"The Electi makes use of five senses to perceive plain certainties,
As other men do.
She makes use of the sixth to find hidden realities:
Perception of what lies beyond.
She makes use of the seventh and eighth to discover higher truths:
Foreknowledge and Consciousness of what lies within the thoughts of men."
"Concerning the Use of Sense Faculties", Methods of the Faceless Men
The Blind Girl tightened her grip on her dagger's hilt.
"A girl has issues," the Lorathi master spoke. "Trust issues. A man understands, because without seeing, how will she know if she's right or wrong? How can she be certain about anything?" He continued to walk quietly towards her.
She listened carefully to the man's voice, and she knew it was unmistakably her master's. For reasons unknown though, the Blind Girl found it painstakingly difficult to trust what that voice was saying. "I need to be sure about who you are. If you are Jaqen, tell me something that only the two of us know."
The Lorathi's amusement was apparent when he laughed softly. "Or what? You will throw daggers at a man?"
"Yes," the Blind Girl seethed, rising from the floor. "A girl will throw the first dagger at a man and cut his throat with the second to make sure he's dead."
The sound of his charmed laughter reverberated in the small room. "Very well, lovely girl. I will tell you not one, but three things."
The next thing the Blind Girl knew was her body being pinned against the hardwood door. Then, she caught the sound of metal against the stone flooring—her daggers, she was sure, lay there uselessly. Sleight of hand, she thought. It was too quick, and quiet, and imperceptible! The Lorathi's hands held both of her sides and she found herself completely breathless with feelings of fury, helplessness, and something else. She felt him gently blowing breeze on her face, to brush away strands of her hair that clung there. His lips touched her ears. She whimpered and he mildly chuckled in response.
"Three things only the two of us know," he said almost inaudibly. "Chyswick…Weese…Weasel soup."
He pressed his body harder against hers. If she does not do anything, she would no doubt lose consciousness. "Let me go," she spat venomously.
He did not move at all. "A girl likes to play dangerous games. A girl threatens an assassin—her own Faceless Master no less—with her fancy daggers. She even went so far as to say she would kill him. Did a girl lose her wits to think that a man became faceless by taking empty threats from lovely girls?"
She felt herself being pulled harshly towards the bed. She furiously sat on its edge and tightened her grip on the cushion as she battled against a rushing flood of emotions she could not understand, much less name. She shoved away all torturous thoughts about everything and planned her next course of action. Must she confront him? Ask questions? She heard the Lorathi retrieve something from her small table. He pulled a chair, sat in front of her and held out a cup to her lips. It smelled of nice, warm milk.
"If a girl says her name," the Lorathi said. "A man will give her eyes back."
It was almost too easy. She had a lot of names and she was so tired of being sightless—Arry, Lumpyhead, Weasel, Horseface, Nan.
Cat of the Canals, Blind Beth, Wolf Girl...Arya of House Stark.
Instead, she gave him the answer that she knew he would want to hear. "A girl has no name."
"Just so," the Lorathi answered and the blind girl thought she heard from his voice a hint of disapproval. He tipped the cup to her lips and made her drink the sweet, warm liquid. She closed her eyes and when they opened, she saw Jaqen holding out an obsidian candle in front of her. It appeared to be ridged and twisted, slender as a sword, its length sparkling despite the fact that there was only a single plain candle lit in the room.
All of a sudden, the obsidian candle lit up.
If one had been blind for seven days, the soft flicker of light from a simple candle would be the most beautiful thing in the world. But this was an obsidian candle—it was pleasantly and magically bright. The girl who was once Arya Stark has heard of them from Old Nan, who when alive, believed ancient magic and higher mysteries still exist in the world, an assumption that was much to Maester Luwin's chagrin.
"Dragonglass candles, child. They let you see across seas and deserts, beyond mountains and plains—but only if you descended from magic itself. They let you speak with another whose place is endless of miles away from yours."
