I heard it again, last night... a distant susurration... a whispering of air on air. It may be idle fancy, but at times I feel eyes upon me, as I go about my journeys. Excepting myself, I imagine that there is something else, here in this strange place that the Alantin ti Avende have seemingly abandoned. It takes effort to remain serene and I much regret not Bonding another after dear Jordim died – but I am of the Brown Ajah, and knowledge is all. My studies continue. Even so... I fear the sound of the wind.

Conaia el Tichaan, Aes Sedai

personal journal, final entry [circa 313NE]


Chapter 8 * Away from the White Tower

Captain-of-Archers Thoro Mazeen narrowed his eyes as the carven leaves on the mysterious Ogier stone came to life and began to writhe again... so they were back for more already, were they? Well, each man had a full quiver and he was currently keeping every half-decent fletcher down in the village busy, so let them come!

A line began to appear down the centre of the strange gate, just as it had done on all of the previous occasions. Captain Mazeen did not know why several Fists of Trollocs had come through these odd doors that the Builders had left behind when they abandoned their stedding... he certainly had no idea why Shadowspawn were raiding this most isolated and sparsely-populated part of westernmost Saldaea, of all places... Mazeen was a soldier, he did what he was told. His Lordship had commanded them to stand here, to stand and guard the gate, so that was what they would do.

Captain Mazeen's voice, after near forty years of bawling orders at his fellow Bordermen, had a certain snap to it, a carrying quality. "Sappers, back to your places! Front rank, kneel. Get ready lads, here come more fish for the barrel!"

The bonfires to either side banished the late evening gloom, reddish light flickering against the twin stone gates as they opened outwards, revealing a dull, silvery portal into whichever dark place it was the Ogier had once visited... and out of it, onto the churned-up, gore-stained mud, stepped a man and a woman, each pulling a saddled gelding behind them, a packhorse following-on. Their mounts seemed every bit as eager to leave as they did... The woman fiddled with something amongst the carven leaves and the gates swung closed in their wake. She turned to look at the soldiers, registering bemusement at their presence. Mazeen still had his hand raised and hesitated – they were clearly not Trollocs – but a youth who was new to the Company flinched at their emergence and squeezed the trigger of his crossbow anyway. Several others, hearing the deep twang, followed-suit.

"Yaaa!" shouted the woman in surprise, raising the black staff she held. The small flight of bolts slammed to an abrupt halt, a span from their targets, as though they had struck an invisible wall. Captain Mazeen noted that the woman was staring at the quarrels with a penetrating, brown-eyed gaze, half-hidden behind spiky locks of pale hair. He noted also that a golden serpent-ring gleamed upon her hand, and that her short, dark, scowling companion wore a fancloth cloak. Mazeen groaned softly.

"Dreadlord!" shouted the nervous youth who had fired first, struggling with the crank on his crossbow, "I mean... Dreadlady!"

More crossbow bolts followed on from this before Captain Mazeen found his voice, putting his usual parade-ground roar to shame.

"She's a bloody Aes Sedai! Cease fire! Cease fire!"

Fortunately, these final bolts were likewise halted in mid-air. The Aes Sedai was still staring at them intently as they hung there. Her Warder had slid a short, ivory-hilted blade from his sash and was clearly wondering who to stab with it first. Mazeen took the opportunity to go over and cuff the foolish youth around the back of his helmet. The other offending archers lowered their crossbows, abashed.

"What in the burning Pit do you idiots think you're doing?" shouted the Aes Sedai, angrily, "stop shooting those bloody arrows at us!" Her Warder had sidled in front of her to provide a human-shield, but she pushed him out of the way, glaring at the Captain-of-Archers.

"Forgive us Aes Sedai, we thought you Shadowspawn!" Mazeen bellowed, apologetically.

"Do we look like flaming Shadowspawn?"

Mazeen shook his greying head solemnly. "No, but of course you do not! Although have a care, Honoured Sister of the White Tower – there may be more Spawn of the Shadow back there, in the odd Ogier place... they could be ravening upon your heels even as we speak!"

"Oh, them... no, we killed them all," remarked the Aes Sedai, absently, "except for the ones that ran away, though I think that nasty wind thing probably got them..." She scowled. "But I'm warning you now, if any more arrows come my way..." – she made a twirling motion with the staff and in response, the hovering bolts revolved until each pointed threateningly back in the direction from which it had come, causing a fair amount of gasping and flinching amongst the men of the Company – "...then I shall bloody-well return to sender!"


Part I : Tar Valon

The White Tower was in uproar! Not only the Daughter-Heir of Andor but also the grumpy Two Rivers Wilder who was always yanking on her braid as well as her village-neighbour, the pretty Innkeeper's daughter who was apparently called 'Egg-something' (odd names, these Andorans!) had all disappeared into thin air! No-one had even seen them embark on a rivership, much less walk their horses (also missing) across one of the bridges. They had completely vanished! As had Elmindreda Farshaw of Baerlon in the west of Andor (near to a certain absentee Noblewoman's estate and salt-mine) though since she lacked the privilege of being one of the three most promising girls to sign the Novice-book in a thousand years, no-one seemed to care quite so much about her

But Renn did. She rather liked 'just-Min' from what she had seen of her, and even Ellyth (who could be a little uncharitable at times) had mentioned that the girl seemed to have 'backbone.' But there was more to it than that. There always was...

Rennetta Faltrey of the Brown Ajah sat, as she often did, in the Great Library of the White Tower, trying to read a letter that had been written by someone two-thousand years dead. But her mind was elsewhere… a place it often resided.

Renn squinted at the cramped script. She was currently holding the Power – it beat any magnifying-lens! – but even so, the few yellowing pages had ink so faded that much was indiscernible. She had found the cracked, leather folder stuffed full of ancient letters whilst looking for her mouse – who she had not found, she hoped he had not fallen afoul of one of the rat-wardings. Or old Verin's accursed owl... The folder had slipped down behind a bookcase in the archive chamber used to store the Amyrlin's correspondence. It was much older than anything else in there, had obviously survived several purges of the letters of past Amyrlins. The contents were mostly illegible, but one heavily creased sheet of parchment was not. In addition to the crumbled remnants of wax seals and faded ribbons, the letter was watermarked with the Royal Sigil of long-dead Safer, one of the fabled Ten Nations. A slender tree upon a hill, said to be a sapling of fabled Avendesora.

Renn scowled, touching her ear whilst she attempted to read the writing of two millennia past. It was not particularly sore anymore – Jabal had been very careful when he pierced her lobe with the heated needle – but the delicate gold ring in it still felt odd and she could not stop herself from fiddling with it. The fine vermilion ink on the parchment had weathered the passage of time better than the cheap stuff used in some of the other letters. The missive seemed to be from His Grace, the Anointed Guardian of the Western Approaches (whatever they were!) an'Korae dor Halawayne, High-King of Safer; addressed to the Amyrlin Seat, Holder of the Flame, Watcher of the Seals, Simharla Luendil, of whom Renn had never heard. It was dated AB1346... shortly before the calendar changed to Free Years.

The letter began with flowery condolences on the passing of the Amyrlin's predecessor, deceased from natural causes whilst somewhere up in northern Aramaelle, though what she was doing there in the final days of the Trolloc Wars, Renn could only guess at. The name of the previous Amyrlin Seat was not given. It might have been whoever succeeded Rashima Kerenmosa, the famous Soldier Amyrlin? Records of the Amyrlins from between the end of the Wars and the time of Davian, three hundred years later, were sketchy at best. The notorious False Dragon had detested Aes Sedai, and his fanatical followers had done their best to destroy what little history of the White Tower had survived the Wars. Condolences out of the way, the missive went on to regret that the cuendillar artefact in question could sadly not be returned to the White Tower as it enjoyed pride of place in the Royal Collection. Could the King interest the Flame of Tar Valon in some unusual bones instead, the skeleton of a strange and monstrous animal, a great, tusked beast?

Then, formalities over with, the letter rapidly descended into whining accusation and petulant demands for justice – the War Hero, Lord-General Tamulchinda, was a wine-thief! This seemed odd to Renn, gold or jewels were surely a better object of thievery – all she really knew of wine was that its making involved grapes. Her mother's Inn at Northharbour had mostly confined itself to the serving of ales and ciders, there was little call for wine amongst the clientele... The diatribe continued, growing more personal about the errant Lord-General. You could not trust a supposedly-reformed Dragonsworn! The treacherous old reprobate should not have been awarded command of the Tower Legions and named Grand Warden of Tar Valon! It was a travesty! There were further accusations and demands for this 'Tamulchinda' (who Renn had never heard of either) to be brought to justice – apparently he had toasted the 'ultimate victory of the Light' with a glass of the King's own stolen rare vintage at the Grand Victory Gala! But rainwater had dripped onto the folder at some point and further down, the lines of ink had blurred together somewhat.

Renn raised the parchment, holding it up to a tall, mullioned window to take advantage of the morning sunlight streaming through, picking out dancing motes of dust in its broad beam... but this did not help since there was someone standing in the way, casting their shadow over the proceedings and staring at her with pale eyes. And again, not for the first time that morning, the same question arose in Renn's mind.

What is Liandrin up to?

Renn was thinking about the day before yesterday…

Renn Sedai scowled. The person she was scowling at scowled back at her. Typical! She had not left the Library in what felt like a month (even she got tired of books sometimes) and had decided to go for a walk, down in the gardens near the Tower stables... and who was the first person she ran into?

(Of course, it would have been nice if Jabal could have come for a walk too, then they might have found a secluded spot and… but no, she could feel her husband through the bond, down at his shed in Southharbour, doing yet another something-that-needed-doing to his precious Riverpike! She had not realised, when she wed the fellow that there would be a third entity in their marriage to whom he was also bound – a bloody boat! She wished she had never let him build it! She certainly wished she had never paid for all of that wood and rope and brass and canvas and… was this what it was like amongst the Sea Folk? Did they make such swingeing bargains and charge so dearly for their accursed silk, simply to be able to afford to pay for the endless succession of things needed to keep their boats floating? Or ships, or whatever they were…)

But Renn was getting side-tracked. She often-

(Though actually, she could sense that Jabal had now left the boat-shed and was on his way back to the Tower. By way of that low, sailor's Tavern he liked to frequent, doubtless... her mother had told her stories about that place!)

-got side-tracked. Well, in any case, Renn had left the Library for a while, in order to remind herself of what the sun looked like, intending a nice walk about the Tower grounds… and who was the first person she ran into?

Liandrin Sedai scowled back at the person scowling at her.

"Get out of the way, Bookworm," she hissed, pushing rudely past. Renn repressed the urge to trip Liandrin as she swept by, trip her up and give her a good drubbing into the bargain! But an Aes Sedai shouldn't behave like that. Besides, Liandrin was stronger in the Power, and would probably just drub her back… but when Renn got her hands on an angreal - watch-out, Liandrin!

Renn narrowed her eyes. Why was the horrid snitch carrying her own saddle-bags? Most unlike Liandrin to do that, she was perfectly capable of summoning some poor Tower servant to carry so much as a needlework basket or a knitting bag about for her! Not that Liandrin did needlework or knitting, of course. She probably just tortured cute, fluffy animals, for relaxation… Suddenly, Renn realised that she had forgotten to say something rude back – she was such a forgetful person!

"As charming as ever, Tattletale!" Renn shouted, but she was not sure if Liandrin had heard, having vanished into the Tower stables by that point. Off somewhere in a hurry, by the looks of it. Hopefully, somewhere very far away (Shara would do!) and not back for a good long while… Renn turned, pleased with her response. Even if Liandrin had not heard, that had still told her! At which point, a skinny boy burdened with numerous saddlebags and wearing a large, floppy hat that presumably obscured his vision of what lay ahead, came racing around the corner and knocked Renn down!

"Oof!" Renn lay on her back, winded, feeling a bit like her tortoise, who did not like to be placed in this particular position either. The stable-boy or whatever he was dropped the saddlebags, a hand pressed to his mouth, whilst a novice walked swiftly by – it was that feckless Else Grinwell girl, doubtless sneaking off to the Warder's practice-yard when she was supposed to be in class – and she did not even stop! Disgraceful! When Renn was a novice, if she had seen an Aes Sedai lying on her back, then she would have paused to help her up! If she had seen her, Renn had spent quite a lot of her time as a novice reading things, even whilst walking about, so might not have noticed… but that was no excuse for this Grinwell specimen, who had just gone sailing past without a care in the world! Renn did not know what the Tower was coming to, she really didn't… But at least the stable-boy recovered himself and pulled Renn to her feet (though since he had knocked her over in the first place, he bloody-well ought to!) dusting her down, patting ineffectually at her mauve silk robe, embroidered with emerald fish. He was not to know that much of the dust on it had already been there...

"Sorry, Aes Sedai," he piped. He had quite a high-pitched voice, for a boy, Renn noted.

"Well, that is alright I suppose," responded Renn absently, "these things happen, after all… and where are you off to in such a hurry, young fellow?"

The pretty boy blinked his dark eyes and Renn abruptly realised that he was a girl! Or rather, that she was a girl! "Oh, it is you – the Andoran maid who dresses-up in boy's clothing. I am sorry about that, Elmindreda, it is just that with those britches and the hat…"

"It is just 'Min' Aes Sedai, now if you will please excuse me, the others will be waiting, I must…" The girl dressed as a boy trailed-off, glancing up at something above Renn's head and squinting. Renn knew what that meant!

"Whatever it is, I don't want to know!" Renn snapped, turning to leave and taking a couple of steps. But her curiosity got the better of her (it usually did) and she turned back. "Oh alright… but not if it is anything nasty! Here, girl, I'd buy yourself a nice dress with it if I were you, you won't find yourself a handsome fellow going around looking like a stable-hand! Well, perhaps you will… sometimes handsome fellows are to be found in stables also… handsome horses too, I shouldn't wonder… but even so, a nice dress certainly wouldn't hurt!"

Min Farshaw looked down at the gold Tar Valon mark that had been pressed into her palm by the talkative and oddly-dressed young Aes Sedai whom she had often seen in the Tower Library…

"How did you know about the gold mark?"

"Never you mind, girl!" Renn responded, with her best mysterious Aes Sedai voice, but then relented. There was no harm in telling her. Or perhaps there was… too late, she was doing it. "Oh, alright! I once happened to overhear you in the stables, saying something to yourself about, 'I should charge them all a gold mark each!' " she explained. Renn did not elaborate – the girl needn't know about the bat!

"The stables?" Min muttered, eyeing Renn suspiciously.

"Yes, I happen to be a friend of the Blue Sister who asked you a question or two on that day, but do not worry, your secret is safe with us! I mean, me! Now, what vision do you see, Min? Don't tell me if it's bad, mind!"

"Oh, it is not bad... I do not see anything about death..."

Renn breathed a gusty sigh of relief.

"I see…" – Min had pocketed the gold mark and was squinting above Renn's head again – "...I see a black ship, a white stone..."

"That doesn't sound very interesting!"

"...they are in the middle of a forest..."

"Well, that's a bit different, I suppose..."

"...it means that you will go on a long journey, though not over the waves. It is very important that you do so. Oh, and I saw that Horn again also, just for a moment, the one I saw above the head of the Green Ajah Sister – the one that was not the Horn of Valere, though she wouldn't listen to me!"

Renn snorted. "I have absolutely no intention of going on any long voyages, thank-you very much! Or swearing my oaths and becoming a Hunter for the Horn! I'm far too busy with my research... I have been thinking of beginning a biography of Willim of Maneches..." She wondered if it was too late to ask for her gold mark back? Probably...

Min ignored all of this, shaking her head as though she already knew that Renn would inevitably do what she saw in the vision. "Oh, and I suppose I should tell you... there was something else..." she added, reluctantly.

"I don't know if I want to hear any more!"

"No, I told you everything about your vision, but there was something I did not tell your Blue Ajah friend… it seemed so unlikely, since she is so…" Min shrugged. "She angered me so I did not tell her everything… and besides, it seemed so inconsequential to someone like her, I did not think she would be interested or would even believe me…"

"Yes, I know... Blues are so single-minded!"

"Well, yes… but if you see her again, tell her that I saw… marriage!"

Renn threw back her head and laughed. "She is going to get married?" The day Ellyth wed, she would eat her own knitting-bag, including the needles!

"Yes, I know it does not seem likely. But she will fall in love and marry, I am never wrong about these things!" Min scowled, muttering, "I wish I was, believe me..."

"I rather think that you might be wrong on this occasion!"

Min shook her head firmly. "As she left the stables, above her head I saw a… a shield, only it was not a shield in the same way that a rowing-boat is not a Sea Folk Raker… I cannot explain it better than that… this shield, or whatever it was, had a silver star on it... the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai… and it was draped in wedding garlands!"

"How unusual… so my friend is going to marry a shield… perhaps other items from the armoury shall attend the ceremony… mayhap a sword will read out the words of blessing… whilst an axe and a spear dance with each other! Well, I do hope that they will both be very happy together, she and the shield." Renn was smirking a little, and obviously did not believe Min, who scowled in response.

"Yes well, I must go now, I will make the others late…"

"That is certainly a lot of saddlebags you have there, just-Min."

Min did not choose to respond to this; Renn watched as she hefted these saddlebags back over her shoulder and started towards the novice's quarters before pausing and turning back for a moment, grinning and rolling the heavy Tar Valon mark skilfully back and forth over her knuckles, exclaiming; "…oh, and I will not buy a dress with your gold, Aes Sedai, I shall buy myself a nice new dagger instead!" before hurrying off.

Renn shrugged. "Well, you earned it. Spend it how you see fit, girl…" and as Min disappeared through an archway, she shouted, "and if you see Liandrin on your travels – you can't miss her, she has a face like she's sucked on a lemon all her life! – then tell her that I said…" But there was no point in finishing. Min was gone. Renn shrugged, turned and strode back towards the Library, wondering about the vision. To the Pit with a nice walk… there was just too much going on out here!

"Hello, Bookworm," said Rashiel Tamor of the Red Ajah.

Renn lowered the letter, having read the same sentence over several times. Why was she holding the parchment up to the window when there was someone standing in the way? Someone whom she recognised, despite the unaccustomed garb. It was Rashiel who was blocking out the sunlight! She looked as though she had just got back from a long journey... and she was wearing boy's clothing, like young Min did. That was odd! Rashiel usually wore dresses, didn't she? Dresses with very low necklines, as a rule, but then the girl was rather well-endowed in that department, so why not flaunt herself a little? Renn might have done the same, just for fun, at a dance perhaps... but no, she was a respectable, married woman, now. For all that she shared her husband with a flaming boat!

Renn frowned. But why the boy's clothes..? Well, they must be men's, all rolled-up at the sleeves like that… rather dirty men's garments too, they could use a wash. So could Rashiel. She could use a good bath! Her hair looked nicer than it usually did, though… good for her. Wouldn't go around looking like the outhouse brush anymore! Not that she could talk, of course… Renn touched her own unruly locks of pale hair self-consciously, brushing them out of her eyes for the hundredth time that day. It was funny, those ringletty things in Rashiel's hair looked a lot like the ones Ellyth favoured… if she didn't know better, she would think that Ellyth had done Rashiel's hair. Renn always refused to let Ellyth touch hers, since she thought that she would look ridiculous with ringlets and her friend had agreed with her in that snobby way of hers! But Ellyth would never do Rashiel's hair, though she might burn it all off for her instead! Those two were like a pair of alley cats fighting in a sack!

Renn did not dislike Rashiel nearly so much as Ellyth did, because Rashiel was always kind to animals, particularly horses. But spiders too! In fact, Rashiel had punched Liandrin on the nose after Liandrin unnecessarily squashed Renn's harmless furry pet, and the Ebou Dari novice had received a painful strapping for it! Renn, who had punched Liandrin on the nose just prior to Rashiel's punch – despite the Healing immediately given to the whining, bleeding Liandrin, her nose had never looked quite the same again! – had not got into trouble because she had been provoked, was still crying and besides, the Mistress of Novices liked her.

In Ellyth's first encounter with Liandrin, she had also been provoked, but the Mistress of Novices (who had once had a beloved Warder tortured by Whitecloak Questioners) had not seen fit to grant clemency on that occasion. There had been the remark about witches, after all. How Ellyth had howled, that first night in the Tower - Renn supposed that her soft, Noblewoman's backside had probably never been strapped before! Renn had sneaked around to her room later and Healed Ellyth's bruised bottom, even though she was not supposed to and would get a dose of the strap herself if the Mistress of Novices found out… which was another way of saying, if Liandrin or one of her cronies told on her.

Renn didn't much care for Noblewomen, judging by the very few she had seen staying at her mother's Inn when growing up, but this Ellythia seemed nice enough that she would have Healed her anyway, even had she not felt that the incident had partly been her fault, for forgetting to warn the new girls about Liandrin… Shrinalla had been there also, comforting her weeping, home-sick friend and darkly threatening to take Liandrin to the top floor of the Tower and hang her out of a window. After the Healing, they had all sat on Ellyth's bed for a while, talking about the things they would do when they were Aes Sedai.

None of the other novices could Heal bruises (if no more than that) but Renn was a special case. Whilst walking past the practice-yard on her first day in the Tower, she had noticed a Yellow Sister Healing a nasty gash her Warder had taken in the practice-yard when his opponent, Atual Gaidin, had got carried-away and broke his practice-blade. Renn had heard that in the War (which her father, a Tower Guardsman, had also fought in) the big, grim fellow from Far Madding had killed more Aielmen than any other Warder of the Tower – well, except for Lord Mandragoran, of course! Since some of the blood on the snow in the final battle of the Aiel War had been her father's, Renn could not help but approve of this. After the Healing, Milona Sedai had apologised profusely to the other, scowling Sister, while the two Warders just rolled their eyes at each other and grinned about the fuss Aes Sedai made – Yellow Ajah, who should be used to it! – over a little bit of blood and a few splinters… Renn, loitering nearby with some other newly-arrived novices, had paid close attention to the Yellow Sister's weaves… she only ever needed to glimpse a weave briefly to have it down perfectly… provided she noticed it in the first place!

Renn had begun to touch the Source at a much earlier age than most girls did, but had neglected to mention this when she came to the Tower, since she did want to get called a Wilder… in the classes, she had just sat there, alongside the other girls, slowly learning the simple techniques, some of which she had already mastered when she was thirteen years old! Renn did not like to stand-out from the crowd. She was shy.

A year later, after the spider incident, Renn had sneaked around to Rashiel's room following the strapping and Healed her bruises also, even though she was still not supposed to. It had come much easier to her by then. Renn was very good at Healing, though was seldom afforded the opportunity to use her skill in the Tower... the Yellows had wanted her but the Browns had wanted her more and told the Yellows where to get off! She had found this out by spying on old Morvrin…

Rashiel had then produced a bottle of wine from beneath a loose floorboard – Rashiel was not supposed to have wine in her room, she was so rebellious! – and they had sat on her bed, passing the bottle back and forth, and talked about boys for a while. Rashiel proved to know almost as much about boys as Shrina did! More than Renn, anyway, though she still knew more than Ellyth! She had seen a side to Rashiel that few others had seen that night, though the next day the terrible news came, the news about her father... but still, Rashiel was not like the other Reds, Renn had always considered. She had a heart! It was in there somewhere, anyway…

Even so... four saddlebags... four missing horses... four vanished girls... and a certain Red Ajah spider-squashing sneak, last seen leading them into the Ogier Grove... Renn's brow furrowed. Pole-lanterns... why would she need them..?

what in the Wheel is Liandrin up to?


"Give me your trust, said the love of my life,

For the wind is so cold and it cuts like a knife

And the world's turned to ice, torn with battle and strife;

So a man needs the warmth of a wife."

Jabal din Sudim Lionfish of Clan Takana was feeling pleased with himself. He did not have a favourite Inn as such, but usually gave The Woman of Tanchico his occasional custom since he preferred the place to the more staid taverns where most of the other Warders drank, usually run by retired Tower Guardsmen. He had first gone there on a whim, since when he still roamed the salt as a lad, sailing the Silk Route from mysterious Shara to Bandar Eban and all ports in-between, Tanchico had always been his favourite harbour. He liked Mada, as well as her sister, Saal, and the place usually had a good atmosphere. Not too quiet, yet not too rowdy. Except for the drunk Gleeman, of course. He had got to the chorus. The final chorus, hopefully!

"But trust is the feel of a blade in the back,

Trust is the feel of a noose losing slack,

Trust is the feel of a soul's last breath;

Trust is the feel of death."

The Tavern was not usually busy at this time of day, but now was even less so; already two of the regulars had risen and slipped out to find an alternate drinking-hole where they would not have their heart-strings cruelly wrenched! This left only the three jewel merchants, sitting there, looking glum. They had frowned a bit at the first verse, which had been about 'Aes Sedai' but now one of them, the older of the pair who wore the leather cords about their heads – Jabal thought they were probably Borderlanders, though Shorebound all looked much alike to him – was sobbing quietly into his ale. Only them left, as well as Jabal, who was still feeling pleased with himself, despite the ambience.

Shoulders slumped, the Gleeman returned to where Jabal sat drinking, setting his harp down carelessly on the table and lowering his tall, lanky frame onto a stool. He drained his wine-cup, poured some more from the jug and stared down into it, darkly.

"Do you know any good sea-shanties, Master Gleeman?" enquired Jabal, hopefully.

The Gleeman just looked at him, with cold blue eyes that were rather glassy. Evidently, he was not taking requests currently, but in stead performing his entire repertoire of sad, tragic ballads! Though that last one had also managed to be rather bitter, Jabal thought. Clearly, the Gleeman would not be singing The Mermaid and her Sisters anytime soon!

Jabal customarily stopped at The Woman of Tanchico on the way back from tending to his beloved Rivershark, with her fine white lateen looming up like the great fin of the white shark that he had once slain... but sharks did not normally frequent rivers Renn had explained, when she insisted he call his sailboat 'Riverpike' – though Jabal still named the noble craft 'Rivershark' in his heart. Besides, pikes did not have that same kind of scary-to-see-while-you're-swimming protuberance... though he had cut the fin from the beast that tried to eat him (for soup) and took some of its skin with which to make a fine jacket for himself and a peculiar shark-skin stole for Aunt Nyein, which she claimed to like but never wore. Perhaps she preferred to wear the skins of novices who had disturbed the peace of the Library? Or possibly, she thought it inappropriate to wear a stole of any kind, since, but for the Keeper, such a garment seemed to be the sole province of the Amyrlin Seat?

Jabal shuddered slightly, and took a further sip of wine. A disconcerting woman, Siuan Sanche! He had only been in the presence of the Mother once, and had not said anything beyond agreeing with her that he was, indeed, a fool – and then had kept his mouth firmly shut. For a Shorebound Tairen who thought tacking about in the Dragon's Fingers was salt-sailing, the Amyrlin certainly knew a great many fish-related insults and threats, more than him... and he knew a lot! All of which she had exercised in their brief interview, back when he got into trouble for killing those Banking-House guards...

After which, Jabal had been sent off with Atual Gaidin to go and sign his name in the Book of Gaidin. Well, at least they did not execute him... and it seemed he was to be a Warder now, too, just like his guide, who was also his guard.

"You'll like being Gaidin," Atual had assured him, "it's a fine life, for a fish!" This had been the most the taciturn fellow had said to him since, just prior to his interview with the Amyrlin, suggesting that if he was sentenced to death (which he probably would be) then he should request beheading and ask for his guard to do the deed, as Atual would make a clean job of it! Jabal had coldly told the long-haired Shorebound Warder that if the verdict went against him, he would ask for his sword back (it was currently tucked through Atual's belt) and cut off his own head! Atual had grinned and punched him bruisingly on the shoulder.

"Ah, if the Mother gives you clemency then you should definitely come and be our Brother, fish-boy – why, you're clearly every bit stupid enough to be a Warder of the Tower!"

An odd day, indeed, the day he came to Tar Valon and found himself exiled from the salt and bound to the Aes Sedai! Jabal still recalled it as if it had been yesterday, rather than three years ago...

