HSUtH: Stories from Before the Box

by Bob G. Leeman

06: Feir and the Gholam / the story of a girl and her pet, journeying through the Land of the Madmen.

1. Briar Patch

Gleeman Bob writes: this short-story takes place during the War of Power. Briar Patch tells the tale of how the Last Lightborn met the Dragon and what happened when he did! there will be further stories in this vein, all set during the later years of the Collapse, the War on the Shadow, or the early years of the Breaking of the World. (of course, I would not presume to write anything about the Age of Legends itself... I would only get it all wrong, anyway!)

for followers of the main narrative, Chapter 8: Away from Tar Valon will be posted at the end of the month of Saban. though some call it March? Shrina has had her own chapter, so now it is time for the Rennchapter! it is only fair...

respects to the Master Gleeman as ever, thank you for reading HSUtH and...

Walk in the Light!

GB

---

back when he had another name

Younger Brother played a game

he didn't win and didn't care

because of who was sat right there!

- Anonymous

---

Briar Patch

Tro threw the count-cube, and laughed. A star – five! That slow-jo Bear wasn't eating him this time! He quickly hopped his grey Hare-stone further away from the yellow Bear-stone, which had been getting uncomfortably close.

"Your turn," Tro rather unnecessarily told the tall man who sat cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the silver-inlaid Briar Patch board.

Lews Therin Telamon smiled at the small boy with the long, white hair and strange eyes, then threw his own count-cubes. He examined the green double-circle and the blue triangle.

"Hmm," mused the Dragon, "it seems that it is time for hungry Wolf and starving Wildcat to chase after that tasty Hare…"

"They will not catch her, though! They are too slow!"

The Dragon chuckled, a pleasant sound, almost carefree... though his face looked a bit lined and drawn, Tro thought, with white streaks in his brown hair, as though he had a lot of things to worry him. Tro wouldn't be worried about anything if he was the Dragon! But then, there was the War. That must be a heavy burden to bear. A big concern. Always, the War. Sometimes, it seemed to Tro that the War had been going on his whole life. But then, of course, the War had been going on for his whole life.

The Dragon moved his green Wolf-stone two hexes, then his blue Cat-stone three, placing it down only one hex away from Tro's Hare-stone!

"Oops," said Tro.

"He is speedy indeed, that Cat! Beware, young Hare!"

This was amazing!

Tro still could not quite believe it. He was in his rooms, playing a game of Briar Patch, not an unusual occurrence, certainly… but this time he wasn't playing with stuffy old Ledrin, as usual, but with… Lews Therin Telamon! Only the Dragon was not stuffy, like Ledrin (or Father!) why, he had even said the proper words at the start of the game and made the traditional hand-signs!

Ledrin never did that… well, Tro supposed that he said the words, even though he didn't like speaking the Low, but with little enthusiasm. Ledrin preferred Thousand Flowers or Frog, he did not care for violent games, even when it was just the naturally-occurring violence of animals killing and eating each other… Da'shain Aiel children were not permitted to play Briar Patch and did not wish to do so in any case, Ledrin would invariably mention to Tro, each time the board was brought out.

Once, as a joke, Tro had hidden all of the pieces except for the Bear-stone. For several moves he had then gravely hopped a small salad-tomato about the board instead of his Hare, old Ledrin's Bear slowly and resolutely plodding in pursuit.

"Bears do not ordinarily eat tomatoes, Young Master," Ledrin had pointed out, after a while. Tro had stared quizzically down at the board, the green border representing the lush grass that Hare had to make her way out to, before fleeing back to the safety of the briar-patch in the centre. Only this time, no Hare!

"Yes Ledrin, this is true, but they are more likely to eat them than Wolves, Wildcats or Foxes, being omnivores. Chase that tomato, non-meat-eating Bear! I know it is not much of a meal for a big hungry bear and you will no-doubt starve to death, but do not blame me, for it is the fault of the foolish Da'shain Ledrin, who does not wish for creatures to eat other creatures! Is the game not more exciting this way?"

Ledrin had sighed, picked up the tomato, and popped it into his mouth, chewing once before swallowing. "Fetch out the other pieces, Young Master, and we shall play properly," he had allowed.

But despite saying the words, Ledrin still would not make the proper signs for the various animals at the beginning of the game. The Dragon did, though! And when he said the words, he did not mind speaking in the Low Chant, just like Father didn't. Father only spoke the Low because he enjoyed those silly, rustic music-plays, always performed in that language; crude stories where people argued about the ownership of cows and threw buckets of water over each other and sang bawdy songs about what men and women got up to together in bed... sometimes in barns as well... did the Dragon favour such vulgar entertainments also? Tro hoped not...

Tro threw his count-cube again, the white face revealing a black diamond, and breathing a sigh of relief, hopped his Hare-stone four hexes further away from the Cat-stone, following the circuitous route back to the briar-patch, still some way distant. Now he was safe. For the time being, at least. He risked another glance at his opponent.

The Lord of the Morning. Summoner of the Dominion Rods. First among the Servants. Only the damn Dragon! Lews Therin Telamon... was in his rooms, playing a game of Briar Patch with him! Tro wondered vaguely if he might have fallen asleep and gone to the dream-place again… though he was doing his best to avoid it since meeting the beautiful lady in the white dress, with all that silver jewellery. She had not killed him for some reason, only asked him some questions in amused, condescending tones. Even though she certainly could have killed him… definitely should have, if she had been who he suspected she was. The Night had a Daughter, who walked in dreams...

Lanfear! Tro didn't think that she would have had a problem killing a child, not after what she did to the Nym... Not that he was a real child of course, but when he went to the dream-place, he did not look the same… he looked like any other boy. Which was exactly the reason he had always enjoyed going there.

But no, Tro was definitely awake, even if it felt like a dream! The hand that had got briefly snared in the rug-weave whilst fumbling for one of the count-cubes was wearing the Ring of the Tamyrlin. That was fairly conclusive, was it not?

This might be the Collam Aman, but Tro did not think the Dragon had ever actually visited the College that bore his name, at least not since Tro was born… The Dragon had come to see Father, which was not all that surprising, but he had also come to see Tro, which definitely was! And there were others with him, from the Big Hall. Though they did not want to see Tro. He suspected that quite a few of them did not like him, did not think that he should have been made. No… not made… he was a Construct, was he not? Constructed, then.

Tro sighed, softly. If only Father had waited until he had permission from the Hall, and not just the patronage of the Dragon – even that counted for little when one defied the Sitters, which Father had done frequently, according to old Ledrin. The Hall had said Father might make… no, Construct, the first two Lightborn… Elder Brother and Middle Brother… though they had not wanted to let him.

Tro grinned. Father said the Dragon had shouted at them, roared at them, until the Hall agreed… maybe he breathed fire on them, even! But that was silly. Dragons did not breathe fire. Tro's grin faded. It was him that was the problem, he knew this. He wasn't stupid, he listened to the grown-ups sometimes whilst pretending to be doing other things. This was a little dishonest of him, like something a spy of the Shadow might do – but when Father never told you about anything until long after it had happened, it forced you to take such steps!

Father had Constructed him without permission… and the Hall had found out about it. They had found out about the… the fa'compli. It was a word in one of those ancient, dead, one-spoke-of-the-Wheel-ago languages that Father spoke, it meant to present someone with something that had already been done…

Well, Father had presented Tro to the Hall alright – he had to, when they found out! – though not when he was still just a little baby-thing in the tubule, but only when he was already six damn years old! Had Father thought that the Sitters were all going to join arms and do the column-dance in sheer joy, at the sight of Tro? A third Lightborn, when they had not even wanted the first two? They had not been happy. This sudden visit was the result of their unhappiness, it seemed. Tro sighed again. Father was really clever, way cleverer than Tro would ever be… but at the same time, he could be so… so damn stupid, sometimes!

The Dragon was watching him again. He did that from time to time. It was a little disconcerting. And there was that whole ta'veren thing too, Father had told him about that. Well, warned him, quietly (and rather quickly) just before the Allservants and Warmen came to arrest him and take him away. Tro had wanted to stop them, he knew he could have, there were only three Justice Ajah Brothers-

(what were they going to do? Channel at him? oh-no, please don't Channel the One Power at poor Tro, he is so scared! what, nothing happened? bad luck, Justice-Servant! try again, if you wish to! still nothing? you span the webs at me and they just sort of... melted? how strange! oh, by the way, Justice-Servant, have you perhaps heard of something called a gholam? so guess what? even though Tro serves the Light whilst that nasty gholam – whatever it even looks like – doesn't… well, when Father fled from under the Shadow, he brought all sorts of interesting things back with him, things that he stole off of horrid old Grandfather… and as a result, me and stupid Shadow-loving gholam have one thing in common – just one! can you guess what it is yet, Justice-Servant? can you?)

-only three Justice-Ajah and a squad of stony-faced moving melee-dummies in their silly helmets… he could take them all, he would not even break sweat. He wouldn't kill them of course, they might be marching Father away to a severing or an execution, like they did before when he escaped from the Shadowlands (defected, they called it) but they served the Light like he did, or like he wanted to if the Big Hall would ever let him… he could just knock them out with a few hand-blows and pressure-holds…

Tro had gone up onto his toes a little, nostrils flaring, pupils slitting… Father had noticed, of course… he always saw intents in people's eyes and could tell what they were thinking, but then, that was probably less to do with the One Power and more to do with his having had nearly seven centuries to get extremely good at reading people's faces. Father had almost shouted at him, which he very rarely did.

