The testing took the rest of that day and most of the next. At the end of Mazrim's second day at the farm, only five men had been told that they either had the spark or could be taught to channel. The rest was sent packing. Mazrim wouldn't tolerate unnecessary distractions. As if the women and children weren't bad enough, he told her disdainfully, though only Sora remained among the wives, while her son and Memec's girls were now the last children at the farm. She was glad they were, the girls especially, and she felt awful for feeling that way. No one should have to watch their father go mad or slowly rot, depending on which happened first. Of the initial twenty-seven applicants, only Damer, Fedwin, Eben, Jur and Memec had been allowed to stay.
Mazrim was efficient, she had to admit, if not particularly likable. He was obviously used to ordering people around and expecting them to obey, which everyone did without hesitation, including grizzled Damer. Expectedly, the first thing the Saldaean taught the men was to seize saidin. Some of them picked up the trick fast enough, notably Damer and Eben, who both succeeded on the first day after their testing. Once the men could accomplish that, they learned basic weaves that allowed them to start fires or sweep dust with Air. Once those simple weaves were acquired, the men could use them at will to carry out their everyday chores. Mazrim said the only way to get them to progress quickly was to force them to channel as often as possible.
Damer was now very busy with his lessons, of course, so she took up the sword practice all on her own. Mazrim seemed to find it useless, but Neya pointed out to him that Rand had insisted on it.
More men arrived every day, sometimes as many as four or five at a time, although most of them were sent away as soon as Mazrim declared they couldn't channel or be taught to. By the time Rand came back a week later, there were seven students. The two latest additions to their ranks were Atal Mishraile, a brazen golden-haired man with striking blue eyes, and Jonan Adley, a youth from Altara. Neya hadn't been around when Rand appeared, but Mazrim told her he'd finally agreed for him to Travel to recruit more applicants. The Saldaean now spent most days recruiting, leaving Damer in charge of the other men.
With this new method of recruiting, the number of students grew higher and higher every day. In addition, the cart now brought as many as ten or fifteen men daily. Three weeks after Mazrim's arrival at the farm, they had gathered sixty-seven channelers. They had to set up tents to accommodate everyone and the barn was repaired entirely and extended – with the Power, of course.
Neya found herself thriving at the farm. She felt better than she had in months, maybe better than ever. This was what she was meant to do, helping people, looking out for them. She felt useful and valuable. And there were the children. Ilawen had attached herself to Neya as if she'd always known her. Karys, although she was more timid and liked to pretend that she didn't depend on anyone, often remained close to her as well.
Neya and Mazrim got along well enough, all things considered. The man was arrogant and appeared self-centred, but for all his sharp manners and dark cynicism he seemed to genuinely care about the safety and well-being of his students, as well as that of their families. After all, she supposed, he was himself a male channeler, doomed to go insane or die a slow, painful death, just like the rest of them.
They met every evening to review the events of the day. It had been Neya's suggestion that they proceed thus and, despite an irritable mutter that he had other things to see to, Mazrim agreed to it when she pointed out that otherwise, she would be bothering him with matters as they presented themselves, interrupting him constantly.
The meetings were all about logistics on her part and about the men's progress on Mazrim's, although he kept his own report to a strict minimum. Three men had burned themselves out and one casualty had had to be deplored so far. A young man named Siman Proctor had drawn too deeply on saidin and literally burned himself to a crisp. It had been a gruesome scene and there had been nothing to do besides shielding the few people who happened to be nearby, something which Mazrim saw to with his usual brisk efficiency. Siman's remains had been buried behind the barn with little ceremony; he had come alone to the farm and no one knew if he had any living kin.
Unfortunately, most of the children – there were eighteen of them now – had assisted to the scene and it had taken all of the wives to get them to calm down again. Karys seemed a bit perturbed, but the little girl rarely displayed her emotions plainly. Her sister had cried for a few minutes in Neya's arms before getting distracted by a butterfly and setting down to chase it. She didn't let trifles such as this get in the way of her happiness, Ilawen didn't.
She was starting to enjoy their little evening reports. Mazrim – she had taken to call him that from the start and, although he clearly didn't like it, he had never asked her not to – quickly realised that she was, in fact, not as useless as he had assumed. She was in charge of supplies, she welcomed and settled the newcomers, organised the chores schedule and took care of every other little detail that did not involve Mazrim or the men directly. She still gave sword lessons as well, almost every day. She had kept the ledgers at first but fortunately, one of the men who failed the test, a plump Taraboner by the name of Gaio Ragioniere, had offered to supervise them, something to which she had gratefully agreed, with Mazrim's assent of course.
She was doing a pretty good job, if she did say so herself. Everyone seemed to like her and they came to her with their requests and problems without hesitation. Mazrim himself had told her that he was satisfied with the way she handled everything, and the man wasn't exactly forthcoming with compliments.
