hard not to continually gawk at the size of it all, and at the seemingly infinite numbers of people all around him who stoically stood in line in the cold to get into the city to peddle their goods or buy some or for a thousand other reasons he himself had no interest in.

Far Madding was easily the largest human settlement he had ever seen, including that City of the Guardians at that place he liked better not to think about. Blood and bloody ashes, why did it have to be so cold here? Where they had come from it had already been early summer! The twists and hoops his mind had to jump through to grapple with that made his head spin. Just thinking about was enough to made his skin crawl. He was a pickpocket, and a liar, and probably half a dozen other not so honourable things he would have to justify himself for the day he died, but he was no darkfriend!

He had been blinded by the thrill of adventure they had promised, and more so by the gold they so freely spent in his company. And in the beginning, it had been great, like a rush. Now he knew how that gold had been earned. Sorcery. Dark witchcraft. The past months had opened his eyes, and only the strictest self-discipline had kept him from running off in the middle of the night after they had returned from... wherever that wretched place had been. Light, might the hand of the Creator shelter him, a male user of the Power!

The thought alone was enough to make him tremble, a notion nobody realized as the crowd slowly moved closer to the Tear Gate across the small plain he had people hear call the Mustering Grounds. Having spent so much time with people who saw it as their trade to besiege cities, he could not help but thinking what a folly such a space was, singlehandedly destroying the advantage of the natural defenses of the lake.

More by being nudged and pushed with the flow than by conscious movement he reached the high gate house, flanked by two towers. Six guards with halberds and high, open-faced helmets watched the slow flood of people with eagle-like eyes, and when he tried to drive his mount forward, two of them blocked his path faster than he thought possible.

"No weapons inside the city walls," the older of the two growled, pointing at Marek's thin-bladed sword.
"Surrender your blade or have it peace-bound," the other one explained in a rather bored tone, but held the reins of Marek's horse tightly.
"What shall it be, lad? Think faster, there are more people than just your sorry arse who want to enter Far Madding!" the other one added, giving Marek and the crowd that had come to a standstill behind him impatient looks.

Reen forced himself to smile and fake a friendly voice.
"Of course, of course, good man. Here, for your troubles," he chucked the older one a copper coin and unmounted to hand over his weapon at the guardhouse under the low protests of the people behind him, muttering about lousy foreigners with their strange customs blocking the way.

There were three Strangers' Markets in Far Madding where foreigners were allowed to trade. They were the Amhara Market, the Avharin Market and the Nethvin Market, named after the three most revered women in Far Madding's history. At the center of the city stodd the Counsels' Plaza and the Hall of the Counsels, but it was the markets where Marek was drawn to. He aptly maneuvered his horse through the city's narrow roads, still marvelling at the number of people crowding every place, and at the rich estates and tall stone houses, many as high as five or more stories. An inn with a stable was not hard to find, even though he had to control himself not to protest to vehemently against the prices the innkeeper demanded. On foor, he found his way deeper into the city, and his mood lightened considerably, for this was a paradise for thieves and pickpockets like him. Soon after he had left the inn he had already 'earned' as much as he had had to pay. Far Madding's air elated him, even though it was a stale stench of sweat and shit and smoke mold into a cacaphony of yelling voices and screaming animals, but he did not forget why he had stolen himself away from their camp almost a tenday away to the east to come here.

He know what he was looking for, and even though he was just a small town swindler and pickpocket he how to spot the signs, or better, people, he needed. A boy of maybe fourteen winters in tattered robes drew his attention as he swiftly noved through the crowd, stopping inconspicuously here and there. Each time he started moving again, the pockets of his ragged tunic seemed to have swollen just a small bit. Marek followed him through the narrow streets. The buildings changed to more simple designs, as did people's clothes. The air here was filled with the rank smell of tannin. The lower classes lived here, but even here men followed the women, which was one of the strangest things he considered to have ever seen (and that was quite a lot by now, he wryly thought). All merchants in Far Madding were women, and men were the ones cared for with allowances or money willed to them. Women held the power in the city in the lake.

Thus distracted he found himself surprised by a group of thugs obviously waiting for him after he turned around the next street corner. The boy he had followed stood behind them with crossed arms. Marek was still thinking whether running or fighting was the better course of action when he felt loosing the ground beneath his feet and was slammed against the wall behind him, the impact pressing the air from his lungs. For a moment all he saw was turning stars. Strong arms grabbed him and the tip of a knife was pressed against his throat.

"Whoy ya following the kid, pretty boy?" a rough voice asked. The speaker smelled of foul teeth and onion and old wine.

Marek thought it was strange he felt so little fear and tried to shake of the daze, instantly regretting the idea as his view cleared and he saw the man who was holding him. He was as ugly as the rest had indicated.

"Speak, pretty boy, or I'll have to work on your face a bit and leave the rest to the pigs," he chuckled, and the others laughed.

With his view and his thoughts clearing, the conscious fear also returned. The brute who held him pressed his paw against Marek's throat while his blade started to play across his face without actually cutting it yet. A savage smile dominated the other man's face, and he felt how the thick hands slowly squeezed his windpipe. Panicked, he tried to go for his knife, but that was in a pocket he could not reach in the position he was being held.

"So, ya don' talk, eh? Shame." The other one seemed to be genuinely disappointed. With a sigh, he increased the pressure.

That brought Marek out of his stasis.
"Long Hern," he croaked. "Long Hern!"
The next thing he knew was he found himself on the floor of a dirty basement, coughing, trying to suck air into his lungs. Straining himself to get back on his feet again, he heard someone approach from behind.

"My, my, my," a deep voice intoned. "If it isn't weasely Marek Reen, or do you like 'Marek the Charmer' better? I suppose so, even though I never understood what people saw in you," the voice mused.

"Hello, Hern," Marek croaked, his throat still raw. "Long time no see."

A thin man, but unnaturally tall, almost seven feet or such, stepped into Marek's field of view. The receeding hairline and deep, hollow eyes gave him the likeness of a corpse.

"Indeed, it is. Though I did not think you'd be so suicidal to actually come to visit me." It sounded genuinely surprised.

Marek flinched.
"I had nothing to do with what happened four years ago. It was just bad timing that the town's guards got to you that early. And," he added, trying to sound confident, "would I come here if I was guilty?"

"Probably not, even though your charms were always sharper than your wits, Reen," the other conceeded dryly. "And look at you. You're no better off than when we last saw each other," Long Hern shook his head.

"Maybe that's about to change," Marek answered calmly, massaging his neck. "I'm here on business, Hern, and I wouldn't have come here if there weren't some persistent rumours about whom you're working with from time to time."

The other man's eyebrows rose in surprise, if just for the brink of a moment.
"Leave us alone," he commanded calmly, and Marek heard the sound of shuffling feet and that of a door clicking shut.

"Your word really carries weight here," he noticed once they were alone. "What about the guards?" he inquired. "I saw plenty of them in the streets."

"I like to leave them with the impression that they actually control the Eastside. Like that, they are easier to handle and don't stick their noses into my affairs," Long Hern explained matter-of-factly. "So, what business do you have that needs involvement or knowledge of the White Tower?"


A Tenday Later
The Royal Palace, Caemlyn, Kingdom of Andor

The rose gardens of Queen Morgase's palace were the one place were Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan allowed herself to loose a bit of the strict composure that usually dominated the advisor of the throne. The place was empty during this time of the day, the royal siblings being confined to their studies, allowing Elaida to think without outer disturbances. It was still rather cold outside, with the first blossoms only starting to slowly spread among Andor and the central lands, but she did not mind, for she tended to the royal gardens in her own way, using saidar to ensure the flowers and trees blossomed and filled the air with the sweet scent and the buzzing of bees.