"Tro!" Not 'my Son' but 'Tro.' Uh-oh! Father is displeased with Tro! Bad Tro! Bad! Father lowered his voice to his more usual tones of calm certainty.

"Tro, I would very much like you to go and sit down on your bed and wait. A visitor will be arriving shortly, to speak with you."

Father had stroked the little finger of his left hand against his left cheek slightly, having to raise both hands to do it since they were currently shackled together with cuendillar manacles. That was his sign for 'be very careful what you say.' Father had taught him about two-hundred of these signs, Tro had even made up a few new ones for them to use. Stroking your left eyelid with your right thumb meant, 'these people talking to you are stupid!' That one usually made Father smile… Father was not smiling now though, he looked serious. Well, he was locked in heartstone-handcuffs, surrounded by Justice Ajah. That was serious.

"There is a new Briar Patch board waiting for you in your bedroom, my Son. Why do you not play a nice game with your visitor? Whilst you talk."

Tro took a deep breath and calmed himself, directed a last cold glare at the Justice-Servants and the squad of Warmen, who were looking at him a little warily, he thought (though not nearly so warily as they would have if they had any idea what he could do to them) then bowed formally to Father, muttering;

"Honour to Serve, Chaime Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai," which made Father smile a little because you were not supposed to use the name that had been taken away from him by the Big Hall. Then, Tro straightened, turned on his heel and stalked off to his bedroom like an angry… well, something that was angry. His room... where there had been a new Briar Patch board sitting on his bed, just as he was now sat cross-legged on that same bed. He didn't get new stuff very often. At least it was a really nice board… his visitor must be important… but he was still worried about Father. And himself, though much less so. He sat there awhile. Where was Ledrin?

Some Da'shain'allein attending the Sitters from the Hall had come and spoken to Ledrin after Father was taken away, and then the old Aiel had bowed to Tro (no-one else ever bowed to Tro, but Ledrin always did) murmuring, "I must go with my Leaf-Brothers now, Young Master. I shall return later." He had then done something a bit unusual for Ledrin… he had gazed down at Tro for a moment, and stroked his head like he used to when Tro was little and couldn't sleep because of the nightmares from the dream-place, smoothing the long, white hair back from his brow, a sensation which Tro always seemed to enjoy for some reason, and still did even though he was a big boy now and did not make the noise in the back of his throat like he had when he was little.

"It will be as the Wheel wills, Young Master…" Then, Ledrin had turned and walked away, blinking his eyes. Tro wasn't sure, but he thought that Ledrin had been weeping softly as he left with the other Da'shain. That worried him more than anything else… Ledrin must be very concerned about Father, also.

Eventually, the door had been lightly tapped upon and whoever was on the other side had politely waited – unlike the Justice-Servants and Warmen who had just rudely barged-in – until Tro went to see who it was. He sulkily pulled open the heavy oval of intricately-decorated sung-wood, getting ready to scowl his best scowl at whichever self-important Big Hall imbecile had come to ask him if he had a tail or whatever other stupid questions they had ready… and then blinked his large eyes in surprise. Extreme surprise. There was a tall, handsome Allservant standing there, light brown hair falling to his shoulders, a man with dark, sad eyes whom Tro instantly recognised. In addition to very fine clothing, the symbol of the Servants embroidered on the breast of his grey, crimson-lined cape, he was wearing a somewhat tentative smile…

"Hello, Tro," the Tamyrlin greeted him, in mellifluous tones. "With your permission, may I come in?"

Tro was faced with two options at this point. But one should not slam a door in the face of the Dragon and run to hide under one's bed, it would not be seemly… So, after straightening from the lowest bow he had ever given anyone, even Father, his voice so choked that he could barely manage extremely inferior to extremely superior inflection, Tro had invited Lews Therin Telamon into his rooms and – since it had been Father's suggestion and was, therefore, difficult to ignore – suggested that they play a game of Briar Patch.

The game went on for a time, as it always did, and then one of the hungry hunters caught Hare, as they almost always did… Tro sighed, feeling sad that it was over. The Dragon was probably going to go now, he could try suggesting another game – maybe Lews Therin Telamon would like to play the Hare instead? – but Tro didn't think that he would have time. Father said he was a very busy man, and the War was not going well. Not going well at all... Tro had wept when he heard about Elder Brother… as had Father, which was strange. Tro had not even thought that Father could weep!

Father had been in his Special Laboratory, leaning over one of those funny-looking metalic ter'angreal whilst Tro sat on a stool at one of the consoles, doing his book-work. Father did not mind if he did it in here, so long as he was quiet. Tro had been carefully memorising a list of antidotes to the poison-compounds most commonly used by Friend of the Dark assassins, when his keen ears gradually became aware of a 'drip-drip' sound. Glancing up from his book he had, with some shock, realised that there were tears falling onto the ter'angreal! But he had pretended not to notice. Father wouldn't like him to know that he had been crying… It was just after they got the news about his Big Brother, so that must have been why.

Besides, Tro was not a grown-up, not quite as tall as Father yet (though Father was a short man, admittedly) and he might be only six years old, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that the Dragon hadn't really come to his rooms to play a game of Briar Patch, that was just an excuse so they could spend some time together... so that he could be sure that Tro served the Light and the Blessed Creator. Which he did, of course! The Dragon had seemed to quite enjoy the game, though. Well, he had won, had he not? It was good to win, just like it would be good when they (the Forces of Light) won the War, and sent the dirty Shadow-lovers howling back to the Pit. But no, it was the quiet, patient questions the Dragon had asked here and there in the course of the game – though not enough to ruin the fun – that had been the true purpose, of course.

The Dragon had even requested that he take his gloves off at one point, though he had sounded embarrassed. Tro did not mind – he definitely would have minded had it been anyone else who wasn't Father or Ledrin, but if Lews Therin Telamon wanted to see what he kept under his gloves then that was just fine with him. The Dragon had nodded, and then watched while he did that thing he did before slicing up one of the melee-dummies in the practice yard (boring! he wanted to use his weapons on something that moved, something that he could chase… something Shadowy! melee-dummies were so dull, they didn't try to run away from you!)

Then, after Tro had put his gloves back on, the Dragon actually apologised to him for asking to see his weapons! The Dragon, apologising to Tro! Using equal inflection while he did so, no less! Lews Therin Telamon might be the most important man in the world – but he was also, it seemed, the politest.

It was the most enjoyable game of Briar Patch Tro had ever played with anyone, but like all games, it eventually had to end. In response to the red circle, Lews Therin Telamon moved his Fox-stone a single hex, then glanced at the other count-cube that again showed a blue triangle. "Your pardon, Tro," he sighed, "but it seems that Wildcat shall not go hungry today!"

The Dragon then moved his Cat-stone three hexes and tapped it repeatedly against Tro's Hare-stone. He even made a few growling, eating noises! Tro giggled. Ledrin never bothered to do that!

Tro glared at the count-cube. If only it had been a circle, or a double-circle! Then Hare would still be safe. Then the game would yet be going on and he could be with the Dragon for a bit longer... But no, it was a… a damn blue triangle! Tro knew he wasn't supposed to say 'damn,' old Ledrin always asked him not to in that gentle way of his, but… he could think it, couldn't he? That wasn't the same as saying it, not at all. Damn blue triangle. Hey! That was funny… he hadn't noticed before, which was kind of stupid of him, though he had only been given this new Briar Patch board today, to play a game with the Dragon… The old wooden one he always used with Ledrin only had the ordinary High numbers… but these count-cubes had the ancient Root-speech numerals on them and that blue, curly-pointed triangle… it looked a lot like… Tro pulled out his vest a little, glancing down at his Light-mark, at the shimmering sigil set into the skin over his heart. Yes, it looked just like it. Odd.

---

Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, waited for the Dragon as though it were his choice to stand, as though the heavy cuendillar manacles he wore in addition to dark robes had been donned as some obscure fashion-statement. He studiously ignored his Brothers and Sisters, their eyes accusing as they whispered with each other. Chaime did not care, as irksome as he found it to be so regarded by those who were guests (albeit extremely unwelcome guests) in his home! He always thought of the Dragon College as his, for all that it was not.

His accusers. Chaime ran a cold gaze over the dozen-or-so Sitters from the Grand Hall, who were currently fulfilling that function in the most literal sense, occupying a row of ornate, crystalline chairs which filled the dais before which he stood in presumed penitence. Thirteen extremely senior Aes Sedai... those who had been assembled to judge him... as if they were entitled or even able to. Not one of them was capable of understanding his work, his plans. If he must be tried at all, then he should be adjudged by his peers alone... yet he had no peers! Ergo; he should not be judged at all. Ergo was a word in the most ancient of the many dead languages Chaime spoke. It meant 'therefore.'

