Gleeman Bob writes: chapter 6, which is quite long and contains two flashbacks, is called 'The Castle.' of course, as we are all aware, this is also the title of a book by the unusual Franz Kafka. I have a copy somewhere, but have never got around to reading it. life is depressing enough already, without adding Kafka to the mix! but I HAVE read The Metamorphosis, which I thought was quite amusing, though am not sure if that was the desired effect... 'as Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic Gleeman!' but I digress... all I wanted to say was that since most of the action takes place in the foul fortress of the evil Hawx, 'The Castle' seemed an appropriate title to use. well, I had to call it SOMETHING! and I hope that the unquiet shade of Franz Kafka will forgive me for being so unoriginal.

probably not, though...

Walk in the Light!


Arachnae Kirikil, born Maigret Dahil, only child of a lowly thatcher in the village of Wolder, hidden within the long-dead nation of Mar Haddon – now known merely as Haddon Mirk – stood on the beach, gazing expectantly out to sea. The Dead Sea. It was aptly named, for nothing lived in it, so far as she was aware; no fish, eels or crustaceans of any kind. Sea monsters possibly, she did not know if such existed, but secretly hoped that they did. She would ask Duadh… he would know, if anyone did. Old maps of the oceans had always fascinated her as a girl, and these atlases of the deep had often been festooned with imaginative renderings of terrifying and enormous creatures, fanged and scaled, their sinuous bodies rippling amidst the endless waves. But the monsters were just drawn on the maps for the purpose of decoration, she supposed. Probably, there were no such things. Sharks and lionfish were real enough, of course, giant squid too, but she doubted if any of them could survive in the Dead Sea either. The influence of the Great Blight, most likely.

Nearby, the ancient column of the Portal Stone rose from the water. Using it, even with the aid of her sa'angreal, had drained Arachnae significantly; she had had to spend the rest of the day in bed. Ranim had brought her several cups of her favourite herb tea and had even sung a few pleasant ballads to calm her frayed nerves, which she knew he did not like to do, since it reminded him of the Tuatha'an. Such a thoughtful boy! Most people who encountered Ranim saw only his dark side, often but briefly at that, but Arachnae knew that the youthful assassin was capable of acts of kindness also. Why, the day before, one of the foolish Shadowsworn brigands had stupidly wandered into the damp forest of the Blight to relieve himself, and had been bitten by something extremely poisonous. Ranim had practically run to swiftly and eagerly cut the unlucky fellow's throat, thus sparing him an agonisingly slow death! A very decent gesture on his part… most considerate…

Arachnae glanced at Ranim, standing patiently by her side. "How many is it now, dear?" she enquired.

Ranim did not have to ask her to be more specific, merely answered; "fifty-seven, Dread Mistress."

Arachnae smiled at him approvingly. "When you've killed one-hundred in my service, I'll gift you with something even better than the knife," she promised.

Ranim raised his reddish eyebrows slightly, but otherwise betrayed little reaction, his face as blank as ever. Though clearly, he was wondering what could possibly be better than his Thakan'dar-forged knife, which Arachnae knew he treasured. He carefully sharpened and oiled the blade before bed each night. Arachnae was unsure of what to reward Ranim with herself. Perhaps she would take her young assassin and bodyguard to Shayol Ghul, to swear his Oaths to the Shadow properly? To stand on the precipice above the lake of fire, to inhale the Great Lord of the Dark's breath and, if you were especially fortunate, to hear His exultant, terrifying voice… there was nothing quite like it.

Arachnae returned her attention to the sea. In the Dream last night, Irmilla had told her to expect them today… and there, on the horizon, a dark shape that had not been present moments before. Arachnae squinted, but her eyes were not so good as they had been, a hundred or so years previously. Instead, she embraced the Source, feeling saidar flow into her with its customary revivifying sensations, and immediately her senses became sharper, her eyesight clearer. The shape resolved itself into a two-masted ship, fast approaching. It must be them, no-one else would dare to enter the Dead Sea, not even the Atha'an Miere. Those that sailed in the Light, at least. Of course, the Sea Folk that served the Shadow were a different kettle of fish…

"What is that?" asked Zaradin, leader of the Samma N'Sei, shading his eyes & staring out to sea.

Arachnae eyed Zaradin with disfavour. She had forgotten that the disconcerting Aielman was there, he moved so quietly, barely even seemed to breathe.

"It is a ship," answered Ranim shortly, seeing that his Mistress did not choose to impart this information.

Zaradin's brow furrowed above his red veil. "A… ship," he muttered uncertainly, evidently unfamiliar with the term. "How does it move across the waves like that?" he further wished to know.

"With sails; large pieces of canvas atop the masts, that catch the wind and propel the craft," Ranim explained, adding; "you are remarkably ignorant, even for an Aiel savage."

Zaradin promptly lowered his veil and bared his sharp, filed teeth at Ranim in something that only approximated a smile.

Ranim continued levelly; "I suppose it is also a result of you being Turned to the Shadow… I hear that the process drains the intellect."

"I was not turned, Lost One!" Zaradin protested, "I already ran with the Shadow before I began to channel. And I know what a 'ship' is, I read of it in a book, once… I have just never seen one, that is all!"

Arachnae blinked. So Zaradin had not been Turned, unlike his two compatriots, who quite obviously bore the mark of Myrddraal and the accursed Black Ajah upon them… this was news to her. Zaradin would bear watching… She noted that Ranim was scowling and touching the hilt of his deadly blade, that Zaradin's grip on his spear was white-knuckled… he was probably holding saidin too, but she was unsure. How she wished she had a paralis-net to tell her such things, but they were incredibly rare. Cadsuane Melaidhrin had one, her sources informed her; and she would dearly love to take it from that interfering old Aes Sedai's corpse!

"Play nicely, boys, or I shall spank some sense into the pair of you!" Arachnae warned the two feuding killers.

Zaradin frowned, but raised his red veil. "As you say, Wise One," he muttered, voice muffled behind the cloth.

"Stop calling me that! Do not name young Ranim a 'Lost One' either, he doesn't like it! And you, pumpkin, don't refer to Zaradin as a 'savage' and take your hand off that knife!"

Ranim did so. "Yes Dread Mistress," he said, flatly.

While the two had been arguing, the ship had drawn steadily closer. It was moving at quite a pace, all sails set. Duadh was aware that the shallows of the bay were well-stocked with submerged rocks? After all, it was upon one of these that her quarry had run aground, courtesy of the Shadowrunner Jahdi. Arachnae vaguely regretted her loss, she had been a useful tool, a valuable enemy-within the adversary's camp. After the abortive battle that had seen the Dragonspawn and Aes Sedai escape her clutches, Ranim had found Jahdi's scorched body, washed up on the beach. Arachnae was not much given to sentiment, but had ordered some Trollocs to dig a deep pit and had buried Jahdi standing, facing the sunset, as she believed was the Aiel custom. She had owed her that much…

"The fool is coming in too fast," Arachnae muttered, but even as she spoke, distantly heard a shouted command and saw the steerswoman aboard the Stormchaser spin the wheel hard over; the ship came up into the wind, sails flapping furiously. Clan Waketa crew scrambled aloft like so many agile spiders, reefing and furling, whilst at the same time, a heavy anchor splashed down into the sea. The bare-masted ship bobbed on the waves, stationary, just short of some jagged rocks. It was an impressive feat of seamanship, but no less than Arachnae expected from a people who spent their lives voyaging the oceans.

And there was the Sailmaster, Duadh din Retif Blue Ring, balanced easily upon the bowsprit, bare feet splayed. He raised a tattooed hand in greeting, the other, as usual, clutching his deadly axe. He cupped the hand to his mouth and shouted; "greetings, Mother of Storms! How goes it?"

At that distance, Duadh's voice was a little indistinct; Arachnae used the Power to amplify her own response. "Fair enough, good Duadh… did you bring me what I asked for?"

Duadh grinned, gold teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Would I dare to return if I did not?! Our passenger has your cargo, he is below, being sick again most probably… even for a Shorebound, he is a very poor sailor!"

Irmilla joined Duadh, standing on the foredeck, waving a lace handkerchief. "Hello, grandmama! I see that you have decorated the rocks with spitted Halfmen… they look splendid, I must say!"

With satisfaction, Arachnae glanced up at the dozen dead Myrddraal impaled on stakes atop the cliffs above, then turned back to the Stormchaser. "You are looking well, my dear," her voice resounded, "but don't you think you had better put your blouse back on?"

Irmilla blushed, covering bare breasts with her hands. "Sorry, I completely forgot!" she shouted, "the rest of the girls were all doing it, so I thought I'd give it a try! Rather chilly!" She disappeared below. The steerswoman and other females of Duadh's crew were likewise covering up, now that they were in sight of land. Arachnae frowned. She did not approve, but different cultures had differing customs, after all. When in Shara, one did as the Sharans did. Not that she had ever been there, all she knew of the mysterious land was that it was where the silk came from…

"These Atha'an Miere have no shame," Zaradin muttered disapprovingly, "and I hear that after they have done the deed, the females kill the males…"

"An understandable response, with some men," Arachnae observed tartly, then cackled loudly. She was not to know that it was hardly an original joke. Ranim attempted to smile at her jest, but the best he could manage was a sort of threatening grimace. Still, at least he was trying… Zaradin might have been smiling, but it was impossible to tell with the veil in place. Probably not, though.

Activity on board the Stormchaser; a longboat was rapidly lowered to the water, several Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere dropping nimbly down into it from the deck, manning the oars. Duadh came next, giving a helping hand to Irmilla, who Arachnae was pleased to note was now fully dressed. Lastly came a tall, pale man in dark robes, attended by a servant; he scrambled awkwardly down into the boat. The servant followed with lithe grace, despite being burdened with a small wooden chest. Arachnae peered at him… or her… it was hard to tell, because the dark-robed man was being followed by what could only be a Zomara.

Arachnae scowled. She did not care for those particular spawn of the Shadow, their ability to read minds and anticipate needs was altogether disconcerting… still, provided she had been brought the information she required, she did not care overmuch.

The longboat set out for the beach, the oarsmen and oarswomen pulling hard, Duadh at the tiller skilfully weaving the craft in between the large rocks that punctuated the waves. They reached the shore in due course, Clan Waketa crew leaping out and hauling the boat further up out of the water. All sported large, garish tattoos on their chests or backs, depicting a variety of dangerous sea creatures.

Irmilla stepped gracefully from the bow, her slippers digging into the damp shingle, and rushed up the beach to embrace Arachnae, kissing her on both leathery cheeks. "It is so good to see you again, grandmama!" she gushed.

"It has only been a week, my chickadee," Arachnae pointed-out.

Irmilla pulled a face, her pretty features registering disgust. "A week aboard that vile ship, cooped-up with the horrid Duadh and his ghastly people, can seem like a lifetime!" she complained.

Arachnae chuckled. "Well, it is good to see you too, my dear. And I have need of you…"

Irmilla glanced at the Portal Stone and nodded. "Yes, I expect that you do," she commented. Her dark eyes moved to Ranim, who scowled at her. She contented herself with a disparaging sniff, then examined Zaradin with interest. "Who is this, grandmama? An Aielman?"

"Samma N'Sei," Zaradin growled, looking Irmilla up and down. She had changed out of her skirt and as usual, her lush form was sheathed in a tight Domani silken gown, which while not revealing much in the way of coppery skin, left very little to the imagination… though clearly, Zaradin's imagination was hard at work.

"Irmilla Nadona," purred Irmilla, holding out a slender hand. After a slight hesitation, Zaradin took it, as though wondering what to do with it. "My, but you are a big fellow," Irmilla further commented, somewhat salaciously, "may I see your face?"

"I only unveil when I kill," Zaradin explained, "do you wish me to wake you?"

"Only in time for breakfast!" Irmilla answered, with a girlish giggle. "So you even wear the veil in bed?" she added, suggestively.

"What a man does in his bed is his own business," Zaradin responded, releasing Irmilla's hand.

Arachnae laughed softly at this exchange, Ranim continued to scowl. In the meantime, Duadh had come striding up the beach, the hard pebbles no trouble to his tough-soled bare feet. Arachnae was pleased to see that he had left his silly talking bird on the ship; he knew that she did not like the creature. It had the irritating habit of repeatedly squawking the word 'witch!' in her presence…

Beside Duadh paced the tall man in the dark robes. His face was pale and cadaverous, his hair collar-length and jet black, as was the pointed, carefully-trimmed beard that framed his mouth, set in a grim line. The eyes, though… they were what held the attention, hinted that he was no mere man, despite his human appearance, but a creature of the Shadow, like the androgynous Zomara that followed him with the chest. His eyes were completely black, as though the pupil had expanded to eclipse the iris and whites of his sensory organs. Perhaps they had? Arachnae stared. She had encountered Couriers of the Shadow Library before, of course, but not one like this… this was something new. Something of which she had been unaware, until now. This concerned her… angered her, also.

The black-eyed Courier stopped before her and merely nodded, whereas Duadh bowed. In addition to his black sash and bright red trews, the Clan Waketa Sailmaster wore a silk cloak of the same blood-coloured hue draped over his bare shoulders, and he flourished it as he made his obedience, a little like a Gleeman. As he straightened, the fierce yellow eyes of the virulent blue octopus tattooed on his bare chest glared at the world at large.

"Well met, Duadh," Arachnae said to him, then returned her attention to the Courier. The black eyes that watched her were more soul-less than those of a Draghkar, a Grey Man, even… he did not seem inclined to speak first, so Arachnae addressed him, using the Shadow Tongue. "Welcome to the Dead Shore, Courier. Do you have that which was requested?"

The Courier smiled thinly, answering in the same dark speech. His voice was hollow and sepulchral, a little like that of a Myrddraal. "Assuredly I do, Little Spider."

Arachnae frowned. She resented the name, though it had been given her by those who stood even higher than she in the counsels of the Shadow… but that did not mean she was about to let some lowly Courier say it to her face! "Call me that again and I will have Ranim here pop out one of your peculiar eyes with his knife, that I might better examine it!" she hissed.

The Courier continued to smile. "My eyes were a gift from the Great Lord, I think me that our Master would prefer that they remain in my head…" He shrugged his bony shoulders. "But it shall be as you wish, Friend. How should I address you, then?"

"With respect, if you ever wish to see the Shadow Library again! Stop wasting my time, I don't have much of it left! The books?"