All her life she believed these candles to be myth, and now, she only stared in awe as its light transformed the yellow flicker of the plain candle into glittering gold, and her master's hair into flaming scarlet with ivory streaks. The whole room was bathed with colors and splendor such that they have never seen. In the blink of an eye, its light went out.
Breathless, the girl asked. "W-where did you get that? Is that for the temple? Is it true it has powers? How did you light it?"
The Lorathi laughed, clearly too amazed with what he had just seen. "One at a time, lovely girl. A man obtained this candle from the Citadel in Westeros for the temple, yes. Indeed, it is said to possess some magic. And a man did not light this candle, no," he studied the obsidian in his hands, then looked at the girl. "You did."
She blinked. "I lit the…the…"
"The dragonglass candle, yes."
"How did I light this candle without knowing I can?" She grabbed the candle from the Lorathi's grasp and let her fingers feel its ridges. "They only light up when dragons exist in the world, which they now do, in Mereen; and they only light up when there is magic involved…"
The Lorathi was smiling. He merely looked at his apprentice and said nothing.
"No…" the girl shook her head and snickered, and oh, was it music to her master's ears. "I am not a sorceress, Jaqen. I mean, you know me!"
"No, lovely girl, you are not a sorceress," he said, moving his face closer to hers. She drew in breath at her master's nearness. "But you are a Stark."
"Was," she corrected him. "What does that have to do with lighting dragonglass candles? If I may say, you're the one who could perform enchantments—I've seen them in the combat room. I've seen them in Harrenhal."
I've seen you create spectrum of colors out of water droplets in the bath chamber,through nothing but your red of hair, a voice inside her chided. She dismissed the thought as soon as she heard the Waif's voice replaying through her mind. Jaqen H'ghar and I shared some passionate kisses in the bath chamber…
The Lorathi only smiled. "Most faceless masters can do those things; but to warg into a direwolf and possibly other creatures, to be able to hear conversations from afar, and possibly perform a lot more other things in the future, only a lovely girl can do these." Then, with a whisper he added, "There is magic in your blood."
You truly are a fascinating one, are you not, lovely girl?
"What do you mean I can listen to conversations from afar? Like in another room? I do not eavesdrop! It is forbidden in the temple," the apprentice said. She closed her eyes and willed the obsidian candle to light once more, but it did not. She examined its ridges once more, and smelled it. It smelled of petals in water.
The Lorathi stood and paced the room. "A man and his brother have observed you at Pynto's tavern. You reported some things to the Elder which you claimed you have overheard—about some wildlings taken as slaves by Lysene ships, do you remember this?"
"Yes, I do," the girl answered. The drunken fellow who talked about that was such a loudmouth, anyone could have overheard him. "He was practically announcing the thing to anyone who would listen, as if it was some kind of a newly enacted decree."
"That drunken fellow was upstairs, sweet girl," the Lorathi stopped pacing and faced her, arms folded. "In another tavern away from Pynto's. The master you so boldly named the Handsome Man placed him there and told him to say those things while you," he shook his head in amazement. "You were downstairs at Pynto's tavern. You heard about the Lysene ships specifically because your Kindly Man told you to listen to conversations about captured slaves. The Masters thought you might possess this skill so we created conditions for you to demonstrate it. Who would have thought the trial would work and a girl would prove to be…full of surprises."
The Lorathi uttered the last three words in an inexplicably seductive undertone, enough for his apprentice to feel a disturbing yet pleasurable shudder. The girl could not believe what she was hearing. How could she even have…gifts she knew nothing about? Being a Stark—in the past that is—does not explain how she could possess the capabilities her master just spoke of. Arya Stark's father did not seem to have it, neither did her mother. As for her siblings, Arya Stark was better than most of them in certain things like arrows and swords, well, except for Robb and Jon, but that's it.
"This is impossible," she muttered, for she did not know anymore what to say.
Her Faceless Master took her hands and pulled her up from the bed. For seconds, they simply gazed intently at each other, neither one breathing a word. It was the Lorathi who broke the silence.