But this trial – meaningless formality at best, ridiculous farce at worst! The players in this low comedy were well-aware that he enjoyed the protection of the Dragon, they could not touch him. But that would not stop them from slapping him upon the wrist yet again, and perhaps... while Chaime felt confident of his own survival, he was concerned about Tro. Would they seek his destruction? If the boy did not win the Tamyrlin's approval, as his Brothers had... but surely the Thirdborn would not fail where the First and Secondborn had succeeded? Tro was the most human one of the lot! And he was just a child, if a rather dangerous child... surely these venerable mummers in the courtroom farce would not be that petty and spiteful? The row of stern faces left Chaime feeling less than certain. They were all there, the usual Thespians...

Vora Samm Raijan representing the War Ajah, giving him the habitual poisonous stare. If looks could kill! Though on occasion, hers could, he had heard. From the Lore Ajah, Wassili Beidomon, sneering slightly at him. Nephew of the fool who had managed to destroy the Sharom and much of V'saine, the Collam Daan included... Mierin's lapdog, who aided her in sundering the prison of the Great L- of the Dark One... Did Beidomon think being of that accursed kin gave him any right to sneer? It did not!

Sitting next to a scowling Oselle Sedai from the Justice Ajah, there was Solinda Sedai, of course. She was supposedly of the Resources Ajah, though everyone knew that she was actually the Light's Mistress of Spies... Intelligence Officers, Double Agents, all answered to her... which, since everyone knew it, made Chaime rather wonder who the real Spymaster was? It was not him, that was for certain, though he had his own sources of information, of course.

Solinda Sedai was a contemporary of Lews Therin, as were most of the Sitters who ran the War and made the Big Decisions. They were all so young! Barely into their third century, most of them... Solinda was giving him the usual sad gaze, as though she were viewing the unquiet, tormented spirit of someone she had once called a mentor... a friend... well, to be honest, she was.

And there, in the middle, presiding over this sorry affair... Latra. Chaime examined her closely for some trace of the young woman he had once known as lover and confidante, but her return stare, while neither accusatory nor condemnatory, was simply that of a stranger. Though to Latra Posae Decume, he was now the stranger. It had been like that with almost all of his former acquaintances when he returned to the Light... they behaved much as though the Chaime Kufer Mors they had once known was long-dead, that the man claiming his name was an impostor. But unlike the rest of them, with Latra, this still managed to be vaguely upsetting to him...

Chaime glanced impatiently toward the massive doors at the far end of the Hall... the Hall of Servants of the Dragon College – his Hall! For a little while longer, at least. Speak of the Dragon, and he will appear... but he did not. He must still be with the boy... his Son.

Tro. Not for the first time, Chaime resisted the urge to fiddle with the dagger-ter'angreal that hung about his neck, something of a nervous habit. Since his wrists were manacled together, the two-handed movement might resemble the begging gesture of a supplicant. Chaime would not ask these fools and hypocrites for his Son's life... but nor would he let them destroy the boy. This was his Collam, and there were many secret ways in and out, the walls riddled with unknown passages... unknown to all but him. Whatever happened, he would see that the boy escaped the retribution of the Hall. If he could.

His accusers had ceased their whispered conferring and a temporary silence reigned. Chaime Kufer disliked silences as much as he disliked rules, and was equally willing to break both.

"Well, Honoured Sitters of the Grand Hall – what is my punishment to be this time? Perhaps you could remove my Third Name, in censure? Oh! But I forgot... you already did that, did you not?"

---

The Dragon rose from the rug, dusting himself off a bit. "Attend me if you will, Tro. There is someone whom I would like you to meet."

Tro stared. The Dragon had just used equal inflection! Again! Well, he did not care, he was still going to use inferior-to-superior... though Lews Therin Telamon had laughed at that first, very-inferior-to-very-superior 'c-c-come in please, Dragon sir!' and told him that inferior-to-superior would be fine. Tro held the door open, nodding his head smartly like he had seen the servitors doing when they held doors open for Aes Sedai and followed the Dragon out into the large, circular reception-hall.

A high-vaulted roof, set with muted glowstones, yellow bands of light dimly traced down obsidian walls formed of massive, cunningly-interlocked stones, their dark, glassy smoothness streaked dull-red in places. The whole of the College had those walls, made from the volcano-stone quarried from the centre of the island. And the reception-hall needed to be large, for there were a great many people waiting in it.

Tro had been expecting the War-Servants and Da'shain, as well as the company of elite Warmen... the 'Dragonmen' encased in their shining white armour, shimmering like fish-scales. Dark eyes stared watchfully from within the snarling mouths of ornate helmets, the gauntlet clutching each shocklance fashioned with golden claws at the fingertips. They looked quite impressive, he supposed. But... there were some Companions there, also! Not all one-hundred of them, only four, but that was still four more than he had ever seen before! Of course, the Dragon would never go anywhere without at least some of his...

Companions to the Dragon! They all wore the sigil on the left breast of their capes, the sinuous, lion-maned creature curled protectively about the circular symbol of the Aes Sedai, pointed teeth biting scaly tail in emulation of the Great Serpent. But even without the distinctive badge of the Companions, Tro would have recognised at least three of them from the pictures... he had a great many pictures of the Companions in his collection.

If Tro had been able to Channel (rather than the exact opposite of that) then he would have wanted to be a Companion more than anything else. He didn't know who the youngest one was, standing off to one side, a dark, slender fellow, his long hair in a multitude of thin braids, hanging down his back. But he definitely recognised the pair standing on the other side of the hall, next to the Da'shain – Jaric Mondoran and Veic Shuul Savoran, the Flag-Servant! Two of the very best Companions! And if that was not good enough, at the fore of the throng, towering over everyone else – the Right Hand of the Dragon himself!

Culan Cuhan! Light's Wrath! He looked even bigger in real life... clad in that ornate suit of gold shattercloth he always wore, so that he seemed clothed in the sun. He had Cair Sovye tucked through his belt, in addition, the gleaming, golden sa'angreal said to be almost as powerful as Callandor itself - and looking closer, Tro realised that he was actually carrying Callandor, strapped to his back!

Culan Cuhan was the only one of the Companions who was smiling. The others all looked very serious. The Right Hand had bright green eyes and dark red hair hanging down to his shoulders, which were almost as wide as an Ogier's - he was bigger than Ledrin, even! He came of Da'shain parentage, Tro had heard, though it was considered rude to speak of such things. So did Jaric Mondoran, for that matter... as far as he knew, they were the only two Companions born of Da'shain blood.

Tro noted that blonde Jaric, who kept his hair Aiel-short though without the tail, had several equally-tall Da'shain accompanying him. Tro had heard he was very close to his Dedicated, encouraged them to call him Leaf-Brother, even… why, he had heard that he sang with them sometimes, since he had a fine voice and often took part in the Singing at the Palace of his Master. Tro wished he could sing, that he could train his voice and take lessons – but his tuition was all to do with other things. Violent things, that he would do one day, when he was old enough. He felt vaguely guilty to wish to do something that didn't involve war, an activity that was so… superficial. But even so…

Tro wondered idly who the youngest Companion was, he would have to find out. He must be a new addition to their illustrious ranks? Tro had all of their names and deeds memorised and idolised them, though would have been embarrassed to admit it to Father, who would have scoffed. Ledrin knew about his secret hero-worship, but that was alright.

It was exhilarating indeed, to breathe the same air as Companions! But not so exhilarating as it might have been... even the Right-Hand of the Dragon and the Flag-Servant and the others did not seem so much when one had just played a game of Briar Patch with Lews Therin Telamon! It was not fair, had the Companions been there on their own it would have been the most exciting thing he had ever seen – but alongside the Dragon, they almost paled into insignificance. But then, a golden-haired woman stepped from behind a group of tall Da'shain'mai and came forward from the throng, her assured, graceful approach reminiscent of a swan's effortless glide across a still lake. War-Servants, Dragonmen, Da'shain... even Companions... Tro might have been expecting all of them to be waiting outside... but he had definitely not been expecting... it was her! It was actually her!

Tro's heart began to beat faster as the impossibly beautiful woman came to a halt, inclining her golden head, smiling down at him. She had features of such exquisite perfection that it even felt slightly painful to look upon them – though any man who looked away was a fool! It was much alike to staring at the sun... and that was not where the comparison ended. Her glistening hair fell to her waist in long tresses that made the purest solar rays or the finest spun gold seem merely drab and tawdry. She was clad in a glowing, white, shimmerweave gown, a rope of black pearls strung about her swan neck, the ensemble a statement of perfect simplicity. None of that loud ter'angreal jewellery for her! Birds and fishes and other things that looked like Year's End Soul-tree decorations!

The woman spoke – and if there was one thing more beautiful than her exquisite features or flowing, golden tresses, then it was her soft, clear voice;

"Did you triumph?" enquired the Lady Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar.

Tro was distantly aware that he had been asked something, and even more distantly aware that he had forgotten to bow. His mouth felt dryer than a desert and all he could seem to hear, with his keen ears, was his own pounding heartbeat!

Ilyena Sunhair turned away from the gaping, trembling boy with the strange, wide eyes, pupils expanded so that they had become perfectly circular and all but eclipsed each oddly hued iris... and addressed her husband.

"I would suppose that you won the game, my Lord?"

