Chapter 14: Darkbox
Moghedien strode through the corridors of the Tarasin Palace, looking neither right nor left. Back straight, head high, like a queen. The East Wing, where the sul'dam and their charges were stationed was formerly the servants' quarters of the palace, attested to by the functionality of the furnishings and fittings. The walls were plastered a uniform matt white, the lighting coming from oil-lamps set into the wall, the glass of their housing smoke-tinted, their brass fittings plain but bearing the honest gleam of assiduous daily polishing. The East Wing was sparsely-occupied – there were a hundred or so damane stationed here, and roughly half as many sul'dam.
Most of the people the Spider passed in the halls were scurrying da'covale, who stopped instantly as she swept by, falling to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the tiled floor. Moghedien did not deign to cast her eyes upon them. Doing so, she knew, would lead to them asking how they might serve the High Lady.
She passed sul'dam too. Darkness, but the first time she'd nearly run into one bodily, and it had required every iota of composure she possessed not to throw herself to her knees, admit what she had done and beg for mercy. That was what these vermin had done to her!
Instead, she had drawn herself up to her full height with a prideful glower. "You would impede me?" she snarled, as if she held a weave of lightning ready to hurl. "You would dare, little sul'dam?" The woman had lowered her eyes. In fact, she had prostrated herself as fully as the Property did. "Better." Moghedien acknowledged, then dismissed her from notice. Easy.
Her confidence grew, despite the uncomfortable fit of her clothing, as she stalked through the halls. Her only plan at present was to make good upon her escape. Leave the Tarasin Palace and all memory of her bondage behind. The long nails of her left hand scratched the plaster as she turned the corner. Careful. That kind of mistake could give her away, show she was not used to bearing the trappings of the Blood. The cour'souvra nestled snugly between her breasts on its silver chain, a hard gem that bore her whole heart. The silver and jet of the a'dam clasped around her throat.
The hall she swept through was broad, the floor tessalated with black and white rhombi, bordered with a strip of crimson tiling. Now, it was her turn to make a knee for the Prince, Uthair. At first glance, the unassuming young man appeared scholarly, distracted, almost beneath notice for all his exalted rank. Moghedien, who had often cultivated such an appearance, saw him for precisely what he was. In the Blight, there was an insect called a Stick. It looked like an innocuous twig upon a dry bush. Unless you disturbed it. Its bite was death. That was what this young man was. Instant death beneath your hand.
Heart hammering, the Spider bowed deeply. The young General swept past her without a second glance, face withdrawn, introspective, flanked by a curious-looking quartet. A distraught-looking Saldean damane, her ageless Aes Sedai countenance frosted marchpane, a motherly-looking sul'dam and what was – unless Moghedien missed her mark – a Warder, a colossal man who radiated sheer physical power, with a wooden sword girt at his hip instead of steel. And an angry-looking girl, scrawny, but the sword at her side looked like it belonged there too. Curious.
Rand and the Band had made it to the Mol Hara without further incident, leading a charmed life. Here a tremendous battle raged on the flags of the square, fifty Deathwatch Guards and two Ogier Gardeners against two hundred Fists of Heaven and a hundred lopar. It was an even fight, an obsidian blade cleaving savagely into the lightly-armoured Fists of Heaven, who fought back with javelins, short swords and throwing knives.
The lopar waded into the fray, spatulate forepaws gouging like blind moles, dinning upon black-armoured men. Rand saw a Deathwatch Guard hurled high up into the air by one enraged swipe of a lopar's shovel-like arm to land head-first on the cobbles. The man's cuendillar armour was unharmed, but the soldier himself lay still, his neck broken.
The twin Ogier stood back to back against the lopar, a gargantuan axe in either hand, the creascent-shaped axe blades mounted upon long hafts of sung wood. The Gardeners weren't just big and strong, they struck like a blacklance, as the heaps of cloven bodies about them attested.
A lopar reared up above the press, lumbering forward on his trunk-like hind legs, forearms widespread to bare claws the size of butcher's knives, intending to greet an alantin with a warm, brotherly embrace! The Gardener clove him in two at the waist. Seizing the opportunity, another hurled himself at the Ogier, jaws snapping low at the Ogier's legs. The Gardener's right-hand axe hewed downwards through the lopar's head, blood broadcast as men sow barley. But his partner was in trouble, one lopar worrying at his forearm like a mastiff while he attempted to fend off two others with a single blade.
Both sides had damane. The defenders had two and the attackers three. Their battle was being fought in silence, blades of Spirit trying to sever their opponent's connection to saidar. To an onlooker who couldn't see the weaves, it appeared like five women staring angrily at one another. Ten, if you counted the sul'dam.