The sound of breaking glass still ringing in his be-ringed ears, Raab hit the cobbles with his bare feet together, briskly tucking and rolling... and running! His cousin was a leap and two steps behind, but landed badly, spraining his ankle.

"I'll cut your ears off, out-Clan!" roared Jabal din Sudim Lionfish – but even as he resumed his own bare feet, several Banking-House guards had already moved to block his path toward the rapidly-diminishing-into-the-distance Raab. Behind them, two pretty young women were staring at him, mouths open. One of them had the palest hair he had ever seen, a fine bosom and big brown eyes... but the Renegade was getting away!

"Stop!" shouted Jabal loudly, inventively (and quite rightly) enlarging this to "stop, thief!" even louder. Two slim fellows in olive green coats mostly obscured by fluttering fancloth, hared-off in pursuit, leaving Jabal to face the guards. Two of whom then attempted to kill him. This proved to be a mistake on their part...

But that was all in the past, because right now, Jabal was feeling pleased with himself. Except on special occasions, his wife allowed him only one copper per day, therefore only one drink on the way home from the boat-shed, when two would have been more congenial... but so far, the drunk Gleeman had bought him three! Or was it four? What sort of self-respecting Gleeman ever bought a drink for a non-Gleeman in his life? It was supposed to be the other way around!

Renn had not entered this good fortune into her one-copper-a-day calculations. Jabal loved his wife dearly and was glad to be married, for a man needs discipline and authority and guidance in his life... and it was for this reason that the Creator made wives! But every husband relishes the sweet, schoolboy delight of very occasionally getting away with something. Like a Gleeman buying you drinks that you could not afford to buy yourself!

The Gleeman was weeping quietly again, his bushy white brows drawn down, shaking his head slowly from side to side. How much had the fellow imbibed? Though he had seen plenty of intoxicated Gleemen in his time, Jabal had never seen a Gleeman who was this drunk before... for all that he had good reason... Jabal (who was starting to feel a little maudlin himself) sighed sadly and leaned closer, patting a patch-cloaked shoulder in commiseration.

"There-there, good Gleeman… the first girl I loved was killed too, in a bad fight with the salt-cursed Storm-Children, and I thought that I would not ever find another like her… and I have not, to be fair, but I found a girl who was just as good, though in different ways… and now, she is my wife!" Jabal was feeling more verbose than usual, since the Gleeman was very drunk and no-one else was listening. He lowered his voice confidingly, even so – "my wife, she is Aes Sedai, you see… and believe me, that is the very best kind of wife to have… you should try it, my friend! Perhaps one day, when you are over your grief, you will take an Aes Sedai to wife also?"

"Unlikely," muttered Thom Merrilin, pushing his cup aside, lowering his crossed arms and head to the table and going back to sleep. Jabal gave him a last pat on the shoulder, then stood a little unsteadily, tucking his sword back through his sash, though it took him two attempts.

Jabal smiled at Mada on his way out and she smiled back. The serving woman knew him for a Warder though he was not wearing his fancloth and rarely did, he was not even sure where the odd, colour-shifting cloak was... perhaps somewhere in Renn's study? In which case, it might take some time to find it should he need to wear it abroad of the White Tower… which he never had, of course.

"Thank-you for at least trying to cheer up Thom…" said Mada, patting his arm, her eyes drifting admiringly over his smoothly-muscled chest... Shorebound women often seemed to do that! It was strange... almost as strange as the fuss they made about going equally bare-chested! But Jabal returned the smile of the pretty, brown-eyed woman, though not so warmly as he might have once, when he still roamed the salt, for he was a married man now. Even so... he had always thought that there was something about the women of Tanchico... Jabal shook his head. And hoped Renn wasn't paying too close an attention to the bond!

"Poor fellow," Jabal muttered, as he reached for the waistcoat he had left hanging by the door, "he told me all about it, without naming any names. I am glad he killed the men who killed his woman, it is only right. But tell me, why is he not in Illian with all of the other Gleemen? That might distract him from his woes... he is the only Gleeman I have seen in Tar Valon for many a week…"

Saal joined her sister by the door as Jabal shrugged into the emboidered silk waistcoat Renn had bought for him, both women's eyes lingering on his only slightly less bare chest, though directing the occasional concerned glance toward the Gleeman, who had begun to snore softly.

"We don't know why he's here either, Jabal," Saal sighed, "Thom got back from Cairhein last night and jumped straight into a vat of wine! Whatever it is, it's bad, to make him miss the Great Hunt..." Mada shook her head sadly.

Abruptly, the Gleeman alarmingly resumed consciousness, sitting straight upright, pounding a bony old fist on the table – and revealed that he had been following Jabal's whispered words more closely than had appeared to be the case.

"I will never marry a bloody Aes Sedai!" the Gleeman declared, loudly.

Gasps of shock from Mada and Saal. Jabal winced slightly. His marriage was supposed to be a secret – especially where his rather disconcerting mother-in-law was concerned! The Gleeman held up two fingers, though not in a rude way, since they were pressed together and not arranged in the insulting 'Manetheren salute.'

"But for Dena..." the Gleeman faltered, the impressive white moustaches below his nose trembling a little before he gathered himself, "except for her, I have loved but two women in my life, a goodwife and a Queen – both of whom attempted to kill me shortly before I could plight my troth! Marriage? Hah! I will never marry, but most especially, I shall not ever wed a White Tower witch!"

The Borderland merchants were shaking their heads slowly and pursing their lips with disapproval, whilst Mada and Saal – loyal natives of Tar Valon for all that their mother had been a Taraboner – were aghast!

"Hush, Thom!"

"For shame, Thom!"

Whilst the Gleeman fumbled for his harp and rose awkwardly to perform yet another melancholic ballad, Jabal decided, not unwisely, that it was time to leave and did so, treading carefully on the cobbles outside since Shorebound often left bits of broken glass and old nails lying around. He took his customary short-cut through the Ogier Grove on his way back to the Tower, skirting the spiralling stone arches that bordered the park, his bare feet soundless in the lush grass. But it had been four (perhaps five?) large cups of wine, and Jabal felt that nature's call was too insistent to wait until he got back to the Tower, so he prowled further into the grove to find a place of privacy, a suitable tree. As such, he could not help but notice the five riders, though they fortunately did not notice him, given what he was about.

Just as well also, for Jabal was scowling darkly at the Aes Sedai leading the small party. The Red from Tanchico – the one woman from that city whom he definitely did not favour, the sulky creature who always looked as though she had been sucking on a salted fish! He would probably not have cared for her in any case, but even so, his wife's enemy was his enemy! If only Red Ajah were permitted to bond Warders, Jabal could have challenged the unlucky fellow to a sparring-match and beaten him black-and-blue about the practice yard, in a show of loyalty!

Strange to see that one in the company of three richly-dressed girls and a stable-boy... in the company of anyone, for that matter... one of them appeared to be arguing with her... Accepted by the looks of it, she wore the Ring – and the boy was a girl! The pretty wench who went more sensibly dressed than most Shorebound females and saw strange visions and kept the little knives up her sleeves!

Jabal watched curiously as they disappeared into the depths of the grove and did not emerge. Vaguely, he wondered why their packhorse was loaded with what appeared to be pole-lanterns and lamp-oil. But Aes Sedai business was none of his... perhaps he should mention it to Renn, though? Jabal shrugged, buttoned his oilcloth britches, and continued on his way, whistling a shanty.


"Hello, Bookworm."

Rashiel had hoped Renn would be here, in the Library – where else? – but it would be just like her to choose this day of all days to go for a walk instead… Rashiel had seen her briefly before she set out with Galina and the others to hunt the self-titled Dragon of the North, and Renn had complained that her study was now too stuffed full of things for her to be able to force the door open anymore, so she had abandoned it altogether for the time being… Consequently, Renn should be down here, in the Library… Rashiel hoped that she would be, at least… she certainly could think of no-one else in the entire White Tower in whom she would willingly place her trust.

"Hello, Bookworm," Rashiel repeated, softly. No good. Renn still had that far-away look in her eyes. Perhaps if she slapped Renn on the top of her head quite hard? Or tipped a bucket of water over her? Would Renn come back from the distant Renn-place where she thought about things and respond to her greeting then? Rashiel raised her pale eyes to the ceiling of the Library, placed both hands on her curvaceous hips and sighed, loudly and gustily. The noise echoed...

"Sshh!" hissed Aiden Sedai, poking her angry face out from behind a stack.

"It was only a bloody sigh, Aiden Sedai!" Rashiel protested, loudly.

"And that is your second warning, Shorebound mockdragon-snatcher! Make me shush you again and I shall drag you out from the Library by your ear and feed you to the riverfishes!" This entire sentence was delivered in an angry Atha'an Miere hiss, except for the word 'Library' which Aiden Sedai somehow managed to fill with a note of deep reverence, in the midst of all that invective. With a last dark scowl, her tattooed hand resting on the ivory-hilted knife tucked into her sash, and without seeming to move her legs, the small, round Sea Folk Aes Sedai drifted soundlessly back behind the oaken stacks of ancient, leather and wood-bound tomes. No doubt lying in wait back there, in case Rashiel breathed too loudly! It was always the short ones who were so fiery!

Rashiel frowned. But only when Aiden Sedai was safely out of sight... bloody woman! Threatening a sister Aes Sedai! Honestly, what kind of a burning librarian was she? The Sea Folk were all mad, everyone in Ebou Dar knew it... no-doubt they ran-out of fresh water on their long voyages and drank from the sea!

Rashiel muttered something rather rude under her breath. Really! After what she had been through recently, she was in no mood. She turned back to Renn who was still staring up at her with the faraway look in her light brown eyes that was all-too familiar. Rashiel leant closer over the table, until her nose was almost touching Renn's, their eyes level.

"Hello, Bookworm!" Rashiel hissed.

Renn blinked, her eyes focusing a little. "Oh... hello, Trolloc…" she responded, absently.

Rashiel sighed again. But quietly, this time. And continued in a piercing whisper; "it is not Trolloc, it is 'Trollop' because I like to kiss boys and sit on men's laps! How long have we known each other, Renn? You always get that wrong! Honestly, Renn!"

"What do you want, Rashiel?" Renn sighed, "it is nice to see that you are back safe from your Dragon-catching, though wearing men's clothes for some reason, but I am trying to consider something… something to do with Liandrin…"

"Tattletale? Galina's little pet pussycat? Spider-squasher? What of the trull?"

While waiting for Renn to answer (a long wait, most probably!) Rashiel dug about in her belt-pouch… string, sharpening-stone, tinder, flint, poison, comb, lace handkerchief, rouge… where was it? Ah, there, down at the bottom. A little crumpled perhaps, stained with blood, even, but legible no-doubt… well, she was no Queen's Messenger! If the exalted Lady Ellythia wished a letter delivered to her friend at the Tower that was not screwed-up into a ball at the bottom of Rashiel's belt-pouch, then she might pay the exorbitant price demanded by a road-courier! Which she could doubtless afford to, by racking rent from her starving tenants and forcing young children to toil in her salt-mine!

Rashiel had been a maidservant before she was kidnapped and delivered to the Tower bound hand-and-foot by that miserable old Harfor woman, and did not much care for Noblewomen, from what she had seen of them. She had only ever met one whom she liked. Ysmet Quintara of House Mitsobar. You could not help but like a Noblewoman who consistently put scars on the faces of other Noblewomen! Who had an even worse temper than hers! Ysmet was different from the rest and, according to her last letter, currently sharing her bed with a Gleeman! So, of all the Noblewomen she had encountered, only one that she actually liked. Well, perhaps one-and-a-bit, counting Ellyth!

Renn sighed again. "What of the trull indeed? I suspect her of... well, I am not exactly sure..." Renn trailed-off as her attention drifted to the crumpled missive that had been thrust unceremoniously into her hands. She broke the wax seal, imprinted with the head of a snarling wildcat, and smoothed-out the paper, eyes moving over the neat lines of script, delicately scribed in an unmistakeably feminine hand.

"Suspect Liandrin of what? Being a scheming fishwife?"

"Scheming, certainly... just let me read this, and then we shall speak of it..."

"Somewhere else, where one is permitted to speak, would be nice!"

Renn did not seem to mind the state of the message, she had just been reading a letter in a much worse state by the looks of it… Rashiel glanced at it whilst Renn perused Ellyth's letter. Her Old Tongue was poor, but it appeared to be about a bottle of wine... that had been stolen from a King? It dated from around the end of the Trolloc Wars, was addressed to the Amyrlin Seat herself, a woman Rashiel had never heard of... well, there were only full records of all the Amyrlins dating from the War of a Hundred Years – and not one of them a Red! Again, Rashiel wondered if she truly considered herself to still be of that Ajah... well, time would tell. There was something about a 'dirty Dragonlover' whatever that was, but Rashiel could make out little other than this, so discarded the ancient letter idly.

"Be careful with that!" Renn snapped, clutching at the yellowed parchment, "it's very old!" She carefully replaced the letter in a brown leather folder crammed with similar scraps.

"What is all that stuff?" Rashiel enquired, though without much interest.

"The correspondence of an ancient Amyrlin who I've never even heard of, raised to the Seat from my own Ajah... I found it fallen down the back of a bookcase... but even though it's quite interesting, some of it, I can't even concentrate because I'm too busy wondering about bloody Liandrin!"

Renn's voice had risen to a near-shout of exasperation by the end of this sentence and Aiden Sedai reappeared from behind a shelf of atlases, scowling darkly and fingering the hilt of her blade. Without thinking, Rashiel lowered herself wearily onto a bench, then rose abruptly with a hiss of pain, wincing. Renn glanced at her with concern.

"Are you alright, Rashiel?"

"No! Can we please go somewhere else, before the Atha'an Miere Sisters feed us to their pet fish? You can explain about Liandrin whilst you Heal me!"

"Heal you?"

"Shh!"

"Sorry Aiden Sedai! Very well, Rashiel... and you can perhaps explain why you're dressed like that! You look like a-"

"Sshhh!"

"Alright, Aiden Sedai, we're going!"

The two young Aes Sedai emerged from the venerable edifice, reminiscent of great ocean waves, forever on the point of breaking, for all that the Library had stood intact upon this spot for three thousand years. The grounds of the White Tower were much busier than might normally have been the case, Rashiel considered... glancing to her left, she noticed two Sisters, their green-fringed shawls somewhat dusty, emerging from one of the doors set in the foundations, leading to the store-rooms that lay beneath the Library. They appeared to be arguing with each other. A trio of Warders exited another store-room further on, shaking their heads at the Sister's enquiries. Further Aes Sedai moved about the grounds with a questing aspect, their Gaidin following-on, and a detachment of Tower Guardsmen went trotting past.

"What is going on?" Rashiel enquired, "it is as though someone has kicked a bee-hive..."

"It's the girls, Rashiel. They've disappeared under mysterious circumstances!"

"What girls?"

"The four Andoran girls, of course – the two novices, one of them the Daughter-Heir no-less, as well as the bad-tempered Accepted and the other one, who sees queer visions!"

"Oh, the girl who dresses as a boy, she was pointed out to me before I boarded the rivership to Saldaea..." Rashiel glanced down at her own apparel and pulled a face. "Yes, well... what of them? They have run away, I would suppose?" Rashiel certainly had, a few times!

"That is what some seem to think..." Renn muttered cagily, then lowered her voice conspiratorially, "but I have my own ideas about that!"

"I am sure that you do. What is that thing in your ear, Renn?"

"An ear-ring, of course!"

"Will you tattoo your hands and wear oilskin trews whilst neglecting a blouse, also?" Rashiel smirked.

"You're a fine one to talk, in your coat and britches! You look silly! Though your hair isn't as much of a sight as usual, to be fair. Where did you get that rather dirty apparel from, anyway?"

"From him."

Rashiel nodded toward a spreading willow tree set in the Library grounds. Loitering in the shadows beneath its drooping branches stood a tall young man wearing a long, shabby coat – and so obviously not looking in their direction that he might have been shouting the fact that he was associated in some way with Rashiel! He had reddish hair and waxed, Murandian moustaches, was fingering the Heron-marked hilt of his sword a little nervously.

Renn peered at him curiously. "Hmm. A handsome, well set-up young fellow, except for that bristly thing on his face."

"Oh, I quite like it."

"But who is he?" Judging by the fond way Rashiel was eyeing the young man, Renn could certainly guess! Always some fellow or other on her arm – where did she find the time to hunt male-channellers?

Rashiel smiled. "Dagnon?" Her smile increased as her pale eyes moved to Renn's face, to gauge her reaction. "Why, he's my Warder, of course!" And Rashiel nodded with satisfaction, pleased with herself, because she had done something that was difficult to accomplish – she had rendered Renn speechless!

The Brown Ajah quarters were even more deserted than usual, which pleased Rashiel. She had come to see Renn, did not intend to stay in the Tower overlong – if her suspicions were correct then it was hardly a safe place for her to be – and was happy to avoid the notice of any other Aes Sedai. Particularly Red Ajah... though the clothes certainly helped.

Renn's quarters had more of a lived-in air to them than usual, and were starting to take on the same cluttered, untidy aspect as her abandoned study. Discarded stockings lay upon the floor, the doors of cupboards hung open, silk robes thrown carelessly over the backs of chairs...

Rashiel removed the baggy, long-skirted coat with relief, letting it fall to the floor, and sat down on Renn's bed with a grunt of pain, pulling off the ill-fitting boots. She wore no stockings underneath.

"Can I borrow some clothes from you, Renn? Nothing too garish, mind!"

"Hmph. I do not favour garish garb, I prefer to think of it as distinctive! But one of my gowns should fit you across the bust at least, though it might be a little long in the hem..."

"Then again, it might be a little tight across the bust and loose about the hips..."

"Or the other way around!"

Rashiel grinned – about to protest that her figure was slimmer-yet-bustier! – but instead she yelped, raised a bare foot, cursing and rubbing at her heel where there was now a small red mark. There appeared to be red stripes across her calf, also.

"Ahh, something just nipped me!"

Renn knelt, reached under the bed and retrieved her exotic Sharan tortoise from where he had been lurking, holding him up so that his short, scaly legs walked impotently upon air for a few steps. She stared into his small, myopic eyes.

"Bad tortoise," snapped Renn, "bad!"

"Well, at least it wasn't a bloody hairy great spider sinking its fangs into me," Rashiel observed, eyeing the tortoise curiously, "though what difference does one more hurt make on top of this?" And Rashiel slipped out of the rolled-up men's britches and overlarge shirt. She wore nothing beneath, not so much as a shift. Renn frowned. She could see more red stripes that looked like they had been left by thin whips, crossing Rashiel's forearms – but then, Rashiel stretched out on the bed, lying face down. From neck to heels she was criss-crossed with the same angry red weals.

Renn moved closer, standing over Rashiel, staring with horror and slowly mounting anger at what had been done to the poor girl. Swiftly, she Delved Rashiel, confirming her suspicions – the injuries had all been inflicted with the One Power. A stormy expression settled onto Renn's customarily pleasant face, her light brown eyes glittering with anger.

Rashiel turned her head, looking over her shoulder. "Are you going to give me Healing or aren't you?" she demanded.

"Yes I am, Rashiel… and right after that, we are both going to the Amyrlin!"

"Why? What does she have to do with it?"

"Galina has gone too far this time!"

"But it wasn't-" Rashiel got no further, arching and gasping as Renn's Healing weave settled into her. The marks faded, receded, disappeared. Rashiel slumped forward, burying her face in the pillow. Renn sat on the bed beside her and touched her shoulders, which were shaking a little… and abruptly, realised that Rashiel was crying! She had never seen her weep before, not even when she got the news about her father – it had been almost as though she had been expecting to hear it. But Rashiel, sobbing... whatever had happened to her, Renn knew it must have been terrible.

When she Delved Rashiel, Renn would have been able to tell if she had other injuries, those that might be left by a man who had forced himself on her… but she did not. She had been whipped though, with whips of Air. Hence the instant suspicion of Galina and her friends, who Renn had merely thought of as cruel, until Ellyth had pointed out that cruel people are cruel because that is the way they are, whereas sadistic people are cruel because they enjoy inflicting pain on others.

Renn ceased her musing, guiltily aware that she should currently be comforting a weeping friend, so stretched out on the bed beside Rashiel and put her arms around her. A time later, Rashiel rose on her elbows, shivered, and went to choose herself a shift and robe from Renn's wardrobe. She wiped the tears from her cheeks as she did so, whilst Renn sat up cross-legged and, less effectually, attempted to do the same for her rather damp shoulder.

"Who hurt you, Rashiel?" she enquired, calmly, though her eyes were still alight with unaccustomed anger. "It was Galina, wasn't it?"

"No! She is capable of doing this, did as much to another girl once, I heard, but no, it wasn't her..."

"I hope that one day Galina meets someone even nastier than she is and gets a taste of her own medicine! Then who..?"

Rashiel smoothed a pink silk shift down over her hips, frowning at how well it fit, then muttered; "Darkfriends, Renn, Friends of the Dark tortured me... they have been dealt with now, and I really do not wish to discuss this any further!"

"But..."

"The less you know the better, Renn, for your own good, though you said you were thinking of leaving the Tower… you, leave the White Tower? Yes, and Sea Folk women will learn modesty also! Don't you have any stockings without stripes?"

"Of course not! I like stripes."

"Well, I do not." Sighing, Rashiel tugged one of the offending silken garments further up her thigh, before continuing in more serious tones; "but if you ever do leave Tar Valon, Renn… my advice would be to stay away for as long as you can… I cannot speak of it, but there is something... bad here."

At which, Renn immediately embraced the Source and wove a privacy weave.

"You're referring to the Black Ajah, of course."

Rashiel looked at her suspiciously. Renn sighed.

"I'm not stupid, Trollop! By the way, I am perfectly well-aware that your novice-name is not 'Trolloc' I always just say that to annoy you! But as for the Black... two Amyrlins dying in one year and so much other evidence of foul play going on at the heart of so many things, False Dragons, the Aiel War… obviously the Black Ajah exists, there can be no other explanation! Shrina agrees with me, whereas Ellyth was convinced of their existence long before she even came to the Tower!"

"Well of course she bloody was, she's a Whitecloak! The only problem was, she seemed to think everyone might be a Darkfriend! You know, when we were novices I once caught her Ladyship in my room, searching for implicating things about me, though I do not know what they might have been. Souvenirs of a lovely visit to Shayol Ghul? A little chalk sketch of myself, standing next to Ishamael, smiling and waving? When I demanded to know what she was doing, instead of making up a silly falsehood like most would, Ellyth just said; 'I ask your pardon for searching your room, Rashiel, but I suspected that you might be a Friend of the Dark, yes? I have found no evidence of this, as yet, so perhaps you walk in the Light…' "

Renn giggled, then put a hand over her mouth, looking guilty. "Sounded just like her!" she mumbled.

Rashiel snorted. "After coming-out with that, Ellyth tried to swan past me like some cool Noblewoman in the Tarasin Palace, as though I were the one trespassing in her room! So I tripped her and I… well, I did one or two things to show her that you should not go expecting a woman of Ebou Dar to take being called a Darkfriend lightly! Though she fought back rather ferociously, for a Lady…"

"That was in her first year," Renn protested, "Ellyth mellowed after that…"

"Yes, she only thought that the Red Ajah were Darkfriends, and still does!"

"Well, she doesn't think you are…"

"That's generous of her, even though I'm barely a Red at all… why, because of the failure to find Darkfriend things in my room?"

"No…" Renn grinned. "Ellyth told me that the best way to spot the Darkfriend is to look for the nicest person in the room, the one who is smiling a lot… then look at their eyes… and if their eyes are not smiling, but remain cold and observant, as though one person is watching the room and everyone in it whilst another person is being pleasant and talking and so forth…"

"What does this have to do with me not being a Darkfriend?"

"Ellyth said that you were far too unmannerly and ill-tempered to possibly be one!" Renn shrugged. "She said that you sometimes smile with your eyes, though, when they do not look sad."

"Bloody Whitecloak! She is rude and bad tempered, not I…" Renn smiled. "She did do my hair though… for all that I did not ask her to…" Renn grinned. "Stop smirking at me, Bookworm, or you will be the one that needs Healing!" And they both smiled, recalling the last time Rashiel had said those particular words...

In addition to the battle with Ellyth, Rashiel had fought Renn once, when they were novices, and had not won on that occasion. Though they embraced and made-up afterwards, and Renn even Healed Rashiel's black eye and split lip. Rashiel had known many boys (many boys indeed!) growing up, and had observed how sometimes they would fight each other, and having got that out of the way, would seem to become friends afterwards… she had always thought it stupid – until she found herself doing it also!

Renn's mother had kept an Inn at Northharbour for a while, after her husband fell in the Aiel War, and had exercised an iron discipline over her rowdy clientele – a more loving discipline over her only daughter also, combined with some rather odd instructions. In addition to the usual motherly fixations with deportment and modest behaviour, she had taught Renn how to fight with her fists! This skill had come as something of a surprise to Rashiel, but only the second time Renn bobbed easily under her full-armed roundhouse slap and punched her squarely in the eye! She had not realised that the small, shy girl was quite so dangerous, or she might not have been so rude to her! Renn was a very quiet, peaceable young lady usually – but when angered, if using the Power was not a recourse, then she always had her left hook!

"Though Ellyth did show me a useful weave or two… as did I, not wishing to be beholden to her… well, I have brought you her letter, as I said I would, so now we are even. Ill-tempered? Bloody prudish Whitecloak! I know she is your friend, Renn, so I have always avoided speaking of Ellyth in front of you, but-"

A loud commotion from the hall outside – shouting, threats, the screech of steel on steel – the unmistakeable sounds of men being foolish! Renn rose from the bed whilst Rashiel pulled the door open. Dagnon and Jabal were occupying the hallway just outside the bedroom, blades bared, swords crossed!

"Dagnon, what in the Wheel are you doing?" Rashiel demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

"This barefoot fellow attempted to push me aside, Rashiel!"

Jabal scowled, turning to Renn. "The Shorebound buffoon with the unsightly thing sprouting from his lip tried to stop me from entering your quarters, Renn!"

"You did not identify yourself! Perhaps you misremembered to put on your stockings and shoes this morning, Sea Folk brigand?"

"Hah! I do not wear shoes or boots or saddles, for they-"

"Sandals, Jabal," Renn put-in, helpfully.

"Yes, thank-you, Renn Sedai, sandals – for they are all equally foolish – as is that waxen thing beneath your nose, Shorebound mud-licker!"

"How dare you, sir! Why-"

"Stop it, both of you!" Rashiel shouted.

"But he-"

"It was not I-"

"Hush this instant, or I'll paddle the pair of you bright red!"

Renn frowned, joining Rashiel in the doorway. "Now really, Rashiel, if anyone is going to give my Warder a good paddling, then it should be me!"

Jabal scowled further... but then noticed that Rashiel Sedai was, after all, clad only in a thin silk shift and stockings that looked rather like the sort he often obtained for his wife, and could not stop himself from engaging in a moment of quiet appreciation.

"Ahem!" The quiet appreciation ended abruptly, Jabal glanced apologetically at his disapproving wife. Dagnon noted his Aes Sedai's state of undress and glared at Jabal whilst motioning furiously for Rashiel to clothe herself. She just eyed him levelly, and crossed her arms. This engendered further quiet appreciation, naturally.

"Why don't you go and choose yourself out a robe, Rashiel," Renn suggested. "Not the one with the snakes on it, mind – that's my favourite!"

Rashiel sighed. "Well, if I must, I must... though I think that I should rather wrap myself in the curtains!" She blithely ignored Renn's scowl and noted the men's attention. "What are you two looking at?"

"Nothing, Rashiel."

"Not a thing, Rashiel Sedai."

"Huh!" Rashiel turned, sashaying over to the cupboard. "Very well, Renn, you attend to your Warder, I shall attend to mine."

Jabal blinked, eyed Dagnon.

"You have been bonded? You are Gaidin?"

"Yes, I am. What of it, fish-eater?"

Jabal grinned. "Why, in that case, you are the fish, not I... fresh-caught fish!" He frowned – as did Dagnon, though for different reasons – and turned to Rashiel, who was glancing down with distaste at the bright green, silken robe she had slipped into, embroidered with silver squirrels and acorns in some profusion.