"But of course, my Lady. The Dragon always wins! Bear, Wolf and Fox went hungry, whilst ravenous Wildcat devoured delicious Hare. The count of the cubes favoured me."

"Typical, Lews Therin. Typical!"

The Lady Ilyena glanced at Tro in commiseration, shaking her perfect head sadly, but the boy was still just gawping at her, his cobalt eyes wide and staring.

Tro really was dreaming now! Ilyena Sunhair! He had seen her many times before, on the crystal or in 'zines... but this was her in real life, standing there – oh, Creator! – smiling at him... he could smell her! A touch of fine scent, the musky perfume they made in Larcheen (she wore a local perfume for the visit – nice touch, Lady Sunhair!) and another smell, clean and pleasant, like fresh-cut roses after soft rain... oh no! What was he doing? he was... sniffing the Dragon's wife! What had come over him? But it was so much different, seeing her, hearing her (smelling her!) in person – so much different from the pictures!

Tro had had a picture of the Lady Ilyena pinned-up on the wall of his room for a while, a portrait that he had carefully clipped from the pages of a 'zine... but Father had disapproved. Why? It had been tasteful... a sideways, seated posture, turned slightly toward the crystal-capturer, head up, golden coronet lost amidst those waves of sunny hair... smiling beatifically, her children grouped around her... she seemed like a good mother, the Kin of the Dragon had looked happy... loved...

Father had acted as though it were one of those lewd pictures from the other kind of 'zines, like the ones he had found in the back of Elder Brother's closet that time... when it was not! Had the Lady Ilyena been reclining on velvet cushions, clad only in wispy streith undergarments? No! Posturing in some flagrantly erotic fashion, with but the silken scraps of a cohra-dancer to shield her modesty? Definitely not! But Father had behaved as though it had been that sort of picture, had made him take it down from the wall, as though it were!

Tro had kept the picture under his bed though, but old Ledrin must have found it whilst tidying away his things. Tro had liked to take it out and look at it sometimes, perhaps imagine that the Lady Ilyena was his mother, that he was one of the Dragon's Kin stood around her, smiling happily... that would have been nice. But in any case, when the picture disappeared, he had presumed that the old Da'shain had thrown it out. Until a few days later, when Ledrin gave it back to him, mounted in a nice cherry-wood frame that one of the Gardeners had Sung for him, a pane of clear crystalglass to protect it. Sometimes, Tro guiltily thought that however much he loved Father, he might actually love Ledrin a little bit more.

"A cruel game," the Lady Ilyena was saying, "and all-but impossible to win! I recall playing it as a child – I only ever returned my poor Hare to the safety of the briar-patch once. And you, my Lord?"

"Oh, a great many more times than that..."

The Lady Ilyena raised an admonishing finger to her complacent husband.

"But of course you did!"

Tro knew it was rude to stare, but even so, he could not tear his gaze away. The Lady Ilyena was very pretty, he thought to himself. No… she was damn pretty!

When the Dragon smiled, leaning down to kiss Ilyena Sunhair, Tro lowered his eyes at the rather shocking display of public affection, but could not help glancing up again through his long eyelashes – it was impossible to remove one's gaze from that vision of loveliness for long! The Lady Ilyena smiled up at her husband, brushing a hand against his cheek, then returned her attention to the gaping boy. She ruffled his white hair.

"You must be Tro!" Tro managed to nod and make a muted, croaking sound. The Lady Ilyena's smile widened. Her teeth were small and white and... and perfect – as perfect as the rest of her! He wanted to stop staring, but was powerless to do so! "Goodness, such lovely eyes!" she exclaimed, before raising her delicate, golden brows in query. "Whysoever do you look on me in that way, my fine young man?"

"Because you are so beautiful, Lady Sunhair!"

Tro snapped his mouth shut, his face beginning to suffuse with blood. Had he actually said that? He had! Light!

The Lady of the Morning laughed, delightedly. If there was one thing almost as beautiful as her face, her smile, her voice... it was her laughter.

"Lews Therin – you have a rival!"

The Dragon laughed also. "Shall we swordfight to decide who will have the honour of this fair-maiden's regard, young Tro?"

Tro blushes increased. He should not have said that, he should have just thought it, whilst providing a more suitable answer to the Lady Ilyena's question… he often did that, saying one thing and thinking something else. And he knew why he had blurted that out – it was being around Lews Therin Telamon that had done it! Many times during their game, he had found himself answering one of the Dragon's occasional questions far more truthfully and in much greater detail than he had intended. It was only omitting certain things, or at least attempting to – he would never have actually dared tell a lie to the Dragon! Tro always tried to be as honest as possible, it was the best policy, Ledrin had often told him... though Father had just made a snorting sound and muttered 'Da'shain!' on overhearing this sage advice.

But the Dragon – he was ta'veren, was he not? He could influence events around him... Father had said he was, and warned Tro not to mention it. It was very rude to talk about someone's Talent or gift or whatever it was, unless they spoke of it first. Tro did not know why, it just was. But it was unfair – he had been ta'verened! It was not his fault he had rudely called the Lady Ilyena 'Sunhair' to her face, it was the Dragon's!

At which, Tro glared at Lews Therin Telamon, his strange cobalt eyes narrowing a little, his oddly-shaped pupils thinning momentarily before expanding back to ovals, and muttered, "ta'veren" under his breath! His face crimsoned further when he realised what he had done, his strange eyes blinking up at the Dragon (who he had just sort of insulted, hadn't he? Oh no! They were definitely going to destroy him now…)

The Dragon stared down at Tro momentarily, his mouth falling open. Tro flinched a bit (maybe he would breathe fire on him?) wishing that he could sink through the floor and down into the basements where the Darkborn lived... But then, an odd sound came out of the Tamyrlin's mouth, a sort of wheezing noise – was the Dragon alright? – and suddenly, Lews Therin Telamon burst-out laughing! He even picked Tro up and held him in front of his face, staring at him in something like wonder, while he laughed. It was a pleasant sound, though not near so pleasant as the accompanying laughter of the Lady Ilyena… Culan Cuhan chuckled and even some of the others smiled.

"Ta'veren?" gasped the Dragon, returning Tro's booted feet to the floor with care, "you are perfectly correct, young man! I am indeed ta'veren. Though it has been a long time since anyone actually said so to my face… at least… not until today!"

The Dragon smiled down at the extremely nervous boy. "I like you, Tro… you say what you think and you tell the truth – I wish there were a few more like you in the Hall!" He then gestured in stately fashion with his Tamyrlin be-ringed hand at where the Lady Ilyena still stood. His other hand he raised, touching his earlobe between thumb and finger. He hummed softly for a moment, under his breath, until the Lady Ilyena put her hands on her hips and glared at him with mock exasperation. "And you are correct in more than that, my boy… is she not beautiful, my Lady Sunhair?"

Tro gulped, holding the point of his tongue between his rather sharp teeth. That was it! He wasn't going to say another damn word!

Ilyena glided gracefully forward and prodded her husband in the chest. "Cease teasing the poor boy, Lews Therin!" she chided, though still smiling. Then she took Tro's gloved hand in hers! The Lady Sunhair, holding his hand! His hand, of all hands! "I thank you for the gracious compliment, young man. Would you show me some of this Dragon College of yours, Tro? I shall need a guide, and a protector, should anything untoward occur. Will you consent to be my escort, good sir?"

Tro nodded solemnly. He could talk now. This was different – she might only be speaking in jest, but the Lady Ilyena had still specified protection. That meant duty. It was time to be serious. Duty was serious.

"Of course, Honoured Lady Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar." Tro bowed his best bow – finally remembering to! – and glanced at the Dragon. At Lews Therin Telamon. He thought that this might be the last time he ever saw him. It was.

"Farewell, young Tro. It was very pleasant, meeting you." The Dragon looked to his Companions. "Accompany my Lady also."

The Companions hesitated. Culan Cuhan went so far as to frown.

"Lews Therin," the Lady Ilyena chided, "they are your Companions, not mine! Would you have them forsake their sacred oaths to protect your person?"

The Dragon scowled. "Two each," he allowed, "and that is my final offer!"

Ilyena Sunhair chuckled, and surprisingly, spoke in the Low Chant;

"A deal, then, husband-mine!"

The Dragon laughed, and replied in the same vulgar language;

"A bargain, goodwife!"

Tro gaped as the Lady Ilyena then spat – spat! – delicately onto her palm, before holding her hand out to the Dragon. Who grinned, and spat lightly into his own, before they clasped their hands together! It seemed like such a... Low thing to do! Only they were both laughing, so perhaps it was some sort of a private jest between them? But even so... Tro hoped the Dragon would not want him to do it! But of course, if the Dragon asked him to spit on his hand, then he would do it. Even that!

Tro would die for the Dragon, without hesitation. He had said so to Father once, and Father had frowned and looked sad for a moment, so he had made a point of never saying it again. But Tro had meant it – he would go to his death gladly, if the Dragon said he should. What was a bit of someone else's spit (even the Lady Sunhair's!) on your hand compared with that? Even so, it was still a bit... disgusting!

The Lady Ilyena turned to the waiting Companions. "Please be so good as to attend me also, Jaric, and... your latest adherent... Alder?"