The Courier gestured with a pale hand and the Zomara stepped forward with the unearthly grace of its kind. It wore tight-fitting hose and shirt, both of dark silk, and black, pointed boots. It had a strange kind of beauty, androgyne and genderless… but its eyes were those of something dead. Arachnae wondered if a Gholam had eyes like that… well, she would probably never know. The Zomara bent smoothly, placing the small wooden chest it carried on the shingle. It gave Arachnae an infuriatingly knowing glance, then flipped open the lid. The chest was filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes. Some of that leather was suspiciously pale and delicate, and had not come from any cow or pig. The fashion for binding books in human skin had been prevalent under the Shadow during the years of the Collapse … it excited Arachnae to think that these volumes could be that old. She gazed upon the treasury of arcane knowledge with great satisfaction, trying not to let it show on her face. The Zomara knew, however; it smirked, then moved lithely back to stand behind its Master.

The Courier reverted to the Vulgar speech, his tone pedantic; "this is everything that we could muster on Portal Stones at short notice; primarily, their use and location, with additional speculation as to their provenance, which in my opinion is largely spurious." A note of disapproval entered the Courier's deathly voice; "these are reference works; they should never have left the Library. It is highly irregular! I shall be in attendance at all times, whilst you study this information. Then, the books shall be returned forthwith."

They might be returning to the Shadow Library, Arachnae thought, but you might not, Friend!

The Zomara raised a delicate eyebrow and smiled at her. It clearly knew what she was thinking…

"Stop looking inside my head, vile creature!" Arachnae cursed it, then turned to the Courier; "send that smirking monstrosity back to the ship! I do not wish to see it again, it displeases me!"

The Courier spread his hands in false apology. "But the Zomara is a gift from Ishamael himself… it is to remain here, in service to you."

"To spy on me, more like!"

"I'll not spy on you, Mistress," lisped the Zomara softly, "I wish only to serve." It nodded at Zaradin. "The spying is his task, methinks!"

Zaradin uttered a muffled curse behind his red veil, before composing himself. Merciless green eyes fixed on the Zomara, which smiled at him provokingly. "I know not what that effete thing is, but I should like to slay it," Zaradin growled.

"And I would like you to," Arachnae responded agreeably, "but a gift is a gift, after all."

"It is a Zomara," Ranim told Zaradin, "I encountered their kind when I went north on behalf of the Dread Mistress, to attend a gathering of the Shadow." He eyed the Zomara darkly. "They should never have been made," he muttered, disapprovingly.

"Well, they were," Arachnae stated equably, then scowled. "Enough of this time-wasting! The appointed hour approaches." She turned to Zaradin. "Summon your men."

"They are behind you," Zaradin responded. He was definitely smiling behind his veil, this time.

Arachnae looked over her shoulder. Two tall, spear-bearing Eye-Blinders wearing red veils and the cadin'sor stood uncomfortably close, seeming to have appeared out of thin air. Ranim cursed softly, touching the hilt of his knife. "I will see that the talent of the Samma N'Sei to move surreptitiously is put to good use, ere long," Arachnae muttered, with grudging admiration, "but it is your other talent, for channeling, that I intend to make use of now…"

The Eye-Blinders looked at each other mutely. Zaradin spoke; "we are not as strong in the Power as you, Dread One… and we only know killing weaves."

Arachnae smiled, showing most of her teeth; despite her great age, she yet had a full set. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I shall be in control… tell me, Zaradin, have you ever been linked in a Circle before?"

The tide had ebbed further whilst they spoke, and the Portal Stone now stood well clear of the water. Five of them were gathered around it on the damp sand; Arachnae, Irmilla and the three Samma N'Sei.

Irmilla had not wanted to ruin her fine velvet slippers so had removed them, venturing onto the wet sand in her bare feet. She frowned. "Open yourselves to saidin," she said again, impatiently. The Eye-Blinders, who had lowered their veils at Arachnae's command, performed this first step without any trouble; it was the next part that was proving difficult… "Is everyone holding saidin?" The Samma N'Sei nodded. "Good. Now, all but release it and prepare to surrender control to me." The Eye-Blinders frowned. This was not something that they wished to do, clearly. "Ease back until you are just on the verge of drawing saidin, then let me assume command over it..."

Arachnae waited, trying not to let her annoyance and impatience show. Her sa'angreal was a heavy weight in her belt-pouch, Irmilla was holding her angreal and with the Shadow-sworn male channelers, there should be more than enough power to open the Portal Stone again, to the place to which her ability to read residues had told her that her quarry had escaped… wherever that was. Hopefully, her returning Shadowspawn scouts would be able to tell her. She had specified two days; then the Myrddraal and his patrol were to gather by the other Portal Stone and await its opening. They had better have some good news for her, or further staked corpses would soon adorn the cliffs!

Eventually, the Samma N'Sei were able to follow Irmilla's instructions sufficiently for her to link with them. Arachnae joined the Circle with easy familiarity and with the same practiced ease, Irmilla passed control over to her. It felt strange to Arachnae, being connected with these Shadowrunning savages. Irmilla's undercurrent of selfish ambition and steely resolve was familiar to her, but the fanatical purpose and overwhelming hatred of the Eye-Blinders was not. Shutting out the emotions of the others, which could only serve to distract her, and holding the two requisite symbols uppermost in her mind, Arachnae began to pour raw Power, saidar and saidin intermixed, as it had been in the Age of Legends, into the Portal Stone.

From a safe distance, Ranim, Duadh and the Courier watched. The Zomara, Arachnae had dismissed back to her tent with the books. Hopefully, she could later arrange for it to have some kind of a fatal accident… Duadh had sent the longboat back to the Stormchaser, but many of his people watched curiously from the decks also. The arcane stone seemed to shine with energy as five channelers, an angreal and a sa'angreal did their work. The portal from one ancient artefact to another opened.

Arachnae's anticipation gradually faded as for moment after long moment, nothing whatsoever emerged. Wherever she had sent her Shadowspawn searchers to, it seemed that they would not be returning. Disappointed, Arachnae was on the verge of closing the portal, since the amount of Power they were utilising could burn them out or kill them if they held it much longer… but then, with a loud caw, a large raven flew through the shimmering light surrounding the Portal Stone, travelling from one distant place to another, leaving a few moulted black feathers hanging in the air. It was the same Shadow-Eye that the Myrddraal had taken with it. The raven circled them a couple of times, then perched on Irmilla's shoulder. She flinched and scowled.

"Eurgh! Get off, you beastly bird!"

"Leave it be, Milly-dear. It may have valuable information."

When nothing further emerged through the Portal Stone, Arachnae sighed, and released the Source. Because they were linked to her and under her control, the others did too. The Stone became quiescent, Arachnae felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her. She regarded the raven with disfavour. So did Irmilla.

"If this horrid carrion crow defecates on my new frock, I shall wring its filthy neck!" Irmilla grumbled.

"Ranim!" Arachnae shouted, "fetch me a Myrddraal! I wish to question this raven, it may have seen something of use."

"Any particular Halfman, Dread Mistress?" Ranim responded.

"No! They're all the same, aren't they? Just bring me the first one you find…"

"No need," called out the Courier in his hollow tones, "I can commune with the Seia'Shadar, tis a talent I have." He sounded vaguely smug, and well he might, it was a singular ability and one that Arachnae wished she possessed herself.

The Courier came striding over, now that the Portal Stone was safe to approach once more, Ranim and Duadh walking behind, curiosity in their eyes. The Samma N'Sei watched closely also, light-coloured eyes staring above the red veils, which they had raised again. With every sign of relief, Irmilla let the Courier take the Shadow-raven from her shoulder and place it on his own. It squawked and preened its flight feathers with a large, cruel beak, then cocked its head to one side, gazing at the Courier, their black eyes a match for each other's. In fact, Arachnae considered, swathed in his dark robes and taking into account his gaunt frame, black hair and unwinking, ebon gaze, the Courier somewhat resembled the bird. No wonder he could talk to them… they probably thought he was a raven too!

For several heartbeats, the two stared at each other, unmoving, then the Courier raised his head and the raven sprang from his shoulder with a beat of wings and another loud caw… it circled, then flapped steadily up toward the cliffs, to join its brethren in feeding on ripe Myrddraal meat.

"Well?" Arachnae prompted.

"Your patrol will not be returning, they are all dead, and any information they had died with them." The Courier considered a moment. "Though I misdoubt they had any, it all happened rather fast, soon after they arrived."

"Who killed them?" Ranim wanted to know, "was it the Dragonspawn or the Aiel?"

The Courier shook his head. "Neither. It was a Souvraniene," he revealed, "a male-channeler, insane and rotting away. He burned the Myrddraal and Trollocs, then departed. The raven watched from the trees, it was not detected. Later, three others came and captured the Draghkar, which had been scouting from the air when the initial attack took place. They put it to the question, though I know not what information it could have given them…"

"Precious little," answered Arachnae, "Draghkar are notoriously stupid creatures." She turned to Ranim; "If I want some intelligible facts then I think that I had best send you next time, my dear. You and your men."

If the thought of being transported via Portal Stone to a dangerous and unknown place bothered Ranim, he gave no sign, merely nodded and murmured; "as you command, Dread Mistress."

"I want one of your Eye-Blinders to go with them," Arachnae told Zaradin, "if there is a Madman about, then we must fight fire with fire."

Zaradin nodded, inclined his head and raised a forefinger. A fierce flame danced at the end of it briefly, before disappearing.

The Courier coughed pointedly, to gain Arachnae's attention.

"Yes?" Arachnae said.

"I believe that I know where they went," the Courier stated, "and more to the point, when they went."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Arachnae demanded.

The Courier smiled his thin smile. "You have a problem, Dread Lady… there is something wrong with the connection between these two Portal Stones; an irrevocable disparity, a time-differential of at least a twelvemonth."

Arachnae frowned with confusion. "You mean..?"

"Journeying from here to there takes one forward in time by upwards of a year. The return voyage from there to here clearly reverses the process, bringing the subject back in time for an identical span. Rather fascinating, really…"

Arachnae scowled. "Thank you for that! Tell me…" she paused, then asked; "what is your name, anyway? What do they call you at the Shadow Library?"

The Courier shrugged again. "I have no name, not anymore. I was remade by the Great Lord into a tool for his divine use. I am no longer a person, as most would understand it." He smiled thinly, once more. "You may refer to me simply as 'Courier' if you wish."

"I do not wish!" Arachnae sneered. "From now on, your name is; 'Master Raven!'"

The Courier raised his dark eyebrows slightly. His disturbing, black eyes widened a little. "It will serve," he muttered.

"So tell me, Master Raven; I know where 'here' is of course, but where is this 'there' of yours? Where did my enemy go to escape me?"

The Courier become Master Raven considered for a moment, then blinked. "Why, to the far southern continent, it would seem… yes, I am certain of it. The emanations from the Seia Shadar hinted at great distance, a southerly direction, an uncommon large landmass. Not one of the small islands of the Sea of Storms, certainly, but an extensive territory… it can be nowhere else."

Arachnae and the others looked confused at this information, all but Duadh. He frowned, shaking his head slowly back and forth. "By the Stormfather's beard, this is not good," he muttered, darkly.

They looked at him. "What is not good, Duadh?" Irmilla enquired, impatiently.

"These tidings of the Raven-man! To the far south lies a lost land that neither the oilfishers of Mayene nor the Light-loving fools of the other Sea Folk Clans voyage to… not even Clan Waketa of the true Atha'an Miere, who know no fear, will sail there! By the Siren's teats, tis a deadly place!" Duadh fixed Arachnae, Irmilla and the others with a solemn gaze, his perpetual grin disappearing from his features for once.

"We call it… the Land of the Madmen!"


When the Great Hawkwing heard of the disastrous fate of the ill-conceived Shara Expedition, the dreadful news brought to him by the Atha'an Miere Mistress of Ships herself, his rage was terrifying to behold. His sorrow at the loss of a beloved daughter was of equal magnitude. He called myself as well as numerous other Counsellors and Generals into his presence later that day, and discussed plans for a second expedition, a search for any survivors of his proud fleet, perhaps even his daughter Morgana, were she yet living. These plans never came to fruition. That very evening, the High King was struck down by the sudden onset of a terrible fever. He lingered close to death for a month, refusing all offers of Healing from the White Tower, calling out for his sword Justice and speaking to his long-dead wives in a delirious state, then finally succumbed to the sickness. At the age of eighty-two, the Hawkwing is no more. After an entire generation of peace, Artur Paendrag Tanreall is dead; and I greatly fear for the future...

(taken from the personal memoir of Jeorad Manyard, Governor of Andor, circa: FY 994)


Chapter Six * The Castle

Roth Blucha, Journeyman Gleeman and occasional pretend Bard, crouched shivering on the sand, next to the empty stockade. It wasn't particularly cold, even with the sun down, it never was in this horrible land, he considered. No, it was outright fear that was making him shiver. "Roth shall go with you," he muttered spitefully, mimicking Ysmet's Ebou Dari accents, "his ter'angreal may prove efficacious!" Roth scowled, and then hissed; "women!" If he had had any idea that his invisibility pipe would not bloody work on this awful Isle of the Spire, then he would never have set foot in that vile longboat full of grinning seamen who mocked his seasickness! For someone from a coastal town, the son of a fisherman at that, Roth had always been a surprisingly poor sailor. Even the small Aielman, Chassin, had experienced less discomfort on their long and rough voyage; why, he had only been sick once! Roth had vomited five times!

The Aielman… the short, violent fellow had gone sneaking off to surreptitiously enter the castle some time ago, accompanied by the stern Warder, Dagnon. Roth was grateful that they had left him behind, though felt somewhat hurt at their disparaging remarks about his inability to move silently… he was a Gleeman, not a cutpurse! He couldn't help it if he occasionally started to whistle a pleasing melody without realising that he was doing so! It had been quite unnecessary for them to threaten to break his harp over his head if he didn't shut up! Aielmen, Warders, they were all alike; much given to excessive brutality…

A pair of the dangerous-looking hawk-masked soldiers appeared out of the night, walking along the beach, down where the big canoes were drawn up on the sand. Both had swords sheathed at their belts, one held aloft a blazing torch. Though the small patrol was quite far away, Roth shrank further back into the shadows, licking his lips nervously and fingering the long dagger that was in the hand that wasn't gripping the harp. The harp-case was slung on his back, but it comforted him to hold his prized instrument. The others had wanted to know why he had brought the harp at all, and he wasn't entirely sure, to be honest… he supposed that he just didn't like to let it out of his sight, that was all. It might even prove useful?