However, Elaida Sedai did not go to the gardens to daydream. Her daily duties commanded her to advise the Queen of Andor on matters of state policy, so it was times like these were she could contemplate what strands the Wheel was weaving into the greater pattern. She had the seldom talent of foretelling, allowing her to predict certain aspects of the future, even though she could not influence the talent itself. It was because of a foretelling she had become advisor to Morgase Trakand, having predicted that the royal line of Andor was critical to the Last Battle.

The approaching laughter of children rose her from her thoughts. She scowled at the disturbance, shortly contemplating whether to reprimand the coming heirs of Andor, but decided against it. Bringing up Gawyn and Elayne and even stoic Galad was Morgase's task, not hers. Quietly, she slipped from the gardens before the children could notice her, and returned to her own quarters on silent feet. The servants in royal livery that passed her by bowed deep at the sight of the royal advisor, but Elaida ignored them as if they were part of the furniture.

Her rooms were lavishly decorated and furnitured themselves, with traces of gold and marble shining through from every direction. She found her chambers untouched, the way she had left them - except for the new, sealed parchment on her desk. Information had a way of finding a path to her. That also was an advantage of being Morgase's advisor, for Caemlyn stood at the junction of five wide roads that lead to every corner of the world, and every news for the White Tower not sent by pidgeon invariably landed on her desk, here.

Only a few days past she had gotten into the possession of a letter from Moraine, one of the Blues who she hated with a passion, but who - at least this time, it seemed - had dutifully reported findings that alluded to a male channeler on the loose in northern Altara. It still lay on top the other papers. The servants never came near the desk, at least not those who knew what was good for them, but Elaida had people who she trusted enough who delivered her the letters and packages that usually covered the polished wooden plate.

The newest bore the mark of the safehouse in Far Madding. She broke it open with a fingernail and flew over the lines one time, then another. The contents were only rumours of the sorts she got half a dozen times each tenday, but there was a name in it that sounded familiar. Having a hunch, she grabbed the letter Moraine had sent from Lugard, and a smile crept on her face. Both pieces of paper featured one name: Marek Reen.

She grabbed ink and quill and paper and immediately started to write. Her sisters in Tar Valon needed to know of this...


Two Days Rides away from the Outfall of the River Iralell into the River Erinin,
Western Haddon Mirk
The First Week of Saven, 994 N.E. (New Era)

They all had gathered on the small plain along the river Iralell they had started to call the village greens. Two hundred people, and all had done their feastday clothes. The smell of honey and pepper cakes, of roast meat, of stew cooking in a dozen pots filled the air while a subtle layer of scent from flowers and the blossoming apple trees along the river shore lay over it all. The simple log houses they had built for themselves along the ridge above the Iralell at the edge of the large forest that nowadays constituted Haddon Mirk were all ornated with banners in rich colours. And in the sky above them, the sun shone brightly and far and wide there was no cloud in sight. It was as if the Creator himself had chosen to help them this day.

They were all here, today. All his friends and companions who had gone through the heat of battle and the cold of the deepest winter together, and when he looked into their faces and their families' faces he saw happy people, people that rejoyced with him. Zath stood besides him in his best robes, without his mask, with Arianna at his side. She wore a deep grey fitting skirt which, in combination with her silvery hair, made her look almost otherworldly. But she faded in comparison to the woman that was lead through an alley in the crowd by the hand of her father. Azral walked as straight as he could and wore his best clothes, and for once the old man looked as proud and lively as everybody else did.

Marisa Tane was a beauty in red and white, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest so hard as if it was trying to burst out.

The crowd formed a wide circle around them, and out of it stepped Mellen Ollon, wearing a very formal, high collared green coat and a wide silver chain he had last worn when he had still been a village mayor.
"We are gathered here today to witness the marriage of this man and this woman, according to good order and all good customs, and under the authority given and the shelter provided by the palm of the Creator himself," he began, silencing any talk among the villagers and companions. "It is by its nature a state or giving rather than taking, of offering rather than receiving, for marriage requires the giving of one’s self to support the marriage and the home in which it may flourish," he gave his wife a short nod and a smile. "If any person can show just and sufficient reason why these two persons may not be joined together in matrimony, let them now declare their reasons, or else from this time forward, keep their peace," Mellen called out. Silence was his answer, and he continued with a wide smile. "Then so it shall be!" he exclaimed, streching both his arms skywards before place a hand on both their shoulders. "Lad, is it your desire to marry this woman here next to you?"

Tarmion simply nodded, almost too excited to talk coherently.

"Then you may now give your vows," the fomer innkeeper told him calmly. "Take your time."

Tarmion took a deep breath, then turned to face his bride. Marisa smiled at him, and he returned the sentiment. He could see tears in her eyes.
"I, Tarmion Genda, take you, Marisa Tane to be my wife, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union and love you more each day than I did the day before. I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. In the presence of the Creator, our family and friends, I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live."

Marisa replied the vow in a breathless voice, and Mellen took her hand and placed it into the palm of Tarmion's.

"You may now kiss the bride," he nudged him, and the people started to cheer as their lips met.

After a long, passionate kiss, Tarmion turned to face the rest of the people. From the corner of his eyes he could see movement on the slope behind him and frowned just for a moment. Riders? Strange. He forced his attention back to his friends, and with a wide smile started to adress them.

That was when the first arrow struck a man. Everything went really fast from then on. Suddenly, there were dozens of arrows in the air, and people fell and screamed. He could hear the clatter of hooves, and felt the ground tremble. Marisa's eyes were full of fear, and he pulled her closer, as if to shield her from the arrows with us body.
There was a sharp crack, like that of a whip, and he felt intense heat brush his skin as he was lifted into the air. Lumps of rock and soil raced through the air like arrowheads. His grasp on Marisa's hand slipped, and he tumbled through the air like a leaf on the wind. The ground came nearer, but his arms did not obey his commands. The last thing before it went dark around him was the sound of cracking bones when he hit the ground.


Zath frantically searched the battlefield. Arianna was with him, he thanked the Creator for that. There was a wide gash along the right side of her face, and her eye was a red mass, but she was alive, and that was all that counted.
"I should have felt it," she muttered through clenched teeth, pressing a blood-soaked piece of cloth against her wounds.
"There's nothing you could have done," he rebuked her, instantly regretting his tone. He squeezed her hand to comfort her and pulled her further along in his search.
"Over there!" she shouted out, pointing with her free hand. "Marisa and Tarmion."
He followed her outstrechted arm and abruptly stopped in his tracks when he saw them.
"Sweet Creator, have merci!" he hissed.


Several Days to the Northeast

The old man sat cross-legged in the back of a horse-drawn cart with high wooden wheels. Three sisters watched him all the time, making sure he was severed from the source so that he could not reach for saidin, the tainted male half of the One Power. He had cried, silently, in the beginning, but had not challenged them or tried to defy what they did. In fact, they had just picked him up from the field of battle where he had stood with empty eyes before they had retreated. Now, days later, he mostly just sat there, large empty eyes staring ahead, not even bothered by the flies his sweat and stench drew in.

Benara Sedai was the youngest of the red sisters in the group, less than five years away from the day she had taken the Three Oaths, and this had been the first time she had ventured outside the walls of Tar Valon to find and bind a dreaded male channeler. The journey had been long and rough, and the end, as she saw it, dissatisfying. She wrote it off to youthful folly, but she had thought, or better, expected - hoped! - that what they did was more, well, epic. Oh, yes, they had come down on those people with fire and flashes and half a company of Tar Valon guards racing down the hillside in a horseback charge, but they had crashed what now looked to her like a wedding ceremony not unlike the ones she had witnessed when she was a youngster herself, before she had been taken to the Tower. On top of that, not only had the man done nothing to attack them, he hardly looked like a foe from the stories she had devoured when she had been younger - and which she still did in her little spare time. After all, except for Cairhien's the White Tower's bibliotheque was the largest in the known world!

