Already died once

Enough with the balefire

Cauthon saves the day

Natael heard the door slam shut behind him. His eyes barely had time to adjust to the gloom inside the pantry when he realised that he was not alone.

Graendal smirked, and Natael could only gape at her in horror when he felt a light tingling on his skin, indicating that the blasted woman had embraced the Source. Raising his hands as though it would somehow protect him, he backed down a few steps but bumped into a shelf. He was trapped.

Everything seemed to happen all at once. Natael realised he couldn't channel; Graendal must have him shielded. He could almost feel the balefire being woven, but just then the pantry door opened wide, crashing into his shoulder. With a yelp of pain, Natael lost his balance and fell to the floor. He saw the balefire hit a wall, which disintegrated. The weave must have missed him by an inch.

Graendal cursed in the Old Tongue, and someone else cursed right back at her in the same language – a man's voice. There was a loud thud, and then nothing.

Natael scrambled to his feet, feeling disoriented. With the door open, there was enough light for him to watch Cauthon striking the empty air with his quarterstaff. Graendal was gone.

Cauthon appeared to realise that, as well. He let the quarterstaff fall to his side and looked Natael up and down. "Blood and ashes, man. What was that all about?"

"You saved my life," Natael blurted out without thinking.

"I was just looking for some wine," Cauthon muttered. "I followed you when it became clear that you'd spotted a secret wine stash."

"I think we could all use some wine right now," Natael concurred. His legs were wobbly; he was drenched in sweat. He sat down with his legs crossed, leaning against a wall that hadn't been burned out of existence. Where the other wall had stood, there was now what appeared to be a long-forgotten storage room riddled with cobwebs.

Darkness within, it had been a close shave. He couldn't explain how they'd both survived, with him being shielded and Cauthon armed with such a primitive weapon.

"I smacked her right in the nose," Cauthon declared with some satisfaction. "Didn't do much damage, I suppose, but it certainly scared her off." He paused, considering. "Who was she, anyway? I only attacked her because you were clearly being outmatched. By a woman." He grinned mockingly.

"Clearly?" Natael repeated hotly. "How could you possibly know that she had me shielded and-" He cut off abruptly, realising his mistake.

There was an awkward silence.

"You can channel?" Cauthon said after a moment. The lad had a knack for stating the obvious. His face visibly paled. "Does Rand know?"

Oh, but he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, was he? "Evidently," Natael replied disdainfully. "And to answer your earlier question, that was Graendal." He was rewarded by Cauthon's expression of dismay. His face had turned a sickly shade of green. "We ought to warn the Lord Dragon."

Cauthon cleared his throat. "Uh…right. Yes. Rand should know about this." He didn't move, however. He eyed Natael uncertainly. "Why was Graendal trying to kill you?"

"I'll leave the privilege of explaining this to you to the Lord Dragon."

"Are you telling me that Asmodean has been following us around for weeks? And you knew about it?" Cauthon yelled indignantly. "Flaming ashes, Rand. Are you out of your bloody mind?"

"Not quite yet," al'Thor replied frostily.

Cauthon's cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "I didn't mean-"

"I know exactly what you meant," al'Thor said through gritted teeth. "I didn't have a choice, Mat. I needed a tutor. Surely even you can understand that?"

Cauthon turned a bright shade of crimson. Natael decided to diffuse the situation. Al'Thor's sanity was a matter of debate for another day. "My Lord Dragon, if I may?" The sheepherder nodded curtly. "Perhaps we ought to focus on the fact that Graendal was here just a few minutes ago?" he suggested.

Al'Thor sighed heavily. "I don't suppose she targeted you by mistake?"

Natael scowled. "What do you mean? It makes perfect sense that she would want me dead," he said. "They all do, I'm sure. The Great Lord must have issued a warrant for my head." And Rahvin's death, so soon after Lanfear's…disappearance, must have spurned the others into action. Natael didn't bring this up, however. It would only remind al'Thor that he'd just lost one his staunchest allies – the so-called Aes Sedai, Moiraine Damodred.

As for Lanfear… Well, she was still alive, that was certain. Otherwise Natael's shield would have dissolved by now. She had to be trapped in the Finn's realm, Sindhol. A fate Natael would normally not wish on his worst enemy, but Lanfear had always been a nuisance. She deserved this. Unlike Damodred. He wondered if the woman was dead, or if she was suffering the same fate as Lanfear. But surely, if Mandragoran had left so suddenly, their bond must have shattered, which could only mean that she was indeed dead. Unless she'd severed the bond herself, to prevent anyone from attempting a doomed rescue? Natael wondered if al'Thor had considered that.

He hadn't said anything about Lanfear. To be fair, he'd expected al'Thor to bring up the topic himself. If he thought Damodred dead, then he likely believed Mierin to be dead as well. It should therefore have crossed his mind that Natael's shield would vanish. But he hadn't mentioned it yet. Perhaps the wound was still too fresh, and Natael's news would only add insult to injury. It was hardly fair that Lanfear had survived when the other woman had perished – at least al'Thor would see it that way. Natael knew better. It was a much more enviable fate to be killed before reaching the Finn's realm. Lanfear would be drained of her power with exquisite slowness, and the process was said to be quite painful besides. Natael shuddered at the thought. The Finn made his skin crawl. They always had.

"She might have been after Mat, who is ta'veren," al'Thor pointed out. "You were both in the gardens. And you both like wine," he added.

Natael hadn't considered that. But given the look of gleeful triumph on Graendal's face as she was about to erase him permanently from the Pattern, he assumed that he was indeed the designated target. Cauthon would have been a bonus, if anything.

