Chapter Nineteen
Bode barely kept a straight face as she guided Tora toward a small grove of trees sitting within the graveyard. After her accusation, the ire and hate had seemed to drain out of the woman, replaced only by grief and sorrow. It had been almost disturbing, the transformation; seeing such a clearly strong woman wracked with dry sobs. And not only that, but the accusation itself.
Bode sat beside Tora, tears now flowing freely down the innkeeper's face, and tried to think of some way to explain what had happened. Aes Sedai could not kill - the Three Oaths forbid it. The only ones who could were Black sisters. And even now no one was sure exactly how many there had been. But a more pressing matter was Tora. Clearly she had been holding this pain inside for far too long.
"Mistress Arason," Bode said, hoping a distant title would keep her temper from flaring again, "please tell me what happened." Tora looked at her with something along the lines of loathing before that too drained away, revealing the cracks in the woman's strong front. Bode quickly suppressed the bond, some instinct telling her to be cautious.
Tora took a deep breath and began. "Around the time I became pregnant with Riften, my husband began acting oddly. He would have the most strange strokes of luck, his men saved and criminals captured in incredible ways. A few days later, he would get such strange symptoms, chills, dizziness, nausea; it was as if the Wheel itself were exacting a toll from him for those lucky moments.
"This went on for a month or two before he finally realized what was happening. He touched the True Source for the first time in our home." Tora breathed again, as if steeling herself. "A group of miners had come late into the inn. They had already been to at the bottle up in the mines and were clearly drunk. They demanded our finest ale, tossing nuggets of gold as payment. Any blind fool could tell they had stolen from the mines, so I refused.
"They got angry and attacked Davian, Riften's father. Dav told me to hide behind the bar as he fought them off. He was good, my Dav, always so strong, but there were many of them, a few armed with thick sticks. As they piled on top of him, a few broke away from the main group and came after me. I tried to run, but they got a hold of me and tried to …" Tora paused and swallowed thickly. "But before they could do anything real, a burst of wind drove through the common room, like a gale set free from a bottle. The miners were blown back hard. Most were injured, a few were even killed."
"And in the center of it all stood my Dav, the look of utmost wonder in his eyes as if seeing the face of the Creator himself. Then he vomited and collapsed in a heap of trembling and passed out." Tora took a hold of the amulet hanging between her breasts, like an arrowhead. "When he woke up, we talked about what happened, what that could have been. After a good hour of denial, we realized the truth …"
"Davian could channel," Bode finished, eyes wide. So riften's gift was in his blood, not just chance. Tora nodded.
"Dav tried his hardest to resist channeling. You wouldn't have thunk it from looking at him, at that bright smile and those soulful eyes, but he was always so disciplined. But he couldn't stop entirely." Bode shivered at the thought of being unable to channel, having to force yourself to resist for the sake of your health and sanity, for your wife and child.
"When Riften was born, it was a difficult one. It left me very weak and the town doctor said I wouldn't last through the night. But Dav didn't give up." Tora's eyes brightened at the memory. "He said he'd fight the Dark One himself to save me. And that's what he did." The shine faded back into sadness. "He used the Power to save me, acting on sheer bloody instinct, feeling it out to fix me up better than any doctor could. Tora smiled again. "As Riften grew, Dav was as great a father as you could get." Her smiled faded again.
"But it seems luck wasn't on our side. The whole town loved Dav, but we get a lot of people from different places in Andor looking to work in the mines or to buy the things we pull from the mountain. Whispers started to spread of a man who could channel living in Comfrey." Tora's eyes took a wrathful shine.
"Then they came - the Aes Sedai." She clenched her fists in her apron and took a moment to continue. "They were four Red sisters and a White, all asking around for Dav by name. Eventually they wandered into the inn. They asked me about my husband being able to channel and I told them it was none of their business." Tora's eyes watered again.
"Dav came in at the absolute worst time. He came in smiling with a clutch of flowers. The Reds didn't even react―they just blasted him into the street. But Dav was resilient, that man. He had the Source prepared and threw fire at them, he threw waves of wind and even brought down lightning. But-" she bit off the sentence and took a shuddering breath, "but he wasn't trained to fight with the Power―the Reds were. They put him through the wringer and 'shielded' him. They talked amongst themselves and …"
Bode, after a moment's hesitation, placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. Tora looked to her and her gaze softened from burning fury to smoldering ire. "They lifted him by the throat, with nothing to see holding him, and twisted his head clean around like a chicken ready for plucking." Bode brought a hand to her mouth at the thought of Aes Sedai killing so … brutally.