With a clatter, a raken swept in to land heavily upon the pitched roof overlooking the square, talons punching through the clay tiles as the flying lizard flapped its leathery wings for balance. It slid precipitously down the roof, scattering tiles until the raptor found purchase a yard from the lead guttering. Its long neck leaned out hungrily over the edge, eyes glittering as it hissed at the fighting men.
Rand counted six men on its back excepting the morat'raken, and they disembarked adroitly, lithe figures light on their feet taking post on the rooftop. To his surprise, instead of bows or other projectile weapons, they bore the long-barrelled muskets he had seen in his vision when confronting the Dark One. Placing the walnut stocks to their shoulders, they took careful aim, coolly unleashing a steady fire upon the Deathwatch Guard and Ogier, to little apparent effect, their cuendillar armour bullet-proof.
Six men? No, he had been mistaken. There were only five.
All of a sudden, a few moments later, one of the defender's damane fell, a look of shock upon her face. It hadn't been caused by the One Power. Her throat had been expertly slit from ear-to-ear, blood pumping from the gash. But there had been nobody within a dozen paces.
Bloodknives. Assassins that wore a ter'angreal that hid them with the weave Night's Shade as well as boosting their speed and skill. The damane's partner went down quickly, overwhelmed by the three enemy channellers she faced, and the victors turned their wrath on the Deathwatch Guard and Ogier, broiling them within their armour with a wall of Fire. Charring them where they stood. One of the Ogier fought on a while longer, before being dragged down under a heap of slavering lopar.
One of the attacker's damane turned her ire upon the Band, and full battle was joined between the Band's damane and two of the attacker's. It was time for Rand to take advantage of the opportunity afforded him to escape his captors. He focused, and the ta'veren gift bought him the slack to slip his bonds, ropes growing loose around his bound wrists as he worked his hands free.
Rand caught both his guards unawares, downing the man to his left with a compact right hook, before turning on the other, who had a drawn sword in his hand. Catching the Salmon. He placed the palms of his hands against the flat sides of the blade and twisted the sword out of his opponent's hands, hammering the pommel into the man's head to knock him cold before flipping the blade to leave Rand holding the hilt in both hands, ready.
Rand broke away, running hell-for-leather across the square, zigging and zagging. There was no pursuit from the Band, who had all they could handle merely staying alive. He wished them luck, but his business was elsewhere. He ducked into the doorway of the palace, skidding as his wet feet slipped on the polished wood, haring into the halls. Servants shouted their outrage at him, veiled da'covale and moustachioed Ebou Dari alike, but he ignored them as he raced towards his quarry, an arrow loosed from the bow.
He turned a corner at full-tilt, and found himself face-to-face with Moghedien.
It was hard to say who was the more surprised as he skidded to a halt.
"Moghedien!" Rand snarled.
The Forsaken looked at him apprehensively, licking her lips. Eyes scanning for avenues of possible escape. "Moridin. I thought you slain."
Rand's eyes fell upon the stone she bore around her neck. "Give me that cour'souvra" he snapped in a voice cold as winter.
Abruptly, the Spider laughed. "You aren't him, are you? He gave me it back, why would he want it again? Who are you, then?" she demanded. Recognition dawned on her. "Al'Thor!"
"Doesn't matter who I am." Rand growled. "Give me the damned thing!"
She saw the matching stone hanging around his own neck, and the light of understanding was dawning in her eyes. The Spider might be evil, but she was far from stupid. "I think not. If you took Moridin's body, went through his things, and he had another cour'souvra, the one he gave me might not be mine. Whose is it, then?"
"Enough talking, Forsaken. Hand it over. Or I'll stop your heart and take it."
"Then why haven't you? It belongs to somebody you care about, doesn't it?" Moghedien jeered. She ripped the mindtrap from around her neck. There was only one way she could know for sure. Drawing a deep breath, she pressed her fingers into the yielding crystalline flesh, anticipating a jolt of excruciating pain. No pain, just a backwash of sensations. There was elation and relief both in her cagy eyes. "I felt her, Al'Thor. That straw-haired chit, Elayne."
Rand stepped forward, his mind a tumult of anger and fear.
"Not a step closer, or I'll end her!" Moghedien snarled. "You know I will. Put away your blade or I'll do it now."
A coldness came over Rand then, an emptiness like the ko'di, the cold of a Borderland winter as he tucked his bare sword into his leather belt, where it hung awkwardly. "Want to wager that I hold your mindtrap right here?" he spoke in a voice like the grinding of ice. "I will trap you in a comatose body if you harm Elayne." he vowed grimly.
The Forsaken flinched first. "Very well. I suggest we exchange the mindtraps, and go our separate ways."