Roth had once tried to placate some angry Trollocs by playing soothing music upon his harp for their delectation, but the tactic had failed miserably… the soft chords and scales teased from the strings by his skilful yet nimble fingers had just served to make the monstrous creatures angrier, and they had pursued him with renewed vigour. They had all looked rather hungry, in fact… presumably, there was not much to eat, up in the Blight. Excepting him, of course… Fortunate that his pipe-ter'angreal had saved the day, that and hiding submerged up to his nose in stinking swamp water. But there would be no comforting invisibility for him here, on this dread island of the enemy. He had blown the pipe several times, until Dagnon Gaidin had angrily told him not to, and nothing whatsoever had happened! It must be that big spire thing that prevented the Aes Sedai from channeling; it rendered his ter'angreal useless into the bargain. It really was too provoking, he was going to give his beloved wife a piece of his mind when he got back! If he got back…

Roth narrowed his eyes, watching as the two guards disappeared down the beach, the night swallowing them up. They didn't look as though they much cared for music either… he glanced at the shielded-lantern standing beside him. How long should he wait for Chassin and Dagnon to return? What if they didn't return? Perhaps he should sneak down to the shore and shine the lantern, summon the longboat before it was too late? There wouldn't be any more guards walking past for at least another five-hundred hand counts, Chassin had made certain of the routine of their patrols before continuing on to the castle, the dangerous Murandian Warder at his heels. Roth's brow furrowed. What was the signal again? They had patiently repeated it to him three times… but he had a poor memory for anything that was not a song or a story. Three long flashes of the lantern and two short? No, that wasn't right… two long flashes and-

"Hello there," growled a throaty, oddly-accented voice from right behind him, "you are a Gleeman?"

Roth whirled around, beheld a pair of glowing, cobalt eyes staring at him from the shadows, and opened his mouth wide to scream. Something large blurred into him forcefully, bearing him down to the sand, whilst a gloved hand clamped securely over his lips, stifling any sounds of terror that might have emerged. The scary eyes were now but a few inches away from his own, and the strange voice hissed; "shush! Do not cry out, the ones in the bird-masks will assuredly hear you!"

Roth stared. He could now tell that whoever it was, with the disturbing, glow-in-the-dark eyes – some sort of Shadowspawn, perhaps? – was swathed in what could only be fancloth, covering their head, face and most of their body. They also had a sword, he could feel the hilt digging into his hip. His own knife seemed to have disappeared, and… his eyes, already wide with alarm, widened further with raw panic. His assailant noticed. "What is it? What is wrong, Gleeman?"

"Mmff! Mmm-hmff!"

The glowing eyes blinked slowly in a somewhat feline way. "Alright, if I take my hand away from your mouth, you must speak quietly. Nod your head if you understand."

Roth nodded fervently. The gloved hand was removed. "Where is my harp?" Roth whispered, urgently.

"It is here," said the shadowy whatever-it-was, passing him his harp. It was – thank the Creator! – undamaged. "And here is your knife." The glowing-eyed creature passed him that too.

Roth clutched the harp to his breast, tucked the knife unconcernedly into his boot and regarded his attacker curiously, though the curiosity was much tempered by fear and the strong urge to scream wildly. He did not, however, instead recalling the question that had been asked… "Yes, I am a Gleeman," he confirmed softly, "but what are you?"

"A Shieldman," answered the other, "and also, I suppose, a sort of Warder." He lowered the fancloth veil from over his mouth and nose, revealing a surprisingly pleasant, good-humoured face. Though the eyes rather spoilt the effect. "I am Sin'aethan Shadar Cor," he stated, sharp teeth flashing in the gloom, "though you may call me 'N'aethan.'" There was a pause. "What is your name?" N'aethan prompted.

Roth realised that he was being rude. "Roth Blucha, Gleeman, late of Falme," he answered quietly.

"Ah, I have heard of you; Shrina Sedai's friend," the one named N'aethan commented.

Roth blinked. "You know Shrina?" he enquired, beginning to hope that he wasn't about to be killed, and possibly eaten.

"But of course. She is the Hornsounder!"

"Oh, so she found it, did she? Good for her!" Roth glanced up at the castle that loomed above them, worried. "I hope she's alright…"

"We shall discover that presently." N'aethan reached out a gloved hand, took a fold of Roth's cloak between his thick fingers and examined the fluttering patches with interest. "Long have I wished to meet a Gleeman," he mused, "though I did not look to encounter one here." The glowing eyes stared at Roth searchingly. "How came you to be in the Land of the Madmen?"

Roth sighed. "It is a long story…" he muttered.

"We have a while until the guards next come around," N'aethan pointed-out, though Roth was unsure what this had to do with the price of fish, as the old Falman saying went. "You might as well tell me the tale of how you got here?"

Roth thought about it, and shrugged. "Alright then." He smiled sardonically. "Stories are my trade, after all…"

"Wake and rise! I know you are up there!"

Roth blinked himself awake and groaned. He reached out to cuddle Ysmet, but her side of the bed was empty and cold. He recalled why, and groaned again, this time with the most profound misery. The deep voice that had rudely wrenched him from a dream of happier times sounded again, coming from somewhere outside;

"Wakime demands your presence, scurrilous Gleeman! Stir from your grimy nest of shame!" The harsh tones of the diatribe were unmistakeably Saldaean.

"Wakime..?" Roth muttered, and got out of bed, stumbling over to the window. He was yet fully dressed, in rumpled green velvets, one boot still on. He was unsure where the other was… He threw back the rickety shutter and gazed blearily down at the rear stable-yard of his inn, Easing the Badger. A diminutive Nobleman who he instantly recognised as the notorious Lord Wakime stood upon the cobbles, dwarfed by the enormous, dark, snorting stallion behind him, its reins gingerly held by a black-haired stable-boy.

Wakime wore a long purple coat embroidered with silver snarling wolf's heads, fawn moleskin britches tucked into dark riding boots so shiny that it hurt Roth's eyes to look at them, a long, golden, satin cloak completing the ensemble. In short – and he was short – he was garbed in his usual tastelessly extravagant style. He also looked furious, his dark, tilted eyes staring murderously up at the window, a heavily be-ringed hand resting on the Heron-marked hilt of his Heron-marked blade. Roth had seen him in action and was well aware that he knew how to use that thing…

"Tis Lord Alven of House Wakime," the Saldaean Nobleman announced, entirely unnecessarily, since there was no-one else in the Westlands, or probably anywhere else, who could possibly match his singular description. "Well met, Roth Blucha, Gleeman and slanderer!"

"What do you want?" Roth asked weakly.

"Your ignoble head, hanging from Wakime's saddle-horn! Or possibly, just your scalp…" Wakime thought about it for a moment, then wagged a finger in a nugatory gesture. "No, it shall definitely have to be your head; Wakime shall mount it upon the wall of the trophy-room in his manor house, and throw things at it for his private amusement!"

Roth blinked. "Are you... angry with me about something, my Lord?" he queried, felling queasy, his head pounding fiercely. He had drowned his sorrows with rather a lot of wine, the night before. He couldn't remember exactly how much…

"Angry? No, not angry… apoplectic!"

"But why?"

"Did you not compose a vile and false ballad regarding Wakime's misadventures and appearance, lowly prating Gleeman that you are?!"

"Um…"

"You did! Wakime sees the truth in your bleary eyes! He is sickened by your very appearance... you look as though you have spent the night in a pig-sty, to the detriment of the pigs!"

"Who told you I wrote it?" Roth stammered, trying to buy time to think of a way out of this increasingly dangerous situation...

"Another Gleeman informed wronged Wakime of the vile song's provenance… there are many Gleemen in the world, it would seem (unfortunately) and this fellow came close to naming them all, without ever managing to name himself!" Wakime considered, then; "he wore his hair in Arafelin braids with bells on, was tall and skinny. Conceited, too."

"Smyke!" cursed Roth. Trust his odious rival Jared Smyke, Journeyman Gleeman, to drop him in the soup!

"Smyke? If you say so… the verbose fellow told Wakime that you penned the false lyrics and then passed out copies to every other Gleeman which you could find, that bold Wakime might be ridiculed the length and breadth of the Westlands!"

"Well… you left me in the Blight, to be eaten by a gigantic worm-monster!" shouted Roth accusingly, then wished he hadn't, clutching his aching head and moaning.

"Wakime did no such thing! Why, he bravely led the Worm away in the opposite direction, that you might escape!"

"Well, I didn't escape, Lord Wakime, I got lost in the Blight, wandered for weeks, nearly died of hunger and thirst, got chased by ravening Trollocs and worst of all, was rescued by lunatic Aielmen who forced me to guest at their horrid Hold for an entire month and entertain them with a variety of dismal war-stories and dull martial songs! That is why I wrote the Ballad of Lord Wakime!"

"So you admit it, Blucha?"

"I do! Incidentally, have you got taller, my Lord? You certainly look a bit taller…"

"Wakime is wearing special boots with raised heels."

"Oh. How did you find me, anyway?"

"Wakime heard that you were in Illian, roistering with all of the other work-shy, lazy Gleemen! As to your more specific location, the urchin told me."

Wakime pointed to the stable-lad, who was regarding the huge war-horse whose reins he held, cautiously. In the other grimy hand he held a large, uncut ruby. At this description though, he scowled. "I do no be an urchin," he protested, "I do be an ostler!"

Wakime ignored the boy, glaring up at Roth. "You have betrayed Lord Wakime, Gleeman! He treated you well and paid you handsomely to compose nice songs about him and his daring exploits – and in stead, everywhere Wakime goes, he is made a laughing stock by a ballad describing him in unspeakable terms as a moronic womanising popinjay with poor dress-sense!"

"There was quite a lot in there about your meagre height, too," Roth pointed-out.

Lord Wakime scowled darkly, Roth immediately regretted his words, as he often did. "You only serve to dig your grave deeper," Wakime warned, "you stack yet more wood upon your funeral pyre with your ready mouth, slanderous Gleeman!"

"With my mouth? Wouldn't it be easier to stack wood with my hands?"

"Do not bandy words with Wakime, ridiculous fool! You know what he meant!"

"But… I had to do something… apart from nearly getting me killed, you were drooling all over my first love, Shrina!"

"The delectable Shrinalla Sedai? What of her?"

"You made me write a sordid poem about her!"

"Wakime paid you to write a sordid poem about her… there is a difference!" Wakime frowned. "Wakime tires of this fruitless badinage! Come down and face him, cowardly Gleeman!"

Roth smirked. "Alright then… I'll bring a box, shall I?"

Wakime's brow furrowed. "A box?" he asked, puzzled, "why a box?"

"So that you may stand upon it in order that I might face you, my Lord!" Roth responded, rather unwisely.

Lord Wakime snarled wrathfully and drew his sword with a flourish. "Very well – if you will not come down, then Wakime shall come up!" Wakime then dashed through the rear doorway of the inn. Roth was no stranger to the concept of sudden exits, however. After grabbing his harp-case and precious Gleeman's cloak, and locating his missing boot beneath the bed, he hastily slipped out of the window. The sound of small feet pounding up the creaky rear stairs of the old inn was evident. Lowering himself to the cobbles via a handy trellis, Roth regarded Wakime's stallion thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't if I did be you, Master Blucha," the stable-boy warned, guessing Roth's intent, "he do be like to bite your face off!" The war-horse snorted threateningly and bared its large teeth, in corroboration. From above came the unmistakeable sound of a door being kicked open.

"I should have gone with you when I had the chance, my beloved Ysmet!" Roth wailed theatrically.

"Do you be speaking of Captain Ysmet, of the Queen Mab?" the stable-lad asked, curiously.

"Why, yes! She sailed upon the dawning tide; I shall ne'er see her again!"

"She did not! Her departure did be delayed by a sprung mast… my uncle did tell me, he do be the Dockmaster."

"Then there is still time!" Roth cried.

Lord Wakime's angry face, suffused with rageful blood, appeared at the window above. "There you are, Gleeman swine!" he roared, "you run from the righteous justice of Lord Wakime as you ran from the Worm, snivelling wretch!"

"You've got a bloody sword!" Roth objected, "what do you want me to do, just stand there and let you stab me in the guts?!" He tossed a silver mark to the stable-boy. "Another horse – and quick!"

The boy snatched the coin out of the air and nodded to one of the stalls. "Take the piebald, Gleeman! She do be the fastest… leave her with my uncle when you do get to the docks."

"How in the waves will I know which one is your uncle?" Roth demanded.

"He do be the fellow with only one leg!" the stable-boy explained impatiently.

Roth realised that he was wasting valuable time and went to fetch the horse. Lord Wakime had disappeared from the window, the sound of his boots rapidly descending the stairs could be heard. Roth dragged the sleepy mare from its stall by the bridle and swung up on to it. He would have to ride bare-back, there was no time for the luxury of tack, but fortunately he was a far more accomplished horseman than sailor. Wakime, on the other hand, was a rider from the Plain of Lances, and might have been born in the saddle… with this in mind, Roth looked about for some sort of diversion. Fortunately, one appeared in the form of a hulking young man emerging from the outdoor privy, gaping somewhat stupidly at what was going on.

"Bili!" Roth called, gaining the slow attention of the inn's resident doorman, nephew of the innkeeper, "Mistress Sidoro says a guest is leaving without paying – a little chap with a silly moustache lurking beneath his big nose, wearing ridiculous clothing!"

Bili blinked slowly, assimilating this information, then turned in time to see Lord Wakime come hurtling out into the stableyard. "Stop!" bade Bili, spreading his large, muscular arms wide and unwisely blocking the Saldaean Nobleman's path. Wakime's tilted eyes narrowed further and he promptly kicked the unfortunate Bili in the crotch. Bili groaned, doubling over, and Wakime rapped him smartly on the skull with the pommel of his sword. Bili collapsed to the cobbles like a ton of bricks and Wakime stepped over his comatose form, dark, vengeful eyes fixed on Roth.

"Ouch!" muttered Roth, wincing, then dug his heels into the piebald mare's sides. The horse sprang toward the gate, nearly unseating Roth, thence galloping down the street and through the Perfumed Quarter, which fortunately, at that time of the day, was not too crowded. Wakime vaulted into his saddle and took off in hot pursuit. The stable-boy watched them race over the Bridge of Flowers, then tucked the ruby into his pocket and, whistling the tune of the Ballad of Lord Wakime, went to fetch some ice for poor Bili.