Tora flicked her gaze down. "They didn't stay long after that." She sniffled and a single tear fell down her cheek. "We never told Riften what really happened. Kerr told him that Dav had died protecting a fellow Huntsman from rouges. I just-" she hesitated, "I couldn't bear the thought of my boy knowing that his father had been murdered. Murdered only for being who he was." Tora dazedly placed her hand over Bode's. "When he left to join the asha'man, I was afraid he would end up like Dav." She smiled warmly. "I only wish Dav had been alive to see him become who he is."
Bode swallowed, just now realizing her own tears threatening to fall. "Mrs. Arason," she said, "that will never happen to Rif. I swear to you, on everything that I am, I will never let that happen." Tora looked to her and seemed to almost smile.
"I believe you ..." a moment's hesitation, "Bodewhin Sedai." Bode smiled and embraced her future mother-in-law―wait, what?―as tightly as she could.
What neither of them saw was Riften, hiding behind a tree in full range of the story. Rif's eyes were wide as he tried to comprehend what he had learned. His father could channel?! And the Red Ajah had murdered him?! A plethora of emotions welled within Rif, fighting for dominance. After several moments, one remained: cold revenge. He had to know who had done this. And then he would make them pay.
Rif quickly wove a gateway to the one place he could find answers: the White Tower's library.
Jur drummed his fingers against his arm, a nervous habit his mother had told him off about since he was a boy. At the moment, he was quite nervous. He and three other Telamons were accompanying the Lord Logain in this quite-sensitive endeavor. A report from the first of the Turned Asha'man to be cured, or "Re-Turned" as it was rapidly being named. Before them, on the opposite side of the wide, dark oak table used for audiences, was Donalo Sandomere.
On the very surface, Sandomere looked just like had had before the crisis: grizzled hair, creased farmer's face, oiled beard trimmed to a point, garnet in his left ear. But under all the familiarity was that haunted look in his eyes, as if he had seen his whole world burn before his eyes or betrayed those closest to him to the slaughteryard. Which, in a way, was partially true.
The Ogier had kept Sandomere safe as he recovered from Nynaeve Sedai's Healing, just as they did to the others who were being Healed or awaited it. It had been a number of days before Sandomere had achieved the will to move around on his own and weeks before he was fit enough to leave the stedding. And now, only a few days after his return here he was, ready to make a surprise report. He had said it was important, and Logain had believed him.
Sandomere breathed deep and sighed, then looked Logain straight in the eye, an improvement over his state in the stedding―if a shade of what he had been before the Turning. "I wish to report what I heard whispered among the Dreadlords before the Last Battle, Lord Logain," he said without preamble. Logain's eyebrow shot up at this news, but otherwise his expression remained unchanged.
"Sandomere," he said evenly, "little of what they knew is relevant to us now. The Last Battle was won, the Dark One defeated. The armies of Shadowspawn, what remains of them anyway, are destroyed or close to it. The Dreadlords are the same, those Turned slowly being Re-turned. What do you believe was so important to report?" He seemed genuinely curious, not just humoring the man who had glimpsed the abyss and barely been pulled back.
Sandomere smiled tiredly. "I learned how Taim did it; how his men became so strong, so skillful, so fast," he revealed. Logain sat straighter at that, his eyes widened with interest. Sandomere's mouth quirked in a quick smile before fading back to an overall tired expression.
"I heard the Dreadlords speaking of it after I was Turned. It involved linking." All attending Telamons were listening now. All except Jur himself had bonded Aes Sedai, or been bonded by them. They had all felt the advantages of being linked, a skill only useable if women were involved.
"The men that took up Taim's 'private lessons'," Sandomere continued, "would first be taught how to join a circle. Members of the Black Ajah, supplied by orders of the Forsaken, would link the 'student' and Taim. With his knowledge of saidin, he would then force them as we all were, pushing their ability to hold the Power to it limits without the chance of burning them out. At the same time, he would teach them weaves he had learned from the Forsaken. Demandred was one, and another called Osan'gar." Sandomere glanced to the side for a moment, as if debating something. "I think this 'Osan'gar' may have been Dashiva, bit I'm not certain."
Logain settled and placed a hand over his mouth, mulling over what he had just learned. He nodded to himself has he came to a decision. "Well done, Sandomere." He stood and moved to stand before the man. "Go home and get some rest. Whenever you feel you are ready, you may return to service." Sandomere smiled and nodded with an asha'man salute before leaving.