Rand nodded slowly. Elayne's safety was paramount. "No tricks, Moghedien. Or your very soul will rue it."
A careful arm's length apart, Rand watched the still, perilous waters of her eyes as they each passed the stones into the other's hand; Rand snatching Elayne's to his breast with a ragged sigh of relief. It was then the Forsaken struck, a straight-razor in her open palm whickering for his throat.
Almost contemptuously, Rand slapped the weapon from her hand. With a frown, he laid his hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to end the Spider's overlong life. The flicker of surprise in her eyes was the only warning he had, the reflection of movement in her eyes. It was barely enough.
He spun, falling into River of Light, drawing and cutting low in the same fluid motion. Steel grated against steel, his stroke intercepting an opponent's incoming blade. His eyes couldn't even distinguish his opponent's form, a guttering shadow dragging against the backdrop of the darkened hall that his eyes refused to track. No Grey Man, this. Bloodknives were infinitely more dangerous.
Rand desperately parried an attack he could barely see with Rain in High Wind, nearly missing his cover, blade clattering off his adversary's barely in time. The man moved like a black eel. In the brief duration of their struggle, Rand had determined the assassin carried two short blades by his forms. One touch of those long daggers, the barest scratch, and he'd be dead. The blades were poisoned.
His opponent was a wraith, a ghost. His speed unreal. Mesmerizing. Rand blocked a combination flurry from his adversary by instinct more than intent, the assassin's razor-keen knife shaving a sliver of the sleeve from his tunic like the peel from an apple. Any closer and the fight would have been over then and there.
Rand leveraged the advantage of his longer blade for all he was worth, striking out with Apple Blossoms In the Wind, a form usually used against multiple opponents, his blade finding empty air with all three cuts as the assassin nimbly jumped back. Desperation.
A whisper of sound was enough, and Rand ducked the thrown blade easily, the blade visible as soon as it left the man's hand. Mistake. He darted forward, hearing the telltale scrape of the Bloodknife drawing another blade and threw himself into Hummingbird Kisses the Honeyrose, hoping the momentary lapse in his enemy's concentration would give him an opening. Felt the familiar resistance of the long blade plunging home into the man's breast.
With his death, the assassin became visible. Rand began Folding the Fan to sheathe his sword, frowning when he remembered he wore no scabbard, and took stock of his surroundings hastily. Moghedien had seized the opportunity and fled, making good her escape. A pity, but Rand had accomplished what he had set out to do. He had secured Elayne's mindtrap.
He bent quickly to the fallen Bloodknife. It was a shock to discover his assailant was a woman, with a pageboy's haircut and a snub nose. She didn't look like a killer. Her limpid blue eyes bore sadness and surprise and Rand couldn't endure their gaze.
He closed them, on impulse taking the ter'angreal ring from her finger, feeling the still-warm deadweight of her small hand in his as he did so, taking care not to prick himself on the thorn. If he did, then like the young woman he had slain, his life would be measured in hours, his blood activating the device. He placed the ring in his valise. Elayne's cour'souvra around his neck, over his heart.
There was the doorway to the courtyard, and freedom beckoned for Moghedien. The freedom she had longed for, striven for, believed beyond hope, now within her grasp!
A solitary figure stood between her and it, upon the threshold, a slim figure in the high-collared garb of a sul'dam. Milk-white skin, a heart-shaped face that would have been beautiful were it not for the inalienable stamp of cruelty upon it. Honey-hued hair falling in a multitude of stringlike braids. Instead of deferentially bowing and standing aside, the sul'dam was advancing upon her, a smirk upon her face. This close, the Spider could see the pallid lumen surrounding the other woman, signifying that she held the Power.
Liandrin.
A woman she had scorned, mocked, punished for her presumption in challenging the Chosen. A woman she given to Daved Hanlon for his gratification. A woman whom she had forced into obedience with Compulsion. An acolyte of the Black Ajah. Liandrin bowed her head, ironically, crooked a finger. "Don't trouble to speak, 'High Lady'" the Guirale woman tittered, taking in Moghedien's disguise. "Follow me."
Liandrin pulled a key from her purse, opening a door to Moghedien's left, tantalisingly close to the exit to the palace. The room inside was bare, the air stale. Moghedien obediently entered, like a sheep to the slaughter. Liandrin shut the door behind them, locking it with brisk efficiency, before rounding upon her.
Liandrin's palm lashed her face, leaving her cheek stinging. There was fury on that foxlike face. "Oh, Moghedien, I have dreamed of this day. You do have no idea how long I have waited for it. You can have no notion how belittling it felt, scraping and serving, because your strength in the Power was so great and mine so inconsequential.
