Logain stepped through the gateway just outside the wall surrounding the Black Tower.
The boy who stood guard at the main entrance, an Asha'man whose name Logain could not remember, didn't halt them. He looked bored out of his mind. Logain didn't stop to make conversation. He allowed his men to join their families inside the compound while he visited the palace. They wouldn't be staying long; they should all make the most of their time here.
He made his way to the palace at a swift pace. As the odds would have it, Mishraile was guarding the front door. He stood with his back straight, blue eyes alert. They settled on Logain the moment he came into Mishraile's line of sight. The younger man scowled darkly.
Logain approached him, squaring his shoulders. "Mishraile-" he began to say.
"The M'Hael is not to be disturbed," the Asha'man cut in sharply.
Logain did his best to contain his annoyance and keep his face impassive. "I'm afraid he does not have a choice in the matter." He couldn't keep the bitter scorn out of his tone. The man still insisted on being called that? "I bring urgent tidings from the Lord Dragon." He raised the sealed letter he was carrying for good measure. His other hand never left the pommel of his sword. Coming back to the Tower after a month of absence felt like picking his way through enemy territory. He hadn't recognised half of the men he'd met along the short way from the main gate to the palace.
Mishraile appeared briefly hesitant, obviously wondering whether the letter was worth facing Taim's anger. He quickly came to a decision, however. "Very well," he said with a resigned sigh. "I will take you upstairs."
"That's not necessary. I know the way." He tried to pass to the man's right, but Mishraile stepped in front of him, blue eyes blazing.
"I will not take orders from you, Ablar," the Asha'man said, a threatening edge to his voice.
Ablar, was it now? Mishraile had always called him Logain before – most people did, except for Taim, of course. Had it really come to this? Was he not even trusted to be alone in Taim's monstrosity of a palace? He considered pushing his way through regardless, but he knew it would be a bad idea. He wasn't here to cause trouble; he had a mission. With an immense effort and great restraint, he nodded to Mishraile, indicating that he should lead the way. Mishraile smirked smugly and turned his back on him to open the door.
The spiral staircase seemed endless. Logain felt a bit winded when they finally reached the top. Any enemy who didn't possess the ability to open a gateway straight inside Taim's study would be weakened just by taking the stairs.
Mishraile came to a halt at the door. Logain could sense his reluctance in the way his shoulders tensed. Before he could knock, however, there came the sound of raised voices inside the room. Logain couldn't make out what they were saying, but one belonged to Taim, and the other was clearly a woman's.
Mishraile had frozen mid-motion, his right hand halfway to the door. Did he know who the woman was? Logain didn't enquire, but he did clear his throat. Whoever was in there, Logain had urgent matters to attend to.
Finally, Mishraile knocked thrice, in rapid succession. Silence fell inside the study.
The silence stretched, so long that Logain, losing patience, knocked again. Mishraile threw him a venomous look.
"Come in," Taim called out a second later. Mishraile opened the door and almost slammed it in Logain's face as he stepped inside on his own. Logain almost barged in after him, but once again, he suppressed the urge. Poise and serenity, he repeated to himself, eyes closed. That was something he'd heard Gabrelle mutter to herself at times, notably when she seemed about to berate him.
At long last the door reopened, revealing Mishraile. He certainly didn't look smug now. His face was ashen. Logain almost felt bad for him. Without a word, he gestured for Logain to get in. This time the Asha'man remained in the corridor, standing guard.
The first thing Logain noticed as he walked into Taim's study was the smell. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, but it was something Logain had never encountered before, some exotic spice, perhaps. Had Taim picked out a new perfume? The man was incredibly vain, but this seemed a bit much, even for him. Maybe the scent belonged to the mystery woman, of whom there was no trace. So, a channeler. An Aes Sedai? It seemed unlikely, given Taim's history with the White Tower, but who else would know how to Travel? Unless Taim had opened the gateway for her, of course. Logain stored the information for later consideration.
Taim stood at the window, his back to Logain. He was wearing a coat Logain had never seen before – how many coats did the bloody man own? This one, like the others, had dragons winding up his forearms, but they were crimson instead of the usual blue.
Logain remained standing. It wouldn't do to sit when Taim was on his feet. "Orders from the Dragon," he announced brusquely. He had no time to waste on pleasantries, especially with Taim. He shoved the letter in front of Taim's hooked nose, though the man's gaze seemed fixated on the courtyard below. Logain spotted a group of children chasing a dog and a few Soldiers running in different directions, carrying out their daily chores; there was nothing that could possibly warrant Taim's unwavering attention.
Evidently, the M'Hael didn't take the missive right away. "Ablar," he said instead, finally acknowledging Logain's existence. "Back so soon?" he asked with a crooked smile.
Logain let his arm fall back at his side, the letter still in his hand. He took a deep, calming breath. Then he said something utterly stupid anyway. "Missed me?" he asked with a smirk.
Taim glanced at him, the smile wiped off his face in a flash. "I wouldn't say that." He pointed his chin in the direction of the letter. "What's this?"