"But are you not of the Red Ajah, Rashiel Sedai?"

"Mind your own flaming business!" Rashiel snapped, though her face coloured a little. She turned to Renn. "That reminds me... I can't exactly squire Dagnon about the Red quarters... you're from the City, Renn, I wondered if you might perhaps know of a cheap room for rent?"

Renn blinked. "My mother lets-out rooms, though I should not like to subject the poor fellow to that..."

"There is the room above my boathouse?" Jabal suggested.

Renn nodded thoughtfully. "Perfect! He can keep an eye on your precious sailing boat while we are away, Jabal..."

Jabal blinked. "We are going somewhere?"

"Indeed we are. I just need to work-out where..."


The small owl sat on the uppermost branch of a tall elm, large eyes fixed on the stone slab, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, that lay below. In her study above the Library (she had finally got the door open, with some help from Jabal) Renn occupied the sole chair not bearing a burden of books, eyes tightly closed. She raised her hand to her mouth, then lowered it. If she started yawning now, she would never make it through the night – the second night running, that she had done this. She hoped it was not a waste of time, and felt vaguely foolish... not to mention slightly concerned that old Verin might object to the younger Brown Ajah Sister borrowing her owl without permission. But Verin Sedai had not returned with the others from Shienar and even her Warder – last seen riding west as fast as he could spur his horse – had not known where she had disappeared off to this time. Really, Verin Mathwin did more travelling than the rest of the Brown Ajah put-together! Renn had always felt vaguely troubled by this, the senior Aes Sedai putting her rather sedentary life to shame... well, she needn't feel troubled for too much longer!

Renn's musing was interrupted, as abruptly a silver line extended down the centre of the stone slab, the owl's sharp, night-attuned eyes picking out the way the stone leaves seemed to move in a nonexistent breeze... and the Waygate opened. After a moment, Liandrin emerged, pulling her dark mare behind her by the bridle, a pack horse on a lead-rein following-on. Renn watched closely, through the owl's eyes, as the Red Ajah Sister – alone and bereft of those she had led into that dangerous place – mounted her steed and trotted away toward the long fence that surrounded the Ogier artefact and thence, presumably, to the Tower Stables.

Renn scowled, though the owl did not. So... she was right! Liandrin and the girls had left Tar Valon through the old Waygate that most had forgotten was here – but that was forbidden, wasn't it? – which was why no-one had seen them depart via one of the more usual routes. But where had they gone? And why? So that was what Liandrin was up to! Whatever it was. But even so... it still did not make sense. And where were the girls? Lost in the Ways? Or somewhere else? Liandrin's motives for her actions remained obscure... should she confront her? Denounce her? No, not without proof... the Hall and Amyrlin would hardly allow an owl to bear witness! But at least Renn now felt gifted with motivation of her own, almost like that precious 'Cause' Ellyth was always talking about, or even Shrina's ridiculous Horn-Hunting!

Renn knew exactly what she was going to do. She would return the missing girls to the Tower and bring Liandrin down! She finally had a good enough reason to leave Tar Valon and see some of the World – and when she got back with the girls, would be acclaimed as a Heroine into the bargain! Perhaps when Liandrin was publicly castigated for the crime of novice-napping or whatever it was she was up to, Renn would get to ply the birch? It would be Liandrin's own fault if she did. She shouldn't have squashed Renn Faltrey's spider and expected to get away with it!

As the owl beat its way back to the open window of Verin's study on soundless wings, Renn's eyes opened and her good-humoured features firmed in determination. But first... clearly, she was going to need to investigate a bit further.


The Head Stableman's eyes narrowed with suspicion, his lips drawing back from largely toothless gums with disapproval – there was someone sneaking around in the back of the stables – in the back of his bloody stables, no less! Old Quilly reached for his sharpest pitchfork and approached with at least some of the stealth of a Warder, since one of the friendlier Gaidin had shown him how to put his feet down soundlessly when he was just a young stable-lad… and then ceased his stalking progress and stood still, feeling vaguely disappointed. It was only one of the Sisters, over by the sleeping horses. At this time of night? And he had been rather hoping that fat Andoran rogue had come back for more punishment! He had not enjoyed his hour on the Chair of Remorse, that one!

The Aes Sedai seemed to have found whatever she was looking for anyway, there she went, off on her mysterious White Tower business… odd. There was a discarded curry-comb lying on the straw by the big, dark mare, which was tossing its head a little before resuming its slumbers alongside the other sleeping horses. Why would she be brushing the horse? Did she wish to apply for service in the stables? They could use the extra help, since a couple of the lads had been lured away by the glamour of being a Tower Guardsman instead of a stable-boy... young fools! There was no better life than that of the stables! A shame that Min girl had run-off, she was a good enough hand with the horses, he had been thinking of offering her a job...

But Old Quilly had lived and laboured in the Tower long enough to know that whatever the Aes Sedai were up to, it was none of his concern. He was just a hard-working stableman, let the Sisters sneak around at night brushing each other's horses all they wanted, it was not his place to object. The Head Stableman stumped back to replace the pitchfork on the rack. Especially since it was just that showy mare that Lady Fishguts liked to trot about on, with her nose stuck up in the air...

Of course, Liandrin Sedai had absolutely no idea that Old Quilly's private name for her was 'Lady Fishguts…' and he had no intention of letting her find out – there were already plenty of geldings in the stable and he had no great desire to become one of them!


Nesune Bihara, Aes Sedai, dipped the thin nib into the pot, carefully tapped off the excess ink, then finished sketching the rest of the petal onto the clean white page in front of her. She held the dried flower up to the light, comparing it critically with the drawing. Yes, that looked about right… a shadow fell across her and she frowned, looking up. It was that talkative Accepted who she had stood in the corner for chattering a few times, but an attentive girl when something held her interest, and with a good brain in her head, when she could be troubled to apply herself… though why, instead of the white, banded dress, was she wearing that odd, yellow silk gown with red butterflies embroidered all over it? She looked a little like an Illuminator… an Accepted of the White Tower dressed like that? Was it a Feastday again already? No, she was sure that it was not… commensurately, this girl – Renn Faltrey, that was it – could not be Accepted… oh yes, she remembered now, young Renn was raised to her own Ajah a few years ago, wasn't she? Dear me, the new Sisters seemed to be getting younger and younger!

"Yes, Renn?" Nesune Bihara enquired, eventually and a little impatiently.

"Sorry Nesune Sedai," said Renn, "I just wondered if I could show you something?"

Whilst pulling out her handkerchief, Renn smiled. She had come to the Botany Repository with steps that dragged, knowing a whole morning (perhaps a whole day) of leafing through volumes stuffed full of cramped writing and carefully rendered sketches, stretched ahead of her… If they had been history books, then that would have been different, of course… but Renn had little interest in the world of inedible plants beyond which of them she thought looked nice, or smelled sweet… but then, she had seen Nesune Bihara! What luck! You didn't need the books when you had old Nesune around!

Nesune Bihara sighed, set aside her pen, and gazed at the small, spiky cockleburs that Renn had wrapped-up in her handkerchief... there seemed to be some dark strands of what looked like horse-hair, also.

"Could you please tell me what these are, Nesune Sedai?"

Nesune examined the spiked seed pods cursorily and without much interest.

"A fairly dull form of wild-maize, dor'allar'zante in the Old Tongue… why, what did you think they were, girl? Ostrich eggs?"

Renn felt a bit crest-fallen. "Oh… I didn't recognise them as being anything that grew in the vicinity of Tar Valon… I suppose that they are fairly wide-spread?"

"Of course not!" responded Nesune, sounding a little shocked by Renn's crashing ignorance, as though every Sister of the Brown Ajah besides her should be fully acquainted with the many thousands of different kinds of seed-bearing grasses! "This variety is quite rare, and is found only on Toman Head, naturally!"

Nesune retrieved her pen, snagged a fresh sheet of paper from the pile and took another carefully-labelled dried flower from her box full of carefully-labelled dried flowers. She spoke without looking at Renn.

"Now, I need to get on, if you don't mind!"

Renn nodded, pleased. A whole morning saved, she could go and look for Conaia Sedai's journal right away, instead of having to trawl through all of these dull plant sketches... she even felt less tired now, despite the sleepless night spent watching through an owl's eyes and sneaking around in the stables!

"Thank you for your assistance, Nesune Sedai."

Renn even curtsied, with surprising grace, before striding away. She wore the Shawl too, and did not really have to append 'Sedai' to Nesune's name anymore than she had to curtsy, but it didn't hurt to be polite. Besides, they might both be Aes Sedai, fellow Sisters of the Brown Ajah, but Nesune Bihara had been happily (and a little obsessively) cataloguing plant and animal life since before Renn's grandmother was even born! So there it was…


After unlocking the gate in the fence with a thin flow of Air, since Liandrin had not yet troubled to return the key to the Guard's Barracks, Renn rechecked the journal, reached out and pulled the trefoil leaf from the Waygate, replacing it a little higher up. For a moment, nothing seemed to be happening... but then, the Waygate came to life. Just as the journal said it would! Behind her, Jabal muttered softly under his breath as the intricate stone leaves rustled, as the twin doors opened. A dull silver skein gleamed faintly before them, reflecting their faces darkly. Whatever it was, walking through it proved to be an unpleasant sensation.

Renn went as far as the first Guiding, Jabal pacing her nervously, blade out, though these 'Ways' of the Ogier seemed empty and deserted. Not to mention decayed. In his other hand, the Sea Folk Warder held a burning torch aloft, though the flickering light seeming to penetrate the darkness on all sides only so far, before being swallowed-up by the void.

Renn examined the delicate silver script on the ancient stone, checked the journal again, and nodded, satisfied. This was definitely going to work. Jabal made a grumbling sound, clearly wishing to go back to the Gate, returning thence to the Ogier Grove, which had the virtue of being neither disquieting nor disturbing. Either that or he was complaining about his feet again... he was currently experimenting with boots and stockings – perhaps the remarks of Rashiel's new Warder had stung him? Renn smiled at her husband, brightly. Her voice echoed back to her, sounding hollow for all that they seemed to be surrounded by an infinity of nothingness.

"Well, it looks like young Min was right – I am going on a journey, after all!"


Jabal regarded the damage glumly. If only that accursed barge had got out of his way in time! The bow of his beloved Rivershark was slightly stove-in on the port side, the fine paintwork marred. It would require at least three decent strakes of seasoned oak to put it aright, and that thieving land-swine at the yard would doubtless attempt to swindle him again! As if it were even possible for a Shorebound to do so, with a trained apprentice cargo-master of the Atha'an Miere! But much as he enjoyed it, Jabal did not have time to devote a whole afternoon (and perhaps some of the evening also) to the necessary Bargaining this would involve. Besides, he had little ready coin and had not dared tell his wife about the accident yet, so could hardly ask her for the money!

"I can put that right for you," offered Dagnon. Despite being a Lord and the last scion of an ancient and noble line, he still came from what had become an extremely impoverished House, and was not unaccustomed to manual labour. "I used to help the men in the sawmill from time to time, and am no stranger to carpentry."

Jabal eyed him doubtfully. The fellow was no Amayar... he wished he could get one of them to do the work – though they never left the isles – since it seemed he would be otherwise engaged. The fellow seemed genuine in his offer, however.

"It seems only fair, now, as you are letting me stay in your boathouse. Why, the Inn's here are ridiculous expensive, even compared with Illian!" Dagnon sighed, at mention of the place where he had taken his Hunter's Oath.

The Southharbour home of Jabal's Rivershark – rented from a vile thief for a swingeing seven silver marks each month (though Jabal had spent much of a day Bargaining his prospective Landlord down from twelve) – was more of a shed than a house, but the room above was cosy enough when the wind was not in the east, the bed comfortable. Jabal had suspicions about the use that bed might be put to – this young Murandian Lord could imagine this to be a mere lodging, but Rashiel Sedai no-doubt had it in mind as some kind of a lover's bower! Still, as long as there was someone here to keep a close eye on his beautiful craft, he did not care.

Dagnon pointed at the beautiful craft. "Have you thought of fitting another rowlock at the stern, there, over the rudder – in that wise, with your sails reefed, you can use a long sweep to propel this fine vessel?"

Jabal blinked, and looked re-appraisingly on the young Lord, who was also now one of his Swordbrothers, apparently… the fellow did not seem as ignorant of the water as most Shorebound. He had said something about being accustomed to river-boats at least... Jabal was not sure why, but felt himself warming to him.

"What was your name again, Shorebound Lord?"

"Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois. And yours, sir?"

"Jabal din Sudim of the Takana… though I stand Warder to Renn Sedai, now."

"And your salt-name? If one not of your illustrious Clan might enquire?"

Jabal blinked. This was no ordinary Murandian it seemed… the fellow had manners! Well, apart from the insulting remarks about his lack of shoes and stockings, but he supposed he had been rude about the moustache first... hadn't he? The fellow seemed skilled with a blade also, perhaps there would be time to spar before they went through that accursed Waygate thing... but Renn had told him all about the people of Murandy, they sounded as bad as the argumentative and bloody-minded folk of Clan Catelar! This one seemed to differ from that description. Jabal suspected that the young Lord was something of a romantic, and probably still believed in concepts such as 'decency' and 'honour.' Poor fool!

"Lionfish, though you may call me Jabal Gaidin, since we are now in the same boat on that score, it would seem." Jabal could not keep the curiosity out of his voice.

"And the same boathouse! Lionfish? Did you kill one?"

"No, I have tried a few times but they are too big. I killed a shark though, a great 'white shark' as we call them... but there is an annoying Windfinder of Clan Somarin who has already taken that salt-name, so I had to choose another. She has never killed a white shark with only a knife, but took the name anyway! Women! I shall have to kill a lionfish someday, though... somehow..." Jabal blinked. "It is a long story, in any case..."

"The best ones always are. A good name nonetheless, I wish I might call myself 'Lion' at least! The Atha'an Miere salt-names have always fascinated me, ever since I read Guisep Mathenos's My Adventures with the Sea Folk as a boy..."

Jabal winced. "That is not a very good book," he muttered.

Dagnon did not hear. "So I suppose that I am now Dagnon Gaidin…" he mused... "it sounds strange, without the honorific... would they let me name myself 'Dagnon do Gaidin' do you think?"

"When I asked if I could be 'Jabal din Gaidin' they said 'no.' And laughed at me. The Shorebound often find what I say humorous, for reasons I cannot fathom."

"Well enough. Dagnon Gaidin it is."

There was a pause, in which Jabal's dark, nearly black eyes lingered curiously on his Swordbrother, though he was too polite to actually ask, of course.

Dagnon noted this, and grinned. "You are wondering what a Red Sister is doing bonding a Warder, I would suppose?"

Jabal nodded emphatically. Then pressed a heavy iron key into Dagnon's hand. "The boathouse is yours, the rent paid until the end of the year and I think-" (Jabal spared a fond-if-concerned glance for his beloved Rivershark) "-I hope my beauty will be safe in your hands whilst I attend my other beauty and defend her on her travels… but I must know why Rashiel Sedai did it! Renn says that she has always been impulsive – but I do not think a Sister of the Red Ajah has ever done that before!"

"I would be glad to tell you of our meeting and the style in which Rashiel, that is to say, Rashiel Sedai, bonded me... but she has sworn me to secrecy regarding it." Dagnon Gaidin spread his hands apologetically.

"Gaidin hold no secrets from each other," Jabal stated, portentously. "For example, since you are now my Swordbrother, I shall tell you that I am married to my Aes Sedai!" Jabal smiled. He had only told Atual and the Twins this. For all that they had not seemed as shocked as he hoped they would be...

This Lord Dagnon certainly did not either! "Yes, I know."

"You... know?" Jabal frowned.

"Rashiel told me." Jabal's frown increased. "It is common knowledge amongst Renn Sedai's acquaintances, apparently, or they at least suspect? Except for someone called 'Ellythia'... apparently she has no idea! But in any case, Rashiel mentioned that you were wed to Renn Sedai and that this fine sailboat was your wedding gift to your bride."

Jabal felt his ire ease at the compliment, but was still confused. Renn must have told Rashiel… who else had she told? She wasn't supposed to tell people! Of course, it was different with him, as Atual Gaidin had always taught him that a Warder held no secrets from his Brothers. But women were such terrible gossips!

"You are a lucky fellow, she seems a fine wife. If one should find oneself no longer seeking after the Horn of Valere..." Dagnon sighed, then brightened, "but, quest unfulfilled, bonded to a Sister of the White Tower instead... under such circumstances, it is well to at least be in love with your Aes Sedai!" Dagnon sighed again, gustily. "As I am. And I hope that Rashiel shall change her mind and accept my suit in time, for all that she becomes fearsome angry with me when I merely mention marriage, even though I have raised the subject but thrice this morning..."

"Whilst we await our Aes Sedai, you shall tell me the manner of your meeting Rashiel Sedai (including why you had to lend her some of your clothes) and I shall tell you of how I came to know Renn Sedai. To pass the time more convivially, I believe that there is a... yes, in here..."

Jabal had vaulted nimbly up into the boat and now reached into the hidden locker beneath the wheel, which he knew Renn did not know about, taking out the wine bottle he had wished to smash against the bow when he re-launched his beautiful Rivershark (though he would take a sip for himself and pour some into the water also, in remembrance of the dead.) He held it up and Dagnon noted the Red Bull on the yellowed, parchment label, and smiled appreciatively, tugging at the waxed points of his moustache.

"You have wine from Murandy! Not one of the great vintages by the looks of it, but certainly the first proper wine I have seen in some time… these foreigners, that is to say, these other Shorebound, who do not have the good fortune to hail from the vine-lands of the River Storn... why, they do not seem to understand what wine even is!"


Renn finished her packing, ensuring that Conaia Sedai's journal was tucked into the top of her belt-pouch where she could refer to it easily, hefted the heavy scrip on its shoulder-strap and left her study for the last time in quite a while, she should imagine, closing the door briskly on the soft rustle of a collapsing pile of papyrus. Oh well, she would clear it up when she got back – it was not as though she could read any of it, since the oddly-illuminated pages had come by way of the Aiel Waste from Shara, a strange, curvilinear script that seemed to travel the wrong way across the page, indecipherable by all. Except Jain Charin! Well, according to him, at least...

After latching the door and setting a small warding that would let her know if anyone trespassed whilst she was away, Renn turned, and abruptly came face-to-face with Danelle. Large, blue eyes that seemed not-at-all vague held hers for a moment.

"Oh... hello, Danelle," Renn responded, awkwardly. For a moment, she considered asking the younger Aes Sedai of her Ajah if she wouldn't mind looking after her tortoise, as she had to go away on a long journey... but those eyes changed her mind. The old Danelle would have been only too happy to, but now... the girl would be as like as not to kill and dissect the poor creature!

Renn released the Source, though reluctant to. Danelle did not respond to her greeting beyond a thin smile that contained little warmth and even a hint of menace, before gliding past and down the hallway, silent as the grave. Renn frowned after her. Danelle had certainly changed! She even looked at people now, when before her eyes had always seemed to be on the floor, when her nose was not buried in a book... Before. Before young Kariss perished.

They had found Danelle's Warder in the Ogier Grove, where Gaidin would go to work the forms sometimes, if the practice-yard was too busy. He often went there even when it was not, as he was a rather shy specimen, lanky and awkward, except with a blade in his hands. He and Danelle had seemed to get on well enough though, when she noticed his existence, he had always been carrying stacks of books about for her... the accident was such a shame. Kariss Gaidin had been found beneath a large, fallen tree-branch, his back broken, and Danelle had taken to her bed in grief for several weeks. When she finally emerged from her quarters, a profound change seemed to have come over the young Brown.

Renn had never heard that the shock of a Warder's death, the severing of the bond, might engender a change in personality to this extent – normally, an Aes Sedai would experience extreme sorrow and even morbidity, perhaps be left with a more melancholic temperament than before – but Danelle seemed to have almost become a completely different person! And not a very nice person, either...

As if overhearing Renn's thoughts, Danelle paused at the end of the hallway, turned back, and smiled again. Renn shivered a little as the girl drifted from sight. There was something about her eyes – they seemed too knowledgeable, like the eyes of a much older Aes Sedai, a tutor or a scholar of some kind, a mature woman who had seen terrible things. Things that she had done herself, even! But that was ridiculous... it was just her imagination, influenced by the atmosphere of the White Tower these days... Rashiel was right about that, at least. Renn was glad to be leaving, if only for a while. The Tower seemed to be becoming a darker and more dangerous place... or perhaps it was just that the World was?


Jabal eyed the beast distrustfully. It looked back at him with its big, long-lashed eyes, its large head shaped a little like that of the sea-horse, after which it had no-doubt been named. Though it was a land-horse. A Shorebound beast, with big teeth and an uncertain disposition. Jabal leaned forward and the creature's ears moved back a little. Was that a good sign? They were confusing, these horse-beasts! He held up the apple and it snorted.

"I am going to give you this apple now, horse… but if you bite me, I guarantee it will be the last apple that you ever eat… and my angry face will be your last sight, also!"

"Stop taunting the poor thing and just give it the bloody apple!" Renn snapped, exasperated. Jabal eyed her as uncertainly as he eyed the horse. The land-horse. "It's not going to bite you, I asked Old Quilly for the quietest one he had!"

"Lion there is a good, steady animal…" said the Groom, reassuringly.

"Did you say 'Lion', Horse-master?" Jabal interrupted.

"Yes, Sword-master… that being the horse's name…"

Jabal raised his eyebrows… and regarded the animal more favourably. Lion. Like his Salt-name, though without the 'fish.'

"Since she is now my new horse..." Jabal began to say.

Renn eyed her Warder-husband, exasperated. "She is a he. And how can it be your new horse when you didn't have an old horse, unless you count that creature I hired for you when we rode out to Dorlan to visit Aunt Megg that time, the one you fell off when it ran away and I had to pay that cheating thief at the stables twenty silvers when the beast was barely worth eight, and it probably just found its own way back there anyway…"

Renn ran out of breath. And noticed that the Groom was grinning at her. Renn frowned, and the spotty youth's face became solemn. He went to fetch her horse, and the packhorse with its load of lanterns and oil as well. It was the same beast of burden Liandrin had used, so at least one of their party would be familiar with the journey they were about to make!

Jabal was scowling at the story that he had asked his Aes Sedai-wife to not repeat in front of other Shorebound, and especially not in front of any Atha'an Miere. But he turned back to the horse, and gave it the apple, gingerly trying to keep his fingers away from the eager, chomping teeth.

"A new ship needs a new name," Jabal declared, "and though you are clearly no ship, beast… your Salt-name is now… Lionhorse!"

The returning Groom made a snorting sound, passed Renn the bridle of her own, sturdy brown gelding and swiftly found reason to be at the other end of the stables. Renn smiled fondly. She loved the way Jabal could be amusing without even knowing he was being amusing, simply by being who he was… a fish out of water! She slipped her arm through his and brushed her cheek against his face a moment, barely having to go up on tiptoes, for though of more than average height for a Sea Folk man, her husband was not land-tall by all but Cairheinin standards… well, she did not care, she considered him a nice, compact package – better than being married to some great, hulking fellow who you needed a step-ladder to kiss!

Jabal was still staring mistrustfully at the horse, which clearly wished another of the apples it could smell in his pocket. Renn dug into her scrip and passed her husband his folded fancloth cloak, which she had found beneath the bed. He looked at the garment dubiously, before sweeping it over his shoulders.

"Cabalaeor sounds nicer," Renn commented. Though lae'or (pronounced in the correct way and not converted into the Vulgar) seemed to be just one of the many words that stood for 'lion' in the Old Tongue, and might even be a much older word from one of the ancient, lost root-languages, that were occasionally alluded to in the very old texts. She had always preferred this particular term to the others, though technically it meant that Jabal's steed could be described as 'horse so golden as the King-lion's mane…' Well, its coat did have a yellowish sheen to it... but the Old Tongue was so bloody complicated – and that was just the small part of it that remained, the rest having been lost! What Renn would not give to have someone from the Age of Legends to talk to, just for an hour! She even knew what her first twenty questions would be!

"Cabalaeor it is, my delicate sea-jelly..." Jabal agreed, absently.

Renn smiled. She wasn't entirely sure what a sea-jelly was, but Jabal had assured her that they were very beautiful, graceful creatures. Except on land. A bit like him! Renn sighed. Oh well, there was no use putting it off any longer...

"Come, Jabal. The Ways await..."


Rashiel was by the Waygate, her incongruous, secret Warder at her side, there to see them off. Whilst the Gaidin clasped hands – they seemed to be getting on better with each other now – she gave Renn a warm hug. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, of course... apart from rescuing the girls from Toman Head and rubbing tattletale Liandrin's face in the muck... well, it's a valuable opportunity to continue the work of Conaia Sedai."

"Who is she?"

"A Sister of my Ajah who conducted research on the Ways some seven-hundred years ago..." Renn produced an ancient, battered calfskin notebook from her belt pouch, waving it authoritatively. "This is her journal... there is even a rudimentary map... and guess who was looking at this and making notes last week, according to Zemaille Sedai... bloody Liandrin!"

Rashiel looked rather doubtful. "It is a good job she didn't borrow it."

"It's a reference text, you aren't allowed to take it out of the library."

"Then what are you doing with it?"

"I waited until Zemaille wasn't looking and then stuck it up my sleeve, of course! Um... Rashiel, before I go, I've got a sort of gift for you..."

"Is it in that box you are holding, Renn?"

"Erm... yes. Here!"

"What is it? There is something alive in here, I can feel it moving around."

Renn's voice became flustered, for all that she knew Rashiel liked animals. "Aisling Noon would probably take care of him but she is away on Green Ajah business and I don't trust Danelle and Nyein Sedai refused (and threatened to make soup out of him if she saw him chewing another book) and I just can't find anyone else to look after my-"

"Ahh! It is the strange crabby lizard that pinched me!"

"He's a tortoise... they come from Shara..."

Rashiel shook her head stubbornly. "Tortoise? I do not care for the name, I shall call him the mysterious Sharan crab-lizard instead!"

"Land-turtle," Jabal muttered, under his breath.

"That might take you a long time to say – he answers to the name 'Pelateos' by the way. Well, I think he does... he likes chopped carrot and cucumber and lettuce and cabbage – though don't give him too much of that! And make sure he doesn't sleep all of the time... he needs exercise... and he likes to be talked to... and..."

"Pelatos?"

"Pelateos. Well, I had to call him something, and Willim of Maneches was already taken." Renn gave her sturdy brown gelding an affectionate pat.

Jabal snorted. And Renn thought that he had given his horse a stupid name?

"And he does look like he is pondering, doesn't he?" Renn chuckled.

"I don't know. He had better not bite me again... or peck, or whatever it was he did... oh alright, Renn, I'll look after your silly pet while you're away, but I'm not keeping him forever! If you're not back before the year is out, then I shall take him off looking for you!"

"Fair enough."

"So who is this Pelateos after whom you have named your crablizard?"

"You've never heard of Pelateos, author of the seminal Ponderings?" There was a note of disbelief in Renn's voice.

"Of course I bloody haven't! I'm a Trollop, remember? Not a Bookworm!"

"Honestly, Rashiel... you really should have chosen Green!"


"Conaia Sedai mentioned a darkness upon the Ways, of which the Ogier would not speak, but didn't say anything about them being this dark..." Renn's voice broke the silence, which hung heavy about them, but for the horse's hooves crunching on the pitted surface of the seemingly endless bridge. They were the first words she had spoken for some time.

Jabal raised the pole-lantern higher, though this did little to banish the gloom. The Warder Bond gave him the ability to remain active long after most men would have been asleep on their feet, whilst Renn was accustomed to forcing herself to stay awake for days at a time when her studies were at a particular level of intensity... but even so, after what felt like several days of travel through these strange and forbidding Ways, they were both beginning to feel the fatigue encroach upon them. Even the horses were stepping slower, for all that Renn had channelled strength back into their muscles during a brief halt on what the journal referred to as an 'Island.'