No, the man she had to guard was a scrawny old fellow with hollow cheeks and clear signs of the rot the taint of the male half carried with it. His ears looked like the had been cut off after a bad case of frostbite, none of his two hands still carried all its fingers, and when he walked he did so with a small limp.
And above all, he looked so sad. Empathy was not a quality nurtured in sisters of the Red Ajah, but Benera was still young, but he reminded her of her own grandfather, a goodhearted family man who had sung songs with her and let her sit on his lap and made her little animal toys from wood when she had still been a child...

The memories threatened to sweep her away, and she felt her flow of saidar ripple. Briefly, the eyes of the two other sisters watching the man shot her dark glances, and Benara scolded herself for a foolish child, her cheeks reddening. She had a duty here, blood and ashes, she...

A chill ran down her spine, and unwantedly her eyes shot up, to the face of the male channeler in front of her. He was looking at her, and his eyes were alive.

Azral Tane smiled, turning his head to look south. The old man's voice was strong and steady.
"There's a storm a'coming."

[Posbi]

The end of the last chapter overlaps - time-wise - with this one.

“Know this, Tarmion Genda: Your own path is paved with sorrow, pain and grief.” - Lanfear

15. Evil Be Thou My Good

The Second Week of Saven, 994 N.E. (New Era)

“Hush now, he's waking up,” a voice on the edge of his hearing urged. There were some shuffling feet and the sound of people clearing their throats. His eyelids rose, slowly, ever so slowly. They felt so heavy to him, almost as if someone had bound iron weights to them. When they had finally opened, he was looking against a wooden floor interspersed with thicker wooden beams. No, not the floor, he corrected himself. The ceiling. He tried to turn his head, but something held it in an unwavering grasp.
“Where...?” he managed to cough out hoarsely. His voice was so weak. Light! His mouth felt he had swallowed sand, so dry it seemed to him. “Water,” he croaked weakly.

There was another shuffle again, this time the one of a dozen feet trying to do the same thing at once. He heard the sound of water being poured, and it made him lick his lips. His tongue was dry, too, but not as dry as his cracked lips were.

Aryman's worried face appeared in his field of vision. The Taraboner leaned down to him and placed a cup against Tarmion's lips. He eagerly emptied it and demanded more. Aryman returned with another cup, but this time he only gave it to him in steps and not as a whole. There were some old, almost healed bruises on the man's face.

Tarmion closed his eyes again and breathed heavily. Light, just drinking had exhausted him! Calming himself, he tried to steady his breathing. After he had caught his breath he spoke again.
“Where are we? What happened?” his voice was still weak, but at least it no longer sounded as if a crow was croaking. He tried to push himself up, but found that his arms did not respond. Damn it, I am weak, he cursed in his mind.

“You don't remember?”

That was Mellen's voice. Good, brave Mellen. The deadliest innkeeper ever. Good that he was there.
“A blur...,” he answered groggily.

“We were attacked,” that was the deep voice of Zath. ”Aes Sedai, by the looks of them and the men riding with them. They took Azral.”

Tarmion did not have to see his friend to see the scowl on his face. But someone was missing. Someone…
“Marisa?!” he suddenly had a lump in his stomach. “Are you there?”

“She is nearby, outside,” Mellen answered him, but there was so much sadness in the older man's voice that it only increased his anxiety.

“What is with her?” he demanded to know, but Mellen just continued as if he had not heard him.

“There is a nice apple tree outside, on top of the hill. It's blossoming now. Marisa's always liked blossoms, and the sun in spring. I bring her flowers every day...,” his voice faltered.

“She was ridden down, like you, and took a grievous wound to the head,” Aryman explained somberly. “We tried everything in our powers, to no avail, old friend,” for the first time Tarmion could remember the halfman hesitated. “I’m sorry. She died the same day.”

Tarmion felt icy fingers grasping for him, and tears welled in his eyes.

“We buried her beneath the apple tree, in a field of wild flowers,” he said quietly. “We all knew she was... fond of flowers.”

“We feared we would have to bury you besides her, lad,” Mellen chimed in just as quietly. “It's a miracle you are still alive.”

“Others might call it a curse,” the Taraboner murmured.

“Aryman!”

“Oh, don't patronize me, Mellen! He has a right to know it.”

“Know what?” Tarmion asked weakly with a new sense of dread. He could almost physically feel the hesitation that had lowered over the chamber. “Know what?” he demanded again, more fiercely this time.

It was Mellen who finally spoke.
“You were as grievously wounded as your wife, lad,” he explained slowly. “You broke your spine.”

“My spine?” Tarmion yelped. He tried to push himself up again, only to not only feel his limbs not react to his commands, but to feel nothing at all. Cold sweat started to pour, and panic grabbed his heart. “Oh please, Light, everything, but not that!” he muttered almost inaudibly.

“Yes, old friend, your spine.”
That was Zath's voice, and the masked face appeared in his field of vision almost the same instant as he had started to speak. If he had needed any kind of confirmation of his state, his friend's incredibly sad voice had just given it to him.
“You can't move your legs and arms anymore. We've tried all we could, but those kinds of wounds...,” his voice trailed off. “I am sorry, old friend, but you will be a cripple for the rest of your days.”

The words hit him like bricks, and there were voices of protest lambasting Zath for his lack of tact, but Tarmion only felt them on the edge of his hearing. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. He felt tears running down his eyes, tears for Marisa, whom he had cost so much, and who had payed the final price for being at his side. Not for the first time he felt that he was a bane for the people who loved him, but this time the feeling was stronger, much stronger than it had ever been before. So many people had died through him, died for him. So much misery he had brought upon good and decent folk. So much misery...

They were still arguing when he turned his concentration back from his inner contemplations to them.
“I need some rest,” he said weakly, and the clamour broke off immediately.

“Yes, take a nap, lad,” he could see Mellen nod with his inner eye. “Come on, folks, places to be.”

“And I want to be bedded so that I can see her,” he demanded a little bit stronger. He could still feel the wet tears on his face. Strong hands grabbed the frame of his bed and turned it around, stuffing pillows underneath him so that his chest rose up a bit.
Azral opened the shutters of the windows, and a soft breeze blew into the chamber.

“Be well, boy,” Mellen placed a hand on Tarmion's head and put so much enthusiasm in his voice that Tarmion almost believed that he could, but the older man's eyes betrayed him, and so Tarmion just nodded with his own eyelids. “Let's go, let's look after the others.”

They started to leave, and Tarmion called out after them.
“Zath, please stay.”

A door was closed, and it was quiet in the room, but Tarmion knew he was not alone.
With the halfman, he did not even have to see or smell or hear him to know he was there. He doubted that after all the time they had spent together he would have even needed to know the diluted aura of dread Zath wore like a cloak to know that the man was in the room with him.
“I am so sorry,” Zath said in his baritone voice. He spoke much softer than he had done so before. “So, so sorry,” he insisted.

Tarmion looked outside. It was cloudy, but the air was warm. Maybe two hundred paces away an apple tree stood, it's branches and twigs all a sea of white blossoms, and beneath it a simple headstone stood. He imagined he could smell them, the flowers and apple blossoms, and hear the sounds of the hundreds of bees that must be buzzing from one flower to another. The shape of a cat lay on top of the stone, enjoying the warmth of the sun.
Yes, she would have liked that. He imagined her standing in a field of flowers, white roses and blue tulips in her red hair, and new tears swelled in the corner of his eyes. He moaned in agony and wanted to swipe the tears away, only to be reminded by his body that he no longer could. The dam broke, and he cried. For her, for all that could have been, for the friends he had lost, and for himself.

When he had no more tears to cry, Zath sat down on the bed beside him.
Tarmion looked outside again, up towards the apple tree.
“This is no life,” he finally stated weakly.