Fortunately for the sake of his head remaining on its shoulders, Roth knew Illian far better than Lord Wakime, and by taking several short cuts, had managed to extend his lead to half a block by the time they reached the docks. Roth was clinging on to the horse's mane for dear life, his Gleeman's cloak billowing behind him, his harp-case bumping against his back. His eyes searched frantically for the familiar shape of the Queen Mab, built like a Sea Folk Raker but with bluffer bows, designed to plough through the cruel breakers of the Sea of Storms. And there she was, at the end of the ancient stone dock. Roth's eyes narrowed. Sailors were aloft, setting sails, whilst dock hands were casting off the thick mooring cables. She was leaving! Without him!

Roth's refusal to go to sea, to undertake a perilous voyage to unknown lands, had resulted in that final argument with Ysmet, the breaking-off of their engagement; but the homicidal Lord Wakime had engendered a rapid change of mind on his part! It might be best to voyage the oceans for a few years, wait for the Saldaean Nobleman's ire to cool. Or hopefully, one of those revolting monsters of the Blight would devour him, in the meantime...

"Wait for me!" Roth shouted desperately, galloping down the quay, Wakime a furlong behind. Heads turned, up on the quarterdeck, Roth could see Ysmet and that Aes Sedai friend of hers… with a clattering of hooves, Roth drew level with the Queen Mab, just as she began to drift clear of the wharf. A burly man with a chin-beard, a peg-leg and the braided rope insignia of a Dockmaster on his coat gaped at Roth as he passed him the bridle, gasping; "yours, I believe!" breathlessly.

Lord Wakime was close behind now, Heron-marked blade raised aloft, out for blood. Roth wasted no time but took a running jump for the receding deck of the ship. He landed on the edge of the gangway, teetered, began to fall back toward the oily and noisome waters beneath… but then a steely hand shot out, gripped the front of his coat and yanked him to safety. It was the Murandian Warder with the big red moustaches.

"Thanks, Danyon," Roth gasped.

"It's Dagnon, you fool!" snapped the Gaidin Lord, propelling him toward the quarterdeck. The strange Aielman Ruon was scrubbing the deck with a holystone, alongside Raab, the shifty Sea Folk renegade. Ruon ignored them, continuing to scrub away, but Raab raised his head and watched them pass with sly curiosity. The odd guide, Gen, was perched on a barrel nearby, chewing on a piece of hard cheese.

Ysmet stood up on the quarterdeck, hands on hips, regarding Roth coolly. "You said that you did not wish to accompany me, Roth," she pointed-out.

"I had a change of mind, my sweet! In truth, I cannot live without you!"

Ysmet's expression softened a little. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she looked as though she had been crying, which was unusual for the stoic Noblewoman. Her gaze moved back to the quay, now quite distant. "Who is that short, oddly-dressed man with the sword?" she wanted to know, "he seems to be shouting threats at you, but I cannot hear what they are."

"Oh, he is just a friend of mine, he came to see me off," replied Roth, breezily.

"He appeared to be chasing you," recalled Ysmet, frowning.

"Chasing? Why, no my darling, we were merely enjoying a spirited horse-race through the streets of Illian!"

Ysmet looked doubtful, but then her friend Rashiel Sedai, who had been staring intently at the small figure on the dock, cried; "why, that's Lord Wakime! What's he doing here?" She waved her lace handkerchief, smiling fondly. Dagnon Gaidin noticed, and scowled. Wakime was literally hopping up and down with rage, brandishing his sword and shouting, but fortunately his words were too indistinct to be heard.

Roth took the steps up to the quarterdeck two at a time and swept Ysmet into his arms, kissing her lovingly. She resisted at first, punching his ribs, clearly still angry with him, but gradually relented, kissing him back. The Quartermaster at the wheel and the big, hook-handed Bosun both grinned. Roth and Ysmet parted lips breathlessly, gazing deep into each other's eyes.

"I knew you would change your mind, Roth," Ysmet murmured.

"I awoke this morn, realised how much I loved you, and leapt onto the fastest horse I could find at short notice!" Roth explained. It was only some of the truth, but rare enough for him, it was at least true.

Roth turned to Rashiel, who was still gazing at the distant figure of Lord Wakime, a small smile curving her full lips, as she recalled pleasant times. Dagnon joined her and she glanced up at him, her smile widening, and slipped an arm through his. "He's just an old flame," she commented, "you're the only man for me, my love…"

Dagnon might have smiled at this, but it was hard to tell, due to the moustaches. He stopped scowling, however.

"Um… Rashiel Sedai?"

"Yes, Roth? And you don't have to call me 'Sedai' since that harridan Galina has apparently kicked me out of the Red Ajah… my current status is debatable."

"Well… you can still perform marriages, can't you?"

"I suppose..."

"Then please be so good as to bind Ysmet and myself in blessed wedlock as soon as possible!" Roth requested, firmly.

Ysmet's eyes widened at this, but then she smiled, overjoyed. "You really do love me, don't you, Songbird?"

"I always have and I always will," Roth responded, perfectly seriously, holding Ysmet tighter.

But for the attack by pirates and the incident with the sea-monster, the rest of the voyage to the far south went smoothly… until they finally sighted land, when there was the storm, the reef and the wreck.

"…and so," Roth whispered, ending his tale, "but for the attack by pirates and the incident with the sea-monster, the rest of the voyage to the far south went smoothly." He frowned. "However, as we finally came in sight of land, a terrible storm appeared out of nowhere. Our guide, Gen, called it an 'urricano.' It swept us onto a coral reef and the ship went down with a score of the hands, poor beggars. Eaten by lionfish, to a man! The rest of us made it ashore in the boats, all but one of which were wrecked on the beach... we built a camp from washed-up flotsam and have been awaiting rescue ever since." Roth wondered whether to include the information about the messages in bottles that he had been regularly launching out to sea, but decided not to. He did not want this odd Warder, or whatever he was, to laugh at him.

N'aethan Gaidin was frowning quizzically. "We ourselves encountered pirates, Darkfriend corsairs," he commented, "and we slew them all. But… did you say something about a sea-monster?"

"Yes!" confirmed Roth, louder than was wise, "but I'm the only one who saw the bloody thing, and no-one believes me, they think I'm making it up in a fit of artistic licence, just like with the enormous great dog that old Willi and I came upon in the woods that night!"

"Shh! Not so loud, good Gleeman… I believe you, about the sea-monster, for all that I have never seen one myself… though I should like to!" N'aethan shrugged. "And I am yet unsure about this 'homicidal dwarf' as you name him repeatedly, who pursued you through the metropolis of Illerum."

"Illian."

"Yes, that. Truly, you Gleemen appear to lead an interesting existence, having many an adventure. It must be a fine life."

"Well, I suppose… better than staying in Falme and flogging fish, certainly!"

"I do not know what you mean, your words are strange to me. But that was quite a story, the parts of it that I understood, at least." N'aethan leaned closer to Roth, lowering his voice a little; "tell me, what is it like, to perform before an audience, to receive their applause?"

"It is the finest thing that there is," Roth answered simply. "Why, I would not change places with a King! No Gleeman would…"

N'aethan nodded thoughtfully, then glanced past Roth, his strange eyes narrowing. "Ah, here they come again." Torchlight in the distance, slowly approaching. "About time too… did they walk around the whole tsagging island?"

N'aethan rose smoothly, Roth shrank further back into the shadows. "What are you going to do?" he asked nervously.

"To the guards? Several things, all of which are violent!" N'aethan made an odd, mewling sound. "Stay here, Gleeman…"

"I wasn't offering to come with you," Roth muttered scathingly, then; "but there are two of them, so mayhap I should..?"

"No need. But put your harp away; it catches the light, it might reveal our position." And with that, the fancloth-shrouded Warder slipped into the night, disappearing.

Roth restored the harp to its case and waited, tremulously, straining his ears, but heard nothing. Glancing at the shore again, he noted that the soldiers seemed to have disappeared. Then, N'aethan the Warder materialised back out of the darkness, crouching next to Roth. He pushed a small bundle into the Gleeman's arms. "Here, put these on." It proved to be a cloak and dark coat embroidered with a silver hawk in flight, wrapped around one of the steel masks fashioned like a hawk's face, that the Hawx Guard wore. Roth noted that the Warder, in addition to his own bundle, had a sword tucked under his arm, as well as his own, sheathed at his belt. His heart sank.

"You want us to disguise ourselves as guards and breech the castle," Roth supposed, fatalistically.

"But of course. Speak you the Old Tongue?"

"Yea, of a certainty I dost," Roth responded in the High Chant, which was close enough to make no difference, he considered.

N'aethan frowned. "Try to be a little more colloquial," he suggested, "you'll probably sound a bit like a Bard, talking like that…"

Roth scowled. "A Bard?" he hissed, "how dare you, sir!"


Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman and once Court Bard to the False Dragon Davian, also known to some as the Laughing God, made his way along one of the many galleries of the castle of the Hawx. He whistled a soft, melancholy air, composed long ago by one Joar Addam Nessosin… silver bells tinkled as he walked, because at the moment he was being Rags, Court-Fool to the High Princess. He had played many parts in his strange and extended life, had worn many faces, and he portrayed Rags to perfection. He needed to, the Isle of the Spire was a vital refuge to him… the torc-ter'angreal, then the Fox-mask, they only went so far in preserving what remained of his sanity. The Dark One's Taint was powerful, and every year of his long life, seemed to grow more potent within him. But the Spire negated its effects, by denying him the influence of tainted saidin. A true blessing to an ancient Madman, he considered, sardonically.

After sending his prisoners on their way, Jeb had returned to his quarters unseen and unchallenged via dark and unknown paths, and changed his clothing. His precious Gleeman's cloak, sa'angreal and Fox-mask, were now secreted beneath his bed and he wore his clown's motley, a multi-hued coat and britches sewn all over with small silver bells, the outfit completed by pointed shoes.

Distant shouting; Jeb stopped whistling and cocked his head to one side, listening intently. The sound of booted feet running on tiles approached and a squad of six hawk-masked soldiers appeared at the end of the gallery, hastening his way, swords drawn. Jeb stood aside to let them pass, calling out in his high-pitched voice; "you shouldn't run with swords, tis dangerous!" The soldiers ignored him grimly as they raced past. "What is amiss, good Hawx?" Jeb enquired.

The final guard in the patrol, a slender female, answered breathlessly; "the witches have escaped, Rags!" and then they were gone, the noise of their footfalls fading into the distance.

"Tell me something I don't know," Jeb muttered disparagingly, then continued on his way, bells tinkling. He knew the castle like the back of his hand, was familiar with all of the secret ways in and out, so finding the infirmary was simplicity itself… along the gallery, down a hallway, up some steps, third door on the left. Since it was night-time, only one of the leeches was on duty, a junior physician of debatable skill. And besides, the fellow was neglecting those duties by being fast asleep. Jeb had seen to that; if one could put sleep-herb in the gaoler's ale, one could do the same for a healer's wine. The young man in question was slumped face down at his desk, close beside the doorway. Just to make sure, Jeb lifted his head by the long braids of hair and thumbed one of the sleeping fellow's eyelids open, checking his pupils. They were widely dilated and the physician did not wake. Satisfied, Jeb lowered the young man's head back to the desktop, the rest of him supported by a three-legged stool, then went over to the bed in the corner. It was the only bed occupied in the otherwise deserted infirmary, there being no sickness in the castle at the moment, and none wounded either… Aiel and Warders did not wound their enemies it seemed, but simply killed them outright.

The bed was occupied by the unconscious Atha'an Miere Gaidin, his bare torso bandaged, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. His breathing was shallow and it did not take a trained healer to see that he was close to death. The physicians had been able to do little for him but make him comfortable.

Jeb had been a roving hedge-doctor and herbalist in his time, and could tell that in addition to the broken ribs, the patient had internal injuries, possibly a fever also. He placed a hand on the Warder's brow and nodded; he could feel the heat radiating from the wounded man's dark skin, he was burning up. Jeb sighed. "I know you can't hear me, Sea Folk," he murmured, "but should you ever wonder why I did this, then the answer is simple… your Clan performed a great service for me long ago, and it is time to pay the debt." Of course, he could tell from the tattoos on the fellow's hands that he was a Takana.

Jeb hitched up his coat, touching the large, ornate belt-buckle that was hidden beneath. Its beaten copper surface, shaped into the form of the Eternal Serpent, was somewhat green and corroded, a residue of the Taint, doubtless. It was also a Well-ter'angreal, his second gift from the Foxes, and a powerful one at that. Jeb suspected that he would need every bit of that power for the task ahead. With the easy skill of long practice, he drew saidin from the Well, combating the raging sensations of sickness and madness that came with it, and cast a complex Healing weave of his own devising, composed of all five elements of the True Source. Jeb promptly directed these forces into the comatose Sea Folk Warder's recumbent form.

The Atha'an Miere Gaidin gasped, but did not wake, his back arching, limbs spasming. This went on for a time; then, the Healing was done. With the remaining saidin in the largely-drained Well, Jeb Delved his patient and nodded, satisfied. The fellow would live. For now. If he came looking for his Aes Sedai wife, he would find only death, no doubt, but a debt was a debt and now it had been repaid. Long ago, if the Sea Folk had not come along when they did, Jeb would have ended his miserable life on a barren rock in the middle of the Sea of Storms, with no-one to talk to but himself. He turned away, starting for the door, then paused as he recalled something and went back to the bed.

"You'll be hungry when you wake, Atha'an Miere," Jeb told his sleeping patient, and took a waxed paper package out of his coat pocket. He left it beside the pillow. "Sorry, but the kitchen's closed at this time of night; tis the best I can do!" he explained cheerfully, then departed the infirmary, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Jeb paced down the hall, resuming his whistling, this time a strange, atonal melody composed by the infamous Torian Simoone. He would look in on the Princess, perhaps tell her a story if she was still awake, then back to his quarters to sleep. And Dream. It was time to talk to the Crone again, he decided. Now that he had something she wanted. And, more to the point, she had something he wanted…


"This is never going to work!" the Gleeman hissed, "you're obviously completely mad, just like everyone else in this insane land!"

"I told you; speak the Old Tongue!" N'aethan growled back, as they marched in step towards the castle gate.

"I dost merely knoweth the High Chant," Roth Blucha answered, in the declamatory speech of Bards, "and whilst tis similar, thee sayeth it soundeth silly!"