At the moment, the Saldaean wasn't giving many lessons himself, instead leaving that part to the most advanced students and concentrating on recruiting with one or two other men. One of the latest initiates to join their ranks, a pretty young man from Arafel named Jahar Narishma, would likely surpass everyone at the farm, excepting Mazrim himself, once he reached his full potential. Others had been found that were quite strong, although so far, Damer was still the most powerful of them all. The old man progressed rapidly and seemed to have a special affinity with Healing, which was good, since it was what he had come to learn in the first place. He was now in charge of the testing of the daily arrivals and also taught basic Healing to the most recent students. The former soldier had taken to the farm – the school, as Mazrim called it – like a fish to water.
"What is it?" she asked Mazrim suddenly. He seemed even more distant than usual and she could tell he wasn't paying attention to what she was saying. He looked at her, frowning slightly. He must have thought his face was expressionless and found it odd that she'd noticed something was bothering him. Well, after weeks of studying the man, she had learned how to spot the signs, however subtle. She also knew he had gone to Caemlyn earlier that day. "Did something happen with… the Lord Dragon?" She really had to stop calling him Rand all the bloody time.
"Nothing that concerns you," he replied crisply. Idly turning his goblet in his hands, he went on in a milder tone. "When I first arrived here, I asked you why al'Thor put you in charge. You never answered. Was it some sort of punishment? What did you do?"
"He needed someone he could trust to oversee the whole venture. It wasn't a punishment. I asked to be sent here."
His eyes widened slightly. "Why in the Pit of Doom would you do that?" She gave him a small shrug in answer and he snorted. "You're here because you feel sorry for them, aren't you? For us. You pity us. Or you'd probably call it compassion, not pity," he said, his dark eyes flashing with contempt. "Such a typically female sentiment," he went on with a sneer.
She met his eyes steadily. "My father had the spark," she told him quietly, "although I didn't know it at the time. When we were little, my brother and I, he used to do these little magic tricks, as he called them, and he would say that it was our secret, that we shouldn't tell anyone about them, not even our mum. He would summon those little colourful flames or make objects move at a distance," she went on in a low voice. "Then one morning, I went out to carry out my morning chores when I heard a scream from the house. It lasted only a few seconds, but by the time I came back from the sheep pen, all that was left of the house were charred remains. It had burned down in flames so hot that everything inside had been obliterated in an instant. Everything and everyone," she added softly.
He stared at her for a long time, his face stony. "I'm sorry," he muttered eventually, looking away.
"While we're on the topic," she went on, "would it be alright for me to study some of the men? For signs of madness, I mean."
He frowned at her, obviously confused. "What do you mean, study them?"
"I'm good with Healing. I just thought that if I could–"
"You can channel?" he asked sharply, his eyes glittering dangerously.
That brought her up short. She sat there gaping for a second before gathering her wits. "Of course I can channel. Didn't Rand tell you? Well, obviously he didn't," she answered her own question hastily as his scowl deepened. "Mazrim, I'm sorry," she told him earnestly, "I really thought you knew. It never occurred to me that you didn't. I didn't hide the fact on purpose or anything." Light, what had Rand been thinking? This was a man who had been captured by the Red Ajah and almost gentled. The least he could have done would have been to warn him. It had seemed so self-evident to her.
"So you're an Aes Sedai," he said bitterly. Then he cursed, something she had never heard him do before. She made a mental note of the curses he used; some were very colourful indeed. Those Saldaeans certainly knew what they were about.
When he was done she shook her head slightly. "I'm not an Aes Sedai. I have absolutely no association with them. I'm a self-taught wilder. Not unlike you, in fact," she told him in a placating tone. "Rand and I are from the same village," she went on. She might as well disclose that fact as well. Who knew what else the bloody man had left out?
He studied her for a long time, considering. His hand gripped the goblet so hard that his knuckles were white with the pressure. She was surprised that he hadn't crushed it yet. Or thrown it in her face. "Is there anything else you might have… omitted… to tell me?" he asked her wryly.
"I don't think so. But to be fair, I don't owe you anything. I don't know anything about you either, so I don't see why you should know everything about me," she replied in the same tone.
"Yet we agreed that I would be in charge of the men and all that pertains to channeling. We didn't specify what kind of channeling," he told her quietly.
She snorted. "If you think you can order me about like the rest of them, you're in for a surprise," she said with a sneer.
"Maybe not," he admitted flatly. "However, it is in my power to reject your proposition, as it concerns the men," he told her with a slight twitch of his mouth.
"Fine," she said irritably, standing up. "Let them all go mad, then. But don't expect me to raise a hand to help when they do," she told him fiercely. She stalked out of the room without looking back.