“No, it isn't,” the halfman agreed with him after a moment of silence. “You know I would do everything to help you.”

“Yes, I know that, old friend. You always would,” he gave him a sad smile before looking back outside, to where Marisa was, to where he wanted to be, with her. “Give me a day to make my decision.”

“Yes, take all the time you need, old friend. I will come to you again when you are ready.”

When he closed the door, Tarmion was certain that, for the first time, he could see tears in his old friend's eyes.

xxxxx

Mellen and the others waited outside the flat wooden building.
“Did you tell him?” the former innkeeper wanted to know.
Zath shook his head wearily.
“No, I did not. And he will never find out,” he stated more forcefully, looking around. “He's a good man, a damn good man. He's earned himself some dignity. Let him spend what time he still has like that. He's already lost enough. Let him keep that little dignity. That's the least we owe him.”

Aryman looked at the wine in his hands, emptied the mug and poured it full again, shaking his head.
“Fortune, prick me. It's all going down the pan. Damn flamin' shame, that's what it is.” His speech was already slurred. “Boy deserved better than that... .”

The men silently agreed, and went their ways to look after the other survivors. Tarmion Genda had lost his love, his health and his will to live. It would have been the peak of cruelty to tell him he had lost his unborn child as well.

xxxxx

So helpless, he thought. Not even infants were that helpless. At least they could struggle and roll around. Bereft of any kind of movement, he soon dozed off into a light sleep. He did not know whether he was still asleep or awake again when he felt the door opening and someone entering. And then there she was. Tall and beautiful and dark as the night, wrapped in white silk with the moon and the stars as her jewellry. Lanfear looked down on him, her face a mask he could not read. He felt his heart pound for s few seconds before it calmed down again. Even this seemed to tire him.

"I failed you. And now I lie in my own piss and shit and cannot even look you in the eyes." He focussed on the fresh grave outside. "I would have been contend with that, with a person that loves me. I would not have needed more."

"I told you that was not your path," she told him not without compassion. "And your path is far from over."

He looked down at himself and frowned.
"I am useless now, mylady. Broken. Whether this is a dream or the waking world, once you have left me I will ask a friend for a lst service of mercy," he told her, but she just smiled at him quizzically.

“The gifts I bestow come with a price,” she looked directly into his eyes. “Everything always has its prize.” Her voice was calm, but Tarmion could feel the cold sweat on his forehead that her presence caused – and in his mind, Caraan Tureed raged and howled. “I can give you what you seek, and in due time, I may come and ask for a favour in return. But consider this: if I restore you, who will you be? The man in this bed, or the man in your head?”
His eyes must have had widened in shock like saucers because she smiled down at him in dry amusement.
“Oh, I felt him the first time we met each other. But enough of that.” She leaned over him, black hair falling down to his face, her perfectly shaped body so close to his – and yet so far away. The skin on his forehead turned dry and cool when she placed her hand on it, and he saw, but did not feel the hand she placed on his chest. Her perfume was in his nose, an intoxicating scent, and her hands felt as if they were gloved in the finest silks.
She smiled at him.
“Heal, Tarmion Genda,” she murmured softly – and fire seared through his vains.

He wanted to scream, wanted to wrench himself from her grasp, but her pale hands held him firmly down. A raspy rattle followed by a thin moan escaped his throat while icy needles pierced deep into his mind, breaking down boundaries, weaving new paths, restoring old ways. His eyes rolled back into his skull as his head stirred. More fire raced through his body, touched places he had thought lost to feeling, seared them with liquid flames. He was dimly aware of the chilling sounds bones and joints made that cracked back into place as his whole body stiffened. His heart pounded, trying to beat its way out of his chest, and every pulse gushed new flames through him. Every sinew of his body felt strained to a point far above what the Creator had made them to withstand. Helplessly, seized by convulsions, he thrashed around while he felt her presence waning.

“Remember I will come and demand a favour,” her voice still hung in the cabin's air. “Remember, far cab'allein moridin.”

xxxxx

He stood beneath the apple tree and looked down on the fresh grave mound. There were flowers all over it. She lay there, and all he could do was stare! In pain and tears he reached out with the power, reached with strands of spirit through the moist earth, full of worms and beetles and maggots… and stopped. She was there, silent, peaceful, almost as if she was just sleeping. Saidin whirled in him, making him see her as she lay there. Caressing, strands of spirit touched her, reached into her, found her heart… and found the other, smaller one, too. For long moments he just stood there, petrified, ice running through his vains. His hands started to tremble as fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. His love, his child… a choked moan left his throat, almost like that of a wolf – and something within Tarmion Genda broke forever.

Fiery rage consumed him while hate, as cold as the darkest winter night, took over his thoughts.
‘She had nothing to do with this. She hadn't done anything. We hadn't done anything. Damn them!’
[They left us to die. Their betrayal sealed our doom! The Light shall burn them. Damn them!]

They killed her, not me!
[They killed her, not me!]

And for the first time, both men agreed on one thing, and spoke with one, booming voice.
“They. Will. Pay.”
Caran Tureed reached for saidin, and the world shifted.

xxxxx

Sedaira Sedai and her four sisters of the Red Ajah usually travelled without men accompanying them, but the Amyrlin Seat had been very clear this time that no unnecessary risks were to be taken. Siuan Sanche had obviously overreacted, but what else was to be expected of a Blue. The Red Ajah was bound to gentle men who had the ability to channel, but a dead channeler was just as good in Sedaira's eyes. Each and every one of them wore the Breaking of the World inside of them.

She sighed. That one had died along with some of his companions before using the tainted saidin, and the others had taken their heels into their hands after Nemara had sent a flash directly into their midsts. Still, a dozen men in the colours of Tar Valon were dead or in immediate need of care. The black haired Aes Sedai had received reports about Whitecloaks in this area, and she felt no urgency to meet the fanatic Children of the Light. Once Sedaira had seen that the channeler's neck had been broken, she ordered her forces to retreat.

They had travelled for two days since then, leaving the borders of Amadicia behind them, riding northeast into Altara. Half an hour ago the hundred riders under the banner of Tar Valon had arrived at a small village in the middle of the Gront Forest. The twenty something houses were all abandoned, hastily left sometime during the past days, but the three warders that accompanied Sedaira and her sisters – they were not their warders, the Red bonded no men – had found no signs of danger in the vicinity. The senior Aes Sedai had had her force dismount so that their dead could be given a decent funeral and that she and her sisters could care for the wounded. Some were feverish and had deeper wounds than the Aes Sedai had realized when they fled from Amadicia.
Looking after the wounded, she had no idea how much time had passed when Amon Ragir, a gaunt warder with grey whiskers and almost black eyes, appeared in the doorframe of the house she had ordered the wounded into with a distraught look on his face.

“Sedaira Sedai, you should take a look at this,” he insisted. She knew enough of warders to recognize when they were serious about something, and Amon Ragir was an experienced fighter. She did not even need to follow him to the edge of the village to understand that something odd was going on. She could feel it, and she could smell it. Howling wind flapped her cloak against her face, but she ignored it.

“Look, something's driving animals from the woods,” the warder shouted, pointing at deers and boars and rabbits and even a lone wolf hurryring out of the woods towards the village, while hosts of crows and smaller birds were shrieking and rising into the air.

The Aes Sedai sensed all that only like through a thick fog, her mind revolting against the massive waves of residue of saidin that broke against it.
“It's burning,” she heard herself say. “Can't you smell it?”

The warder looked at her, uncertain what to do. But she remained motionless, her mind tracking the tainted power. He climbed up the thatched roof of the nearest building besides him to get a better view.
“There is smoke coming from the woods all around us,” he yelled towards the others as much as to Sedaira. The other soldiers and Aes Sedai had already sensed that something strange was happening. Now they gathered in the middle of the abandoned village, shield to shield, placing the channelers into their midst behind a wall of spears and steel.