The young Companion bowed. "Auldre, my Lady," he corrected, apologetically.

"Of course, Auldre Choal, I now recall... forgive me!" and the Lady Sunhair patted the new Companion on a satin-draped arm, "but there are one-hundred of you, after all. A great deal of names to have to remember!"

Tro examined Auldre Choal whilst everyone else laughed. He seemed like a nice enough fellow... the dark skin of his cheeks purpling a little – he was blushing! Tro calmed, somewhat. Reassuring to know that he was not the only one who found the Lady Sunhair's presence and attention more than a little intoxicating!

"There are, in fact, one-hundred and five of them now," the Dragon informed his wife, "so I am not like to be bereft of companionship!"

Ilyena Moerelle returned her husband's gaze levelly. "Just so long as they keep you safe, my darling," she murmured, again in the Low. The Dragon sighed.

"An oft-difficult task, milady," Culan Cuhan muttered ruefully, in the same tongue. Jaric Mondoran eyed him flatly and Auldre Choal looked somewhat scandalised, but Veic Shuul, Flag-Servant, simply nodded, glumly.

Lews Therin glared at his Right Hand. "Are you now become my old Da'shain nursemaid?" he enquired. Culan Cuhan shrugged his massive shoulders.

"You need not answer that question, dearest-Culan," expostulated the Lady Sunhair, smiling up at Culan Cuhan, "for we all know that you are the very best nursemaid one could wish for, given so unruly a charge! Go with your Dragon. See to it that he does nothing... foolhardy." The Dragon frowned a little at this, but Culan Cuhan grinned and bowed, while slender, cadaverous Veic Shuul Savoran merely seemed relieved that the two of them would be permitted to protect their Dragon.

"It will be as you say, Lady of the Morning," Culan Cuhan boomed. He glanced down at Tro. "Ta'veren!" he chuckled, "why, you remind me of your Big Brother, lad... he always came right out and said what he thought, too!"

The Lady Ilyena turned to Tro. "A tour! With so handsome an escort – how lovely! And what shall we inspect first, young Tro?"

Tro straightened from a further courtly bow. He wished Father was here, to see how good his manners were. Well, how good they were now, at least, now that he had finally got over the shock that had turned him into a stammering halfwit! Where was Father?

"This way, my Lady of the Morning, I will show to you the arboretum, and then we may go and look at the training-library or perhaps the practice-yard…"

Tro thought it unlikely that he would need to protect the Lady Sunhair (stop calling her that, even in your head, damn-it!) unlikely that any creatures of the Shadow could come here – only the Grand Hall of the Servants in Paaran Disen had Wards as powerful as the Dragon College. But some of the War-Servants looked nervous, like they thought that at any moment monsters were going to come jumping out of the walls to bite them (when all of the monsters were down in the basement, securely locked away.) But Tro knew that his home, where he had been born, had something of a reputation... And as for the threat of the other monsters, the Spawn of the Shadow – did they not realise that this was the Collam Aman?

Father had told Tro that his College was impregnable (which word he had looked-up, it meant 'unable to make pregnant' which seemed odd) but it was also – since he and his Brothers came along – very difficult for an assassin or spy to infiltrate... and if they had ever gone to Shayol Ghul and been touched by the Dark One, impossible.

Though there was that new thing horrid old Grandfather had made, that Father was very worried about though he pretended he was not… that gholam thing… Tro wondered what it would be like to encounter a gholam? Would he chase it… or would it chase him? There was only one way to find out. Tro did not care either way, it would just be nice if they let him go outside and fight something more interesting than a melee-dummy… and he squeezed the Lady Ilyena's hand a bit tighter while he lead her down the hall, still chattering away and answering her questions about the College whilst his mind thought about other things… rather dark things, really.

If any of evil old Grandfather's monsters try to hurt you, Lady Sunhair, then I will ask you to turn your back so that you may not be alarmed by what you see when I remove my gloves – and then… I will tear… the Shadow-wrought… into shreds.

---

Lews Therin Telamon watched his beloved wife being led away by the hand, escorted into the dark recesses of the Dragon College by the strange, small boy. Well, not that small, certainly not for his age... and young Tro had felt surprisingly heavy and solid on being picked up, more massy than he ought, as though his skeleton and musculature were somehow denser and tougher than they should be… but then, of course, they were. Lews Therin watched without qualm, satisfied that this most recent of the Constructs served the Light as loyally as did his Brothers... though he wished that he could feel quite so confident about the allegiance of their Constructor. He who they called 'Father.'

Jaric followed on after, speaking quietly with his Da'shain attendants, and Auldre Choal went with them. Had it been deemed necessary to end the boy's existence, that grim task would have fallen to him, as the newest of the Companions, yet to prove himself. Doubtless, he was relieved to be spared this onerous duty, given the Dragon's clear approval of this, the latest of the Lightborn. The one who had been Constructed in secret... in defiance of the Hall's gene-splicing edicts. Created without permission, by the notorious Defector.

Lews Therin grimaced, an expression that held more irritation than anger, certainly more exasperation... Chaime! Genius... visionary... fool! The wisest fool he had ever met, admittedly, but even so... For his part, he had always liked Chaime Kufer – a good opinion which put him in something of a minority. Chaime held his respect even so, a man who had come back from under the very Shadow, bearing dark news that few had been willing to hear.

The First amongst the Servants had listened, however, listened to the confirmation of his greatest fears of what those who called themselves 'Friends to the Darkness' were doing... his worst suspicions of what preparations they were secretly making, grimly realised... all confirmed, beyond his worst nightmares.

But the Hall had not been willing to hear of... War. In those days, they had as little conception of what that word meant as Lews Therin had, himself. The last six years had taught them all differently. And there had been worse things happening beneath the Shadow than the slow build-up of monstrous armies to ravage humanity. Terror, distilled. Horror, encapsulated. Degradation practiced as a spectator sport, murder as a choreographed entertainment. Chaime Sedai had spoken of it all, of what he had seen. His words had been dismissed as those of one who was no longer sane. Chaime's subsequent actions had done little to alter this opinion of him.

Culan Cuhan had noted his Dragon's grimace. The Right Hand, First Captain of the Companions, seemed large and deliberate, perhaps even slow in his perceptions... but his bright, green eyes missed nothing. He leant forward solicitously, lowering his deep baritone so that the Warmen would not hear;

"You are unwell, my Lord? Might the faithful old Da'shain nurse enquire as to the health of his charge? Why, surely the food on Sho-One was not that bad!"

Lews Therin smiled ruefully, and Culan Cuhan turned to Veic Shuul to share the joke... some hope! Smiles were ill-suited to Veic's craggy, gaunt features. The Flag-Servant stood stolidly, swathed in robes of silvered shattercloth, the pale, folded bundle that was the Dragon Banner tucked carefully beneath one arm, a gauntleted hand propped on a bony hip. His dark eyes moved constantly, taking-in every doorway, every tapestry, every patch of shadow... the shadows, most especially.

"This place is not near well-lit enough for my liking," Veic muttered. "I much regret my staff!" Many of the ceilings were not high enough for the long, slender flag-pole that usually held the Dragon Banner's rippling length at its tip. The 'staff' was light, seemingly made of ivory, harder than cuendillar... and with but a small flow of Spirit, could project a shield about the user and anyone else within a twelve span radius that not even Balefire had been able to penetrate, in tests. A unique ter'angreal, one of the last made by Jorlen Corbesan himself, that had proved thus-far impossible to duplicate. It had preserved the Dragon's life on more than one occasion.

But Veic's precious staff remained aboard the Tamyrlin's personal Sho-wing at the Larcheen Aerodrome, along with the other four Companions who had accompanied their Dragon on this sudden inspection of the mysterious Collam Aman. Haindar and the others had not been happy to be left behind, but Lews Therin had considered four bodyguards to be quite sufficient. Perhaps he had erred in this?

"What ails thee, Veic Shuul?" enquired Lews Therin, "think you that Chaime Sedai's monsters shall emerge from behind yon tapestry, to trouble your Dragon?"

Veic blinked at his Dragon, shrugged, then resumed his watchful mien.

"My understanding is that the monsters are all down in the subterranean levels, locked away in the basement, as it were," Culan Cuhan rumbled. " I should very much like to see a monster," he added, wistfully.

"I have heard tell of these monsters, also, my Lord," Veic muttered softly, "the 'mistakes.' It is said that The Defector did try to make Trollocs at first, but they were evil and ungovernable creations, like their cousins to the north..."

"He has managed to make his own Nightrider," Culan Cuhan pointed-out, "although I would not speak disparagingly of Captain Taw, for he is a good fellow... if disconcerting!"

"Most disconcerting," agreed Veic, "but I have also heard that when The Defector attempted to duplicate his success, the result was less successful?"

Lews Therin winced. The 'result' had torn apart a squad of Warmen and two Aes Sedai with its bare hands, before it could be subdued.

"Chaime has had his failures, true," the Dragon reassured his Companions, "but all such were destroyed long since. You have my word on it." As he had Chaime's word on it – and how he wished he could trust that word!