He had to convince al'Thor. He needed to be watched at all times; he required protection. What if Graendal returned while he slept? Or at any moment, really. He was quite defenceless. "My Lord Dragon," he said earnestly, "I believe some Maidens and Wise Ones should be appointed as my personal escort." Better to have a few channelers close at hand. Against one of the Chosen, the Maidens wouldn't stand a chance. They didn't have Cauthon's luck.

Al'Thor laughed. He laughed! Was Natael's predicament amusing to him? "And what reason could I possibly give them for this sudden, bizarre assignment? You're supposed to be a bard, Natael. No matter how good of a musician you are, nobody expects a bard to have a retinue of Maidens. Let alone Wise Ones," he added with a wry chuckle. "And it's not like they would do as I ask, in any case. Can you imagine me ordering Sorilea to follow you around? Or do anything I command, for that matter?"

"Well, not Sorilea, perhaps, but-"

Al'Thor waved a hand in dismissal. "No. They will be suspicious if I ask the Maidens to keep an eye on you, and your identity must remain a secret, at least for the time being." He glared at Cauthon as he said that. "Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Cauthon muttered.

"But my Lord-"

"Natael, enough of your whining!" al'Thor barked. "We're all in danger, everywhere, all the time. Do you believe your life to be worth more than that of any of the Maidens?" he asked, his tone dangerously soft. He reminded Natael a bit of Demandred, when he talked like that, which was ironic, really. Demandred couldn't stand Lews Therin, and who was al'Thor but Demandred's bitterest rival reborn?

"No, of course not," Natael replied meekly. He did, in truth, value his own life more than that of…well, anyone else's, but saying so out loud might get him hurt, or worse, judging by al'Thor's expression.

The Dragon Reborn seemed to read right through him, but he made no comment regarding the obvious lie. He studied Natael with a calculating gaze for a minute while Cauthon shuffled his feet restlessly. Being near one of the Chosen was clearly making him jumpy. "I suppose you're right," al'Thor said eventually. "You may be in a more immediate danger than most." A feral smile abruptly lit up his face. "But no retinue of Aiel for you, Master Natael. I have a better idea. In fact, I was just discussing the matter with Lord Bashere. You may have encountered him on your way here."

Natael nodded dubiously. Bashere was the old Saldaean they'd almost ran into in their hurry to get to al'Thor, he assumed. But what did the man have to do with any of this?

A strong sense of doom engulfed him as al'Thor began to explain his plan.

Natael tapped Cauthon on the shoulder, and the lad nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw him. They were alone in the gardens, Cauthon sitting on a bench under a red myrtle tree. "What do you bloody want now?"

Natael proffered a bottle of wine. "I wanted to give you this. It's a…thank-you gift. You know, for…saving me, earlier."

"It wasn't my intention," Cauthon grumbled. "If I'd known…"

"If you'd known who I was, you would have let Graendal kill me?" Cauthon shrugged noncommittally. "Then you would have had to face her on your own, without the element of surprise – which, I'll have you know, is what saved us both, rather than that big stick of yours."

Cauthon glared at the bottle for a moment, then finally removed the cork, with his teeth, like the ill-mannered peasant he was. He sniffed the contents suspiciously, frowning. Natael sighed. "Here, I'll take a swig." He grabbed the bottle and drank avidly. It wasn't great, nor even good, but he'd had much worse in this Age and was in dire need of a large dose of alcohol besides. "Mediocre, but not poisoned," he declared as he handed the bottle back to the lad.

Cauthon took a cautious sip. "Mediocre?" he repeated incredulously. "This is fit for a bloody king!" He gulped down the equivalent of a glass before remembering to breathe. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, causing Natael to grimace. That would leave a stain. Cauthon offered Natael the bottle again. "It's ironic, you know," he said wryly, "that the person I least intended to rescue is the only one who actually thanked me for it."

Natael scowled at that, wondering what he meant. He was only being polite. Who wouldn't thank the person who'd rescued them, no matter the circumstances? "I feel that it would have been quite cruel that I died this afternoon, so soon after…well, after already dying once this morning. So you deserve-"

"Wait, what?" Cauthon interrupted him. "You died this morning? What does that even mean? Is it a Forsaken thing?"

Natael cocked his head sideways, eyeing him curiously. Had he forgotten that he'd died, too? Or didn't he understand how balefire worked, perhaps? He opened his mouth to explain, mentally preparing to have to repeat himself several times to get through Cauthon's thick skull, but then he considered the matter more carefully. If Cauthon was lucky enough to have forgotten, or if he didn't know what had happened at all, ignorant as he was… Perhaps it was for the best. Ignorance was bliss, wasn't it? There was no need to traumatise the lad unnecessarily. The Great Lord knew, he was confused enough. "It's an expression. An old one," he said eventually. "'Die' is just another word for 'faint'. You know, you pass out, then you regain consciousness… It feels like dying. Or so I assume. I must be translating it wrong from the-" From the Old Tongue, he was about to say. But if Cauthon asked for the original word… It still irked him greatly that he had no idea why the lad was so fluent in Natael's native language.

He shouldn't have worried, however. Anyone else would have called him out on this preposterous lie, but Cauthon nodded indifferently, accepting the nonsensical explanation without hesitation. He snatched the bottle and took another swig. "So you fainted during the battle, eh?" he said tauntingly. "You must have been quite an embarrassment to the Forsaken. No wonder they're trying to kill you."

And people wondered why Natael had turned to the Shadow, honestly. People were so mean, and often to him in particular. He was already regretting being merciful a moment ago. He had better leave, anyway. He had to pack his things. He abandoned his saviour to his wine.

Fit for a king. Natael shook his head. Uncultured bumpkins, the lot of them.