"Something that is impossible cannot exist simply because its existence is essentially flawed, yet here you are." The Lorathi pressed his lips gently upon his apprentice's cheek and let them linger there. Arya Stark closed her eyes and allowed herself to drown in a wave of thrilling sensations, from her chest, down to her belly.
If I would just move my head a little, and open my mouth…I could kiss him. She let her fingers run through the silky strands of his flowing, red hair. Cloves, ginger, petals, the summer sea…she marveled at the scent of him. I love his scent…I love it more than the scent of hay in the North and of snow. The Lorathi touched her on the small of her back and pulled her closer to him. She was barely clinging on to her sanity. Her hands ran through his sleeves and gripped tightly him there.
"You must be very tired," she heard him mutter against her hair. "Sleep, and we will talk more tomorrow."
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. "What? N-no, I am not tired. Jaqen, please…" The once Blind Girl had already forgotten her state of depression mere minutes ago.
"A girl has a lot of questions, and a man will answer them tomorrow, Mercedene," the master said. "We will talk of your new assignment as well." He headed for the door. "Sleep well, lovely girl. And please, no attacking men in the woods tonight." With a smirk, the Lorathi left.
The girl who was now Mercedene was left standing in the middle of her dim-lit room, still in want of answers and in want of him.
"I can still recall from recent memory the last dragonglass candle that burned," the Kindly Man said. He and the Lorathi were sitting in the atrium directly underneath the statue of the Stranger. Jaqen H'ghar had just finished recounting to the Elder the events of last night. "It was a hundred years ago. I never thought I could again witness one lighting up in this very temple. If we further her instruction, we can be assured that her remaining senses will be unlocked."
The Lorathi was silent. His lovely girl's training is proving to be more challenging in each passing day, and his apprehensions are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Simply put, he was plagued by worries for his own apprentice and for his tasks in the Order and the city. There is this nagging feeling that he could not quite explain.
He knew that the undertaking which the Order had so forthrightly placed upon his apprentice's shoulders is extremely dangerous, to say the least. It is as dangerous as it is totally valuable. If the visions of the Moonsingers and the prophecies in the Songs were indeed true, then the City of Braavos might truly be staring at its own ruination in the face. This great city was built by slaves that escaped from the chains of the Valyrian Freehold, and for centuries it stood. Even the greatest powers in all of Essos and Westeros could not claim to be greater than Braavos.
Dragons, Jaqen. A dragon took me West of Westeros.
No soul on the face of the earth has ventured West of Westeros and lived to tell the tale. The first and the last person to try and discover what lies in there was a Stark, who they called Bran the Shipwright. For his love of the vast ocean, this former King in the North attempted to sail beyond the Sunset Sea and was never heard of again. The Braavosi even dedicated one mummer's play for such an account—as they always do whenever Westeros faces a series of tragically ridiculous events of its own making. From distant memory, the Lorathi recalled one play titled "The Silly Shipwright."
T'is man is a Shipwright, thus t'is man shall sail,
West of Westeros, a place of secrets—conquered it shall be!
Old gods, guide this ship across the tempest, past the waves may it not fail…
Comrades, follow this man and your sorry doom ye shall see!
When he heard his lovely girl speak about the dreams in detail, he felt fear—something he had not felt for a very, very long time. Jaqen H'ghar felt afraid for her.
"Hopefully, we would be able to answer some questions now that we have the glass candle. My lovely gir—a man's apprentice could no doubt use it since she already showed that she could light it. It is said that a warg can enhance the glass candle's properties. Certainly, we would be able to see things beyond Westeros through her," the Lorathi said.
If the Kindly Man noticed anything at all about the Lorathi's way of referring to the girl, he gave no sign of it. "Fascinating things, glass candles and wargs. No wonder many men are helplessly…drawn to them."