Time seemed to move differently here, seeming to drag at them, as though they were partially removed from the endless turning of the Great Wheel – perhaps they were? Though according to Conaia Sedai's research, the Wheel turned faster in the Ways. It might have only been a day, but felt as though they had been travelling for a week.

"Should we stop to sleep, Mistress?" Jabal enquired, on seeing Renn yawn extravagantly a while after they had left yet another Island complete with its corroded Guiding, had walked their horses further over the ancient, crumbling ramps and bridges. Renn lowered her hand from her mouth – her mother had always insisted on this, a lady should not yawn at all, but if she must, should certainly not expose her tonsils to the rest of the world! – and frowned.

Of late, her husband who was also her Warder (she always thought of it in that order) had begun to call her 'Mistress' without appending the words 'of my Heart' to the end of this, even though he knew she liked to be called that... this plain 'Mistress' was a new development. There were two possibilities – perhaps Jabal was being more careful about revealing that they were more than just Aes Sedai and Gaidin (there had been slip-ups in the past, with Myrelle, for example) since their marriage was supposed to be a secret. But at the moment, they were quite alone – perhaps in the loneliest place it was possible to be in. Did he think the horses would tell?

Either that or this 'Mistressing' was something Jabal had picked up from Atual Gaidin, who she knew her husband looked up to. He had been Jabal's main instructor in Shorebound ways, of which tutelage Renn had always approved, since every woman knew that Far Madding produced by far the best husband material! Not that she could see Atual ever getting married, his spouse appeared to be his sword, as was often the case with the older, grimmer Warders...

"Should we rest, Mistress?" Jabal repeated, in that voice he used when he thought she had not heard him the first time – calling her 'just-Mistress' again!

"I heard you the first time, Master!" Renn snapped.

Jabal blinked. Why had his wife just called him 'Master' without appending the customary 'of my Soul?' Was she upset about something? It was difficult, to be a husband and try to figure out why your wife behaved the way she did sometimes...

"There will be another of those island things up ahead," he suggested, "do you wish to sleep awhile, wife?"

Renn shook her head curtly, but felt her mood improve slightly. At least Jabal had called her 'wife' which, while a little on the brusque side, was at least an improvement on 'Mistress.' But still not so good as 'Mistress of my Heart' or 'Finder of the Winds of Passion,' that one wasn't too bad either... though why Jabal would compare her to a Sea Folk Windfinder which she believed to be the title of a woman who was an expert navigator of some kind, was beyond her. What did she have in common with a Windfinder of the Atha'an Miere? Whenever she asked Jabal about Windfinders, he became oddly reticent, even though his sister – the one who was not a Sailmistress – held this title. In fact, he clammed right up. Just like a clam!

"Mistress, I think I see-"

Again with the Mistressing!

"Oh shut-up and chew this, fish-face!" Renn snapped.

Jabal blinked. He was not remotely fish-faced! His beloved wife and Aes Sedai (he always thought of it in this order) must be angry indeed, to name him fish-face! She did it but rarely... he thought that it must be a play on his salt-name, which included the word 'fish'... his feelings were unhurt, since he knew that he did not have a face like that of a fish – and it did not make sense anyway, there were many kinds of fish in the seas, many indeed, and they all had different faces! As did those lesser fishes of the rivers, a great disparity in their features, also! Did shark and pike have the same face? No! They did not.

Besides, Renn nearly always apologised later, even though Jabal explained patiently that she did not need to, every time... it was nowhere near as bad as some of the things his mother had called his father when she was angry with him about something, which she often was, though when in a better mood, he had often been 'Master of my Cargo' in a less unaffectionate tone of voice...

"I should... chew this?" Jabal wondered, looking down at the gnarled, brown, twisted thing that had been thrust into his hand. It looked like some kind of a Shorebound plant root, like the 'ginger' they had brought back from Shara that time, though it was clearly an acquired taste and had not sold as well as the tomatoes. It looked extremely unappetising, in fact.

Renn took another piece of root out of the pouch she had produced the first from and popped it into her mouth, chewing methodically. Jabal shrugged, and did likewise. The root proved to be extremely bitter and very difficult to eat!

"You won't like the taste," Renn told her husband, having carefully waited until it was in his mouth before telling him... Jabal had already found this out and fixed an accusing gaze on his wife.

"What is this horrible thing you have told me to chew?" he demanded, in a rather muffled way.

"Something to keep us awake," Renn mumbled, her mouth equally full, "because I for one am not spending a moment longer in this horrid place than I have to! Sleep, here? Bad idea!"

"Very well, but what is this root-thing, wife? It tastes fouler than the flesh of the stink-fish!"

"My fist will taste even worse if I hear any more of your back-talk! Husband!"

Jabal sighed, and forced himself to chew faster. Renn reluctantly swallowed what was left of her root, likewise forcing herself to not make a face. The haroc-root of Shara was noted for its bitterness, but had useful properties, none-the-less. Renn had got used to the taste since she first began to use it, to help her stay awake for long periods, since it had a strongly anti-soporific effect. Actually, she did not think that Jabal really needed it, a Warder needed less sleep than an ordinary man – but a marriage, like a Bond, was all about equal division of responsibilities. So if she had to chew the beastly stuff, so did he! Serve him right for not bothering to call her 'Mistress of my Heart' when he knew she liked it!

Renn relented a little as they came to the Island. It was exactly like all the rest of the Islands. Though the Guiding looked a little more intact than some of the others. Her Ogier was adequate to translating some of the words and filled in the gaps left by the journal – though Conaia Sedai had been very thorough. A combination of both had brought them this far, at least. But in the case of an illegible Guiding, twice now she had been forced to guess at the correct bridge, and on one of those occasions she had guessed wrong, and they had to backtrack...

"No, we are most definitely not stopping to sleep," Renn murmured distractedly, whilst comparing the curling silver script with that in the notebook, "Conaia Sedai frequently mentions 'eyes' on her in the journal... and after all, as you know, Jabal, she went into the Ways to explore one day, just like she usually did, and as I told you – she never came out again!"

They left the Island and plodded on for a while through the endless black, the clop of the horse's hooves echoing hollowly – there should not have been an echo, but for some reason, there was.

Jabal's tone was... careful. "Mistress of my Heart... you did not mention that Conaia Sedai never came out again," he said, having fully considered the implications of this additional information... which he would have much preferred imparted to him before they entered these accursed Ways!

"Oh, did I not? I thought I did... well, she didn't, anyway! Completely disappeared, that was when the Brown Ajah declared the Ways off-limits for study purposes!" Renn shrugged, completely failing to note her husband's rather condemnatory gaze.

"Conaia Sedai... disappeared?"

"Yes she did! Just walked through the Waygate one day and was never seen again. Mayhap she stepped out of another Waygate somewhere else for a breath of fresh air and some passing Whitecloaks (sorry Ellyth, not you!) riddled her with arrows before she could ask for directions... but maybe..." Renn lowered her voice forbiddingly, "maybe something lives in the Ways... something that doesn't like Aes Sedai..." – she narrowed her eyes alarmingly – "or their Warders!"

Jabal sighed. And drew his blade a little, checking that it was razor-sharp. A little unnecessarily, since it was Power-wrought, and was always razor-sharp. But it was all he could do, in answer to some hidden danger he had not been aware of... and running his thumb carefully along it gave him something to focus upon whilst he resisted the strong urge to shout at his wife!

"That is why the Ogier abandoned this place, due to the hidden danger in the darkness!" Renn added, spookily, gesturing at the gloom encroaching upon them.

"Abandoned..?" Jabal muttered. The first he had heard of this, also!


Renn reined Willim of Maneches to a sudden halt, her brown-eyed gaze become penetrating in an instant, the usual vagueness absent... the pack-horse followed-suit and Jabal tugged firmly on his own reins as though hauling on a reefed sail, leaning back in the saddle with an air of intense concentration, and managed to make his own horse stop walking also... though several paces further on. Balancing the pole-lantern on his stirrup-iron, he glanced back over his shoulder. Renn's gaze was still fixed on the small, grey, shrivelled object that lay on the pitted stone before the hooves of her gelding, the article that had so suddenly claimed her attention.

"What does that look like to you, Jabal?"

"It looks like a dead leaf, curled up at the edges..."

"Yes... yes, it does, doesn't it..." Renn heeled her mount back to a walk and tugged at the lead-rein of the packhorse, passing by Jabal with a troubled look on her face. He kicked ineffectually at Cabalaeor's sides and followed-on awkwardly when the animal chose to resume its slow pace, seemingly of its own volition. A short distance further, they reached a Guiding, and after a brief consultation of the journal, Renn led them down the pale path through the darkness, the white line in the pitted stone that extended to the stone slab of the Toman Head Waygate. Which, like that of the Tar Valon grove, had two triple-lobed spaces set amidst the profusion of carved herbage sported by other trees – both of which were empty of the stone trefoil leaf by which the gate might be opened.

"Aaah!" shouted Renn, her cry immediately swallowed-up by the surrounding darkness, "I might have known! That sneaking, cheating, conniving..." Renn ran out of what little breath not expended by a scream of pure frustration and shook her head.

"What is amiss, Finder of the Winds of Passion?" Jabal enquired, having finally noticed that his wife found being called 'Mistress' objectionable.

"Liandrin is bloody amiss, and then some! The vinegar-faced harpy must have taken the leaf out when she came back this way – that was it back there! Dead... useless! The way is blocked!"

"But..."

"The trefoil leaves, they are alive in some manner, though seemingly worked of stone... removed from the Waygate, they die..." Renn's mouth dropped open, aghast. "Imagine!" she exclaimed, in tones of disbelief, when she was able to speak again, "wilfully destroying a rare Ogier artefact! Hard to believe, even of Tattletale!"

Jabal dismounted in ungainly fashion, having to hastily tug a booted foot loose of a stirrup that did not seem to want to let go, to avoid landing in an untidy heap, as he had already managed to do once before... it was these accursed heels, they kept getting caught... He approached the Waygate cautiously, then placed his tattooed hands flat against its intricately-carved surface and gave an experimental shove.

"That won't work, without the trefoil-leaf, nothing short of the One Power will open a Waygate." Renn sighed. "I would have to use extremely concentrated weaves of fire to saw a hole in it..."

Jabal blinked. "You could do that, then," he pointed-out.

"Not without wilfully damaging a rare Ogier artefact!" Renn snapped. "Besides, it would be irresponsible – the gate would be open to all from the other side, a small child or some poor animal could wander in here and get lost!"

Jabal sighed. And resumed his saddle with reluctant awkwardness. The way the accursed beast turned itself in slow circles whilst he did so – as burning usual! – made the process more lengthy and difficult, but as a youth, Jabal had regularly been sent aloft to reef sail in all sorts of atrocious weather, so he set his teeth and persevered.

Renn was consulting the journal again. "We shall just have to backtrack to the nearest alternate Waygate, and emerge there... we can resume the journey to Toman Head on more regularly-travelled roads..."

"Good," growled Jabal, feelingly, resisting the urge to thump his foolish, still-circling steed on the head, "I have had my fill of this place... and this horse!"

"Hmm. It looks as though if we return to the second Guiding, we can either go to a Waygate outside of an Almoth Plain stedding... or possibly Allorallen?"

"Where, Mistress?" asked Jabal, distractedly.

"Of your Heart! Bandar Eban, as it is called now."

"Ah, a fine, deep harbour. And when we are there, wife, perhaps we might take ship to Toman Head?"


"Alright!" Renn wailed, some time later, "I admit it! We're lost!"

Jabal groaned softly, but then straightened his momentarily slumped shoulders and tried to put a better complexion on things. "We are sure to see another of those white lines soon..." he pointed-out.

"We haven't even managed to find an intact Guiding in two days!" Renn pointed-out despondently, "or is it three?"

"I am not sure," Jabal grudgingly admitted.

Time seemed to move differently here, the only hint of the temporal the slow, steady pace of decay. According to the journal's rudimentary map, the path to the Almoth Plain Waygate lay beyond a particular Island, but the curving ramp that led up to it had come to an abrupt end near the top, the remaining section sheared away in some ancient fall. They could see the Island faintly, hovering disconcertingly above with seemingly nothing holding it up, yet with no way to reach it. They had retreated hastily back down the broken ramp, before the rest of it decided to tumble into the yawning, endless blackness that lay beneath. Renn was sure that there were other routes to that Island... but if there were, they were not mentioned in the journal. So, they were forced to backtrack again and seek for Allorallen instead.

The map indicated a particular bridge from a particular Guiding as the path to the Waygate in the long-destroyed grove where the Ogier stone-masons who built the beautiful ocean-side city of Allorallen were wont to experience at least some of the peace of the stedding. Though the City that had once been the key trading port of ancient Jaramide was long-gone, of course, blockaded and later burnt by the Dead Sea Fleet, the Shadow's Darkfriend 'navy' composed of Atha'an Miere renegades and sea-brigands. This had happened in the middle of the Trolloc Wars, and the city that had grown from the ashes of Allorallen had a different name.

But the Bandar Eban Waygate, which yet had its trefoil-leaf, had swung only part-way open, and then stopped, immovably. Light-grey stone blocked the twin stone doors from opening further, stone with silvery streaks. Jabal held the lantern as close as he could, between the gap, examining the great, pale blocks, fused together with mortar and sulfur. "I recognise these stones – this is the wall of Bandar Eban!" Whether the Domani had chosen to incorporate the Waygate into their defensive wall for reasons of security, or simply that it was in the way and had proved indestructible, remained unknown – but they would clearly not be exiting here.

So, after these disappointments and discouragements, Renn rather unwisely chose to go 'off the map.' There was an abandoned stedding within reasonable distance, according to a brief entry in the journal, it was either that or trying for the Waygate at Katar, which might also prove to be bricked-up like a defunct window! A shame, for Katar was noted for its fine book-markets, and she had always wished to visit the place. Perhaps on the way back, with the girls, they could take a detour? So, they turned 'north' although in the Ways, there seemed to be no such thing as direction.

And now, days later, they were thoroughly, irretrievably, lost.

When the bridge eventually ended and they reached yet another Island, they were both exhausted and it was wordlessly agreed upon to rest. Jabal cautiously gave the last of the fodder to the horses, who seemed almost too tired to eat, and lowered the wick on the lantern a little, to preserve their diminishing supply of lamp-oil. Food was one concern, but when that ran out... neither of them were keen to too-closely consider the image of spending their last hours in this place, plunged into pitch darkness. Renn sat down despondently, squinting in the low light, taking a last look through the journal, just in case there was some hint or clue of a way out, beyond those they had already tried. But she knew that there was nothing. The pages were starting to fall out as a result of her frequent and frantic searching.

It was Jabal who noticed the bones first.

"I am so sorry for bringing you here, Jabal," Renn murmured contritely, discarding the journal, before sighing; "it is all my fault." After a moment, when no answer came, she raised her eyes to her husband, who was staring at something. "I said it is all my fault!" she repeated, pointedly.

"What do those look like, wife?" Jabal enquired, ignoring the golden 'I-told-you-so' moment that can feature so prominently in married life. He pointed.

Renn rose, frowning. She had condemned them both to a miserable death, and yet it seemed she could not get her husband to be so thoughtful as to blame her for it!

"They look like bones." Renn approached, reluctantly. She was in no mood for bones. It was grim enough in here, already...

The skeleton of a horse, by the looks of it, scraps of leather all that remained of saddle and harness – but there, half-buried beneath, partially wrapped in a cloak and the faded remnants of a gown... other bones. Human bones. Ancient and pathetic remnants of... who? Would another incautious traveller in this rightly-avoided place one day view their bones and wonder who they had been? But then, as Jabal knelt and pulled the tattered cloak aside, Renn noticed the slim gold circlet about one of the yellowing finger-bones, pointed reptillian teeth closed upon a serpentine tail.

"Oh dear, Jabal... I think that we just found Conaia Sedai..."


"Even here, in this dark place, may the Mother's embrace welcome you and the Hand of the Creator shelter you, Conaia el Tichaan, Aes Sedai of the Brown Ajah."

Renn spoke sadly, then frowned with concentration. Bright, yellow flames burst to life and soon, the bones of the Aes Sedai were reduced to fine grey ash. It was not much in the way of a funeral pyre, but better than nothing.

Jabal produced a small wine-flask from about his person and sprinkled a few drops onto the guttering flames. "For those who have gone beneath the waves," he muttered. They had not wanted to leave this place without making some sort of attempt at honouring the memory of the woman who had saved their lives. It was only a gesture... but gestures, like symbols, could be important.

Renn rubbed at her eyes. "Ouch! The weaves don't work near so well in the Ways and it's much harder to do anything with the Power... there is some sort of barrier to struggle through, that feels all oily and tainted... it's like carrying rocks up a hill on your back, when you can usually just roll them straight down!" Renn smiled. "Though I think I may have found a solution to that," she added, patting the pocket of her robe.

Though it remained unclear quite how she had died, Conaia Sedai had proved to have three items of interest about her person. In addition to the contents of her belt-pouch; a gleaming white brooch and an ancient, yellowed chapbook containing the rough notes of her journal, there was that which had still been gripped firmly in a skeletal hand. The carven staff of some ebon wood she had never seen before was certainly very fine... Renn held it up with satisfaction. There was a certain residue to it, she sensed, though much faded with the passage of time...

Renn felt a little guilty about what had been, to all intents and purposes, corpse-robbing... but only a little. The Brown Ajah were a practical, unsentimental lot, after all, and she was sure Conaia el Tichaan would have understood. If Renn fell afoul of whatever lay in the Ways, she would certainly not begrudge a Sister of her Ajah coming along and helping herself to useful items! She regarded the long staff of a dark, smooth wood she had never seen before, complacently...

"Is it an object of the Power?" Jabal wondered of the staff, "a tri'angral?"

"Ter'angreal. Oh, no, it is just a stick – but I would say that it has certainly been used in tandem with saidar... it is an old practice, employing such as a focus for one's weaves, and little done anymore... though I believe that Moiraine Sedai still uses a staff on occasion? Well, I shall also, at least until we are free of these Ways..." Renn hefted the staff. "After all, it is an awfully nice piece of wood," she added, "and it is reassuring to have something weapon-like in your hands, in a dark and forbidding place such as this – I have noticed how you keep fiddling with your sword, Jabal! – and Channelling aside, if I need to then I can always hit someone with it!"

"Are you as dangerous with a quarterstaff as you are with your fists, wife?"

"Dangerouser! So just you watch-it, husband!" Renn gave Jabal a poke with the stick and he grinned, holding up his tattooed hands in surrender.

Renn had also taken Conaia Sedai's Great-Serpent Ring, to be returned to the Tower. But the most important find, to their survival at least...

"Additional notes, not yet copied into the journal!" Renn enthused, slipping her other acquisition into a pocket and leafing through the chapbook excitedly, though not without undue care, as the pages were very old and liable to crack. She paused at one page in particular, her finger tracing the lines of careful, neat notes, the faithfully-reproduced Ogier script. Rising, Renn went over to the Guiding, Jabal following on, pole-lantern raised high. Painstakingly, though with a certain feverish haste, Renn compared the dull, silver script on the Guiding with that carefully inked onto the page. They were identical... which meant...

"Yes! This shows the path to a nearby stedding... we're saved!"


A final Island, a final Guiding... and there it lay, up ahead... the Waygate complete with its trefoil leaf, the white line in the pitted stone leading up to the broad slab of carved stone, the only point of relief in the darkness that stretched out all around. A darkness that proved, for once, to not be empty.

Their only warning came from the horses, who sniffed the air – the hint of a foul, animal reek came to their less sensitive noses – and then whinnied with alarm. Harsh cries, the thud of booted feet on stone, as well as the click of hooves and claws, and from all sides, the Trollocs charged. Fortunately, the horses were Tower-trained and did not bolt, but Jabal slipped down from the saddle anyway, lowering the lantern to the floor and drawing his blade – he could barely ride the storm-cursed beast, he did not intend to attempt to fight from its back!

"Shadowspawn!" Renn shouted, rather unnecessarily, then dropped the pack-horse's lead-rein and slipped her hand into her pocket, raising the ebon staff above her head, grim concentration setting her features. The Trollocs were almost upon them, spiked swords and axes raised, bestial faces writhing with hatred and blood-lust.

Jabal prepared to dance amongst the enemy, the dance of death, selling his life dearly so that his wife could escape through the Waygate... but Renn had other ideas.

"Down, Gaidin!" she shouted, whirling the staff in a circle above her head. A ring of yellow flame appeared around her and the horses, Jabal crouching just in time to avoid having his hair singed, since it stood head-high to a man... and neck high to a Trolloc.

Renn gestured again with the staff, a sweeping, forward-motion – and the flaming circle expanded rapidly, sweeping out on all sides. Harsh screams as the disc of flame came into contact with the attacking Trollocs, overlarge heads with twisted, animal features thumping to the rough stone, scorched and decapitated corpses left lying in the ring's fiery wake. A few late-comers to the ambush avoided the pervasive slaughter and retreated back into the shadows, but most did not.

Jabal regarded the circuit of smoking, dismembered bodies. "What was that, wife?" he demanded, shocked. Renn slumped in her saddle a little, then straightened.

"Ring of Death. Something I learned that I probably wasn't supposed to, though I hoped never to have to use it. But it should have been twice as big – it's these accursed Ways, affecting saidar... some of them got away!"

"It was still very... thorough..." Jabal eyed his wife with new-found respect. He knew Renn could be dangerous with her fists, but had thus far seen her use of the One Power confined mostly to occasional Healing and the re-heating of cups of cold tea – he had never considered Rings of Death! "A burning ring of fire!" he exclaimed, impressed.

"If they wanted to take us by surprise, they shouldn't have left their ugly writing carved all over that last Guiding," Renn observed, rather primly.

Jabal nodded. "I am proud of you, wife." Renn beamed. "Your first taste of battle, and you did not flinch! Why, you have the heart of a-"

The Myrddraal leapt from the darkness without warning, dark blade sweeping toward Jabal's throat. The Atha'an Miere Warder parried, blade moving like quicksilver as sparks flew, rolled smoothly beneath the Fade's return stroke and cut one of its hamstrings before leaping aside, narrowly avoiding a vicious thrust. The Fade limped after him, snarling with hatred and Jabal prepared himself for a long duel. This was not the first Myrddraal he had fought. They could be killed, of course, but it took time. Thank the Light he had removed those foolish boots and stockings!

But again, Renn had other ideas. A much smaller Ring of Death appeared around the Myrddraal's neck, not unlike a fiery collar. The Fade snarled, touching it – it's finger smoked and blackened as it came into contact with the yellow flames. Renn motioned impatiently with her hand as she slipped down from her horse. This time, instead of expanding outwards, the Ring contracted inwards. The more acrid stench of burned Myrddraal flesh rose to join that of the Trollocs that lay about them in a broad circle.

The Myrddraal's head thumped to the floor and rolled to a stop at Jabal's bare feet, lips still writhed back in a snarl – and attempted to bite him! Jabal hopped back, preserving his toes from those snapping teeth. Perhaps there was something to be said for boots after all? Its beheaded body, he noted, was crawling about on the ground, fumbling for its fallen sword. Jabal seized the Thakan'dar-blade and tossed it into the darkness, the dark sword clattering across pitted stone – and the headless Myrddraal went limping off in that direction, looking for it! The eyeless gaze of its head did not perturb Jabal overmuch, but he wished that it would stop talking to him in its nasty, whispering voice!

"Shai'tan take-you, human... the Great Lord... curse you... Swordman..."

"May it please the Light, what does it take to kill one of these things?" Jabal demanded, turning toward his wife – who had another Myrddraal standing just behind her, reaching for her neck with a pale hand, its dark blade drawn back for the thrust that would surely end her life. Jabal knew that there was only one option open to him – his chance to use his particular skill – so he threw. Even as the spinning blade left his hand, he knew that it had been a perfect cast, his most skilful ever! But to his surprise, instead of sinking into its chest, the blade bounced off the Fade with a hollow sound and clattered to the pitted stone floor.

"Careful!" shouted Renn, ducking.

Jabal blinked as a long crack appeared in the Myrddraal's chest and it... shattered. Collapsing into splintered chunks of frozen Halfman, like a block of... ice?

Renn glared. "What the bloody, burning ashes do you think you're doing throwing that sword at me, husband?" she grumbled. "You nearly took my head off!"

Jabal stared in shock. The Myrddraal's legs were still there, rooted to the ground, but the rest of the creature lay in dark splinters about Renn's feet.

"What did you do to it, wife?"

"The horrid thing tried to grab me, so I did the same thing I do in summer, when a certain lazy-yet-handsome Sea Folk fellow wants to drink his fruit-punch cold, but cannot be bothered to walk as far as the ice-house! I did... that. Though on a larger scale, and a great deal colder." Renn staggered a little and Jabal moved to support her. "It certainly takes it out of you, channelling in the Ways..."

Leaving Renn to lean against her staff whilst she recovered her strength, Jabal retrieved his sword, feeling abashed and hoping that the priceless ivory hilt had not been damaged. Perhaps he should cover it with pigskin? He held the pole-lantern high and scanned the darkness around them.

"I can hear them, skulking around back there..." Jabal muttered, occasional glimpses of bestial shadows shifting back and forth, just beyond the circle of light.

"I hear them also... and something else... is that... wind?"

Cries of terror rose from the Trollocs in the darkness, in response to the slowly rising sound of the approaching wind. Renn frowned. "Poor Conaia Sedai mentioned the sound of wind several times in that last volume of her journal," she muttered, "and she didn't seem to think that it was a good thing..."

"Machin Shin..."

"What was that, Jabal?"

"I said nothing, it was the Myrddraal, or rather, its head... may we go now?"

"Black... wind... comes..."

"Silence, you!"

"Fascinating! The Fade's head is talking to me!"

"Filthy... Firewoman... Machin Shin... take you!"

"Being rude to me, even!"

"Ignore it, wife! May we go?"

"You are... dead... Shai'tan take you!"

The Trollocs were coming closer, encroaching into the circle of light, their fear of the black wind clearly greater than that of the Aes Sedai. A third Myrddraal was with them, dark sword in one hand, a long, cruel whip in the other.

"I don't think I have the strength to do what I did again," Renn muttered, "but since we can't have them chasing us through the Waygate..."

More flames arose in a circle about them and the horses, about the Waygate, though sedentary this time, a fiery yellow wall between them and the Shadowspawn.

"There, that ought to do it," Renn commented, tying-off the weave.

The wind had risen to a scream now, and within it, fell voices whispered of vile things. Beyond the flames, the Trollocs threw back their heads and howled whilst the Myrddraal cursed and lashed at them with the whip...

"I think I have had quite enough of the Ways," Renn shouted over the horrid cacophony, and promptly plucked the trefoil leaf from the Waygate, replacing it a little higher up. The carven leaves began to writhe, a line appearing down the centre. Renn raised her voice further, to be heard over the roar of flames, the screams of Shadowspawn, the menacing voices in the wind. "Any more of this sort of thing and I shall go mad as the Dragon!" Jabal nodded fervently.

The Waygate opened and, dragging the horses behind them, Renn and Jabal promptly and with great relief escaped back into the World of the Wheel. Where men with crossbows awaited them, some of whom proved to have nervous trigger-fingers.


"Once again, I cannot apologise enough for my men shooting their bolts at you, Renn Sedai. I have put that young fool on latrine-duty for a month!"

"Oh, that is quite alright, Captain Mazeen. No harm done. These things happen. After all, since you say that Myrddraal and Trollocs exited the Waygate the last nine times it opened, you were only right to suspect that on the tenth occasion..." Renn blinked, gazing down into the deep pit that was being dug before the Waygate – any further exeunt by Shadowspawn would be greeted with a five span drop onto sharpened stakes, it seemed! Jabal hovered at her side, a hand resting on his hilt. Still scowling.

"There were some Draghkar also, Renn Sedai."

"There were? Um... you needn't dig that pit, you know. I can lock the Waygate... well, take out the leaf from the inside, and..."

Some of the shovel-plying sappers looked up hopefully at this, but the old Captain-of-Archers was shaking his head with regret.