Towering flames ate through the brush and the woods around the village with frightening speed, wood and grass and leaves burning intensely after the first dry and warm week of this spring, filling the air with the sound of loud hisses and cracks. And then, a voice thundered over all of it.

"I. AM. THE. FIRE! HEAR. ME. ROAR!"

And a man in tattered robes appeared from the forest, hovering above the ground, flames seeping from his hands like liquid fire. The Aes Sedai reacted swiftly.

Weaves of spirit and air and fire rolled against him, hammered against his defences, hammered down on him – and did nothing. The air around him flickered from the heat of the fire that engulfed the woods all around him, all around the village, the flames sucking in air with a howling whirlwind. Another cacaphony of weaves crashed into his – Caraan's ? - weaves and he – they ? - started to chuckle. He lashed out with earth and spirit, as if he was cracking a whip, cleaving a house in half and leaving only a cracked trench in his wrath's wake. White flashes lashed accurately down from the sky and found the soldiers in their surcoats with the flame of Tar Valon on them and turned them into very real flames. A warder stormed towards him through the heat, his gaunt face a mask of grim determination. He swatted him aside almost casually with an intricate weave of spirit and air that broke every single bone in the man's body and hurled him into the raging firestorm without a second thought.

He saw Azral sitting silently on a wagon without horses and wove a thick cocoon of spirit and cold air around him, mangling half a dozen guards in the colours of Tar Valon in the process.

Caraan Tureed and Tarmion Genda grinned as they walked down the path towards the village. The flames followed them from all sides. A dozen bright flashes cracked into the ground where he stood, making to make one's flesh crawl. Caraan Tureed started to laugh. The whip lashed out again, shattered houses and threw animals and men alike through the air as if they were mere toys. He turned around a corner and found himself face to face with two warders who stood between him and an exhausted woman. Swords firmly in their hands, they simultaneously charged him. More irritated than afraid he took a step back. However, his hand shot forward, his fingers spread wide, and with a stomach turning crack both men simply slumped to the ground as if their bones had turned into jelly.

A furious assault of blows and fireballs forced him to steady his footing. His eyes looked up and found the Aies Sedai responsible for it. She was beautiful, and young for someone who wore the shawl, her face pale from exhaustion despite the heat all around her. She leaned against the ruins of a cottage, her limbs shaking. A small figurine had slipped from her feeble fingers and fallen to the ground. He could feel how she tried to grab and hold saidar, the female side of the power, and felt how she failed.
There were tears in her eyes.
“Futile, so futile,” Caraan Tureed and Tarmion Genda commented in both their voices. “I sat besides Lews Therin Telamon in the Hall of Servants. I fought Sammael on the slopes of Shayol Gul. I was there when the bore was sealed, and the Dark One imprisoned again,” he laughed and shook his head. “And you children challenge me to battle? Me?!” his laughter turned into rage, and a wave of almost liquid fire rolled over her and the ruins behind her.

Weaves of air lifted him off the ground and let him hover above the hell he had created. Beneath him the bodies of men and women threw themselves around in their panicked death throes, fire burning flesh, steaming air boiling skin, hair blazing like torches.

He laughed, laughed so hard, so loud, laughed with the thunder of a thousand voices screaming his grief and pain into the world until tears trickled down his cheeks, until the flames engulfed him and turned to tears to ash and dust - and the world shifted again.

Azral emerged with him back at the place he had started from. It was already getting late, with the sun hanging low above the horizon in the west. He was almost completely naked, his hair and eyebrows seared by the intense heat, Azral looked at him with a curious expression on his gnarled face, resting his least crippled hand on the headstone of Marisa's grave.

Tarmion knelt down besides her grave, silent tears in his eyes.
“I knew you never wanted to rely on anyone but yourself. Just this once, you should have... .”
His voice trailed of as he placed a spray of white roses on Marisa's fresh burial mound, and hoarsely started to sing.

Words like violence, break the silence,
come crashing in, into my little world.
Painful to me, pierce right through me,
can't you understand, o my little girl ?

All I wanted, all I needed
was here, in my arms.
Words are very, unnecessary.
They can only do harm.

Vows are spoken, to be broken.
Feelings are intense, words are trivial.
Pleasures remain, so does the pain.
Words are meaningless, and forgettable

All I wanted, all I needed,
was here, in my arms.
Words were very, unnecessary.
They can only do harm.

He did not remember how long he had knelt besides her grave, humming softly, talking to her, but when a cold wind stirred the leaves above him, driving grey clouds heavy with rain down from the north, he rose, caressing the headstone softly, as if it was a living thing. The life he had wanted, had dreamed of was gone, had died with the woman he loved. He felt empty inside - and angry, so very angry. Frowning, he turned his head into the chill wind as if to cool off his temper, but inside he could feel it boiling, could feel the hunger stirring. Hunger for revenge, hunger for letting Caraan Tureed off the leash again, hunger – and the soiled taste of saidin.
His knuckles became white around the headstone, and he pushed the thought back with a shiver. He could not let that happen again. That way lay madness, and death. He would have to do something about that.

"Allein t'aes mera."
It was a soft whisper, coming from nowhere and everywhere. It should have frightened him, or at least startled him, but despite himself he smiled.
"No fate," he whispered to himself, and the pictures from the portal stone rushed into his mind, pictures of a thousand lifes, a thousand times a thousand. He looked north, to the rolling lands along the banks of the river Erinin. Behind it lay Andor, and Braem Wood, and to its east, wounded Cairhien, and even further north lay the mountains of Kinslayer's Dagger, and the island in the middle of the river near Dragonmount.
"I would have settled down with Marisa, Aes Sedai," he said with a cold, grim smile. "But that was when I was still afraid to get my hands dirty. I am no longer afraid. Let's see how you like what you have created."


Lyrics by Depeche Mode

Old Tongue = far cab'allein moridin, literally Of Free Man Death, here meaning Man spared by Death/Free from the Grave
= allein niende en cor, Man Bound To The Night
= allein t'aes mera, Man With No Fate

[Posbi]

I'll be working with CC3 for the next book, just thought I'd let you know. Here's a very basic map of the central eastern area of Randland.

[Posbi]

Oh, come on, people! Two new chapters and a map, and no comments?!

[RDC]

Originally Posted by Posbi

Oh, come on, people! Two new chapters and a map, and no comments?!

Dunno. We'll get back to you after you hand over a few more chapters. Maybe at 250K words each? You can't really rush comments, ya know?

[divad]

well it was a chapter, not sure how I feel about him fliping his lid, I would really like it if some one figured out a way to use saidin without going mad though it is kind of cannon that that isn't possible but there are a several things I don't like about the way Jordan set up his cannon

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by divad

well it was a chapter, not sure how I feel about him fliping his lid, I would really like it if some one figured out a way to use saidin without going mad though it is kind of cannon that that isn't possible but there are a several things I don't like about the way Jordan set up his cannon

Working on something to bypass that in a limited way (result of a butterfly effect), but not for Tarmion. He'll get stilled.

[divad]

wont that ruin his life? unless you plan to heal him or at least let that give him the hope to live until whats her name figures out how to do that

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by divad

wont that ruin his life? unless you plan to heal him or at least let that give him the hope to live until whats her name figures out how to do that

I cannot let him run around channeling for that would make him too powerful. Discipline and the drive for power will be his motivators to manage the after-effects of the stilling after some time.

[divad]

then why did you give him chaneling in the first place

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by divad

then why did you give him chaneling in the first place

Synchronicity event. A side effect of Lanfear's healing, which basically pulled Caraan Tureed to much into the forefront. I wanted closure for this part of the story, and a setup point for the next part, a motivator, to speak so.

[RDC]

Originally Posted by Posbi

Synchronicity event. A side effect of Lanfear's healing, which basically pulled Caraan Tureed to much into the forefront. I wanted closure for this part of the story, and a setup point for the next part, a motivator, to speak so.