"Are you certain he is ready to resume duty so soon, Lord Logain?" Narishma asked. Logain hesitated before nodding.
"The Turning, according to Lord Perrin Aybara, dulled the victim's sense of creativity and foresight. If he had not been cured, he likely would have betrayed us the moment he had been free of the stedding." A smirk quirked at the side of his mouth. "Besides, are you really going to question Nynaeve Sedai's handiwork?" Narishma's eyes widened and he glanced away in embarrassment. Jur couldn't tell if Logain had been referring to Nynaeve curing the Madness or her still-remarkable temper. Either way, it got the desired effect - all of the attendees laughed.
Rif slid his hand along the leatherbound spines of the books in the White Tower's library, eyes moving almost frantically over the titles. As an Asha'man, he had been granted access to areas normally forbidden to non-Aes Sedai. Though it seemed there was still much they wanted to keep hidden.
After overhearing the true story of his father's passing, Rif had wrestled for a moment with the white-hot rage that had risen within his chest before it settled into a cold fury. He had woven a gateway to the White Tower and kept himself suspended in the Void to prevent Aes Sedai from noticing him.
As Rif finished this particular bookshelf, he clicked his tongue in agitation. There were records alright; an organization as old as the White Tower didn't last as long as it did without them. But these ranged from histories to taxes. Not the things he was looking for―things that the White Tower would want to keep hidden.
Like an arrow striking a target, it hit him exactly how unlikely it was that he could find the information he needed, especially if it was guarded by the Brown Ajah. Getting his hands on this would require a miracle or the luck of the Raven Prince, an expression that was rapidly replacing the "luck of the Dark One." Rif paused as he thought back to his first night in Ebou Dar, to that seemingly unnatural win against the Raven Prince himself.
Acting on intuition, Rif seized the Source and walked toward one of the Brown Ajah librarians rifling through records. Rif focused on her, on his need for answers, and asked her if there were instances of Aes Sedai killing men who could channel without the customary trial. After a long second of hesitation, Rif felt that quick headache, like a spike being driven into his forehead, or rather he felt it outside the Void.
As if a spigot had been turned on, the Brown began explaining about the Pogrom, an extended event also known as the Vileness, in which Aes Sedai later realized as the Black Ajah began killing men and boys who could, and even who might be able to channel. Supposedly it lasted six years and ended with an official record of seven men genteled, though the unofficial record was closer to twenty, and the secret records recorded two thousand men and boys gentled or killed. The secret record were in the Thirteenth Depository, in a locked room deep in the library.
As soon as she finished, the Brown's eyes widened in fear, as if she had just admitted to mass murder. In a moment of panic outside the Void, Rif willed her to forget what she had done. The headache lanced through his head, stronger than before and causing him to wince even in the Void. As soon as it faded, the Brown's eyes rolled into the back of her head and she collapsed. Rif knelt and Delved her, finding her to have simply fainted. Well, it's definitely me, he thought, the coincidence just too high.
Rif quickly wove Folded Light, making himself invisible, and headed in the direction the Brown had pointed out. He came across a locked door, easily unbolted with a thread of Air, and descended the steps beyond. Eventually he came to another door, unbolted with more difficulty, and felt his vambrace go ice-cold as he opened the door. Wards and traps, he thought grimly, grateful for that ter'angreal that dissolved weaves.
Past the door was a stone room with more book shelves. Upon closer inspection, they appeared to be organized by date; he worked from the front to the back. He wondered why a secret set of record would be so easily organized, then determined that even Aes Sedai wouldn't force complexity where it wasn't needed. Especially in a place that was supposedly secret.
After several minutes of searching the shelves, Rif finally found something that looked promising. A Record of the Red Folly, it said. Rif removed it, surprised by the size, and opened it to try and find his father's entry. The volume contained the names of each man that had been victim of the pogrom, as well as their age, occupation, location, family members, date of severing or death, and any sisters that were thought involved.
The listing, however, seemed to be in no particular order, forcing Rif to rifle through the book without leaving any trace of his use on it. On impulse, he seized the Source once more and focused on the book, on his father's name. It took a moment, but the headache came, far stronger than before. Rif bit back a shout of pain and clutched his head, the Void lost and the book falling from his grasp. The headache faded, but a subdued throbbing remained. Perhaps using this mysterious ability too often caused worse pain?
