Too good for this world
Here is an ode to the goats
Please don't eat my corpse
Natael stared at the crumbly old farm in dismay. What in the Pit of Doom was he supposed to do with that? He glanced at al'Thor, who stood rigidly at his side. The Dragon Reborn had a faraway look in his eyes. Of course, they were surrounded by two dozen Maidens of the Spear.
Natael cleared his throat. "Um…I assume that you intend to rebuild the place before it can become…" He hesitated. He still wasn't sure what al'Thor meant to establish here. A school? A military camp?
…an asylum?
Al'Thor snapped out of his reverie. "The reason I want you to be in charge of this place is precisely because I do not have the time to oversee the project myself, Natael," he said crisply. "If you deem it necessary to renovate the farm, do it. I leave that sort of decision to your better judgement."
He could hardly believe his ears. For months al'Thor had refused to trust him with anything more than his harp and a rusty sword Natael could barely lift, let alone wield properly. And now he'd suddenly decided that he could be trusted with this?
"This" seemed to encompass many things. Foremost among them, the Dragon Reborn's recent amnesty regarding all male channelers across the Westlands – which he didn't rule, not by a long shot, but that didn't deter the boy. Al'Thor had declared that male channelers would be protected, that they were welcome to join him and that he would prepare them for the Last Battle.
And Natael was supposed to be the one taking care of that.
In truth, he doubted that anything would come out of this, and certainly nothing good. How many male channelers could there be, knowing that the Red Ajah had been actively hunting them down and severing them for centuries? Besides, even with the amnesty, what sort of madman would want to learn how to wield saidin, knowing that it would eventually drive them insane and kill them? Not to mention the reputation they'd receive. Male channelers were considered a plague, and no amnesty would change that. Natael had heard stories of kith and kin delivering men they suspected of channeling to the White Tower, and even worse stories of families not bothering to call on the Aes Sedai and getting the job done themselves.
Natael shuddered involuntarily. He used to consider all this with detachment, but no longer. He was as much subject to the taint as any other male channeler. Going mad would be his fate, as well as al'Thor's, eventually.
Although al'Thor had a clear advance on him in that regard.
Natael wasn't sure what good he could do here, anyway. He could barely channel a trickle of the Power, and he was a poor excuse of a teacher – according to the boy, that was. The truth was that, despite everything, he was still trying to keep his knowledge to himself. He still entertained a faint hope that the Great Lord would forgive him and restore him as one of the Chosen – though it was becoming fainter as time went by, and even more so since Graendal's attempt on his life.
True, things had turned out much better than he'd expected, after he'd been shielded by Lanfear and captured by the Dragon in Rhuidean. The early days had been downright ghastly, but after Cairhien, things had started to look up. Al'Thor pretty much stopped paying him any attention. He'd caught the boy startling at the sound of his voice, once, as though he'd entirely forgotten that Natael existed. Natael had been free to do whatever he wanted for a few weeks. He hadn't considered fleeing, however, for fear that his former colleagues would get their hands on him. He felt somewhat safer in the shadow of the Dragon, despite the boy's incipient madness.
Now al'Thor was cutting him loose, or near enough. Did he trust Natael, or was he simply eager to get rid of him? Or perhaps he was using him as bait. Natael wondered, for the umpteenth time that day, how long it would take the other Chosen to find him here. Would they fear a trap? Was it a trap? If it was, the Dragon hadn't bothered to share his plans with Natael.
"You know what's expected of you," al'Thor said, his voice like steel. "Gather as many men as you can. Teach them. Train them. I'm not sure when I'll need them, but they should be prepared to answer my call at a moment's notice."
The boy made it sound like a thousand male channelers would simply materialise here and would be fighting over the chance to serve him – to die for him, really. And he had the nerve to complain about Natael's supposedly overinflated ego!
At best, Natael expected that, in a few months, he might have assembled a ragtag army of two or three dozen channelers. He wasn't sure how much good they would do in the battle to come. What if one of them went mad during combat? They could as easily annihilate the Dragon's army as that of the Shadow, or even cause a second Breaking.
No, Natael didn't see what al'Thor had in mind, not in its concrete form, anyway.
He didn't have much of a choice, however. The Dragon had commanded him to remain here and wait for recruits, to have them settled in and to test them. That was only the beginning, of course.
It was the waiting part that bothered him most. What was he supposed to do until people did show up? He loved playing his harp, but there was no one to listen to him play. He would be on his own – al'Thor had refused to provide guards. He couldn't spare them, he claimed.
Well, on his head be it. Natael would likely be dead before the day was out.
Nobody came for Natael that day, nor the following week. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted.
Had the Chosen, like al'Thor, dismissed him entirely? Had they forgotten about him? It seemed unlikely. Petty vengeance was what the Chosen lived for, what they'd sold their souls for. So why was he still alive?