Veic shook his head mournfully. "In that wise, my Lord, in the absence of the notorious monsters of the Collam Aman, I do watch indeed for Shadowmen, as there are a surfeit of shadows from which they might emerge. How I regret my staff!"

Culan Cuhan nodded. "A marked lack of glowbulbs," he observed, chidingly.

Their Dragon laughed, a short, mirthless bark. "Would you care to know what befell the last Myrddraal so foolish as to step from a shadow into this place?"

"That I would, my Lord!"

"No, Culan Cuhan, you would not."

Unlike his Companions, this was not the Dragon's first visit to the Collam Aman. Lews Therin had met the first two Lightborn when they were children also, he had insisted upon it, as he had with this third Lightborn whose Construction had caused such… problems. He had liked the Firstborn, the big one, he had had a good heart, Lews Therin was very sorry to hear of it when he fell – but what a battle that had been! Worthy of song. An enormously formidable warrior, like some indomitable Hero from the ancient sagas… though not very intelligent, admittedly. Wan-of-the-Howling-Axe, Hero of the Light, had not known when even he was outnumbered, had not seemed to care… a great shame. A great waste.

The War was always that... a waste. With each new level of atrocity, each further unnecessary loss of life, yet another diminishment of hope to add to so many other diminishments. But the Light yet had many Heroes, men and women unwilling to yield to the dread inevitability of the Dark One's re-emergence into the World – though with the loss of the Firstborn, one Hero less.

As for the Secondborn… even remembering that meeting caused Lews Therin to shiver slightly. He did not fear for himself, he had overcome that weakness long ago, though he feared greatly for others. Ilyena and his Kin, particularly, the thought of any harm befalling them frightened him to the core. But even the Dragon had felt a little nervous to be alone in the room with that strange, slim boy, his long, white hair falling back from his pale brow, who had sat cross-legged on the floor opposite. The Secondborn had certainly not been interested in playing Briar Patch, as his Brothers had! No, whilst answering the questions in that disconcerting whisper, the boy had simply gazed at the First Among the Servants in the same way he gazed at everything else… considering... as though observing something that he had not yet decided whether to destroy. Gazing, though no eyes to gaze with.

Not that the Secondborn had been disrespectful... but all there was to him, as far as Lews Therin could tell, was hatred. Not for him, of course, but hatred for the Shadow, utter, all-encompassing hatred for the Dark One and his minions, his spawn. This 'Taw' seemed to regard any moment that he was awake (he slept but rarely, Chaime had said) wasted unless he was using that moment to scourge the Shadow.

And later, the... demonstration. It was very difficult to take a Myrddraal captive, but Chaime had managed somehow, imprisoning the creature within a brightly-lit, cuendillar-tiled chamber... the portal had opened and the Secondborn had walked in to join it. Lews Therin still shuddered at the recollection... the way it had reacted to his presence, what the Secondborn had done to it... the high-pitched noise, like a host of buzzing wasps, that the Shadowman made, right at the end.

Lews Therin had seen and heard many horrific things, in the long years that had seen the slow build-up of the opposing forces and in the six, devastating years of war that followed. But he did not think he had experienced anything quite so disturbing as what the boy did to the Myrddraal, or the sound of its screams. When it was over, Taw had risen, turned, bowed low to the Dragon and lower to Chaime. When he straightened, for the first time he was actually expressing something with his features... he was smiling. It had, Lews Therin recalled, been a surprisingly pleasant smile. When the Secondborn spoke, even through the thick viewing-barrier, that voice had rustled in his ears, a chill winter wind stirring dead leaves.

"Thank-you for letting me play with the Shadow-filth, Father."

This one, the Thirdborn, was different… no, Tro was different. The other two… they had been Constructs, pure and simple. Well, one of them still was, Captain Taw or 'Middle Brother' as he was known around here, was currently active within the Great Blight itself, which he rarely left! He seemed quite at home there – it was whispered that even the Myrddraal were terrified of him. Perhaps, especially them. But Tro… despite the forbidden nature of his making, he was clearly much more human than the other two; certainly more so than his Elder Brother, who had been like a big, friendly hound offering to fetch a stick – or a Dreadlord's head, it was all the same to him! – as well as far less inhuman than the other Brother… who had been and still was extremely disquieting. The Firstborn had seemed somehow less than human, the Secondborn something other than human… but Tro, give or take his eyes and ears... his weapons… well, he was a weapon. Like a Warman, yet unlike.

Lews Therin glanced at his Warmen – his Dragonmen. They could not be said to have straightened under his gaze, for they were already standing as straight or straighter than should have been possible, but somehow, they managed. Row upon row of dark, calm eyes staring from between the golden fangs set into their ornate visors. The Dragonmen, the Ten Thousand Teeth of the Dragon, the Warman elite of the elite, their faces blank as masks.

"We all wear masks of one sort, or another," Lews Therin mused to himself, before summoning their Officer, who knelt, one gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of his Heron-mark blade. "Dismiss your men, Canyrys."

"Yes, my Dragon." Captain Canyrys rose, his shimmering, white armour flexing with his movements. "Warmen – dismissed!" As one, most of the company of Dragonmen turned and filed from the hall. Most of them. A squad of eight remained, shorter and slighter than the others, but with the same soldierly bearing, whilst the dark eyes gazing from their visors indicated the same level of readiness to die in battle, defending their Dragon.

Lews Therin sighed. He had forgotten that these days, not all Warmen were men! As though reading his thoughts, Canyrys barked at the squad of females; "our Dragon dismisses his men, so the task of protecting him falls to you! Do not fail!"

The War... women... bowed, before straightening with rigid precision, levelling their shocklances at their sword-girt hips and falling in to either side of Lews Therin and his Companions. Their Sergeant had a square jaw and dark, tilted eyes.

"Honour to serve, my Dragon," the Sergeant growled huskily, as she took the lead position. Finding himself surrounded by the very guards he had sought to dismiss from his presence, Lews Therin eyed Captain Canyrys censoriously. The whip-slim commander of his Dragonmen bodyguard seemed to almost smile for a moment, though perhaps this was just a trick of the light.

"Not quite what I had in mind, Captain," observed Lews Therin.

Culan Cuhan chuckled softly whilst Veic Shuul, who could be said to be a little old-fashioned about certain things, made a 'tsk' sound beneath his breath. He had never approved of the decision to extend Warman selection to girls, for all that it had become necessary.

"Honour to Obey, my Dragon," Canyrys responded, bowing and departing. Though not departing very far, Lews Therin suspected, any more than the rest of the Dragon Company had... it was impossible to dismiss a Warman within sight of his duty, but he had spent years trying, even so! The side halls were no doubt filling with white-armoured, beast-helmeted Dragonmen, lining their Lord's route as surreptitiously as they did everything else – not particularly!

"Well, if you are all quite certain that I will be safe surrounded by no-less than ten protectors, here in the heart of the Collam Aman... then I shall go and wait upon the Sitters." The Dragon did not sound enthusiastic.

And hear their verdict, I suppose... as if I do not already know what it will be!

Travelling being an impossibility, since the Gatewards of the Dragon College were said to be more powerful even than those set into the surrounding walls of Paaran Disen, Lews Therin and retinue were required to make their way down a series of dark, spiralling ramps in order to reach their destination. Whilst he walked, he considered something that he had noticed about young Tro.

When Ilyena had taken the boy's hand and asked him to escort her, an immediate change had come over the lad. From a blushing, embarrassed boy, he had transformed into a capable… bodyguard, Lews Therin supposed was the best word for it. The lad had a sense of duty, as had his Brothers, and he clearly took that duty very seriously. That was good.

At the foot of the final ramp, two massive double-doors, as well as one Aes Sedai, awaited them. The Sister wore a dark, hooded gown, stood before the doors as though guarding the way, her hands folded in capacious sleeves. As they approached, she looked up, the hood falling back from her brow, dark eyes fixed on Lews Therin.

"Deindre Sedai," Lews Therin acknowledged, forced to slow and then halt his pace when the Sister showed no signs of moving.

"Tamyrlin." Deindre took his arm and led him to one side, her bare feet whispering on the tiles. Lews Therin repressed the urge to sigh – what was Deindre doing here? She had not been aboard the sho-wing, certainly...

In a shadowed corner, whilst his Dragonwomen waited patiently, his Companions less patiently, Lews Therin listened closely whilst Deindre spoke urgent words behind the veil of the Privacy Web she had spun. She gave him a final, penetrating stare with those dark eyes, eyes that could see parts of the Pattern yet unwoven – then departed silently down a side corridor, swallowed rapidly by the gloom.

Lews Therin turned away, troubled, as the great doors swung soundlessly open. Naturally, the Dragon College had its own Hall, where the issues of governing this enormous hidden-Collam were decided – a condensed version of the Grand Hall of Servants itself, as existed elsewhere in profusion. Any room in which more than two Aes Sedai met had the capacity to become a Hall-in-miniature. Though there was nothing particularly miniature about the chamber revealed by the open doors.

"Wait here, Sergeant." The stocky Dragonwoman nodded, her squad taking up positions to either side of the doorway, moving like deadly automatons. Lews Therin and his Companions entered the Great Hall of the Collam Aman and began their slow procession toward the far end of the chamber, where the accused and his accusers waited. This was some distance away, and there was a gauntlet of sorts to run, in reaching it.