"Forgive me, Renn Sedai, but his Lordship commanded the digging of the pit and if the pit is not here when he returns, my beard shall like decorate his lance! His Lordship wishes for the Shadowspawn to continue to emerge from these strange Ogier doors, so that we might kill them. His Lordship is greatly in favour of the killing of Shadowspawn in as large amounts as can be arranged. He favours pits also – why, up on the Border, he often digs deep holes in which to entrap the monsters of the Blight!"

"I see... how odd! So where is his pit-favouring Lordship then?"

"His Lordship is up in the hills, leading his lancers on patrol. The peaks are aswarm with Shadowspawn, reportedly! I shall inform him of your presence on his return, doubtless he shall wish to wait upon you, to convey his respects."

"Where is he going to wait on me? In that tent?"

"That is my tent, Renn Sedai, and scarcely suitable accommodation for an Honoured Sister of the-"

"Of the White Tower, yes thank-you Captain Mazeen... I must say, it is nice to be up in the Borderlands (even though that was not where I had planned to go) where you are all so respectful to Aes Sedai... why, down south, we're as like as not to get rotten fruit thrown at us!" Mazeen blinked, uncertainly. Renn sighed. Borderlanders were fine fellows who did an excellent job of guarding the Blight, but they had absolutely no sense of humour, in her experience. Hardly surprising, though, considering... "So... where else would you suggest I await being waited upon?"

"There is a village to the south, I can send a man to escort you down to an Inn where you may rest..."

"An Inn! With baths, and beds? What a wonderful idea, Captain Mazeen!"

As Renn and Jabal followed their guide away from the bivouac of Archers grouped about the Waygate, they passed a further pit, into which sappers were dumping the corpses of Shadowspawn, much pin-cushioned with crossbow bolts.

"We almost ended that way!" Jabal griped. Their guide chuckled. He was one of his Lordship's scouts, a villainous-looking, fork-bearded fellow who answered to the name of 'Nevish.' He seemed respectful, however, answering Renn's questions readily enough with a deep and gravelly voice. The village was not too far away, apparently, they should reach it before dawn. Renn yawned extravagantly and behind her, Jabal seemed half asleep in the saddle. And would require Healing for saddle-sores, the bond was informing her. Poor boy!

"Where are we, anyway, Master Nevish? Saldaea, I would presume?"

"Yes Aes Sedai. The west, up in the foothills of the World's End peaks."

"Oh. That is some way distant from Toman Head... so which village are we going to spend the night in?"

"Seleisin, Aes Sedai."

"Seleisin? Really? As in; 'a shepherd in Seleisin knows as well as I?' "

"Yes, that is what they say, Aes Sedai."

"I never realised the place even existed, though I suppose it would have to for there to be a saying about it. I shall have to find a shepherd and ask him a few questions..."

Nevish grinned briefly through his beard. "Oh, there are many sheep to be herded in these parts... and some of them think that they are people!" Their guide, who was from the Plain of Lances on the Kandori side, laughed harshly.

"Well, as long as the Inn exists also, I do not much care what the place is called," Renn muttered.

"Aye, Aes Sedai, it is there... though you will mayhap find the Innkeeper and his people less than attentive!" And Nevish laughed again.

Renn blinked, then shivered as they seemed to pass over some invisible boundary – and found that she could no longer sense the Source. Jabal straightened in his saddle, clearly feeling refreshed by the mysterious aura of the stedding – as did Renn, but it did not make up for the feeling of loss, of blindness that any Channeller experienced in such places. The place that Ogier had once called home seemed overgrown, deserted. Great Trees towered over their lesser brethren, which towered over them as they passed beneath. On the other side of the stedding from the Waygate, they beheld flickering torches approaching in the darkness.

It proved to be several Saldaean soldiers leading a column of mules, each with large bundles of cross-bow bolts and other military paraphernalia constituting its load. Nevish exchanged a few quick words with them before they continued on their way up to the Waygate.

"I'm telling you, I saw what I saw!" one of the Queen's Armsmen was protesting to the others, as they passed. The others jeered.

"Riding through the sky in a basket!" laughed one.

"Aren't you too old to be scared of hags abroad in the night?"

"I saw what I bleeding-well saw, curse you!"

Jabal glanced curiously after them, though Renn's attention was fixed on something else – the flickering torchlight had gleamed upon something pale, nestling in the midst of a tangle of wild blackberry bushes. Something ancient.

"That's interesting," Renn muttered, eyeing the abbreviated white column. She embraced the Source and turned in her saddle as they rode past, eyes fixed on the circular stone, squinting at the eroded symbols carved about its base.

Seleisin proved to be even smaller than Renn had anticipated, the Inn at its centre a rather grim-looking place. The scorched husks of several burned merchant's wagons were parked to one side, and the flames had spread to two of the houses, which likewise stood in ruins. The village appeared largely bereft of villagers, seemingly replaced with a temporary populace of soldiers. Queen's Armsmen mostly, their tabards emblazoned with the Three Silver Fish of Saldaea. The grimness of the Inn was further enhanced by the rough scaffold erected in the courtyard, the half-dozen corpses dangling from it in a row, twisting slowly back and forth on hempen nooses. Three were women.

"Who are they?" Renn enquired, frowning with distaste.

Nevish spat. "Darkfriends, Aes Sedai. This place was crawling with them. When we rode into the village, most had already fled up into the peaks, but these who kept the Inn, they were all out in the barn on their knees before a Myrddraal, chanting a paean to the Dark One – condemned out of their own mouths!" Nevish nodded at the scaffold. "That is the Fade, up there at the end..."

Renn looked closer – the corpse swinging at the far end of the scaffold was taller and paler than the others, garbed in black.

"Goodness! It cannot be easy to get a Myrddraal to walk to the scaffold and consent to having a noose put about its neck?"

"Oh no, Aes Sedai, the Halfman was already dead when we hung it! His Lordship killed it... hard enough to do! Nevish doesn't want to think about how difficult it would be to take one of those things alive!"

They led their horses into the stable, and Nevish summoned two soldiers to remove saddles and provide feed, as the stable-boy was occupying the scaffold alongside the rest of the Inn's staff.

Whilst relieving Willim of Maneches of the saddlebags, Renn found herself staring at the horse in the next stall. Most of those in the stable were the small, agile mounts of light cavalry. This tall, graceful mare seemed out of place amongst them. The animal's ears swivelled toward her and the mare seemed to whicker in recognition. It did seem familiar... where had she..?

"Whose horse is that?" Renn enquired.

"The mare, Aes Sedai? Came running down out of the hills a few days back. No rider, nor saddle neither."

Renn frowned. Where had she seen this pale horse before? In the Tower stables, that was where, though but rarely... and then, Renn realised;

"Oh no – Eradore! That is Ellyth's mare!"


Part II: Collam Doon

The view was very fine from up here, the air clear and chill, and in the distance, the striated ribbon of dark smoke from the signal fire rose into the grey sky. Arachnae Kirikil leaned cautiously over the side of the tough, wickerwork basket, examining the pale, fluted column that jutted from the rocky peak beneath. Arachnae shook her grey head slowly. She had no idea what it was. So much knowledge from the Age of Legends had been lost, that which remained often less than useless. Arachnae made a sound of impatient disgust – so much, that she did not know! The Draghkar glanced at her nervously, but their powerful wings continued to beat in a steady rhythm, the basket creaking occasionally. She ignored them. And yet, there was some knowledge that survived... knowledge that might prove useful. Very useful indeed.

Arachnae reached into her knitting bag, a dark article embroidered with silver ravens, and touched the thick leather folder. She smiled. The courier had brought it that morning, no ordinary road-courier, since he had come from somewhere north of Shayol Ghul even, a place that she had heard whispered mention of but had never actually seen. The White Tower had its library… and the Shadow had theirs. Arachnae's smile widened. The depository of knowledge from whence her information had come was much smaller, and more specific. And she expected that those who needed to be 'shushed' as many as three times in the Shadow Library were not merely asked to leave, but probably were fed to the Darkhounds in stead! Arachnae chuckled.

One of the Draghkar heard the sound and turned its head toward her inquisitively. Arachnae scowled. And addressed the bat-winged creature in the Shadow Tongue, a speech with which she was more than proficient. "Keep your eyes on where you are going, vile thing," she told it, loudly, so that it would hear over the rush of the wind, "fly us into one of these mounts and before I hit the ground I will use the Power to turn you inside-out!" The Draghkar flinched and lowered its dark gaze. Filthy creature. Looking at her!

Arachnae tucked her woollen shawl closer about her neck – she had never quite mastered the technique of ignoring cold – and returned her attention to the view. But while her small, dark eyes took in the expanse of ravines and valleys drifting by below, she considered the position, as though what she were about were a game of stones upon an immense board. A board that lay below her, even. And though she had not lost a particularly important advantage in Seleisin, it was still an irksome setback, the Saldaean soldiers arriving when they did.

Arachnae had planned to travel up into the peaks in her peculiar contrivance on receiving confirmation that the Aes Sedai was caught, and not a moment sooner. The sudden appearance of the Queen's Armsmen had put paid to that notion. Again, she wondered if she was putting her head into a noose. Not with regard to the slip of a girl, she had escaped one trap but would surely be taken soon. But the village was compromised, and doubtless the Waygate also, by now. There would be no further reinforcements from that quarter, and the route from World's End was now barred. Well, for everyone else, it was.

Ah, now that looked like the spot. At their steady approach, the wisp of smoke from the signal fire had grown to a thick black column that rose from the end of the valley below, a dark, broken cliff looming over it; twin peaks rising to either side of a ravine… the Horns of Shai'tan… well, they were there. Now, she would see.


Ranim waited before the ravine, the lower half of his face obscured with a thick dust-veil, only cold, blue eyes visible above it. The jagged, split crag loomed over him. He was standing on a low pile of stones that comprised someone's grave. It did not bother him to do so, though he did feel vaguely disappointed – he had earlier moved enough of the rocks to verify the identity of the person who lay beneath. And had felt a touch of regret at seeing that long dark hair, streaked with silver in places. He had wanted to kill the Warder himself...

Ranim had replaced the rocks carefully. He was not sure why he had done that... some residual superstition of the Travelling People, doubtless. But in so doing, he had discovered something of interest... well, two somethings, really, counting the blade. A small, well-balanced throwing-knife that he had found near the mouth of the ravine. It had what smelled like acrid Myrddraal blood staining the point. Ranim was currently using it to clean his fingernails, dividing his attention between that mundane task and the sky to the east.

A score of large, heavily-armed Darkfriends stood nearby, those that were not engaged with tending the signal fire; scarred mercenaries and merchant's guards. They kept a respectful distance from their tall, slender leader. They had seen what he could do. A few days before, they had watched while the Tinker youth killed a Trolloc twice his size and three times his weight. Using only a slim dagger. Ranim had taken his time about it, letting the Shadowspawn blunder back and forth, trying to touch him with its crude blade... slicing it here and there, carefully avoiding the major arteries, slowly bleeding the Trolloc to exhaustion before he finally finished it off, cutting its throat.

The other Trollocs had seemed impressed, had given the young Darkfriend assassin wary glances that seemed to hold respect while they butchered their erstwhile comrade... which had, itself, butchered one of Ranim's men. The previous night, it had defied its orders and killed one of the sentries, because it was hungry.

The Myrddraal that led the Fist had let Ranim kill the offending Trolloc, rather than executing the disobedient soldier with its own dark blade. Afterwards, it had looked at Ranim with the habitual loathing (mutual loathing, given Ranim's return stare) but oddly, the Fade had also nodded curtly to Ranim, an almost military gesture, as though from one officer to another... acknowledging that sometimes those one commanded had to be kept in line with harsh examples of the perils of disobedience meted out. Killing the insubordinate soldier slowly and cruelly in front of the others, was but one method by which this might be accomplished. Ranim had just stared coldly for a moment before he sheathed his dagger and turned to walk back to his own men, a deadly grace to his movements. Ranim had as low an opinion of Shadowspawn as did his Mistress. Even so, it had been a strange moment, with a sense of almost... recognition, to it.

Ranim was younger than the men he commanded, but they knew better than to question his authority, and not just because it had been given him by their Dread Mistress. He had set a few of his own examples. One of them, a big wagon-guard who could not take his drink, had cheeked Ranim, muttering something about 'not taking orders from a thieving little Tinker-boy.' Ranim needed the few men he had at his disposal, so did not kill the offender, simply took one of his eyes. He coldly told the whimpering guard that if he ever heard him speak again, he would take the other eye and leave him up in the peaks to wander until he died, or until the Trollocs found him. Something about Ranim's tone had been very convincing.

Ranim could just have beaten the fellow or given him a scar, taken an ear instead... but had not wished to. It had been an effective example for the others, who now seemed more willing to obey the cold, terse commands of the Tinker boy, who was certainly no ordinary Tuatha'an. But Ranim supposed that part of the reason he had been so severe with the merchant's-guard was because he had never much cared for his kind. On the road, whenever the wagons had been forced to halt near a merchant's train, there had often been trouble from the brutal, thuggish men who protected their master's wares for a silver penny a day. They sometimes tried to steal horses or molest a woman, when the dogs did not manage to keep them away.

Still, Ranim had let the loud-mouthed fellow keep his tongue, as well as his remaining eye, and not sent him blindly toward the Trolloc Fists searching ahead of them. Though the next day, the fool had managed to put his foot down on a rock-viper, and died in agony. Some men were just born unlucky, Ranim supposed.

For the time being, the Tuatha'an assassin was not wearing the garish Tinker garb that so often made his victims underestimate him, but the same drab woollens and leathers as the others, countryman's clothing that better blended in with their surroundings. He still wore his knee boots, though he had deliberately not polished them for the last week, letting the sheen on the crimson leather fade. The thick linen veil about his face was less to do with camouflage, more the foul stench that rose from the signal fire. There was a shortage of wood hereabouts, and besides, the corpses of the Fist that had died here needed to be disposed of before the ravens gorged themselves to death. There was a shortage of ravens also, after all. For all that the accursed creatures had brought no word of their quarry – whoever they were, with the Aes Sedai, they were very good at hiding. And then, there was the other thing out there, whatever it was... there was a good reason why there were so few ravens; it had been nightly climbing into the trees where they roosted and snapping their necks... and that was the very least of what it had been doing.

Ranim watched as two mercenaries wearing thick scarves about their faces, dragged another Trolloc corpse over to the large bonfire, tipping the carcass into the flames. The pervasive stench worsened, slightly. More oily smoke arose. It should be visible for several leagues. Ranim turned and scanned the sky with expectation. The Dread Mistress should be here soon, he could feel a sense of proximity through the bond, and besides, a Draghkar scout had earlier reported her approach, though without speaking. Ranim was not even sure if they could speak. Not that it had needed to talk, for while the Draghkar gesticulated at the sky with a clawed hand, the look of fear on its twisted face had already told him who was coming. The Draghkar feared the Mistress greatly, stood a little in awe of her, much more so than with any other Firewoman, who their hypnotic song had been bred into them to defeat. The Mistress had something of a Talent, that had saved her life on no few occasions, by all accounts. She stood immune to the Draghkar's song.

It was a rare Talent, but not unheard of, the Mistress had told him, the last case reported in an Aes Sedai who had fought in the Trolloc Wars. A demonstration had been arranged; the assembled Draghkar formed-up before the Waygate from which they had filed, a long line of pale, gaunt creatures, their wings folded about them like cloaks. There were nearly three score of them, Ranim had never seen so many in one place. Their large, dark eyes had stared, red lips spreading back from cruel teeth.

And the Mistress, voice croaking in the foul tongue of the Shadow, had commanded them all to sing. It was bad enough with one, but more than fifty would have been a dreadful sound… Ranim did not know, at the time he had his ears firmly packed with the plugs of wool the Mistress had provided, as he paced warily just behind her, a bared blade in each hand, whilst she wound her way through the ranks of crooning Draghkar. The Mistress had paused opposite each and stared into its eyes to make her point, before channelling a small flow of air and giving it two hard slaps across the face, turning its narrow head first one way, then the other. Every one of the Draghkar received the stare and the slap. The message was clear – 'your song does not dull my senses and leave me vulnerable to your kiss, Draghkar, and I can do much worse to you with the Power than this.'

After which, the Dread Mistress had commanded the Draghkar to cease their song, a look of relief on her grandmotherly face when they did. She had then selected an unlucky example, one of the iron-collared Draghkar she used for her conveyance. They had set her down rather jarringly when she had arrived at the Waygate, angering her. She released the creature from its chain, commanded it to fly and, when high above, cast a ball of flame in its direction. The Draghkar had attempted to avoid the fiery missile, but Arachnae, squinting up at it, caused the fireball to veer after the creature and chase it. The other Draghkar had watched their shrieking fellow tumble to the ground and land hard in a shower of sparks. Again, they got the message.

The song of more than three score Draghkar, all at once - an unpleasant anthem, no doubt. Ranim had a fine voice, and though his sole source of pleasure now lay in killing, he would sing for the Mistress sometimes when she asked him to, not particularly minding since it was her asking and it seemed to please her. Ranim neither loved nor feared his Mistress (he was a little beyond, or perhaps beneath, such feelings now) but he did respect her, when he respected little else, but for the power of the Great Lord. So, if she wished it, he would sing her a sweeter song than ever the Draghkar had. Though music reminded him of the wagons, and Ranim did not much care to recall the time he had still followed the Leaf Way, because he had been weak then, and pathetic.

The Mistress had a bad headache after the vile choir had sung to her, so Ranim had tossed some kindling onto the still-burning Draghkar, left the kettle on the blaze till it whistled, and made her a cup of the blueberry tea she favoured. The fire had stank (though not as bad as the bonfire behind him) but Ranim did not care, had simply put his dust veil over his face to mask the stench a little. The Mistress had smiled at him kindly when he brought her the tea, and ruffled his hair with what seemed like genuine affection. Ranim might have sworn his soul to the Shadow and devoted what remained of his life to the practice of murder, but even so, it was well to serve one who stood so high, who at least seemed to appreciate the little things as well as the big. There were much worse Dreadlords to serve than the Mistress...

Ah, here she was now... from behind the nearest peak emerged a dark speck that swiftly resolved into eight Draghkar flying close together, with something round suspended beneath them. A further dozen Draghkar flew above, a winged escort. As they descended toward the valley, the round object proved to be a large, wickerwork basket, eight long chains radiating out, attached to the iron collar each Draghkar had bolted about its neck. They gripped the chains with their clawed hands as they flew, whilst in the basket below, occupying a chair that had been lashed into place... Ranim raised a hand, waving it slowly back and forth at the old woman, a thick black shawl draped about the shoulders of her high-necked, grey silk gown, lace at the sleeves and collar. Arachnae Kirikil waved back.


For all her great age, Arachnae's eyes were still keen, particularly when she held the Power. She could see Ranim down there, waiting with his men... there didn't seem to be as many of them as there had been. Well, that was the way of the Shadow... the weak did not always survive, whilst only the strong were considered fit to inherit the world.

The eagle was back again, circling the basket slowly, eyes fixed on her. It had been following since noon, perhaps curious as to this strange contraption that had invaded its territory. Arachnae scowled at the creature and gestured with her hand. A flight of ravens rose from below, flocking around and mobbing the eagle until it dipped a wing and spiralled away to the east.

As they descended into the valley, Arachnae shook a small, gnarled fist at the Draghkar who bore her conveyance. "See that you set me down gently this time, vileness!" she snapped, "I am an old woman! Don't you dare tumble my bones about again!" The Draghkar took great pains not to, their wings beating furiously as they slowly lowered the basket to a ribbon of flatness on the valley floor, suspiciously level, as though the vestiges of some ancient roadway. The creatures settled to the ground about her, crouching with wings folded. Arachnae scowled. Draghkar were useful tools, but that was all they were... tools. Her tools of choice, in this instance.

Ranim was there, to help her out of the basket.

"Hello, dear. How goes it?"

"Well-enough, Dread Mistress." Even with the dust veil tugged down to hang about his neck, Ranim's face conveyed as little expression as it had with his features hidden.

Arachnae eyed the assembled Darkfriends quizzically, her gaze moving to the others who were burning Trolloc corpses. They shifted nervously as her small, gimlet eyes passed over them. She wrinkled her nose, either at the stench, or at them. Perhaps both. "Were there not more of them when you set out?"

"Yes, Mistress. A dangerous place, this World's End. Now I know why the wagons always avoided it. There are... things, from the Age of Legends, here... a big metal spike in a valley, that several of the men strayed too close to... they all-"

"Died. Yes, there is one like it in the Borderlands, though what their original purpose was, I can't imagine."

"A Trolloc killed a sentry, so I punished it. One of the men was bitten by a snake, another mauled by a mountain lion... oh, and two tried to desert, so I went after them and brought them back. I made an... example, out of them."

"Quite right, too. So how many are you up to now, dear?"

"Forty-nine, Dread Mistress."

"Goodness, is it that many? Why, you are proficient at what you do!"

"I have always sought to apply myself."

"Good lad! Well, our agreement still stands, you just let me know, dear."

Arachnae knew that Ranim could have just told her that he had now killed fifty in her service and received his promised gift sooner... but the boy never lied to his Mistress (she had tested him carefully, on that score) for all that he could claim, on her behalf, to have lied to Ba'alzamon himself!

"The Warder lays beneath the cairn," Ranim added.

Arachnae scowled at the small pile of rocks, already beginning to weather, blending in with the surroundings. She had wanted the Warder's body left untouched, had given very specific orders to a barn full of scowling Myrddraal on this subject. Some of them had tried to disquiet her with their gaze, to challenge her regarding this and other orders she gave, but she had not permitted it, of course. Arachnae had simply stood there, her small, dark eyes unblinkingly returning that gaze until each Fade had grimaced and nodded in assent.

But Arachnae supposed that there was little point in disinterring the Warder, since she would not get to have her dinner party now. Her plan had been to return the captive Aes Sedai to the private-dining room of the Inn at Seleisin and enjoy a pleasant repast with her guest bound to a chair at the other end of the long table. The young Aes Sedai's dead Gaidin was to have been sitting next to her throughout and at the end of the meal, she would have been given to the Myrddraal. A fitting retribution for the Lady Ellythia, considering the trouble she had caused in the past! The Little Spider was well known in the higher circles of Friends of the Dark as a woman who took her revenge to almost theatrical proportions. Arachnae shook her head, turning away from the cairn. Well, there was no point now… best to just leave the Warder under there and be glad that he was dead.

"I found this amongst the rocks, Dread Mistress."

Arachnae examined the small chunk of obsidian; the marks that had been scratched upon it. "Well now, that is interesting," she commented, softly.

A Fist of Trollocs waited nearby, hulking, bestial shapes squatting in disordered ranks. Their Myrddraal was otherwise engaged. Arachnae waited impatiently for it to finish communing with its vile bird. Though she could command them well enough, she wished she could see what the ravens saw, but just didn't have the knack for it. Finally, the raven cawed, left its temporary perch on the Myrddraal's shoulder, flapping off to join its brethren in eagerly snatching gobbets of flesh from the Trolloc corpses that were yet-unburned.

The Myrddraal turned its eyeless gaze upon her. She met that gaze calmly. It had been five hundred years since Arachnae Kirikil let a Fade outstare her. Through the bond that had led her to this place better than any signal-fire, she could sense Ranim standing close behind her, could feel his eagerness to kill. He was fingering the small throwing blade that he seemed to have acquired from somewhere... oddly, it had the Flame of Tar Valon enamelled on its flat, steel hilt.

"What news, Halfman?" Arachnae always called them that, it was well to remind the Myrddraal of their bestial origins, though she suspected that they found the term 'man' the more objectionable of the two...

"Yes... I have seen her."

"Then bring her to me. Unharmed." Arachnae smiled. "If you can."

The Myrddraal stared at Arachnae for a long moment, then turned on its booted heel and strode away with serpentine grace. It swung into the saddle of its dark horse and lashed at the Trollocs with a whip, cursing at them in the Shadow tongue. They did not seem eager to rise – Arachnae knew them for lazy creatures, but there seemed to be something fearful about them also... a fear almost as great as that they held for their Myrddraal. Arachnae watched the long line of brutish warriors shamble reluctantly away into the twilit west, following the dark rider at the head of the Fist. She frowned. There were supposed to be three Myrddraal, leading each Fist, were there not? That had been her idea. What had happened to the other two?

Ranim shook his head. "They will not succeed. The few scouts who return say that the Aes Sedai may have Aielmen protecting her, as strange as that seems, as well as another Warder, perhaps... and then, there is the other thing..."

"What is that, my caution?"

So Ranim told his Mistress about the thing with the glowing eyes that came out at night, and what it had been doing. Arachnae's brow furrowed, slightly. Ranim blinked; clearly, he had never seen his Mistress looking worried before.

"Well, we shall have to do something about that, most certainly. But for the nonce, let us take a look at this... black college." Ranim raised his eyebrows at the name. "That is what it was called in the Age of Legends. Collam Doon. Be a dear, and carry my bag for me."

Ranim tucked the dark knitting-bag beneath his arm and gestured gracefully at the ravine. "This way, Dread Mistress. Though there is little enough to see. Have a care, it is passing steep in places..."

The assembled Darkfriends were all hard men, who had done bad things, would not flinch from the necessity of doing worse. But when the slim, auburn-haired youth and the frail old lady who was leaning on his arm disappeared from sight down the ravine, they collectively heaved a sigh of relief.


"Dereliction of duty," Ranim muttered, as he pulled the slim blade from between the ribs of the broken-nosed mercenary, who he had left down here to guard the entrance. Sleeping whilst on duty... well, it would be the last time he did so. Ranim wiped his dagger on the dead man's shirt, then rose, sheathing the weapon.

The Mistress nodded her approval. "And how many is that now, my petal?" she enquired facetiously, for she knew the answer.

"Fifty, Dread Mistress."

The Mistress smiled pleasantly. "In which case, I have a present for you, that I think you will like. It is in the bag, underneath the leather folder." Ranim did not exactly dig through the knitting-bag eagerly, but even so, he could not help but wonder... was it a knife? The Mistress knew that he liked knives, so perhaps...

Ranim pulled the dark blade from its sheath and spun the hilt in his fingers a few times. It was heavier than the ones he was accustomed to using, but the balance was perfect. It was made out of the same metal the Myrddraal used for their swords, by the looks of it. It felt ancient and evil, as though he held a splinter of the Shadow in his hand. Ranim did something which he did but very rarely. He smiled.

"Thakan'dar-forged," observed the Mistress. "These are very rare, my poppet. Only a few were made for the assassins of the Shadow, long ago, at the end of the Trolloc Wars. It took me considerable trouble to get my hands on one... so see that you put it to a good use."

"I will, Dread Mistress. That I will."

"Oh, and make sure you don't cut yourself with it, boy!"

Unsurprisingly, Ranim had absolutely no sense of humour and forgot himself so much as to give the Mistress a slightly withering glance. She chuckled, softly.

There were glowing hemispheres of some sort of crystal set in the circular wall, but most were dim and appeared to be fading perceptibly. Ranim lit a torch and held it aloft as they made their way down a ramp into the gloom, having to step over the corpse of a Draghkar on the way.

Arachnae gave the dead creature only a cursory glance, nodding as though she had expected as much – indeed, she had given more time to examining the carven marble slab at the entrance, though something about it had seemed to confuse her. Down below, it was even darker. Ranim helpfully held the torch over the dead Myrddraal whilst the Mistress crouched just opposite, muttering about her knees. Her sudden cackle took him by surprise. The Mistress could be... disconcerting. She pointed a long-nailed, gnarled finger.

"See! It tore out the Fade's heart, left it in the creature's hand... why, it's giving us a message!"

Ranim frowned slightly. "It, Dread Mistress?"

"The Dragonspawn."

"What is that, Mistress? What message?"

The Mistress did not reply, rising and making her way over to the shattered archway. Ranim followed, torch raised, but she waved him away. "The smoke is bad for my lungs, dear..." The Mistress gestured with her hand – she often used such motions as an aid when she channelled, Ranim knew – and a sphere of pale light appeared over her head.