"Yes it does! Well, let me do the talking… and keep your big mouth shut, or Sin'aethan Shadar Cor shall stuff his stocking in it!" The Gleeman scowled, but did not reply. Just as well, N'aethan had been wearing the same pair of stockings for several days now, it would not have been a pleasant experience for him…

There were a pair of guards at the open portcullis, standing to either side of the tall archway that led into the main courtyard of the castle. Fortunately, it was dark so they might not notice that the two hawk-masked soldiers approaching them were rank impostors… but if they did, N'aethan supposed that he would just have to kill them, much as he wished to avoid having to do it. He did not like killing humans, with the exception of Darkfriends and Madmen, naturally. The two guards on the beach he had disabled, taking them down swiftly, knocking one out and rendering the other unconscious with a pressure-hold. They were currently securely bound and gagged inside one of the big canoes, and unlike the Seanchan assassin Mitsu, he did not think they would be able to escape their bonds. Before binding them, he had taken their hawk-emblazoned coats, cloaks, masks and a sword for the Gleeman as well. Of course, it would have been far easier just to kill the guards... but if Father had taught him anything, it was that the easy way was ever the way of the Shadow.

N'aethan yet had his own Power-wrought blade sheathed at his belt, but had left behind his fancloth poncho hidden back at the stockade. The Gleeman had likewise left his harp in its case, the multicoloured cloak wrapped around it, and had grumbled a good deal about this, but N'aethan had insisted. Honestly! Who in the Wheel went on a covert spying mission bearing a musical instrument and wearing a brightly-hued cloak covered in fluttering patches?! And the fellow thought he was mad? This Roth was more than a little peculiar himself!

They approached the gate, doing their best to march in soldierly fashion, the low light of the torches above glinting off the silver hawks on their coats, the steel masks that obscured their features. The two guards straightened, hands on the hilts of their swords. N'aethan tensed.

"Halt, and be recognised!" snapped one of the hawk-masked soldiers, in the Old Tongue. They halted, hoping not to be recognised.

"What is the watch-word?" demanded the other soldier, in the same ancient language.

N'aethan blinked. He had no idea what it was…

"Swordfish!" answered Roth, promptly.

"You may pass."

They hesitated a moment, then marched between the two guards, through the archway and into the castle.

"How did you know that?" N'aethan hissed.

Roth smiled smugly. "The short Aielman-"

"Chassin."

"Yes, him. Well, earlier he sneaked up to the castle to reconnoitre and overheard the watch-word." Roth shrugged. "He came back to fetch the Warder and I eavesdropped on them talking about it…"

"Where are they now?" N'aethan asked, persisting with the Old Tongue though the Gleeman was not.

"Blind stag."

"What?"

"No-eye-deer!"

N'aethan scowled, then glanced back at the gate. "I cannot believe that worked. Those guards must be even stupider than you, Gleeman!"

"Hey!" Roth protested.

"Shush!"

The large courtyard was deserted but in case of unseen watchers, they marched across it in martial style, swinging their arms a bit.

"You know, this minds me of when Old Willi and I trespassed in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn, to hear the Court Bard Thom Merrilin, as he then was," Roth mused, loudly.

"Stop speaking the Vulgar!" N'aethan snapped, adding; "though it sounds an interesting tale, you may tell it to me later, should you still live."

"Oh, I doubt the Hawx shall kill me, Gleemen being somewhat sacrosanct. Even the savage Aielmen neglect to slay us."

N'aethan stopped marching. So did Roth. N'aethan fixed the Gleeman with a cold stare, his pupils narrowing into slits. "Who said anything about the Hawx killing you?" he growled, quietly. Roth gulped. "Now, stop speaking the bloody Vulgar!"

"Yea, verily I shall!"

N'aethan selected a doorway at random and went inside, Roth reluctantly following. Up a flight of spiral stairs, along a gallery, down a hallway.

"Tis a big place, in truth," Roth muttered, carefully using the High Chant.

N'aethan just grunted in response. At least there didn't seem to be anyone about, they were most probably all asleep, but for the guards… but where were Ellythia Sedai and the others being kept? Dungeons were traditionally on the lowest levels, were they not? They should go down.

N'aethan and Roth rounded a corner and nearly ran into two hawk-masked soldiers. Everyone reached for their swords, except Roth, who just gaped. Then, N'aethan paused, and grinned. One of the guards was rather short, with a distinctive tail of pale hair hanging over one shoulder. The other was tall, with large, reddish moustaches projecting from beneath his mask, making him look less like a hawk, more like an owl. The short soldier raised his steel mask, revealing himself to be Chassin.

"I see you, Nightwatcher," Chassin stated, gravely.

N'aethan raised his own mask. "I see you back, Chassin!" He turned to the tall, moustachioed man. "You must be the Gaidin…"

The Warder raised his own hawk-mask, displaying stern features. He stared at N'aethan in confusion, as though wondering what he was.

"Hoy! Dressing up as the enemy was our idea!" Roth complained, the last to raise his mask.

The Warder frowned. "We told you to stay on the beach, Gleeman!" he growled.

Roth shrugged. "This abrupt fellow is Dagnon Gaidin," he told N'aethan, "Dagnon do Merideny a..?"

Dagnon scowled.

"The Wetland Warder; Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois," supplied Chassin, adding; "and disguising ourselves as the foe was our plan, Roth Blucha!"

"I am amazed that it succeeded," N'aethan muttered, "you look even less the part than we do!"

Chassin shrugged. "It is true. The Brother of Battles refused to shave his moustache, and I to cut off my warrior's tail, but even so, the guards foolishly let us pass, upon stating the secret fish word." He frowned, puzzled. "Are there truly fishes who bear dishonourable swords? This seems strange to me."

"Oh yes," answered Roth, "don't get into a fight with a swordfish, whatever you do!"

"Shut-up, Gleeman!" Dagnon Gaidin snapped, before shrugging his own broad shoulders. "But it is correct, the guards barely even looked at us… I was expecting to have to kill them." He sounded disappointed that he had not been afforded the opportunity.

"These Madland Hawx warriors are even stupider than Roth Blucha," Chassin commented.

"Hey!" Roth protested, again.

They traversed a long gallery lined with statues of grim-faced, crowned women, an identical gallery opposite, on the other side of a courtyard. More hallways, galleries, courtyards and steps; but going down this time, always down.

"It's like a giant ant-hill," Roth muttered, before being shushed by the others.

N'aethan frowned, they had resumed their masks but it was better lit in the castle, large candles filling brackets in the walls, and if they encountered someone and were challenged, he did not think that their disguises would fool them again. There were his eyes, Chassin's height and hair, the Warder's moustaches and as for the Gleeman, the way he strolled along, looking about himself with interest, the sword that he clearly did not know how to use bumping against his leg, whistling… well, he quite obviously was no soldier! N'aethan glanced back at the Gaidin. Apparently, he was Warder to the Aes Sedai from Roth's story, the one who was companion to his captain and wife… the fellow looked like he might be useful in a fight at least, but was not exactly surreptitious, though not so loud as Roth Blucha. It seemed he lacked certain aspects of Warder training, and did not care either, but had come here looking for a fight. Well, he would most probably get one…

Finally, they came to a heavy iron grating, set in an archway. Beyond it, N'aethan could see spiral steps winding down into the darkness.

"This seemeth promising," observed Roth, speaking his approximation of the Old Tongue, clearly taking N'aethan's implied threat seriously. They moved closer, examining the locked and barred gate. At which, someone leapt from the shadows behind them, breaking a large piece of wood over the Gleeman's head! Roth went down like a nine-pin, sprawled comatose on the floor. His attacker then seized the Gleeman's fallen sword and hurled himself at them with a loud war-cry!


Jabal din Sudim Lionfish woke suddenly, feeling drained and ravenous. But his fever seemed to have broken and his wounded ribs no longer troubled him. Strange. He sat up in bed and took an experimental deep breath, expecting pain, but there was none. Cautiously, he unwrapped the bandages from about his torso and was surprised to see that the bruises were gone. That, along with the sensations of weakness and hunger… he had been Healed by Renn before, and knew the signs. Someone had used the One Power to mend his injuries. But who? And how? It was impossible to channel here, was it not; the one called Kor who had stolen his sword had mentioned a spire of the Age of Legends that blocked channelers from the True Source.

Further speculation was left for another time, when Jabal noticed the waxed paper package by his pillow. His stomach growled; he could smell food! He grabbed the package and tore it open; there was a sandwich inside. He seized it, bit into it; tuna-fish! His favourite! That it might be poisoned was but a distant concern, he gobbled the sandwich in a few swift bites, then slipped out of the bed, put on his trews that were hanging over a chair, and prowled around the deserted infirmary. No, not quite empty; the young physician who had bandaged him was sleeping at his desk… Jabal shook him, intending to question the fellow as to the location of the Aes Sedai prisoners, but he could not be awakened... it would seem that he had been drugged. Curious. Jabal then looked for a weapon, but the surgical tools must have all been locked away elsewhere, the best he could find was a wooden crutch, leaning against the wall. It would make a rudimentary club, he supposed, but really, he needed a sword. Preferably, his sword. But the thief, Kor, had gone to the mainland with his men… when Jabal caught up to him, he would make him pay dearly for his insults, his larceny!

Jabal eased open the door that led to the corridor and peered out cautiously, but the coast was clear. After padding silently on bare feet down some steps and along a corridor leading out to a statue-lined gallery, he became convinced that the place was deserted. But then, he heard booted feet marching in the distance. He swiftly hid behind a large statue of a severe-looking woman wearing a coronet with hawk-wings projecting above each ear, and waited. He tightened his grip on the crutch, feeling foolish to be armed with so unimpressive a weapon. Atual Gaidin and some other Warders had taught him how to kill with his hands and feet, though, so there was always that. Jabal sighed, as he usually did, when thinking of Atual Aendwyn… he would miss sparring with the big, grim fellow from Far Madding, even though such training had often had painful consequences. But reportedly, Atual had died bravely, honourably, defending his Aes Sedai to the last. No Warder of the White Tower could ask for more. Jabal hoped such a death would be afforded to him, he did not wish to grow old and decrepit whilst his beloved wife, sustained by the One Power, stayed young.

Whilst he had been musing, the sound of the steps had grown louder, echoing across the courtyard. Then, in the gallery opposite, four hawk-masked soldiers rounded the corner, marching toward the far end. Jabal did not get a good look at them, since he was hiding behind a statue, but decided to follow at a distance, in case they were on their way to visit the prisoners. It was better than wandering lost around this huge and unfamiliar castle…

The soldiers marched on for a while, their boots loud on the tiles, descending several sets of steps in a somewhat circuitous route, so that Jabal, cautiously following at a distance, began to wonder if they knew where they were going any more than he did. At one point, he thought he heard one of the guards say something, and be shushed by the others.

Then, the footsteps stopped. Jabal peeked around the corner. The soldiers were standing with their backs to him, in front of an iron grating. One of them, a slender fellow, spoke, making a comment in what sounded like the Old Tongue. Jabal did not speak this, for all that he understood the language of Shara, but assumed that the skinny one was the leader, giving an order to the other Hawx. Jabal's eyes narrowed with decision and determination. He would deal with that one first, take his sword, then kill the others. He was a Swordmaster of the Atha'an Miere and a Gaidin of the White Tower, while they were only Hawx. It would not be difficult. Especially as they did not appear to have their sneaky blowpipes with them on this occasion…

Soundlessly, Jabal slipped from the shadows, took a half-dozen silent running steps, then broke his crutch over the head of the leader. The hawk-masked soldier went down satisfactorily and Jabal snatched his sword. A nagging feeling hinted that there was something familiar about the fellow he had knocked out, but he ignored it, attacking the others with a fierce battle-shout. They seemed familiar too… the masked guard in the middle had glowing, cobalt eyes… he leapt forward to meet Jabal. The Sea Folk Warder was not entirely sure what happened next, it was all very fast, but he found himself bereft of his blade, lying on his back, a gloved hand gripping him by the throat and Naythan Shieldman grinning down at him, sharp teeth flashing. "Lionfish!" he remarked.

Naythan Gaidin helped him to his feet. In his other hand he was holding Jabal's purloined sword by the blade, with no apparent damage done. He passed it back to Jabal. Whatever his gloves were made of must be quite durable… The remaining two soldiers removed their hawk-masks also. Jabal was unsurprised to see that one of them was the Aielman, Chassin, and very surprised to recognise the other.

"Dagnon Gaidin?" Jabal muttered, as they clasped hands in greeting.

Dagnon's moustaches tilted upwards, indicating that he was smiling. "Well met, Jabal Gaidin! I hoped to find you here."

"But what are you doing in the Land of the Madmen?" Jabal demanded, "and who, then, is looking after my boat?"

Dagnon shrugged. "How we came here is a long story, too long for now, and I could ask the same of you. As for your boat, the Rivershark is perfectly safe, Rashiel and I travelled down the Erinin in her and docked at Tear. The boat is docked in the harbour, the Clan Takana factor is keeping an eye on her."

"Him," corrected Jabal, adding; "well, if you say so," somewhat doubtfully.

A low groan came from floor-level. They all looked down. The unfortunate Roth Blucha was stirring, clutching at his head. He groaned again.

Jabal raised his eyebrows. "Why, it is that Gleeman friend of Shrina Sedai's!" he commented, "he is here too?"

"Unfortunately, yes," muttered Dagnon, "we tried to leave him behind, but to no avail."

Jabal assisted the groaning Gleeman to rise.

"He will be alright," observed Naythan, "the masked helm took most of the force of the blow."

Jabal aided Roth in removing this item; his head seemed un-bruised.

"Quick, hit him again," Chassin jested, "I was enjoying the silence!"

Naythan and Dagnon laughed softly, Roth glared at them, then fixed Jabal with an accusatory stare. "You whacked me with a piece of wood!" he complained, "why in the Waves did you do that?"

"Forgive me Roth, I thought you the enemy," Jabal explained.

Roth blinked. "It is you, Renn's Sea Folk husband!" he declared, then winced. "My head hurts," he moaned.

Jabal frowned. "How did you know we were married?" he queried.

"Oh, everyone knows, but for the Lady Ellythia… why, it is the worst-kept secret in Tar Valon!"

Jabal scowled, opened his mouth to further interrogate and demand clarification of the foolish Gleeman, but Naythan Gaidin interrupted.

"We can catch up later…" Naythan turned back to the iron grating, sniffing. "I can smell the Aes Sedai down there, but it is faint."

The others looked at one another. "Smell?" muttered Roth.