So when Lanfear healed him, will he get some protection from the taint like the Forsaken?

[Posbi]

Originally Posted by RDC

So when Lanfear healed him, will he get some protection from the taint like the Forsaken?

No. As I said above, he will feel the side-effects of saidin, especially because such large have been channelled through him, and he will seek a way to be stilled. Making him a channeller, permanently, and without the disadvantages of saidin, would make him too much of a game changer in the WoT universe, especially considering that he more or less has the instinctive knowledge with the power that Caraan Tureed, one of the friggin' Hundred Companions has. It also would change the theme of him as an "accumulator of talents" around him, minor ta'veren like Zath and Aryman and Arianna. No, if he remains able to channel, how will he be able not to become the Dragon Reborn? I like him better a bit further in the background, as a puppeteer helping the course of events.

The actual changes are a bit further down the road. Needless to say, they will change canon events quite a bit. Like something comparable to the Treaty of Tordesillas between him and Pedron Niall, maybe?

[Posbi]

16. Wrapping Up Loose Ends

Two Days’ Rides away from the Outfall of the River Iralell into the River Erinin, Western Haddon Mirk
The First Week of Tammaz, 994 N.E. (New Era)

Grief. They say 'Grief numbs the heart', but who ever coined that phrase had no idea what he was talking about. Once upon a time, there had been more than just that, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. Grief. It paralyzed him as he lived through the days, flowed like ice through his veins, numbed his body and his mind. He still went to the grave beneath the apple tree every day, spending hours just sitting there, ignoring the worried looks of his friends. Anger had propelled him, mad rage had sent him on a rampage that had killed countless people, some deserving, some less so, but that had been then. Now, there was only the grief, and the knowledge that, aside from madness and death, there was nothing else waiting for him but the grief.

He felt the taint of saidin every day, the cursed male half of the power calling for him in every waking moment to embrace it, dive into the soiled pit and drink from its radiance. Time and again when he sat by her grave he found himself unconsciously drawing from it, small blue balls of flame dancing over the palms of his hands like the balls of a juggler. Knowing it was wrong, knowing it eventually meant his death - but he could not evade its call.

They all knew now, of course: the villagers, his friends. Oh, they were still friendly, courteous even so, but he noticed how they looked at him when they believed he could not see them, saw the fear in their eyes when he was around, and the relief when he retreated into his cabin or to Marisa's grave. Part of him wanted to scream 'Why?! Why are you turning away from me, now, when I need you most?', but there was another part that darkly reminded him that the few hundred paces between him and them were meaningless when it came to the worst.

Caraan Tureed laughed at that, of course, but the second voice in his head had developed a habit of maniacally laughing about each and every thing. It ground on his nerves, and there were moments where he wished the madness would come quick, now that he no longer could ban the twisted mind of the long dead channeler into a corner of his mind. But most the time he just sat there, watching the morning turn to noon, than into gloomy afternoon, and finally watched as the sun set in the west. He was not alone, though, not completely. His friends were still with him: Azral, Zath, Mellen, Aryman and the others he had been closest with had not abandoned him, but even with them he could see the sorrow in their eyes when they talked to him.
It was damp outside the day Zath had sat down and finally talked some sense into him, urging him not to throw all he had achieved, all he had experienced, away. He had not gone as far as proposing to bend the knee to the Dark One to save him – Zath had revealed that Ba'alzamon could protect people from the taint – but he had also made it painfully clear that if he wanted to survive there were only those two options: the Dark One, and being gentled. And was being gentled not almost the same as making death a longer, duller process?

“I can hardly go to Tar Valon,” he frowned, “not after what I have done. No, what alternatives do I have? If I go to the White Tower, there is more than small a chance they will connect the dots and link me to the death of their sisters,” he explained. “But what then? Whom else can I go to? The seafolk, maybe,” he mused, not really noticing that his oldest and closest friend sat beside him, watching him carefully, “but will they help me, a stranger, reclusive as they are? What do you think?” he mumbled, tilting his head. Before Zath could frame an answer, Tarmion shook his head and sighed. “As I thought, as I thought. It's not funny, you know!”

“There are rumours about an Aes Sedai that lives in Ghealdan, a legendary one by the sound of them,” Zath cautiously began. Aes Sedai were not exactly the best topic to bring up around Tarmion, especially since the taint of saidin had made his moodiness worse.

The tall, auburn-haired man pressed his lips tightly together, a dark shadow hanging over his face, but he motioned the half-man to continue.

“She would not know what news there are from the White Tower, and who knows how powerful she is and what allies she can draw from?” he shrugged, letting the slightest bit of hope colour his voice. “Her name is Cadsuane.”

xxxxx

Cadsuane. Tarmion for what seemed like the thousandth time repeated the name in his mind. Cadsuane. He remembered Lord Logain talk about a very powerful Aes Sedai that lived not too far from his lands, and frowned. Logain, Cadsuane, Aes Sedai, Ash'aman, the Wheel – thinking about all of it evoked strange images in his mind, mostly of books and machines he found strangely familiar, as if he had worked and lived with them for a very long time, but a long time ago. Subconsciously, he knew what it was that he was thinking of, but that reality was already so far away that his conscious self no longer even took it for something that had happened outside of a dream.

Of all the players of the game, Cadsuane was one whose character and ambitions were not easily read, and while that had made him doubly cautious – she was, after all, Aes Sedai – it had also awoken his curiosity. Zath and the others meant that was a good thing. They were probably right.
The less he channelled, the slower he would succumb to the madness. At least that was what he hoped. And it was good that he was not alone. Mellen and his wife had come with them, as had Yurion, Aryman and three dozen of those who never had been happy with settling down in the end of nowhere in the first place. There still was that barrier between them and him, but at times it almost felt like the 'old' days when they had been on the road, adventuring.

Except Marisa was not there. Whenever he thought about her he felt a sting in his chest and anger in his stomach, and Caraan Tureed howled and hollered even madder than he did the rest of the time. But having returned back to a life of travelling on horseback, with all the dangers and experiences such a move brought made even the spirit from the Age of Legends bearable, if barely so.

So, back to Ghealdan it was. It seemed as if the Wheel found quite some amusement in letting him run in circles, he thought wryly. Still, they were travelling lightly, with only what they could carry on their steads and packhorses, and they made good speed. There were forty of them, the core of his old mercenary company and his closest friends. It had taken them three days to reach the river Erinin, where they had set over on a broad ferry at a small village whose name he had already forgotten. Out of the blue the mayor had decided they would not have to pay for the crossing, and on the same day there had been a spontaneous marriage and a bar brawl in which two people had been seriously injured. Two days later they had reached paths that lead them to the road that lead from Tear over Far Madding to Caemlyn. It was there that he realized for the first time that Azral had gone missing. The whole camp was in uproar that night as everybody went searching for the gnarled old man, and that uproar intensified when he re-appeared out of the blue again, tight-lipped about what had happened to him. When a new dawn was almost upon them, Tarmion pulled his father-in-law aside to talk to him alone.
“The others are afraid and upset, Azral,” he told him in a soft voice. “You cannot just run off like this in the middle of the night.” He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “The two of us have already lost too much. Don’t make it so that I will also loose you, too,” he begged him, thinking of all the death and loss he had seen and suffered during the past year.

Azral shook his bald head, the only emotions showing in his glazed eyes being sorrow and grief.
“I just went to visit her,” he muttered, more to himself than to Tarmion. “Who knew if they kept putting flowers on her grave... had to make sure it’s all in order.”