The large, cuendillar box in the chamber beyond lay empty, though as of quite recently, by the looks of it – only the thinnest patina of dust had settled. The Mistress frowned down at the empty space.

"You are sure there was not another of these boxes?" she enquired, repeating the emphatic question she had asked on their way down the ravine.

"I am certain, Dread Mistress. We have searched this place thoroughly, there are other rooms but all are empty – it is as though any other artefacts were removed long ago, leaving only this box-thing."

"Where did the Traitor put it, then...?" the Mistress mused to herself.

Ranim was preoccupied with something also. He was thinking about glowing, blue eyes in the dark and a harsh voice that spoke taunting words. "Dread Mistress?"

"Yes, my sweet?"

"I gave you the reports from the scouts but I repeat; there is something in the cliffs to the west that attacks the Fists at night, tears Trollocs to shreds...they are afeared of it and refuse to leave the safety of the fires... whatever it is, the Myrddraal have not been able to hunt it down. It has killed all that have been sent after it."

"Tsk. It leaves their hearts in their hands too, I would suppose?"

"It does worse than that..." Ranim's gaze on her was patient.

"If you want to ask me a question then ask."

"What is a Dragonspawn?"

"What indeed? Be a precious and pass me that folder from my bag, would you?"

The folder proved to contain ancient yellow pages, one of which the Mistress held up to the pale light, squinting. The writing on it was angular, jagged in places. Her voice echoed softly from the low ceiling.

"Listen to this... a report from an agent of the Shadow, a young man whom I fancy had certain things in common with you, my dear. It is very old, even as I view these things… a translation of a translation, so bear with me."

The Mistress cleared her throat and read;

" 'The Dragonspawn goes to the Black College… the Traitor hides the Dragonspawn from the Shadow 'til the knell sounds for the Last Battle… when the Dragon, curse his name, is Reborn… the manner of finding, the key of waking, lies with the Traitor… all praise to Shai'tan, praise the Great Lord of the Dark…' "

The Mistress lowered the page. "That last part is less significant, but I trust you were attending to the rest, dear?"

Ranim nodded.

"Any thoughts, my sweet?" the Mistress enquired.

Ranim shrugged. "Only two. First – you do not employ me for my thoughts. You employ me because I kill anyone you tell me to, when you tell me to."

"That is a fair point, dear. And what about second thoughts, now?"

"That I would like to meet this Dragonspawn, and kill it too."

"A chance would be a fine thing, my honey-bun. Easier said than done, I fear." The Mistress carefully replaced the page in the folder. Ranim was undeterred.

"Anything can be killed, howsoever difficult. How do I kill it?"

"With great difficulty, by all accounts… a gholam tried once, and failed."

"A… what is that, Dread Mistress?"

"Something even more dangerous than you, my dove. Dread things, Shadow-wrought, made to kill Aes Sedai… all of them dead and dust long-since, I would hope." She glanced at the box again. "All but one." The Mistress shrugged her bony old shoulders. "In any case, I have my orders... we are not to attempt to kill this Dragonspawn, I am relieved to say… it will make a useful tool for the Master. We are to turn it to the Shadow."

Complacently, Arachnae Kirikil patted her belt pouch. Something metallic clinked inside. "And I have the means to do so." She sighed. "The Dragonspawn… such as we are just mice to it, I fear… so, the question is; who shall collar the cat?"

"Cat?"

"Just an expression, dear."


Part III: Falme

Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah was buying fish in the famous fish-buying market of Falme, where she had first bought fish as a girl. The Fish Hall was a rather dank, smelly arcade where the produce of the sea was sold, lined with numerous stalls where fish and crabs and lobsters of all kinds were laid out on trays full of crushed-ice, easily the oldest and most important part of Falme... why, upon this very spot, the venerable folk of ancient Miereallen might well have bought their fish, also. Old, dirty tiles lay beneath Shrina's booted feet, and a barrel-vaulted roof curved above, from which her strident tones rebounded;

"I am not paying that much for these skinny flounders, you thief! The Bluchas have always been thieves of the seas! Your mother is a thief, Tulith Blucha, and your brothers out on their boat are also thieves... and so are you! Seven coppers for your pathetic, shrivelled fish, and that's my final offer!"

Tulith Blucha scowled angrily and shook her fist. She was dark of hair and eye, did not look much like her younger brother, Roth, took more after the father's side of the family, though she fortunately did not have his drinker's nose.

"You are the thief, Shrinalla Tolamani (as are all of the Watchers up there on their hill, your grandfather and cousins most especially) – a thief are you! Seven measly coppers for the finest fruits of the bountiful Mother Ocean? You should be ashamed, and go ashamedly back to your White Tower, and hide your face in shame when you get there! I will take eight though."

Then, having shown that they respected each other by haggling properly and calling each other thieves and calling each other's family thieves also, Shrina gave Tulith Blucha the fishmonger's daughter eight coppers. She had demanded thirteen, though this was still much cheaper than an unFalman would have paid. Tulith then gave Shrina her fruits of the bountiful Mother Ocean, carefully wrapped in good brown paper, and not the cheap stuff that stuck to the fish that an unFalman would have got. Shrina tucked the neat package, heads and tails poking out, into her basket. And that was that, some fine fat flounders for her to fry-up for grandpa and the Twins and perhaps Thaeus, if he could be bothered to leave his Inn and come to dinner at the Towers of the Watchers... and all it had taken was several minute's worth of sustained insults and shouting!

Ellyth and Renn often thought their friend rude – though they knew she had enough good points to more than make up for it – but Shrina had always been considered a polite girl by her neighbours! Her friends simply had no idea how much Shrina had toned-down her Falme-ness before coming to Tar Valon!

"Oh, I saw your brother down in Illian, Tulith," Shrina mentioned, in far friendlier tones than those she had used for the honourable ceremony of the haggle.

"Really, Mistress Tolamani? That bloody wastrel! I hope he was alive when you saw him, though..."

"Oh yes... had a handsome woman on his arm, also, though not so handsome as I. I mean… um… beautiful. Yes, I am a beauty, she was merely handsome. And Ysmet told me she wished she had a scar on her face! Odd fish, those Ebou Dari..."

"Odd fish indeed!"

"He seemed to like her, though. Noblewoman, by the way." Shrina arched her eyebrows.

Tulith made a horse-like noise of disgust with her lips. "Roth! Swanning about Palaces pretending to be a blooming Bard! He was better-off with a nice well-born Watcher's daughter like you, Shrinalla, someone no stranger to our Falman ways… not like those..." and Tulith Blucha made a spitting sound, though she was too well brought-up to actually spit, especially here, in the hallowed Fish Hall "...Seanchan." Some of the other fishmongers heard this, frowned, and made spitting sounds also.

"I hope it was not too bad for you Bluchas, the occupation?" Shrina enquired.

"Oh, they were a stiff lot, those invaders... had to bow and scrape a fair bit... but everyone likes a nice piece of fish on their plate now and then, even them! We charged them double. But even so..." Tulith frowned "...they put one of those silver collars on cousin Zaira and marched her off to the big house, which annoyed us..."

Shrina scowled, annoyed also. She had heard things about these collars that she did not like, rumours that they had even been put around the necks of Aes Sedai... it was a shame the Seanchan had all been gone by the time she and the Twins got here, except for those captured by the Watchers... she would have liked to join the Heroes of the Horn on the field for that battle! Her scowl intensified. The Horn of Valere. It had been near enough a month, but she was still furious! It was an even bigger shame that a certain Hornsneaker had also been long gone from Falme on her arrival... she had a score to settle with Master Cauthon! Tulith was rattling on;

"...but when the Dragon led the Heroes of the Horn against the Dark One and the Seanchan and perhaps the Whitecloaks also, we are not sure (that was quite a day, I don't think our poor ma has got over it yet) I am glad to say that cousin Zaira managed to escape in all the confusion! She has gone back to selling her herbs and potions now... and it was those two strange, outland girls who helped her out of that collar, the ones who were renting the upstairs room! Ma always said there was something odd about them, but we never suspected they were..." Tulith glanced significantly at Shrina "...you know, a couple of your lot, Mistress Tolamani."

Shrina raised her eyebrows. "Really? The whole town seems to have been crawling with Aes Sedai until I arrived, now I can't find a single one of them! I hope you didn't charge my Sisters too much rent?"

"We should have refunded it, considering! We were all very proud to hear you had won the shawl, by the way… well, those of us who like you… others… certain girls you had disagreements with, for example… well, you know what some people are like… oh, and back when the news came, some Whitecloak-loving wagon-guard tried to scratch a dragon's fang on the Watcher's Gate!"

"Really? Grandpa wouldn't have cared for that, he always likes the paint on it to look nice and smooth. What did he do?"

"What do you think, Mistress Tolamani? He popped out of the postern with a gutting-knife, grabbed the Whitecloak-lover and scratched a dragon's fang on him!"

Shrina giggled. "He didn't tell me about that! Ah, grandpa and his sense of humour! I have missed this place and the ocean and all of you Bluchas and so forth, but I have certainly missed grampy the most!"

"Well, we have missed you too, Mistress Tolamani, it hasn't been the same since you went off to Tar Valon... it has certainly been quieter! Until those accursed Seanchan came, at least... and Roth too, we have missed him, I suppose, the old house was much duller after he ran away – well, was chased away, ma still gives your grandfather free octopus for doing that, as she knows he likes them..."

"Octopus... yuck!" Shrina made a face. "So Mistress Blucha doesn't mind, that her youngest son got run out of town by my axe-brandishing grandpa?"

"Oh no, it was the best thing that could have happened for him – incentive! It was always obvious to the rest of us that Roth should go off and be a Gleeman!"

"Yes, sweet Roth always had a fine voice and a good memory and a witty way of telling stories – and was completely bloody useless at everything else! Gleemen!"

Shrina and Tulith then both laughed the loud, raucous, Falme laugh, throwing back their heads, the cackling echoing against the curved roof above. Some of the outlanders there to buy fish looked at them curiously, but the Falmen walked past without a glance. Shrina was just wondering if she could afford some of those oysters on the next stall, was beginning to anticipate the pleasure of further haggling, whilst preparing some choice insults for both the shellfish and their vendor, when-

"Shrina! There you are!"

Shrina turned and was enormously surprised to see one of her dearest friends striding determinedly towards her through the throng of Falmen and Falwomen and Falchildren engaged in the important business of buying and selling fish. She was looking unusually determined. Recovering from the shock, Shrina was delighted;

"Renn! I can't believe it's you! Unbelievable! This is wonderful – you're here in Falme and not in Tar Valon! You actually left the Tower for once! And came here – to Falme! Where we both are right now! Listen, you won't believe what has happened to m-"

"Shut-up, Shrina! Stop blathering! You can tell me your silly stories about hunting for the Horn of Valere later – right now we have urgent business! Where's that other Horn I'm told you found? You had better not have lost it Shrina, or I shall dip you in the sea! And if you have lost it, then you had definitely better not have lost it in a wager, or there shall be trouble, my girl!"

Shrina's mouth fell open, though no sounds emerged, which was unusual – she was not rendered speechless very often! Renn was miraculously and unexpectedly here in Falme, but not greeting her with delight as she should, but being extremely brusque with her! Rude, even! That sort of thing was supposed to go the other way, was it not?

"Stop gawping at me, you look like one of those fish in your basket! Honestly, Shrina, we don't have time for your nonsense! Ellyth is in trouble!"


Lord Thaeus of House Desiama placed the last rock carefully, checked that the flagstaff was solidly affixed in place, and then tied the white pennant to it, so that it fluttered in the strong ocean breeze that swept above the town, the golden sunburst seeming to vanish and reappear as the long, thin flag whipped fitfully in the wind. He lowered his gaze to his booted feet, set in the freshly-turned soil of the mass grave dug by the local farmers, his lips moving in a silent blessing.

Blaek Gaidin stood behind, dusting his gauntlets, as the rocks he had helped the young Amadici Nobleman place on the low cairn had been rather gritty. His own lips did not move, but he maintained a respectful silence even so. He had not minded helping, even if the memorial was for dead Whitecloaks, since as a man dedicated to war and violence, he appreciated the necessity of honouring one's fallen comrades – for if you did not, who would? It was not about whether you had liked the dead men who lay beneath the ground, but about duty; the duty of remembrance for those who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you, who had taken the same risks... and had fallen in your place. Blaek's gaze lingered on the rippling pennant for a moment, and he frowned before looking away, gazing out over the Aryth Ocean, which was not a patch on the Sea of Storms in his estimation... the sight of a Golden Sunburst raised his hackles a little, but it also reminded him uncomfortably of another banner, that he had seen on the way to Falme, and wished he had not. Again, Blaek heard the laughter, and sighed.

The final brigand fell back, his gurgling howl cut-off by a severed windpipe, dropping his heavy sword and clutching briefly at his ruined throat, before lying still. Blaek was already carefully cleaning his sword on a scrap of cloth and checking the blade. How he longed for a Power-wrought sword, like Atual Gaidin's… though one with the Heron-mark on it would be nicer. There was a slight nick in the steel that would need to be ground-out at some point, hopefully there was a decent grinding-wheel left somewhere in Falme, even if nothing else was… some of these brigands had worn armour beneath their rags, and they had moved more like soldiers than he would have expected, from their appearance. Soldiers unused to facing opponents of the calibre of Aebel and Blaek Feruile, however! Which was why they were all dead.

Blaek glanced at his brother. Aebel was cleaning his own blade and examining it with equal care. Dead brigands lay at his feet also. The brothers sheathed their blades at the same time, eyeing each other.

"Four," declared Aebel.

"Three," Blaek answered, grudgingly.

Aebel smiled. Blaek frowned. Then, a low groan broke the silence in the clearing and one of the brigands at Blaek's feet moved slightly.

Aebel's smile widened. "Two," he corrected.

Blaek scowled. "Three soon-enough," he commented.

The Twins looked down at the dying brigand without much curiosity. A deep wound in his side, he would not live much longer. He had been faster than the others, fought with his left hand, had a sparse yellow beard covering youthful features which had been set in an expression of hatred. They had all had that look to them, for that matter, had attacked as soon as they saw the fancloth cloaks the brothers were wearing. The brigand coughed some blood, then managed to raise his head slightly and snarl, "Warder curs! Lapdogs to… witches!" His head fell back, chest rising and falling raggedly. He had spoken with an unmistakeably Tairen accent.

Aebel smiled coldly. "Did you hear that, brother?" he remarked, "the Tairen calls us lapdogs!"

Blaek shrugged. "We are no dogs, and do not sit in our Aes Sedai's lap."

Aebel grinned. "Though often-times she has sat in ours!"

With the last vestiges of fading consciousness, the brigand from Tear registered their own accents. "Oilfishing… scum!" he rasped, and spoke no more. The Twins looked down at the brigand's staring blue eyes for a moment, then Aebel carelessly flipped a corner of cloak over his face with his boot.

Blaek smiled. "A Tairen, he was, though far from home."

"What of it?" Aebel muttered, sullenly.

"Tairens count for two!" Blaek pointed-out, "so my score is four, same as yours!" Aebel scowled, and an argument might have ensued, but for a distant jingling of harness and flickering torchlight on the ridgeline above announcing the approach of riders… more brigands? Leaving the dead where they lay, Mosk and Merk standing patiently in the shadows, the Twins stole up to the trees, prepared for more killing if need be.

A line of torches, growing brighter... a column of riders, travelling east along the old wagon road, coming from Falme by the looks of it. Aebel and Blaek watched cautiously from the tree-line. Not brigands… they looked like Shienarans, of all things, though far from their Borderland garrisons. Riding behind a long, white banner… that depicted a sinuous, lion-maned creature, five golden claws to each foot.

The Twins stared. They had seen that banner before, emblazoned against a wall of shimmering white fog! And this was not all they had seen before, for the Bannerman was not of Shienar, but the curly-haired youth with the wide shoulders, his eyes gleaming as gold as those of that turncloak, Machera, turning to say something to the girl riding beside him – why, it was the very same one who told their Mistress of the Horn! The wrong Horn! They barely recognised her in a dress! What was she doing here? The pale girl's dark eyes held concern, she was staring at the young man riding at the fore of the odd, torch-lit procession. A tall, redheaded youth, with grey eyes. It was him, the subject of all the unusual rumours! There were pictures of the fellow everywhere! But an important question yet remained...

"Where is the Hornsneaker?" the brothers from Mayene whispered, in unison.

They glanced at each other, thinking the same thought; if they did see the Andorman, perhaps it would be wiser not to tell of it? Not to tell Shrina, at least! But then, movement at the head of the column of riders caught their attention, for spurring her white mare forward from behind the big Ogier on the plough-horse... leaning up to speak insistently to the Dragon Reborn… there could be no mistaking the pale, slight, cool-eyed woman with the ageless face, the blue jewel hanging over her brow.

"Moiraine!" hissed Aebel.

"Sedai!" appended Blaek, politely.

"So where is..?" Aebel began – and then, a curved, Power-forged blade slipped between them, tapping each Warder smartly on the shoulder before withdrawing with equally alarming rapidity. The Twins whirled, hands on hilts. The tall man with the cold blue eyes staring from beneath the leather cord about his brow, draped in the same fancloth they wore, nodded to them. The Twins gaped.

"Right here," said Lan Gaidin. "Where did you think I was?"

"Lord Mandragoran!" the Twins uttered. At the same time. Lan's grimly set mouth quirked slightly, the hard planes of his features relaxing a little.

"Twinfish!" acknowledged the senior Warder. The Twins blinked – it had been a while since one of their Swordbrothers called them that, but then, this particular Gaidin was in the Tower even less often than they – and besides, if al'Lan Mandragoran wanted to call them by a fish-name, he was more than welcome to!

"I've heard about you two, the Mayener brothers," Lan continued.

"You've heard of us, Lord Mandragoran?" the Twins gasped, simultaneously.

"I've heard that you're always saying things at the same bloody time, and it's clearly true! Why, it's more entertaining than a Gleeman!" Lan sheathed his sword with a deft movement and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "That carrion back there… your work?"

The Twins nodded mutely, not daring to speak – at least, not in unison! – and followed Lord Mandragoran back to where the dead brigands lay, their colour-shifting cloaks darkening to the hue of the shadows beneath the trees. Mosk and Merk were suspiciously eyeing the new warhorse that had joined them, standing stolidly, reins hanging. Mandarb!

Lan ran his cold gaze over the corpses. "You're travelling to Falme?"

Aebel nodded; "yes, Lord Mandra-"

"Stop calling me that!" Lan snapped.

"-goran..." Blaek fell silent.

"Sorry, Lan Gaidin!" they added. At the same time.

"Cut that out, fish! And have a care in Falme, it was a very dangerous place when last I saw it... keep a close watch on your Aes Sedai..." Lan frowned at them "...where is she, anyway?"

"Back at the camp, Lan Gaidin."

"She sent us to watch the road, Lan Gaidin."

"She's alone?" Lord Mandragoran's voice was cold. The senior Warders took their duty very seriously. The Twins hastened to assure him that they did also.

"There is a Blademaster to ward her in our absence-"

"-the brother of an Aes Sedai, and trustworthy."

Again, Lan's lips quirked slightly. "You had best swim back to her before your young Green decides a brace of fish isn't enough, and bonds the fellow!"

The Twins blinked, and would have swiftly protested Shrina's innocence, but Lan Gaidin raised a hand curtly, kicking back the threadbare cloak of one of the dead brigands. There was good plate armour beneath – finer than should have been worn by a deserter from the ragged remnants of one of the armies sent to Almoth Plain by Tarabon or Arad Doman. Lan crouched, going through the dead man's pockets.

"But for the Tairen, from their cloaks-"

"-they look to be Taraboners."

"Taraboners?" Lan growled, "without veils?"

The Twins considered this, somewhat abashed.

Lan Gaidin rose, holding something. A small, lacquered metal plaque, a red shepherd's crook emblazoned over a golden sunburst. He tossed it to Aebel.

"Tai'shar Mayene, Twinfish," Lan observed dryly, "a good night's work. You younglings have managed to kill yourselves some Whitecloak Questioners… even if you did not know it at the time!"

Aebel passed the shepherd's crook badge to Blaek, who also made a show of examining it, avoiding Lord Mandragoran's stony gaze.

"We would have searched them but-"

"-we heard more riders approach."

Lan shrugged. "No matter. You did well enough." The Twins stood up a little straighter. Praise from Lord Mandragoran! "For a pair of oilfish." Their shoulders slumped, slightly.

Lan paced over to the dead Tairen, kicking the cloak aside and glancing at his face. "Wuan, this one was called... a nasty piece of work. I hope he enjoys the Pit!"

The Twins glanced at each other. Well, they could ask, at least.

"Lan Gaidin… the men Moiraine Sedai rides with-"

"-we did not see him, but is there-"

"-a Matrim Cauthon amongst them?"

Lan eyed them for a moment, somewhat dangerously, then shook his head. "He is elsewhere. Why do you want to know about him?"

"Our Aes Sedai wishes to know, not us."

"She… would like to meet him, very much."

"Why?" Lan stared at them coldly.

The Twins exchanged another mute glance. They did not particularly wish to answer, as they thought that the whole Horn-Hunting episode might make them appear silly and superficial. But even though this was Lord Mandragoran asking them, well, demanding, and one could not readily lie to the Uncrowned King of Malkier... Shrina would definitely not want them to tell about the Horn...

"Answer him."

A petite woman in a blue silken gown, walking her white mare out of the shadows. She lowered the cowl of her pale cloak and a glittering blue jewel caught the light. Moiraine Sedai! "Tell me, what business does your Aes Sedai believe that she has with Mat Cauthon?" Her dark eyes drilled into theirs whilst Lord Mandragoran scowled and fingered his sword-hilt. It proved to be quite a powerful combination for eliciting information! So, much as they did not wish to, the Twins reluctantly told Moiraine Sedai and Lan Gaidin about the Hornsneaker, and what their Aes Sedai intended to do to him when she had successfully hunted him down...

As they rode back to Shrina, the Twins looked at each other in chagrin, their olive-skinned cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The reaction of the Blue Sister and her Warder to the truth had not been what they expected... not at all… that stern, ageless face breaking into an amused smile on the one hand, those stony features twitching with unaccustomed mirth on the other... A combination of oddly girlish giggles and harsh, gravelly laughter seemed to chase them as they rode away! What was so funny about this accursed Cauthon fellow being forced to eat the Horn of Valere by their Aes Sedai? They didn't know Shrina, she wasn't joking – she meant it! So, the Twins had finally got to meet their hero, Lord Mandragoran – as well as Moiraine Sedai, no less – and... and they had laughed at them! They were Warders, not Court-Fools – it was humiliating!

His duty done, Thaeus turned, stepping away from the cairn beneath which Lord Bornhald and a thousand men of his dead Legion lay. Geofram Bornhald had been a friend of his father's, at least in as much as either of them had friends, their Houses linked by blood for several generations, though not in recent times... had she not begun to Channel – though Thaeus did not wish to dwell upon that – then Ellyth might have found herself married to young Dain Bornhald, so perhaps it was just as well that she had gone to the White Tower instead...

Thaeus would not have liked to have to call that fool his brother, especially since his own brothers were dead. The son certainly did not take after the father in that House... Lord Bornhald had been a man of honour, Thaeus considered, if ruthless with it – he had not ignored his obligations and had given the son of his old comrade a place in his Legion when there were few others amongst the Lord-Captains prepared to offer a company command to a young officer whose sister was a Tar Valon witch.

Thaeus nodded to the Warder. "Thank-you for your help, Aebel Gaidin."

"I am Blaek, Aebel remained in town with Shrina Sedai."

"Forgive me, Blaek Gaidin, it is just that..."

"No matter, it happens all the time."

"I suppose that it must, yes? But I appreciate the aid, even so... considering..."

Thaeus was too mannerly to ask the obvious question, though his raised eyebrow was certainly enquiring.

Blaek shrugged. "They may have been Whitecloaks, who would have made themselves my enemy by trying to kill my Aes Sedai, but they were still brave men."

The local farmers had simply interred the broken remains of the Legion into a hastily-dug pit and filled it in, though Thaeus was glad they had at least done that much – they had left the corpses of the Seanchan invaders to the crows and seagulls.

Thaeus examined the fluttering pennant critically – the seamstress in the shop next to his Inn had raised her eyebrows when he asked her to make that for him, but she had done a good enough job. A better job on the dark coat he now wore, as well as his new cloak, not white, but red. "I did not care for them overmuch," he muttered, "but they were still my comrades – I owe them this." Blaek nodded. "And I can assure you that since we rode into battle against soldiers, rather than into a village full of unarmed farmers, that there are no Questioners buried here." Thaeus had made his feelings about the Hand of Light quite clear – with deeds as well as words.

The bronzen note resounded through the small clearing, yellow-orange light from the campfire flickering against surrounding foliage and ancient ter'angreal both. Lord Thaeus lowered the curling huntsman's instrument and glanced around himself. After a while, when no trace of pale fog appeared, he nodded, a suggestion of disappointment vying with relief on his features, and rose to return the Horn of T'oph to its saddlebag.

"I suppose that answers that question," observed his sister's friend, the rather brash young Aes Sedai who had Healed him.

"I am afraid that it does, Shrinalla Sedai," Thaeus agreed. "It would seem that you are the Hornsounder, and no other!"

The willowy Aes Sedai frowned slightly. "An honour I could happily have avoided," she muttered, before returning her attention to the smudged chalks on the parchment she held, shaking her head slowly. The fire-light picked out the details; the two combatants, duelling in the sky above Falme. The Dark One, flames dancing in his mouth and eyes… and the tall, red-haired youth who confronted him. The Dragon Banner rippled in the sky behind them. She glanced at Thaeus, who had returned to sit on the other side of the fire. She held up the picture. "You are sure this is what you saw?" she asked him, not for the first time.

"It is, Shrinalla Sedai," Thaeus affirmed. "Quite a good likeness, too."

"Call me 'Shrina,' you might as well," the young Aes Sedai muttered, absently, folding up the parchment and putting it away. She sighed. "So, the Dragon is reborn, and the Last Battle is coming." She shook her head, adding bitterly, "I was right about that, at least!"

Thaeus attempted to commiserate. "I am sorry that it was not you who found the Horn of Valere, Shrinalla... Shrina Sedai, I mean, but-"

"Oh, just Shrina, I hate 'Sedai' it always makes me feel like an old woman!"

Thaeus grinned. "Then you must call me Thaeus, or 'Lord Whitecloak...' though I am no longer a Whitecloak and when father hears that I have decided to follow the Dragon, I shall no longer be a Lord either... he will make one of my cousins his heir, yes? But I sympathise... Shrina... life is often unfair, we do not always receive our just desserts…"

Shrina shook her head. "No, I see now, I thought too much of glory, of the Heroes answering my call… perhaps the Hornsneaker thought only of salvation... even if it was just his own!" She laughed, and after a moment, Thaeus joined-in. "I promise you – no more lightning!" She had a pleasant laugh, this Shrina.

Thaeus retrieved his dirty tabard from where it lay. He was no longer wearing that particular garment, but a rough, homespun shirt and a brown, patched cloak that he had acquired in the same village as Shrina had found her chalk sketch. He looked at it for a long moment, staring at the golden sunburst symbol on the breast, then bundled it up and consigned the tabard to the flames. Immediately wishing he had not, he rose, coughing and fanning the air. Shrina narrowed her eyes and for a moment, the camp-fire flared brighter, the garment reduced to ashes whilst a sudden upwards breeze whisked away the offending smoke.

Thaeus blinked. No matter how many times he saw it, he was still unused to the sight of a woman channelling. For all that his sister reportedly did it... that he had done it himself, he supposed... whatever it was he had done. The Family Curse. He had channelled the One Power... well, he would not do so again... unless he had to. Unless he had no choice. But he could feel it there, on the fringes of his awareness, the Power or whatever it was... calling to him. A call that, soon or late, he might be compelled to answer.

"So you mean it – you're really not a Whitecloak anymore?" Shrina enquired.

"Naturally, I mean it – I renounced my Oaths when I burnt my cloak!"