Numerous friezes decorated the dark walls to either side, each filling its own tall alcove, a touchlight set before it. The flickering holoflames picked out the carven shapes lurking within each alcove, creatures of myth, monsters with the faces of men and women... recognisable faces, all. The entirety of those, living and dead, who had been branded with the title 'Forsaken.' The 'Chosen-Ones' they called themselves, some of whom had once been his enemies in the Hall during the long years of the Collapse. Others who had once been his friends. Several of the dead Forsaken whose faces were attached to the bodies of lions and vultures had fallen, not to the forces of Light, but to those of their own number who yet lived – Sphinxes and Harpies turning on each other, though bound in the same service.

This, writ-large, was Lews Therin's over-riding hope, but for his desire to see the Bore sealed once more, the Dark One's poison no longer able to leak into the world – he fervently wished that the forces of the Shadow would inevitably turn in on themselves, war against each other... that evil would devour itself, as it always did.

Culan Cuhan whistled softly as he took in the notorious sculptures. Veic Shuul confined himself to another 'tsk' sound.

"When a new Initiate at the Academy," Culan rumbled, "I recall that of all of the Instructors, they said that only old Chaime Kufer Mors had a sense of humour..."

"I remember also," stated Lews Therin softly, "but I fear that Chaime Sedai's humour seems to have taken a turn toward the dark, in the intervening years."

"It is akin to the work of a madman," Veic complained.

Lews Therin smiled. "I also remember that in my final year, the Academy received a large Da'shain youth upon its roles, a clumsy young oaf who had the unfortunate habit of apologising annoyingly and profusely to whichever unfortunate he had most lately bumped into!"

Culan Cuhan grinned and spread his large hands. "Ah, but I cured myself of the apologising in time, for all that I am yet a clumsy oaf!"

"What I would not give to be young and stupid again, back at the Academy, before all of this," Veic observed dolefully. Culan clapped him upon the shoulder.

"Take heart, good Flagservant! Your precious staff shall, in time, be returned to you, for to once-more carry our Banner properly... and not beneath your arm, as though it were a folded rain-cape! Be not so despondent!"

Veic shrugged-off Culan's hand irritably as he always did and regarded the high, vaulted ceiling. "Of a certainty, there is room for my staff in here," he pointed-out, before returning his disapproving stares to the friezes, "for all that it is a drab, gloomy place, and tastelessly decorated." He seized saidin, splitting his webs six ways, so that a sextet of pale, glowing fireflies began to weave an intricate dance about them as they walked. The light picked out the cold, stone features attached to the monstrous forms that lined the hall, each to its alcove; faces cruel, faces avaricious, faces that simply conveyed nothing whatsoever in the way of humanity.

Mierin Eronaile in particular, her head attached to the gracefully-curved neck of a pale swan, floating calmly in what appeared to be a lake of dark fire... coldly beautiful Lanfear seemed the least human of the lot. Lews Therin eyed the all-too familiar features of a woman he had once loved, before turning away with regret. Opposite, smiling slyly, old Ishar Morrad gazed out from the mane of a lion's body, with a scorpion's tail. Aginor... Lews Therin could not help but notice that Chaime had placed the sculptures of the two Forsaken he detested the most, facing each other.

The friezes were in poor taste, true, but Lews Therin recognised the motivation that lay behind them, when few others did... not an attempt to be amusing, certainly, or calculated irony, even. Hatred. Chaime wished to remind himself of the faces of those he had served alongside, albeit against his will. He would not rest until they were all dead, and in the meantime, he could sustain himself by hating them. His sculptor's skill had merely provided him with an outlet for his hatred.

Lews Therin could see the Sitters awaiting him, their seated forms growing larger with each step he took. They would argue and object, prevaricate and remonstrate– when did they not? – but to little avail. His mind was made up, made up by an hour in the company of the boy, and he knew exactly what he was going to do. Though admittedly, another factor – an unexpected one – had strengthened his resolve. A factor that had been waiting for him, outside the doors of this Hall.

Some of the alcoves to either side were empty, yet to be filled, but a new frieze had been added recently, the Hall's spy had reported... yes, there it was. Lews Therin scowled. The Netweaver.

A spider with a man's head crouched amidst a cruelly-barbed and intricate web. The face, self-importantly solemn, was clearly that of Duram Laddel Cham. Just Duram Laddel now, of course. No, not even that. Be'lal. The Envious. Latest in a long line of traitors to betray the Light. His swearing to the Shadow was a relatively recent event, the wound still fresh. A noted advocate before the War, Duram Laddel had expected to be named as the new Sitter for the Justice Ajah. When Oselle Sedai received this honour, he had opted for the empty place on the High Council of the Shadow instead. The manner and frequency of the Forsaken's contention with one another ensured that such places were often made available. Graendal's recent assassination of her rival, Millisaine, had left a thirteenth seat open in any event, and Duram Laddel, Friend of the Dark, had gone to fill it... via Shayol Ghul. There were Oaths to be sworn to his new Master, before taking up such a position.

At Lews Therin's approach, the thirteen Sitters rose smoothly from their crystal thrones. "He comes, he comes," intoned Latra Posae Decume sonorously, "the Tamyrlin comes." The Sitters bowed, not particularly low, before resuming their seats. Lews Therin could not help but notice that there was no chair for him.

Chaime Kufer noticed also and turned his head, a crooked smile creasing his thin lips. "Forgive me, my Dragon," he murmured, "I would have had the High Seat brought from Paaran Disen... had I known that you were coming."

"Silence!" snapped Vora Sedai. Chaime sighed.

"I do not think that Chaime Sedai intends to attack us with his bare hands," Lews Therin noted mildly, then nodded to Culan Cuhan. The Right Hand seized saidin and channelled. The cuendillar manacles sprang open and fell to the dark, gleaming floor. Chaime might have rubbed at the weals on his wrists but opted instead for crossing his arms.

"Have you reached a verdict?" Lews Therin asked the Sitters..

Latra Sedai's dark eyes were calm, serene. "We defer to your ruling, Tamyrlin... with regard to the accused."

Lews Therin returned her gaze levelly. "And with regard to the boy?"

"The abomination," Vora Sedai muttered. A few of the other Sitters frowned.

"The unauthorised Construct," Beidomon Sedai qualified, smoothly.

"And was your uncle given authority to conduct his experiment?" Chaime enquired. Beidomon scowled.

"The accused will stand silent!" shouted Vora Sedai, half-rising, fingering her pale, twisted sa'angreal, clearly wishing to join-battle, with Chaime Sedai or anyone else who aroused her ire, even here in the Hall of the Collam Aman.

Lews Therin spoke. "Howsoever the manner of his coming into being, we are now presented with a third Lightborn – and there is a War to fight. Let us use him to good effect, for his Brothers did not disappoint in that regard!"

Solinda Sedai shook her head. "The Construction of the first two Lightborn was sanctioned by the Hall – this was not. The illegality of the act stands."

"He was made in secret, without permission!" Oselle Sedai's voice was coldly angry. "I fear that these Lightborn cannot be trusted any more than their rebellious..." her dark eyes turned upon Chaime, and narrowed; "...creator."

Chaime Kufer smiled thinly, inclining his head as though accepting praise.

"Constructor, surely," stated the Dragon for the accused, since Chaime was unlikely to make further outbursts – Vora Sedai was perfectly capable of gagging him with a web of air, and they both knew it! "There is but one Creator after all, Oselle..."

"One Creator, aye, Tamyrlin... and a single Dark One standing in opposition to him, in all the many incarnations and possibilities of the Eternal Pattern..." Oselle turned her disparaging gaze back upon the accused. "And which do you truly serve, Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai? The Light-bringing one who made us all, He whom you seek to emulate – or the one whom I suspect remains the 'Great Lord' in your heart, the Dark One who you swore your oaths to?"

Chaime Kufer glanced at Vora Sedai, raising an eyebrow – she nodded curtly. "Whom do I serve, Oselle? In truth?" He pointed a long-nailed finger. He pointed at the Dragon. "There stands the Lord of the Morning – ask him who I serve!"

Lews Therin frowned, the Sitters stirred uncomfortably, and eyed their Dragon whom they also, ostensibly, served. Chaime ceased his pointing, instead curling his fingers about the dull-bladed dagger-ter'angreal that, as ever, hung against his chest.

"No-one can walk in the Shadow so long that they may not return to the Light... provided that the correct sacrifices are made, and I have sacrificed much, Honoured Sitters of the Hall, much indeed!" Chaime ran his dark, almond-shaped eyes over the assembled Aes Sedai with a touch more than the usual contempt, before shrugging and smiling coldly at his interlocutor. He lifted the dagger-ter'angreal on its chain, so that it swung gently back and forth before him. "Besides, dearest Sister, do you think that were I yet untrue, sworn to Shai'tan..." – some of the Sitters stirred uncomfortably, one did not readily use that name – "do you actually imagine that I would be stupid enough to wear this?"

"Nobody thinks that you are stupid, Chaime," Lews Therin pointed-out, to break the uncomfortable silence, "quite the opposite, in fact! We rather consider that you, my old tutor, are far too clever for your own good! That is why we are all gathered here today."