The Lorathi bit his lower lip. He certainly is slipping in his speech more frequently than before. "Another thing, Elder. The girl mentioned dreaming about the Titan of Braavos collapsing. A man is sure it is nothing, though—"
"When was this?" the Kindly Man quickly turned to the Lorathi, obviously alarmed.
"The same night she warged into the direwolf."
Self-assured footsteps were suddenly heard in the otherwise peaceful atrium. The Handsome Man wasted no time in announcing the recent news. "Forgive me, brothers. The Sealord passed away just last night."
The Kindly Man and the Lorathi exchanged glances in shared understanding. "Valar Morghulis. And the selection for the new Sealord?" the Elder asked.
"Knives are coming out as we speak, but a certain Tormo Fregar is said to be favored by the magisters," the Handsome Man answered.
"That was rather quick," the Lorathi commented. "Usually the name of the person leading in the selection is not announced until after three days."
The Handsome Man shrugged. "This man might be more influential than we think."
"Do find out as much as you can about this Tormo Fregar," the Elder told the Handsome Man, with a flicker of recognition in the old man's eyes. Then, to the Lorathi, "When are you going back to the Moonsingers with your apprentice?"
"As soon as she finishes her task as Mercedene, Elder. As of the moment, she is with Izembaro at The Gate," replied the Lorathi.
"Very well. Her six and tenth name day is in fourteen days, as is the Unmasking. How very fortuitous that she was born on the day Braavos was declared a city to the rest of the world. Beautiful, beautiful," the Kindly Man declared.
That is why she is the Electi, the Lorathi thought. That is why her undertaking will be too great.
In the silence of the temple, he entreated Him of Many Faces.
Shield her from all pain. Keep her safe. Hide her under your powerful cloak.
"Where in the bloody hell is my crown?"
Izembaro, the head of the mummers, was in his usual grumpy state. Seconds ago, he was wearing on his head the fake crown which he would use for his scene as "The Fat King" and now it is nowhere to be found. There was always chaos behind the curtains especially if a well-known envoy from Westeros will watch the play. The girl whose name is Mercedene grew curious about the said envoy. She saw Big Brusco, the fat fellow who will play the role of the boar, painting the sign for tonight's act: The Bloody Hand by Phario Forel. Her belly was fluttering and she was a little fidgety. I deal with death, and I have stabbed men in the past without a quivering finger. This is nothing but a mummer's play, she convinced herself. There was Bobono, who will play the Bloody Hand—the 'demonic dwarf' with whom she will have a rape scene in the second act. She will be playing the part of the sweet maiden.
Mercedene ran to the privy to settle herself, and was dismayed to realize that she had thrown up. The girl felt a little dizzy and uncomfortable, but told herself that surely, this cannot be that bad. When she saw the fake crown, she quickly grabbed it and tossed it to Izembaro. "Your grace," she japed.
"Mercedene, come and help me with these laces," the Lady Stork called to her. "Sweet, sweet girl," she endeared her as she pulled the laces so the bodice of the gown could shrink. The Lady Stork's character is that of Queen Cersei, and had the girl been Arya Stark, she would have placed something in the Lady Stork's wine that would make the woman shut her eyes and never open them again. The Lady Stork is a fine one, Mercedene thought. I like her more than Daena.
"Oh, look! Come Mercy, quickly!"
Daena was peeking through the curtains to check upon the audience. The pit was almost full with people, locals and non-locals alike. "That is the Westerosi envoy," she heard Daena say. "They have lions for their sigils."
Mercedene surveyed the pit and she saw a familiar face. All of a sudden, she remembered an orphan boy who was once Arya Stark's companion, who they called Lommy Greenhands. The familiar face belonged to the man who drove a spear to the boy's throat when he could no longer walk. She slipped past Daena and headed inconspicuously to the pit. As she walked towards the envoy, she could tell that the man with a familiar face already saw her but did not at all recognize her, as she was wearing Mercedene's face.
"Raff the Sweetling," Arya Stark whispered. "Valar Morghulis."