Rif tried to regulate his breathing and picked up the book again. His eyes widened as he saw his father's name. On the page he was facing, near the end of the volume. Davian Arason: twenty-four—Huntsman—Comfrey, Andor—Killed during self-defense 983 NE. Most of the names of involved sisters were marked out with a thin line, indicating their death; he didn't recognise those names anyway.. Most of those were marked with a symbol that referred to the Black Ajah. The ink for the symbols looked newer, as if recently added. Likely they were added after Verin Sedai's had given Egwene al'Vere her research on the topic, an event that all members of both Towers knew of. The woman deserved remembrance for her efforts.
Rif's gaze settled on the one name in his father's entry that was not scratched out or marked: Cariandre Temalien. That was a name he knew all too well. Memories surfaced of the pretty Red who had forcibly bonded him. She was supposedly serving her penance for that on a farm in the Black Hills. Rif quickly replaced the book and left the secret room, making sure everything was as he had left it. His vambrace going icy again proved the wards were still active. Before leaving the library, Rif checked a map of Andor that focused on the Black Hills and found Jara Doweel's farmstead. Destination in mind, he could Skim there with ease.
Rif headed for the Tar Valon Traveling grounds, mind abuzz with possibilities and strategies to find Cariandre and confront her with what she had done. Would he hurt her? No, that would simply prove what she had thought about him. Perhaps he could sever her. Make her feel that hollow emptiness that he could only imagine. Take her reason to live in exchange for his father's genuine life. His planning was halted by a familiar voice.
"Going somewhere, Rif?" Bode asked. Rif turned around as if guilty, and perhaps some part of him was; some small part strangled with righteous fury. Rif smoothed his features and kept his gaze level, even to the woman he loved.
"I'm going to the Black Hills," he said, emotions again freely flowing through the bond granting better communication than speaking ever could. Bode's eyebrow shot up, hrne her eyes softened.
"Rif, I know you heard about your father-"
"You know," he said harshly, "yet you don't understand. Your family, your whole family, is alive and well. Your home is better than it ever has been. You have lost next to nothing in life, Bode!" Rif felt his throat close up as sorrow dowsed the flames of his rage. "I grew up not knowing my father because of them. Because of her. And many boys lost their father, wives their husbands, parents their sons because of what happened. My father didn't deserve to be murdered. And the Aes Sedai got away with almost no punishment for it." Rif huffed a sigh after the rant, his anger building back up.
Bode looked at him with caring eyes, the bond radiating sadness and love. "Nothing you do will bring him back, Rif. And trying to punish Cariandre will do no good. She won't care that she hurt your father, or you, and she can't be made to." bode approached and placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb caressing the side of his face.
"Please, Rif. You're scaring me. This isn't the Riften I know." He could feel it. She was truly scared of him; scared for him. "Please rif, the Aes sedai won't forgive you for attacking one of them a second time. Last time it was her own fault, but this time it will be yours. Please …" her eyes began to water, "please don't do this."
Seeing that, seeing bode begin to cry for his own sake, for the sake of his soul, Rif felt his fury drain away, the flames doused by the rainfall of his love for her. Rif relaxed, his mind clearing, the ache of horror at what he had been planning settling in. He felt like a monster. Perhaps this was what the Lord Dragon had felt when he came to his senses. Rif felt pity for the man and felt a tear fall from his eye.
Bode sighed as she felt Rif's ire fade away. She gently kissed his cheek and took his hand, guiding him along. It was time to go back to Comfrey and put all of this behind them. The Hall would be pleased to hear that she had talked her wayward Asha'man down when she reported in that evening.
Though some small part of her felt like something was wrong. One crisis was averted, but something was still to come. Something big.
In his quarters of the Black Tower, Karl looked over his maps and diagrams for the final stage of his plan. The time was coming. Arason was due to report in for assignment within a week. Finally, after all this time, the beauty of his plots would bloom into fruition.
The weak would burn, the useless crumble. Only the strong would survive. And he would make sure he was strongest of all.
What's this? Two updates in two days? I was ahead of schedule and decided to thank ya'll for you support.
I'm going to be honest, this was going to extend for some time and take us to Malkier to have Nynaeve beat some sense into Rif, but that would make it far too long. The part I'm really looking forward to is yet to come.
Thanks guys. Leave a review about what ya'll thought. What is happening to Rif that he just got lucky? What is Zavier's plan? Wait and see - It's awesome!