"It is just that you have that same annoying sense of humour as your sister... where one is never sure if what you say is serious or not!"

"An unfortunate trait that we inherited from our father. After he was taken prisoner at Soremaine, father lay in a tent full of scowling Companions of Illian with a crossbow-bolt sticking out of his hip... and told an Aes Sedai that he did not require Healing, but would she please be so good as to bring him a cup of soothing herb-tea instead?"

Shrina chuckled. "I bet she wasn't happy!" She frowned. "But can you do that? Just burn your cloak and say you're not a Child of the Light anymore?"

Thaeus shrugged. "The Dragon has been reborn," he said, simply, "all bonds are broken, all ties unbound."

"I thought Whitecloaks… Children, that is..." Shrina qualified, "I thought they considered their oath to hold them above all else?"

"Nearly all else..."

"You're not planning to go running off to join those Dragonsworn we've been hearing about, are you?"

Thaeus laughed. "Not likely! A rabble, doubtless much given to looting and burning, I expect that half of them will be dead before the end of winter. No, once I have escorted you safely to Falme, I mean to find the Dragon Reborn, and swear my allegiance to him personally, yes? And I shall not regret breaking the Oaths I swore as a foolish boy, beneath the Dome of Truth... apart from anything else, I am sick of the fear."

"Fear?" Shrina eyed him with a touch of confusion. "You do not seem to be the fearful type, any more than your sister…"

"Not my own fear, Shrina Sedai… the fear of others, who are frightened of me, yes?" Thaeus shrugged, a hint of self-disgust in his wry smile. "Wherever I have ridden, at the head of my men, I have always seen it in their eyes… fear. Fear of doors marked with Dragon's Fangs, accusations levelled at suspected Darkfriends… fear of what we Children might do to them, in the name of the Light…" He sighed. "If we were truly pure and good… then we would see love in the eyes of those we claim to protect. Not fear. Of course, there are always the usual ingratiating types who greet our arrival in some village or town with enthusiasm… but they are never the sort I would wish to associate myself with... anymore than I would choose to ride with Questioners..."

Riders, approaching. Too many to be the Twins and too loud, for that matter… and too late to kick dirt over the fire. Thaeus stood, shrugged off his cloak and retrieved his sheathed sword from where it leaned against the log he had been sitting on. He held its long curve loosely in his hands, ready to draw. A Heron stood out on the hilt, there was another etched into the blade.

The family sword of his House, that had once hung at the hip of General Luco Desiama himself. On the day Lord Guye had presented it to him, finally allowing that he was worthy to carry it, his father had, in his usual wry manner, pointed out to his son that though generations of Aes Sedai-hating Desiamas had proudly carried the weapon into battle, it had been wrought, long-ago, with the One Power! Presumably, by an Aes Sedai. Thaeus had always pretended to sharpen the blade, when amongst the Legions… but had known it did not need it. Life for him, it seemed, was to be full of paradoxes and inconsistencies, the family sword the very least of them!

The half-dozen men who walked their horses into the clearing wore blue Domani cloaks over their armour, but there was not an ear-stud or beauty-patch amongst them. Thaeus recognised their leader, and scowled. Naming Questioners was clearly as unlucky as naming Shai'tan...

"Child-Questioner Earwin," Thaeus acknowledged, levelly.

The big man with the long moustaches narrowed his grey eyes. He raised a fist and the riders halted, dismounting. Hands on hilts, staring suspiciously. Shrina remained seated by the fire, hands folded in her lap.

"Why are you not with the Legion, Desiama?" Earwin growled.

"My title is 'Lord-Lieutenant Desiama' and I strongly suggest that you use it, Questioner," Thaeus responded. "As for the Legion – or the half-Legion that was all that was left to my Lord Bornhald when your master Carridin took the rest from his command… well, they are all dead. As is the Lord-Captain. Fallen to the invaders… or had you not heard?"

"Oh, I certainly heard... betrayed to their deaths by yellow-eyed Darkfriends and Tar Valon witches..." Earwin's cold, grey eyes moved to Shrina. "Who is she?"

"A lady under my protection, Questioner. That is all you need to know."

Shrina smiled brightly at Earwin. "You may know me as Mistress Amaranthia," she declared, "you might say that I am a merchant, dealing in rare musical instruments."

Child-Questioner Earwin blinked. "Walk in the Light," he told Shrina, curtly.

"Oh, I always do!"

Earwin smiled coldly. "If that is the case, Mistress... Amaranthia... why are you concealing your right hand beneath your left?"

"Um... to try and hide the fact that I'm wearing a serpent-ring on it..?"

"Darkfriends! Arrest them both!"

Thaeus' sword left its sheath and he advanced his right foot, hands shifting on the hilt. The Questioners drew their blades also. Thaeus smiled at Earwin. "Where is Child Wuan? You usually avoid danger in each other's company, do you not?"

"He is nearby. You are planning to duel with him again?" demanded Earwin, scornfully, "after defeating us, perhaps? You did not triumph the last time, I recall."

"You recall poorly. I wounded him badly enough that he did not speak disparagingly of my sister again, I seem to recollect. And I did not use my right hand uppermost either, on that occasion, a handicap I shall avoid on this..."

"One against six?" Earwin sneered, though continued to keep his distance.

"Whitecloaks clearly cannot count," observed Shrina, rising from her log. Her cavalry-blade lay sheathed against her saddle, by a tree on the other side of the clearing. Shrina reached out languidly and the sword left the scabbard and shot towards her, spinning once on its way, before the hilt slapped into her hand. A wide, forward-curved blade, it appeared to have writing engraved on it.

"Aes Sedai!" shouted Earwin, "do not attack her, take the traitorous Darkfriend instead – she cannot intervene if we do not threaten her person!"

Everything happened very fast, from this point.

Thaeus slipped into the void on the instant violence erupted, the place his father had taught him to go when there was killing to be done. He resisted the urge to reach out and grasp... something. The call of the Power seemed to come upon him more strongly in this place. Instead, emptied of all emotion, he glided from form to form, using his enemy's numbers against them, his blade sweeping and dipping in deadly arcs... Cataract in the Valley... The Smoke Ascends... Milling the Corn... only him and the blade, perfectly still, whilst the world moved around them.

The Serpent's Strike, and a fourth Questioner fell, clutching his throat, even as Thaeus was completing Whirlwind over the Dunes, almost decapitating the fifth... a deep cut in his shoulder, left by one of them, which he ignored... sensing movement to his left, turning too late… Thaeus began to shift the blade up into Boxing Hare, seeming to move too slowly, a fly caught in amber, his wounded shoulder protesting, Child-Questioner Earwin's sword darting for his face as the void shattered – and another blade intervening, parrying the vicious thrust away, fast as lightning. A wide, forward-curved blade, engraved with verse. Earwin took a few quick steps back, raising his sword above his head in a two-handed grip, as Shrina slipped between the combatants, the cavalry blade held loosely in one hand.

"An Aes Sedai with a sword!" Earwin laughed. Shrina scowled.

Thaeus clutched a hand to his shoulder to stem the steady flow of blood. "Shrina, please stand aside... this is my duel, yes?"

"No!" Shrina muttered, her eyes fixed on Earwin. The fellow did not seem to care, that his fellow Questioners lay dead about him, his eyes were on them, held a fanatical hatred. And he was still laughing. Shrina's scowl darkened and she slipped a foot forward, unhampered by her divided skirts and took up a firm, two-handed grip on the hilt, the tip of the blade pointed at Earwin's throat.

"Shall we dance, Whitecloak?" Shrina suggested.

Child Questioner Earwin was fast for a man of his size and seemed to find the prospect of duelling a woman amusing. The harsh laughter was cut off rather abruptly – along with Earwin's hands – as Shrina side-stepped his powerful downwards stroke with swift grace, performed a neat amputation at the wrists, then spun, as though she was indeed dancing, and carried-out a similar operation at his neck, opening his throat with equal neatness. The Questioner dropped to his knees, then his face, and lay still amongst the dead leaves. Shrina frowned down at the man she had killed.

"Eurgh! I hate doing that... lightning is so much cleaner than all of this blood and guts... still, he didn't seem to be a very nice fellow, even for a Whitecloak Questioner, and he did call us Darkfriends, so I can't say that I regret the necessity."

Thaeus was eyeing Shrina with respect and gratitude, but confusion also.

Shrina proceeded to wipe her sword clean with her handkerchief, taking care that no blood remained in the shallow wells of engraved writing. She noticed Thaeus' regard, and sniffed. "You shall require Healing again, pretty fellow," she observed, "so lose the shirt!" Shrina's teeth flashed in a slightly savage smile, "I shall have to bond you too if you are going to force me to make a habit of saving your life! That is all we Greens ever do, you know, save the skins of our intemperate Warders."

"Well, exactly!" Thaeus responded, as he struggled with his shirt, blood soaking most of one sleeve. Shrina raised her eyebrows, clearly confused. Thaeus qualified; "those three oaths of yours... I thought that you were only permitted to do violence in protection of your Gaidin..?"

Shrina shrugged, dismissively. "Oh, that is just with the One Power…" she grinned, wolfishly "...the Third Oath doesn't say anything about swords!"

When the Twins returned, the somewhat scornful laughter still ringing in their ears, they scowled to see more dead Questioners – the night was full of them, it seemed! – and scowled further at the sight of the young Lord Whitecloak seated on a log with his shirt off, their Aes Sedai seemingly running admiring fingers over his bare shoulders...

"I'm Healing him!" Shrina snapped, in response to their accusing glares.

When he felt that he had communed with his dead comrades long enough, Thaeus returned to the horses, Blaek walking at his side. The young Warder glanced curiously at the Heron-mark blade bouncing on the Amadici Lord's hip.

"Did you kill a Blademaster for that?"

"The Blademaster who presented me with the sword was Lord Guye Desiama, High-Seat of my House and my own father, so patricide should scarcely have been appropriate in light of so fine a gift, yes?" Blaek nodded, solemnly. Thaeus grinned. "Father flaming-well made me earn it, though!"

Blaek went to his saddle, from which hung two practice-swords, bundles of slim wooden lathes. Thaeus had wondered why the Warder had brought them with him when they rode up out of town to build the cairn. Now he found out. There was something challenging in Blaek's eyes when he turned, holding out a pair of wooden hilts, giving Thaeus his choice of weapon.

"Shall we see if you earned it or not, Lord Whitecloak?"


"Come with me, Rennetta," Shrina snapped, grabbing Renn's hand and dragging her friend from out of the dank depths of the Fish Hall, away from the curious gazes of the fisher-folk.

Renn reddened. Shrina only ever called her by her full name when she was extremely annoyed with her! Its use reminded her nervously of her mother, to whom she was always 'Rennetta.' How she loathed the name! She was not even sure how Shrina had found out her full nomenclature – she had certainly not written anything other than 'Renn' in the novice book... but Shrina noticed all sorts of things that others might not, a necessary skill required by a Hunter for the Horn, she had told her once. Not that she would be doing much of that anymore... poor girl! She must be upset, to have not got here in time – the locals were all speaking of the handsome young Hero who had sounded the Horn of Valere with awe. If noticeably not mentioning the other one, he who had appeared in the sky over Falme, who there seemed to be a great deal of colourful chalk sketches available of... in her brief time on Toman Head, Renn had so far bought three! Though in her haste to share the news about Ellyth, she had been a little hard on Shrina perhaps, she must be feeling the disappointment keenly... but even so, it was no excuse for calling her Rennetta!

One of Shrina's Warders loitered further along the arcade, attracting admiring glances from various fishwives. He bowed gracefully at their approach, falling-in behind them.

"Hello, Blaek," said Renn, absently.

"I am Aebel, Renn Sedai," the Twin corrected her.

"Oh, sorry..." Renn glanced at Shrina. "Where are we going to, anyway?"

Shrina ceased her angry stalk and released Renn's hand, smoothing her skirts a little. "I believe you mentioned a certain Horn? That is where we are going!" Shrina sniffed, thrust the basket of fish into Aebel's hands and went outside, her Warder pacing her. Renn took a grateful breath of healthy sea air as she followed, for the atmosphere in the arcade was more than a little fishy...

Jabal was standing by the horses where she had left him, speaking quietly with Aebel – no, Blaek – whilst the young fellow who had turned out to be Ellyth's brother was staring into space. This 'Thaeus' appeared to be muttering to himself. Odd!

Though even odder had been what the two young men were doing when she and Jabal came riding out of the trees – trying to bash each other with bits of wood! As if they did not have more important things they could be getting on with... and Jabal had wanted to fight the winner! Warders! Not that young Thaeus was Gaidin, for all that he had seemed to be winning the sparring match...

Shrina glanced at the tall, graceful mare on the lead-rein – "yes, that is definitely Eradore," – then noted that her other Gaidin was looking somewhat bruised.

"What in the Waves happened to you?"

"I was sparring with Lord Whitecloak..." Blaek muttered.

"You lost, by the looks of it! And stop calling him that, he isn't a Whitecloak anymore, I think he wants to go off and be a Dragonsworn instead, now..." Shrina eyed Thaeus, who blinked, and entered the conversation, if such it could be termed.

"Mmm? Oh, it is perfectly alright, I told them to call me that, I quite like it... and I do not wish to be Dragonsworn anymore, Shrina, I now intend to assist Renn Sedai in rescuing my sister from peril, yes? Perhaps I shall go and pledge my service to the Dragon Reborn after that task is accomplished, but for the time being... well, the motto of my House is Family First. You understand?"

Thaeus returned to staring into space, a concerned cast to his light-blue eyes. Renn blinked. He was an odd young fellow, not much like his sister, for all that he sounded like her... he even made that 'mmm?' noise!

Aebel glanced at the large bruise on the side of his brother's head, and raised his eyebrows. Blaek frowned. "He's good." Aebel smirked. Blaek scowled. "You try him!"

The Towers of the Watchers lay on high cliffs to the southern edge of Falme, around the curve of the broad bay, the shattered hulks of strange, bluff-bowed ships interspersed with the occasional fishing boat providing the only relief to the endless rolling expanse of the Aryth Ocean. Though clearly it did have an end, and those who lived on the other side of it had recently managed to make themselves extremely unwelcome in these parts, by all accounts! The six of them had ridden past the docks and into the warehouse district – Shrina angrily pointing out the mess the Seanchan had made of the cobbles – before Renn realised that they were not going to an Inn.

"I can't afford one!" Shrina groaned, on being questioned about this, "so the boys and I have to stay with grandpa up at the miserable old Towers – and he definitely doesn't approve of the three of us! Separate bedrooms!"

It was some distance to the miserable old Towers, so on the way, Renn began to tell Shrina what she had been doing since last they were together, though not in anything resembling the order in which events had actually happened!

"You came here, to Falme, through the Ways?" Shrina gasped, interrupting the collage of information.

"Well, not exactly... we wanted to, but... oh, never mind all that, it's not important... but listen to this, you won't believe what I saw a couple of days ago!"

Renn, having got the urgent news about Ellyth out of the way, moved to what she considered the second most important detail. Shrina scowled. "S'redit? What sort of a stupid name is that?"

Renn chuckled. "Master Luca didn't like it either... silly man!"

Renn gazed upon the great beast with fascination. It was testing its leg gingerly, touching where the wound had been. It was grey, with huge flapping ears and tusks in addition to the odd nose, and it was enormous. The size of a barn! It was the most amazing creature Renn had ever seen!

"Thank-you for healing Mer, honoured marath'damane," repeated the woman with the pale yellow hair, her voice somewhat muffled since she was crouching down on the ground again, addressing the soil.

"I love animals and always Heal wounded beasts," protested Renn, "do stop going on about it... and please stand up, I can barely hear you from down there!"

"Forgive me, honoured marath'damane," the woman muttered in her odd, slurred accent, standing, her eyes still lowered however. Renn's brow furrowed. Why did she keep calling her that?

"Honoured or otherwise, I've never much desired to wear a leash," Renn muttered absently, eyes still fixed on the grey beasts as they touched each other reassuringly with their long noses. The big one had been injured by a Whitecloak arrow and the wound had festered, it had taken a deal of the Power to Heal him...

Valan Luca was still speculating, his eyes greedily lingering on the three strange animals. "Giant pig-goats..?" he wondered, "no... Giant deer-pigs..?"

"Why not 'giant boar-horses' Master Luca?" Renn suggested. "They're not very horse-like, but they do have tusks like a boar, well, except for the little one."

Valan Luca considered a moment, lips pursed, then grinned.

"No, Renn Sedai, I will go you one better! Sharan giant boar-horses!" he turned to the pale haired woman, "you are from Shara are you not, my dear?"

The woman looked about herself nervously, then nodded, eyes back on the ground. "Yes... Shara," she muttered.

Renn wondered where this Cerandin and her odd creatures had really come from... could she be one of these invaders who had crossed the ocean, that they had been hearing about? But that seemed unlikely – how could you fit one of those enormous creatures into a ship? Perhaps she really was from Shara... but that was all beside the point, for there had been Healing to do... the large beast reached out its long nose and touched her face surprisingly gently with the whiffling end of it.

"You're welcome," Renn told it. "I still don't see why they can't just be 's'redits,' Master Luca," she added, "it seems like a perfectly acceptable name..."

"But what does it mean, Renn Sedai?" Valan Luca's voice became declamatory, and he fluttered his satin cloak as though he had an audience. "It will not draw the crowds near so well as 'the Mysterious Giant Boar-Horses of Fabled Shara!' " Valan Luca chortled and rubbed his hands together, as though he could already see himself counting the coin, as well as basking in the reflected glory of the s'redits! Renn shrugged. At least she had got to see them for free...

Renn gave the magnificent creatures a last fond glance, before going over to where Jabal impatiently held the horses. Well, it seemed that the show had found itself a new attraction – which was just as well, for the Atha'an Miere sword-thrower and his reluctant assistant were about to leave the bill!

Shrina snorted, rolling her eyes with exasperation. "Honestly, Renn! So you have journeyed awhile with a travelling menagerie and then encountered some strange beasts, one of which you Healed of an arrow-wound... (I myself Healed a poor wolf who had hurt his paw, by the way, and he said he was very grateful, so you are not the only one around here who is kind to animals.) Giant boar-horses from Shara? Pah! But that does not tell me what you are doing here! Watcher's Oath! Start from the bloody beginning!"

"There is no need to shout, Shrina! Oh, by the way, we met Lord Wakime..."

Shrina forgot about the beginning. "Alven! Dear little man! Stop glaring at me like that, you two... how was he?"

"Very angry, I am afraid... after he has killed all of the Shadowspawn, he wants go to Illian and kill that Gleeman friend of yours into the bargain!"

"Sweet Roth? No! Surely not? I thought they were friends? Why would dear Wakime wish to harm a hair on Roth's handsome head- I said, stop glaring at me!"

The Twins lowered their eyes and made grumbling sounds under their breath.

Renn shrugged. "Oh, it was to do with a rude song or some such foolishness... men! Then, after Seleisin we came here, to find the girls and a ship... I might have known you'd be here too – oh Shrina, it is so good to see you!"

Shrina's voice sounded somewhat muffled through the enthusiastic hugging which, though Renn rode close alongside, threatened to drag her from the saddle. "Yes, well, it is good to see you also Renn, for all that you did not seem so pleased to encounter me back at the Fish Hall!" Shrina blinked. "Hold a moment... you said you arrived in Saldaea on the fifth of Tammaz... so how did you get down here so fast? You didn't use those horrid Ways again?"

"Not on your life! I am still having nightmares about that place – most unpleasant, especially at the end with that windy thing and all of the screaming and the howling..."

"Start from the beginning, Renn."

So, in more consecutive fashion, Renn told Shrina what she had been up to since she left Tar Valon.

Shrina frowned after a while, holding up her hand. "Wait... you came through the Ways looking for the missing novices in order to foil whatever it is slimy Liandrin is up to... but got lost and ended up in Saldaea and managed to find Ellyth's mare instead... oh, and Trollop has gone completely mad, as mad as one of those male-channellers she is always chasing after, and has bonded herself a tall, handsome Warder (except for the unsightly moustache) – that much I understand! But it still does not adequately explain why dear Wakime wishes to kill sweet Roth? I have to know!"

So, Renn told Shrina what she had been up to after that.


Jabal made a soft, groaning sound. Renn did not hear… she was examining the odd woollen article she had found downstairs in the private dining-room that morning… why would someone go to the trouble of knitting a spider's web? It was beautiful work, though – she wished she could knit half so well as that! Left behind by whichever guest had stayed here prior to their arrival, she supposed, draped on that old rocking chair in the corner of the room. It was odd, staying in an Inn where the staff were all occupying a gibbet in the courtyard! Rather a solitary experience... not to mention gruesome. She had asked the soldiers to cut the Darkfriends down but they had apologised and muttered about 'His Lordship' in a nervous manner. They certainly seemed to be cautious of upsetting the fellow, Renn imagined that he must be some hulking, extravagantly-bearded Border-Lord who carried a large axe and had bells in his hair and Trolloc-skulls hung about his neck... though her knowledge of the Borderlands was somewhat limited, to be honest...

Jabal groaned again, a little louder. Renn heard this time. She sighed, checking. Saddle-sores! Aching feet too... Renn masked the bond again. Foolish man! If he wanted Healing, he should just ask for it! Or order her to Heal him, since they were in private. Theirs had been a traditional Sea Folk wedding, after all... Renn still blushed to recall it, not so much at having been naked or at her soon-to-be husband being naked either, but rather at the scarred old Atha'an Miere Blademaster who performed the ceremony being naked also! And this Caroc fellow kept leering at her whilst he spoke the words of blessing! Men!

Fortunately, the Master-of-Blades and Jabal had been the only Sea Folk present for the Sea Folk wedding (no further guests would have fit in the cramped cabin of the Riverpike anyway) as the thought of a nude Nyein Sedai being there also filled Renn with horror! Old Caroc had come up from Tear to perform the secret ceremony as a favour to his former apprentice, and when he had put his britches back on, and – with a final, appreciative leer for the blushing bride and a "congratulations, lad, she's a peach!" for Jabal – left them alone together, well... that had been quite a wedding night! It had more than made up for the sheer embarrassment of the wedding itself! For all that the bed in the cabin was rather narrow and hard... perhaps a new mattress..?

But Renn was getting side-tracked – she often got side-tracked.

As a consequence of the nudity and the boat, if not the leering and the inappropriate comments, theirs was a traditional Atha'an Miere marriage, however. Which meant that whilst Renn gave the orders in public, in private...

"Wife! I have a command for you!" Jabal gave his commands but rarely, and succeeded in getting his own way even less rarely than that... "Since we are alone, I outrank you... I now command you to take my sword and put me out of my misery!"

Renn had been expecting to be commanded to give her husband Healing for his saddle-sores or at least a foot-massage, and was halfway through obediently-yet-ironically putting her hand over her heart as she customarily did upon receiving these rare orders... but at this, she frowned and raised her eyes to the oak-boarded ceiling. "Honestly, it's only a few saddle-sores, if you want Healing then just ask for it!"

"It is my feet also," Jabal complained. He sat up on the bed, eased off the remaining boot, then the stocking, and regarded his rather red feet glumly. He lay back down.

Renn discarded the odd woollen web and crawled onto the bed too. Perhaps in another week, he would finally become accustomed to the boots? Perhaps not... "You've only walked a few steps today, just up to the trees and back!"

"These foolish boots pinch my toes like the claw of the Great Hairy Crab!" Jabal rolled over onto his stomach, and groaned again.

"Stop groaning!" snapped Renn, and knowing that her husband would stoically and manfully refuse to request Healing (whilst continuing to complain of his hurts like a whiny child!) she promptly Healed Jabal without being asked to, which you really were not supposed to. Something to do with ethics.

"Better?" Renn asked, afterwards.

"They still hurt a little, wife," Jabal mumbled into the pillow.

Renn knew a request for a foot-massage when she heard one!

After a while, Jabal observed; "this is nice. It is nice, to be a married man."

Renn smiled, the expression mostly hidden by the unruly spikes of pale hair that were, as ever, hanging down over her brow. "And was it not nice before, my Lionfish, when you were a carefree sailor with a smoky-eyed girl awaiting you in every port?"

"Well yes, I suppose that was nice too- oww!" Renn stopped twisting her husband's big toe and resumed the foot-massage. Jabal spoke softly, half-asleep.

"I am glad that I married you, Sail-Mistress of my Heart."

"Well, I am glad I married you too, Blade-Master of my-"

Loud peremptory knocking on the door of their room. Renn knelt upright whilst Jabal grabbed his sword and leapt from the bed with an energetic spring. He was over by the door in a heart-beat, bare feet scuffing on the floor-boards.

"Who is it?" Jabal demanded, in his best Warder voice.

"It is me! Renn Sedai? Are you within?" enquired a deep, muffled voice from the other side of the door.

"What is your name?" Jabal insisted.

"It is Wakime!"

Renn blinked. "Is that you, Lord Wakime?" she enquired.

"Yes! It is Wakime!" confirmed the deep voice.

"Who is this Wakime?" Jabal wanted to know.

Renn laughed. "Oh, a funny Saldaean fellow who wanted to marry Shrina – he came all the way to Tar Valon once, to give her a silly sword with rude poetry engraved on the blade!" Jabal frowned. Swords were not put to this purpose amongst the Atha'an Miere… the Shorebound were truly strange, especially these Borderlanders, from what he could tell. "Anyway, he made a big scene and embarrassed poor Shrina in front of half the Tower, crying and wailing when she still wouldn't accept his suit… then he heard that Myrelle was on her way back from Kandor so he jumped on his horse and galloped off as though the Dark One were chasing him!"

"You know that Wakime can hear what you are saying, Renn Sedai?" complained the voice from the other side of the door, sounding hurt. Jabal blinked again, uncertain what to do. Renn made up his mind for him. A perquisite of wives.

"Well, don't just stand there, my fine fishy! Let him in!"

Jabal pulled open the door, and blinked. He was not particularly tall by Shorebound standards, though considered of greater-than-average height amongst his own people, but he was required to lower his gaze further than he would have thought necessary… the voice had sounded like that of a much larger man. The short – very short – Saldaean Lord gazed up at him with calm, tilted eyes. In addition to a lilac hat crowned with a big pink feather – that of the fla'mingo of Shara, Jabal noted, his sister's husband often sold such – he wore a matching lilac coat slashed with dark green silk and embroidered with golden snarling wolf-heads, as well as trews tailored from what appeared to be purple crushed velvet!

As Lord Wakime strutted past him like a diminutive peacock, Jabal, in his cream silk shirt, crimson sash and dark blue oil-cloth britches, realised that he was no longer the most colourful thing in the room. He had been more colourful than Renn, certainly, who was less loudly-dressed than usual in one of the practical, brown silken gowns she had brought with her. She came over and, while her husband glowered, gave Wakime a warm hug, bending down a little while the Saldaean Lord went onto his tiptoes. He smiled up at her with genuine affection, rather than the other kind of smile he reserved for women he wished to bed.

"Ah, Renn Sedai, you are beautiful as ever, still a pale evening water lily, shrouded in white-gold effervescence, dew-kissed by the silvery moonlight…"

"Well, thank-you, Lord Wakime, for whatever that all meant. Have you grown? You seem to have got taller since last I saw you…"

"Regrettably not, Renn Sedai, Wakime is experimenting with special heels." Lord Wakime raised a beautiful burgundy leather riding boot to one side, pointing at the heel. It did look higher than those usually seen on a man's boot.

"So what are you doing here, Alven Wakime?" Renn enquired.

"Oh, Wakime and his lancers were sent to this benighted place with the task of hunting down the remaining supporters of the False Dragon, but are now engaged in the killing of Shadowspawn instead... the Captain-of-Archers said that you were here, Renn Sedai, so Wakime has come to pay his respects."

"How polite!"

"And to invite you to dinner downstairs."

"Most kind of you, we accept! Why, you must be 'His Lordship' that the soldiers keep talking about..." Renn blinked.

"Yes, that is me." Wakime nodded.

"I did not realise... I visualised a much... yes, well, never mind all that..."