"I would not readily hear my allegiance questioned again," Chaime muttered, resentfully.

"Then do not give us cause to question it. This is not your War, Chaime – it is our War. The Hall's War! You cannot oppose the Shadow alone, in your own fashion, according to your own whims – upon the battlefield, such independence from command can only lead to disaster. We do not ask for your consultation with us, for your obedience – we demand it." The Dragon waited.

Chaime Kufer scowled. "You have it," he said finally, grudgingly.

"Good!" Lews Therin smiled. "No-one doubts the contributions you have made... that your Sons have made..."

Chaime was not mollified. "Had I been permitted to duplicate-" he began to say, and Beidomon snorted loudly.

"The Firstborn? And breed an army of giants to smite the Shadow?"

"An army of Heroes, to destroy the Shadow!" retorted Chaime.

Solinda Sedai shook her head sadly, ignoring poisonous levity in the face of stark truth. "The First Lightborn was tested in battle and failed, which is why no more were... Constructed. You know this, Chaime."

Chaime scowled. "Eldest Son did not fail, he was failed. Failed by you all." He locked eyes with Vora Sedai for a long moment. "You, most especially."

Vora Sedai chose to ignore this. "And what of the abomination?" the War Ajah Sitter demanded. Chaime's scowl deepened.

"What of him?" Lews Therin's voice was calm.

"It must be destroyed." Vora Samm Raijan's voice was cold, implacable.

Lews Therin Telamon sighed.

"I have just played a game of Briar Patch with the 'abomination,' as you so charmingly name him. Why, I have not played it since I was his age! And I enjoyed his company, as I hope that he enjoyed mine. There will be no destruction of anyone... or anything. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

The Tamyrlin regarded the Sitters gravely. Latra Sedai glanced at the others, opened her mouth, began to speak-

"I have fought the Shadow for six long years!" Lews Therin Telamon roared, "I have looked into the very centre of the Darkness!" His dark eyes held theirs, before he spoke again, in more measured tones;

"If the boy were a monster, do you think that I would not know it?"

The Sitters' eyes were wide, for the most part, their faces betraying shock at the outburst, though Latra Sedai's features might have been carven stone, as though she gazed at him from one of the alcoves. But they did not speak... what could they say, after that? It was good to occasionally remind these proud Servants of the Hall that while he was First among equals, he was also the Dragon!

Lews Therin continued; "he is but a boy, that is all. And a pleasant, respectful, well-behaved boy at that. For the most part. Though when he is ready to serve the Hall, I do not think that the Shadow will have so good an opinion of him!"

The Sitters regarded him, stolidly. Lews Therin sighed.

"He is a child, no different from any other child in all of the most important respects." The Dragon's visage became grimmer and even Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai, quailed a little before his sheer presence. He was the most powerful ta'veren to have been born in three thousand years, and Lews Therin Telamon was long accustomed to using this. "If you see fit to challenge my decision in the Hall then do so, but know that I will exercise my veto... and if any attempt to harm the child, I will see them severed. And before you condemn my decision…

"Ask yourselves this… the Shadow kills children. Do we?"

---

The slow exit of the Sitters was slowed further by pauses for disparaging gestures at the Friezes of the Forsaken, by overt expressions of disgust. Chaime smiled thinly. An artist should always seek to provoke some kind of a reaction – even an adverse one!

"Well," said the Dragon, "that went better than I had anticipated."

"It did, my Dragon?" Chaime grimaced. "And my punishment on this occasion?"

"I think that you already know, Chaime."

"You are taking the College away from me."

"I am not. The Hall is. They are wary of you, down here, breeding your..."

"Abominations?"

"Creations. They want you nearer the Capital, where they can better keep an eye upon you."

Where they can more easily spy on me...

"And what of the Collam Aman? Will you give this place into Beidomon's charge? I know he has long-envied me the facilities here..."

The Dragon shook his head. "The College will be closed. And sealed."

For all time.

Though he did not actually say it, the Dragon's meaning was clear. It was over, then. It was all over. Chaime scowled at the diminishing Sitters, then returned his attention to his patron. "What of Tro?"

"A nice lad. I shall send him a present."

"What of his fate?"

"The boy will not be harmed," the Dragon assured him, "he is quite safe. Continue with his training."

"I did not make him to be safe, but to ensure the safety of others!"

"A task he will one day perform admirably, I am sure. Though I can only hope that the War will be over before he is of an age to join the fighting."

Chaime snorted. "Indeed, it may well be over, for judging by the way the War is being prosecuted by the Hall... we will have lost to the Shadow, by that time!"

"Harsh yet even-handed with your condemnation, as ever, Chaime!" Lews Therin sighed. "Though a not-altogether unfair assessment of some of them... the Peace Faction, in particular, causes me concern. But Solinda, at least, appreciates the gravity of the situation. As does Latra Sedai... her people are working on something, even now-"

"The Choeden Kal!" Chaime sneered, "two great hammers to strike the Shadow between them – and crack the World like a nut, in so doing!"

Lews Therin smiled. "Your sources of information are impeccable, as ever."

"As are the Hall's, it would seem – and I was so careful! However did they-"

"Chaime!"

The Dragon shook his leonine head slowly from side to side.

"Chaime, do you think me a fool? I am no fool. Not in the last century, at least... not since I met Ilyena."

Chaime smirked. He had introduced them! The Dragon frowned accusingly.

"You leaked the information, you wished to be found-out. To let the cat out of the bag! You knew this day had to come, when you must needs reveal the Thirdborn to the Hall... so you brought it about yourself, trusting in the Dragon's wing to shelter beneath, yet again!"

"Do Dragons have wings?"

"They do if I say they do!"

Chaime lowered his hand from the dagger-ter'angreal that he had begun to fiddle with. A sure sign of guilt, he should really stop doing it. "Very well," he grudgingly admitted, "I allowed an Apprentice who I knew to have been planted here by the Hall, a young fellow named Kodam, to overhear certain-"

"Chaime, it does not matter how the Hall found out about the Thirdborn, for I knew of him already. And have done for some time, in fact."

"How... how did you know?"

"I know because Deindre Sedai told me. She knows... because she is Deindre Sedai."

"Deindre! And they call me mad. I saw her, loitering outside, awaiting you. What did she Foretell this time?"

"Something about your 'Son.' The Thirdborn. He will be needed, apparently, though Deindre cannot say quite how or when. If you wish to know more, ask her upon your own account, although I misdoubt not that you will receive a comprehensible answer!" The Dragon lowered his voice, though his Companions stood well out of ear-shot.

"Deindre Sedai often whispers to me of madness, you know. There will be a Time of Madness, says she, but the visions are clouded and unclear, as though half-glimpsed through the miasma that seeps from the Dark One's prison... she does not know when this time will come, only that it will be terrible indeed." The Dragon lowered his voice further, concern and confusion vying with each other, musing as much to himself as to Chaime. "Madness! Inevitable, she thinks... unless I can avert its advent... if I can..." His tones became confiding. "...Deindre warns me to be not over-proud. To put aside Callandor, even, for fear I might seek to challenge the Creator with such power! In her visions, she oft sees a great, smoking mountain in my future... the tomb of all hope..."

The Dragon shook his head wearily, and for a moment Chaime saw the mask slip. Saw not the Dragon, not the Tamyrlin or the First among the Servants... he saw a man, a man near-crushed by his burdens, a man who carried the hopes of the Light upon his shoulders. Because it was what he had been born to do. Because there was no-one else who could do it.

"Heavier than a mountain, my Dragon," Chaime whispered.

The Dragon collected himself, eyed Chaime ruefully.

"Prophecy is one thing, duty quite another. You have gone against the authority of the Hall for the last time, my friend. You may continue at the Black College, but you will close your affairs here… and end the Program. Effective immediately."

"I would suppose that the Subsidiary Program is also cancelled?"

"No... no, you may continue with that."

"So... my most important work lies before me, at the Collam Doon?"

Chaime's voice was bitter. The Dragon smiled. Chaime was never entirely certain why it was that Lews Therin undoubtedly approved of him, of his work, when so many others absolutely did not. But for some reason, he did. Useful to have such favour – but undeniably provoking in its sheer mystery! He had never liked to not know things. The Dragon's smile became melancholy.

"Your most important work? Perhaps… Chaime, we have an acquaintance in common. Do you recall Onani Sedai?"

"Yes, of course. We were Instructors together. I saw him last year."

"I saw him last week."

"Oh. How was he?"

"Dead. Very dead, I am sorry to say. Onani Tsang, Aes Sedai, fell from the jumper when the Draghkar made their suicide-attack... a pack of Darkhounds caught him before we could circle back. The Shadowdogs... savaged him, before we could kill them. Healing failed, as it almost always does in these cases." The Dragon lowered his voice, something implacable and terrible in his eyes, the dread certainty that the Shadow had come to fear.

"Continue with the Subsidiary Program. Make your Hound of Light, Chaime. I am eager to see what it can do to the Darkhound packs."

"Since you put it like that... I will."

Chaime sighed. Poor old Onani... and he had always been very fond of dogs.