Tarmion watched him in a stunned silence. Azral Tane was mad, but not stupidly so, and if he vanished from one moment to the other and now told him he had looked after Marisa’s grave there was only one explanation: that he had remembered the portal weave Tarmion himself had used to break him free! That weave was far beyond what the tall auburn-haired man could do by himself. He had only been able to channel such a complex weave in the first place because he more or less had leased his body to Caraan Tureed to do so. And for having wielded so much of the One Power, Azral looked no worse for it! After a few silent seconds, he looked the man in the eyes.

“Do you remember Ghealdan, Azral?”

The old farmer seemed to look through him as he sat there.
“Lord Logain seemed like a good man to me,” he finally answered. “I liked his lands. Good for farming.”

“Could you bring me there, father?” Tarmion calmly asked the father of his dead wife. “You could protect many people if you did so,” he told him. Tarmion Genda had no great urge to travel all the way back to Ghealdan, especially not with all the people that followed him. He had lost too many of them on their first way through these lands, and a group as large and well-armed as theirs was bound to attract unwanted attention, attention he would only be able to beat back by the use of saidin, which again, well, would attract attention...

“I think she misses you,” Azral replied instead, and Tarmion unwillingly felt a knot in his stomach form, and there was a distinct wetness in the corners of his eyes.

“I miss her, too,” he answered shakily, taking a deep breath to fight back the overwhelming feeling of grief. “I will not berate you when you leave to visit her,” he told him softly. “In fact, I would like nothing more than to go with you, but I can’t,” he shook his head. “When you go again, tell her... tell her I love her,” he breathed before turning his head away, afraid of his own tears.

Instead of answering him, Azral rose and simply nodded. He took Tarmion by the hand, leading him to the horses’ pen where he took two saddled steads. Without any forewarning, a portal opened in the middle of the pen, the horses balking away from it. The commotion drew the attention of the camp, but before Tarmion could protest the small man pushed him through the opening with surprising strength. As fast as it had come, the portal closed behind them and he found them and their horses on a round platform that seemed to be floating inside the nothingness.

“I can take you to Ghealdan,” Azral explained to him in a clear voice that was so alien to him that it took Tarmion a moment to see that the man’s face was a mask of willpower and concentration very much unlike the expression he usually wore. He seemed much more aware and in control of himself and his environment when he channelled. “I can take you there,” he repeated, “but I will not have myself stilled alongside you,” he shook his scrawny, hairless head. “You’ll have to make that last part of your path on your own.”

xxxxx

The village of Willows’ Grove lay on the far outskirts of the Forest of Shadows, some hundred and fifty miles north of the capital of Jehannah. Strangers were a seldom sight here, as with every village off the major roads, but the people of Willows’ Grove had seen people come and go over the past decades, mostly young women and older men that looked as if their features had been chiselled from stone. They all went further North, a three hours ride closer to the forest to where what came closest to their local wisdom lived on a farmstead with some of those women and the older men. Neither the women’s circle nor the village council had ever dug deeper into what they did there. The silent agreement was that one did not look a gift horse in the mouth, and that little commune had been more than helpful when hard times had befallen the village in the past. People still were afraid of them, having a pretty good idea of who they actually were, but what was there to do about it? Even if they were wilders of Aes Sedai, they had never brought the shadow down on them, hadn’t they? And didn’t they send some of the younger women to help with births and when people were injured? Oh yes, the men looked dangerous, but warders? That would be ridiculous, after all didn’t warders fight in the Blight, wearing jewel-crusted armour?

There was so much one could find out by just having a drink and listening to what people said in the local tavern, Tarmion thought as he left the village behind, his horse trotting northwards. The lands here were much closer to what he remembered from the very first days of his long journey, more than a year past by now, and it brought back images of a time where he had been a much more innocent man. Well-tilled fields and meadows full of sheep and cattle spread on both sides of the road, time and again interrupted by low stone walls and farm houses to which approach roads led. The woods here looked more cultivated than wild, small patches of trees no larger than a square mile, and the picture continued as far as his eyes could see.

It was close to the evening hours when he finally arrived at his destination, a set of houses in a wide, soft-sloped corrie. There were barns and sheds and pens for pigs and chicken and other animals, and the fields around the houses looked as if they were regularly tilled. People were still out in the open, and he could make out at least two men who undoubtedly were warders. Each and every of their movements told him they were dangerous men and knew what they were doing. Tarmion and many others had gotten a good eye for such things. It was why they were the ones that were still alive. The women on the other hand were all young, some still girls, and they seemed to be coming from all walks of life.

As he rode his horse slowly down the path to the houses, he could feel the rage swell in him, could hear the curses and howls of Caraan Tureed echo louder and louder in his mind. He spurred his horse, and it was as if a red veil descended over his eyes.

Cadsuane only had time to gasp before she felt herself lifted from the ground and thrown against her house's door with a thwack that strained every sinew in her body to the point of breaking and sent flashes of pain through her back and her head. Dully, she thought she could feel a wet spot on the back of her head, beneath the bun held by her angreals. She tried to move, her surprise fading and being replaced by hot anger, and reached for saidar - and found nothing. For a moment she felt herself overwhelmed by fear and anger. Struggling, she tried to reach out again. Saidar was there, she could feel it, but it eluded her, like a fish one tried to catch barehanded.

His face was a gaunt, pale mask, a grimace of raging fury and cold hatred alike, his eyes shining to her like angry furnaces. His right arm pointed at her, his hand twisted like a claw. The other hand pointed towards Toumas, not bothering to even look into her warder's direction. Cadsuane shifted her head as much as the tight weave of air and spirit the man had woven around her permitted. Toumas was a man past his sixtieth name day, a grizzled fighter, all sinews and muscles. It spoke for him that he had been able to draw his sword from his scabbard, little good it had done him. He stood, frozen in the middle of his stride, his blade held above his head in both hands. Thick pearls of sweat trickled down his wide-eyed face, his lips moved silently, and it seemed as if all his four limbs were slowly being drawn apart, inch by inch. She looked past him, through the door and saw people frozen in the midst of their movements, held by powerful weaves of air and earth that had grabbed their feet and legs. But they all seemed to be alive!

Cadsuane turned her attention back on her attacker, and on second sight she realized how strained he looked, as if there was a fight within him that took a far higher toll on him that what he was doing to her, to them. The old Aes Sedai had always known that men could channel more raw power than women could, and this was not the first encounter she had had with saidin, but the effects always surprised her anew.
"Stop it!" she rasped as forceful as she could.
Surprise flashed over the man's face. She could see how he was fighting for control. Now it was him on whose forehead trickling sweat appeared.
“Stop! It!” she repeated herself, this time more forcefully.

Slowly, almost carefully he lowered his hands, and Cadsuane could feel the confines of his weaves loosening. The almost animalistic rage began to vanish from his eyes and was replaced by that was in equal parts sorrow, pain – and satisfaction. But it was not over yet. She could feel the weaves that shielded and held her waver, but the man growled at her.

“Why?” he spat. “I have nothing left to lose!” His voice wavered, surprise showing on his face, and with his voice his whole body seemed to quiver. “I have nothing left to lose!” he repeated himself, astonishment in his voice, and he had to steady himself with one hand on the table that stood in the middle of the room. “I have nothing left to lose,” he muttered now, and slowly he sank to the floor, his back leaning against one of the table’s legs. Suddenly, there were tears in his eyes.

“I have nothing left to lose,” he stated once again, and Cadsuane felt the remains of his weaves disintegrate. She immediately cut him off from the source and ordered the women closest to her to check upon the rest of the people that lived on the farmstead. The young woman who had barely left puberty behind and looked as if she had just stood face to face with the Dark One himself rushed outside.

Toumas came to his feet again and shook his head when Cadsuane gave him a questioning look.
“I’m fine,” he told her. “All that’s been wounded is my pride,” the old warder sighed. “I will look after the others. Is he...?” he pointed at Tarmion who sat leaning against the table, his eyes glazed over while silent tears ran down his cheeks.