Jabal coughed, pointedly. Renn recollected that she had a husband. "Oh, this is my… my Warder, Jabal din Sudim Lionfish. Jabal, this is-"

"I know, Aes Sedai. Lord Wakime. I heard."

Jabal eyed Wakime rather coldly, his ivory-hilted short-sword held in front of him, one of the tattooed hands resting on the hilt. Wakime had a finely-gloved hand resting lightly on his own hilt, just above the Heron-mark. The silence stretched out.

Renn sighed. "What can you tell me of that riderless horse, Lord Wakime?"

"Ellythia Sedai's mare, Renn Sedai? Wakime recognised it instantly when it came running towards him – it took all of bold Wakime's not-inconsiderable skill to capture the animal! Wakime fears that the Aes Sedai and her Warder (a good friend of his) may have come to some trouble, up in the wilds of World's End!"

"You have seen them? I knew that she was heading for Saldaea, but..."

"Aye, Renn Sedai, Ellythia Sedai and Atual Gaidin aided us in capturing the False Dragon. We fought together, side-by-side, against the Dragonsworn!"

"Ellyth helped catch Mazrim Taim? She didn't say anything about that in her letter... But she is no Red! She hates Reds!"

"Even so, the Blue Sister and her Warder took a hand in it, though I do not know where they went after Irinjavar… for some reason, they sneaked away early one morning without saying their goodbyes!" Lord Wakime shrugged. "The ways of Aes Sedai are strange indeed, and for them alone to know."

"Yes they are!" Renn slipped on her slippers and led the way from the bedroom, toward the rear stairs. "Back in Tar Valon, Rashiel told me she'd seen Ellyth also, but didn't say anything about her helping to catch the-"

"Rashiel Sedai is alive? There have been strange goings-on in Maradon of late, when she disappeared without explanation, Wakime was extremely worried and feared the worst... for all that Rashiel had been very angry with Wakime because he smiled at a serving-maid... it was only an innocent smile, to thank the girl for helping Wakime find his other glove which he had mislaid in the back of that carriage... but even so, it is good to hear that she is safe at the White Tower. How did she get back there so soon..?"

Renn shrugged. She and Jabal had been lost in the Ways for what felt like a week... but in the world outside, two months had passed! They might just as well have made their misguided journey by more regularly travelled roads, though this might have taken all of three months...

"It is nice to see you, Lord Wakime, opportune, even... but I thought you preferred to roam the Great Blight, hunting your monsters..?"

"Oh, Wakime does... there is much better sport to be had up there... but Wakime came here by choice. There have been heavy snows but when the Maradon road is open, the Headman – my Lord Bashere, that is – intends to take the caged False Dragon south to Tar Valon, a place that Wakime would far rather avoid..."

"Oh yes, Myrelle Sedai might be there!"

Lord Wakime winced, then nodded fervently. "Wakime volunteered himself and his lancers for this duty instead, just in case! He is supposed to be hunting Dragonsworn but has just been chasing smoke, there are none here... Wakime does not think he will find any – though he did find this horse!"

They had descended the stairs, gone outside and reached the stables by this point... Renn looked at the tall, graceful animal in the stall. Eradore tossed her head and whickered. She stroked the pale mare's nose gently. "What is your Mistress doing right now?" Renn wondered.

"Do not fear, Renn Sedai, she has Atual Gaidin with her, and he is a capable fellow, almost as adept with a blade as peerless Wakime himself!"

"Goodness!" exclaimed Renn, impressed, adding, "but Ellyth is safe enough for the time being..."

Wakime frowned. "How do you know this, Renn Sedai?"

Renn flushed. "Oh... I'd love to tell you but it is an Aes Sedai secret, I am afraid..." Well, that was stretching the First Oath a little... but she was an Aes Sedai, and it was her secret, after all!

"Wakime loves secrets! Does it involve that eagle of yours, Renn Sedai?"

Renn flushed further. "It's not my eagle... he just seems to like me for some reason!"

The eagle spread its pinions as it descended into the clearing, where a pale-haired woman was leaning back against a tree with her eyes closed, a short, dark man crouching attentively beside her. The bird-of-prey landed on a low tree branch, gripping with its powerful talons, then folded its wings and looked down at the dead lamb that lay beneath. The eagle cocked its head to one side, quizzically.

Renn opened her eyes and frowned. She sat forward a little, cross-legged, the back of her gown somewhat besmirched with pieces of silvery tree bark as she had been leaning against a birch whilst communing with the bird. The sheer distance involved had necessitated entering a much deeper trance than usual, for a while she had practically been the eagle, soaring over vast expanses... it felt more than a little strange to be back in her own body! She blinked a few times, rubbing her temples.

"Urgh! It's always so odd seeing through my eyes, after seeing through a bird's," she exclaimed. Jabal, squatting nearby, his sheathed blade resting across his knees, nodded.

"Do not try it with a fish, Mistress of the Eight Oceans," Jabal cautioned, "for you cannot swim, despite my efforts to teach..."

Renn noted that the eagle was still regarding the lamb with suspicion.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Dig-in!"

The eagle eyed her for a moment, then hopped down to the ground and commenced feeding, tearing at the pink flesh with its powerful beak. Renn smiled. It was only fair, she had monopolised the poor creature's hunting time all day, after all – it deserved a good meal! Then, she remembered the news.

"Oh, I saw Ellyth!" Renn exclaimed, "lots of Trollocs also... lots and lots of Trollocs... Fades... Draghkar, loads of them... I got chased by ravens too! Oh, and someone who must be that horrid old Darkfriend whom Ellyth and Shrina have fallen afoul of before, riding through the sky in a basket..."

Jabal was a little nonplussed by this. "Did you see Atual Gaidin?"

Renn rose a little unsteadily, retrieving her folded cloak which she had been sitting upon and sweeping it over her shoulders.

"No... but I expect he is scouting about somewhere, even eagle-eyes would be insufficient to see him if he did not want to be seen... there was another fellow with Ellyth who looked a bit like a Warder, though... he had rather strange eyes... and oddly, there was also an Aielman... it was very strange, Jabal, the one-eyed Aielman was crawling around on the ground while some... some Aielwomen were beating him with sticks! He seemed to be laughing at them! And there were some more Aielmen, sort of... watching... most unusual."

"They are strange, these Aiel..." Jabal commented, "and as for their women, I hear that they kill the Aielman, right after they have made love with him!"

"An understandable reaction with some fellows, according to Shrina!" Renn sighed. "Poor Ellyth! She has found herself with some rather strange travelling companions, and no mistake! But least she is alive... thank the Creator for that!"

As they walked back to the Inn, Jabal, limping a little in his foolish boots, glanced over his shoulder. The eagle appeared to be following them, hopping and flapping from branch to branch... Renn had not noticed.

"There seemed to be a good twenty Fists of Shadowspawn up there in the Peaks, as far as I could tell from their cookfires..." she mused. "I can't see us making our way through all of them, even if the Saldaeans help... Ellyth has the sea at her back and no way to get to us either, or she would have escaped the trap by now... besides, she has lost her horse and she hates walking!"

"That eagle is following us, wife. It keeps looking at you."

Renn did not hear. "Ellyth and her odd friends are stuck between the Ocean and at least a couple of thousand Trollocs, not to mention all of the other nasty Shadowspawn and ravens and Darkfriends... I think we're going to need a boat..."

"Or a ship," suggested Jabal, eagerly.

"What is the difference?"

"A ship has-"

"Yaaa!" Renn jumped. The eagle had flapped over while they were talking and had chosen to surprisingly and alarmingly perch upon Renn's shoulder! Its claws looked very sharp, but it gripped gently enough with its talons, gazing down at Renn, buffeting her head with its wings a little before it folded them. It squawked.

Renn sighed, and prodded the bird a little, but it declined to let go, and began to preen its feathers with a large, cruel beak. Fortunately, her cloak was thick wool, she could feel the power of its talons... Sometimes, she developed an affinity with certain creatures, when she used her particular Talent to see through their eyes and guide their movements... it seemed that this dratted eagle had taken a liking to her! She prodded it again but it just made a screeching sound, and stubbornly stayed where it was.

They had reached the outskirts of Seleisin by this point, and Renn blushed as she had to walk past numerous Saldaean Armsmen, who clearly found the eagle perched on the shoulder of the Aes Sedai a laudatory sight. By the way they pointed and whispered, she could have been channelling! Though perhaps a small flow of Air, to push this foolish bird off its rather nervous perch? No, every time she tried that, it just tightened its claws a little... it refused to flap off!

Some of the men from the Company-of-Pike garrisoning the village had been drafted in to look after the Inn, and a big Saldaean Hundredman, looking a little strange with an Innkeeper's apron tied over his leather armour, poked his grizzled head out of the rear door to the kitchen as they arrived in the yard. Black smoke emerged also. "Your meal is ready, Renn Sedai..." he mentioned, distractedly, waving a hand about a little. The rather scorched smells emerging from the kitchen along with the smoke did not seem appetising...

"I think we shall go up to our room to rest and perhaps dine later," Renn responded tactfully. Having survived the Ways, it would be ridiculous to succumb to food poisoning!

The Hundredman took note of the large bird obstinately occupying Renn's shoulder and raised his bushy eyebrows. The ways of Aes Sedai were strange indeed!

"...will you be needing any more lambs for your eagle, Renn Sedai?"

"He is not my eagle! Go-away! Shoo!"

The Inn's common room was a long, low-ceilinged chamber that took up most of the ground floor, set with stone flags, and as grim a place as the rest of the building, though a blazing fire in the large hearth banished at least some of the gloom. A merchant's train had arrived that morning, and nervous villagers had crept out of their homes to sell them the wool they had come for. Such business usually took place in the common room of the Inn, for all that those who had kept it were occupying a gibbet outside whilst clumsy soldiers inexpertly served the ale!

Even so, the common room was not particularly crowded for this late in the day, only a few of the locals having remained to mutter over mugs of cider about the dark happenings that had recently arisen to trouble their usually quiet village, whilst the merchants in their furs sat near the fire-place, discussing the current price of ice-peppers and whether various factors such as the weather and demand would make it rise or fall. Two hard-faced men and a harder-faced woman were over in the corner, Hunters for the Horn. They spoke quietly, no-doubt comparing notes on where they had and hadn't yet hunted. The remainder of those occupying the common room comprised soldiers; several officers and a few Queen's Armsmen serving them.

With the exception of the Gleeman. A tall, lean fellow, he was travelling with the merchants, on his way to Maradon, their destination after they had purchased their wool. He sat, perched on the edge of a table, his harp crooked in his arm, examining a large sheet of thick paper on which numerous lines of verse were printed in bold, black ink, moving his lips as though learning a new song, occasionally plucking a chord on his harp and singing a line softly, fixing it in his mind. He was clearly waiting for the place to fill up further before deigning to begin his performance.

Lord Wakime led the way to a table that had been left free, partially removed from the others by a wooden balustrade. One of the soldiers doing temporary duty as a waiter brought them all wine, and then the Hundredman appeared with a large tureen, from which he ladled a dark, oily substance into earthenware bowls. Renn sniffed and exchanged a mute glance of distaste with Jabal, sitting next to her; the bath and the bed had been very welcome, but she was glad they would be leaving this Inn on the morrow, for the food was atrocious! Wakime regarded the steaming liquid in his bowl with disfavour.

"What is this, Hundredman?"

"Soup, my Lord."

"What sort of soup?"

"Oh, it has all sorts of things in it, my Lord! It got a bit burned, but..."

Lord Wakime sighed. "If only we had not hung the cook," he muttered, "for all that she was a Darkfriend and would surely have tried to poison Wakime..." he took up his spoon and tasted the soup cautiously, shuddering as he swallowed "...which you are clearly attempting to do also, Hundredman!"

"Yes my Lord. Sorry my Lord."

When the apron-wearing Hundredman and the soldier-waiter had gone away, they pushed aside their bowls of vile soup and Renn rapped her knuckles on the table. "I call this meeting to order!" She turned to Lord Wakime.

"There are a great many Shadowspawn up in the peaks, Lord Wakime..."

"Wakime knows, he has scouts! Did your eagle tell you this, Renn Sedai?"

Lord Wakime's dark, tilted eyes were wide with interest and a touch of reverence – even the beasts and birds served the will of Aes Sedai! – for had not the noble creature attempted to flap down and sit obediently upon Renn Sedai's shoulder as they came back from the stables? Though she had cursed, and shaken her fist at it, so it had returned to its perch upon the gibbet...

"For the last time, it is not my bloody eagle! It just won't go away!"

Lord Wakime ignored this. "Wakime's Plan is to form his men into a flying column and ride through the Trolloc lines in order to reach Ellythia Sedai..."

"I would have to come with you, of course..." said Renn. Jabal frowned.

"Wakime could not allow it! It is too dangerous, Renn Sedai..."

"You want to talk of danger? Try the Ways! And there's a bloody witch up there as well, you know! I mean, a Wilder, an evil old Darkfriend who could tie you and your men into knots without breaking sweat! Ellyth and Shrina ran into her once and barely survived the experience, if Moiraine Sedai hadn't come along when she did..." Renn blinked. "How many of these lancers do you have?"

"Wakime has his entire Honour Guard of fifty hand-picked men!"

"Fifty?"

Lord Wakime shrugged. "Wakime sent the rest back to the Border after we caught the False Dragon."

"Even if you managed to cut your way through the Trollocs, they would all be waiting for you on the way back – you'd never make it out of World's End alive!"

"But heroic Wakime's honour requires him to at least try to rescue the Aes Sedai, and should he fall in the attempt, to provide an end worthy of song!"

"That's stupid, Lord Wakime! I have a much better idea – a Plan B, if you will..." Renn smiled "...and the 'B' is for Boat!"

Renn then fell to discussing the difference between ships and boats with her Sea Folk Warder, and Lord Wakime's attention drifted somewhat. He thought that the Aes Sedai should be safe with a fellow like Atual Aendwyn to hold onto her hand... Wakime's ears pricked-up. He turned his head and stared at the tall Gleeman who was loitering nearby, still perusing the page – he could have sworn that he had just heard the fellow quietly singing a line of the song he was learning… that had his name in it! Perhaps young Roth (he presumed the Gleeman had found his way back down from the Blight, after Wakime had bravely led the Worm off in the opposite direction) had finally made good on his promise? And written a song about Wakime's illustrious adventures, giving copies of it to other Gleemen, to sing throughout the land? Could it be that at last, the world would come to hear of his bold exploits?

Lord Wakime was well aware that he already had wealth, good looks and a discriminating eye for fine clothes – but on top of this, he yearned for fame! He craved glory! Of course, none of this had anything to do with him being so small. For a thousand years, House Wakime had consistently bred the shortest, toughest and meanest of the Border Lords – and he was the epitome of that proud tradition! But while Lord Wakime was very well known in the Borderlands, even notorious, marriageable daughters often being locked in attics when he rode into its towns, no-one had ever heard of him down south. A few decent songs to tell the tales of his courageous deeds, doing the rounds of every Inn between here and Mayene, would soon change that! There it was again – the tall Gleeman had just sung his name, under his breath.

Lord Wakime abandoned the nautical talk at the table and rose, approaching the Gleeman, who was wearing a rather shabby grey velvet coat and britches beneath his fluttering cloak of many patches, his boots somewhat scuffed. The Gleeman had long, black hair with Arafellin bells twined into the braids and a beak of a nose, a thin, carefully-clipped moustache lurking beneath. His dark eyes focused on Lord Wakime as the diminutive Saldaean marched up to him. He lowered the page.

"What was that, Gleeman?" Lord Wakime enquired briskly, "Wakime thought he heard you say his name..?"

The Gleeman inclined his head politely. "If you did, then you are indeed Lord Wakime, as you have so named yourself," he commented, "for it is The Ballad of Lord Wakime that I learn by rote, prior to its first performance in this Inn, or perhaps… anywhere." Like most Gleemen, he was somewhat verbose.

Wakime chuckled, dragging up a chair and tossing a heavy gold crown onto the table the Gleeman was perched upon. "Wakime would very much like to hear this ballad about himself," he declared eagerly, "it is by young Roth Blucha, presumably?"

The Gleeman blinked. "Roth, yes… you know him, my Lord?"

"Indeed, we journeyed through the Borderlands together and Wakime took him to see the Great Blight and show him what a Worm looked like so he could write a song about it – and several more concerning fearless Wakime's other exploits!"

The Gleeman nodded. "Yes, there is mention of that in the song… I had not realised that it was based on a personal experience of Roth's…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "My Lord may not like the ballad, however...?"

"Sing, Gleeman! Wakime wishes to hear of his adventures in song!"

"Well, if my Lord is certain…" muttered the Gleeman doubtfully, but he pocketed the gold crown and ran his fingers down the strings of his harp.

"Wakime is sure! Play, good Gleeman! Sing!"

The Gleeman shrugged. And began to play a jaunty tune on his harp. And to sing, in a pleasant tenor, that filled the common room and turned heads;

"He's a little fellow on a great big horse and his name is Lord Wakime!

(You must have heard of him of course for his name is Lord Wakime!)

He took me up to see the Blight that foolish Lord Wakime!

It gave me such a dreadful fright – in Tear they heard me scream!"

Lord Wakime's mouth dropped open. The song continued. There was a lot more in this vein, steadily becoming less and less salutary. There were references to idiocy, as well as womanising and ridiculous clothing. And of course, frequent mention of the diminutive size of the song's eponymous Hero! The merchants continued to discuss the price of ice-peppers in louder voices, but everyone else in the common room ceased their conversations to listen, some of the villagers clapping in time with the music, though the officers kept their hands firmly on the tops of tables and looked uncomfortable. Wakime was not clapping. Far from it. One hand rested on the hilt of his Heron-mark blade and Renn noted that his knuckles looked rather white. Finally, the ballad dragged to its ignoble end;

"The Worm, it ate our horses both and chased us many miles!

But Lord Wakime gave not a fig – he was laughter, jokes and smiles!

He's a little fellow on a great big horse (you must have heard of him of course)

He feels no fear but that's not to say if you ride with him you'll feel that way

and I must admit I regret the day… I met crazy Lord Wakime!"

The Gleeman bowed with a flourish, fluttering his patchwork cloak. Some of the villagers called out requests for various other refrains. By which point, Lord Wakime was glowering darkly, Jabal was looking rather confused and Renn was doing her best to avoid laughing, a hand pressed firmly over her mouth.

The Gleeman ignored the requests for more songs for the time being and glanced at Lord Wakime a little apologetically. "I did try to warn you that you might find the song objectionable, my Lord…"

"Enough!" Lord Wakime stood and tipped out his leather pouch onto the table beside the Gleeman. In addition to a goodly amount of gold, the pouch also contained a couple of large, uncut Kandori rubies! The Gleeman stared. Was the short Saldaean Lord giving all that to him? Now he could finally get himself a decent harp and no longer be forced to use this vile tuneless article he had thus far sought to eke out a living with!

Lord Wakime scowled darkly up at the tall Gleeman. "That is yours, Gleeman, for the song and for one other thing – Wakime wishes you to burn your copy of that slanderous ditty and you must agree to never sing it again!"

"Done, my Lord," agreed the Gleeman, hurriedly scooping up both gold and rubies and dropping them into his harp-case before the clearly-deranged Lord could change his mind, then passed him the page on which the words of the ballad were printed. Lord Wakime proceeded to screw this up into a ball and consign it to the flames in the hearth, before returning to stare dangerously up at the Gleeman.

"You shall never play it again, Gleeman." It was not a request but a statement.

"I shall certainly never do so again, my Lord, done-is-done and I should probably not have in any case – the ballad is a rather poor refrain compared with one of my own compositions – but perhaps there is something that you do not fully appreciate, my Lord? If your intent is to suppress this song and see to it that it is not sung anywhere… well…" The Gleeman trailed off, tugging at his pointed moustache a little and eyeing Lord Wakime sideways.

"What does Wakime not appreciate, Gleeman?"

"Well, on the last day of the Feast of Teven, I was in The Companions just off Tammuz Square with about a dozen other Gleemen, engaged in something of a celebration, when Roth walked in, handed us all a copy of the song each, made us promise to sing it at least once in every Inn we played at for the next year… and then asked us where there were other Gleemen to be found… we knew of about eight more of our fraternity who were in the Bull & Bucket three doors along, so off he went to give them all a copy of The Ballad of Lord Wakime too…"

Lord Wakime's lips moved slowly for a moment. Renn had come over to join them, she glanced down at him.

"About twenty Gleemen, Lord Wakime," she told him, helpfully.

"Thank-you. So, Gleeman, this song was given to about twenty-"

"My Lord, Roth Blucha was carrying at least three hundred copies of The Ballad of Lord Wakime... and with the price of paper and printing as it stands! Most uncharacteristic of him. To the best of my knowledge, Roth has never so much as bought a cup of wine for a fellow Gleeman in his life, he has certainly never done so for me! And yet he paid – presumably out of his own pocket – for three-hundred copies! An extraordinary expenditure on Roth's part, considering how tight he is... I do believe that his intent was to give a copy of the Ballad to every Gleeman in Illian!"

Lord Wakime was beginning to go a little pop-eyed, and the tall Gleeman smiled in commiseration at the Lord who had, after all, just paid for his new harp...

"That would not be three hundred Gleemen though?" Lord Wakime enquired, hopefully. Surely there could not be that many Gleemen in the world?

"Considerably more, my Lord!"

Lord Wakime frowned, his brow furrowing. The most Gleemen he had ever seen in one place together had been five… he had never concerned himself with wondering how many of the silly, patch-cloaked fellows there actually were

The Gleeman sighed. "My Lord, allow me to point out that when the Hunt for the Horn is called – which does not happen very often as I am sure my Lord is aware – then… well, the Feast of Teven and the Great Hunt to Gleemen is… (if you will excuse the off-colour analogy) why, it is like a village full of fat people to a Fist of hungry Trollocs! Gleemen descend on Illian for the Hunt as swarms of flies do upon rotting meat! (Do pardon-me for that off-colour analogy also.) Why, last month, I do believe that every Gleeman in the world not simple, crippled or dead was there!"

Lord Wakime scowled. "That sounds like a lot of Gleemen," he muttered.

"Indeed, my Lord, there are a great many of us! Gleemanry is a fine trade for a man who hates work! Though having made that last (rather off-colour) remark concerning 'simple, crippled and dead' it occurs to me that even poor Davim Kurinda (who got kicked in the head by his horse) was in Illian, as was old Vin Stoneheath, who lost a leg in the Aiel War, while young Huk Sandley (a mere Gleeman's apprentice and not a full Journeyman Gleeman such as myself) told me that he had seen the glowing blue ghost of Master Gleeman Thom Merrilin strolling about by the docks, blowing on a tin whistle (which seemed unlikely, since Thom scorns all instruments but the harp and flute, doubtless it was merely the unquiet spirit of another Gleeman who closely resembles Thom) but then Daevy Tamburlin, a Cairheinin Gleeman whom I have known for many years arrived late, on the last day of the Feast (his horse had gone lame, he was spitting blood about it!) and told me that the week before he had seen Thom briefly, galloping past him, going the other way up the Tar Valon road with a face like a storm-cloud, and since Daevy is a reliable man, I can only assume that Thom Merrilin is not dead after all (though Journeyman Gleeman Sawle Hopwyn told me he died in a fire at an Inn in Whitebridge last year) which means that… yes... just about every Gleeman in existence was in Illian for the Great Hunt of the Horn and has almost certainly been given a copy of The Ballad of Lord Wakime, as written by Roth Blucha – with the sole exception of Thom Merrilin, perhaps the only Gleeman in the world who does not yet know the words!"

For a moment, Lord Wakime allowed himself to hope that this vile Arafellin Gleeman had finally stopped talking, but the fellow was only taking a breath.

"But perhaps only half of the Gleemen given the song will actually sing it-"

"Enough, Gleeman! Why can one never get a quick answer from a Gleeman? Wakime has heard enough of these other Gleemen who have so recently infested Illian like a vile plague of rats, lounging on scented cushions and drinking fine wines and writing rude songs about their betters whilst brave Wakime rides the Border and keeps them all safe from Worms and other even bigger monsters that devour Worms for their breakfast! Gleemen! Why are there so many of you? Has the Shadow begun breeding large amounts of Gleemen way up beyond the Great Blight, as with Trollocs? Will hordes of Gleemen pour south to trouble poor Wakime with their scurrilous lies about his intelligence and morals and height?"

"And your silly clothes, Lord Wakime," Renn added, helpfully. "There was quite a lot in the song about the foolish garments that you wear, also."

"Thank-you, Renn Sedai. Thank-you very much for reminding Wakime of that. Silly garments. Yes." Wakime was staring into space, fingering his sword-hilt, brows beetled. It was fairly obvious that he was planning some sort of revenge.

Renn nodded her head politely in acknowledgement of Wakime's gratitude.

The Gleeman blinked, having not realised that Renn was Aes Sedai until that moment, for apart from a slight hint of agelessness, she really did not look like one.

"I think you are being a little unfair to Gleemen in general…" Renn added.

The Gleeman bowed to Renn smoothly, in gratitude for this defence of abused Gleemanry, fluttering his cloak a little. Renn smiled and nodded back. She had always quite liked Gleemen, they seemed rather jolly, cheerful people to her, though she was less interested in being told stories than reading them herself. In a book. If there was not some kind of a book involved, Renn was usually not interested!

Before the Gleeman could continue with further news of the doings of Gleemen, Lord Wakime rather rudely turned and stalked away. Renn smiled apologetically at the Gleeman, and followed him.

The Gleeman watched them go. The short Saldaean Lord with the odd hat had the right to be upset, he considered – and then wondered what he had really done to inspire Roth's vitriol? A woman was involved, no-doubt! A woman was indeed involved – and her name was Shrinalla Tolamani! But the Gleeman did not know this, so he merely shrugged. Then, not cradling his harp particularly carefully, since he intended to set it afire after he had bought a decent one in Maradon, he strolled over to the fireplace where a few shreds of grey ash on the hearth-stones were all that remained of that particular copy of The Ballad of Lord Wakime. Now there were just two-hundred and ninety-nine left to similarly dispose of! And numerous Gleemen to silence, should they have memorised it beforehand... why, in order to save his reputation, Lord Wakime might have to threaten, intimidate and even slaughter many Gleemen indeed! But of course, there was one Gleeman in particular whose name was at the very top of that long list.

"Wakime believes that he shall pay a visit to Illian…" growled Lord Wakime.

"You are not going to hurt Roth, are you?" Renn enquired, "Shrina would be most upset, he is her girlhood friend, after all!"

Lord Wakime sighed, gustily. "Wakime would not wish to upset the lovely Shrinalla," he muttered. Then, he scowled. "But he shall go to Illian nonetheless – the honour of House Wakime is at stake! Shrina would understand!"

"But what of your duties?" Renn reminded him.

Lord Wakime recollected his duty, and scowled. "Wakime shall await cavalry reinforcements from the Capital, slay all of the Shadowspawn – and then go to Illian! The wicked Gleeman has won himself a small reprieve from the Shadow, but Wakime's vengeance shall be all the sweeter for it!"

"And what of the Great Blight?" Renn suggested, rather desperately.

"Curse the Blight! Wakime shall return in due course, it will still be there when he gets back – but first, there is a matter of honour to settle with a certain Gleeman!"

"Oh dear, you are going to hurt him, aren't you?" Renn had met Roth once, when he came to Tar Valon for a visit, in company with Ellyth and Shrina, having encountered them on of one of their ter'angreal finding quests… she had thought the young Gleeman quite nice, certainly fun, if a little full of himself…

Lord Wakime continued to scowl furiously, and did not answer.

Renn sighed. "That is a fine Heron-mark blade you have there, Lord Wakime," she muttered, "but the pen will defeat it every time, I am afraid!"

"Hah! Wakime shall see about that when he gets to Illian, Renn Sedai, when he digs the loquacious Gleeman – the satirical rapscallion! – from whichever garret room in whatever low dockside tavern he is currently swinishly occupying! Then, if Roth Blucha, Gleeman, wishes to set his pen against Wakime's sword, that will be perfectly acceptable!"