He almost wished he wasn't. He was bored out of his mind. There was nothing to do out here, and his only audience consisted in a couple of skeletal goats and a dozen chickens. If he'd had his full strength, he could have at least worked on repairs on the farmhouse – the place really was falling to pieces. As it was, however, he could barely channel enough of the Power to boil water for tea.
It never crossed his mind that he could begin working on repairs physically, without using saidin.
And of course there was nothing else to drink; no wine, no liquor, not even the appalling ale of which the people of this Age were so fond. He had only water and tea. The situation was dire indeed.
If the taint didn't drive him mad, boredom and forced sobriety certainly would.
And then Damer Flinn showed up. He was old and appeared to be in as bad a shape as the farm itself, but he was someone.
With Natael's luck, however, the man wouldn't be able to channel and he would have to send him away. Although if Flinn really had nothing better to do with his time, he could work on repairing the farmhouse…and see to several other chores as well.
Testing men to detect their ability to channel was one of the dullest tasks he could think of. It could take up to half an hour, sometimes longer, and absolutely nothing happened during that time. Natael almost fell asleep while testing Flinn, though the man's concentration never wavered. He seemed quite intent on testing positive.
And, against all odds, the former soldier proved able to wield saidin.
Well, well. That was an unexpected development. But perhaps it was just luck; it was unlikely that every man who came here would possess the ability. Or was it al'Thor's ta'veren nature at work? Natael doubted it could influence the farm, with the boy so far away, but he wouldn't put it past him.
Flinn was not very talkative. Natael gleaned that he was a retired Andoran Queen's Guard who'd suffered a serious injury, but that was about it. He didn't mention any family. He was, however, willing to work on renovations until Natael decided what to do with him.
Natael considered this. Flinn was strong, despite his advanced age, but wouldn't it be more useful to teach him how to do it all with saidin? He might as well start his training now, and what better training than constant practice? Natael would have to instruct the man in how to even touch the One Power, of course. He'd never had to explain that to anyone. Al'Thor had known that much, at least, and it had been too long for Natael to remember how he had learned to do it. It felt natural to him, like breathing. So how to describe the process to an old man who'd likely never even considered channeling before he heard about the Dragon's amnesty?
It was an awkward procedure. Natael's patience ran out quickly, and his snappy comments only seemed to make Flinn more stubborn. Natael gave up after an hour. He told Flinn to take care of the few scattered animals then locked himself up in his bedroom with his harp. He'd told Flinn to take his bedroll into the barn. Natael was, after all, in charge of the place. He couldn't have Flinn or other potential candidates sharing the same building. The men would need to know their place.
They tried it again the next day, with the same result. Honestly, how difficult could it be? He was enunciating the method with as much clarity as was humanly possible.
Three bloody days. That was how long it took until Flinn was finally able to seize saidin. He lost contact almost immediately, but it didn't matter. He knew how to do it now. The difficult part was over.
Two more men arrived with a carriage from Andor that day. Natael tested them, but neither had the spark. He sent them away, after refusing to accommodate them for the night. This wasn't a bloody inn, burn them.
He began instructing Flinn, demonstrating basic weaves of Air and Fire – Natael's strongest elements. Now that he'd picked up the trick, Flinn turned out to be a fast learner. When he asked to be shown Healing weaves, however, Natael laughed in his face. Healing was not something taught to beginners. What Natael didn't tell him was that, even had he possessed any skill in Healing, he was too weak to demonstrate it. He didn't think that the other man understood how weak Natael was – not yet, anyway.
When three more men appeared the next day, Natael decided to show Flinn how testing worked. If he could leave all the dirty work to the old man, he wouldn't hesitate. When one of the men was tested positive, Natael commanded Flinn to teach him how to embrace saidin. And just like that, he had delegated the two most annoying chores to the codger. Now all he had to do was teach them not to burn themselves out, but that proved unnecessary: the taint was so filthy that both recruits were reluctant to draw much of the Power for any extended period of time.
Natael had never expected so many men to willingly seek out the farm. Five men were tested the next day, four the day after that, though none of them displayed any ability to channel. It was as he'd told al'Thor: there simply weren't that many male channelers left in the world, thanks to the Aes Sedai. What truly surprised him, however, was that many of the applicants were accompanied by their families.
That some brave, ambitious young men wished to fight for the Dragon Reborn was one thing. That they wanted to know if they could channel was already quite peculiar, but that they would displace their wives and children, uproot them in the hopes of joining a lost cause? He found it shocking – and idiotic. This was no place for women, let alone children, but when Jur Grady's wife starkly refused to leave her husband behind, Natael didn't insist. If the bloody woman wanted to witness her husband's descent into madness, if she wanted their son to bear witness, then it was her problem.
He could have sent Grady away, of course, but with only three recruits so far, out of thirty applicants, he couldn't afford to be picky.