Logain would have rather strangled him with his bare hands, but instead forced himself to repeat what he'd already said. "Orders from al'Thor." He handed it over once again.
Logain had made sure to carefully reseal the Dragon's missive after reading it, but Taim still appeared suspicious as he took the letter. He embraced the Source.
Reflexively, so did Logain.
Taim chuckled softly. "Peace, Ablar. I'm just checking the integrity of the seal." His dark, almost-black eyes glinted as he found Logain's brown ones. He released saidin. "Interesting read, I hope?"
Logain's cheeks reddened, but he didn't bother to deny it.
"You have much to learn yet, Ablar," Taim declared. "You really ought to consider attending my private lessons with your fellow Asha'man."
Logain would never consider these men his 'fellows', and he certainly wouldn't give Taim the satisfaction of becoming his pupil. Besides, he knew more than the other man assumed. Logain was simply smart enough not to reveal the extent of his knowledge to a man he knew to be an enemy.
"I'll pass," he told Taim. "But thanks for the offer."
Taim shrugged indifferently. "Your loss." He broke the seal carelessly and smoothed the paper.
Logain had expected the man to spontaneously burst into flames at the missive's contents, and he was only mildly disappointed. Taim grimaced, his face darkening, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the letter tighter and tighter, crumpling the paper. "He cannot expect me to simply relinquish half my men!" he growled.
He was exaggerating, but only slightly. Al'Thor had demanded that at least a few hundred men be dispatched to Illian and Arad Doman.
"He doesn't even say why!" Taim complained. He turned to Logain, brandishing the paper as though it were a weapon. Logain, of course, knew why, but if al'Thor had chosen not to mention it in the letter, he wasn't about to enlighten Taim. It seemed that the Dragon had taken Logain's advice not to trust Taim after all. "How do I know al'Thor really wrote this?" he snarled. "For all I know, this is a pathetic attempt on your part to steal my men."
Logain stared at him in shock. He had not seen that coming. The man was paranoid. Light, was he going mad? That was all they needed, really: one of the most powerful male channelers alive going mad just before the Last Battle.
It didn't make sense, though. The taint was gone. Nobody should be going mad.
What to do? How to convince him? He didn't want to antagonise Taim – not until he had al'Thor's full support, anyway. Besides, he needed to leave the Tower with the men he'd promised the Dragon.
"Why would I bother tampering with the seal if I'd written the thing myself?" he pointed out reasonably.
"Because you knew I would accuse you of doing just that," Taim countered. "You were trying to make it look more realistic."
Blood and flaming ashes! He couldn't be serious. "Taim, please." He winced at the word. "I can tell you where to find al'Thor, if you truly need confirmation. Go to him. Ask him. You'll only bother him, but that's your problem, not mine."
Taim made no reply. His eyes glittered so much with anger, they could have thrown sparks.
Logain decided to change the subject, hoping to distract the man. Without thinking, he asked exactly the worst possible question. "Did you hear anything from Neya?"
That had been one of Logain's first concerns when he'd finally reached the Dragon. Had he, or had he not, recalled Neya from the Black Tower?
He had not. He had not heard from her in months, not since Dumai's Wells, he claimed. Logain hadn't hesitated to share the lies Taim had been spreading, but it had been vain. Either al'Thor didn't care, or he couldn't afford to waste time and resources searching for Neya and dealing with Taim. The latter option seemed more likely; al'Thor was a good man, but he had a lot on his plate.
Of course, the topic would only aggravate the present situation. This was not the time to confront Taim about it. Nothing good would come out of it.
Taim looked like he was having a stroke. He suddenly seemed to be engulfed by a pulsing aura of darkness, though he wasn't channeling. "Get out of here," he said through gritted teeth. "Take the men you need and leave. Dedicated and Soldiers only. Go!" He embraced saidin again, but Logain didn't wait around to find out what he would do with it.
As usual, it fell to Atal to clean up the mess in Taim's study – servants were only allowed to clean up once a week, under heavy surveillance.
His fits of rage were getting worse. He'd overturned his desk and ransacked the bookshelves. There was crystal powder everywhere – another set of glasses gone to waste.
What had Ablar said or done? It had briefly crossed Atal's mind to eavesdrop, but he'd decided it wasn't worth the risk of getting caught. Whatever had happened, Ablar had exited the room in a hurry, barely sparing Atal a glance. Half an hour later, he'd departed with almost half of the battle-ready Dedicated and Soldiers. All of them were known followers of Ablar, and the small army included all the men who'd bonded an Aes Sedai.
Atal placed the last book back on the shelf. There was a strange smell in the room, as if someone had burned a peculiar sort of incense. Perfume? Taim didn't wear any, and Atal would have said that this one belonged to a woman. The one who'd been here earlier, arguing with the M'Hael? Atal hadn't seen her; she must have Travelled right inside the room. An Aes Sedai? He doubted that Taim would meet with one of the witches without alerting his guards. And if one of them had simply materialised in the room, without warning, Taim wouldn't have bothered arguing with her. He would have disintegrated her on the spot.