Naythan Shieldman ignored them, giving the barred gate an experimental shake; it stayed firmly closed. "Anyone got a key?" he wondered. They shook their heads. "Very well. Keep an eye out for more Atha'an Miere assassins armed with hospital equipment while I get this thing open!"

Jabal was accustomed to Naythan Gaidin's odd sense of humour by this point, and did not take the remark amiss, whilst Dagnon and Chassin chuckled. Roth, nursing his wounded head, gave Jabal a spiteful glance, but said nothing. Naythan gripped the iron bars, took a deep breath, and pulled. For a long moment, nothing happened… then, with a rending of tortured metal, the gate broke free from its lock and hinges. Naythan leaned it against the wall, turned to the others.

"Come on." They stared at Naythan Shieldman, all but Chassin, who did not seem surprised by this feat of strength. "What?" asked Naythan.

Roth spoke up; he usually did. "You've got funny eyes, pointed ears – yes, I noticed them too! – you can sniff out things from miles away and you just pulled an iron gate off its hinges… what are you?"

"He is the Nightwatcher," Chassin stated, as though this explained everything. "He is not as we; Vron'cor was made by the Creator, to watch over the sleep of-"

"Yes, yes, we know about all of that!" Naythan interrupted hastily, before adding; "I am Lightborn. Strong, fast, and impatient to go and rescue my Aes Sedai!"

"As am I!" Jabal added, fervently.

"So let's save the questions for later, curious Gleeman. Give to the Lionfish your coat and cloak. Your mask, too…"

"Why?" whined Roth, "what am I to do without my disguise?"

"Pose as our prisoner! Come, he already has your sword, you might as well loan him the rest…"

Grumbling, Roth complied. The others put their hawk-masks back on.

"Alright," said Naythan decisively, "we are escorting a captive down to the cells; a spy, caught sneaking around on the beach with a shiny harp and a silly, brightly coloured cloak!" Roth frowned. "If anyone challenges us, let me do the talking. Everyone ready? Let's go, then."

They marched down the steps, Naythan and Jabal in front, Chassin and Dagnon bringing up the rear, with Roth the prisoner in the middle, sulking at his predicament. Jabal felt no concern at being in the heart of the enemy's castle, only steely resolve to rescue his Aes Sedai wife and exact some measure of revenge on the enemy. The steps wound down into the darkness, which duly swallowed them.


"…and then, Hare, Mouse and Hedgehog went back to their comfortable cottage in the middle of the Briar Patch, and had tea and scones. The End." Jeb, or Rags as he was currently being, finished the story and glanced at the High Princess, might she never die. She was not yet asleep, but was on the verge of it, yawning, sat up in her opulent bed wearing a lacy night-dress.

"Thank-you Rags, that was lovely," Chantel managed to say between yawns, "but what happened to Wildcat?"

"Oh, I expect that he was alright," answered Rags.

"But Hare and the others tricked him into getting stuck in all that mud! It wasn't very nice of them…"

"Well, he was trying to eat them, Highness."

"He's always doing that! So are Bear, Wolf and Fox…" The High Princess Chantel frowned. "You know, I think I'm getting a bit old for these sorts of stories. Don't you know any with men in? Handsome Lords who rescue Princesses from towers, that sort of thing?"

"Your Highness is yet too young for such tales," interjected Severina, sitting in the corner. She did not look up from her knitting. "There will come a time for such things, when you are of an age to wed and continue the illustrious line of the Hawkwing."

Chantel pulled a face. "You're always saying that, Sev… but whom am I to marry? Not my cousin Kor, he is ugly and charmless…"

"But not very harmless!" chanted Rags.

"Shut-up, Rags. Stop rhyming things all the time!"

Severina looked up, aiming her stern gaze at the High Princess. "You are the only female of the High King's descent left to us. You must have daughters of the Blood, to continue the tradition."

"Well, it's a stupid tradition!" objected Chantel.

"And an awkward position!" Rags chimed-in.

"Hush!" The High Princess threw a pillow at Rags, sitting cross-legged on the rug. He ducked, grinning. If Severina had not been present, a pillow fight might have ensued, but she would not approve. Her position, as Chatelaine of the castle, would preclude such rambunctious behaviour. Chantel fixed Rags with a commanding stare.

"Tell me about her, Rags," the High Princess ordered.

"About who, your Majesticness?"

"Who do you think? The first of my line, the one who brought us all here, to this accursed place!" Chantel took a deep breath; "Morgana Paendrag Halicon, of course! Stop being silly, Rags!"

Rags smiled broadly, and summoned the memories. He had been told of this episode by someone – or something – that had actually been present, one thousand years ago, or more. A meeting he did not like to think of, the closest he had come to death in the entirety of his long life. Naturally, he kept this information to himself. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and in the measured cadences of the professional storyteller, began to speak of things that had occurred long, long ago…

The High Princess, Morgana Paendrag Halicon, might she never die, lowered the brass-barrelled telescope and frowned, brows drawing down over her dark, imperious eyes.

"It is not going well," Morgana muttered, "father would be most displeased."

Beside the High Princess, on the quarterdeck of the Golden Hawk, the fleet's enormous flagship, Lord General Telka Malamanes was also frowning. No, he was scowling now, white teeth slightly bared in his dark-skinned face. He was of an ancient House, originally from Moreina, the only nation to declare for the Hawkwing without first recourse to conquest, and his loyalty was above question. He thumped a gloved fist on the polished wooden rail of the quarterdeck and cursed, an unusual display of emotion for him. His piercing blue eyes stared unblinking at the shore, a half mile distant.

Both the High Princess and the Lord General wore gold-chased armour, as did the dozen elite guards clustered behind them, standing still as statues. Also in attendance; one of Morgana's maids, a slight, dark-haired girl wearing black, hawk-emblazoned servant's livery. This left barely enough room for the sailors crowding the quarterdeck to do their duty, but they did not complain. When the Blood was present, one kept one's eyes lowered and went about one's tasks, uncomplaining. The Quartermaster stood close to the large wheel that controlled the tiller, tattooed hands gripping the spokes tightly. And the Captain, or Sailmistress as these folk called their commander, raised her own telescope, the hands holding it also tattooed. She examined the scene, then shook her head. "They will never make it, Highness," the Sailmistress commented, fatalistically.

The Lord General glared at her. "They are soldiers of the Great Hawkwing!" he snapped, "the elite Guard; some of them were at Endersole and participated in the capture of the False Dragon Guaire Amalasan, as did I! They have been ordered to take the hill – they will take the hill!"

The Sailmistress frowned at Telka, but said nothing.

"Peace, Lord Telka," Morgana murmured, "we shall see." She returned to examining the battle. To the west of a high-walled trading port, down on the shore, more infantry were disembarking from the landing-boats, raising their shields and setting their spears as they waded through the surf to join the long column of several thousand troops moving up the beach. Their blue, lacquered armour shone in the bright sunlight. They marched beneath several large banners depicting a golden hawk in flight.

Clustered around the crown of the hill beyond them were a host of Sharan archers, clad in red coats and loose white trews. The forces of the Hawkwing advanced steadily uphill into a storm of arrows, undeterred by the sheer numbers of dead and wounded they were leaving in their wake. At the top of the hill that was their objective, grouped beneath a pale, silken flag marked with unintelligible glyphs, waited a group of Sharan Nobles, dressed in brightly-coloured robes. They were attended by servants shielding them from the sun with ornate parasols, surrounded in turn by many more of the red-garbed soldiers, armed with long spears. In addition; a score of dark-robed women waited to one side.

The Sailmistress had assured Morgana that the white banner indicated that amongst these watching Nobles were the Sh'boan and Sh'botay, the rulers of this strange land that was to be added to the Hawkwing's Empire. If they could be taken, then this war would be over quickly… but the Guard were suffering terrible losses, it seemed that no man amongst them would reach the objective. They would die trying, however.

The High Princess Morgana turned to the Sailmistress, Pereta din Chokal Gliding Tern. She was of Clan Tolaman, the only Sea Folk clan to swear allegiance to the High King, Artur Hawkwing, considered outcast by the rest of the Atha'an Miere. A number of Pereta's people were scattered throughout the great fleet of three hundred ships that had been sent to subdue Shara, navigators and steersmen for the most part. Their service had proved invaluable. Many more from Clan Tolaman had gone with Luthair's equally immense fleet to the west, while some remained at the fortress that the Hawkwing had given them in Darmovan, on the ancient site of Miereallen, now called Falme. These shore-bound former Sea Folk watched the waves for their people's return, for the return of Luthair Paendrag Mondwin.

Morgana frowned at the thought of her older brother. They were not close. Doubtless, Luthair was somewhere far to the west right now, upon the Isles of the Dead as the Atha'an Miere called them, slaughtering the enemy in vast amounts. That would make him happy, the shedding of blood always did. As a boy, he had tormented domesticated animals in the Palace gardens; as a youth, he had flogged his servants for imagined slights. There was something wrong with Luthair, he was not normal. But when it came to the practice of war, he was more than proficient, almost on a par with his gifted father. The thought of Luthair succeeding where she had failed made Morgana cringe inside. She shook aside such feelings, replacing them with resolve and resolution. It was time to toss the dice...

"Dovie'andi se tovya sagain," Morgana whispered, then addressed the Sailmistress, who awaited her orders patiently. "Pereta, signal the ships. Move the fleet in closer and commence bombardment of the town." Morgana turned to Lord General Telka. "Land the Fifth and Seventh Regiments, have them flank the hill to either side." The Sailmistress and General did not question their orders, for all that they were being given by a young woman fighting her first battle. She was Blood of the Hawkwing, had been taught the art of warfare by the High King personally... that was enough.

Morgana raised a hand slightly, summoning her maid, who was more than just a maid. The pale-skinned girl came to stand beside her, moving with serpentine grace, dark eyes gazing blankly at the Mistress.

"What think you of my strategy?" Morgana asked quietly.

The maid shrugged. "I know little of warfare on this sort of scale," she stated, in a soft, sinister voice, "but it seems to me that much blood will be spilled, ere the day is done." At the mention of blood, a strange, almost avid look swept briefly over the maid's blank features.

Morgana regarded her with vague disgust. "I wish that father had never assigned you to me," she hissed, "I would he had given you to Luthair in stead."

The maid smiled thinly. "The High Prince can look after himself, but you need protecting, Mistress," she pointed-out.

Morgana scowled. It was true enough, but she did not have to like it. The High King's court was become a dangerous place. Artur Hawkwing had many enemies, not least in the White Tower, and if they could not reach him, were not above striking at his kin. They had done it before after all, poisoning his first wife Amaline, and their three surviving children. Her 'maid' had saved her life on previous occasions, would doubtless do so again… but there was always a price to be paid, for such a service. Her innocence… and also, perhaps, her soul.

Bright signal-flags were hoisted aloft, emphasised by red flashes in the sky as Illuminator's flares were launched and exploded far above, and sails set, the great invasion fleet began to move further into the vast bay. The smaller attack ships spear-headed the assault, sweating artillerymen working the ballista and mangonels emplaced in their bows, and soon fiery pitch-and-straw projectiles were being shot over the high walls of the trading town that was their secondary objective. Meanwhile, further landing-craft were launched, crammed with soldiers, speeding for the beachhead to reinforce their comrades attacking the hill.

The High Princess Morgana checked the progress of the battle; through the round aperture of her telescope, she could see that her troops had nearly reached the lines of archers who had been flaying them with arrows. A good half of their number lay dead and dying behind them, but this did not deter the fierceness of their attack, nor affect the precision of their ranks; when a man fell, another stepped smoothly forward to take his place. When a Bannerman was killed, one of his comrades would snatch the flagpole from his dead hands before it could hit the ground and then proudly bear aloft the sigil of the Hawkwing, even though it made him a target. Morgana felt nothing but pride at the discipline and courage of these soldiers of the Empire.

At a shouted order, the Sharan archers fell back in orderly columns, replaced by long lines of spearmen. There did not seem to be nearly enough of them to halt the advance of the Hawkwing's soldiers... Morgana glanced at Lord General Telka, who grinned savagely.

"A tactical error, Highness," Telka assured her, "we shall yet win the day!"

Morgana returned her gaze to the battle, and frowned, worried. The score of dark-robed women that she had observed earlier were filing down from the crown of the hill, approaching the fighting though they did not seem to be armed… they took their places amongst the Sharan spearmen, spaced out at intervals. The Guard were a bare twenty paces away, their objective in clear sight… but then, the front rank exploded; bodies, heads and dismembered limbs flying high into the air. The attack faltered, then the second rank went the way of the first, utterly destroyed. The Hawkwing's forces halted in disarray… and the third rank of soldiers was torn apart by the same terrible forces. It was too much even for the brave men of the Elite Guard. They turned and ran, flinging away their shields, retreating in panic toward the beach and the boats that might carry them to safety.

Sharan archers poured yet more arrows into their backs as they fled, the spearmen guarding the dark-robed women as they paced after them with dread purpose, hurling lightning and fireballs into their broken ranks.

Morgan tore her gaze away from the horrific scene, her wide eyes meeting those of Lord General Telka.

"They use the accursed One Power in battle!" Morgana cried, "why were we not warned of this?" They both turned to stare accusingly at the Sailmistress, Pereta. She lowered her telescope, looking stricken.

"Those women are called 'Ayyad,'" Pereta explained, "I have heard of them from Sharan silk-traders, but never seen one… until now."

"They are slaughtering my men!" Telka shouted, "how do we fight against such terrible odds?"

"You do not. You should withdraw the fleet, while there is still time."

"And leave my troops on the beach? Never!"

Pereta shook her head curtly. "Your men are dead… they were doomed the moment they set foot in the land of Co'dansin without permission. I knew this invasion was an impossible endeavour!" The Sailmistress turned to Morgana; "Highness, I warned your father that this would happen, that we needed Aes Sedai to counter the power of the Ayyad, but the High King would not listen…"

"He only listens to Jalwin Moerad these days," Morgana muttered, regretfully. She loathed her father's strange advisor, just being in his presence made her want to bathe… and Moerad loathed the Aes Sedai, in turn. "The Sisters cannot benefit us, inured in their city, surrounded by the our siege lines."

Morgana checked the progress of the battle, which had become a rout. Her surviving men were back at the beachhead, retreating in disorder for the boats… which were now mostly aflame and sinking into the surf.

"We must send more landing-craft to rescue them!" cried Telka.

Morgana shook her head sadly. "No, Pereta is correct. They are lost."

"So are we!" shouted the Sailmistress, pointing; "look!"