How do it feel now? Knowing that for all your strength, you cannot even touch the One Power with the leash about your neck. And here am I. Weak little Liandrin. I could pluck you like a goose with saidar and there wouldn't be a thing you could do to defend yourself!" In her anger, Liandrin's voice was strident, losing the veneer of culture and sophistication she assumed, reverting to the argot of the Tarabon streets.
Moghedien sneered at her. She might be terrified, and completely in the other woman's power, but she would sooner be in the Can Breat than acknowledge the fact. "Do what you must, sorda. But for the Great Lord's sake, just shut your peasant's mouth while you do. I weary of the sound of your voice."
Liandrin reached into her purse, pulling out a small ebon cube, so black it seemed more than the mere absence of colour. Her sepia-coloured eyes flickered from Moghedien to the cube, then back again. "Unfortunately, Moghedien, our Master has spoken to me, and he still has a use for you. This cube is a ter'angreal of a unique type. It is called a Darkbox."
Moghedien's eyes widened. It was another creation by the great craftsman Aginor. Its function was to allow the person who used it to hear the Lord of the Dark's voice, no matter where they happened to be. At the time, Aginor had been derided for his creation by the other Chosen, since the Great Lord had always been able to talk to his Chosen freely, until now.
When the Dragon pent him up, the Lord of the Grave had been banished from the sphere of this world. But with this device, a person could still hear his voice. Now Moghedien understood why the Great Lord had always favoured that madman above all others, spent so much energy suborning him, seducing him. The Inventor had been imbued with the divine spark of the Adversary. It had been a great coup when Aginor had pledged to the Great Lord of the Dark.
The Darkbox operated using a principle called 'quantum entanglement'. The stuff of the Dark Box was here but it resonated like the string of a giant harp. The other end of the infinite string lay in the dark ether of the Great Lord's being, in a nested universe contained within their own. Truly, if you could really use the Darkbox as Liandrin claimed, it was nothing short of a miracle.
Liandrin's fidgety, clever hands caressed the slick surface of the cube. "But why should I presume to speak for our Master when he has the means to speak for himself?" Liandrin had recovered her composure, her voice inflected with its usual bored drawl. The Darkfriend caressed the glossy contours of the Darkbox familiarly. But it was not Moghedien that Shai'tan addressed, but Liandrin.
LIANDRIN, RELEASE MOGHEDIEN FROM THE A'DAM. THEN GIVE HER THE DARKBOX
Liandrin hesitated palpably, her reluctance evident as she placed a long-nailed finger upon the a'dam just so, and the clasp unfastened smoothly, the bracelet coming away. Moghedien ripped the device from her throat and threw it away with a shudder of disgust. Opened herself to the Source, drinking deep, drawing her Power to her, as much as she could hold.
Liandrin cowered before her, trembling, pressing the Darkbox into her hands before falling at her feet. To the Darkfriend, holding this much saidar, Moghedien must have shone like the sun.
Remembering she was in a place of great peril, Moghedien concentrated, masking her ability while still being full to bursting, a reservoir of life and death. Ignoring Liandrin, she laid her fingers upon the device, much as the other woman had done. A torrent of sensations poured into her, suffused her along with the words it uttered.
MOGHEDIEN, YOU MUST TRAVEL FROM HERE TO THE LOCATION OF THE NEAREST PORTAL STONE. ONCE YOU ARE THERE, ACTIVATE THIS DEVICE AGAIN AND I WILL INSTRUCT YOU FURTHER
Moghedien's mouth was dry with fear and awe. "At once, Great Lord. What do you wish me to do with this woman?"
WHATEVER YOU WISH. I HAVE NO FURTHER USE FOR HER.
She half-expected Liandrin to try and seize the Source, to fight her, as futile as that might be, but instead she begged and grovelled. Evidently, she had taught Liandrin better in their previous encounters. Icily, Moghedien struck out at her with an inverted web, all the considerable force of her will behind it. Compulsion.
Liandrin looked up, fear transformed to awe and adoration. Much better. "Little Liandrin" she sighed, almost gently. "What I require of you is to scurry to the nearest sul'dam and tell her that you are marath'damane and need to be immediately leashed.
You will be a good little damane for the rest of your life, always hoping that you will somehow break free but never being able to. Because, little Liandrin, it is not just power that separates you and I. I have the Great Lord's favour. I am Nae'blis, and you are an insignificant cockroach."
Moghedien stroked the Taraboner's hair, almost tenderly, reminiscently. Liandrin's tresses were as soft as they looked. "I wish you a long and productive life of service. Now I must leave you."
And with that, the Chosen left her there, forsaken.