Unless she was one of the Forsaken, of course.
Atal shuddered at the thought. It was one thing to know that the Forsaken were really in charge of the Black Tower, and another to think that one of them had been right there, with only a door separating her from Atal. He wondered which one it had been. Moghedien? Graendal? Or even Lanfear herself?
Light preserve him. His mother used to scare him with stories of Lanfear coming for him in the night, if he didn't behave.
Sometimes he wished he could leave the Tower. He wished he could take Trygg and the girls and get the hell away from this place. But where would they go? Where would they be safe, with the Last Battle approaching?
Besides, he had sworn an oath to Taim. He would stand at his side and protect him, come what may, to the bitter end.
Mazrim was brooding in his favourite chair, his mood darkening as the sunlight outside waned.
Semirhage was the last person he'd expected to find in his study when he'd awakened that morning. He didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, reading an old book in Mazrim's desk chair.
Of course he'd had no idea who she was, at first, but he had to assume she was one of the Forsaken. Who else would have the nerve to come here without permission, without backup? Even a Black Ajah sister would know better than to attempt sneaking up on him like that. If Mazrim hadn't been so groggy from sleep, he would have pulverised her where she sat.
Well, he would have, if Semirhage hadn't shielded him while he slept. He hadn't even noticed. He really ought to drink less wine.
She'd glanced up from her book with an arched eyebrow, as if she were judging him for sleeping so late, though it was just past dawn. Why in the Pit of Doom hadn't she woken him? It was… creepy, to think she might have been watching him sleep.
"Which one are you?" he'd muttered angrily, extracting himself from his seat. This was not the most appropriate way to greet one of the Forsaken, but she hadn't exactly set the bar for civility very high.
She had closed the book with care and stood gracefully, taking a few steps toward Mazrim. She was almost as tall as he was. Her skin was charcoal-dark, and she was quite beautiful. Her eyes gave him the impression that she was stern, but highly intelligent. Her perfume permeated the room, a strong, sharp, exotic scent. He had a feeling that she might be...
"I," she said in a deep, melodic voice, "am Semirhage." She remained silent for a moment after this dramatic introduction, as though she were expecting him to kneel or bow or acknowledge her infamous name in a more suitable manner than:
"What in the Pit of Doom do you want?" As if he didn't receive enough visits from her male associates. They couldn't possibly all want to use him for their own purposes, could they? He could hardly split himself in three.
Semirhage had scowled then, a dangerous glint in her dark eyes, and that had shut him up. She was, after all, known for her outstanding ability to deal pain. Mazrim wasn't eager to become one of her test subjects.
She needed male channelers to be dispatched to Seanchan immediately, she told him crisply. Of course, she didn't say why she needed them.
"Get in line," he'd snorted. "Moridin needs Dreadlords. Demandred needs Dreadlords. I only have so many Shadow-sworn men, Your Ladyship." He never called Moridin or Demandred anything so fancy, but he was reluctant to antagonise Semirhage openly, especially with him being shielded. He wasn't lying, however. Moridin often 'borrowed' his Asha'man, and even Demandred made use of them on occasion. Didn't they have their own minions, for peace's sake?
Besides, Mazrim couldn't send too many men away at the same time. That would look suspicious, and he was trying to remain as discreet as possible, given the circumstances.
He knew it was a dangerous move, but he'd refused Semirhage. He'd told her to take the matter to Moridin – Mazrim had, by then, figured out that the boyish-looking Forsaken was in charge, for some reason.
She'd argued, but he'd argued right back. What could she do, anyway? Mazrim couldn't be replaced; Moridin would be righteously pissed off with Semirhage if she blasted him to pieces.
Someone had knocked on the door then. Mazrim had fallen silent at once, index raised to his lips to shush the Forsaken. She'd glared at him, but she wasn't stupid. Without another word, she'd vanished through a gateway. Mazrim was relieved to feel the shield dissolve as the gateway closed behind Semirhage.
Knowing that Ablar was back at the Tower had been irritating enough, but the fact that al'Thor wanted to take away half his men only made things worse. He didn't even have the decency to explain the purpose of such a preposterous demand!
Or did he no longer trust Mazrim? How much had Ablar told him? For that matter, how much did Ablar know, or thought he knew? Ablar had mentioned Neya. If he'd asked al'Thor where she was, where he'd sent her… But if he had, the Dragon would have confronted Mazrim about it, surely. And Mazrim would have made something up. He had a lie at the ready. He'd told everyone that Neya had been recalled because it was too painful to share the awful truth: Neya had abandoned them. She and Mazrim had had a terrible argument, and she'd decided to leave. It likely wouldn't fool his men, but he doubted al'Thor would dig any further. The Dragon didn't know about the girls – Neya would never have abandoned them.
Mazrim had abandoned them. He'd abandoned Neya to her fate. He'd abandoned his mother, a long time ago; he had left her alone to die. He'd forsaken his own soul. He was losing his mind.
He didn't have anything left, but perhaps that was a good thing. If he had nothing to lose, then he had nothing to fear.