Long, narrow boats were pulling out from the harbour of the trading port to their lee, dozens of them. Each boat was rowed by chained oarsmen, crammed with more of the Sharan archers… and had a dark-robed Ayyad woman standing in the bow. This close, Morgana could see that their faces were covered with intricate tattoos… it was the last thing that she saw, for a time. A loud explosion, anguished screams, a burst of fierce flame… something struck her and she knew no more. A tide of blackness engulfed Morgana.

When the High Princess opened her eyes, crusted with dried blood, the first thing she noticed was that dusk had fallen, hours had passed. She turned her head weakly, moaning in pain. She was lying on the quarterdeck of the Golden Hawk, a folded cloak pillowed beneath her head. Her armour had been removed and her blouse, spotted with dark blood, had been raised so that a bandage could be wound about her midriff. Her maid knelt beside her, watching with dark eyes that held nothing; no pity nor censure, just… nothing. Morgana was accustomed to that.

"What happened?" Morgana whispered.

"Terrible things," answered her maid. She approximated a ghoulish smile. "I am glad to see that you yet live, Mistress. We had our doubts…"

Morgana looked down at herself with distaste, spattered with gore. "I am covered in blood!" she cried, feeling sick.

"Tis not your blood, Mistress," explained the maid, "but the General's. You were standing beside him when he exploded… one of the Ayyad's doing. She tried to kill you, while you lay helpless upon the deck, but I dealt with her." The maid held up something; it was a severed head, a look of surprise on the dark-skinned, heavily tattooed face.

Morgana felt her gorge rise. "Throw that horrid thing into the sea and help me up!"

The maid complied. Morgana rose unsteadily, her head spinning, leaning heavily on her maid, much as she disliked being so close to her. The quarterdeck was emptier than it had been, a different Quartermaster at the wheel, a blood-stained bandage wrapped around her brow. A row of dead Guardsmen covered in their cloaks lay against the rail, some feathered with arrows. Three of her Guard yet lived, though all were wounded, they saluted their High Princess smartly. Dismembered pieces of Lord General Telka Malamanes lay everywhere. Morgana tried to ignore this.

The Sailmistress had survived the attack, though one arm was supported by a sling. Pereta din Chokal Gliding Tern stood at the rear of the quarterdeck, dark eyes fixed on something. Morgana followed her gaze, and wished that she had not. They stood a league out from land and though it was evening, the bay where they had made their abortive landing was bright as day. Her fleet was burning. Hundreds of majestic ships, the pride of the Hawkwing's navy, were blazing fiercely, thick columns of smoke rising high above, scorched hulls sinking slowly into the sea. Morgana's hopes sunk with them. She glanced around, counting…

Along with the Golden Hawk, there were eleven great-ships grouped around them, all showing signs of fiery damage. A twelfth was sailing slowly out to join them, listing heavily, its hull blackened and charred in places. Thirteen ships! Out of three hundred! What would father say? Morgana had promised that she would add Shara to his Empire… and had failed utterly. How could she return, with barely a squadron of damaged vessels, the bones of his finest soldiers left to bleach under some foreign sun? It could not be borne… it would not be. Morgana made a decision then and there that would have far-reaching consequences long after she was dead…

The Sailmistress turned to regard her with dark eyes that held little in the way of respect for her rank. "Your father, the High King, shall hear of this disaster," she commented, nodding to something further from land. Morgana looked. Three Sea Folk Rakers, elegant, white-sailed ships, were standing out to sea in the distance, heading west on the blue-water trading route, back to the home ports. "The Atha'an Miere will certainly convey the news of your defeat," the Sailmistress continued, implacably, "our eyes shall be lowered forever." She turned her gaze to Morgana's maid, a look of revulsion on her handsome, dark-skinned face. "What is that thing? It is not human, it cannot be. When the Ayyad woman came on board to kill us, her channeling did not affect it. It tore her head from her body, and then…" She trailed off, shaking her head in disgust.

Morgana's 'maid' smiled smugly. "And then I fed," it hissed, in its sinister tones, sounding satisfied. It glanced at Morgana and shrugged. "You were unconscious, Mistress, else I would have sought permission," it explained. Morgana noted that there was a spot of blood on its chin. She shuddered.

Pereta's eyes narrowed and she gripped the ivory hilt of the short blade tucked through her sash. "What is it?" she demanded.

The three remaining Guardsmen tensed, touching their own hilts…one did not address a High Princess of the Blood in such a fashion and expect to live. But Morgana waved for them to leave her presence, which they did reluctantly, descending to the main-deck which was crammed with wounded, as well as soldiers and sailors rescued from other ships.

Morgana sighed. "It is called a 'Gholam,'" she told Pereta, "a creature of the Age of Legends. Of the Shadow also, I suspect. How it survived the War and the Breaking I know not, but it served Guaire Amalasan as bodyguard, killing numerous assassins and Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah sent to deal with him…" the Gholam posing as her maid smiled as though at some pleasant memory, "…and then, for some reason, before his final defeat Guaire gifted the Gholam to my father, commanding it to serve the line of the Hawkwing in the same capacity. Why he did this I cannot tell, perhaps under the influence of Prophecy? They say the False Dragon could Foretell the future…"

"That he could, Mistress, and accurately too," confided the Gholam.

"Silence, Gholam! Do not interrupt!" Morgana shrugged. "The High King ordered the Gholam to accompany this expedition, to protect me from harm, my descendants also… and I suppose that it has succeeded in this, thus far."

"At the cost of your soul!" spat Pereta, "that thing is evil, and if you call yourself its Mistress, then so are you! I want no part of it – I want it off my ship!"

Morgana scowled. "My ship, I think that you will find. Gholam?"

"Yes Mistress?"

"Kill her. Do it swiftly, I do not wish for her to suffer."

Smiling cruelly, the Gholam advanced on the Sailmistress with deadly grace. Pereta swept her sword from her sash with her good hand and plunged it into the Gholam's chest. To little avail, no blood spurted from what should have been a fatal wound… for a human. The Gholam's smile widened, it pulled the ivory-hilted blade from its torso and dropped it carelessly to the deck. The wound the sword had made knitted together and closed instantly, leaving just a tear in the servant's livery. The Sailmistress gaped in disbelief; the Gholam lunged forward and seized her to either side of her skull.

"You really should have been more specific about those Ayyad women," Morgana commented sadly, "we might have saved more lives that way…"

With a sickening snap, the Gholam broke Pereta's neck and the erstwhile Sailmistress of Clan Tolaman slumped bonelessly to the deck. Morgana turned. The Quartermaster was watching over her shoulder, eyes wide, tattooed hands still gripping the wheel.

"What is your name?" Morgana asked her.

"Briena din Sochol Flying Fish, Highness!" the Quartermaster stammered.

"You are Sailmistress now, Briena. My congratulations. Tell me, what lies to the south?"

"The south, Highness?"

"Yes, the direction which is neither north, east nor west!" Morgana snapped, impatiently.

The Sea Folk Quartermaster become Sailmistress thought about it for as long as she dared, her frightened gaze fixed on the Gholam, then spoke; "why, there are the fishing grounds of the Mayeners, which we avoid, the smoking islands that we likewise shun, for tis said the accursed Waketa yet infest them… various small isles, upon which we leave those of our men who begin to channel, the cowardly ones at least, who will not take the path of honour." A note of pride entered Briena's voice; "when my own brother began to touch the Source, he seized upon a ballast stone, held it to his chest and jumped over the side!"

"Never mind your damned brother, you fool! Is there anything else down there?"

"Only the great southern continent, Highness. It is largely unmapped, and the Clans rarely sail to its shores, though I know not why. Poor trading opportunities, doubtless."

"Then we shall go there," announced the High Princess. "I'll not return home with the shame of this defeat lowering my eyes before the Royal Court, so shall take my reduced fleet to these southern lands… though not to trade, but to conquer."

The new Sailmistress did not argue, simply spun the wheel, shouting instructions to the sailors; they clambered wearily aloft to set sail. Morgana called for her Signals Officer, found out that he was dead, and gave orders to his replacement; soon, colourful flags were fluttering on their lines and in response, the small flotilla turned south.

Morgana nodded, satisfied. Her destiny awaited… she felt eyes on her and turned. The Gholam, which really made for a very poor maidservant, yet crouched beside the corpse of the insubordinate Sailmistress who had dared to defy her. It stared at its Mistress expectantly…

Morgana sighed. "Very well, Gholam," she allowed, "you may feed."

"Eurgh!" exclaimed the High Princess Chantel, "drinking all that blood! How horrid!"

Rags grinned. Severina put down her knitting, eyeing him coldly. "That was hardly a fit story for a child," she chided. It was the Chatelaine's long-standing habit to keep the High Princess inured from reality as much as possible… for example, she had earlier warned Rags to stay silent regarding the regrettable escape of the prisoners. He had complied.

"I am no child, Sev! I am thirteen and one half!" protested Chantel, "and besides, I thought Rag's tale was interesting." She yawned hugely. "Especially the bit about the golem…" she added, drowsily.

"Gholam," Rags corrected her, "or the Deathless One, as they used to call it, around here…"

Severina sniffed disapprovingly. "A vile creature, a wreaking of witches," she muttered, "I recall seeing it as a girl… they would feed it pig's blood."

"Poor pigs," commented Chantel tiredly, lying back against the pillows. "Whatever became of the Gholam?" she asked the ceiling.

"It disappeared a generation ago," answered Severina, "and good riddance!"

"It took your uncle with it," Rags mentioned.

"Mmm. Poor Uncle Coratano… he could channel and was a bit mad, they say."

He was more than that, Rags, or Jeb, thought to himself, wondering what had become of his unfortunate apprentice. No doubt the Gholam had managed to break its conditioning, and ate him alive.

Chantel closed her eyes. "If I had been Morgana, I would never have brought my people here. I should have gone back home and begged forgiveness of my father."

"Her honour would not permit it," explained Severina.

"Honour is a highly overrated concept," whispered Chantel, and then fell fast asleep.

Jebedah Chul Simanon; Gleeman, Bard, Fool and Laughing God, smiled at the High Princess with fondness and pride. He had taught her well.


The spiral stairs went down for quite a long way, then ended at a heavy, oaken door, braced with iron. It proved to be locked. N'aethan considered kicking it open, but then knocked loudly upon it with the pommel of his sword instead. He turned to the others; they had all drawn their swords also, even Chassin, who was holding his gingerly, an expression of distaste on his scarred face. They looked eager, but for the Gleeman, who was clearly still sulking about having to be the prisoner. N'aethan grinned. This Roth Blucha was a strange fellow! Were all Gleemen as he? When he got back to the Westlands, he would find out…

Heavy footsteps approached from the other side of the door and a small hatch at head-height was pulled open, revealing a rather brutish face. "What do you want?" demanded the ugly fellow, in the Old Tongue.

"We have a prisoner for you," N'aethan responded, trying to approximate the local accent, keeping his eyes hooded for fear that the man on the other side of the door – the Gaoler, presumably – would notice that they glowed in the dark.

The Gaoler frowned. "I wasn't informed," he grumbled, but unbolted and opened the door anyway. They marched inside. The leather-clad Gaoler ignored the four hawk-masked 'guards' and looked Roth up and down disparagingly. "What is he, a Souvraniene?" he asked.

"Um… no," N'aethan replied, "a spy."

"One of the Laughing God's men?"

"Yes. Yes he is…"

"Why have you all got your swords drawn?" the Gaoler demanded, suspiciously.

"Because the prisoner is dangerous!"

"He doesn't look dangerous. He looks like a skinny drink of water, to me!"

Roth glared at the Gaoler. "Thou art no oil painting thyself!" he snapped.

Dagnon slapped Roth across the back of the head. "Silence, poisoner!" he growled, revealing that he could speak the Old Tongue too, if in a somewhat rudimentary fashion.

"Ow!" complained Roth.

The Gaoler blinked, then eyed them all with further suspicion… "Who are you? I've never seen you before…" he stared at N'aethan, "...and what's wrong with your eyes, fellow, do you have a fever?"

"Tsag!" cursed N'aethan, frustrated, then shot out a gloved hand, clamping powerful fingers down on the Gaoler's carotid artery. His eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped to the floor, N'aethan neatly snatching the large ring of keys from his belt as he fell. "I can't stand people who ask too many questions," N'aethan muttered, in the Vulgar, before stepping over the Gaoler's limp body and continuing down a dark stone corridor, dimly lit with guttering candles. The others followed, all but Chassin, who crouched, preparing to run one of his knives across the Gaoler's throat. Fortunately for the lumpish fellow, N'aethan glanced back and noticed.

"What are you doing, Chassin?"

"Waking him, Nightwatcher."

"No need for that. With any luck, we'll be gone before he comes to."

Chassin shrugged and rose, sheathing his knife and holding his sword awkwardly. "If the others of my Warrior Society saw me bearing a dishonourable blade, I would never hear the end of it," he complained.

Dagnon shook his head. "It took much argument on my part to get him to leave his spears behind and pick up a sword," he explained.

N'aethan smiled dangerously. "Where are the rest of the Shaidos, anyway?" he asked Chassin, "it is not like Cohradin to miss a fight."

"It is now!" snarled Chassin, getting something off his chest, "you spoke falsely to us, Vron'cor! We were not mighty warriors in the Age of Legends, as you confirmed! We were the Da'shain Aiel and followed the cowardly Leaf Way, as do the pitiful Lost Ones!"

N'aethan sighed. "It takes more bravery than any of us have, to follow the Way of the Leaf," he argued. Chassin merely glared at him, declining to comment. "Who told you?"

"The troublesome Tomanelle Water Seeker, Ruon!"

"Oh. Who is he?"

"One of our crew," Dagnon revealed, "a strange man, not much like an Aiel anymore. When the pirates attacked, he just stood there, waiting to be killed."

"Mmm, he seemed rather disappointed that he wasn't," added Roth.

"I have toh to you, for the lie," N'aethan told Chassin, "to the others, also… so they are not here because..?"

"They have gone completely mad, Nightwatcher! Gerom thinks that he is Gai'shain and carries water all day, whilst Cohradin believes himself to be Da'tsang – when last I saw him, he was digging deep pits on the beach and then filling them in again!"

N'aethan frowned. "This is ill news… and Manda?"

"She went to seek you, Vron'cor. I know not where she is. Somehow, you must convince Cohradin and Gerom that they are yet algai'd'siswai and thus put an end to their insane foolishness!"