“All is under control now,” she told him, her voice softer than usual. “He cannot touch saidin,”she frowned. “And we have to make it so that he never will be able to do so,” she looked down on Tarmion. “That’s why he is here. There’s no other reason why he should be.”

The next morning.

Tarmion had barely slept that night which was understandable as a warder and two women who clearly could wield the One Power had watched over him the whole time. He had been shielded from saidin the whole time and the acute feeling of loss had been almost more than he had been able to bear. More so, he felt completely miserable for what he had done the previous day. He had tried to apologize but all it had earned him had been blank, stony stares and frightened whispers from the younger ones.

After a simple breakfast he had been lead outside into the yard where nine women waited for him. Tarmion was surprised that there were so many of them there, but the surprise was as numbed as everything else when they formed a circle around him. Not knowing what to do, he sat down on the dusty ground. Cadsuane stepped between them, and they began without any introduction. He could feel the One Power being worked around him, the hairs on his arms and chest rising. A soft hum filled his ears even though he was certain no actual sound was being made. Both effects intensified, and the look of concentration on Cadsuane’s face was replaced by a deep frown. His ears began to hurt, and all of the sudden he felt as if he was being pricked by a thousand needles. He yelped, his apathy turning into anger. Instinctively he longed for the source, but it was too well-shielded against all his efforts. The pain intensified.
“What are you doing?” he moaned between heavy breaths.

"There is a... resistance," the Aes Sedai frowned, adjusting the flow of saidar.

A wave of pure agony hit him that moment. He thrashed around, his eyes bulging. The scream that left his throat was no longer human. It sounded like nothing Cadsuane had ever heard before, as if a thousand voices were crying from a single mouth, and it did not end. His whole body twitched, his fingernails breaking as he clawed bloody scars into the ground he lay on. He felt as if you could no longer breathe. An image of Marisa flickered before his inner eye before darkness of unconsciousness embraced him.

[I'm still here].

Later that day.

He awoke in a soft bed, his whole body feeling as if he had been broken on the wheel. A woman he remembered from the circle sat beside him. She almost jumped from the chair she had watched over him from and ran out of the room, calling for Cadsuane. Tarmion slowly turned his head and saw Toumas, the warder, standing beneath the doorframe. Tarmion gave him a weak nod, and the older man answered in kind before stepping outside again. A bowl of cold stew stood on the bedside locker, and despite his aching muscles he eagerly reached for it, shovelling the meat and vegetables down in no time even though a fly kept pestering him the whole time. Once the bowl was empty, he concentrated his wrath on the pesky insect, but was surprised how little he did seem to care. In fact, he felt as if all he wanted to do was to just lie down. It took him conscious effort to concentrate on the fly that still kept on landing on his face, his body and on the edge of the empty bowl. In a move that also surprised him his hand shot forward at what felt like lightning speed and he squashed the insect between thumb and index finger as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Bewildered, he looked at its remains before he flicked them away, only then flinching, realizing the pain and the bandages around his fingers.

“You caused us quite some sorrow,” Cadsuane had appeared beneath the door frame. “I have taken part in some stillings in my time, but yours was unusual. I feared we might lose you,” she told him earnestly.

"After what I did yesterday I thought none of you would have shed a tear about that.” He had wanted to sound sarcastic but the sentence left his lips as an apology.

“It almost was as if you were trying your best to hold on even after you had fainted,” she shook her head. “I’ve never heard of someone fighting back against being severed from the source in any active way like you did.”

“But I didn’t do anything!” he protested, putting himself up in the bed.

She gave him a long, considering look.
“Be that as it may, the Wheel willing you should now be safe from the madness of the taint. I would love to study your case longer, but I cannot hold you here against your will, not even after your attack,” she sighed. “We took some of the gold you had on yourself,” she told him. “Consider it a compensation for the trouble you’ve caused.”

Tarmion wanted to protest again but decided against it. Given what he had done he had gotten off lightly.
“When can I leave?”

Cadsuane stepped away from the door frame.
“Whenever you want,” she turned to leave but hesitated. “You are a strange man, Tarmion Genda,” she mused. “There’s something in you that makes you different. I hope we need not meet again,” she said more to herself than to him before swirling around, leaving him in his bed, weak and confused.

He left early the next day, riding hard to the South where Azral was already waiting for him. He did his level best to fill his thoughts with images of Marisa, of his friends, of the things he wanted to do, of the things he could achieve, but the apathy and the longing for the source were everything but easy to stave off. When the portal had finished bringing the two of them back to close to from where they had left, he barely felt strong enough to explain their absence to an agitated camp.

Three Days North of Far Madding, the Hills of Kintara
The Second Week of Tammaz, 994 N.E. (New Era)

Allaron was one of a long row of villages that lined the road between Far Madding and Caemlyn like pearls. Most people here lived from the trade that passed through in one way or another, and despite having less and half a thousand inhabitants the village sported two inns. The Grey Companions had decided to water their horses and fill their own stomachs at “The Runesayer”, a flat-topped inn that – with all its barns and stables - covered more ground than many a noble’s mansion.

Tarmion entered the common room alone while the villagers started to gather around the group of riders that now cluttered the center of their village green. The inn was well-kept and clean, and at this time of the day only a handful of older customers were there, drinking a mug of ale or enjoying a pipe or playing a game of stones. His eyes wandered across the room from left to right before stopping right off the center as if they had been frozen in place, locked on the laughing, foppish man on whose lap a somewhat reluctant bar maid had taken a seat.
“Marek!” he called out.

“Master Genda!? May the light shine on you,” the young man stammered automatically, trying to sound confident and failing utterly at doing so. His smile was forced, and his hands were gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles shone through.

Tarmion's smile was broad and welcoming as he walked through the common room with easy strides to his table, leaning slightly down to the sitting man. There was something in his voice that made the bar maid jump up and leave for the kitchen. Anxiously, Marek leaned back.

“Hello Marek,” he chimed in a full voice, still smiling broad and friendly. His hand darted down, pulled the man's own long dagger from his scabbard and shoved it deep into his chest in one fluent move. Marek's whole body trembled, his hands flapping up and down uncontrollably like those of a puppet, his eyes as wide as dishes as Tarmion grabbed his shock of hair with one hand, forcing him to look him into the eyes while his other hand held the dagger in an iron grip. When the last spark of light had vanished from the dying man's eyes, Tarmion gave him one last look and sighed. “Goodbye Marek.” The traitor's head slumped back, blood dripping from the sides of his mouth in a slow, thin stream. He took the dead man’s purse and emptied it on the protesting tavern owner’s counter, taking one coin for himself.
“For your troubles,” he told him, and the hard look in Tarmion’s eyes that conflicted with his friendly voice made him shut his mouth.

Stepping outside again, he told his men to saddle their horses again against their protests.
“We can make some good miles today, and there are other inns we can rest at tonight.”

“What happened inside,” Zath steered his horse beside him and asked in an alarmed voice.

“Nothing,” Tarmion responded. “I just got rid of some garbage.” He flipped the heavy gold coin in his hands and a plan began to form in his mind. Smiling, he turned to the men and rode to the head of the column. “We will make a fresh start, my friend,” he told Zath. “In Cairhien.”


Tarmion, Zath, Aryman, Azral and the Grey Companions will return in: Shades of Grey, Book II: “Dances The Shadow”.

I wanted to take the time to thank all who have had the patience to read this story, especially those of you who have followed it from the start. This fic is the longest piece I have written so far, and none of it would have been possible without your support and your helpful reviews. I also would like to apologize for the long periods in which it seemed this story had been abandoned. Sometimes I neither had the muse nor the time to continue it, but if you look at my profile you can see that at least I have not been completely idle. I hope I will be able to continue the storyline in Book II as soon as possible and would be delighted to welcome you again at the new adventures of Tarmion and the rest of the cast.