N'aethan nodded thoughtfully. "I think I may know how to do that…"

Jabal made an impatient sound; they all looked at him. "Are we not supposed to be rescuing the Aes Sedai?" he reminded them.

N'aethan blinked his strange eyes. "Yes, of course. We shall speak of this later, Chassin."

Chassin nodded, then glanced down as the Gaoler groaned and stirred on the floor; the short Aielman kicked him neatly in the head and he lapsed into unconsciousness once more.

At the end of the long corridor was another door, unlocked this time. It opened onto a wider hallway lined with heavy cell doors, two of which stood ajar. A soldier was just emerging from one of them, a disgruntled look on the lower half of his face. The upper half was covered by the obligatory hawk-mask, but this one differed in that a short red plume bobbed at the top of it. Some sort of Captain then, N'aethan surmised. And he was not alone; a dozen more hawk-masked soldiers stood at the end of the hall, where it opened out into a guard-room. Another cell door stood open down there.

The Captain regarded them with disfavour. "Who is this?" he demanded, pointing at Roth.

"A dangerous Souvraniene!" N'aethan answered smartly, having decided to abandon the spy story.

The Captain scowled. "Well, put him in a cell, we have three empty ones at the moment, thanks to that idiot Gaoler… or just execute the wretch, I care not."

N'aethan sniffed the air. The scent of the Aes Sedai was faint, if they were imprisoned here, it would have been stronger… three Sisters, three empty cells… "Have the Aes Sedai escaped?" he enquired.

"Of course they have, you idiot! The witches used their dark powers to put the Gaoler to sleep and open the doors, then doubtless flew away into the night! How is it that you do not…" The Captain trailed-off, examining them more closely, his suspicion matching and even exceeding that of the Gaoler. "Wait – who are you? I haven't seen you before…" The soldiers at the end of the hall were taking note of the exchange, they began to pace towards them, hands on the hilts of their swords.

N'aethan was about to respond, but Dagnon unfortunately beat him to it. "We are fresh!" he announced, having confused this with the word for 'new.'

The Captain frowned. "Moustaches are against regulations!" he snapped. His cold eyes moved to Chassin. "So are braids, and you're too short to be in the Guard!" Chassin scowled. The Captain eyed Jabal. "Your hands are tattooed, Sea Folk scum!" Finally, it was N'aethan's turn to be appraised and dismissed; "and you… well, I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something just plain wrong about you!"

"You are a suspicious person, aren't you?" N'aethan growled, in the Vulgar.

"Enemies! Impersonating Guardsmen! Kill them!" The Captain unsheathed his sword, which appeared to be Power-wrought, and the soldiers surged forward, drawing their own blades.

N'aethan held up a gloved hand. "Wait!" he shouted. Surprisingly, they did so. "I will make this perfectly simple," N'aethan suggested, "I mislike killing humans, so you can either drop your swords, get in the cells and be locked in… or we will slay you all!"

The soldiers looked at each other, some smiling coldly. The Captain laughed harshly. "You must be as mad as your prisoner," he scoffed, "we are the Hawx Guard. Even the Laughing God's men fear us!"

"I have faced a Gholam and lived," N'aethan responded, without bravado, "I know not what fear is." In three quick, blurring steps he was in sword range of the Captain and a lightning fast Desert Whirlwind took the masked head clean off. Blood gushed from the stump of his neck and the decapitated corpse collapsed to the stone floor, a marionette with its strings cut. N'aethan stepped over the Captain's headless body and regarded the soldiers. They stared at him, astonished. "Who is next?" he asked, quietly.

The fight did not last very long, but longer than it should have, given that the close confines of the hallway made things more awkward. N'aethan shifted from form to form, blocking and striking, killing his opponents with workmanlike precision, but none of the fierce joy he felt when slaying Shadowspawn. Chassin discarded his sword immediately and set to work with his knives, methodically butchering any soldiers that came near. Dagnon and Jabal, both Blademasters, swiftly accounted for the few Guards that got past the Aielman and the Lightborn. And Roth… N'aethan turned away from his last kill, a big man who had moved pitifully slowly compared with him, cleaning his blade on his cloak, and noticed the Gleeman backed against the wall. Roth had a deep cut in his cheek, his hand pressed to it. The other hand held the long knife he kept in his boot, and the blade was bloody. At his feet lay a dead hawk-masked soldier, slighter than most of the others.

Roth glanced up at N'aethan as he approached, then his eyes returned to the corpse. "I've killed men before, when the need arose," he mumbled, "but never a woman. I feel sick." Then, his eyes widened and he plucked the blade from the female soldier's cold hand. "This is Shrina's sword," he exclaimed, "I recognise the fine poetry on it!"

N'aethan scanned the lines of verse engraved on the blade and raised his eyebrows. "This was clearly written by someone with an extremely vivid imagination," he commented.

"Thank you!" said Roth.

Chassin came over and regarded Roth's wound approvingly. "There, now you have your first scar, Gleeman," he declared, "Manda shall warm to you when she sees it, and be much enamoured of your looks; you shall get no rest that night!"

"I'm a married man now, Maidens of the Spear are no longer on the menu, I am afraid!" Roth's eyes widened. "Ysmet! She is the one who wanted a duelling scar, not me! She'll either be very angry, or very appreciative." He considered a moment. "Probably both, knowing her!"

N'aethan shrugged, wondering what it would be like to be married. Middle Brother had seemed to enjoy it… while it lasted, at least. He went over to the dead Captain and prized his sword from stiff fingers. Yes, definitely Power-wrought, a Warman's blade, like his own. Dagnon already had one with a Heron-mark, Chassin would not be interested… he glanced at Jabal. "Lionfish! You would like this?"

The Sea Folk Warder shook his head. "It is too long for me, Naythan Gaidin, I prefer a shorter blade. Besides, I will take back my own sword from that son of the sands, Kor, and kill him with it, if it is the last thing I do!" Jabal thought about it briefly, then held out a tattooed hand. "But I will take it for now, and give it to one of the Twins, when we find them."

N'aethan passed him the sword, then walked down the hallway towards the guard-room, stepping over corpses and trying not to get blood on his boots, though it was difficult. Dagnon was already there, exploring the room. There were some wooden chests stacked in the corner, he opened one. N'aethan went over to look, Jabal following. There were various items inside, including three wadded shawls, with blue, green and brown fringes. N'aethan took the blue-trimmed shawl and held it to his face, inhaling Ellythia Sedai's achingly familiar sweet scent. Where was she? She had not waited, seemingly, but had escaped before he could come and rescue her… that was not how it happened in the stories!

"This is Renn's," Jabal exclaimed, holding up a brooch in the shape of the white tooth, or flame as they called it now. Kiam Sedai's old soldier's angreal. Though now it had a new owner… "Her angreal!" An ebony staff leant against the wall, Jabal grabbed it. "Her special stick, also! Why would Renn leave without them?"

N'aethan put it as diplomatically as possible. "Renn Sedai, while a fine scholar, is not the most observant of people… mayhap she did not notice her staff and angreal when she escaped?"

Jabal frowned, but then nodded. "You may have a point."

Dagnon opened another chest. "Saddlebags," he commented.

"Our saddlebags," Jabal qualified. There were six of them, all fairly heavy. And beneath…

N'aethan grinned delightedly. "My things!" He pulled out a long, tubular bag that held his clothes and a few items that he had taken from the Cenotaph, including his fiddle case, sticking out of the top. He opened it to make sure the sung-wood fiddle was still inside. It was. No sign of the Howling Axe, though, and a brief search confirmed that it was not in any of the other chests. The Hawx must keep their purloined weapons elsewhere, in some sort of armoury, perhaps. N'aethan frowned. Big Brother would have been angry with him, for losing his dread weapon that had ended the miserable lives of so many foul Shadow-wrought. He must find it… but now was not the time. Ellythia Sedai and her friends were more important than the Axe.

Roth and Chassin came into the guard-room, leaving bloody footprints behind them. Roth had Shrina Sedai's sword tucked through his belt. His deep cut was still bleeding. N'aethan dug a small field-dressing out of the physic-pack hidden beneath his hawk-emblazoned coat and passed it to the Gleeman. Roth tore off the outer layer and pressed it to his cheek. His look of surprise as the dressing adhered to his skin, shaping itself to the wound, was comical.

"Déjà vu!" muttered N'aethan.

"What was that?" asked Roth.

"Never mind."

Roth noticed the fiddle. "Do you play?" he enquired.

"I scrape out a tune or two," N'aethan answered modestly.

Chassin had gone over to a large hatch set amongst the flagstones in the opposite corner. "Hoy!" he called, to gain their attention, "the Aes Sedai must have gone this way…" He pulled at the ring set in the hatch but it would not budge. "Nightwatcher! Assist me!"

N'aethan went to the hatch and with a grunt of effort, ripped it open, tearing a heavy bolt free from its hasp. A wooden ladder stretched down into the darkness. They descended it one-at-a-time, burdened with saddlebags, N'aethan going first. He reached a stone floor and stood, gazing at a row of empty barrels, quite the largest barrels he had ever seen. Not that he had seen many barrels, of course, the containers of his time had been more advanced. The others did not have the benefit of his night-vision and blundered about in the gloom, bumping into each other, until N'aethan produced his sar-light.

"Here," N'aethan said to Roth, handing the device to him, "you can light our way, Gleeman."

Roth examined the sar-light with interest. "What is this?" he wondered.

"It is a bowl of mushroom soup! What do you think it is? It is a sar-light, of course!"

"Alright, no need to be sarcastic… where did you get all of these strange items?" Roth wanted to know.

"They come from the Age of Legends," Chassin explained.

"Very funny, Aielman. No really, where did you-"

"Would someone please hit the Gleeman on the head again?!" N'aethan requested, exasperated.

The others laughed, all but Roth, who frowned and muttered under his breath.

Squinting, N'aethan examined the stone floor. The residual heat of a half-dozen sets of footprints crossed it, stopping at the last enormous barrel in the row. He approached it… were they inside? Why would they hide in a barrel? He knocked on it with his knuckles. It sounded hollow… it must open, a hidden catch of some kind…

Roth guessed his intent. "Allow me." He ran his long fingers over the barrel's end, pushing and probing at the wooden surface. "Ah-ha!" Roth pressed something, there was a muted clicking sound, and he swung the circular wooden surface open on a hidden hinge, revealing an empty interior, a passageway hewn through rock beyond. The heat-prints resumed, leading into the darkness.

"Now we are getting somewhere," N'aethan growled, slipping into the empty barrel and thence, the tunnel beyond. Roth walked close behind, holding up the sar-light importantly, the others following-on. Chassin came last, he swung the barrel top closed behind him, latching it shut. The stone passage went on for a long time, and after a while, N'aethan's sharp ears detected the sound of breaking waves at the end of it, his keen nose picking up the smell of salt in the stale air. Clearly, the passageway led to the far end of the island… the Aes Sedai had no boat, presumably, so hopefully they would still be there, awaiting them. He was going to kiss Ellythia Sedai until she was quite breathless! And when they were alone together, do other things besides! His anticipation faded as the passage opened out into a long cave, and disappeared altogether when he saw that his beloved Aes Sedai and her companions were not there. Just the body of an old woman, sprawled on the damp sand…

N'aethan looked down at her sadly. The dead woman wore a drab grey dress, had long silver hair, was entirely unremarkable. And she had been killed with the Power, he could tell. Not saidar either. Saidin.

"Have a care," N'aethan warned the others, "there is a Madman about."

"I see a ship!" called Jabal, who had gone to stand at the edge of the surf, leaning on Renn's staff.

N'aethan hastened over to join him, using his sharp vision to discern more than even the keen-eyed Sea Folk Warder could detect. The ship was far out to sea, moving away from them. It was a long, low galley, two banks of oars to each side, rising and falling to the distant, muted beat of a drum. And up on the quarterdeck, surrounded by red-masked souvraniene of the kind he had slain in the forest near to the Collam Aman… four women, their hands bound in front of them. N'aethan cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted; "Ellyth!" but her head did not turn, she did not hear, the galley was too far away.

In desperation, N'aethan began to wade into the water, knowing it was futile, the galley with the prisoners on board too distant and moving too fast… but Jabal put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"Wait, Naythan Gaidin, there are lionfish." He scowled. "Unless that was another lie of the thieving dog, Kor!"

"What are these lionfish that you are named for?" N'aethan asked absently, his eyes fixed on the receding galley.

"Something that you do not wish to swim amongst!" Jabal's expression became serious. "Did you see Renn as well?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes. Shrina Sedai too."

"Curses!" hissed Roth, who had joined them.

"And a stranger, a woman with a tattooed face, she was a prisoner as well."

"That would be Dara," Jabal mused, "the Ayyad woman."

N'aethan did not ask who she was, did not particularly care. He stared at the galley as it turned west, disappearing into the night. His mind was working furiously, planning, considering his limited options… "I know where they must be going," he speculated.

"Where?" enquired Jabal.

"The Midnight City. Larcheen."

"Never heard of it," muttered Roth. "So what do we do now?"

"Nothing has changed. The Aes Sedai still need rescuing. So we shall rescue them." N'aethan glanced at Roth; "where are the other Sovin Nai?"

Chassin joined them. "Back at the camp of Ysmet Mitsobar, Nightwatcher," he answered before Roth could, "but as I told you, they are sworn to peace in battle, now." He frowned. "Well, Gerom is, at least... as for Cohradin, who can say what he is sworn to, besides his own foolishness? But I doubt he will participate in the coming Dance either..."

"We shall see about that! First things first, we need to get off this accursed island. How did you and Roth and Dagnon get here, Chassin?"

"In the longboat," Roth answered before Chassin could, "it waits for us offshore. A signal with the lantern will summon it, but I can't recall what-"

"Two long flashes, one short," Dagnon muttered scathingly, scowling at the Gleeman as he joined them.

N'aethan nodded. "Very well, I can move faster on my own. You wait here... bury the old woman while I'm gone, I don't know who she was but we shouldn't leave her for the crabs to feast upon. I'll skirt the castle, head back to the beach and fetch the boat, then we'll come and get you."

"And what then?" demanded Jabal.

N'aethan looked very grim for a moment, his pupils slitting dangerously. "And then, we'll gather reinforcements, go to Larcheen, redeem the Aes Sedai from captivity… and kill the k'jasic Laughing God!"

As N'aethan ran swiftly into the night, he heard Roth Blucha's voice raised in concern; "whatever you do, don't forget to bring back my harp and cloak!"